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At Heartbreak Hotel
Atul hobbled warily into the crowded pub. A foul smell washed over him in a wave, a mixture of wood slowly rotting in seawater and nostril-searing gasoline that was disingenuously sold as fine alcohol. The old troll received a few glances from the patrons, but none lingered or expressed any interest. Atul was hardly surprised; a much younger, stronger Gurubashi troll may have unsettled the grizzled pirates and desperate goblins that frequented Booty Bay’s Drunken Monkey, but an ancient witch doctor with cracked tusks and countless fleshy wrinkles was hardly a foreboding sight. With some difficulty, the old troll squeezed past a trio of singing dwarven sailors and gazed across the crowd as best he could. Once, those eyes were sensitive enough to see a black panther lounging on a tree branch on a moonless night, but that was a long time ago. Motion attracted Atul’s attention to a table in the far back of the tavern. A blue skinned, three-fingered hand beckoned Atul forward. Dark eyes glimmered from behind a feathered, garishly painted mask. Atul braced himself mentally, reassured that the chosen meeting place was public and patrolled by goblin Bruisers, and hobbled toward the empty chair across from Dree’jin.
Atul settled himself awkwardly in the (somehow) damp wooden chair as Dree stood and gave a brief gesture of respect to his elder. Atul nodded in response, and both trolls relaxed somewhat. Almost a decade ago, deep within the temple city of Zul’Gurub, Dree’jin had been one of Atul’s most prized students. An unruly, sarcastic, and narcissistic student, but still one of the most promising Hexxers that Atul had ever had the pleasure of teaching ritual sacrifice to. Atul squinted at the necklace hanging from his student’s neck – it was a simple affair, adorned with several small yellowed bird skulls, bright purple feathers and what appeared to be a withered human ear. The old troll couldn’t see the younger smile behind the voodoo mask, but the facetious grin in Dree’s voice was evident all the same, ‘It’s been a long time, Great One. I thought for sure that your skull would be adorning someone’s totem by now.’
Atul grunted, also in the native Troll language, ‘Zul’Gurub doesn’t lack for zealots, and there have been several that have tried. Wisdom and cunning are greater defences than many give credit.’ The old troll reached across the table and poured himself a glass of whatever sweet-smelling nectar filled the dented tankard his past pupil had ordered. Dree’jin nodded knowingly at the comment, and took a sip of his own drink. Atul carefully sniffed the sweet wine and, satisfied that it wasn’t poisoned, brought it to his lips. He was certain Dree was still grinning behind that damned mask.
‘That they are, Great One. I remember distinctly that you are without peer in predicting the future. And not only through communing with the Loa, but simply by reading the times and people around you. I like to think I learnt a great deal from you.’
Atul grunted again. ‘Perhaps you did. I have to admit, I’m surprised that you’re alive. I can count on one hand the number of acolytes I’ve ever seen again after they disappeared from the temple mysteriously in the night. And two of those were spirits I summoned.’ The old troll drained his glass, licking his lips. He rarely travelled from the temple city, and it was even rarer for him to indulge in luxuries such as wine. Dree’jin obligingly refilled his glass. ‘Is this what you wished to speak with me about?’
‘In a way,’ Dree replied cryptically, ‘There is a dangerous ritual I am preparing to perform. I am hoping that you will be able to assist me.’
‘Oh? What are you trying to achieve?’ Atul asked between mouthfuls of wine.
‘I want to become a Loa.’
Atul snorted and his leathery face became a mess of wrinkles as he grinned widely. ‘You and every other witch doctor, it seems. Every spirit has the potential to become a Loa after death. Perhaps I have over-estimated your capabilities, if you require my guidance for transcending such a feeble boundary.’
Dree chuckled. ‘You misunderstand me, Great One. Becoming an ancestral spirit to aid our people holds no interest for me. I wish to ascend as an equal to the Primals.’
A heavy silence fell between the two trolls, made all the stranger as it contrasted greatly with the sounds of revelry and conversation humming throughout the Drunken Monkey.
