--------------- Rakkas Amanemodas turned to face the young man that stood in front of him. "You understand what you are to do?"
The man nodded. "Yes, Sir. Bring the message to the leader of the Undercity Nexus. Her eyes only."
Rakkas nodded, withdrawing a purse of coin and handing it to the courier. "Do it quickly, and there will be a bonus in it for you upon return. Do not open the letter, do not read the letter. Merely find the leader of the Nexus and hand it to them."
The courier took the coin pocketing it gratefully. "Yes, sir." And with that, he set out to complete his task.
-----Tirisfal Glades----- The courier rode into the dark lands, frowning nervously as he looked around. Where did one find the Nexus? Was he supposed to enter the Undercity and expect not to be harmed? The man held a white flag, hoping that would be enough to at least cause them to consider letting him live. In his hand, he clasped the letter tightly.
If opened and read, the letter reads as follows: To Whom It May Concern,
I have studied dark magics for some time, with firm beliefs to accompany my practices. It is only recently that my attention has been drawn to the Cult of Forgotten Shadow and that its belief system hold similar to mine own. My desire in sending this courier and message to you is that an audience be granted so that we may speak on this further. In short, I would like to learn the complexities and fine details of how the Forgotten Shadow works and how I may be indoctrinated. Sincerely,
-Rakkas Amanemodas, the Hand of Chaos and Usurper of Xal'harra the Plague Witch.
The courier shall live, if only to relay the response.
While the pursuit of such knowledge is admirable, the fact is that the path is not one for the living. In seeking the shadow, one much also ultimately seek their own death. The very mortal coil you so embrace, will hinder your studies. The ultimate objective of much of the Cult is that of ascension, an act not possible for the living.
Tell me, are you prepared to embrace the ultimate denouncement of your mortality?"
The Courier relays the response to Rakkas. As the warlock reads it, he crumples the letter and pauses a moment, if only to consider the possibilities. The courier gulped, visibly shaken. "Do you have a response, sir?" The man asked, very much hoping the answer was no.
Rakkas opened his eyes, igniting the paper and throwing it aside. "You are dismissed. I will deliver the response myself." He turned, taking the courier's white flag and walking out the door. "I will be taking my own trip to Tirisfal."
As a devout atheist, Ban was not one to believe in fate. Her roots favored logic, reason, and that there was no greater power dictating justice or damnation. All the same, when she spied the lone rider with the white flag of a courier raised approaching her…she did wonder if this was fate. Even at a distance she could see that he was a Warlock, and her gut instinct told her that the lone rider was the man who had written to her several nights before. What were the odds that she would be the one he would chance upon?
There on the lonely empty road in the Glades the two came to a standoff, speaking distance apart. There was an undeniable tension, as he was a living man in a very dead and hostile land. The only reason he had made it so far, was under the guise of the courier flag: and even that only worked so far with the Forsaken. “You are rather far from home messenger, what brings you out to these lands?” She would not assume anything, not yet.
"I’ve come seeking the Nexus, to speak with the head of the Order," there was a hard determination in his voice. The lone Warlock knew what he wanted, and he would not leave until he got it.
"Why?" Was her only response. Ban was cautiously hesitant if not loath to announce herself.
"Because I’ve come to answer the question posed by their leader; I am ready to denounce my mortality and further my studies in the Shadow." He was not the first mortal to seek out the Forsaken, seeking conversion. Over the years many had made their way into the Forsaken ranks by choice. Many of the willing recruits were younger persons who were ill, and not ready to surrender their life so young. Still other recruits were master Warlocks and Magic Weavers who regarded mortality as a restrain to their studies.
"Is that so?" She’d fold her hands before her atop her saddle horn. The living had no ability to fathom the curse of undeath until they accepted it. "Tell me, what is it you are so eager? The path you seek, there is no return from. The world you court, is cold and barren. The living have many joys, which you shall surrender and never return to."
To this he scoffed, a clear disdain apparent. “I have no tastes for the indulgences of life.”
"Do you know the single greatest pain that most Forsaken carry? The source bitterness that fuels their hatred for the living?" She leaned forward in the saddle slightly, considering him. He looked young, middle ages at the latest.
"No," a short answer, and honest one.
"It is the ache of never knowing love, and life once more. The damned will never know the joys of holding their children, of love without restrictions, and of something so simple as acceptance. Even among our allies we stand alone. The simple things like a good meal will be robbed from you. Turn back," she had more to say only to be cut off.
"It doesn’t matter to me. My studies are all consuming, and the path I seek can only be advanced within the shadow under the tutelage of the Cult Of Forgotten Shadow. The living have nothing for me." Still the warlock’s determination did not waver.
