Newer, Relevant Items "See Below. Slow to update. Busy medic hardly has time to log anything nowadays. Given the one thread fits all size...this will be a haphazard pile of everything from one offs to multi panels to quips."
Working Name: "Zamboozle" Generally known as this name. Variations include "Zam" "Zammie" "Boozle" Origin of name: 'Gifted' to him after an incident in the Magic Quarters that saw the destruction of several enchanted items. Said mage never forgave him.
Title: "Medic" Tends to be called 'Medic' more than anything.
Human Name: "Niklos" Only known by a few. Usually used only to annoy or get his attention.
Other Name: "Adamant" Refers strictly to the necromancer of old. Only used by other ex-scourge that knew of him 'back in the day'.
There was once a happier time where Brewfest for him was nothing more than a few bruises, cuts, broken bones, alcohol poisoning, the ram and kodo pile-ups, the occasional lost jaw and the even more occasional tauren horn stuck in a keg. Nothing that an ample amount of experience, bandages, awakening herbs and the lack of anesthetic couldn't take care of (pain, he found, jolts drunken sods back to a sober state better than any Alliance arrow). Over the years the Medic had grown into somewhat of a seasoned veteran when it came to dealing with alcohol-induced injury. He had learned that by apply the right amount of pressure, any elf-ear could easily be popped back into place, and that regardless of what any goblin said, a crowbar was still the best way to dislodge an injured rider from a ram and kodo pile up. He also knew that certain riders had the tendency the run into a bonfire like moths to a flame and that no matter what, everyone would crash into an apple barrel the moment it was let down onto the ground. Yes, he knew, he adapted, and he grew. Brewfest turned from a dreaded yearly torture to more of a equally dreaded, semi-bearable bitter medicine.
Yet now it seemed, all that experience was for naught.
The Forsaken stared at the sight before him. Day one into Brewfest, and already the healing tents were in a 'Cataclysmic' state.
Who would've thought the new Warchief would endorse such drinking?! Zam thought, horrified as he watched as road workers attempt to pry a tauren out from a pile of dead rams and kodos , stacked high as a turret tower. Perhaps this was not truly endorsed by the new Warchief, perhaps the grunts were simply here to drink AWAY the presence of him. To forget and escape and drown in endless barrels of beer...until the next shift anyway. Yes, that's must be it. With that conclusion in mind, the Medic gave his verdict to the disaster of the day.
"Best solution is to have that dragon come back and set everything back on fire. With this highly flammable state, everyone should be dust in seconds," Zam declared as one by one, the casualties of the first major pile-up of the festival were carried away on stretchers.
"Oh please don't say anything silly, Sir," one of his assistants replied. He was another Forsaken, quite whole by undead standards and rather mild-mannered. One by one he logged the line of casualties in his parchments. Zam sighed as the tallies came in.
"Three taurens, five orcs, two trolls and an elf," his assistant reported, scribbling the last entry into the parchment. It was only then the two finally looked up at the pile.
"Make that half an elf," the assistant corrected himself. Zam nodded, and turned away from the grisly scene.
"At this rate we will be up to our necks by noon!" the Medic wailed, his face in his palms, "whatever happened to safety saddles?!"
The assistant said nothing. He too, was also a veteran of the fields, and experience told him to stay silent lest he was sent off to some Shadow-forsakened post.
"One day," the medic continued, "the Horde will learn that drinking and riding is detrimental to their health. What if the Alliance attacks right now?! All our soldiers are drunk out of their wits! They won't be able to tell who to stab!"
"Oh I doubt that Sir...they are probably drunk out of their wits as well," his assistant replied. The scroll of casualties was rolled up and tucked away into a long dark sleeve, "Brewfest originated from the dwarves, after all...I would not be surprised if they are trying to one-up us by drinking more."
Zam scoffed, "and then what? Have a contest to see which side kills the most rams by crashing them into bonfires? Ridiculous. I will say though, if they do, then I will love to be there...to..." The Medic stopped in mid sentence, his expression of anger fading into one of revelation. The assistant watched as the Medic - whose mood had been sour since the sun came up, broke into a wide, wide smile.
Oh dear, the assistant thought, he's gone mad with stress. Slowly the assistant started to scoot away from his superior. But that was not needed. The Medic stood straight, whirled around, and started down the road.
"Sir...Sir...where are you going? The healing tent is that way!" the assistant cried, sounding somewhere between horrified and worried. Zam waved him off.
