maraxxes-blog

[maraxxes-blog]

The Project

Part 1

(The first part of a collaborative Rp that takes place between Maraxxes, @nixalegos and @silvertonguedaggermaw regarding the reconstruction of @gravekeeper-anna...with some mentions of @safrona-shadowsun! Stay tuned for further writing! }

Once a date and time was decided, the three would collect at the infamous Deadwind Pass, where the familiar anomalies and dead of the Dread Citadel Karazhan were also drawn. Maraxxes mostly ignored those strange entities as he waited. Specifically for two souls to find him near the haunted entrance. As always, the red drakeling on his shoulder was a companion, comfortably perched with its tail curled around the Warlock's collar.

Deadwind Pass was a favourable environment, Saviéran concluded. Between the constantly overcast weather, the leyline nexus running through the region, and the lack of a strong Alliance presence, he felt rather at home there. Granted, it wasn't the safest of places - but there was comfort in that also. After all, he had nothing to fear from the things that went bump in the night, not when he made them look tame in comparison. The dragon - or rather, the construct - probably helped too. He spotted Maraxxes, dismounting and heading towards the warlock with a friendly smile and a brisk step.

Reality screamed, rent, and warped nearby. Magic twisting there to where and when. The hooded man stepped out, as boldly as if he owned the place, arms up adjusting the curious heavy gauntlets he wore, like one would adjust cufflinks on a suit. "There a reason we're doing this in a cursed area?" He said as reality shut itself behind him. "I'll be the first to admit our lot are suckers for aesthetic, but surely there's an actual advantage to this place I am unaware of." He said as he finally made his way to the other two men.

A succubus briefly flashed from reality, acting as an extra set of eyes for her Master as the two came in approach. He met the more amicable Necromancer with the strong posture of a thumb's up, which was an amusing irony to the Corruptor's Regalia the Histor now felt comfortable enough to host in. "Good to see you could make it, man." Turning to the more critical Felscythe, Maraxxes only sighed behind his smile. If the Warlock was only a voice needling in on  memory before for the Nethermancer, his full garb dropped in on the hall of memory like a ballista. "You know? You remind me of my daughter. Too many questions. You know I love you, hun, but you just gotta trust your Dad sometimes."

 "And thirdly," the Warlock set his hands out briefly in dramatic posing. "I'm all about aesthetic. Especially when it scares the pitch-forks away." With that, Maraxes lead his would-be companions away from the gates of Karazhan. "Shall we, then? The Gravekeeper awaits."

"There's no such thing as too many questions. Even those that are answered with further mysteries always lead to some revelation - no matter how long it takes." He  paused, smiling. "Though I admit I was about to mention that these places are delightfully lacking in pitchfork-wielding mobs. Someday I hope that your kind will get over that bad habit - it doesn't reflect particularly well on them.”

 "So, where is it exactly that we're heading?" he asked as he followed Maraxxes, giving the area a curious glance as he did so.

Seeing the human in his usual garb, and more to the point, needless quip, caused the Sin'dorei to clench his fists, servos in his gauntlets whining as select events replayed themselves at last. "WAIT. YOU'RE THAT SONOFABITCH." He snarled. "You said you had a fragment of the Gravekeepers Soul!" He said with an accusing jab. "Pandaria, The Courier. You jacked a hunk of their soul too. What sort of abomination are you trying to whip up?" He said as he stomped after them. 

"I agreed to aid you on the grounds we weren't making a monster. And here we are, in a place of death and curses, and our plan is to have unsecured flesh brought in as we plan this? For you to shove souls that shouldn't be in places that..." A pause. A moment passed. "A soul that can't stop wandering...A keeper who never left. Oh Fel. Is the gravekeeper the..." Only to chance a look at the third man, not knowing how much they knew. 

"Wow, that is just a lot more pieces to a puzzle I didn't realize I had. Well, I'll be damned." And his long strides had him catch up to the others, "Apologies." He said as he composed himself. "I grew incensed at the notion of foul play. But we've a job to do yes? But none of this answers the query of why here. We haven't even made a blueprint, you said you had part of their soul and their head. This is a repair and rebuild job then and not an actual resurrection. I'm not even sure what design upgrades we're installing or controls they'd want." He made putting together flesh sound little different from repairing a mechanohog.