‘You can’t be serious. Have you not heard what happened to the Drakkari, or Jin’do? That’s crazy.’
Behind the mask, Dree’s eyes narrowed to slits of menace and his voice dropped dangerously. ‘I’m not crazy.’
Atul raised a wrinkled hand in apology. ‘What I mean to say is that rituals to bind and transfer the power of a Loa almost always end nasty for the witch doctor. I can’t imagine why you would even want to perform it. To rule over the Troll race? The world? Greater beings than you have tried and failed to accomplish such.’
Dree’jin chose to overlook the insult. ‘To rule over this world? Don’t be ridiculous. That was my old Boss, Aziel’s plan – to burn Azeroth to the ground and recreate a civilisation in his own image. But what’s the point? No kingdom lasts forever. Fel, not even worlds last forever, and with demons, elementals and dragons all trying to destroy this one, it probably has a shorter expiration date than most.’ Dree snorted in derision. ‘Most likely, this pointless war between the Horde and Alliance will result in both groups wiping each other out and destroying Azeroth in the process.’ Dree’jin shrugged offhandedly, as if this was common knowledge. Maybe it was. ‘This world and everyone in it can go to the hells for all I care. The only thing that lasts for an eternity is the spirit. Think of this ritual as my...retirement plan. I will charge my spirit with enough juju to become a Loa, and retire to the spirit world where I’ll have enough power to do so in comfort.’
‘Have you communed with the Blood God about this?’
Dree’jin scowled behind the mask, recalling with vivid detail that particular conversation with the Loa that he had served. He couldn’t keep the spite from his voice as he replied, ‘The Soulflayer refused to aid me. He seems a bit testy after Jin’do’s little trick. In fact, after that communion, the Soulflayer no longer grants power for my voodoo.’
The ancient witch doctor raised a white, fluffy eyebrow. ‘And so you’ve gone crawling on hands and knees to Hir’eek or another?’
‘No. In service to the Soulflayer, I’ve caused...mischief...for many of the Loa and their followers in the past. Besides, even if I could speak to them, they would never accept a bargain with me. Not for the prize I’m after.’
The awkward silence returned, broken only by Atul occasionally slurping at his wine. Eventually, the old troll spoke. ‘I’m not certain that I can be of any assistance, Dree’jin. As I said, I have no desire to be part of a ritual that binds a Loa, and it appears that you don’t have the juju to perform it, anyway.’
Dree leaned back in his chair and bobbed his head happily. ‘Never mind about that. There is more than one way to skin an elf. I know of a ritual to generate enough energy to empower my spirit without stealing it from the Loa. I’ve got most of the important details worked out. At the moment I’m trying to collect one hundred and eleven hearts from powerful beings.’ He explained, leaning over the table to refill his mentor’s glass for the third time.
‘You won’t be wanting my heart, then. It’s been about thirty years before any troll considered me to be ‘powerful’!’ Atul snorted with laughter, savouring more of the wine. Despite himself, he was relieved to hear that Dree’jin was not going to make an attempt on his life. While he doubted that his student would dare to attack him, Atul had not lived to see almost a hundred years amongst the Gurubashi by taking unnecessary risks. Still, clearly Dree’jin was a heathen who had turned his back on the Hakkari. It would bring Atul no pleasure to do so, but he had a responsibility to report this to the other Hakkari in the temple city, who would most likely hunt Dree’jin down and punish his transgressions.
The old troll finished his drink in one gulp, feeling mildly light headed, but still in control. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to relieve myself. Then we can discuss some details.’ Atul gave his student a wry smile and rose on shaky legs. He would find the toilet, and then slip out the back without Dree’jin being any wiser. Atul had no intention whatsoever of being party to such crazed ideas. Dree may have heard the stories of what happened to Jin’do the so-called God Breaker, but Atul bore witness. It was folly to cross the Loa. Pure madness.