"You can handle it," Zam replied hastily. He mounted the large skeletal horse waiting by the roadside. He beamed at his paling assistant, "I have a show to watch."
"How does it go again? Ah yes...A glass a day keeps Faranell away." - Zamboozle
During his career as a forsaken mender and the occasional soul-reaping, soul-infatuated, Scourge-relapsing necromancer ("That time is long over now!"), the Medic is often associated with a red liquid called 'bloodwine'. As the name suggests, the liquid is 'wine made of blood'. Originally created as a recreational drink, the liquid now has more medicinal properties more catered to those running on necromancy or dark magics.
The process of creating the original drink is simple enough on paper: blood - preferably those of a magical, non-fel tainted race - mixed together with wine with a small amount of necromatic magic for that extra kick. The drink sates the flesh-hungry urges of the average forsaken while the necromatic magic increases the effect of the alcohol on the dulled-to-near-non-existent senses of the undead, making it possible for the imbiber to get absolutely hammered to a point of dancing on the local mailbox utterly naked while singing lewd songs about the Dark Lady.
"But really, let us not get into that too much. Nobody needs to know what happened that evening. "
Over the years the recipe for bloodwine has been improved upon where now the creation process is much more complex and refined. The current incarnation not only offers the similar buzz, but also refreshes the necromatic system of the imbiber. There are now currently two different types of bloodwine offered by the Medic - the recreational recipe that offers a much harder kick than the original - guaranteed to make even a fleshless, gutless skeleton absolutely smashed ("Just spray the liquid in its general direction.") - and a medicinal one made for the purpose of keeping your undead self rotless, wholesome and sensitive.
"However, as powerful as the medicinal bloodwine sounds, I still suggest a check up every few months to make sure you are in good undead health. While it is not as strong as the recreational wine, over consumption will still lead to bouts of drunkenness, abnormal behavior and morally questionable acts of strangeness. While I don't think any forsaken will mind a wholesome undead lady dancing on the mailbox in nothing by black rags, I don't think that will go over with the Kor'kron too well."
The bonfire crackled before the soft yellow eyes of the forsaken. Zamboozle sighed, his pale skin bathed in the warm yellow light of the fire. It was close to midnight, and most of the Argents have retired to bed, waiting for the coming of day.
Another day, another series of tourneys, jousts, of people being caught at the wrong end of a pike or worse yet, the bad end of a Scourge sword. The medic helped himself to another refill of hot chocolate, then settled himself down to spend the evening sitting beside the bonfire, keeping it burning until the living wake to takeover. There was comfort here, sitting in the middle of the night with only the hot fire licking his front and the freezing night air chilling his back. With a shuffle the forsaken spun around on the stool he sat upon. Warmth flooded his frozen backside, and cold air flooded his front. He smiled in contentment: balance was key.
But was it? The medic stared up into the skies of the glacier. It was hard to imagine that if things had gone differently, he would be somewhere up in the skies, sitting on a frost wyrm while raining death upon the invaders - invaders that had, by now, decimated the Citadel, destroyed its denizens and pilfered whatever treasures there were to be had.
“Pft, if I was there, we’d still be standing,” the medic said to no one in particular. He scooped a handful of snow up, pressed it into a snowball and sent it flying at the nearest training dummy. Yes..they would still be standing. And he - he would be in the dark halls, the grand necromancer, master of his wing, serving only the master and answering only to the master. He would have his own fine battalion of death knights, his own flock of frost wyrms, and perhaps even, his very own flock of Val’kyr! Him! Reaper of souls! Master of all he surveys! The mere thought brought a dazed smile to his pale face, only to be wiped away by the very next thought that followed.
And then you’ll fall and be harvested for treasures like everyone else in that Light-forsaken place.
Zam coughed, and turned away from the training dummy. Embarrassed by his own thoughts, the forsaken pulled his cloak tighter over himself and rotated once again to face the fire once more.
“I am...so sorry,” the blood elf before him replied. The magister stood, rocking back and forth on his heels as he watched the forsaken stare down at his own disembodied arm with a blank look on his face.
This is what happens when you are careless.
It was a strange feeling, staring at a part of yourself and feeling absolutely nothing. Slowly, the forsaken bent over and picked up the loose limb. It flopped limply in his single remaining hand. The blood elf swallowed hard, not knowing how his companion would react. Zam for one, was a vain forsaken and took pride on his wholesome appearance.
