Forsaken

((Last part of this series. Look back at the other 3 if you want. For anyone following this story, heres a spoiler:We'll meet Diosis again later on. Also imo, I'm kinda happy how this peice came out))

"Diosis, you indeed have gained my interest. I feel sympathy towards you, I really do, is there anything I can do to help you?'' I asked, I think I'm sounding like a child.

"Oh, no, no. You listening to my story and understanding me for what I am is enough. Especially coming from a...Gilnean worgen." He said with a smile, I smiled back.

((Here's the third part, feel free to leave comments, and look at the other 2 parts))

As I comforted the forsaken whom I will now call Diosis, he looked up at my muzzled face and smiled, actually looking a living being, his glowing eyes some how showing off life.

I recall of people saying that worgen have a 6th sense, that they can sense falsity in someone or something. Nonetheless, I'm quite convinced that he truly is sincere.

He finally broke the silence. "I perfer to be a worgen than a forsaken any day. I have my own purpose in this world, forsaken or not, and coming back for a second time will let me redeem myself, and having your own free will helps."

I was amazed at his perspective of undeath in a case like this; and I was unable to hide a smile as he was speaking about it. Diosis saw my smile and found his self smiling back.

It seemed an age since she had last set foot in her former home.

At that, it had been quite some time...

The last time she'd seen these glittering walls, she'd been suffering from the curse of mortality.

The Silver Cross mission to Northrend, day 37

Moa’ki Harbor bustled that afternoon. The tuskarr rushed about the village parceling the last pieces of hardened leather and whale bone gathered throughout the week. Ivor noticed a new height of anxiousness and excitement among them as they tidied their goods with meticulous care. They told him that they were expecting a trader at nightfall but he did not think to inquire who the merchant was or what sort of cargo he was bringing.

 Now Ivor’s curiosity had been piqued. What was it that the Kalu’ak were so excited about? He stood up straight in the tanning hut to stretch his back and stared curiously into the water skin that Sairuk had splayed between wooden stakes. A black eel swam in a slow circle in the water skin’s shallow. His lip curled in disgust as he watched the creature.

 Sairuk’s etched ivory cane swatted the back of Ivor’s calves.

     They smelled putrid. The sickening sweet smell of the plague. To a human it was enough to make one  vomit, but to a Worgen...

It was something else entirely.

Ångrif couldn't help but growl loudly as his padded feet thumped against the as-of-yet unsoiled ground as he approached Southshore, flanked by three more of his kind and two men on horseback. His fangs gleamed in the moonlight as he howled and reared up swiftly on his hind legs, bringing the cohort to a halt. His lupine eyes surveyed the ruined town as they stood quietly in the night air, claws itching to tear through the bone of a Forsaken.

What would Faun say if should could see you now?

The barge was the key. It came downriver with the gray light before dawn, sidling up to scrape against the shallows. A quick transaction of men and cargo followed. With Forsaken crowding the surrounding territories, new supply routes had been carved through the hills, Alterac’s river shores being one safe place to make landing. Chillwind camp would have some fresh soldiers and fresh supplies tonight. But not after a quick trip downstream, first.

A simple priest and farmer lived a modest life with his family. He was humble and kind; the worst traits a man could have.

Rodrick continued to slowly tear at the dead ghoul’s flesh as Gunndir leaned against the jagged stone and peered over the newly fallen snow. The standard black leather armor and matching cloak was certainly earned, but never permitted to be worn by the Dark Ranger. It was easier to fulfill some objectives if the agent’s allegiance could be denied and declared rogue. That usually meant that Gunndir’s service was certain to be short, ending with an unmarked grave.

((explicit rating for heavy swearing at points and some graphic violence))

Southern Barrens,

First Recon,

0 AC (after Cataclysm)

"MacFergus! Get that damn radio working again!"

Hamish chuckled as he fiddled with the squad's gnomish-built radio, turning dials and pressing buttons that he didn't realize understand. His CO wasn't really worried about not picking up any broadcasts that other units might send out. No, he was worried he was going to miss the end of the song he'd been listening to. Hell of a concept those Goblins came up with, the soldier thought as he finally smacked the radio and brought the Captain's song back on. He smirked for a moment and turned to the soldier beside him.

"Do you think we'll make it back to Stormwind Jed?"

                 He was sitting by the fire. It had been dark for quite some time now, and he had been contemplating his last visit. What did it all mean? What was he supposed to do about it? He slowly took a look around searching every shadowy corner of the house. Occasionally his head would sink to doze off. The persistent rain outside brought a steady sound that lulled him to sleep. If it were not for the fact that he was undead, he would have been asleep hours ago. Alas, his condition, and his previous visit kept him from obtaining slumber. He sat back in the chair listening to the lively crackle of the fire, combined with the gentle thundering of the raindrops.  After a few seconds of inattentiveness his head gave the dozing sink. He was fast asleep.