"Yeaaap." Maraxes simply answered, continuing on behind Karazhan to what seemed to be a catacomb entry into the citadel. "We're dealing with a fractured soul, and a missing body. She's right made a mess of herself. I've been watching. Trying to keep tabs, you know. Your Courier, heh. That's how I found you two.  Not that she knows. But you learn a lot about someone when you own a sliver of their soul. As for why we're here, gentlemen?" The descent into the catacombs was a stark silent one, save for the echoes of shifting armor and their footfalls. "We're just going back to a beginning, for the Lady Anna and I. Now!" The human Warlock widely gestured to the metal shape at the back of the catacomb. "Who wants to step into the Iron Maiden first?"

"You're asking me to step into what?" The reply was flat and whilst not hesitant, sounded like Maraxxes had just asked him to join the Scarlet Crusade.

"Why did you wait so long?" The hooded man asked, coming to cross his gauntleted arms, the clank of metal of metal audible. "That was ages ago. What changed exactly?"

"The Alliance invaded Lordaeron and reduced Brill to a hole in the ground,” Ledrassi informed. “Our mutual friend wasn't planning on leaving, even when the invasion was imminent. If she survived, I wouldn't have been brought here."

"No, he had that shard for ages, years,” Nixalegos argued. “He didn't need to wait for this. Something changed. What exactly?" He said with obvious curiosity.

Maraxxes winced at the incessant questions. "You know, when you become a single dad, a loooot of things change. Priorities. And frankly, everything seemed honky dorey as it was. Even with the body dug up and stitched back together -- nope didn't have a hand in that, by the way.. That slap-job was allll the Deaders." The Warlock nodded knowingly with Ledrassi as if the Necromancer knew what he was talking about, regardless if the poor gent followed or no.

 “But yeah. Courier seemed fine. Then...well. Another fragment awoke. Just within the past coupla months, in fact. And that one's out in the Ghostlands." A sigh. "Look guy, I'm just as confused about this puzzle as you are. But I think I'm doing the right thing giving Anna - the real one- another chance. What they did to her out in Lordaeron was ugly." A cheeky grin formed as Maraxxes elaborated.  "And okay. My kiddo's completely self-sufficient now. I'm ready to put something together. Do something big, here. Aren't you?"

"I get the sense that there's more to this puzzle than I'm aware of." Saviéran mused as he glanced between the two. "But Anna was a good woman, she meant well and deserved better than to find herself between two armies. What I don't understand is where the other fragment comes from." He paused: "or why you're telling me to step inside an iron maiden."

Nix considered all this, his left hands fingers drumming upon his right gauntlet. "The Shard, this, original one. Has it changed at all since you yoinked it?" He continued. "The Courier elected to...join the Ren'dorei for poorly explained, to me anyway reasons. If its changed to reflect that, then we've got a serious issue with stability no matter what we do, if it hasn't, and it's its own independent shard then..." 

He paused as if in thought, but not only made is way into the Iron maiden with his back faced away from them, but brought his hands up in a burial pose as if expecting the doors to slam shut on him. "Well, it raises alot of questions about the nature of soul nurturing I  don't think many are willing to consider. Especially given how long the shards have been separated. Plus, we'll have to worry about soul deterioration, given we have to build a body.... and what's the deal here, does the floor drop out or is it a portal?" He said looking down. "Well don't just stand there while I ramble." He ended, annoyed.

[maraxxes-blog]

Mara had turned up his hand to glance at his fingers when they were not met with the handshake, then letting it simply fall to brush against his side with the traditional greeting. He'd take the friendly smile. And it was going surprisingly well, he'd thought, noting Ledrassi's concern and eagerness to get straight to the point as he was.

But Mara found it to be his own turn to wince when left with that important, final question. "Currently I have a head, a sliver of the originating soul to occupy it. And...a helpful little spirit that found me when I found what was left?" The wince on his face smoothed over with a chuckle, digging through the inner lining of his duster to provide a slip of a note between two fingers, offering it out.