‘Sure thing, Great One. Do what you must.’ Dree nodded slowly. The smile in his voice had disappeared, to be replaced by something unreadable. Steadily, Atul made his way to the back of the Drunken Monkey, weaving around tables and small crowds. He had drunk too much too quickly, and his wizened bladder wasn’t quite what it used to be. Atul looked about and caught the attention of a small goblin waitress who was scurrying about underfoot. ‘ ‘Scuse me, where be ya toilet?
‘Plenty upstairs, near the guest rooms.’ She chirped, eying the old troll critically. ‘We’ve also got one downstairs, which you might prefer. It’s at the back, round the corner, past the kitchen.’ Before Atul could ask anything further, she was gone in a flourish of apron and beer foam.
Following the coarse directions, the old troll hobbled to a small corridor that broke off from the noisy common room. The stink of rotting wood intensified in the enclosed space, and the sound of cheers and shouts from the common room clashed with the sounds of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, and a sudden yelp that probably belonged to a goblin chef with a fresh burn. A rickety wooden door at the end of the corridor could only be the toilet. Atul was relieved his brief pilgrimage had come to an end.
For the benefit of readers, the Drunken Monkey’s back bathroom stall will remain undescribed. But be assured, no worse place exists in any world known to mankind. The old troll stepped around a stain offered up from some past traveller, and positioned himself over what was essentially a hole in the floor that led directly to Booty Bay. Atul gave a small sigh of anticipation, closed his eyes, and offered a prayer to Hakkar that his prostate would let him do his business in peace. The old troll did not notice the pair of black, barbed tentacles curl up through the hole in the floor, like insidious streams of smoke. It was the work of a heartbeat for those tentacles to constrict around the old troll and drag him, too surprised to scream, through the hole.
Atul was the victor of countless battles. It was pure reflex for him to unleash a spell of mind-numbing terror that would send his enemies reeling. Again to his surprise, the prayer fizzled in a shower of blue sparks. The felhound, perched on a rocky outcrop, drew Atul closer, its tentacles wrapped around the old troll, slobbering and drooling as the witch doctor struggled to release a second spell, with no effect.
Atul’s eyes widened in pain as the knife slipped neatly into his spine. His gaze was already clouding over as the old troll slumped backward into Dree’jin’s chest. Almost gently, the past student rocked Atul to him, and twisted the blade while holding a large hand over his teacher’s mouth. ‘I’m sorry about this, Great One. If it’s any consolation, it was really nice to see you again.’ Atul released a final sigh, before he died, wrapped in the tentacles of a demon, lying against a past pupil and friend.
‘Now dat be behind us, les’ get down ta bis’ness.’ Dree grinned at the demon, and motioned for the felhound to release the dead troll. It did so reluctantly. ‘Now, where did I put dat bonesaw...’ Dree absently patted his robes, until he found what he was looking for. In some distant part of his mind, Dree supposed that stabbing an old man in the back, particularly one who was in the middle of taking a leak, was not a particularly honourable action. He was quite happy to leave honourable actions to fools like Thrall and Vol’jin, however. Dree had no interest in concerning himself with such intangible nonsense.
As Dree crouched over the dead troll, bonesaw in hand, and prepared to dive into his former teacher’s sternum, he reflected on how Atul’s heart would make such an excellent addition to his collection. It surprised him to no end that people so often thought of the powerful as those who went around slaying dragons in their spare time, before going off to win a war single handedly. True power had nothing to do with physical strength or magical ability – the truly powerful hearts were the hearts of the courageous, the generous, the innocent, the loyal. Or in Atul’s case, the wise. Dree’jin held up Atul’s lean, toughened heart in a bloody grip. ‘Go fer it,’ he absently told the felhound, as he placed the heart carefully in a jar of preservatives. The demon gibbered nonsensically and fell upon the corpse, tearing away chunks in its malformed jaws.
‘Anodder down, still plenty to go.’ And there were indeed many more hearts to gather, if Dree wished to perform his ritual. One hundred and eleven powerful hearts was going to be no easy feat. Happily, most of the Horde and Alliance probably thought he was dead. Dree certainly wished to keep it that way, especially as missing persons reports for both factions would soon be on the rise. If all went according to plan, he would be strong enough to wipe out Orgrimmar with a mere thought before anyone realised what he was up to. The troll grinned to himself behind his mask, revelling in the sounds of the demon’s feeding. One hundred and eleven hearts would be a good deal of effort, but there was no reason why Dree’jin couldn’t have a little fun along the way.
