undead

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

"Death is eternal," the Aspect said, and he wondered if the dragon had even bothered to look around the world he was burning. Only had to go as far as where he sat huddled in the bushes for proof that death was as temporary as life for some.

But maybe Deathwing saw them -- if he saw them at all -- as  the Forsaken did, eternal death walking. Hadn't he seen himself the same way even as he told the angry girl he was no zombie? Thought it before he had a different truth to hold tight to his chest like a secret, let it warm his frozen core.

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

Shilaze long since left the lair she had been staying in, trying to re-find herself apparently cities don't like undead companies even if they are undead birds that wouldn't hurt anything.. living. At least that's what she thought when she watched her bird fly around on pick at dead things. Then she was still learning about this new companion, same as she was learning about her new.. friend. Yes a friend one she could speak with an have real conversations with. Not that she didn't with her companions but body language only said so much when words.. spoke so much more.. She.. didn't feel as alone now either knowing she at least had someone she could talk with. So in the city of Sivlermoon she sat waited watching the people. Sighing so many were tainted corrupted now.. was it this many before. An yet.. why didn't that bother her as much now.. as it did then.. Then.. why was it the bond she had.. seem to be one sided.

(( Preceded by this post ))

Journal Entry #39
Subject:  “Songbird”                            December 19

We began instruction today. The subject was responsive and took criticism well. Classified as a mezzo-soprano. She has received no instruction previous to my own, which is to my advantage. She is easily mesmerized by what little I myself understand of the subject, and like all works of art, it is best to mold from untainted clay.

She treats theory as a man does a petticoat; a minor detail that can be easily overlooked in the pursuit of one’s goals. The subject lacks refinement. She has retained a good repertoire of folk songs, though far too many are light-hearted tunes that could be belted out by any drunkard.

The puppet’s strings were cut; it dropped to the ground, limp and lifeless.  A wave of memories slammed into it.  The body stiffened, a bellowing roar emerging as its muscles clenched and limbs beat on the ground.  The drone—he!  I am he!—lifted himself up off the cold, hard ground.  He looked around, lost.  His master—master?  No, monster!—was silent; the clear, cold voice that had pierced the suffocating torpor no longer there.

He—name!  Where is my name?—turned, looking around at the blackened plains, bubbles of vivid yellow coloring the wasted ground.  There were others, his fellow slaves—They kill my friends, brothers, people!   They must—“Die!” He screamed, lifting the blade in his hand, swinging it viciously at the nearest body.  The limp ghoul twitched, the force of the blows ripping pieces of bone and flesh.

((continued from "The Rat in the Sewer" and "Damn you, Hindsight!" ))

The evidence was in plain view, a poignant expression of my will. The dagger was a simple enough tool for demonstrating a point.  An efficient, yet crude design. Embedded as it was between the gaps in the aging stonework, with that damned rat in the middle, it made obvious that the sewers were not entirely empty. Phlegmy and Snarl were instantly on edge and suspicious, as well they should be. It was a strong statement attesting my presence when I would rather have had my quarry remained oblivious. Such wishes are meaningless. The deed had been done. The blood that stained the stones was still warm, and those beady black eyes continued to mock me.

Well played, vermin. Well played.

When I saw myself, I knew I was now dead.

When I saw our city, I knew Forsaken embraced it.

When I saw the spirits, I received the message but missed the meaning.

Dull black hair drifted across startling Human features, frozen in repose while he stared through the frosted glass, a soft sigh escaping his lips though no fog drifted away in the winter breeze. Elriech stared, the icy glowing gaze heavy and thoughtful, his claw tips gently pressed against the cabin wall next to the window pane. It wasn't like him to feel so lost, yet this evening, while the sun drifted behind the mountains, that strange gut feeling sunk him deeper into despair. The soft form draped across his bed, still clothed, snuggled into his pillows further. A thickly furred travel cloak had been draped across her, she had fallen asleep without even taking off her boots, let alone get under the covers. Still he stared, unable to get close to the women he desired lest he destroy everything he found beautiful, it's insatiable desire swept over him again while his claws dug deeper into the cabin wood.

Sitting upon the clock tower of brill.

As the howling winds blow in a deathly chill.

Walking down the trail of the town graveyard,

With lantern in hand is an Undercity Deathguard.

As the moon over the horizon begins to rise.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

The bats screech and scatter as the bell tolls.

(( Continued from A Rat in The Sewer ))

Gil slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked towards the pile of corpses along with the three militia members who had accompanied him. Gil restrained his gag reflex as they approached the fetid, rotting corpses in front of them and unrolled several rolls of canvas. "I think thats the last of them in this spot of the woods." Gil remarked as he kicked one of the dead scourge onto the canvas and moved to repeat the process with another, "Indeed, it seems that way, but things aren't always as they seem out here." a archer from the militia remarked. Gil grinned, pulling his hat off and wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, "True, but we've been at this for days, the undead are numerous, but not so that our skirmishes have no effect.". Gil tied off the canvas around a small pile of corpses and began to load them onto a wagon drawn by one of the skeletal horses that the Forsaken garrison had brought with them.

((The following is a response to this post, as well as an allusion to something else entirely.))

Sidoran sat in his office and chewed on the tip of a fresh quill pen. He hated formal letters, they required him to dust off long disused knowledge and put it back to work. At least military communiqué allowed him to stick to the damn point without all the florid wording. He took a pull from his flask for inspiration, then dipped the pen in the inkwell. His sense of propriety came back to him more readily than he would ever admit, but he got around that by throwing certain rules out the window. Address etiquette? Fuck it.