"So be it, but first turn back for but a night. Go buy yourself a good meal, and an excellent !@#$%. Go savor one final night before you begin this downward spiral," her advise was solid. Over the years she had known a good many Forsaken who yearn for such a simple night. Frankly, it was an indulgence even she wished for from time to time.
The Warlock lowered his white flag, and then slipped from his steed. On foot he advanced, open handed. “No, I am resolved and resigned to this fate. This is what I seek.” Coming to stand at the half way point from where their two steeds stood he pulled a ceremonial dagger from his robes, lifting his gaze to her. Ban’s jaw set, as she watched the determination in his gaze harden and then…as he plunged his own dagger into his heart.
There before her in the desolate landscape of the Trisifal Glades, the warlock died. Though the wound was fatal, it was not a fast death but rather a slow asphyxiation as his heart was no longer able to pump blood through his veins. Collapsing to his knees, he began gasping in the signature broken fashion as his lungs could no longer function properly without the rhythmic flow of blood. The very ground, and his robes were soon painted crimson.
For some time Ban lingered, watching the display. When finally he collapsed onto the ground fully she dismounted. He would die alone, in the same way he came to her: alone. This was a choice he made, which did not call for compassion. Beyond that, the warlock’s soul was already spoken for. She knew that in death, he faced torment that was unrivaled to anything Azeroth had to offer.
An hour would pass as she stood over him, the only disturbance to the peace was the occasional snort from their awaiting steeds. When finally she was satisfied, Ban knelt while pulling a throwing dagger from the inside of one of her boots. Slowly, she’d tap the temple of his head with her blade as she spoke, “If I let you rise like this…you will be pretty enough to go back to the Alliance. Free of rot, and the touch of the grave it would be easy for you to take our secrets and run off. So, pardon me…but I need to mess up your pretty face.”
At that her throwing knife shifted. In mere moments his cheeks were cut away: leaving behind his lips, and chin. The hunks of raw dead flesh were thrown away off the road, and then she’d retire her blade. Her work done, she collected the deadman into her arms and then tossed him over the back of her warhorse and secured the corpse there. It was now time to take him to the Val’kyr…
Darkness was all that Rakkas saw at first. He blinked multiple times, at first wondering if he had gone blind. But slowly, his vision faded into his true surroundings. He was floating, floating in a torrent of shadow and blackness. Around him, shapes and figures drew nearer. A voice spoke out, harsh, yet sultry.
"Well, well, well. Look who's finally dead."
Rakkas' eyes widened as the shadows came into focus. It was Shiersia, the Shivarra that he commanded. Around her were his other minions. Arcamotos: his void lord. Ista'tok: his fel imp...all the demons he controlled and summoned at will. They drew nearer with hungry looks on their faces. Shiersia growled with fury.
"Under your thrall...you have forced me to become little more than fodder for a demon hunter....you have forced me to bend a knee and do nothing as a sanguinarian drank me dry...and now...you are at OUR mercy...
They stepped closer to Rakkas and he thrust out a hand to cast a demonic binding spell, only nothing happened. He looked around, beginning to feel panic well up within him. "You will obey! All of you! You are MINE!" He looked around frantically at the demonic faces sneering back at him, a sick pleasure running across them as they reached out their hands, tendrils, etc. Shiersia sneered.
"You have no power here, human. This is our domain. Here you are our plaything...our object. For eternity. All the things we were forced to do at your whim...will be revisited upon you tenfold. And that's just the beginning. Now then....enough talk....I believe we have some...playtime ahead of us."
As Shiersia cackled malevolently, the other demons grasped Rakkas, who was helpless to do anything. As they began to cut into him, to bite, scratch, maim and torture, all thought was lost to Rakkas. All that existed was pain....the only sound that he heard were his own screams as the worst torment to ever afflict a soul was being afflicted upon him. Only darkness remained.
*** What seemed like an eternity later, Rakkas gasped as he sat up, screaming. The gasp had been artificial...he could not feel air entering or leaving his lungs. He opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. He was in a graveyard. There were undead everywhere...and val'kyr flew about raising the dead. He looked down at his hands, cocking his head to the side as he took in the skeletal qualities. He lifted his hands to his face, feeling the dead flesh upon his face...and the absence of flesh upon his cheeks. He looked over to the Deathstalker he had been speaking with in bewilderment. "Wh..where? W...oh...." He reached for his staff, lifting himself to his feet with difficulty. His new life had begun. He had seen what awaited him past the doors of death and he would never see it again...never. He promised himself then and there that he would never die again. He was free to work now. Free to continue to chase his goals, his beliefs...and those things were what surely awaited him within the Forsaken.
But first things first....he would show his demons who had control again....and there would be a reckoning....
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