#Taviast Duskwither | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cuddlywritesthings · 5 years

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Doctor Visit

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Lisi’mya, Brevaar, Taviast Duskwither, Guntharius Plaguespitter, Anchorite Neleri, Shokhi Ebondraft (not my character)

Characters mentioned: Raustul Shadeshifter, Father Lanstarth Mourningsworn, Clayton Whatley

Timeline: The same night Declivity into Holy Fire takes place.

Trigger warnings: Heavy themes, severe injury, ideas of torture

- - - - - - - - - -

Brevaar paced back and forth outside the door of the medical ward, his thick tail swishing occasionally. The clip-clop of his hooves on the stone flooring had a sort of rhythmic pattern that grounded him, like a warm and familiar mantra for prayer. He had lost count of his cycle of steps, but as he looped around once more on the trained path, he had a feeling he had surpassed a thousand steps already.

“You be wearin’ a hole in de floor,” Lisi’mya softly murmured, hoping to elicit some sort of chuckle from the Monk. Seeing that her efforts had been in vain, and the usually jovial Draenei had barely taken notice of her, the Sandfury sighed.

It was early into the morning. The night had slipped from them, and what seemed like days had passed since the unit had arrived back from the catastrophe of a mission. The night had worn on and no one could find solace in the form of sleep. Sleep had not come for anyone that night, and it would further elude them for the entire morning. And, quite possibly, for a few days to come.

Members of The Circle could be seen sitting about the castle, tense and waiting, wondering what would happen next. Raustul had been caught trying to leave the castle, presumably to seek revenge on the rest of the cult. He was gently coaxed back to his room for a bit of proper rest and healing. Ever since then, the Demon Hunter hadn’t made a peep, which was quite odd for the amicable, energetic and quite talkative elf. There had been accounts, though, that he had been seen slipping out of his room, making his way towards the towers. But it was hard to tell, and no one wanted to knock on his door and disturb the poor, distraught elf.

Raustul, after all, had taken it exceptionally hard. He had been the one to hold Guntharius as the light left his eyes, and the moment haunted him, his mind replaying the memory over, and over.

And then there was Father Mourningsworn. The Death Knight had kept to himself after the incident, his face set in an uncharacteristically tense frown. Several of his comrades tried to engage him in a bit of conversation-- to try and glean from him any scrap of information involving the event-- but he had remained stagnant in his silence. Not at all unheard of for him, but his usually serene and pious aura had hardened, becoming chilly and reclusive.

No one had ever seen the calm Death Knight in such a dark, brooding mood.

Another looped cycle. Brevaar kept his nervous vigil up, wearing that figurative hole into the floor. The clip-clop, clip-clop of his hooves became the only thing he could hear, and even that had become background noise.

The spirit speaker sighed once more, shifting her sitting position in the mostly uncomfortable chair, hoping to somehow find a better way to rest her sore bones. The straight backed chair had been taken from one of the many studies littering the castle, and the wood was harsh on her back.

“Ay, mista monk...”

Another turn. Another cycle completed and began. The monk murmured to himself as he ran his thumb over his prayer beads. He couldn’t focus on any of the lessons, taught by the four Pandaren Gods themselves, so he mumbled out a jumbled up wall of miscellaneous quotations.

Tilting her head to the side, the Sandfury’s earrings and tusk ornamentation jingled. She was perplexed by the Draenei’s sudden disassociation from the world. Of course, as a spirit speaker and devoted follower to the great Mueh'zala, she was no stranger to death. Her life and its purpose revolved around the very concept. She could sense the spirits all around her, and even go far as commune with them and send them on their merry way. It was one reason why the Circle employed her. After all, someone had to make sure all those spirits passed on and didn’t linger as vengeful apparitions.

It did concern her that she could barely feel the Forsaken’s spirit. She was having a hard time feeling its presence just beyond that door. At times, she could. But at times, she couldn’t. Fleeting, like a dancing, flickering flame. She didn’t want to worry anyone just yet about the potential meanings.

Still, all this mourning and stressing… it was so strange to her. Sure, she had mourned the death of her twin at the hands of the corrupt Kor’kron, back during the days of Garrosh’s madness. But her mourning had been brief and short, for she knew what she knew. And she understood that spirits didn’t truly leave them, even after they had passed on.

But this Draenei was another story. He wasn’t a Sandfury, and so didn’t understand death quite like she could. And he wasn’t a spirit speaker. He was a monk. Religious in his own way, but not religious in hers.

Another cycle complete. And yet another began. The hooves and the murmuring of prayers was driving Lisi’mya to her breaking point.

“Mmmmnnnn--NAH!”

The cry startled the monk, and the Draenei stumbled to a halt. Weary eyes widening in shock, he clutched his prayer beads and stared at her, like a deer caught in the clutches of some gator: perpetually frozen, and too afraid to bolt and save himself.

Running her hands through her short crop of yellow hair, the Sandfury pinned the Draenei with a stern stare. “Why ya be doin’ dat, mon? All de pacing, and de mumbling, and de hoofies going ‘clop-clop’ all ova de place! Been at dis for hours, mon! Ya tink you could sit down for one minute a’fore I go tying ya up wit my string’a bones?”

For a long moment, the Draenei gawked at her, not really knowing what to say. But then, gradually, his posture changed. His hands shook as he clutched tightly his prayer beads, as if he were clinging, valiantly, to the only lifeline he had left. His body began to tremble, overburdened by grief and extreme fatigue. Big, fat tears began to slip down his cheeks, and he hastily took off his halfmoon glasses in order to wipe at his eyes.

Lisi’mya saw this, and her previously frustrated expression melted away. “Ay, noh, noh. I didn’t want’cha ta go and cry. Noh cryin’. Noh cryin’ in front of ol’ Lisi. Come ‘ere.”

The Sandfury rose from her seat and, although she wasn’t as tall as the Draenei, she threw out her arms to him. The monk, with a mournful wail, bolted over and gave her a desperate hug. Gently she patted his back, rubbing it reassuringly in hopes that she could somehow quell the storm in his heart.

“I--I… I…”

“There, there. Ya let it out ta ol’ Lisi now. Ya let it out. Don’t ya keep it in. Ya jus’ keep breathin’, now. Keep breathin’ and keep countin’ ta a hundred. Focus on dat, and let ya mind relax.”

Lisi’mya guided the distraught Draenei to a chair and gently lowered him into it. He was a bit heftier than most Draenei she had dealt with. As a monk, he didn’t have the abs that she had seen most paladins flash about. He had built up core fat and muscles through intense training. This, of course, only made moving him about a bit more awkward, what with her being shorter and skinnier. Somehow she managed.

“There. Now, what ya say your name be again?” Scratching the back of her head, her bangles jingling softly with the motion, she watched him weep. “I… I be sorry, not really knowin’ ya all dat well. We hardly go on missions togetha.”

“Brevaar,” the monk replied, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. He bent forward like a snapping weeping willow, his hands resting upon his knees. “I… I’m his adoptive brother.”

“Who’s?” After a moment, the Sandfury blinked her golden eyes in shock. She looked towards the closed door, then at the Draenei. Another double take, and she ventured out with an unsure, “ya mean…? Plaguespittah?”

“...Ravensbourne.”

“I thought his name be--”

“His name,” the Draenei whispered softly, his voice threatening to fail him, “is Aldris Ravensbourne.”

There was an uncomfortable moment where the Sandfury could tell that the Draenei was already experiencing the full spectrum of grief, only to, like his pacing, cycle back to the very beginning.

“Ahhh, that be his name before death took him. I see, I see…”

“He chose that name for him b--because he didn’t want to mar the family name.” Brevaar sucked in his breath, allowing his lungs access to oxygen once more. He took his sleeve and rubbed it back and forth against his eyes, hoping to sop up all of his tears. “I d--didn’t know he had been resurrected, as a Forsaken, until many, many years later. W--When he finally approached me.”

“He prob’ly--”

“He had wanted to keep me safe,” Brevaar interrupted. He looked up at the Sandfury, his expression tortured. “I’m sure of it. I’m of the Alliance, and he’s now a part of the Horde. Selflessly, he protected me by keeping away. T--The only reason he finally… approached me is because I was in trouble, and he couldn’t let me…”

Brevaar hiccuped and whimpered, and Lisi’mya couldn’t help but wonder if that was actually true. Had Guntharius-- no, Aldris-- cared that much that he had kept away from his own adopted brother? Or was there another motive behind it? The Sandfury would always be the first to admit that she didn’t quite trust what lay on the surface of things. Dealing with the dead did that to you.

“He is brash,” Brevaar said, “and often harsh and cold. But he’s kind. He’s kind, and loving, and has such a … a sense of depth to him.” Sitting up straighter, he sniffled. “He… bore the faces of humanity well. Better than most humans I know.”

Lisi’mya opened her mouth to say something when she heard footsteps approaching them. Brevaar must have heard it too, for he quickly rose from his chair, placing his glasses hastily back into place.

“Mista Tahvee!”

“Mr. Duskwither, S--Sir…”

“At ease. Please.”

The Archmage looked exhausted and aged by several centuries. Darkness already rung his eyes out of stress, and it gave him a haunted look. He had presented himself rather well, despite it all, and he had even gotten dressed in his typical magically attuned attire. After all, he had to fit the role he represented. Especially during this crisis.

Bowing his head before the monk, the Archmage genuflected with a sorrowful kneel before him. “I am sorry, Brevaar, for this turn of events. Please know… I did not want this to happen to anyone of my order. Especially not to your brother.”

“P--Please,” Brevaar croaked, tears threatening to flow anew. “D--Don’t kneel.” He started to tremble again as the elf stood back up. “It… this isn’t your fault. Ald--- Guntharius, he… is stubborn. But he chose what he did on purpose. I, I… know this because I know him.”

“I’m sure he did,” Taviast agreed, his voice soft and emotional. “My sincerest apologies on this tragic turn of events, but I can’t stay long to chat. I would like to speak more with you, in length, but at a later time.” Seeing the Monk nod numbly, he added, “I promise. I’ll make us some tea, and we can chat. For now, I’m afraid I need to attend some…”

He stopped himself from saying ‘business’. By the dead look in the Draenei’s eyes, Brevaar knew what this ‘business’ was. It wasn’t the typical sort of business they dealt with from day to day.

This business was very much a body viewing, more or less.

“That… would be nice,” the monk agreed absentmindedly as he sat back down. He blankly had begun looking up towards the ceiling, his heart and mind unable to take much more.

Grief was a terrible beast.

Taviast headed towards the door to the medical ward, but a strong hand stopped him halfway. He looked at the proud face of the Sandfury he had come to know as one of his most loyal of friends. They had conducted and overseen many different happenings together, and Lisi’mya was always the first to offer up her services when it involved making sure the dead passed on peacefully.

“Miss Lisi,” Taviast said, the flatness of his own tone making him visibly wince. “What can I do for you?”

“De deader inside,” Lisi’mya began, “he not be dere.”

Taviast felt his heart erratically skip a beat out of dread. “I--I’m afraid I must have misheard you, my dear. Could you please--”

“Gunthah ain’t really dere.”

Hushing her quickly, Taviast cast a quick look the monk’s way. Brevaar hadn’t moved, and his tear stained focus was directed primarily at a crack in the ceiling. He had gone into emotional shock and, though they should be helping him at the moment, they also knew it as best to leave him be.

At least he hadn’t heard what she had said.

“I don’t know what you are insinuating,” Taviast began, carefully, “but it doesn’t sound good.”

“It ain’t,” Lisi’mya said. “Ya know me, Mista Tahvee. Ya be knowin’ me many, many years. I be sensing de dead. And de dead know me. By now, I should’a had a good connection wit de spirit if he be gone from us.”

“And… you’re meaning to tell me that you don’t?”

“I feel noting.”

Taviast let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s wonderful n--”

“But,” Lisi’mya interjected, letting go of his hand, “I also feel someting.”

“But you just said--”

“I feel noting,” the Sandfury intoned, “and, yet, I feel someting. His spirit be dere, but it be detached. It is severed, Mista Tahvee. And it be hanging barely on.” Gesturing towards the door with her head, she snorted. “Go on now. Ya go in dere, ya speak wit de balance healah. Ya talk ta Neleri, and ya hear what she be sayin’. And you’ll hearin' what I be sayin’, soon enough.”

The Archmage felt what could only be described as someone walking on his future graveside. The chill he felt was bone deep. And even as he watched Lisi’mya return to the suffering, grief stricken Draenei, he couldn’t help but dwell on her ominous warning.

Swallowing his fear, he turned towards the door, and slowly opened it.

-------------------------------

“Do you ever sleep, Duskwither?”

“Not this again…”

Guntharius had found the Archmage by himself, as usual, pouring over books, maps and notes, and anything else that could help them with figuring out who to target next. The warlock had admitted in the past that he admired Taviast’s resolve, loyalty and tenacity when it had come to serving the order and its purpose. Even if it were maddeningly frustrating to deal with.

This time the elf hadn’t been found in a study of some sort. He had taken up a place in the dining hall, with a cold cup of tea next to him and an unfinished plate of fruit left to rot.

Picking up a strawberry slice, the warlock had shot the elf a withering look, who could only groan in response. “You’re not eating properly.”

“I understand you’re a doctor, but I don’t have time for a check up right now.”

“This isn’t a check up, Duskwither. This is me, being your second in command, telling you to eat some feldammed food before you pass out on us.”

“I eat.”

“Your own words.”

The lightning fast retort had caused the Achmage to sputter and laugh. He had laughed so hard that his lungs had screamed for air, and tears had stung his eyes. It had surprised him that the warlock still had humor to him. But, then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Guntharius had always been a strange fellow.

“Y--You,” he had wheezed out, “have been spending too much time around Raustul. Did he teach you that sort of retort?”

“He’s the best at shitty retorts.” He had given the elf a mischievous grin. “Don’t tell him I gave him a compliment. It'll go to his head.”

“I won’t,” the Archmage had lied.

Shaking the tiny strawberry slice between his fingers, Guntharius had offhandedly said, “if you won’t eat properly, I’ll make use of your food.”

Taviast had looked at Guntharius as he had popped the strawberry into his mouth. There had been a nauseating moment where he had watched the Forsaken chew, bearing witness to the acid-worn skin on his one cheek reacting to the jaw movement. Busying himself with his tea, he had tried to ignore the flash of red between the skin.

“It amazes me that Forsaken can still eat," he had absentmindedly stated, hoping to forget the mental image of the doctor eating the slice of fruit.

Swallowing, Guntharius had testily replied with a sharp, “we don’t need to. I, however, do. It gives me back a sense of mortality. It tells me that I am still a human. The routine of eating food reminds me of a time when I needed to eat basic food in order to sustain myself.”

A thought had come to the Archmage’s mind. Gingerly closing the tome he had been pouring over, Taviast had looked up at the warlock (who had taken perch on the edge of the table, sitting on it like some uncouth hooligan would have), and had voiced his curiosity with a tentative, “do you get check ups?”

The Forsaken had shot him a quizzical look, which had only further prompted the Archmage’s prodding.