“If...if it helps, I can create a portal to Undercity for emergency treatment,” the elf stammered out. But Zam did not reply. He simply stared down at his hand - its pale fingers curled up, frozen, gray and lifeless. The skin, while unscarred, bore all the signs of poor upkeep. With a frown, the medic tried to move said arm with his mind. In a horribly predictable fashion, the loose arm simply stayed still, refusing to budge. Zam bit his lip, disturbed.
What does one do when one loses a limb? The thought of panicking, of screaming and flailing with his one remaining arm while running up and down the streets of Silvermoon came to mind. Surely the guards would understand? By Shadows, this was his arm! A part of him! A precious, very useful part of him! A very part of his body that is now detached! Without his arm he would not be able to work! To function! Any living would be screaming bloody murder by now!
But you’re dead, Niklos.
The train of thoughts stopped, and the medic blinked.
The blood elf, by now close to fainting, watched in silence as the medic held his arm up - way up, and with a small swoosh, slung the arm over his shoulders and scratched his back with it.
“...I’ve always wanted to do that,” the medic said in a very thoughtful voice. The blood elf simply stared at him, the fel green eyes growing wider than dinner plates with every passing second. The medic sighed, and slung his now very free arm forward again and rubbed his chin with it.
“...Fascinating...I think I can feel my chin.”
“Zam!” the blood elf wailed out, “stop that! We have to get you to the Undercity! That arm - “
“Is still mine, thank you very much,” the medic said. The spun around, arm in tow, and shrugged. The blood elf watched as the medic started to shuffle away, seemingly unaffected by the loss of his arm. “I’ll just...pull myself back together.”
In the long run, the forsaken told himself, everything was expendable.
“I was only trying to bake a cake!” Ryutan grumbled out. The forsaken warrior scrambled out of the living quarters of the Undercity. Thick black smoke billowed out of the halls, filling up the corridors and reducing visibility to near zero. Even the yellow glow from the forsaken’s eyes was gone, swallowed in darkness. Down the dark city, cries of alarm could be heard, followed by the screeching of bats and yelling of orcs.
The Undercity was a very poor place to start a fire.
“How should I suppose to know that the fire shouldn’t touch the pan? The meat touches the fire all the time when I cook!” Ryutan continued. He sat by the canals, his armor blackened with smoke and the ends of his cloak charred.
“That’s a ‘grill’, Ryu. You bake with an oven.”
Zam sighed as he stood before the fire, watching as the flames consumed everything within the burning halls. He too, was blackened by the smoke. The usually clean face was powdered with soot and the ends of his pale hair were singed black. Ryutan looked away, guilty over his latest handiwork.
“...hope you saved something from it. Doubt there’ll be anything left,” he mumbled out. But the fighter knew the medic wasn’t listening. He stood before the fiery scene, his arms clutching Pinchy tightly. The orange crustacean clicked quietly, offering what comfort it could to his owner in the face of such a loss. Beside the two sat the white medical kit - the one item the medic was never seen without. Ryutan frowned - the medic must have ran in it pull it out at the last second.
Sorta important when you have everything and the kitchen sink in it, Ryutan thought silently to himself. His eyes fell upon the single, last item the medic managed to pull away from the halls before the fire grew too strong - a single white rose in a small black vase. Obviously enchanted, the white petals seemed unharmed in the fire and smoke. In fact, the black smoke only seemed to make the white flower stand out even more.
“Your wife’s, huh,” Ryutan asked, but the medic there was no response. He stood, silent as ever, watching as the bright red and orange flames consumed the place he had been living in for the past years. The small place, though small and cramped and lacking in almost every living comfort (except for a oven), had been home. The warrior knew the medic was fond of it. Now, watching it all burn away was...heartbreaking, to say the least.
“You know Zam,” Ryu started, trying to salvage what little of the situation there was left, “you can always look for a place in Brill. I know they ruined the place pretty good but I’m sure there’s a house somewhere you can live in.”
The medic did not turn back. Instead, he shuffled slightly in his robes and turned his face to the rest of the city.
“Hey..Ryu?” the medic asked, his voice barely audible over the sound of burning fire, cries of alarm and crumbling furniture.
“Yeah?” Ryutan replied, unable to hide the guilt from his voice. He leaned over to look at the medic. To his shock, Zam was smiling softly.
“Do you think if we let it burn, we can smoke all the Kor’kron out of the city?”