"But we can talk more about that on a good date, at these coordinates. And hopefully with another contact I've invited to assist. Gives you a chance to think it over, prepare what you might need, yeah? Then we'll get to work if we can manage it. How does that sound?"

The coordinates, should they be read by the Necromancer, signaled a particular fitting locale in what was known as Deadman's Pass: Karazhan.

{ @silvertonguedaggermaw @nixalegos }

Maraxxes, much like for his last contact, waited. The night dwindled on in Stranglethorn Vale, the ocean breeze from Booty Bay's pier making one forget about the stifling humidity outside the port town. Orim squalled on his shoulder, the pot-bellied dragonling ever hungry. "Hush it up, ya overgrown piglet," the Warlock spoke with a grin as he tossed up pieces of meat to its maw. "We'll be going home soon. Let's just wait and see if this gent shows. Pretty sure he got the letter."

 Stranglethorn Vale. Not his choice of location, though at least it wasn’t bloody Durotar of all places. Saviéran could swear that Azeroth itself was out to boil him alive at this rate. A botched journey to Kalimdor, an arrival in Zandalar, and now another bloody boat ride to Booty Bay; if he was a believer in fate, he would have considered himself doomed to a watery grave, chased by small, nibbling insects.

 Still, the missive he’d received was a vital matter, one that couldn’t wait. So now he was walking through the pirate town looking for his contact, any valuables stowed safely under black steel and polished bone. Not the most subtle armour in the world, but certainly something that provided an unappetising target to any would-be troublemakers.

 Besides, Saviéran wasn’t fond of subtle. Subtle was for people who spent their free time in basements, conjuring imps and pretending to be law abiding citizens. Subtle was for people who had reputations to maintain and diplomatic affairs to tend to. He, however, couldn’t spell law abiding without finding himself in court, arguing that the institution itself wasn’t truly benevolent to begin with, and that as long as justice was defined by a select few bloodlines it would never represent the common people.

 Though that was another issue entirely.

 He glanced over the area outside the town gates, eyes settling on a figure accompanied only by a rather plump dragon whelp. The little beast’s presence made him smile, though an eyebrow raised at the man it was perched upon.

 “Maraxes Cervantes D’mort, I’m assuming?”

[maraxxes-blog]

Mara had briefly turned up his own hand to glance at his fingers when Sav refused the handshake, as if trying to pinpoint what on them actually offended his company's senses, but with a casually light shrug he dropped his fingers down to brush them and the traditional greeting against his side, more than willing to work with the friendly smile given him.

This was all going surprisingly smooth to plan, he'd thought, noting Ledrassi's concerning and how easily the Necromancer

Maraxxes, much like for his last contact, waited. The night dwindled on in Stranglethorn Vale, the ocean breeze from Booty Bay's pier making one forget about the stifling humidity outside the port town. Orim squalled on his shoulder, the pot-bellied dragonling ever hungry. "Hush it up, ya overgrown piglet," the Warlock spoke with a grin as he tossed up pieces of meat to its maw. "We'll be going home soon. Let's just wait and see if this gent shows. Pretty sure he got the letter."

 Stranglethorn Vale. Not his choice of location, though at least it wasn’t bloody Durotar of all places. Saviéran could swear that Azeroth itself was out to boil him alive at this rate. A botched journey to Kalimdor, an arrival in Zandalar, and now another bloody boat ride to Booty Bay; if he was a believer in fate, he would have considered himself doomed to a watery grave, chased by small, nibbling insects.

 Still, the missive he’d received was a vital matter, one that couldn’t wait. So now he was walking through the pirate town looking for his contact, any valuables stowed safely under black steel and polished bone. Not the most subtle armour in the world, but certainly something that provided an unappetising target to any would-be troublemakers.

 Besides, Saviéran wasn’t fond of subtle. Subtle was for people who spent their free time in basements, conjuring imps and pretending to be law abiding citizens. Subtle was for people who had reputations to maintain and diplomatic affairs to tend to. He, however, couldn’t spell law abiding without finding himself in court, arguing that the institution itself wasn’t truly benevolent to begin with, and that as long as justice was defined by a select few bloodlines it would never represent the common people.