Miss Irihapeti,

As I sit among the sewers, it all becomes clearer. I no longer am reluctant to wade into the green froth that seeps through the ancient stone aqueducts. I no longer am assaulted by the scent of a river that is more repugnant then all the thousands of walking corpses that live in its presence. More importantly, I no longer have any qualms about what I can or cannot do.

A pair of beady black eyes peer up at me from across the cramped space of one of Lordaeron’s smaller drainage pipes. It’s whiskers taunt me, yet I feel nothing. I can wait because I must, so I taunt the whiskers back. There could be only one sewer rat. We play a game, the vermin and I, for what could be minutes, hours, or days.  Time means very little anymore, and I know in this game I have the advantage.

So. How did your character survive the plague of undeath?

I've heard fire and hiding. I've even heard immunity.

So. No night elves, please, unless they were there, which no one was.

How? 

Sholazar seemed to sing softly as Asilia crept along, abit unsure why she was sneaking to begin with. The Abominations and Ghouls that had been guarding the entrance to the Borean Tundra wouldn't be able to enter the Basin without turning to dust. Mirage finally scuttled up beside the elf snuffling abit irritatedly. Asilia looked over at her with a frown, "Oh I'm sorry Mirage."

Asilia kneeled besides the green scaled stalker going over her injuries which were rather minor given the fight. Patching Mirage up Asilia smiles standing back up, "Well lets find a way..out...of.....here," Asilia's voice trails off as her eyes catch sight of some Tiger's Lily. Shifting slightly the elf sprints over to the flower imediately going about picking it. Carefully stashing the delicate flower in her bag.

We had an Arrangement, the necromancer and I.  He would teach me enough of his art to keep my mother alive, and I in turn would do whatever he asked.  It was simple and I liked it that way.

It started out well enough, at first I could go and see my mother every few weeks or so.  Then weeks turned to months, and months to years.  It had been nearly three years since I last saw my mother's face.  And if it hadn't been for the loss of Deatholme it would have been a three more I'm sure. 

Dunè stood quietly in the park of Stormwind, staring far into a distance unseen by anyone else. Life moved on beside Dunè, birds chirping and conversation flowing with the pleasant breeze of a sunny day. He closed his eyes, everything fading away, bit by bit, until only the darkness was with him...

[[Two or so years ago.]]

Dunè's eyes flew open as soft sunlight played across his face. He smiled, already feeling warm joy, snug within his large bed. The usual sight of his bedroom was around him, the large room gently beginning to lighten as the golden rays of dawn came easily through the large windows in the room. Dunè pulled himself to a sitting position and stretched gingerly, his youthful muscles and carefree demeanor quickly setting about the day.

My King is shaken.

There is no admittance, no need, it is known. Among us, those of us who do know. The self-titled heroes of our enemies have toppled Naxxramas. Our plans have been set back, they are not going smoothly. Our dear alchemist, the Dalaran abandoneer Noth, no longer stands - what a waste... Utter fools, all of them. If such a key necropolis has been savaged and once-reliable persons are so easily follied, what else can these "heroes" do to my King's lands...?

...No, I cannot question, I must not. 

He must not see weakness... But I wonder, now, when I see 'Barachiel's' face, is it worth losing everything again? Must I suffer for a King, once so gracious, whose maps are being erased? Is there anything left of Arthas Menethil...?

Her hand shook. Shook! She stared at it, in it's bland shades of grey. . . And watched it shake. How can this be? She querried herself. I mastered this fear years ago. . . What difference is he that he can do this to me?

Race

            “Hurry up, ya fat fuck! I got seven kills up on you!” Elrin shouted as he sliced his way through another zombie. “Wha’ are ya takin’ a nap, ol’ man?”

            Hron’s heart thudded in his chest. Thump thump thump. The joints in his arms and legs were on fire. They had been at it for almost six hours, just killing wandering undead. The pains were the worst, here in Icecrown. The ghouls didn’t help, either, of course.

*Letter is delivered to recipient with a cracked seal of Kul Tiras*

My old friend Taneel,

Nelryia awoke with a start, shuddering underneith her armor. Even in the Cathedral, she felt a need to leave it on. She looked around the room, eyes darting every which way for a possible ghoul.

With a sigh, Nel begins thinking of what she was forced to do.

"Why did I --That has never happened before.." Nel wraped her arms around her knees, letting a tear roll down her cheek as she let thoughts of Dragoon Zeth'anz, and the recent nightmare travel through her mind.

"I am so sorry... -- What else was I supposed to do? She was turned.. There was nothing to be done to save her." Nel allowed the thoughts to plague her mind before slowly falling back asleep.

It's been quite a while since I did anything outside the city. I guess I've gotten far too lax because my journey here to Tranquillien was a bit more difficult then I imagined. It's been so long since I actually used magic to defend myself... in all honesty it was a little bit scary even.

But well, I had no choice... I like to think this research could possibly solve so many of the issues we face. I know it's optimistic, but still.

((This is from group RP between myself, Theryl and Liore, modified.))

Ashe looked up as Theryl entered the camp, finishing the bandage on her head up and putting the blood soaked old one beside her. Her hair was still navy blue, but her kaldorei markings had smudged up.