“Will brings forth the Light, Faith supplements your will and makes your will stronger and thus, enhances your ability to channel the Light. The moment it goes the other way around you turn into one of those crazy cultists. Instead of using the Light, you end up being used by the Light. At that point, you might as well replace ‘Light’ with ‘shadow’ or ‘fel’ and it would not make a difference to anyone seeking to off you for a few pieces of cloth and gold.”
Nicholas leaned back with a sigh. His eyes, out of focus, stared into a small leather book. With another sigh, he rolled over and buried himself face first into a large, plush, pillow.
“And I hate paperwork. This is disgusting.”
“...oh please don’t say anything silly like that, sir,” Niklos said with a frown. The young boy sat cross legged on the soft carpet, surrounded by stacks and stacks of parchments, scrolls and books, “the Archbishop is not going to be happy if we don’t sort these out by sundown.”
“...he won’t be happy whether we finish it or not, Niklos,” Nicholas replied with a flat look. The elder priest sighed, and rolled himself back up to a sitting position. Black robes cascaded down to the floor as he sat up. In the library made of white marble, white furniture, and white candles, the dark priest seemed oddly out of place.
“Really,” Nicholas grumbled, “making me sort these Light-preaching scriptures...this is cruel and unusual punishment. I bet Loth’eal asked him to do it. That no good Light-loving elf.”
Niklos watched as his master picked up a piece of loose parchment, folded it into a small bird and sent it flying across the library - straight into the rubbish can. Niklos sighed.
“Don’t bad talk Master Loth’eal, sir. You know he has never approved of your alignment with the dark,” the boy said. Nicholas waved him off.
“The pure shadow is no different than the pure Light in terms of faith and power, boy. I simply find it a little more comforting. You may condemn the shadow all you want and claim you have no need for it when you achieve the feat of being able to sleep peacefully under bright sunlight.”
Niklos opened his mouth, but was at a loss of how to retort. Slowly, he pressed his lips together and turned his attention back to the books. In a situation like this, it was better to work silently than offer resistance. But Master Nicholas was making it very hard for him not to speak. The elder priest kept rolling up loose pieces of parchment up into balls and lobbing it over his head and into the rubbish can. Finally, Niklos resigned himself to his lesser side, more curious side.
“Why do you loathe the Light so much, Master Nicholas?” the boy asked. Nicholas scoffed.
“I do not hate it. I simply do not worship and revere it like every other addled-head mindless out there,” the priest replied. With another toss, three parchment balls sailed over Niklos’ head and into the can. Nicholas grinned, “I see it for what it is and I feel not the urge to get onto my knees and pray to it without good reason.”
Niklos opened his mouth to question, but Nicholas was already answering them.
“The Light is a source of power. Faith and will drives it, but it is power at its very core. It will give you hope, fill your spirit with warmth, offer you strength for your faith...but last I recall it does not fill your belly with food, nor shelter your body from cold, and it sure won’t save you from angry priestesses.”
Niklos went very silent. Nicholas took a long look at the boy and smiled softly. He beckoned the boy over and placed a warm hand on the boy’s head in comfort.
“You need not follow the path I have chosen,” Nicholas spoke in a soft, kind voice, “but I would prefer it if you do not turn into one of those mindless drones offering prayers everyday for nothing more than peace of mind that you ‘did it’.”
The boy nodded, and Nicholas smiled again.
“You’re a good boy, Niklos. I just regret not being able to see what you’ve grown into.”
“Shovelheads,” Zam grumbled out. The medic sat on his kit, staring up at the batch of ‘younglings’. He turned his head up to his companion - a val’kyr. She was pretty enough as far as her kind was, with beautiful white wings and a pristine, soul-like body. She floated gracefully in the air beside him, staring out at the batch of newly risen. Zam sighed.
“You are getting terribly shoddy at this.”
The Val’kyr didn’t reply. She simply continued to hover. Zam frowned.
“And you want me to watch over these guys?”
The Val’kyr, though silent, nodded. Zam groaned. With a heavy sigh he stared out at the group.
Shovelheads. There was no other word for it. With a grumble the medic pulled himself up and clapped his hands together for attention. To his disappointment, none of the new ‘soldiers’ turned to look at him. Two of them continued to sit on the floor, another leaned up against the wall, staring out into the abyss. The fifth and the fourth looked like they haven’t been raised at all! With a deeper frown, the medic stepped forward and crossed his arms.