Plunk

The sound of a crossbow firing a bolt is lovely. The rifle gives a loud clumsy click then an even more unsatisfactory crack that leaves no room for the sound of the bullet hitting its mark. The bow certainly has the musical plunk, but that is but the strings section, where is the rest of the orchestra? The gentle squeak of the lever being pulled, soft musical clicking of the small gears moving to release the string into the crescendo of the piece, finally the sharp whistle and the grand finale; the scream. Oh how every shot is it’s on opus, symphony, requiem, masterpiece.

Plunk

The haggard old man
wiped a grimy sleeve
across the tattered remnants
of his rotted nose…
habit
not necessity.

The gun was huge and heavy in his hands. Try as he might, Waylon could not lift it. A row of cans was lined on the fence ahead. His mother was standing to the side, his baby sister on her hip and an angry scowl on her face. “Dang it, Jack, the boy's too young!” His father chuckled and knelt beside him, gently lifting the gun barrel so it was level with the cans. “Better he start learnin’ now, Marla. Undead ain’t gonna wait for him to be grown.” He leaned closer. “Here, Waylon. Ease your finger against the trigger. That’s it. Don't look at me, look at where you wanna shoot. Don't think about nothin' else. Now, gently, gently squeeze—” The world exploded in a flash of light.

“I told you he is too young.” The female voice was not his mother’s. It was cold and hollow, devoid of emotion. “We must move on.”

“After all that trouble I went to?” The second voice was male, but it was definitely not his father. It laughed. “Hit him again.”

"Here."

Se'ala took the small vial, peering at the label. The instructions were scrawled in crude pictograms--one drop in water, once a day. She looked up, meeting the Forsaken apothecary's gaze with her own. "What be da side effects?"

"Side effects? Oh, no." He grinned, dead grey lips peeling back to reveal cracked, dry gums and a set of pearly white teeth that had almost certainly belonged to someone else. "Don't you worry about that, Miss Troll. Only a few minor ones--headache, stomach pain, bloating, death--and most of 'em go away after about a week. Standard for all female Horde soldiers out here. Gotta be safe, eh?"

A thick fog had rolled in off the lake, blanketing the whole of Fenris Isle. The pine trees just outside the keep were barely visible in the haze, beyond that everything was gray. Waylon stood with his back against the wall, his crossbow pointed at nothing. The fear of what might be lurking out there was tempered by the sheer boredom of waiting for it to show itself. He felt strangely relieved when a dozen black shapes alighted from the trees, their shrill cries distorted by the mist. They moved as one, barreling in a mad arc toward the gate. Waylon fired into the shrieking cloud, reloaded another bolt and fired again.

The crossbow was in bad shape, like everything else out of the armory, but it worked. He fired two more shots in rapid succession, his fingers moving of their own accord. Three of the black shapes fell, the others veered away and vanished back into the fog. Only one made it as far as the gate. It slammed into the crumbling arch, missing the opening by inches, and dropped limply to the cobblestones below. Uncle Ennis held his lantern out over the body. It was just a crow, disoriented by the mist like all the others. He gingerly picked it up by one leg and flung it into the bushes.

“Well, that’s one attack thwarted,” he declared. “I reckon we’ve earned our double rations already.”

Click, click. Click. Click, splish.

Dry, skeletal feet and toes shuffled across the cold stone floor, down the steps, and paused at the canal's edge. One toe dipped in, then pulled back, the slimy green liquid sliding easily from bare bone. There was no light in the Forsaken woman's eyes, no awareness of her surroundings. She moved as if sleepwalking, slowly and with some purpose indiscernible to any but herself and the imp that followed close behind.

A gentle breeze rustled through the blossom-laden branches, a touch of coolness in the warm spring sun. A few petals broke loose and fell, gracefully gliding down to land on the pink, lace-edged tablecloth. One dropped into Miryam's teacup, ripples spreading out from it as it floated lazily from one side of the delicate cup to the other. She smiled. "Such a lovely day, isn't it?"

It was, but the stern-faced woman sitting across from her didn't seem to notice. Dressed in severe greys with dark hair pulled back in a strict bun, she resembled nothing so much as the wicked aunt in a children's story. She frowned, and spoke in a chiding tone. "Miryam, can we not skip the pleasantries? I am here on business."

The rifle bounched against her shoulder as another long, low shudder worked through the hull.

((WARNING: Spoilers after the break, do not click if you don't want to learn some of the intrigue behind poor old Wezil))

miss you. Have you written to

class that couldn’t possibly be more mund

were here, I wouldn’t have to feel so

me. Next semester? We should

ssed trials. After, maybe you could visit

    It had happened fast. Like accidents or disasters do, each moment tumbled into the next. Like an artist’s flip-book of pictures, only the images didn’t match up.

rewriting a chapter for thurs

vintage you like? I’ll pick up a bot

thinking of you. It was funny, the

Clump.