“You know… a doctor visit. Come, now! Don't give me that look! Just because you’re a Forsaken, you, of all people, have to take exceptional care of your--”

“Husk.”

“Body,” Taviast had resolutely finished, trying to instill a bit of confidence in the Forsaken. Pointing at Plaguespitter, the Archmage had pinned him down with a definitive topic. He had been bitten by the bug of curiosity, and now he had wanted answers. “Forsaken need to keep preserving their bodies, correct?”

“Correct.”

“With lack of blood flow, and moisture being an issue for your skin…”

“Where the fuck are you going with this, Duskwither?”

“I’ve seen you take the time to take care of yourself. You use oils to moisturize your skin, and you bathe in order to keep clean. You also make sure you take care of any injuries you get, keeping them from festering and becoming infected with gangrene.” Picking a grape out from the Forsaken’s grasp, Taviast had let it fly with a flick of his fingers. “No avoiding the topic with the mimicry of eating, my friend. You’ve brought it up, and now I want to know. Do Forsaken go to see the doctor?”

“....What?”

“Is there a doctor for Forsaken?”

The warlock had scoffed at such a notion. Sliding off the table, he brushed by the Archmage as he made his way out of the dining hall. “A doctor for Forsaken. How fucking hilarious.”

“You could be the first one, you know.”

“Feh.”

“I mean it!” Taviast had stood up from the table, nearly knocking his cup of tea all over a few pieces of parchment. “You could be a doctor for the Forsaken! Give them some bloody hope! Bring back a sense of ‘mortality’ and all that. Let them feel normal again. Perhaps let them feel human, I daresay!”

The warlock had stopped in his tracks.

“...letting a Forsaken lay on a cold slab while I examine them… does that sound like a good thing for them to experience?"

"Well--"

"What, you think that would let them feel normal? Like the experimental rats and mindless thralls that the Banshee Bitch intended them to be, all along?”

“I didn't mean--”

“The Forsaken have always been experimental rats for that bitch,” the Forsaken had snarled. “No one has ever paid them any mind. They have been her personal playthings, doing her bidding, for as long as they have existed. Puppets on fraying strings. And she’s brainwashed most of them so that they slave and toil under her ruling, doing her bidding, not realizing they’re being treated like trash. The last thing any proper Forsaken would want is to lie on an operating table, with someone coldly inspecting them.”

Taviast had found that his voice had died away.

“... I thought so.”

-------------------------------

And there Guntharius Plaguespitter remained. Lying on a cold operating table. With Neleri inspecting him, detached and emotionless.

There was something so profoundly wrong about this. Taviast felt the distinct sensation of intruding upon some forbidden sacred ground, and his presence was further perverting a place that shouldn’t be tread upon. Seeing the Forsaken’s prone form upon that operating table cast a sickening shadow of dread over his resolve.

Guntharius, while naked, was respectfully covered from the hips down by a sheet. His eyes were heavily lidded, but Taviast could see that, true to Raustul’s words, the glow had left the Forsaken’s lone good eye. It was dark now, milky, and veiled. Dead, like his one blind eye had been all this time. His face was drawn and gaunt, more than usual. The Forsaken had always had a sharply defined face. It was what made his stares all the more intimidating.

Beside the Forsaken, on a medical tray used for operations, sat a demonic skull. Normally this thing could be seen around Guntharius as he worked, hovering in the air, and moving on its own. It often glowed with an essence that bespoke of a spiritual source. Clearly something was still attached to that skull, and the warlock often held conversations with it.

The Archmage knew who that skull belonged to, but he tried to keep that a secret among the rest of The Circle.

With the horned, demonic skull inactive and the warlock so still and so silent, Taviast reluctantly approached the table, burdened with a considerable amount of creeping dread. This seemed so wrong, so vile. Jagged knives of guilt ripped through his heart, leaving it nothing more than an eviscerated lump of bloodied meat.

“Anchorite Neleri?”

The Draenei looked up at the elf with a calm sense of waiting. The curtain of dark hair failed to hide her amused expression. She had been expecting him, and as such didn’t quite find his sudden arrival to be all that out of the ordinary. After all, where the sick, infirm and dying lay, a loved one is usually not far behind.

“Mr. Duskwither,” she breathed out in her airy, wispy sort of way; like the fae with her movements and manner of speech. From every flick of her wrist to a shift in her stance, she had a dancer’s grace to her mannerisms, as slow and smooth as a countryside stream. “I was expecting you to arrive sooner than this…”

“I--I---” Taviast shuddered. He felt the same ominous sort of gloom that he had felt upon hearing Lisi’mya’s warning. Neleri had that sort of effect, too. No wonder she was a close friend to the Sandfury. They got along quite well. “I don’t recall,” he said, finally calming his nerves enough to become presentable, “ever announcing my arrival-to-be…”

“You didn’t,” the Anchorite’s peaceful words sighed out. “It is only natural for loved ones to visit those who have fallen.”

The Archmage watched as the Priestess of Balance moved around the table. She had taken up the Forsaken’s left arm and was turning it this way and that, examining the flesh and the odd burn pattern splotched over his skin. It reminded Taviast of an acid burn.

“That… does make sense,” he conceded.

“That,” the Priestess continued, lowering the unresponsive body’s arm down to the table, “and you are our lead commander and overseer. And you are incredibly guilt ridden.”

Despite himself, the elf gave her a funny sort of halfhearted smile. “My dear, am I that easy to read?”

“Perhaps.”

The Draenei turned to face him, her dusky skin even darker in the light of the medical ward. It was as if she took in all the darkness around her and held it within her body. And then her eyes! It was a common fact most Draenei had blue eyes that glowed. Hers burned an intense white: like twin flames of an ethereal soul up against the backdrop of twilight.

She moved over to him, an odd, spectral like walk without the grim charades. The burning candles littered about the room cast a timeworn glow upon her beautiful face. Her hooves made naught a sound as she seemed to glide across the wooden flooring. She approached until she was an arm’s length away. Reaching out, she cupped his cheek with her warm hand. The soothing scent of incense drifted from her robes, alleviating all cares and worries for a moment’s breath.

“That,” she murmured softly, her blank, white eyes searching his golden ones, “and it is clear you have been crying.”

She left him as he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. Returning to their comrade, she spread her arms out before her in a gesture of welcoming.

“He has been waiting for you, Mr. Duskwither.”

“Wh--What?” Panic stricken, the Sin’dorei looked towards the Draenei with an expression of denial. “How do you-- how can you--” Halting his mind from spilling out anything else, he collected his thoughts and took a deep breath before continuing. “Anchorite Neleri. Please, I mean no offense in what I am to say, but... I do not understand. Permit me this, and let me inquire as to what you are telling me. Articulate, I am afraid, for I am very much as lost as I appear to be. I don’t understand what you mean by ‘he has been waiting for me’. And, please, for the last time, call me Taviast.”

A soft, tinkling laugh escaped the Anchorite. Looking over her shoulder at him, she beckoned him, closer, with the dreamlike wave of her hand. “Come. Look.”

Taviast didn’t want to. He wanted to be the coward he knew he had always been, deep down, and run. He wanted to flee from the room, so wrapped up in his consuming denial that he could forget about what had happened. If he could go mad and fall back into a memory where his friend was well and able bodied once more, he would have gladly given himself to the essence of the maddening void.

But something pulled him closer. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Or perhaps it was his guilt, or sense of duty, that drew him towards his fallen friend’s side.

“He… has been waiting for you, all this time. He will be very happy you visited."

Doubtful that the warlock would be happy about any of this, he tried to focus on connecting the puzzle pieces to this mystery.

Up close, Taviast could see the network of burns spanning his flesh. Like spiderwebs, but in blotches instead of strands. Normally his skin would have been chilly to the touch, but as the Archmage brushed his fingers against his slack hand, he realized that the Forsaken was warm. Unnatural and alarming, it went against all that was known for the undead race.

Along with the burned patches of Light-eaten skin, the tips of his fingers were blackened, and stained slightly green.

Catching the elf’s gaze, Neleri followed it. “Ah, yes,” she breathed out. Taking up the Forsaken’s hand, she spread his fingers. “According to the Demon Hunter--”

“Raustul.”

“--Doctor Plaguespitter tried to construct a shield against the holy attack. Something that would have hardened his defenses against it. According to the Demon Hunter’s--”

“Raustul.”

“--account of how it had smelled, the shield was made of felfire and shadow.”

Taviast had seen Guntharius use a similar tactic in tight situations. It was something the warlock tried to avoid, for it took a lot of his energy. He had to concentrate hard on it, and keep it up, often distracting him, or even disabling him, from concentrating on any other spells.

But it also meant one other thing.

“Guntharius thought there was a chance he could have endured it," he voiced aloud, struck by awe at the conclusion he had arrived at. He glanced over at the demonic skull on the tray, but it didn’t move, nor did its eyes glow in confirmation of his theory.

“Precisely.” Moving around to the Forsaken’s head, she let her fingers trail along his exposed collarbone. “He thought there was a chance in surviving the attack. He did not do what he did with the idea of sacrificing himself entirely. I have heard the others. Many thought his actions to have been doomed from the start. These members of our order think he had wanted to die."

"What with his past conversations about attempting to find a cure for 'undeath', I can see where they could have gotten that idea."

"An idea, it is. But it is wrong."

“I... understand.”

“And here.” Neleri pointed to the burn marks trailing up his neck. “There is a strange thing with these burns.”

Taviast leaned in close, taking in the droplet shaped form of a particularly nasty burn right below his ear. “They are burned into his skin sporadically,” he spoke up. “It is not in equal coverage. If he were engulfed in holy flames--"

"That is not it."

Confused, he gave her a questioning look.

“I healed that burn two hours ago.”

Sputtering, he gasped out, “I beg your pardon?”

Neleri cocked her head innocently to the side, watching the Archmage’s reaction, her expression quite feline in nature. “I healed the burn. The burn went away. And yet it returned. Do you understand?"

The heat of the Forsaken’s body. Burns, returning. By typical standards, such a thing shouldn’t happen. Fire did not continuously burn a person, long after breaking from the source of the exposure. But at the same time these burns had been obtained by a magical source. Not of a mage, but of a paladin. A paladin who had been tainted, of course, but a paladin nonetheless.

A horrible idea came to his mind.

“Neleri," he began, his tone incredulous. "Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Wispily, the Draenei walked over to a chair. She lowered herself into it, looking weary. “Tell me… what you are thinking.”

He didn’t want to voice it. His tongue was heavy, his mouth cotton dry. The Circle had come to the unanimous conclusion that Guntharius had fallen into a coma. It was the only logical explanation. It put a word to his current condition, making it easier, more palpable to conceive. A coma gave one the idea of the infirm resting quietly in a suspended sense of sleep.

What he couldn’t comprehend was that the warlock-- their friend and commander-- was still feeling pain. There was a chance that he was still burning… from the inside out.

“I can’t--”

“It is like his body is responding to the healing,” she spoke up for him, “and not responding, all at the same time. He is stagnant, unable to get better or worse. He is resting between both worlds, his spirit unable to decide what it wishes to do."

Lisi'mya's words came floating back to Taviast, and he felt sickened to his core.

"Almost as if his soul is severed from…"

Hearing the elf muttering to himself, she made a placating gesture towards him. "I am afraid," Neleri breathily spoke, "that his visitation is finished… for now. I have used what energy I had left. If I am to attempt to heal him more, I must rest. I am not a strong shadow healer, and I am exhausted, Mr. Duskwither.”

“O--Oh, yes.” All too aware that the Anchorite had been going at it for hours, attempting to stave off the Forsaken’s eternal plight by using healing shadow magic, the Archmage bowed deeply before her. “I thank you for your services,” he began, his throat tight with tears. “You have... been an asset to this order, and I can’t possibly begin to show you the depth of my appreciation.”

Gently waving aside his compliment, the willowy Priestess merely smiled a placid, serene smile. “I do not take forms of appreciation, verbal or otherwise. I am an Anchorite, Mr. Duskwither.”

“Just Taviast, my dear.”

“I serve the dying," she continued on, as if not realizing she was cut off. "I tend to the broken bones, the burned flesh, and to all those suffering souls toiling away on this planet you call Azeroth.”

“We,” he undecidedly spoke up. He wasn’t sure if he should even attempt to correct her. “We call this planet--”

No. On secound thought it wasn’t worth arguing.

Taviast wished Guntharius would wake up. He mentally begged and prayed to the Gods above to whisk away the curtain of agony, rid him of his current plight and allow him to rouse. He wanted to apologize to his friend, to tell him that he understood, now. Understood everything. A great welling of anger was festering in the pit of his stomach, great plumes of noxious clouds suffocating his lungs. An insatiable need for vengeance rooted him to the floorboards, festooning him with his mentally constricting bindings.

As his gaze fell back upon his friend’s pallid face, he swore he saw a flicker of life in his deadened eye. He felt his breath for a moment, searching for that warm, amber glow to appear once more…

No. What a fool he was.

What a fool that cult made his order out to be.

Again the flash of rage. Again the sensation of his blood becoming a torrent of hot molten lead, pushing through his capillaries and arteries. His heart had erupted into a whirling inferno-- a victim of a vitriolic conflagration-- and he swore that only ash would remain in the end.

Squeezing Guntharius’s hand, Taviast whispered a promise in his friend’s ear, his voice hitching with emotion.

As Taviast left the room, so consumed in his thoughts, he didn't pause to consider what it was he had just promised his friend. His vengeful vow, he had told himself, had fallen on deaf ears. He had hoped, somehow, that his words could have reached Guntharius but, then again, perhaps it would be for the best. He knew that the Forsaken had wanted him to embrace his inner darkness, as much as he had his inner light, for no balance could ever be achieved with one side of his scales being too heavy. Despite that, for a mere second, as his resolute footfalls echoed against the floorboards, he wondered what the warlock would have thought of him, had he heard and had he known.

If only the elf had turned around.

As the door was shut behind the Archmage, the prone, lost soul’s eye dimmed once more, losing the brief flicker of amber flame that once indicated life.

He had listened.

-------------------------------

Shokhi Ebondraft hurried up the curving stairway. She had just left the main prison area. It was a location deep within the very bowels of that castle, in an area known as Plaguespitter’s laboratory. There the warlock concocted many of the potions they used during their various missions. It’s also where he tested his more sinister brews on those captured. Guntharius had always been the order’s jailer and warden, but he was also their inquisitor. It was a well known fact that he often tortured those that they brought back.

It was a thankless job, but somebody had to do it.

In the absence of Guntharius, Shokhi had taken up the role and tried her hand (or, rather, paw) at it. She had just finished with the Circle’s prisoner and High Seer of the Gaze of N’zoth, Clayton Whatley, and had gotten all the information she could possibly glean from the stubborn, and insane, cultist. She had a strong inkling that most of the information that she clutched tightly in her paw was false. The cultist had babbled out mostly nonsense at first. Quite possibly in an attempt to confuse her with some well placed red herrings. But she had preserved over the inane babbling and had found a way to get him to talk.