The medic spun around and sat back down into the medical kit again. The Val’kyr seemed startled. She fluttered before him and raised her hands in question. Zam shrugged.
“I’m a medic, not a deathguard. These shovelheads...I’ll just write them off as expendable fodder.”
The Val’kyr’s wings twitched in annoyance. But there was nothing that could be done. She watched as the medic stretched, yawned, and joined the group of five useless shovelheads in their lull.
Zam sputtered into his mug. The healer, dressed in the uniform of the Argent healers, stared up at the paladin before him. He sighed and rubbed his face in thought.
“Well..I do not dislike or hate races as a whole...as the Highlord once said...what was it again? Something along the lines of ‘there is a good and bad in everything? But if I must choose a race I am wary of...it would be...uh...”
He took a long drink from his mug, then stared thoughtfully into the bonfire crackling before him. Slowly, a frown came to his face.
“Worgen,” the forsaken grumbled out in a deep, serious voice. His companion, a human paladin, laughed.
“Why? I’ve met a few...decent individuals if you can look over the fur and fangs. You should be used to that by now”
“That’s because you’ve never shared territories with them,” Zam replied with a hiss. He wrapped his cloak tighter around his thin form and hissed. “...don’t think there’s a single forsaken out there that likes them - even before that damned wall went down they were a problem in Silverpine...dirty..no good ambushing...”
“Woah, woah Zam, calm down. Nobody’s asking you to be friends with one,” the paladin laughed out, chuckling at the forsaken’s less-than-stellar response. The medic grumbled and dipped his face into the large mug again, hiding it. The paladin sighed and sat down before the bonfire as well. The medic shuddered then started to mutter away.
“...I don’t hate the Alliance - no, perhaps just...certain individuals that made unlife quite hard - I just don't apply any anaesthetic if they end up on my stretcher - "
" - now that is quite cruel - "
" - not the point. I've just never liked worgen, not ever. Probably never will. Only thing good about worgen is that you can skin them for a pelt - sells a pretty penny in the Undercity - "
"- I did not hear that - "
" - fleabags, all of them. Always sneaking around in the forest, ready to jump you and chase you for a mile...never see'em coming...” the medic muttered, “only good worgen is a dead worgen...drooling, snarling...”
The paladin frowned. The medic was usually not so...hateful. The same man that mended humans and forsaken without question was uttering curses and death threats. The human frowned, his pale blue eyes studying the muttering, grumbling medic. Finally, he leaned forward and asked in a low voice.
“...you were attacked by one of those Arugal things back in the day, weren't you?”
It was strange, for an undead to attend a funeral. Yet here he was, staring from afar as he watched the solemn gathering of Argents huddled around a freshly dug grave. Several priestesses were sobbing and a few men were pale beyond words.
The departed was a young lad - a paladin-in-training. The poor boy was too eager to serve, and had found himself standing a little too close to the beasts kept for the tournament. Still reeling from the latest batch of challengers, the beast - hungry and perhaps still a little vengeful - managed to grab hold of the boy and pull him into its cage. The beastkeepers noticed a little too late, and by the time they were aware of the situation there was little to nothing left to rescue.
“...even the Lich King won’t be able to pull this one back,” one of the paladins muttered under his breath. The few crusaders around him shifted uncomfortably, sharing awkward chuckles. Fortunately the Highlord was out of an earshot, and the group was spared from lecture and punishment. Zam sighed, and turned his eyes to the coffin. Within it sat a few pieces of scrap armor, tufts of hair, and something that looked suspiciously like a bright pink sock. They were the only items the beastkeepers managed to retrieve.
True, the Medic thought to himself, even He wouldn’t be able to pull this one off. Still...
Zamboozle turned his eyes away from the distressing empty coffin and looked up at the young lad that stood beside him. It was a young boy, with pale blonde hair and bright amber eyes. He too, was staring down at the coffin. His eyes were hard with disbelief and his lips were pressed together in what was unmistakably a pout.
Sulking, Zam thought to himself. He leaned over and murmured to the boy.
“Do not feel so bad, dear.. Others have passed from worse reasons.”
“I’m...not..feeling..bad!” the boy replied hissed out. He let out what sounded like a whine and shifted in his armor. Zam sighed in response.
“You know, a second chance is possible,” the medic said. The boy frowned, and stared up at the medic. For a moment the boy seemed to consider, but his face quickly scrunched up into a scowl.