Aww yeah! Loved the story! Pop by and say hi to the Homeland sometime, eh?
Also you should totally send a surprise letter to Scorched Earth. (New evil guild.) If you have any leftover babies from your heart-hunting there is a lady witch who likes eating them. >_>
If I give my heart to you
The sun was setting on the wind-swept plains of Westfall. Dree’jin lay flat in the tall grass, watching the human farmer closely with the eyes of a patient predator. Twenty feet or so downhill, by a small shed, the man hacked away at a large splint of wood with an old axe. Several bundles of kindling lay beside the man, destined to keep his family warm on what would undoubtedly be a cold, windy night. The troll licked his lips with a long, purple tongue. He could smell the sweat beading on the man’s hot flesh; his stomach growled sympathetically. Beside him, digging furrows into the soil restlessly, a felhound growled in response. ‘Shhh,’ Dree hissed, although there was no danger of either of them being overheard. Humans had such diminished senses of sight, sound and smell – it was a wonder they could survive in this world. Dree’jin certainly knew of one human that would not survive the night.
The human’s name was...something-or-other Northson. Dree couldn’t recall. Something-or-other Northson was once a paladin of considerable skill. In fact, he had been involved in ruining an illicit drugs ring organised by the Kamil Amir, the Alliance branch of the Modas il Toralar, who were operating out of several basements in Stormwind several years ago. During the raid, Northson had been identified, and ever since the Kamil Amir had kept a close eye on him. Two years ago, unexpectedly, Northson left the order of paladins he served with to take up farming in Westfall. It had caused what passed for a mild scandal amongst the humans of Stormwind. As it turned out, something-or-other Northson had impregnated some skinny bartender from Goldshire, much to the dismay of both the paladin order and Northson’s rich family. Instead of doing what Dree’jin considered to be the logical thing (pay off her family, silence the girl permanently, or both) Northson gave up what may have been a successful career to settle down with the skinny bartender, and care for both her and their child. The paladins and Northson’s family were not particularly impressed, nor were the Kamil Amir who eventually decided that spying on a farmer was a waste of time and money, but Dree’jin was. It wouldn’t be correct to say that he respected Northson, as the troll read over the Kamil Amir reports, but he did recognise Northson’s choice for the difficult, life-changing decision that it was. Northson gave his heart freely to his new family with no expectations in return. He was a man of duty, duty first to his belief in justice under the paladins, and duty to his family when it became necessary. Unfortunately for Northson, this sense of duty put him on Dree’jin’s organ donor list.
Darkness had finally blanketed Westfall. The temperature dropped quickly, and Dree found himself shivering and longing for the heat and humidity of the tropics. Arms full of firewood, Northson trundled away from the small shed, toward the two-storey cottage that lay at the base of the hill. Sensing the time was near, the felhound rumbled and got to its claws. Dree’jin shushed the demon once more, and gestured for it to be still. The wind whispered across the grass and divulged its secrets to the keenly-eared troll – there were no spoken voices or the jingling hint of steel. Several large animals, horses or cattle, shuffled about in a large barn off to the troll’s left. The property was empty of anyone or anything that would interfere. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the Northson residence, casting an aura of light around the darkened cottage. Dree’jin licked his lips and grinned at the demon. It was time.