Thankfully Guntharius kept some vials of various poisons, acids and other such dark instruments of torture on hand.

Her footfalls were soft and nearly inaudible against the stonework of the worn, cold stairway. She had been so good at keeping quiet that it was only natural that she took notice of the approaching footsteps coming her way, descending from the top.

She looked up, half expecting some intruder to have somehow found their way into the castle. It was creepy enough that she had to deal Taviast’s Eye of Arcanum had watched her throughout the interrogation of subsequent torture of Whatley. It had unnerved her how the thing gazed on, unblinking, as the cultist screamed.

It had wandered off a few minutes before she was done, disappearing beyond sight by simply blinking through the door. She had expected to run into it at some point on her journey upwards towards the base level of the castle, but she hadn’t

What she hadn’t expected was to run into Taviast himself.

“Oh-- hey, there!”

The Pandaren flashed a toothy grin, her tone bouncy and her body language cheerful. It was an unsettling juxtaposed version reality: the few stains flecking her outfit, clearly of blood, painted another picture.

She stopped on the step she was, watching Taviast approach and stop before her. There was something dark about him. Something she couldn’t quite place. The was an intense heat to his eyes and a subtle tenseness to his body. There was an aura about him: hot, crackling and intense.

“Hey, while you’re here…” She handed over the rolled up sheets of parchment. The Archmage did not meet her eye as he took it from her. “Our friend down there spilled a lot of in-ter-esting stuff. But I’ve got the feeling that he was holding back on a lot of it. And it sounds like it’s been a trap all along.” Tapping the parchment as the elf unfurled it to read, she added, “I put down everything I could get out of him. The guy really didn’t want to talk. So I had to convince him that it was best he did.” She flashed her toothy grin once more, her emerald eyes glowing ominously. “You know, just a little friendly chat between frenemies.”

Taviast Duskwither had remained silent during her little explanation, keeping his eyes fixated on the pieces of parchment he had been handed. He extensively scoured the notes produced from the interrogation of Whatley, and something about his whole demeanor began to darken.

“...soooo,” Shokhi began, drawing out the word in order to fill the awkward silent space between them. “What do you--”

“Move. Now.”

Startled, Shokhi looked up, once more, at the Archmage’s face. And it was then that she came to the conclusion as to what it was she hadn’t recognized at first.

Flattening herself against the wall of the stairway, she allowed the elf to pass. She watched him descend down the staircase, the two sheets of paper crumpled into a tight fist. Unable to stop the chill from scattering down her spine, she shuddered.

Never before had she seen such a malevolent expression on his face.

#Cuddly writes some things

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cuddlywritesthings · 5 years

Text

Declivity into Holy Fire

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Guntharius Plaguespitter, Raustul Shadeshifter, Father Lanstarth Mourningsworn, Sunwalker Kagun Petalhoof (brief), Clayton Whatley (High Seer of the cult of the Gaze of N’zoth), Jendrick Camden (unnamed Paladin in this story; later named)

Characters mentioned: Taviast Duskwither

Timeline: N’zoth’s appearance and presence on Azeroth; Wrathion’s whole questline, and endgame of BFA.

Trigger warnings: Strong language, violence, prolonged suffering, gore, and the general description of an incredibly intense battle and the description of a character’s suffering

- - - - - - - - - -

“BRACE YOURSELVES!”

A whirlwind of fire buffeted the group, but a stalwart figure bared the brunt of the attack.

Sunwalker Kagun Petalhoof had kept his comrades unharmed by the use of his shield, blessed by the Earthmother’s grace and love. The maniac mage’s fire slammed into the wood and the metal, causing the shield to creak and moan in its abuse, but it yielded all the same. The human didn’t last, however, and before he could throw out another fireball, his chest caved in thanks to the Sunwalker’s axe.

“TO YOUR LEFT!”

The mighty Tauren spun, allowing the bluish blur to streak past him. The Death Knight and ex-Crusader, Father Lanstarth Mournsworn, had pinpointed his target and, with a mighty swing of his sword, the sharpened edge sliced through the Worgen rogue that had just manifested to their left. The cut was clean, letting the Worgen’s lower half collapse forward and his upper half to slide off to the side. As the bloodied chunks and visceral organs of the furred magician spilled unto the ground, another cry of warning erupted forth.

“ABOVE!”

A volley of arrows from two elven archers rained down on the group, but a demonic snarl caused the two to back up, alarmed. Raustul Shadeshifter, leaping through the air, slammed into the ground in front of them, felfire flames erupting at his cloven feet. With a sickening shllick-shliick of his warglaives, the two unfortunate Kaldorei collapsed into each other, blood streaming from the stumps where arms and legs had once been.

Guntharius Plaguspitter supervised it all. He had shouted the orders and the warnings, keeping his unit safe. As one of the higher ups within the Circle-- and as the head representing the Horde factions-- it was his sworn duty to keep his comrades safe at all costs.

He stood there resolutely, a hand clamped down tightly on the shoulder of the slumped form beside him. The human they had captured moaned softly in pain. His hood had fallen away from his face, and it no longer obscured the twin crimson rivers that trickled down from his hairline. The bastard was garbed in the unholy vestments of a cultist and, by the looks of it, he had employed many different kinds to his cause. Even two of the most ancient, noble races-- the Kaldorei-- had been perverted by this madman’s ramblings.

They had received information about an uprising in cultist activities. But how could that surprise anyone? Eldritch horrors were abound as Uldum became steadily overrun by blathering, mindless cultists. Many had become transformed in the wake of the Old Gods, spouting tentacles from their faces where tentacles should never, ever be. It was a disgusting affair that sickened the warlock to his very core.

Their information gathered had pointed to this man: a high cultist by the name of Clayton Whatley. Untransformed (for the time being), he had quickly amassed a following to further pervert and brainwash with the drivel of the Old Gods themselves.

Guntharius had to reflect on just how things had gotten so bad. From the plight of the Zandalari and the Kul’tirans clashing, to the affairs of the shebitch-- the Warchief, to the civil war within the Horde… now they had to contend with the Old Gods.

He never did like the Old Gods. Found the whole thing to be one giant nuisance.

The squelching of pierced flesh brought the warlock back to his senses. There they were, still in that decrepit building, routing out the hovel that had become this Cultist’s base. A blasphemous attempt at an Eldritch church, the warlock glanced repulsively at the signs of mental decay all around him. From the crumbling structure of the walls to the broken, wretched pews and the smeared, inky demonic runes smattered along torn tapestries and smudged on any space available… it was a travesty in the works. It was dark, dank, and it stunk of mildew. Pathetic. Disgusting. Inferior.

Whatley moaned again, and the warlock snarled in Eredun, threatening him with a fate worse than death if he didn’t shut up.

“OI! GUN!”

Guntharius looked up sharply to see Raustul, splattered with the gore of his enemies from horn to hoof, waving him down.

“It looks like we’re done here,” the mischievous Demon Hunter said with a satisfied grin.

“Yes,” the warlock conceded, blood staining the hem of his robes as well. “It would appear that we are.”

Indeed. The pathetic excuse for a maddened church seemed to now be vacant. Dismembered bodies lay strewn about the filthy cobblestone flooring in an array of chaos. A few gurgled out a plea or two for mercy, but a merciful death blow from the pious Death Knight himself put an end to their suffering.

“You’re too kind on them,” Guntharius snapped at the deceased Crusader, watching Lanstarth return to the rest of the regathered group. “They deserve a slow, agonizing death for what their kind has brought to Azeroth.”

“They have received their punishment,” the Death Knight coolly replied, his tone as flat and monotone as ever. Sword point resting against the ground, he stood there, like an ever vigilant guardian, awaiting his next orders. “The Gods and their Light will punish them now. I do not torture my enemies,” he continued after a moment’s pause. “I am more than a reanimated thrall of the Lich King. I am still a holy man at heart. I will not torture in the name of the Light.”

“Feh. You holy types. Self sacrificing martyrs with an egregious complex.”

Sunwalker Petalhoof looked worriedly at the two of them, listening to the conversation. His ears began to droop a little, and he rumbled out his deep, profound voice, “we have our target. We should return to the others, before they get worried. We’re already late on returning, and Mr. Duskwither wanted us back before it got too late...”

“True, true.” The half-blooded Demon Hunter waved a hand about as he rejoined the group, the warglaives sheathed back on his back dripping with blood, flecked with some skin and brain matter and perhaps a clump of hair. “I mean, er… all due respect t’ Kippen and the boys of intel, but, we were supposed t’ not have a big fight here. Our information an’ whatnot said that this guy wasn’t goin’ to have a sermon tonight, and we could’a just gone in, collected him, and popped out.”

As the Tauren nodded his shaggy head, the warlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

“You think things always go as planned, Shadeshifter?”

“Er--”

“You may be older than I am,” the warlock testily admonished, “but you are still a child as an elf is concerned. And it clearly shows.”

“Hey! Accordin’ to my age, I’m a fuckin’ adult! Thank you very much!”

Father Mourningsworn looked towards the Tauren as the two bickered. He gave the Sunwalker a look of slight concern, and with a tilt of his head he silently alluded to a question. A question to which the Tauren responded with a nervous snort and a tiny smile.

“HA! An adult? By what standards?”

“By my standards!”

“You two,” Kagun began, but his words were cut off by the harsh, almost crowing laugh of the Forsaken.

“Oh, really!” Guntharius took a few steps towards the Demon Hunter, causing their hapless captured cultist, one Mr. Whatley, to fall backwards and hit the ground with a dull, almost comical thud. A soft groan escaped him. “Is that all you could come up with for a retort?”

“--yes?”

Lanstarth patiently closed his eyes. Ever the polite knight, suffering through the asinine bullshit that seemed to crop up from time to time within his son’s order, he somehow, by some sort of miracle, retained his composure. He could endure. He would endure. He had sworn an oath to be the stalwart pillar of this organization, for better or for worse.

“YOU ACTUALLY ANSWERED THAT!”

“H--HEY! SHUT UP!”

Amidst the warlock’s cawing laughter, the Sunwalker uneasily moved over to the cultist. Picking the man up by the back of his hooded robe, he slung him over his shoulder. “Come on, you two,” he said, interrupting the two from further discussion. “We need to get him back for interrogation.”

“Yea,” Raustul grumbled, just a bit bitter from being shown up as much as he had been. Sulkily he jabbed his thumb in the warlock’s direction. “Let the good doctor here be a sick fuck an’ torture the poor sod for information.”

Hearing the vitriol in the Demon Hunter’s voice, the warlock flashed him a nauseatingly pleased smile. “I was hired for a job, Shadeshifter. And I am damn good at what I do. Admit it.” Moving up to the Demon Hunter, he waved a hand in his face. “Admit it: I’ve gotten us information in the past that has turned the tide in many of our endeavors.”

“I am going to bring him back,” the Tauren said, speaking primarily to Lanstarth. He saw how those two were at it again. Clearly they wouldn’t listen to reasoning. Seeing a nod of affirmation from the pious Knight, he quickly dug out the Circle’s hearthstone from his pouch, and rubbed his thumb over the curling peacock symbol, activating it. With a glowing spark of energy, the magic whirred softly to light. “I would advise you three do the same.”

Guntharius’s laughter crackled once more as the Demon Hunter went to grab him in an armlock. As the two tussled and fought, Lanstarth watched as the Tauren’s form dissipated in a soft haze of magic. The cultist, slung over the Sunwalker’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, had moved. Right before he, too, disappeared along with the Tauren’s visage…

….he had weakly looked up towards the Death Knight and, in a pained daze, had smirked at him.

The image burned into the noble Knight’s mind, and he felt a chill scatter down his spine. This was not the chill of death but, rather, the chill of a trap. The chill of something gone horribly, horribly wrong.

“...you two...”

Raustul paused in grabbing a fistful of the warlock’s hair. He had turned to look towards the Death Knight, but his expression changed, all too suddenly, from an irritated expression to one of absolute surprise. Guntharius, upon seeing this change as well, let his gaze move up towards the Knight and past him, his attention directed towards the darkened back of the church.

They only had a second warning before the attack came. The air was suddenly electrified with energy. A great crackling was heard: a whirring that sounded like something large, and blunt, being spun at high speeds. The noise climbed up to a crescendo until, within those precious brief seconds, it became deafening all in its own right.

A flash of bright light lit up the darkened, derelict corner of the crumbling church, and it hurdled through the air towards them at top speeds.

“FUCKIN’ FEL!”

Raustul lunged forward, driving both of his comrades down to the ground. Heat sizzled overhead as the streak of light swung high above them before arcing, dangerous in its projected trajectory, before whirling right back towards the corner it had manifested from.

The three of them knew what had happened and, yet, their brains could not register the plain truth.

The streak of fiery light that had lashed out above them in that terrifying arc had been a holy hammer attack.

There was a paladin within this corrupt church.

----------

Guntharius felt a sickening sense of dread as that realization hit him. No, not just hit him. The acknowledgement of what they were facing had assaulted him like an avalanche of boulders crushing his indomitable will in one devastating move.

They were dealing with a holy madman.

Pressed to the floor and covered protectively by the Demon Hunter, the warlock could hear Raustul’s frightened exhalation of breath. Shaky and trembling, it revealed the spike of fear that had pierced the heart of his brave comrade. In that moment, Plaguespitter felt a surge of protectiveness. So close to the Demon Hunter and the Death Knight, he wanted to say some sort of encouragement, but his words were drowned out by the whirring of another hammer attack.

He rolled out of the way, just as the others scrambled to avoid the attack. A great crash signified that the hammer, this time around, had obliterated some once-sacred object, now perverted and twisted by all standards.

“Lanstarth! Raustul!”

A spitting flame of light licked out towards the warlock, and he managed to fling up a demonic spell of protection. He bared his teeth in a savage snarl as the glow burst against his darkened shield of sulfurous properties. It sizzled and popped against the writhing, twisting darkness, before fizzling out to a hissing whimper.

His resolve grew, as did his anger. With a vicious gesture he slashed at his own fading demonic shield, shattering it to pieces, along with what remained of the holy spell. It burst about him like a withering firework, its dying embers scattering to the grungy flooring.

He could see the paladin now. Robed and garbed in the same dreadful attire as the cultists, this particular madman bore pieces of plate armor to complete his garish assemble. His hooded face hid the twisted holiness of the man who stood before them, but it was obvious that this paladin had fallen. Not enough to lose touch with the light entirely, but on his way to falling from grace altogether.

A blur beside him became the lunging form of Raustul. The Demon Hunter swung his warglaives in a great frenzied flurry, his adrenaline backed by his fear. The warlock (thanks to his heightened undead feral senses) could smell it on him, musky and suffocating.

There was the spark of clashing metal, and the Demon Hunter skidded back a few feet. A patch of skin on his upper arm sizzled with holy energy, and he winced in agony at the burning sensation.

Thudding footfalls heralded the Death Knight’s charge. Father Mouringsworn, the pious knight from beyond the grave, threw himself into the bloodied jaws of battle. His sword was brought down in a valorous strike, but it was halted and stopped short from its perceived target by the sturdy Paladin’s shield. A spray of sparks lit up the dim atmosphere, and Lanstarth’s face was lit by the unholy, sinister glow.