The door shut softly behind Micah, and he rested his shoulders against the solid oak, feeling the wood rasp under his bony hands as he surveyed the inside of Ryberg’s apartment. The tips of bony fingers scrabbled on the wood, precisely tugging at different threads of the arcane.

“The third property of Warding is the Key. It builds on the First and Second – the Shield and Sword – and gives a sort of reason to them. The Key is a matrix of components, itself, and by altering one, a Magus alters the rest. With detailed manipulation, the Key may be weakened, strengthened, or even changed.”

The white worg surged forward, intercepting the chain meant for its mistress. I watched as the woman fired her gun into the abomination's face, the worg now tearing at its guts, until the monster fell.

She never saw the desiccated spearman coming behind her, but it wasn't much of a problem. My shield blocked its strike before my sword sliced the mindless creature's head off, keeping it from her. She turned, gun swinging past me to fire at a necromage casting from the roof of a ruined building.

“Watch yourself, Deathguard,” she growled, forcing her curly, gray-frosted brown hair under her cap again. I kept my back to her, uncertain that my helm or the decomposed state of my face would be enough to hide myself if I looked her in the eye. I heard her worg snarl at me as they moved off to fight the next wave of Scourge, Thassarian's people temporarily working alongside of Koltira's to push the Scourge out of Andorhal.

This was the closest I could ever come.

The group of children watched the spider with fascination, expressions ranging from horror to delight. The creature came up to the smallest one's knees, with eight glittering eyes and shaggy, spiky hair the color of jungle leaves. It gazed back at them, unafraid, and let out a shrill chirp. The tallest child, a girl of perhaps ten or eleven, lifted the bent branch she carried.

"What an ugly creature."

Behind her tree, Se heard, and drew in a sharp breath.

--

"Oh, sure, they're ugly enough, don't get me wrong." The Forsaken man wheezed a laugh, creaking like a rusted hinge. "There might be some as like 'em, but that's not the point. Damned useful, spiders are."

Se nodded carefully, holding very still as a hatchling crawled over her foot. The tiny creature didn't seem to notice her at all.

"We breed 'em, you know. They work for us--hunt, trap, that sort of thing. Some even haul loads. Oh, very useful, they are."

Elivel looked down at the table, then back up to the great wall infront of her. The task itself was rather simple in nature... take Gilneas for the horde. Gorrash Hellscream wanted a port, and the Dark Lady wanted to secure the future of her people. Things were going fine, until the 7th Legion showed up ... with Alliance navy in toe.

Now, the battle seemed more a stalemate then anything else.

The Paladin turned around as the sound of a hawkstrider approached. The rider dismounted, walked over to Elivel and handed her a scroll.

Elivel opened it, gave it a quick read as the messager mounted back up and headed back the way he came.

The paladin couldn't help but chuckle at the note's contents.

The Apothocary looked over at Elivel. "What's so funny?"

Elivel looked over at the female forsaken, "Seems the Bishop is second-guessing a field decision from an arm chair, and here I thought that responsiblity belonged to the fledgining politicians."

This is a wiki I setup for an old RP group in City of Heroes. But, I'm slowly converting it to document RP/characters from a multitude of games, including WOW.

Here's a main character of mine that almost all my plots revolve around:

http://www.cobiness.com/index.php?title=Cursedblood

Still a work in progress, but good enough I think to post. I'll update this thread with additions. Eventually Wezil (my most active character of late) will get an entry and he is very much linked to CB as well.

"AAAAGHHHH!!!!!!!!!"

With returning memory had come a cold anger that seemed to permeate Jannike's entire body.  But it focused her mind instead of clouding it.  Senna had decided that she was unlikely to hand out meat in her current mood, and was watching from a cautious distance.

Fact: Elsa was hiding, twenty feet from a fairly recent dead body.
Speculation: Could the body have been her father's?  Not unreasonable, but not proven either.  Not enough left of the corpse to identify.

When the knock came on the door of House DeWynter, Kjerstin almost didn't answer it.  Echo and Credence had gone out somewhere, and all she wanted was to be left alone.  She had cut down a ghoul that morning with a face like Garrett's.  Though, after nearly two weeks, she was starting to see her family in every glimpse of an undead face.  She needed to get out of here.  She got up and went to the door.

"Kjerstin Engel?"  The uniformed man couldn't have been more than eighteen, but he wore the livery of the Argent Dawn.

"That's me."

"We found a kid outside Chillwind Camp this morning, ma'am.  She's clammed up now, but when we brought her in she was babbling and said something about Auntie Kjerstin."  Kjerstin's heart leaped.  "And it's not a common name, so the Sarge sent me to find you, ma'am, and see if you knew who she was."