 Though that was another issue entirely.

 He glanced over the area outside the town gates, eyes settling on a figure accompanied only by a rather plump dragon whelp. The little beast’s presence made him smile, though an eyebrow raised at the man it was perched upon.

 “Maraxes Cervantes D’mort, I’m assuming?”

[maraxxes-blog]

The gentleman Warlock turned around and bowed halfway, a cheeky grin finding its way on the bearded face. “The one and only! And this must make you one Savieran Ledrassi, eh?” A strong hand was set out for a firm handshake. “Forgive me if my pronunciation is wrong? So many languages to speak in. The tongue becomes twisted after some time, heh.” The dragonling would sound off, as if to agree. Or just to be heard. No one really knew with Orim.

Maraxxes lead Ledrassi down a pier away from concentrated eyes, though he waved and greeted passerby as he went like an old town friend, others waving back cautiously or nodding their heads in some confused intimidation. Like waving hello to the handsome face of some pirate crew in hopes of staying in their good graces. Typical behavior of the residents of Booty Bay.

“You seem to be a competent man in your field, Mister Ledrassi,” the warlock spoke once they were out of earshot of nearby general public. “Which is why you were on my list of contacts. But, ah, we also have a client in ‘common’, as I have heard it. A certain gravekeeper, if I am correct? If this does ring true, I certainly could use your help in getting her...re-situated.”

{ @silvertonguedaggermaw }

Maraxxes, much like for his last contact, waited. The night dwindled on in Stranglethorn Vale, the ocean breeze from Booty Bay's pier making one forget about the stifling humidity outside the port town. Orim squalled on his shoulder, the pot-bellied dragonling ever hungry. "Hush it up, ya overgrown piglet," the Warlock spoke with a grin as he tossed up pieces of meat to its maw. "We'll be going home soon. Let's just wait and see if this gent shows. Pretty sure he got the letter."

 Stranglethorn Vale. Not his choice of location, though at least it wasn’t bloody Durotar of all places. Saviéran could swear that Azeroth itself was out to boil him alive at this rate. A botched journey to Kalimdor, an arrival in Zandalar, and now another bloody boat ride to Booty Bay; if he was a believer in fate, he would have considered himself doomed to a watery grave, chased by small, nibbling insects.

 Still, the missive he’d received was a vital matter, one that couldn’t wait. So now he was walking through the pirate town looking for his contact, any valuables stowed safely under black steel and polished bone. Not the most subtle armour in the world, but certainly something that provided an unappetising target to any would-be troublemakers.

 Besides, Saviéran wasn’t fond of subtle. Subtle was for people who spent their free time in basements, conjuring imps and pretending to be law abiding citizens. Subtle was for people who had reputations to maintain and diplomatic affairs to tend to. He, however, couldn’t spell law abiding without finding himself in court, arguing that the institution itself wasn’t truly benevolent to begin with, and that as long as justice was defined by a select few bloodlines it would never represent the common people.

 Though that was another issue entirely.

 He glanced over the area outside the town gates, eyes settling on a figure accompanied only by a rather plump dragon whelp. The little beast’s presence made him smile, though an eyebrow raised at the man it was perched upon.

 “Maraxes Cervantes D’mort, I’m assuming?”

[maraxxes-blog]

Bound as a groundskeeper to protect the Ruins of Lordaeron, the strangely cheery Gravekeeper was cut down during the Siege of the Lordaeron. Severed from both her runic shovel and her connection to the Lost of Lordaeron, she has fallen from a deathly grace. 

Though her head was salvaged and she has become a pet project of @maraxxes to put back together, a mere spark of soul keeps her severed head animated like some grisly, talking trophy.

[maraxxes-blog]

[maraxxes-blog]

After the near paranoid static from Felscythe on initial greeting, Maraxxes was surprised at the eagerness by which the Sin’dorei Warlock agreed to assist. “Welp! That’s all the best I could hope for, Nethermancer. Highly appreciated. And is it ‘Nethermancer’, or Lord Felscythe?” Walking with Nix now, the crimson dragonling now moved over Mara’s other shoulder as he did. A succubus clopped just behind the two as well, taking notes like some hellish secretary for the human Demonologist.