They had to leave. They had to leave now.

Guntharius heard the deranged Paladin bellow out some inane, maddening babble. Half holy, half insane, the Paladin’s words were easily swallowed up in the flare of another out-of-control fiery attack. The Warlock shouted out to his comrades, but it was too late.

With a cry of pain, Raustul’s form crumpled to the floor. The Paladin had charged him with his shield, bashing him backwards. And as the Demon Hunter had stumbled over his own hooves due to lack of balance, a well aimed slam from the insane lightbearer’s hammer attempted to cave in the elf’s ribs.

Guntharius had heard a bone snap. He swore he had.

As the Paladin stood over Raustul, crying out his insane unholy mantra of purging, the warlock let loose an unrestrained blast of shadowy energy. It crashed into the Paladin’s breastplate, causing the human to reel back from the force as darkness licked at his robes. It gave them just enough time for the Death Knight to rise to his feet and take advantage of the distraction.

As Lanstarth’s blade met the hammer once more, Guntharius rushed over to the fallen Demon Hunter. Falling down to his knees beside his suffering comrade-- no, friend-- the Forsaken pressed his chilly fingers to the elf’s wrist.

His pulse was erratic… but strong enough.

“Raustul,” the warlock worriedly hissed under his breath. He cupped the Demon Hunter’s face. “Raustul! I need you to look at me!”

Dazed and shocked, with the wind knocked out of him, the Demon Hunter frantically looked around before letting his gaze settle on the Forsaken. He tried to sit up, but pain caused him to fall back to the floor, the back of his head bouncing uselessly against the stone.

“Don’t get up,” the Forsaken whispered softly. As the sounds of clashing metal and thrown attacks reverberated in his ears, the deceased doctor gently ran his hands up the elf’s sides. “Don’t move. Stay still, focus on breathing.”

“What are y--” Raustul winced.

“Fool! Stay still. Breathe deeply, slowly.”

The Demon Hunter did as he was told, even as he heard the struggling of the Death Knight. He swallowed thickly, feeling how gentle and kind the Forsaken’s touch was. “Gun, h--hey--if we don’t make it out--”

“I am your doctor, and your friend. I won’t have you speaking like that. Now, listen to me, and relax.” His fingers glided over the sides of the elf’s bare chest once more. He pressed them to a tender area, watching for any reaction. “What do you feel?” Flicking his gaze over to the elf’s face, his mouth set itself into a concerned scowl. “When you breathe… what is it like?”

“Soreness,” wheezed the elf.

“Intense pain? In your chest? Sides?”

“J--Just sore. M’ sides, mostly. Stings a fair fuckin’ bit, b--but I think I’m alrigh’.”

Retracting his hands, the Forsaken couldn’t determine if the hunter simply had the air knocked from him, or if a rib had, indeed, been broken. He’d have to get the elf back to headquarters in order to properly examine him.

Wait.

Headquarters.

Reinforcements!

In a fit of maddened passion, Guntharius began to dig through his medicinal pouches. Raustul tried to get his attention, but it was useless. As the sound of caustic, cadaverous magic clashed with unholy light blighted spells, the Forsaken found himself moving faster out of sheer desperation.

“What are you--”

Finding what he was seeking, the Forsaken grabbed the Demon Hunter’s hand and pushed into his palm his own personal hearthstone. “Take it.”

Confused, the Demon Hunter tried to give it back. “I-- I have my own,” he gasped out. “It’s s--somewhere on me. I can j--just---”

“There’s little time,” the warlock hissed. “I need you out of here, in case you’ve broken ribs. I can’t tell, Raustul. I need to examine you properly.”

“But I--”

“I won’t let you die here,” the Forsaken snapped urgently, hearing what sounded like a pew behind him splintering under the weight of plate-wearing bodies. Like the sound of snapping, fracturing bones. “I refuse to lose you to some feldammed holy man. I need you to go back to headquarters and alert the others. We need reinforcements if we are to--”

There was an audible bellow of pain, and the sound of sizzling holy fire. Guntharius turned to look just in time to see the Death Knight stumbling, his armor smoking and sizzling from a potent holy strike. The Paladin was before him, so overcome with maddening glory, his hammer raised high in the air.

A burning smell pervaded the air. Guntharius looked down towards the feet of the Paladin, and he could see a burning holy ring of consecrated ground beginning to form. It was warped, of course, and had suffered mightily from the transgressions and sins of this sick man of the armored cloth, but it still retained enough holy energy that the Death Knight would surely collapse.

Death Knights. That was right.

The warlock remembered, vaguely, a conversation Taviast Duskwither had with him. About Death Knights, and their incredible sensitivity towards the Light. So profound were their weaknesses towards holy energy that even beneficial holy based healing could do more damage than good.

And this Death Knight… he was Taviast’s father.

Time seemed to slow down as the warlock rose to his feet. Taviast Duskwither. The thought of the elf brought back the recent memories he had with the Archmage. The chat at midnight, sparing the elf from drinking himself into a depressed state of oblivion. The conversation on the ship, where he tried, desperately, to get the elf to let out his repressed anger and emotions for once. Always had the elf played the part of a genial puppet: always bowing before the people and helping them, never allowing himself to mourn, or grieve, or speak out with his own set of formed opinions. Swallowing his negative emotions, letting them fester within him like a sickness, only to smile and laugh, and suffer on for the people of this corrupted world.

Behind him, Raustul wheezed as he got up on his hands and knees. The Demon Hunter was saying something to him, but the warlock didn’t hear him. Not over the words pouring from his own mouth. Not over the spell he heard uttered in his own voice.

A green demonic circle appeared beneath him.

This Death Knight, Lanstarth, was their noble guardian and knight. Pious to the end. There was something honorable about his patience and his silence. Something courageous, and admirable. The warlock had to admit he almost envied the Knight. There was once a time when he, too, had prayed to the Light. But unlike the Knight’s resolve, he had lost his faith in the Light far too long ago. And when he had been murdered, he had perished (beaten within an inch of his life, drowning after being unceremoniously chucked off that cliff) without a scrap of loyalty towards the divine concept.

Lanstarth was Taviast’s father. And the Archmage… he had already mourned his death once. For him to mourn again would be truly, awfully, wretched. And he didn’t deserve that. Lanstarth did not deserve that. Neither of them deserved this.

A green demonic circle appeared within the building ring of consecrated fire.

Again, Raustul’s voice. The urgency of his tone was dulled out by the roaring buzz in the warlock’s ears. Guntharius knew he should summon a demon, but he had dismissed them due to the cramped quarters of the derelict church. A foolish move, perhaps, but he couldn’t risk his demons causing harm to his comrades through friendly fire.

Besides… he knew how to fight without his demons just as well as he knew how to with his demons.

Taviast’s face appeared in his mind’s eye once more, and he recounted his own previous words. How he told the Archmage that they would talk about the elf’s problems later, in order to properly address them.

He had wanted to help him. He had wanted to help let out the elf’s anger, before it ate at him from the inside and devoured him whole.

He hoped, in the end, that the Archmage would reach out for help. To someone, anyone. After all, the old elf deserved a little peace of mind.

His attention returned to the present. Raustul’s vocal buzzing grew. The whistling increased. The world around Guntharius began to speed up. The roar of the crackling, growing flames overtook all of his senses. The voices of his demonic comrades shrieked in his head, forming a cacophonous waterfall of chaos and disorder.

The Paladin had become engulfed in a holy Light that, unsurprisingly, had garnered a tarnish of taint along its searing edges.

Time sped up. Guntharius felt his body rip apart and reassemble itself in the clutches of his felbased magic. The remaining vestiges of his form disappeared from Raustul’s sights, only to reappear within the consecrated circle. The warlock, facing Lanstarth, with his back towards the Paladin, allowed his body to become entangled with his own facet of fel. Wisps of shadow and greenish, putrid fel energy encircled his being. His single glowing eye burned brightly as he channeled all his energy into a single blast.

A blast that he aimed right at Lanstarth.

At such close quarters, the Death Knight was thrown back. He flew through the air, and crashed into the ground, skidding all the way until he was stopped by Raustul’s trembling hands.

The Death Knight laid there, his softly glowing blue eyes widening in shock as the Demon Hunter hastily searched him for injuries. The plate had absorbed most of his impact with the ground, and the blast that he had sustained from the warlock had been more for force, and less for actual damage. A decoy, more or less. It had been a spell used to push him out of the way, not to harm him.

Realizing what had happened, Lanstarth sat up just in time to witness the purging act of judgement upon unholy, blasphemous flesh.

----------

“There we are,” the Forsaken said, easing the elf into bed. “You just rest now.”

He had helped Taviast back to his room, making sure the old elf didn’t drink himself into a stressed out oblivion. He had gotten him into his sleeping gown, and had aided him in unbraiding his ridiculous hair out of that topknot.

The conversation from before had lingered with him. He had talked to the elf, hoping to snap him out of his grief and fear. He had brought some sense of clarity to him, and he had witnessed the beginning of his maturity and acceptance. For being several thousands of years old, Taviast Duskwither was still, very much, in quite a few aspects...

“I’m not a child,” Taviast sulkily huffed as the odd Forsaken made a poor attempt at tucking him in.

“I’ll stop treating you like one when you stop acting like one,” he had haughtily replied.

Taviast Duskwither had sighed as he situated his bedcover. He had taken the moment and studied the Forsaken’s face, and he had sworn he saw something familiar behind the deadman’s single glowing eye.

“You… are so incredibly kind,” the Archmage had murmured softly. His voice had been diminutive in his room, as if they had trespassed upon sacred ground and were not allowed to speak in the presence of unknown, hidden elders. “So… human. You’re human, Guntharius.”

The warlock had been folding the Archmage’s robes, putting them away in his dresser, when he heard the Archmage say that. It took him by surprise, and he momentarily lowered his guard. A small smile formed on his face as he looked over at the Archmage.

For all this time, since his rebirth as a damned walking corpse, he had protested and rebelled against his fate by declaring that he was not a Forsaken, but a human. He had known how preposterous it was. He was mad, but he wasn’t that insane. He had known he was a Forsaken now. He was once a human, but he would forever be classified as a Forsaken now. Still, by saying he was as such, it helped ease the turbulent emotions stirring within his deadened heart.

“You’re human,” the Sin’dorei had pressed. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“...Funny, hearing someone else say that for once.”

Moving over to the bed, Guntharius had sat down on its edge. Reaching over, he took the top of the cover and he brought it up, almost lovingly laying it against the elf’s breastbone. Just low enough that the elf wouldn’t feel choked by the thing.

“You’re fighting a war within yourself,” Taviast suggested. “Aren’t you? You are. I know you are. You fight this war daily. I see it in the way you hold yourself, the way you speak, the way you--”

“Yes,” Guntharius had softly replied, interrupting him without a sense of hostility. “I am.”

“You don’t need to fight this alone.”

“I don’t,” the warlock had confessed. “I have you all. I have my family.”

He had confessed to the elf that the entire Circle was his family, and that he truly did enjoy their company. He had explained, then and there, that he saw how Taviast treated himself, and how he knew that the elf was slowly poisoning himself with negativity.

“I once did the same,” he had whispered to the stunned elf. “Technically… I still do, Duskwither. I haven’t changed. And I doubt I will. Especially now that I am dead.” He had glanced towards the ceiling, imagining the broiling sky above the castle, heavy with an oncoming thunderstorm. Even Azeroth was weeping for Saurfang’s death. “I don’t want you to become me,” he had confessed honestly. “I want you to embrace your negative emotions, and deal with them. Don’t let them fester within you until they finally explode out, and you can no longer control your rage. If you let that happen, you’ll regret whatever it is you end up doing.”

“Guntharius--”

“No, Taviast. Listen to my words. One day you’ll have to make a choice. And you’ll have to choose what’s right, and what’s wrong. And when you do… I hope, to the Gods that don’t exist… you do what’s right. And you won’t hesitate to allow yourself to show your negative emotions. Do not hide them. Embrace them as much as you show off your happiness. You are allowed to show emotions other than happiness, you know. If you wear your mask for too long, you’ll forget what your face really looks like.”

They had sat in silence for a long time after this, each simply enjoying the sacred hush and the comfort of each other’s company. After some time, the Forsaken had bid the elf goodnight, and had returned to his own chambers.

The Forsaken had known that the elf had sobered up for the most part, but he also had known, at that point in time, that Taviast wouldn’t take his words to heart. Not just yet. In due time, he would. And in due time, he would have to apply the wisdom he had taken from the Forsaken.

Until then…

Guntharius had allowed himself time to rest that night, and he had dwelled over his new found family and the mere fact that he would try to help them and heal them, in any way possible, but Taviast’s own plight would be tricky to transverse.

He had come to the conclusion that night… that, perhaps, the reason he was often so harsh on the Archmage was that they were so much alike. They both cared too much, and felt passion too keenly, and strongly, to ever possibly ignore it.

They would also both protect the innocent.

Up until the very end.

----------

Guntharius had twisted expertly in order to meet the Paladin’s blow of finality, but he had misjudged the rabid fervor of the insane holyman. Throwing up his hands, the warlock attempted to conjure his demonic shield once more, but it was too late.

Holy flames erupted upwards from the circle, swallowing up his perpetually chilled flesh. His fel fueled demonic shield wavered and flickered within the holy assault, and within a matter of seconds it shattered under the unrelenting force.

The craggy, unholy scream that ripped out from the warlock’s mouth, as the holy heat licked at his flesh, raked through the air with a catastrophic effect.

Guntharius threw back his head and shrieked as he felt the fire sizzle and pop on his flesh. Wrapped up in the inferno, he could hear the long, whistling howl of the demonic entities connected to him. All of his demons yowled in agony.

Even Ka’jiros. Even his beloved demon-- his friend, his guardian. He swore he could hear Ka’jiros suffering alone in his agony, too, even though the entity was not there beside him.

Through the curtain of holy light and flames, he could see the hysterically mad smile of the twisted Paladin. The sheer torment of his holy judgement clouded his sense of being, and he felt everything, and nothing, all at the same time: sensation overload and total numbness.

He felt a ripping within him, and he knew that his soul was threatening to tear free from his physical form.

This was it. This was the end. Finally, it would all come to end. Situational irony, at its best. Basking aglow in the fires of holiness corrupted, he swore he could feel, at long last, his heart beginning to beat once more. One final beat, before the gaping grave welcomed him once more.

And then there was silence. His screams ceased, despite his jaw locked open in his fit of howling, the damaged skin on his cheek stretched taut from the action. His shrieking had abruptly ended in a crackling gurgle as everything left him, all at once.

The fire pulled away from him, and Guntharius vaguely saw the Paladin backpedal quickly out of surprise.

The burn of the fire still remained on his flesh as he felt his legs give out on him.

His gaze locked itself on the ceiling, as if waiting for some sign that a deity would land the final blow and smite his blasphemous soul from this world. He didn’t seem to pay any mind to the sounds of conquest, even as the ground itself blackened from the unholy sigil of a furious Death Knight.