The troll wasted no time in skulking or sneaking about in the night. Dree stalked directly to the door and kicked it in with a massive, two-toed foot. Across the room, seated for dinner, Northson and his wife leapt to their feet. The dinner table appeared to only recently have been set: a simple affair of boiled vegetables and roast meat, with a bottle of wine and several lit candles. To Northson’s credit, the initial shock wore off quickly. He shouted something to his wife in their strange language, gesturing wildly at the kitchen, while he grabbed a chair and stood between her and the advancing troll. Dree’jin grinned widely, displaying a mouth full of shark’s teeth. The troll towered over the puny human, who was armed with nothing more than a flimsy piece of furniture. Howling, the demonic canine launched itself around the pair, making a run for the woman who was still clearly in shock, and had not moved an inch toward the kitchen. Again, to the ex-paladin’s credit, he reacted quickly – Northson invoked a short string of words, and the felhound screeched in fear and anguish. The exorcised demon cowered and abased itself on the floor, shuddering and bucking as if it were in the midst of a seizure.
The troll’s grin grew even wider. The stink of fear filled the room, and he longed to hurt something, to hear it scream in pain. Northson swung the chair at Dree’jin, and the troll didn’t even bother to dodge or block it. The fragile chair shattered against the troll’s shoulder. Northson was still nice and close; Dree’jin wrapped both massive hands around the human’s scrawny neck and tackled him to the ground, using his greater size to pin the ex-paladin down. A sharp pain exploded in Dree’s side, as he realised that Northson held a small, but annoyingly sharp, dagger. The troll growled deep in the back of his throat and thudded Northson’s skull against the floor. Northson refused to oblige Dree by dropping the knife, and stabbed him again. Dree’jin hissed in rage and snapped his teeth over Northson’s face, twice, in quick succession. Blood covered both the troll’s face and the human’s ruined one – Northson’s nose was neatly removed, and what little remained of his eyes and cheeks was obscured by the vast quantity of blood that was gushing from his face. Another chair, this one completely unexpected, slammed into the back of Dree’s head. Mildly stunned, the troll released Northson and shoved backward reflexively, trying to regain his footing. The wife, still skinny and so white with terror she could be a Scourge wraith, swung her chair at the troll again, sobbing and crying and screaming, but now with triumph at having hurt her monstrous intruder.
Dree’jin laughed and grabbed hold of the chair, and the unlikely pair played a brief game of tug-of-war. ‘Good on ya, lady. Dis is only evah any fun when dey fight back!’ Putting all of his weight into it, the troll hurled himself at the woman, the chair still between them. They crashed into a stone fireplace, the poor, skinny woman crushed beneath the chair and troll. Dree took a step backward, and she collapsed, limp and unconscious. The troll, breathing heavily, took a moment to slurp at Northson’s blood, which still covered his face. He savoured the taste, letting it roll over his tongue. It was delicately spiced with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. There was an old myth that said trolls could smell the blood of a man who believed in the Light. Dree personally could not, but he certainly had a preference for terrified prey. It performed such magnificent biochemistry with the taste.
Its tentacles drooped in shame, the felhound snuffled over at Dree’s feet. Its master sighed and indicated the unconscious woman. ‘You don’ deserve it, but go on. Don’ say I nevah did anytin’ nice fer ya.’ The demon rumbled with joy and set upon the woman, who, thankfully, appeared to have suffered a fatal blow to the head against the fireplace. Northson was not so lucky – Dree steadily wandered over to the fallen ex-paladin, who was attempting to drag himself toward the staircase, leaving a trail of blood behind him. ‘Yer sacrifice is much appreciated, liddle chum.’ Dree murmured almost reverently and, pinning the human down with a large two-toed foot, set upon him with a wickedly curved bonesaw.
Moments later, the troll gently plopped Northson’s dutiful heart into a jar of preservatives. The knife wounds in his side had regenerated and the vague itching sensation of a healing kidney was fading. Dree looked about the room, admiring his handiwork – it was a scene from a nightmare. The troll was about to speak to his demon, when a faint noise from upstairs caused the troll’s sensitive ears to twitch. It was a soft cry, released from an awakened...something, and that’s when Dree’jin remembered what got Northson into this mess in the first place: his daughter. The troll scowled and crossed his arms, deep in thought. What to do about the baby. On a day to day basis, it was very rare indeed for Dree to encounter a situation where he questioned his morals. Indeed, he didn’t really have any – if Dree wanted something or someone, he took it and the consequences or anyone who got in his way be damned. But on those rare occasions when he had to deeply think about what was right and what was wrong, the various facets of his personality were only too happy to give a voice to their opinions. And they certainly did give a voice to them – Dree tended to associate those inner voices with the people he knew whom they most closely reflected. Thus, in this particular situation, it was hardly surprising to hear a voice that sounded eerily like Aziel V’Ghera resonating throughout the troll’s skull, prompting him to finish off what he started, to destroy the entire family: ‘Prove that you are superior; lament not the insects that writhe beneath your feet.’ Dree’jin licked his lips in thought, and stole a look at the stairs. He didn’t really care about the human child. So, why shouldn’t he smash it?