“All I have are a head, and a sliver of soul in my possession,” he explained with a wry chuckle, already overwhelmed by the amount of questions being asked at once. “So, yep. A lot of work to do. I think I’d like the best for Miss Anna. She deserves it after what my father did to her. And what she’s done to herself over the years. But. Not sure what can be done with what I have. We can figure it out as we go though, yeah? Now, I have another contact that might be able to add to our little collective here, so I’m thinking I’m going to touch base with him before we get down to the dirty work.” 

A swirl of shadowflame erupted briefly in the human warlock’s fingers, preluding the appearance of a business card between them, which was now offered out to his would-be partner in ‘crime’. “So, how about a few days to think over what you’ll need, then I’ll contact you again, and we’ll get the little shindig going in my library either way? Meanwhile, you keep my name close with whatever burning questions I can take the time to answer as we proceed. Sound good?”

{ @nixalegos }

Maraxes waited. He had the patience of the father he needed to become for the past seven years, and he had just the right amount of contacts to bring himself to the Dreadscar Rift. It was an odd balance, trying to explain to a 5 year old that a Felhound was not actually a -dog-, but he'd done well for himself. A little rusty as a demonologist, but he was there. He hoped the Sin'dorei 'Nethermancer' he'd been looking for by name would be too. Preferably without issue.

Somewhere in Dreadscar RiftBeing asked for by name was never something to take lightly, no matter who you were. Especially not -there- of all places, home of the Black Harvest, the meeting grounds of only the most accomplished of occultists. You couldn’t simply get in by wearing felweave and summoning imps. You had to -be- somebody to get there, properly, anyway.And so when word reached him that someone was looking for him by name the quick, but dangerous teleportation spell to that dead world was one filled with questions. Why would one warlock seek out another? They were not, by nature, co-operative creatures, many, if not most bearing more then their fair share of egomania and delusions of grandeur. A possible trade? A ritual that couldn’t be accomplished alone? That wasn’t too uncommon, but then why by name? What would they possibly offer in exchange?So when he was pointed towards the unfamiliar stranger, the hooded one approached with an air of curiosity.“Bala’dash, I’m hearing you’re looking for me. What bit of business might require my attention?” He said while holding out his gauntleted hand.It always paid dividends to being polite among other warlocks. Kept you alive longer, for one.

@maraxxes

[maraxxes-blog]

“Maaaaaaybe the fact that it may be someone you know?” Maraxxes half-grinned, hopeful, trying to lure in the interest without a discussion of contracts and trades up front. “I think you’d know her as a Gravekeeper. I know her as ‘Anna’. Or, what remains of her, I suppose. In part.” The Warlock chuckled. “Let’s just say she’s a mess. But I have a promise to keep, and my contacts tell me that Tirasfal is an absolute wreck without her to help keep the peace with the dearly departed, so I figured you’d be be a pal and help me get her up and running again.”

A slight roll of the eye at the devilish smile now, though he snerked a bit. “And if that’s not enough to lasso your help, I might have something that’d whet your appetite in my archive. And if not...eh.” He shrugged. “I have other contacts I can look up. You just were at the top of my list, heh.”

{ @nixalegos }

Maraxes waited. He had the patience of the father he needed to become for the past seven years, and he had just the right amount of contacts to bring himself to the Dreadscar Rift. It was an odd balance, trying to explain to a 5 year old that a Felhound was not actually a -dog-, but he'd done well for himself. A little rusty as a demonologist, but he was there. He hoped the Sin'dorei 'Nethermancer' he'd been looking for by name would be too. Preferably without issue.