In his disjointed, shattered mind came the names and faces of all the people he had befriended over the years. Members of The Circle. His adopted brother. His family. His father. His mother. All of his friends, and all of those who had impacted his life. Smiling faces and hearty laughs over dinners spent together in the castle’s dining halls. He thought of all the people he had met along the way, and the friends he had made: orcish, elven, and every other possible connection.

All the happiness he had shared with these cherished people, even when he tried hiding it, had been his most treasured gifts. The joy he had felt in the presence among those he considered to be family. He had celebrated accomplishments with them. He had aided them in their own battles-- personal, demonic or otherwise. People he had guided, nurtured and trained. People he had protected and given wisdom to, even if said wisdom was harsh at best. He had partook of a great ceremonial hunt, that had meant everything to him. He had enjoyed cookies with new friends-- a mercenary and a human, one who had the brightest inner 'little light' he had ever seen. He had met some rather interesting trolls, and had enjoyed learning about their culture. And he had even attended a wedding and played his role in it, witnessing the start of a new life and adventure.

These were people he had loved, and still loved. People he had cared about, and still cared about. Everything blurred together in a rush, escaping him like a runaway reel.

He had given life, and his uhlife, it all. And now, as the pain washed over him… he realized he didn’t regret a thing.

His skin tender and hot with the fever of a third degree magical burn, his body quaked and trembled with force as he was cradled close, tenderly and protectively, to the chest of a familiar Demon Hunter. He didn’t even take notice of the wavering, soothing words that were spoken to him, or the fingers lightly combing through his hair. And he didn’t seem to care about the teardrops plopping onto his cheek from above.

However, there was one thing Guntharius Plaguespitter was aware of.

And before he could solidify the conclusion he had come to, he felt a burst of clarity and peace within his body and soul... before his vision bled to black.

#Cuddly writes some things

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cuddlywritesthings · 5 years

Text

Arcane Explosion

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Taviast Duskwither, Elric Marlowe

Characters mentioned: Clayton Whatley, Jendrick Camden, Guntharius Plaguespitter, Shokhi Ebondraft

Timeline: The next morning after Declivity into Holy Fire takes place.

Trigger warnings: Heavy themes, racism of certain races, strong language, severe injury, interrogation and torture, character death.

-----

“So, you’ve come to have a nice little chat with me, too.”

Clayton Whatley strained against his bonds just so he could get a good view of the person who had just entered this sad, pathetic, craven little dungeon. His chains rattled as he moved, his slumped position against the wall causing his back to ache.

He had been left to his own devices, or so he had assumed. After the fuzzy bitch with the knives and the poisons had attempted to wheedle her way through his ironclad defense, he had been left for what he assumed would have been the rest of the following day. He knew the routine. This wasn’t the first time he had been captured. He was a pro at it by now. Had it all down.

After all, he had captured and taken care of many people during his time in the Cult of the Gaze of N’zoth.

First, the captured prisoner would be forced down in some enclosed space used as a dungeon. From there they would be tied up or, in this case, chained at the waist, bound at the wrists, and collared like some mangy mongrel. Second, the first interrogation. This would be to survey the prisoner and to scare them into talking. Torture techniques more than likely used, given by the proof of the various cuts and acidic burns on his own body. Third, the waiting period. Here the prisoner would stew in his cell, left alone to the dark and their thoughts until they went mad with apprehension. When would their next visitation be? Would they be fed? Would they starve? Would they be taken out, found to be useless?

It was only then, after a generous time left alone, would the prisoner finally have their second interrogation. This one, of course, would be the one to smooth things over, with the interrogator begging, pleading, cajoling for a deal. This is where he could easily have the upper hand, so long as he played his devilish cards right. He was a master at sleight of hand. It’s how he had escaped his past two imprisonments.

He had been looking forward to settling in among the dank stones and the skittering rats in the walls when he had heard the descending footsteps and the ghastly creaking of an unoiled door, opening.

“You just missed your friend. The furry bitch roughed me up good. I think she gave me some fleas, too. Is she a pet of yours? Didn’t see a collar or anything, so I wasn’t sure.”

It was an elf, judging by its ridiculous ears. Whatley had always hated elves. Arrogant, uppity things. They thought themselves better than the rest. They deserved to have their whole race wiped out. For Azeroth, they were the rats skittering in the walls. The Sin’dorei, the Ren’dorei, the Shal’dorei and even some Kaldorei. Looks like this order liked to house the scum from the asscrack of this world. Fucking degenerates, all of them.

This one was a fancy elf, too. Looked to be a mage. Or perhaps higher up on the make believe caste system those mages liked to come up with. This one was an old geezer, too. White hair stood out against the dim lighting of this foul place. And the elf walked with a slight limp. Robes did a pretty good job at hiding the limp, but not from his keen eye.

“Nice limp you’ve got going on there,” Whatley sneered. He lifted his arms a little, letting the heavy clinking of the chains echo across the cavernous room. There were other cells here, and other chained areas, like this one, but none of them were occupied. “Get that recently? Did one of my men do it? You’ll have to give me their name so I can promote them once I get out of here.”

The fancy mage silently moved through the room, over to a table strewn with papers. Probably notes on how to make ‘a pig squeal’. Whatley knew who owned this dungeon. He was well aware of The Circle and its members. Plaguespitter was a blight that had to be eliminated. More so a target of purging than the fucking elves in this rat hole.

The elf had golden eyes. A mark of purity, or some bullshit. Whatley had learned that the Sunwell had been purified through the typical grapevine. But that didn’t matter to him. Elves were elves, and whether they were purified or not, they were still filth that had to be scrubbed clean.

He may have been a servant to the void and a loyalist to N’zoth’s teachings, but even he knew what races were worthy enough to follow his master’s words. He begrudgingly dealt with them in the Cult but, otherwise, he didn’t care much for their existence outside of it.

“Not very talkative are you,” Whatley taunted. A trickle of blood snaked out from beneath his hairline, and he lounged against the hard, compact stone wall. Stretching his legs, he cocked his head lazily to the side. “Is most of this order as rude as the fuzz-bitch? I should have gotten my delicious meal of pig slop and rotten rinds by now. I’m a guest at your place. How about treating me like the royalty I am?”

The elf was spreading out something on the table, and he was reading it over. His face was cold and guarded, and he could barely make out the elf’s eyes moving as he scanned the page. Flashy bastard. The elf had a penchant for purples and blues. Probably just as egotistic and vain as the rest of his useless race. Probably gay, too. Like some gay-ass peacock, coming to be intimating. Pathetic.

“Hel-llllooo,” he called out, shaking his chains a little on purpose. The acid burns on his hands and arms stung with the motion, but he relished their sweet pain. “I am having a conversation with you!”

Quietly the elf looked his way. Finally! The insect was taking notice of him. Whatley flashed him a smug smile. He found himself clever for finally getting the inferior pest to acknowledge his presence.

“There we are,” the crazed cultist began in a sickeningly cordial tone. He figured it was perfect for this little get-together. Sound a little inviting, lure this elf into a trap. Not that he, himself, looked intimidating at this point. His robes were in tatters; slashed in a few areas, with burned flesh exposed. “Hello, there. What’s your name?”

The bug stared at him, a hint of a flame beneath that expressionless mask and those golden eyes. His hands were without gloves, but Whatley could tell there was something transcribed upon his skin. If he squinted just right and turned his head to the left a little, he’d probably come to the conclusion that they were runes of some sort. But he didn’t have time to study this inferior beast.

“I’m trying to be the civilized one here,” Whatley snapped. “I understand it’s hard for you elves to be civilized. You pretend that you are, but you really aren’t. You elves live in the woods and worship your little spirit friends. Or some elves do, at least. You worship the sun, right? Your kind enjoys sunburns and going blind in its bright light. You probably stared at it too long, and that’s why your eyes are like that. Probably too stupid to look away.” He scoffed as the elf turned his attention to two chairs in the room, grabbing their backs in order to pull them over. “Oooh, a chat? Are we going to have a bloody tea party? I’m sorry, I don’t speak your fancy speak, so I am afraid communication will be lost on your primitive brain.” Shrugged, he added in a snippy tone, “I could try, if you want me to. Doubt you’d listen.”

The elf had brought the chairs to him. With a surprising amount of rough strength, he grabbed Whatley by the arm, lifting him before shoving him down into the chair. The chains rattled like bones.

“Durr a thor-y-a moo-thil,” Whatley mocked him. “Or whatever the hell you’d say to me now.”

The elf had settled down into the chair across from him. Almost an arm’s length away. Pathetic. Rats getting so close to him, touching his arm. He’d have to wash that arm, once he was brought some water. Who knows the parasitic germs the cretin had.

Relaxing in the chair, and making a show of it, Whatley smugly smiled. “So, elf. I’ve been dying to ask someone. I mentioned his name to your pet you sicced on me, but I didn’t get so much as a lick of emotion out of her. That’s what you get for enlisting dumb animals.”

With a slow, barely noticeable lifting of his chin, the elf merely stared at him.

Getting bold and brazen, Whatley leaned forward a little, testing the limitations of his chained collar. The chain pulled taut, its post grinding against stone. “How’s Plaguespitter?”

Whatley didn’t have time to comprehend. All he felt was the disruption from movement and the blur of the chair coming towards him. The goddamn elf had stood up, and with a violent motion he had reached around, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and slammed his head down on the chair before him. The chair, of course, had been strategic in its placement, so that the front edge of the wooden seat met his forehead. And the chain to his collar didn’t help him any. It snapped taut from the action, throwing his head back, nearly choking him.

After all, the Archmage had been crafty enough and calculated the chair’s placement, keeping it just close enough that when he slammed Whatley’s head down, the chain had enough slack give that it didn’t prevent the action from happening, nor the man from having his spine instantly snapped.

“FUCK YOU,” Whatley exploded, as a gush of red flowed freely over his left eye and down his nose. He had found himself slumped back in his own chair, a strong, runic emblazoned hand pushing him against the back, holding him there. “FUCK YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE RACE,” he screamed, losing control of his anger for that moment. “YOU CRAVEN BEAST, HOW DARE YOU--”

Again, Whatley filled the air with curses as the elf had repeated the same gesture. This time the gash that had split the skin so cleanly had deepened, and widened, nearly blinding him with red. He couldn’t help but reflect on it all.

This damn elf. This inferior beast, touching him!

His chair was kicked out from under him, and he fell back, sprawling, to the stone floor. He could hear the elf’s soft, light footsteps as he stared upwards, vision red, towards the ceiling.

“Good morning,” came the light, aristocratic tone of the elf. He spoke Common fluently, with hardly a hiss to his words betraying his elven accent. “My name, translated in your language, is Taviast Duskwither.”

“You fucking--- ahh-!”

The elf, this Taviast Duskwither, had stepped down, harshly, on his arm. Right where the arm set snugly into the socket of his shoulder. He dug his heel into the man’s bone, letting it grind out a wave of pain.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the elf darkly purred as he waggled a finger. “None of this ‘fucking elf’ business. I am a Sin’dorei. You will get this correct. Not merely an elf, by your baseless standards, but a child of shed blood and of the sun. And,” he ground his heel in a bit more, eliciting more curses from Whatley’s mouth, “you will be wise to hold your tongue in my presence, human. For I am an Archmage. And you will address me as such, for I have earned this title and you are nothing but scum beneath my boot.”

Whatley shot him a defiant glare through the curtain of his blood. This primitive beast was inflicting pain on him! How dare he! How dare he touch him!

Before Whatley could respond, he felt the chain connected to his collar yanked on, hard. His neck was jerked as he was pulled, hard, back towards the wall. The vertebrae in his spine popped, and he gasped out in agony.

The fuzz-bitch Pandaren had tortured him, but she had used more convenient methods of torture. Knives, poisons and acid. The typical shit. Whatley admitted he would have never expected a skinny-ass, wispy looking, limping motherfucker to do this to him.

Spitting out a wad of stringy blood, Whatley defiantly glared at the heathen before him. He wished his head would stop spinning. An explosion of pain throbbed in his head. Shit, being dazed was a bitch and a half to deal with.

“This isn’t how the next interrogation is supposed to go,” he snapped. Fucking elves, thinking them superior. Whatley bristled at the way he was being talked to. Like a damn child! It stoked the fires of his rebellious nature, and he sneered at the elf. “You’re supposed to try to coax me to talk. Make a deal, maybe. Get me to spill more of the beans by playing the ‘nice guy’ role. Where’s the duality? Is Rosecrown filled with the crust from Azeroth’s own asshole?”

“In a fairer world, perhaps,” Taviast coldly replied, his words cast about in an almost offhanded sort of way. “But in your world, things aren’t always fair, is it? Oh, and do pardon me of my prudence, but I don’t have any bloody tea to give to you.”

“That’s no way to treat a prisoner,” Whatley growled. “And you expect me to cooperate after that little stunt of yours? Consider my mouth shut.”

“Oh, I don’t expect you to speak,” the Archmage replied without missing a beat.

“Do you now?”

"You don’t seem like someone who would freely talk to us.”

“Then fucking make me, you piece of shit.”

“I am not interested in that. I only want silence, from here on out.”

“...What?”

“Forever.”

Whatley’s eyes began to widen in his sickening sense of realization. He had caught the distant, harsh look in the Sin’dorei’s eyes, and he saw that there was not a scrap of mercy behind the elf’s sun-bright eyes. Only a simmering flame of hatred, the only sparse bit of warmth to the elf’s being.

“W--Wait,” Whatley said, mentally scrambling for his figurative cards. “H--Hey, now. What do you mean by that?”

“If you thought I had personally come to bless you with my presence, consider this meeting more an omen of ill-fate. I have no further time to spare. You have clearly been exhausted of your resources, and you’re no longer a priority to us.”

Whatley’s heart began to slam against his ribs in a panicked frenzy.

“B--But--”

“It’s clear you won’t cooperate with us,” the elf cooed in an almost sinister tone. He was attempting to placate Whatley in the most mocking way possible, and it only added anxiety to the cultist’s mind. “Shokhi was exceptional in her technique, but what you’ve given us is useless. Fraught with red herrings and filled with lies.”

“You don’t know that,” Whatley blurted out, suddenly fearful. He attempted to stand up, but he was far too woozy from the hits to his head, and so he sank back down to his knees. “You fucking psycho! You don’t know that!”

“Oh, but I do. You are of no further use to us.”

This was going wrong. This was going all wrong. Whatley could see that the elf was approaching him, and the only thing that could go through his mind was of his failure. He had to get back to the cult. He had to get back to his fellow cultists.

And he had to get back to him.

His fearful heart lurched downwards and plummeted into the pit of his stomach at the thought of being unable to return to his leader. And not simply his leader. His leader, and his lover. He had made him feel complete. Made him feel whole. His ingenious nature had whiled away the pain from his life. He had helped lick at the wounds riddling his heart and soul, and had taken him in, teaching him the glory of N’zoth and the judgement day to be. It was because of him that he had grown strong against the injustices of this world. He had learned to have a voice. He had learned to hold himself up above the inferior beasts of this world.