“Don’t even think about it,” the boy growled out in a haughty voice. He crossed his arms and turned away, “the death was deserved.”
“Are you sure?” the medic asked quietly, “I am sure I can find a construct to - “
“- no,” the boy said firmly. The paladin-in-training crossed his arms and pouted again, “don’t even think about it.”
“...this is going to be the laughingstock of the entire graveyard,” the medic said. Immediately the boy whipped around and screeched like a banshee.
“I SAID NO, ZAM!”
The medic nearly bolted. He stumbled sideways, nearly tripping over a gravestone. Several heads turned his way, only to turn back to the fresh grave. One of the elder paladins had started to give a speech. In the midst of the gusting Icecrown winds, the paladin’s droning voice, it seemed like the only one who could hear the boy’s yelling was the medic.
“Alright, alright,” Zam hissed, “no need to scream. Don’t wake the locals.”
The boy sniffed. With a decisive whimper, the boy spun away again and sat down into the ground. Snow had started to fall in the glacier. Zam watched as the pristine white flakes fluttered down from the heavens above, covering the tournament grounds in a soft white veil. Slowly, gently, he reached over and rested a pale white hand on the ripped and torn armor of the young paladin.
“...the dead should stay dead. I understand,” the medic murmured softly, “don’t cry. It is over now.”
The boy shifted slightly. Though no tears ran down his pale cheeks, his voice was strangely muffled as he admitted quietly.
Zamboozle frowned in concentration. Pale fingers rubbed the smooth chin as he pondered. Pinchy clicked quietly beside him, staring as his master groaned in concentration.
“Well?” the one sitting before him asked. The elder priest tapped his foot impatiently, his black robes cascading down the gray tomb that he sat upon. “You’ve been thinking for five minutes.”
“Mmmm...” the medic said again, his soft yellow eyes focused on the challenge before him - a chess board. The white pieces outnumber the black pieces three to one. Nicholas sighed at the younger man.
“...after all these years, you are still horrible at this,” the elder said. Zam shifted upon his grassy seat, haughty. Yet he stayed silent. Nicholas grinned. He leaned down and danced one translucent finger over the three remaining black pieces - the king, the queen and a pawn.
“You are going to lo-ose,” the spirit sang in his soft, delightful voice. Zam groaned. He leaned backwards onto a broken pillar and stared at the lost cause that was the chess board. The spirit before him chuckled.
“Oh come now...that was a good match, was it not?” Nicholas asked. The medic shrugged. Here, in the ruins of the fallen cathedral, the two shared an evening of chess and words. The forsaken looked up at the priest, pure as day, his black robes, darker than night, his eyes twinkling.
It bothered him, bothered and warmed him. Zam shook his head and picked up the lone pawn. He held it up to the moonlight, staring at it. With a sigh he placed it back onto the chessboard.
“...not moving on, I guess,” the forsaken said. Nicholas smiled.
“Not moving on,” the priest repeated. The priest leaned down, his dark eyes twinkling with humor.
“Until you win, I am staying - checkmate, by the way.”
It was a lazy afternoon. The newest batch of patients had been sent packing to the front lines again and exams were over in the Academy. Most of the crusaders were off on far-off missions and the first casualties were not expected at the tournament grounds for another week. With little to nothing to do, the medic was given a brief respite of peace.
“So come have a drink with me in Silvermoon!” Ryutan said brightly. Always one to bring some cheer into the otherwise unamusing life of the medic, the forsaken warrior simply curled his arms around the frail forsaken healer and quite literally, dragged the man kicking and screaming off to the city of red and gold.
It took roughly half a shot of Thalassian red to have the medic flat on the table, unable to move.
“...you really can’t hold your alcohol unless it has blood in it, can’t you?” Ryutan asked with a horribly deadpanned look on his face. The warrior leaned back and took one long swig from his tankard, filled to the brim with ale. The two sat on the balcony, overlooking the the Square. As usual, the warrior’s wandering eyes fall upon the pink-skinned, fair-faced citizens of the magical city.
“...you’re dead, Ryutan,” the medic grounded out from his position on the table. Ryutan scoffed.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate beauty when I see it. Unlike you.”
Zamboozle ignored the comment. With a sigh he hauled himself off the table and chose to lean on the railing, his eyes following Ryutan’s. The warrior was grinning now. He took another swig from the tankard and cocked his head towards a group of elves standing off in the corner of the square.