Somewhere in Dreadscar RiftBeing asked for by name was never something to take lightly, no matter who you were. Especially not -there- of all places, home of the Black Harvest, the meeting grounds of only the most accomplished of occultists. You couldn’t simply get in by wearing felweave and summoning imps. You had to -be- somebody to get there, properly, anyway.And so when word reached him that someone was looking for him by name the quick, but dangerous teleportation spell to that dead world was one filled with questions. Why would one warlock seek out another? They were not, by nature, co-operative creatures, many, if not most bearing more then their fair share of egomania and delusions of grandeur. A possible trade? A ritual that couldn’t be accomplished alone? That wasn’t too uncommon, but then why by name? What would they possibly offer in exchange?So when he was pointed towards the unfamiliar stranger, the hooded one approached with an air of curiosity.“Bala’dash, I’m hearing you’re looking for me. What bit of business might require my attention?” He said while holding out his gauntleted hand.It always paid dividends to being polite among other warlocks. Kept you alive longer, for one.

@maraxxes

[maraxxes-blog]

“Well hello there!” the ebon-haired human replied in a more neighborly way expected of any Demonologist. His handshake was firm, strong and certain, greeting with a doctor’s bedside manner on first meeting a new patient. Or a new face trying to please at the neighborhood cookout. “Lord Felscythe is it, right? Is old Common alright with you? Or you prefer Demonic?” Chuckling, he’d eye the ears protruding upright sharply from that mysterious cowl. “I could try some broken-elvish but I’d honestly be embarrassing myself.”

“Maraxxes Cervantes D’Mort, at your service. Or...well. Asking for yours. Frankly if we can cut to the chase here, I’m in need of some contacts. Possible ritual. Reagents.” He remained casual in tone, the pot-bellied red dragonling on his shoulder only mildly interested in what was going on. “Putting a construct together. Annnd missing some pieces.”

The Warlock seemed terribly familiar, but perhaps a little difficult to place. They’d met so many years ago, only at a glance, and Maraxxes wasn’t ready to spill the beans entirely on the nature of that memory.

{ @nixalegos }

Maraxes waited. He had the patience of the father he needed to become for the past seven years, and he had just the right amount of contacts to bring himself to the Dreadscar Rift. It was an odd balance, trying to explain to a 5 year old that a Felhound was not actually a -dog-, but he'd done well for himself. A little rusty as a demonologist, but he was there. He hoped the Sin'dorei 'Nethermancer' he'd been looking for by name would be too. Preferably without issue.

Somewhere in Dreadscar RiftBeing asked for by name was never something to take lightly, no matter who you were. Especially not -there- of all places, home of the Black Harvest, the meeting grounds of only the most accomplished of occultists. You couldn’t simply get in by wearing felweave and summoning imps. You had to -be- somebody to get there, properly, anyway.And so when word reached him that someone was looking for him by name the quick, but dangerous teleportation spell to that dead world was one filled with questions. Why would one warlock seek out another? They were not, by nature, co-operative creatures, many, if not most bearing more then their fair share of egomania and delusions of grandeur. A possible trade? A ritual that couldn’t be accomplished alone? That wasn’t too uncommon, but then why by name? What would they possibly offer in exchange?So when he was pointed towards the unfamiliar stranger, the hooded one approached with an air of curiosity.“Bala’dash, I’m hearing you’re looking for me. What bit of business might require my attention?” He said while holding out his gauntleted hand.It always paid dividends to being polite among other warlocks. Kept you alive longer, for one.

@maraxxes

[maraxxes-blog]

What A Gentleman Warlock Must Do

It had been a while, but Maraxes Cervantes D’Mort still remembered the dance.

Of leylines, that is. And which to probe just at the right coordinates to make them sing the right locale. It was his last inheritance as a Bookeeper for a long broken Circle, and he wasn’t just ready to close what gathered history was there away. Not that he’d ever really be. Not really. The Scion’s histories were a part of him just as the Shadowblade was. A part of him that his daughter would never likely get to see herself, Lightbringer that she’d become. A good many things would end when he’d pass on his deathbed, he knew, and he would be glad for most of them to be over with as long as Sara was secure. But a part of the aging Histor yearned to pass on this part of his life to one who would make good use of it.