Almost on queue, Arjah’s voice, which represented the closest thing that held any decency in Dree, chirped up in his head. In reality, Aziel and Arjah hated each other and fought constantly, and so it only made sense for them to do so in Dree’s head, too. ‘DREE’JIN!’ She screeched, that tone of indignant anger, which he knew so well, made the troll wince even though Arjah wasn’t actually in the room. ‘How could ya even tink about hurtin’ a child!? What if anyone did dat ta Ektilia or Alai’jen!? How would ya feel?’ Dree’jin scowled in agreement. ‘I’d tear deir throats out, das wha’.’ But Aziel was far from done. The Lich’s haunting, whispery voice filled Dree like a potent narcotic. ‘This is survival. Do what you must and be not bound to the tethers of morality.’ The troll stared vacantly at the stairs. ‘She might grow up an’ ‘unt me down, one day. Dat could end badly. I do like bein’ alive.’ Arjah sighed, and Dree could just imagine the look of irritation on her face, as if she was trying to discuss an intense mathematical problem with a pumpkin. ‘Dat isn’t the point. You know bettah dan dis. Family is everythin’. We should respec’ family, even da families of silly humans.’
Aziel was not pleased. ‘Do it. Do it now. I command it. This is my desire.’
‘Oh, quiet you. Go play wit’ dat crazy !@#$ – ‘ Arjah’s tone rose with each word.
‘How dare you speak about my consort in such a manner...’
‘SHUDDUP! Shuddup, da bot’ o’ ya! By da Loa, dis is ridiculous.’ Dree’jin roared. Upstairs, the child began to cry. ‘I’s gonna do dis my way, MY WAY, ya ‘ear me?’ The troll tapped his chest emphatically, until he realised that he was alone. At his feet, the felhound tilted its head to the side, confused. Family was everything. He would not only leave the girl alone, but he would leave her a symbol so that she would know what happened to her family. The challenge would be set, and if, twenty years from now, the human wished to accept it and attack Dree’jin, then that was only fair. And if he happened to cheat a little, and be a Loa before any of this became a problem, well, that’s just the way the world worked sometimes. Dree leant over Northson’s corpse and dipped a fingertip in the human’s blood. Carefully, he drew (as best he could) the symbol of the Modas il Toralar above the human’s head. It was a crude and bloody circular star with four dripping points, but it would have to do. ‘Come on.’ Dree growled at the felhound, and both trundled out of the horrific room, the felhound’s tentacles still drooping, unsure if it had done anything wrong. Arjah spoke up again, ‘Dree’jin, don’ forget dat – ‘
‘Ya, ya, I won’ let da kid die out ‘ere.’ Dree grouched petulantly. All of the evening’s festivities seemed over, and now Dree just felt alone and mildly sad. The troll wandered over to the woodshed where he had first spied Northson. He chanted briefly, and a blazing inferno took hold of the shed’s roof. It would attract the attention of the other humans, as they weren’t all that far from Sentinel Hill. Which of course, meant that it was time to go. Dree’jin spared the Northson residence one last look, remembering the deliciousness of the ex-paladin’s blood playing over his taste-buds, before activating his hearthstone.
(( Dreejin is back? Damnit now I gotta come back. :-( <3 Dree
Should seek out Maya. She's back now, though I don't do anything evil on her, very hard to do anything when very little people wish to participate. I'll try to log on later and catch you. We can have evil meeting of minds.... ))
"Fish biting?" The voice from somewhere behind her was familiar, but it still gave her a start.