Through his beloved leader, he had learned how powerful he truly was.

And now here he was, with an insane elf bearing down on him, realizing he had to act fast if he were to ever return to him alive.

“L--Let’s strike a deal,” Whatley all but sniveled. “P--Please, let’s talk this over!”

Taviast Duskwither had reached his side. Harshly he gripped his arm tight-- the very one he had stepped on earlier-- and twisted. It elicited an agonized cry from Whatley. “You couldn’t even tell us what your name actually is.”

“M--MARLOWE,” he gasped out, tears stinging his eyes. “Elric Marlowe! Marlowe! I’m our leader’s second-in-command! I--- his name! His name is Clayton Whatley!”

Another vicious wrench to his damaged arm, and Elric Marlowe shrieked out in misery. His vision popped as colors exploded in his head. He could feel his body begin to tremble. Too much had happened to him in such a little amount of time. He couldn’t get past the pain.

Marlowe was then thrown forward from a well timed backhanded strike. He slumped against the ground, a miserable pile of human pestilence. His body continued to quake as he coughed and sputtered, flecks of blood speckling the dirty stone flooring.

“Je--Jendrick! That’s who you want! Jendrick Camden is the Paladin you’re seeking!”

With a sickening wheeze, Marlowe felt the toe of the Archmage’s boot slam against his ribs. Instinctively he curled in on himself, tears beginning to flow freely, streaking down his grimy face.

“You w--want him, not me,” he groaned out, his stomach flopping as vomit threatened to push up his throat. “H-He’s the one who took out your fucking deader.” He paused, waiting for a reaction from the elf. Once he was sure the elf didn't move an inch, he continued on, pressing the matter. “That’s… that’s it. It’s Jendrick you truly want. H--He went and fucking killed your precious reanimated corpse! I--I mean,” he corrected himself, after hearing the elf shift a step closer towards him, “he hurt your friend. And now your entire order is seeking revenge. That is who you’re after. He’s the one you want. It’s true. This was a trap. We had wanted him dead.”

Taviast’s boot came down on the back of Marlowe’s shoulder, and he screamed into the stone. His vision swam and a slew of curses spilled forth from his rancid mouth.

He was going to die here. He was going to die, and never get a chance to return to his beloved, his life, his everything-- Clayton Whatley. He owed him so much, but he knew he had to try and offer up some tidbit offering to this manic elf in order to gain any sort of chance towards escaping Rosecrown alive.

“I do not have all night,” Taviast said, just a bit testily. “I have matters to attend to. Let’s make this quick.”

Rolled over by the elf’s foot, Marlowe could see the elf standing above him through the haze of pain and blood that clouded his vision. A wave of rebellion coursed through him, fueling him for one more act of rebellion in his lover’s name.

Aiming just right, Marlowe spat. The somewhat gooey wad landed right on the Archmage’s robes. A ripple of laughter coursed through him. The elf wasn’t wiping it away, which surprised him all the same, but no matter. Perhaps this worthless piece of shit wasn’t as vain as the rest of them.

With an almost bored sounding sigh, Taviast acknowledged the action with a toneless, “very well.” He moved over to the post in the wall that connected the chained collar to the stone. “I had wanted to make your demise a quick one, but your superfluous sense of pride chose this fate for you. You could have truly been someone of good in this world. But you chose this path.”

He had almost snapped out something arrogant in response but had, instead, stopped dead in his tracks. He had found that his throat had gone dry. He was witnessing something that had turned his stomach out of sheer panic.

The bastard elf had grabbed the chain, right at the lock that secured it to the post. The runes on his bare hand began to glow a sinister hue of purple. From his fingertips a glaze of frost began to creep down the chain and towards him. Almost instantly Marlowe was aware of the chain progressively getting colder the closer the chilly frost encroached.

“You fucker! You fucking madman!”

“I am not the one here who is mad,” Taviast replied calmly, as the chain froze ever closer to him. “You are the one who joined a cult worshiping an Old God. Not I. We are all mad to our own various degrees: this I have come to learn. But there can be no comparison between you and I.”

His panic full blown now, Marlowe twisted and turned, as if trying to wiggle free from the collar. The chain and his collar were getting cold now, as was the space around them. And the frost was already halfway, and the ice magic had already frozen solid up to that point.

“S--Stop--”

“When your collar freezes,” Taviast intoned in an almost bored voice, “the cold will make it hard for you to breathe. Essentially, given enough time and exposure to the cold, you might develop frostbite of your throat which, well... I don’t have to be the one to tell you how disadvantageous that might make breathing for you. I am sure you could have figured that out all on your own.”

“You piece of shit,” Marlowe hissed out, fear gripping at his heart. He stood to his feet, pulling back and away as much as the chain would allow him, as if to get away from his fate. His chilled breath escaped his lips, and he could see that the chain had frozen most of the way to him. “You honestly think this will work? That they won’t come for me? That they’re not looking for me, right now?”

The elf tilted his head to the side, the sun soaked glow to his eyes somehow colder than before. Ice had begun to spread out from underneath the Archmage’s feet and, like gnarled, searching fingers they had begun to spread out towards the cultist.

“I don’t know,” the elf replied, mockingly feigning innocence. “Tell me, Marlowe… are they coming for you? Truly? Are they?”

It was now a few inches from his collar. Marlowe was sucking in his breath, already finding the chill of his cell space to be too much.

“After all,” the elf pressured, “how would they know? How would they know you’re here, under our incredibly loving care?”

Marlowe opened his mouth to say something, but he quickly shut it and, instead, whimpered. No. He couldn’t say it. What if the eye was actually around? That damn eye. That goddamn eye of the Archmage’s!

The Eye of Arcanum. Where was it right now? Was it nearby? Was it eavesdropping? He couldn’t let that thing hear him. He couldn’t risk that!

The thought sent a new wave of panic to wash over him, and he began to beg almost hysterically. What if the eye had been somewhere? What if it had heard, and seen, his act of betrayal? His slip of names? His slip of their intentions?

It was now a few inches from his collar. Marlowe was sucking in his breath, already finding the chill of his cell space to be too much.

“W--We know where Rosecrown is. We know who you are. And we are ready to strike, at any time! They’ll be here! They’ll rescue me! So how about you just spare yourselves any more casualties and just let me go?”

The collar had just begun freezing over when the elf ceased the flower of magic. The Archmage’s fingertips stopped glowing blue, and the runic markings on his hand lessened in their intense glow. Marlowe took a deep breath in order to steady himself. What a close call that had been.

“Perhaps it is true, what you’re saying. That they’re coming to rescue you. But, then again, you are the second-in-command, one of the head rats.”

Marlowe felt his throat close up out of dread.

“You, the head rat,” Taviast continued slowly, almost thoughtfully, “leading the filthy swarm towards us. And you quite possibly have a bug somewhere on you, quite likely somewhere we can’t detect.”

Elric Marlowe could hear his hope shattering in his ears.

“And this bug, this leak... is sending out your location to them,” Taviast continued. “Gnomish technology, perhaps. Maybe Goblin. I wouldn’t put it past your types to use that particular type of primitive technology.”

His plan had backfired. He saw it now. Saw it in how the elf’s body language tensed.

“N--No, wait, you’ve got it wrong!”

“I suppose this changes matters a little, seeing as how we can’t risk this lasting a moment longer than it already has.”

Moving towards the elf, Marlowe held out his shackled hands in a begging gesture. “I’ll work with you. I’ll tell you everything! J--Just let me live. Let me go! I promise I won’t--”

“I already know you won’t give me the locations of your encampment,” Taviast began, “and I already know what most of your intentions are. I am already aware that this was a trap and, based on what I have learned over the past few hours, and I know that our base of operations might been compromised this entire time. Quite possibly from you. So the less information is heard coming from your mouth, the better.”

Swallowing nervously, Marlowe watched as the Archmage began approaching him, once more. “Hey, now. I didn’t say a thing about your base being compromised or bugged!”

“I could see it in your eyes.”

Roughly, the elf grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. Marlowe wobbled for a bit, and his legs buckled for a second, but he remained upright.

“PLEASE! RECONSIDER! I’LL COOPERATE! I’LL DO ANYTHING! I JUST NEED TO GET BACK TO CLAY--”

With a cry, Marlowe found himself pinned back to the wall of his prison. He struggled and fought against the Archmage, but the elf was surprisingly strong for being so slight. And the elf’s hands, despite being so delicate, were incredibly harsh in their grip. Even with the cultist’s extra weight and muscle, he couldn’t quite throw the beast off of him, even as the elf pressed all his body weight up against him.

“H--HEY! WHAT ARE YOU--”

Marlowe’s words were muffled behind the elf’s hand. With wide, terrified eyes the cultist looked down his nose just in time to see that the runes on Taviast’s hands had begun to glow brilliantly.

Another pitiful fit of struggling, and the cultist had realized that he was slowing down. It must have been his previous injuries, or the bashes to his head. Or maybe the poisons from the first interrogation had finally taken effect, and something was, in fact, happening to his body to sap him of all strength.

Or perhaps the elf was truly that enraged. After all, the Archmage’s calm guise had warped with a sinister edge into that of a mask of malevolence.

“Band'or shorel'aran,” Taviast Duskwither snarled out.

The only thing Marlowe saw in those final, agonizing minutes before his eventual demise was the color purple. Electrifying, brilliant, intense. Crackling energy snapped through the air, popping off of the Archmage’s body, consuming his own in a fit of otherworldly hunger.

He opened his mouth wider to scream, but the channeled arcane flooded down his throat. It rampaged through his system, sizzling organs and frying his blood in a great cataclysmic affair. His skin began to change color as boils bubbled to its surface.

Elric Marlowe’s body jerked and spasmed as the Archmage continued to pour the ethereal energy into his weakening body. His muffled scream became ragged, uncontrollable in its volume and foreign to his own ears, up until his bloodied vomit began to fill his lungs.

And then… silence.

As the cultist’s eyes sizzled in his skull, the Archmage tossed the limp body to the ground, hair and skin still sizzling from the intense heat of the electrifying magic.

With a look of a resigned sense of calm, Taviast looked over his robes and spotted, once more, the wad of spit that had clung to his robes and the spattering of blood particles from the cultist’s death rattle. Sighing to himself, he stepped over the prone, smoking body before heading towards the exit.

“Oh, dear. I suppose a change of clothes is in order...”

#Cuddly writes some things

0 notes

cuddlywritesthings · 5 years

Text

Rage in a Bottle

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Taviast Duskwither, Guntharius Plaguespitter, Raustul Shadeshifter

Characters mentioned: Sunwalker Kagun Petalhoof, Kippen O’ Connell

Timeline: BFA, a fair bit of time after Saurfang’s death; Windrunner’s departure as Warchief, the beginning of the civil war within the Horde.

Trigger warnings: Strong language, violence, prolonged suffering

- - - - - - - - - -

The large fleet vessel creaked as if expelling its final breath. Briny water lapped gently at its hull, bringing with it the renewed scent of the sea. Seagulls screamed overhead, alarmed and alerted, afraid of some force they could no longer see. The clouds hung overhead like a shroud, mournful and dreary.

The Circle’s mission today had been a fairly daunting one. Word had come in that one of Slyvannas’s fleet had shuttered up in a hidden alcove in Zuldazar, and they had begun to secretly stockpile for the upcoming war. Their activity had spiked beyond the rate of normalcy, and it triggered red flags within The Circle. But really, could that be surprising anymore? The devious Warchief was planning something, but, then again, she always was. It wasn’t exactly clear as to what for, most of the time. Her intentions remained as murky as the stagnant waters of the previous Horde slums, and not even The Circle’s best men (and women!) could defer what was going on, even with their collected information.

This led to a bold move on their leader’s part.

An order was declared, and Taviast doled out groups. Certain units would take on certain vessels, based on their risk factor and potential for carrying more sinister tools for war (weaponry, Goblin bombs, barrels of plague), supplies, soldiers and, of course, prisoners to be broken, bent, whipped and tortured into doing the ‘Dark Lady’s’ bidding.

They had their information. They had the data. They had a plan.

Quietly they had moved into position through the shadows of nightfall, and by early morning, before the sun sleepily rose over the glimmering horizon line of the ocean, they struck.

It didn’t take long to perform their task. Each unit had been created expertly, featuring key players who could benefit off one another: putting to use strengths and making up for areas of weakness. They operated like a well-oiled machine. More of the Gnomish variety, and less of the Goblin.

A sinister hiss escaped a Forsaken's mouth as it frustratingly tried to get its uncooperative body to work. Pain, long since dulled, along with everything else in its state of undeath, now seemed fresh and new. It spread along his body; through veins that had long since grown still, through lungs long since silent, and through a heart that had long since expired. Desperately it tried clawing at the face of its assailant-- no, its murderer-- hoping to somehow dig its bony fingers into the acid-worn scarring on the traitor's cheek.

"No, no," the dark voice purred from the ‘traitor’ sickeningly, as if he were as pleased as a cat with its dying prey. The warlock, this traitor, ensnared the Forsaken's hand, crushing it in a vengeful, spiteful hold. His hand, so better preserved and maintained than the dying deadman's own, were still cold and senseless tools for chaos and mayhem. In that aspect, they were more alike than they’d care to admit to. "You're not allowed to touch me," the warlock continued to say, his voice taunting. "Rats don't have the right to touch me with their filthy claws. You are diseased. And I," he chuckled darkly, his tone dipping even lower, “am about to cure you of your undeath. Consider yourself one of the lucky ones.”

The crewmember of that royal vessel spat out a visceral glob of expired, congealed blood. It splattered on the hem of the warlock’s robes, darkening the already rich material. "Y--You have no right... turning your back on Our Dark Lady," the Forsaken rasped. "Traitor! Betraying your Queen! With whom you owe your existence to!"

Something passed across the traitor's glowing eye, and the warlock lashed out, grabbing the crewmember by the neck. He forcefully craned the Forsaken's face up towards him, relishing in the pained expression warping over his grotesque features. "As if I asked for this existence,” he wrathfully spat. “This unlife of servitude, shackled to the grave! And you,” he turned the Forsaken’s head a little to the right, taking in the make of the dead sailor’s face, “yes, you speak of a Queen that I don’t align with. I dismiss her madness and embrace my own, for I am far more sober of the mind than the shebitch could ever hope to be.”

"Y--You confused maggot!” The maimed Forsaken wheezed; a reflex dredged up from a time when breathing was quite critical to one’s survival. “Our Lady w--will find your little group. I--It’s only a matter of time! She will find you all, squash your little rebellion, and make examples of you all! R--Raising you into servants, that’s too good for you. She’ll--"

Letting his sharp nails dig into the Forsaken's stained flesh, he buried them into that neck, allowing the skin to tear and give under his embrace. The Warlock could imagine the sinewy strands he could rip into, and the cartilage he could peel off. Sensational! Wondrous! Flaying open the skin of his enemy, baring the bones of this monster for all to witness!