Tapping on the magic of the rune, he was the key that unlocked the teleportation into that hidden alcove of the forbidden. It was feeling right more than it had that morning. Likely because the head was screaming when he’d left it after reintroducing it to a sliver of its originating soul. Now a certain quiet had taken over, and watching the Gravekeeper’s head float peacefully in its containment jar made the Warlock feel more confident about having taken it, hidden it away like some grotesque treasure.

It had been a lucky fetch, even, still finding the head present at the gravesite where it’d been relieved of its shoulders in Brill, still intact. Easy enough to convince ‘conquering’ Alliance he had found himself a trophy of some Forsaken scum. The animated hand that he’d guessed to be the body’s familiar was actually quite helpful, even giving it its own notebook and writing utencil to communicate effectively. It now excitedly scribbled a greeting out on the notebook for Maraxes as he came in approach. Strangely charming.

“Heh, hey there. Everything in order?”

YES!! Mr. Clancy scribbled with large text, bold exclamation points, shown off proudly. SHE IS AWAKE. NEW BODY FOUND? The head itself was watching the hand write with a quiet, somber gaze that did not move from the paper.

“Hey, hey now,” the Warlock urged with a semi halting show of hands. “We’re doing this one step at a time. Does she know?” He attempted to speak directly to the now reanimated head, of who’s sliver of soul he’d had in safekeeping for the past five years. “Do you remember who I am, Lady Annaliese?” The title of Gravekeep her mistmatched excuse of a corpse had been going by was the role she had conformed to, but he had known her as so much more.

The small pinpoints of light that had manifested in her eye sockets were regarding him now, giving only a nod.

MARAXUS DELAURAC, SON OF BASTION DELAURAC. The hand wrote with confirmation.

The Warlock winced. “‘D’Mort’, I don’t hold the name of my father, but...yes. He was the bastard that made your life a hell, Lady Anna. And I swore I would make up for all he has done. And protect you.” He started a knowing smile in the numb look she was fixing on him. “Not that you’ve been making that easy. Do you know you’ve managed to split your soul into three halves?” Chuckling, he moved over to change the writing paper for Mr. Clancy, to assure the draining plugs on the head’s holding tank were not leaking, keeping her from suffering the nature of decomposition. “We’re going to try to put you back together, best we can.” He spoke with the all the friendly musing of a physician, but what remained of Annaliese Handhour in that moment seemed to care less either way. “You’ll feel better once you’re more...yourself.” He assured the head warmly as he could.

MR. CLANCY CAN GO FIND BODY PARTS!! Wrote the hand again with its excited punctuation. He had to appreciate the familiar’s eagerness, agrin.

“I’m sure you could, but no we need to do this smartly. Not just slap some pieces back together and fit Lady Anna on them. We’re a little more considerate than the Forsaken here. She’ll just be falling apart all over the place again, which you know. Kind of defeats the purpose of doing any of this.” Flipping through his rolodex of names of both the profane and esteemed he’d collected, he took a note of some possible contacts that might help assist in such an endeavor. 

“We’ll need some specialized help, I’m thinking.”

{ Referencing @gravekeeper-anna... For those that might be interested to know... @nixalegos, @sanguinesorceress, @duraxxor @storykeeper-wra @autumnblade-sorrows }

[maraxxes-blog]

moodboards: tom riddle

“I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt if I want to… I can speak to snakes too. They find me, they whisper to me. ”

[maraxxes-blog]

Mateo Cerezo, Magdalena, 17th century

[maraxxes-blog]

[maraxxes-blog]

In the face of demonic power, most heroes see death. W A R L O C K S see only opportunity. Dominance is their aim, and they have found a path to it in the dark arts. These voracious spellcasters summon demonic minions to fight beside them. At first, they command only the service of imps, but as a warlock’s knowledge grows, seductive succubi, loyal voidwalkers, and horrific felhunters join the dark sorcerer’s ranks to wreak havoc on anyone who stands in their master’s way.

[maraxxes-blog]

Warlock Succubus

[Artist: bigballgao ]

https://www.artstation.com/bigballgao

[maraxxes-blog]

[maraxxes-blog]

Straw flower: An agreement / Tuberose: Dangerous pleasures / Indian Jasmine: Attachment / Anemone: Forsaken