Gentyl flicked her wrist and cast again, mildly irritated that she had been roused from a near slumber in the warm afternoon and even more irritated that she hadn't detected anyone around her. Had it been Pang he would have planted a knife in her ribs already. "A bit. We'll have trout for supper."
"You keep being so reckless and you'll be having a nice, long dirt nap."
She jerked the line up too soon, like and agitated cat popping its tail in frustration. She inhaled deeply taking in the warm, moist scent of the lakeshore. It was rich and tinged with moss, decaying leaves and wood with an underlying hint of rain in the air. The know between her brows relaxed. "Are you just here to chastise me?"
"Actually, I do that for pleasure," Voice said. "No charge. The news I have for you cost a bit, though. I'm glad you sold some ore recently to keep me in the lifestyle I enjoy."
Gentyl nodding, trying to keep the irritation at bay and maintain her peace. He had already rifled through the money pouch lying with her other things on the bank.
"A farmer's and his wife were murdered in Westfall last night."
Her brow raised. She'd heard Steam had gone to another guild. Were they back to raiding alliance lands? "Whose?"
"Northson. Ex-paladin. You might remember him."
She frowned. He was a good man. At another time he might have been an incorruptible. "Why would anyone kill him? He's barely eking a living out of that hard scrabble farm."
"It was an assassination. Whoever killed him cut his heart out and painted the sign of the Modas on his forehead with his own blood."
The pole drooped in her hand. Modas were dead and the world had been better for their passing. That sounded suspiciously like something Dree'jin would do, though. "Modas is dead."
"Keep telling yourself that, darling. It will make a nice epitaph on your tombstone."
She wound the line on the pole. "Thank you. We'll send out some scouts."
There was no reply. Voice was already gone. She turned and smiled at the peach he left on her jacket.
Edited by Gentyl on 11/28/2011 3:32 PM PST
Teriis' eyes had begun to droop slightly as he observed Gentyl fishing. Sleep had always come hard for him, but watching someone fish was... cruel. Ever since the Presidium and Steam had started this intense fighting, Teriis had been reluctant to let Sepha Gentyl out of his sight.
It didn't matter much, though.
Teriis, despite being afflicted by the worgen curse, was almost always in his human form. His skin was a light tan, but he hadn't much muscle mass to speak of. His only weapon was a crudely made dagger that'd likely break if it made contact with a well-crafted blade. His only defensive abilities were in a couple smoke bombs and an ink spit he'd crafted back when he needed to steal to survive, which also taught him how to get around without being caught.
To condense that to a point, he wouldn't be the first bit of help to Sepha Gentyl if she was attacked, but damned if he wasn't going to try.
He leaned back against the tree he'd perched in, hugging a brown, tattered shawl in his usual cautious manner. He hadn't recognized the stranger, but didn't get the feeling Voice would harm Gentyl.
What bad guy brings a peach?
Edited by Teriis on 11/28/2011 12:09 PM PST
The world is cursed. Foxria knew it was. For over two years she had traveled as far and wide as she can. in that time she had learned much about many, enough to know just how cursed the world is and how important her prize box is. She strolled the farmstead in Westfall, now thinking how cursed things can be. This was no clue left in the wake of this action, it was a calling card of doom. Doom was something Gnomes knew a little something of. The Modias was doom, the Grim Maw is doom, now a troll had come and murdered this family. His large footprint left in the very blood of those he slaughtered. Worse is the child whose survival is as inexplicable as this act of violence. Yet acts of violence are not as random as they seem. Many Gods demand it, particularly the Gods of the Trolls.
Modias is an old nemesis of the Holy Guard, no new facts there. When Aziel disappeared those many years ago all was thought to have cooled between the groups. So why do they come out now. Why this former Paladin? The return of this group meant trouble, and more curses. Who is left? Where is the hand of Aziel? What ever was happening Foxria would keep both eyes out for Modias and both ear open for the troubles it may cause.
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