“Now that, I put at a 7. Face is pretty enough. Poor dress of choice though...I’d prefer something lighter to match her hair. And that one - the one with the long tail - that is worthy of a 8.5. Probably a warrior like myself! Toned body, strong limb - strong for an elf, anyway! And the one beside her - yes that magistrix. 9. Nice dress.”
“Your tastes never cease to amuse me, Ryu.”
“Hah! Like you have anything else to do today - and there! The one in white. That is worth a 10. Come on Zam! Have a look! Act like you’re interested!”
The medic leaned over slightly to look.
“That’s a male elf, Ryu.”
Ryutan gave a laugh and helped himself to another long drink. By now the medic’s eyes were elsewhere. He looked up at the bright, blue sky, then down at the golden tiles below. He turned to the many floating plants that decked the square, the magic emanating from them created a hum that was almost hypnotizing. He turned back to the marbled path, swept by enchanted broomsticks that swept by themselves and see off any stray cats that wandered too close (there were many). He sighed. There were so many more interesting things to see than the ones Ryutan had his eyes locked on at the moment.
A low whistle brought Zam’s attention back to the warrior. The forsaken’s eyes were now following a dark, imposing figure clopping down the golden pathway. Zam watched as his companion brought the tankard to his lips for a drink, his eyes still trained on the figure. The colorless lips curled up into a grin.
“Now that...that is an 11.”
With a disapproving frown, the medic turns his eyes to said ‘11’, and found himself speechless.
Ryutan grinned widely.
“See? Knew you’d be interested! My my my...what do you have here?” the warrior said. He set the tankard down and rubbed his chin in amusement. She was pretty enough - very pretty as far as her type went. She sat upon a skeletal steed, her back straight, her lean form clad in heavy armor. Snow white hair flowed down her back in long waves. Her eyes, blue as Northrend ice, carried the fierce spark of a fighter. Despite the pale face, her lips held the faintest tinge of pink. No doubt an effort on her part to keep up with looks.
“...now that is one fierce one,” Ryutan murmured. To his surprised, his normally uninterested companion nodded in agreement.
“Fierce, very fierce, very strong on the field no doubt,” the medic murmured, his eyes also trained on the knight on her steed.
“And pretty,” Ryutan added, his eyes flickered to the medic briefly before turning back to the knight.
“Absolutely beautiful,” the medic agreed. By now he was smiling - a blank, blissful look of utter obliviousness. He let out a wistful sigh and rested his head on the railing.
“...and flawless,” Ryutan finished.
“Utterly pristine,” the medic ended as well. He let out a chuckle and simply continued to stare from away in a way that reminded Ryutan of his wolf pet when hungry. With a sigh the veteren shook his head in belief and reached for the tankard again.
“Greenhorn,” the warrior muttered out before taking another long swig. Zam sighed once again and clasped his hands together in utmost glee.
“...that is possibly one of the most well built skeletal steeds I’ve seen!”
Ryutan choked into his tankard. With the full force of his undead might, the forsaken warrior swung the tankard and clocked Zam squarely across the head.
Zamboozle stared down the large, stone hall. The solemn hall seemed all the lifeless when its riches pillaged, its inhabitants decimated. The medic kicked a chip of broken stone across the empty halls.
“Cannot say I wasn’t expected this,” the forsaken said to no one in particular. With a sigh, the medic set his medical kit down onto the ground then sat on it like a stool. With the adventuring party gone, he was left to walk around the empty halls, wander the cleared chambers, and explore the once-forbidden halls.
It did not look much different than the ruins of the once-great Undercity - broken pillars, cracked walls, windows shattered and its shards kicked about. He stopped before what was once a stained window pane, its contents no longer understandable. He sighed.
“...would’ve been nice to see you as you were,” Zam murmured, tracing his fingers over the broken edges. Another sigh, he spun around and continued down the hall.
“Ruins mean little now.” the forsaken said in his dull, soft voice, “so little.”
Serata: I am desperately stalling and trying to find something to do with myself at work. Posted a bunch of stuff about Sherbourne so y'all know who she is and what she looks like...and I still have 4 1/2 hours left before I can go home and play again. T_T
Aug 31, 2016 6:28:52 GMT
Banshih: Yay for stalling? Yay for rp campaign starting soon!
Sept 12, 2016 23:04:21 GMT
Banshih: Thanks for another great Dance Of The Dead!
Oct 27, 2016 12:23:26 GMT