"All I hear is senseless noise,” the warlock testily interjected. “Useless, senseless noise, blathering on from your flapping, unhinged jaw. I will let you hear this once, rat," the warlock brought himself close to the Forsaken's face, “so I suggest you listen well, and recite to rest of the damned bastards in hell what I am telling you now.” His voice darkened considerably as he snarled out, “she... was never my Queen."

The crewmember gurgled in its strangled death throes as the warlock ripped into the already decaying flesh, fingers finding their way into muscle and tendon. How easy it gave way beneath his grasp. Oh, how the already disfigured, mutilated Forsaken cried out!

And his demons? Well, they had done such a lovely job, relieving the rat of his legs earlier. Ripped the legs right off of this rat. Left nothing but a torso and intestines, half-dribbling out of the hunk of decaying meat. He would have to reward them justly, once the job was truly finished.

Flesh. Blood. Gore. The warlock could feel an undeniable urge. One he had staved off all this time, all this long while. A memory. Risen from the grave. All around him, Forsakens, freshly new to a life of undeath, tearing at the flesh of cold corpses. Ripping, peeling, taking up great handfuls of visceral matter before--

"...Doctor Plaguespitter!"

With a dull, wet thud the expired Forsaken hit the soiled deck of that vessel. The warlock (with an entirely peeved expression), turned to look over his shoulder. With a sneer, he drawled out, "how many times, Duskwither, need I tell you? Call me Guntharius, or call me Plaguespitter. You damn elves and your formalities!"

The Archmage heaved a sigh, shaking his hooded head. Even though his features were heavily shrouded by his cloaked disguise and attire change, it was unmistakable to the warlock that this was, indeed, the peacock of the entire organization. No amount of obscuring, blurring or shielding could keep the warlock from recognizing the elf. He could tell who he was alone by his smell.

The Archmage reeked of old books, magic and the faintest hint of wine and bloodthistle.

"Somehow I knew I'd find you here.” He eyed the dead Forsaken at the warlock’s feet, and he couldn’t help but wince. “And here you are.. torturing a loyalist."

"That is my job," Guntharius said, seemingly preening his ego, given by his haughty tone. With the toe of his boot, he kicked aside the mutilated corpse. "You recruited me for your little order, Duskwither. You should have known what I was like. You added a wild card to your deck, and you’re just now questioning how the rules go?"

"...Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right. I should have foreseen such endeavors of yours, based on… past performances." Taviast hurried over to the warlock’s side, trying to avoid eye contact with the mangled body. The mutilated corpse stared blankly up towards the sky, its unhinged jaw nearly ripped away from his face. "Anyway, Guntharius, it's done. Our mission is complete. I've received word from the other groups that they’ve accomplished their tasks. The Captain of this fleet has been eradicated. The navigator as well. The crew is no more-- a complete and utter purge, might I add. And the prisoners have been released. Sunwalker Petalhoof is seeing them, diligently making sure there are no injuries or illnesses to speak of. Aside from the mental trauma, of course, which in its own right shall be dealt with in the most sensitive manner possible."

The warlock let his gaze wander over the deck of the ship. He could see bodies littering the stained, warped wood. A twitch at the corner of his mouth dared his neutral grimace to warp into that of a scowl.

“...Doctor,” Taviast began, slowly, “it’s time to leave. Our mission here is done. It is time to return to headquarters and allow our cleanup crew to set up the rest. We need to allow them plenty of time to set things up, if we are to ever hope to cover our tracks and avoid being discovered."

"Mmmm." The warlock cast one more look towards his tortured victim before returning his attention to the Archmage. A maddeningly pleased smile split across his face, stretching the acid worn skin of his cheek in a nauseating way. "I see you had fun with your slayings."

Taviast looked down at himself. Though he wore a hooded cloak and had donned duller-than-usual attire, he could still make out the liberal splashing of blood and matter across the hem of his tunic, cloak, and against his pants and boots. It soiled the material, darkening it.

"Now is not the time," Taviast dictated in a warning tone. "Come! Let us depart! Kippen and Raustul will sail these ships over by the rocks-- by that one port we discussed, yes? If all goes according to plan, It will appear to the Horde that this ship had a run-in with pirates.” With a rather pleased look, he added, quite proud of his organization, “a mighty fine blow, if I do say so myself.”

“A fine blow?” Guntharius derisively snorted. “You call this a ‘fine blow’? A worthy strike against Windrunner?” The warlock waved his hand about airily as he moved over towards a perished Forsaken seaman. He picked up its abandoned rucksack. Casually he began to rifle through it, pulling out various baubles and useless trinkets in his search for viable goods. “Three ships in this fleet. Only three.”

“I admit,” Taviast began patiently, trying his best to remain optimistic, “that I had expected more."

"And one ship was nothing but a carrier for miscellaneous goods. Hardly anyone was on it."

"Our data had pointed towards a large fleet overburdened with weapons, this is true. Azerite infused weapons included. I acknowledge that the only thing we found here were--”

“Prisoners, Duskwither.”

“Well, yes, but--”

“And food,” the warlock sharply added as he tossed the useless rucksack aside.

“Correct.” The Archmage exhaled softly. He could hear the judging tone in the Forsaken’s voice. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself from becoming too frustrated. “I understand how this looks. We spent all that time collecting data, and our information was proven to be incorrect. Still, you must admit, this task of ours was critical. It is a victory on our part as well as a viable act of defiance against this regime. We rescued prisoners which, in turn, weakened Windrunner’s source of slave labor. And we halted the shipment of food and goods to her army which, as you already know--”

“Is pointless in the long run,” the warlock interrupted him. “I understand what you’re trying to get at, but spare me the explanation.” Taking a few steps around the body strewn deck, Guntharius looked out over at the other two moored ships, knowing, full well, that the other units more than likely returned to headquarters right about then. “It’s all well and good to rescue prisoners. Trust me, I know better than anyone in The Circle how important it is to save those lost souls. Long ago, I was punished for that particular act. I was murdered for it.” The warlock heard the Archmage’s surprised sputter, but he talked right over him. “But this isn’t the time to make small strikes. Denying her army of food and supplies will only go so far when she can still obtain those goods through other sources. Her reach is far and wide, Duskwither.”

“I understand that,” the elf replied, tersely.

“Then you know that it’s pointless.” Guntharius turned to face him once more, a salt kissed breeze playing with his robes. “A majority of her loyalists are Forsaken. Have you gone senile in your old age and you've forgotten that already? We don’t need to consume nutrients in order to function. We merely exist. Dammit, Duskwither! Forsaken can ingest the flesh of the fallen! I thought you would have come to learn that after being in the company of a Forsaken all this time!“

It was well known that Guntharius abstained from the consumption of flesh, but he was still known to plaster that bit of information up every time they had a discussion about their next target, and it potentially involved the eradication of Forsaken forces.

“I know what you are thinking,” Taviast conceded, holding up his hands in what he hoped came across as a peaceful gesture. “It wasn’t as grand a victory as we had hoped. But consider this: it is progress! In retrospect, we have not decimated Windrunner's forces today, but we have thrown a wrench in her plans."

"It's not enough," the warlock growled under his breath, turning to fully face the elf. "It never is enough. When will you learn, Duskwither? That the only way you can route the bitch mongrel out from her hovel is by eliminating all her blood sucking ticks in one go. Smaller attacks like this," he gestured towards the ship around them, "helps, but it's not enough. She can, and will, continue raising brainwashed beasts to do her bidding. We have to strike harder, faster, on a grander scale! Now, more than ever."

Taviast stood there in silence for a beat longer, contemplating everything said. And then, with great trepidation, he murmured in a defeated and exhausted tone, "I know, Guntharius. But there is only so much our order can do."

"And in that time," snapped Guntharius, clearly on edge over still being on a boat, over water, for a pathetic and wasted reason, "she will continue to dismantle the Horde, and the Alliance will fall. And with that, all of Azeroth."

"Don't speak to me as if you know the course of fate itself," snapped Taviast suddenly, his tone tactless but full of vitriol and seething frustration. He jabbed a bloodied finger at the warlock, his attempt at retaining a cordial tone watery and weak at best. "We are all strained. We are running low on supplies and resources. The war never ended. It is merely shifting into a brand new emergency. Windrunner is a blight to this land, I agree with you on this. But we are doing all we can do--"

"We are wasting our time," Guntharius pressured. He stood straight, holding himself up as much as he could, as if trying to defy the taller elf despite the difference in height. "You are not spending our resources wisely. You are hesitating, still too afraid to lose anyone. Did you listen to me before? At all?"

The seagulls shrieked overhead as they drunkenly wheeled about in the sky.

"...Excuse me?"

"What? Playing your oblivious card so early?” Guntharius gave the elf a withering stare. “Our little chat? When I found you as you were attempting to drink yourself into oblivion? That night I helped guide your depressed ass to bed? How I brought to light your little habit of bottling up your negative emotions? Letting your grief and anger show for once? You, obsessing over things? Letting it eat you up inside?” He returned the gesture of the elf’s pointing with an act of his own. His finger stabbed at the Archmage’s chest. “Me, telling you to let go of certain things? To not let your fears cloud your vision? Feh!” He pointed his finger in the Archmage’s face, the swiftness of the action betraying his anger. “Well, clearly you've retained nothing. Your fear holds you back! You are choosing our targets based on--"

"Are you questioning my authority," Taviast snarled, eyes flaring a rich, vibrant purple.

A raspy laugh escaped the Warlock. It rose in a menacingly, off kilter crescendo, until it unnaturally shrieked forth, like the cawing of a crow.

"There! Right there!" The warlock, excitedly, drew up close to the Archmage. "That fire, that rage! The passion for it all! The bloodshed, the war, the endless nights of planning, plotting, conceding and consorting with our allies! Ready to invade and eliminate our targets!" The laugh came forth again, and this time it howled first, wrapped up and entangled in madness. "I have waited, Duskwither, for you to man up! To stop trying to act as the peacemaker. The time for peace is gone. You need to stand up! Have a voice! To yell instead of whisper! To embrace your emotions and accept who you are!"

"You," Taviast seethed in a deadly cold tone, as he brought himself close to his face, "are getting on my nerves."

"Yes, tell me," the warlock hysterically commanded. "Let loose your emotions for once in your FUCKING LIFE!"

"You and your insolent--"

"Stop acting like a marionette for the people! STAND UP FOR YOURSELF!”

“YOU WILL SILENCE YOURSELF--”

“EMBRACE YOUR DARKNESS--”

“--OR I WILL MAKE YOU!"

“--ALONG WITH YOUR PRECIOUS 'LIGHT'!"

Arcane energy snapped and popped as crackling skeins of it passed over the Archmage's body. It transformed his aura, corrupting the natural calm with the prickly and electrifying sense of danger. His balled fists glimmered with conjured energy, magic shimmering from his fingertips.

And yet, the aura around the warlock darkened. A contrasting agent, it clashed with the Archmage’s. It thickened and became cloying with the sensation of sickness, affliction and the heat of felfire. Dark energy formed along the Forsaken’s hands; a insurgence of devious, demonic energy that whispered hauntingly of forbidden power.

“Speak out of turn again,” Taviast darkly threatened, “and I will make good use of my spellwork.”

“I’d like to see you try,” the warlock taunted in return. "Show me, Archmage, the man you've become. Show me your repressed emotions! Give me your rage!"

Hostile gazes locked in that single turbulent moment, each waiting for the other to move, their clashing, chaotic energy only grew. One inch. One millimeter. A twitch. A shudder. Something, anything, to give away the other’s intention. Rage, frustration and resentment. Negativity, swirling about them, caustic and invisible, but omnipresent. Like the Sha, biding its time to manifest from the two.

Daring. Waiting.

Ready to strike.

War.

"...uh... you guys?"

Breaking away at the last moment before they blasted the other in their own respective power, both the Archmage and the warlock turned to the uninvited guest, peeking around the mast of the ship. The two snapped in unison an agitated, "WHAT."

Raustul Shadeshifter stood there in his bout of confusion, his expression a bit lost. The ever towering half-blooded Demon Hunter was an asset to The Circle and, while he wasn’t within the higher ranks of the order, he typically wasn’t left out of things.

Seems like he had been left out of… whatever was going on here.

The Demon Hunter looked particularly menacing today, what with the liberal splattering of loyalist gore on his armor. To many he looked menacing, what with his incredibly muscular build and impressive height. For such a carefree and relaxed person, it were these tiny moments the entire Circle had to stop and consider just what he was, and what oath he took. Their lovable, mischievous, playful comrade-in-arms was still, in many aspects… a demon.

"....Uh... alriiiigh’,” Raustul began, unsure if he should back away now or just get on with his thought process. “Not goin' to ask what the fuckin' fel that was all 'bout."

Eyes returning to their purified golden hue, Taviast shot the warlock a tempered stare. His body language was prickly, his posture austere and defensive. "We were just conversing," Taviast replied, coolly, his usually tactfully polite tone a tad bit strained. His eyes never left the Forsaken, even as he spoke to the Demon Hunter. "Merely that."

Guntharius gave Raustul a smarmy smirk, his expression clearly stating, 'he's lying to save face'.

"...Righ'.” Raustul shot them both an incredulous look. “Well, uh, boss? Gettin’ kinda antsy here.” He jerked his head in the direction of the other two now derelict ships. “We don’t have a lot of time to waste. Can we get to the rest of the plan? You want Kip to go ahead an' set sail so we can go about leavin' this baby out by the port?"

"Yes," Taviast replied quickly, returning to his previous state of professionalism. Unnervingly fast, perhaps, but his affable smile had indeed returned. "That would be wonderful, my friend! If you could, Shadeshifter, then, please, inform O’ Connell that we are ready for the last phase. Make quick work, don't dawdle."

"Anythin'," Raustul cheerily replied, flashing the elf a thumbs-up, seemingly forgetting all about what just happened there, and the harsh oddness to it all. "Feel free t' return to the base. We've got our Hearths. We'll meet'cha there when it's all good and done, yea?"

"Fair enough," Taviast replied, turning his back in order to conjure a bit of magic. His nimble fingers worked at forming a long since memorized spell. In the air winked a ripple of energy, spreading open like an unfurling lotus until it formed a proper portal. On its rippling, reflective surface was the image of the previously abandoned castle that they all now called their headquarters. Turning towards the Demon Hunter once more, with a lively wink, Taviast added, "Doctor Plaguespitter and I will return and await your arrival. Please be prompt, but do stay safe."

"Y'know me, boss!"

"That's exactly why he's worried," the warlock drawled lazily before stepping up to the portal. "He knows you. Just don't get yourself killed. I like experimenting with corpses, but I wouldn't enjoy experimenting on yours." With a sickening smirk, he added in a strange hiss, “you’re too tall to fit most of my operation tables.”

"Ha. Yea. As pleasant as always t' talk to, Gunny."

"Don't fucking call me that."

"Sure thing, Gunny-boy."

As the Demon Hunter unfurled his torn wings and took off to find his worgen partner-in-crime, Guntharius turned back to the portal. He paused for a moment, side eyeing the Archmage. He could tell the elf was still frustrated with what happened, but had returned to wearing that mask.

