[RP] Time spent all alone.

Emerald Dream
The chair creaked and moaned as he shifted back and forth. A mirror stood in front of him, displaying a mess of gangrene in the void dividing his chest. All was quiet but the soft sounds of silken thread. Small sparks of blue and purple floated in the air as the enchanted thread passed through tender pink tissue. Had there been more might in the candlelight, one could see a myriad of failed projects. Glass was scattered the floor, body parts lay rotting on filthy brown bloodstains, test tubes showed burn marks left from his forgetfulness. A man lay dead on the floor with a large gaping hole in his chest to match the one across Mortignis.Upon closer inspection most of the organs lay intact, except for the lungs. Mortignis struggled to fit the “salvaged” organs within his own pulmonary cavity. Air and blood bubbled out of the miniscule holes into the windpipe. After enough squeezing and a little “digging out” of his own dried ribcage he managed to make it fit.

He was jealous of his queen, jealous of Nathanos, jealous of the ones given the gift of sensation. In his solitude he had lost all ambitions, all hope for any other purpose but to return to life, to breath, to feel, to smell again. This obsession was all consuming. He had missed the sensations, his mind was a buzz with the lack thereof. With his plan nearly finished he tightened the windpipe stitching as if wearing a necktie.The anticipation was killing him, his hands struggled to maintain his grip on the needle as it slipped haphazardly through his salted old remains. The final stitch was followed by a distinctly loud squeak almost like leather on leather as the thread tightened. The sound of rushing air through his nose indicated a tight seal as he compact his body.up and down.

“Yes… Yes..” He muttered, reaching for a vial of blue dust. With the pop of the cork a waft of material rose. Faces of the dead were distorted in what seemed was suffering wails, passing through streams of the dust cloud. Small boney fingertips managed to capture a clump of the powder before he rubbed it across his chest and belly. With a few unholy words, the blue dust burned purple, cauterizing the wounds.

“Mmmh…” He grumbled, grabbing a potion. A bowl scratched across the varnished table and the contents of the vial and the potion were mixed together by a silver spoon. His eyes widened, his recklessness showing as the concoction bubbled and spurted. Screams and wailing of the souls he had collected echoed loudly through the room. He darted across the room for a lid, seeing the bowl dance cross the table with vibrations. An audible clang of the lid deafened the screams.

Finally, the screaming subsided and all that was left was a bubbling purple drink. It was a milky dark purple, almost like cream. He peered into it’s center, seeing himself in the reflection. “This wasn’t me, this wasn’t what I was supposed to be.” He thought, running his fingers across the leathery flesh where his jaw once was. A thought of dread filled him for a moment as his doubt culminated like a growing sinkhole. He was unsure of what would come after consuming his experiment. Another thought came to him, one that would destroy his doubt.

“This ain’t living.” He thought, looking into his own bright yellow eyes. The brew drenched his mouth hole, finding its way into his chest and stomach. Vapors trailed to the ceiling in the stagnant air. The liquid seared and bubbled like acid as it met flesh. His abdomen gurggled and sputtered. “This was a bad idea.” An explosion blasted him across the room into a wall. His chest had burst open and his spinal column was shattered in two. The forsaken’s eyes dimmed, with his last vision being his kicking legs and the collected lungs breathing on their own in a mixture of blood and purple goo. Mortignis’ body laid limp, shattered and dead.

Hours passed, the candles burned out. From the cupboard a purple light glowed bright before it’s door swung open. The clever warlock left a soulstone there months ago, only to forget about it with all this obsession with a cure for undeath. The orb shook as it rose. It floated towards the remains, finally settling above his skull. The stone imploded and portions of his soul flooded into every orifice. Even the doors to his shack swung open by the unholy magic. Streams of his lost soul found their way back to the home in his undead brain. He returned from the darkness of death he deserved, blinking and felt the need to gasp for air.
He propped himself up with both hands. Surveying the room he saw his legs fidgeting and the lungs following his own breaths. He felt the urge to breathe again. The lungs followed the pattern of steady breath, although spewing out pinkish bubbles with every exhale.”It? It worked?!” He attempted to say. Slender hands dragged his torso towards the squishy mass of flesh. Unfortunately, gradually, the urge to breathe slowly dissipated and the lungs no longer sucked in air unnaturally. “Hmmm… Maybe more powder next time. Maybe something better…” He thought as he plopped his spinal column back into position with his pelvis.

After putting himself back together and some much needed mopping he settled at his desk. Gently he tongued his pen before writing the following: “More powder. More of the Troll brew from that lady. Need more souls. Need test subjects to avoid dismemberment.” As he leaned back in boredom, a thought deeply buried in his mind darted into his focus. His head turned to his battle raiment collecting dust, along with his staff which glowed much dimmer than when he decided to hermit himself in Silverpine. The rush of battle was calling, and the warlock needed souls.

The ornate armor teemed with crittery crawlys. His tongue wriggled at the sight all on it’s own. Something came over him, a feeling recently abandoned or ignored. Excitement was the few sensations he still could feel, along with a terrible anger slowly build from deep inside. Fully adorned in his beloved tattered armor he rose his staff in the air before slamming it down into the soil outside his hovel. A crater formed from where he struck, opening like a festering gangrene wound on Azeroth. His eyes closed and envisioned a place far far away. This place was nothing like Azeroth, no greens of a forest, no vast blues of an ocean, only dust and hot winds. A black void gradually filled the crater forming a portal to another dimension, rather a planet in this case.

((To be continued.))
A little gross to read but very well written.
06/21/2018 04:00 PMPosted by Sidhedaemon
A little gross to read but very well written.

((Forsaken are pretty gross))
Deaders, sheesh. ((awesome read))

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