“...Your guise.”

“What guise,” Taviast replied. His words may have been terse and dark, but the same affable smile remained.

“That. Your mask.”

“I simply don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied offhandedly, his tone returning to a carefree, happy feel.

"Keh heh. Amusing.” The warlock moved towards the portal and, right before stepping through, he hissed out, “we will talk about this... later.”

As the Forsaken’s form disappeared within the rippling, shimmering portal, the Archmage felt his shoulders tense. A dreaded chill scattered down his spine, and a flush of resentment and frustration flared hot within his soul. He swore his heart began rapidly beating against ribs that, just now, felt far too fragile for his old body.

“Oh,” he darkly mumbled, all to himself, “I am sure I will enjoy our little chat.”

#Cuddly writes some things

0 notes

cuddlywritesthings · 5 years

Text

Midnight Drink

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Taviast Duskwither, Guntharius Plaguespitter

Characters mentioned: Ghelror Ebonfang, Crescida Evenfall (not my character)

Timeline: BFA, shortly after Saurfang’s death.

Trigger warnings: Strong language, alcohol mentioning

- - - - - - - - - -

“I thought I might find you here.”

Taviast Duskwither reluctantly pulled his attention away from his glass of wine. He looked up at the unannounced guest of his, and he couldn’t help but let a weary frown tug at the corners of his mouth.

He had retreated to his personal study for further research on their next potential target. They had plenty to choose from, of course. Azeroth was rife with conflict from both sides, but it seemed the warring factions could not come together and eliminate the more worrisome targets-- those who posed a real threat to everyone, factions be damned.

The foreboding castle that The Circle called headquarters had been long since evacuated by whatever clan, or family or even cult had used it. It had been repurposed by a certain warlock, and had become the group’s main source of sanctuary.

It was late into the night, and after dinner everyone had made their way to their individual rooms. Taviast thought he was the only soul awake, but he always seemed to forget about--

“Dr. Guntharius Plaguespitter.”

“Just doctor is fine. Or Dr. Plaguespitter, if you want to sound snooty and annoying.” The Forsaken stood in the doorway of Taviast’s private studies, his hand raised and fingers trailing along the intricate stonework with a sense of reserved reverence. “You elves, having to be so formal about every fucking thing.”

“Notwithstanding the roots of my heritage,” Taviast calmly replied, with just the slightest hint of amusement lacing his words, “I do try to remain proper and display the decorum expected of me when addressing people. It stems from my time spent as a Magister for the state of Quel’thalas. Decorum comes as naturally as breathing, good sir.”

Letting out a derisive snort, the Forsaken made his way further into the studies. Despite the elf’s sharp sense of hearing (and, no, it wasn’t a joke about their pointed ears), the necrotic doctor, steeped in the energies of the fel, made naught a sound as he approached.

“Alcohol.”

“Mmm?” Tavast blinked a moment in confusion before it dawned on him what the ‘good doctor’ meant by that. Guntharius was good for that. Liked to start conversations abruptly, with a single word, or topic, thrown out there on a whim. “Ah, yes, well,” he lifted up his glass in the vague gesture of toasting the warlock, “must finish the bottle before it goes bad, hmm?”

“You always were an alcoholic.”

A fair bit confused, the Archmage quirked an eyebrow. “I… beg your pardon?”

“It’s true.”

“I must refute this claim of yours. I am not--”

“In denial,” snapped the Forsaken, cutting the elf off at the pass by refusing to let him finish his own sentence. “Covering up your anxieties, doubts and fears by taking the edge off. The edge of this life and this world, all of your responsibilities and guilt, and all that blood on your pretty little hands.” The Forsaken’s one glowing eye seemed a bit brighter than before. His sharp, yet somehow still handsome features were hardened; as resolute and emotionless as a stone fortress. “Blurring the lines of your stress until you can no longer recognize them.”

Unsettling as the tension in the air was, Taviast remained calm. Even as the warlock placed his hands (soundlessly, always soundlessly! He moved, like a giest!) on the table, the ex-Magister, now Archmage, made no move and no sound as to betray his surge of anxious nervousness.

“And you,” Taviast began pleasantly, tone airy and delicate, “have always been good at analyzing others, especially when it comes to one’s health or their unhealthy habits. And that,” he made a subtle gesture with his raised glass, further putting emphasis on his words, “makes you an excellent doctor.”

“Your flattery is not going to change the subject.”

“Ah, yes. And how could I possibly forget your stubborn bullheadedness?”

“Obsession to details,” the Forsaken cut in, offering the Archmage a humored smile (such ghastly pointed teeth!). “Call it as it is.”

“Fair enough.”

A minute passed, and the awkward silence settled about them like a lumbering, intrusive beast. The Archmage stared at the deadman before him, and the warlock spent his time clearly studying the exhausted elf, sitting down at a table, surrounded by piles of books, and scrolls and half finished documents. Oh, and nearly an empty bottle of wine. Can’t forget that.

“Dr. Gunth--”

“Plaguespitter,” the Forsaken hissed out, slightly annoyed.

“Dr. Plaguespitter,” Taviast cordially replied, rectifying his quite common mistake. “Please, tell me-- what can I do for you?”

The Forsaken was not known for any sort of expressive nature. He built walls up to keep the world from identifying what it was he was feeling. And, yes, by far, he could feel. He could feel quite well. Most Forsaken felt nothing. They were numbed to the world and to the world’s tragedies. Some felt grief, or rage, or some other caustic type of emotional taint. They were like walking geists made manifest; stuck in a walking routine, trapped in a haunt, unable to release themselves from the residual episode.

But Guntharius felt. Guntharius could feel more than just rage and grief, confusion and madness. He felt more than what the others felt. But that alone helped drive him mad. Far madder, perhaps, than many of the other warlocks within the Black Harvest. He felt, he remembered emotions. And, as a result, he became passionate when it came to believing in things. Rage and frustration were, indeed, common emotional responses with him. But those only occurred due to how much he cared, and how much he wanted to help. How, oh, how he wanted to be human again. To find the cure for undeath. To be able to taste things properly again, and to stop being so cold. He wanted to feel. He wanted to express himself fully again.

Despite his well known flaw in the department of expressing himself (often far too caught up in his emotions to properly handle them), he was rarely ever prompt in admitting his feelings verbally. And so, as the Archmage posed his question, he would have never expected such a confident reply from the deadman.

“I’m worried about you.”

“--me?” The Archmage made a motion to push back his chair and rise to his feet, but halted his actions upon seeing the subtle hand gestures, offered up by his coworker and comrade. “Whatever for?”

“Don’t play dumb,” softly hissed the warlock.

“I can assure you, I never play ‘dumb’.”

The Forsaken gave him a rather deadpan look and, in a dry, sardonic tone, drawled out, “and all those times you pretended to be an oblivious old fool in order to trick guards into--”

“That’s not the same thing!”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Taviast Duskwither gave a great, weary sigh as the Forsaken sat down across from him. He had stolen away to his personal study room in order to get some peace and quiet. He felt safe in this room. It reminded him of his home. He had decorated the walls with scrolls and baubles of magicry. Here and there crystals peppered shelves weighed down by tomes and ancient books of magical lore. It was his personal study room and library in one. He spent many a night toiling away before drawn our charts, graphs and maps, hoping to produce a foolproof mission plan.

After all… he lead this group of rebels. He was the first member and soul founder of The Circle. And he had an oath to upkeep. Sleep be damned! The welfare of his soldiers were of top priority.

“You’re trying to deflect me.”

Wagging a finger at the warlock, the Archmage coyly replied, “ah, ah, ah! But I’m not the one who brought up my previous roles for past Circle endeavors.”

Guntharius quietly hissed as he bared his unusually sharp teeth (even by standards for typical Forsaken) at the elf. “Smartass.”

“Aren’t most elves?”

Smarmy and smug, Taviast felt he had won that round of wit against the ‘good doctor’. Guntharius was known for his cunning brilliance and his silver tongue. But getting a one-up on him always felt good, even though it was incredibly rare to do so.

Feeling proud of himself, Taviast raised the wine glass to take a well deserved swig of mulled wine when he felt his actions halted by a cold hand. The warlock was not wearing gloves tonight-- his attire for when he didn’t have any missions, and was merely living about in his castle-- and, as such, he felt his hand, unhindered. It was the cold grip of death itself, ready to take him.

Shivering from the contact, Taviast opened his mouth to protest. Anything he wanted to say died in his throat, withered and dry, upon seeing the Forsaken’s unmistakably concerned expression.

“Stop deflecting with humor,” Guntharius uncharacteristically murmured. His hand-- wrapped around Taviast’s slender wrist-- squeezed ever so slightly. It wasn’t a hostile sense of pressure but, rather, a reassuring one. A comforting one. “Stop. For once in your long-lived life, stop.”

A wedge formed itself in the Archmage’s throat, and he found himself willingly lowering the glass of wine. His chest felt tight.

“I don’t unders--”

“Of course you wouldn’t. And of course you don’t.” Guntharius released the Archmage’s wrist, freeing him from his entrapment. “But you’ve always been in denial about everything. In denial that you need to talk to someone, instead of busying yourself with work and the consumption of alcohol in hopes you’ll forget about your guilt.”

“I, I…” Grasping at metaphorical straws, the Archmage felt frustrated. “Alright. Plaguespitter, I understand you enjoy being cryptic about your messages and with your given advice, but I really don’t have the patience--”

“Saurfang.”

It struck him with the cracking reverberation of a whip. He swore he could hear it. The shattering of glass, the crumbling of an infrastructure. He felt that dagger twist deeper into his gut, and he inaudibly sucked in his breath. The air was suddenly so thin to him, and it burned his lungs to take in oxygen.

Varok Saurfang. The noble, honrable Orc who, quite possibly, could have led the Horde into an era of peace. The brave warrior who stood up to challenge their tyrannous Warchief, in hopes to dismantle her psychotically twisted regime and to further spur on the true spirit of a united Horde.

And he fell.

He had fallen by her darkness, her sinister corruption. Around The Circle, there had been in depth discussions as to what it was their ‘Warchief’ had used in order to slay the proud soldier. Some spoke of a darkness, greater than the void. Some warned it, quite possibly, stemmed from the energies of the fel, of warlock magic. Some declared she had soul her soul to a demon, and had become a corrupted dreadlord. And a few whispered fears that the old ones were involved-- The Old Gods themselves.

Whatever it was, and whatever the case, it had become quite clear what her intentions were. And it had been quite a devastating blow to lose such an honorable Orc as that; one who could have lead them to something better, something grander.

It didn’t sting as much as losing Vol’jin, but, by the Gods, Taviast mourned the Orc.

“A...Ah,” Taviast shakily replied, realizing that a good minute or two had passed, and he had been sitting there, in absolute silence, staring at the pale warlock. “I, I… I mean, his passing is a great loss for…. For, for everyone…”

“Stop lying.”

“I speak the truth,” Taviast nearly shouted as he abruptly rose from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table out of frustration. “His passing-- his death-- was a blow to the Horde’s morale! He could have lead us to peace! Helped us better enhance the… the, the Horde with…”

Suddenly weary, Taviast sank back down to his seat. Another sigh escaped him but, unlike before, this one was heavy with exhaustion.

Guntharius calmly watched him, like some plagued, undead feline staring at something it found utterly and sensibly fascinating.

“...Are you done?”

“Quite,” Taviast softly murmured. He reached for his glass and, upon consideration, snatched up the entire bottle. Taking a hearty swig from that, he waved Guntharius on, allowing the warlock to speak, if he so desired to.

In which he desired to. Oh, yes, he very much desired to.

“Don’t think I’m a fool. Don’t take my allegiance and loyalty with the Alliance as proof that I don’t care about the Horde and everything that goes on within it. I am not human anymore,” he hissed with some bitterness, “but I am Forsaken. As such, I have to care about this Horde, the races within it, and I have grown to… to like some of the people here. Including,” he snatched the bottle from Taviast before the elf could drown himself in booze, “Saurfang.”

Making a half-hearted gesture as to grab the bottle back, Taviast quickly gave up. “Surprisingly touchy-feely for a Forsaken.” He winced, visibly, upon realizing what he had just said. “My apologies,” he quickly sputtered. “I didn’t mean for that to come out so--”

Waving the elf’s apology aside, the Forsaken nonchalantly shrugged. “You’re speaking the truth about my kind, and about me. Why apologize for what’s on your mind? Like I always say,” he leaned forward a bit, staring the elf down with a hardened gaze, “speak your goddamn mind.”

A nervous chuckle dancing on his breath, Taviast leaned back in his chair, relaxing a little. “Sound advice.”

“You said I’m good at being a doctor. At me analyzing my ‘patients’, figuring out what’s good and healthy for them, and what is not.” Tapping the wooden table with a single finger, he sneered. “Keeping in your negative thoughts can lead to bad health.”

Furrowing his brow, Taviast gave him a puzzled stare.

“...negative thoughts. Keeping them in. Can lower one’s immune system by causing onset depressive moods, and-- feldammit, Duskwither.” Gesturing wildly, the doctor grew increasingly frustrated. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Fucking talk to me.”

“Talk--”

In a sharp, almost vindictive gesture, the warlock gestured at himself with both of his hands. “Ther-a-pist,”

“We already know one. He’s helped members of The Circle already. One Mr. Dreamwe--”

Letting out an exasperated groan, Guntharius had to stop himself from lunging across the table, grabbing the elf’s head, and slamming it down on the table in a rather undignified, and painful, facepalm. It’d be a facetable, of course-- quite potentially the first of its kind. But he thankfully restrained his own surge of negative emotions, swallowing them along with his need to slap this fool across the face.

“For right now,” Guntharius said through gritted teeth, “I… am… your… THER-A-PIST. Fucking talk to me. And talk about what is on your mind. Treat me as if I am that tentacled magician from the void, and talk to me.”

Taviast understood. He understood now what Guntharius was doing for him, and he couldn’t help but feel another overwhelming wave of emotion wash over him.

“You,” the warlock continued, “have not been the same since confirmation of Saurfang’s death. And you were oddly quiet during Crescida’s speech.”

Ah, yes. Crescida Evenfall. Almost fitting to a point, the Night Elf monk raised her glass of wine and spoke before the convergence of The Circle. She gave an exceptionally grand speech, as inspiring as many generals and sergeants would before any army, and any battle. But instead of a speech filled with the zest and verve to conflict harm against one’s enemy, this one had been filled… with hope, and unity. As morale boosting as anything, she spoke the truth of the matter-- and this world-- all the while humbly honoring the life of Saurfang, now legend and true hero to the Horde.

During dinner and the speech, Taviast had remained strangely quiet and aloof. He had hardly spoken on behalf of the members or in memory of Saurfang. He had opted for a nod here or there, or the occasional hand gesture, in order to urge others to talk in his stead. He listened politely to Crescida’s words, but his attention had begun to drift towards the end. So much so that Ghelror Ebonfang-- sitting to the Archmage’s right-- had to gingerly nudge the elf in the arm, signaling that he, too, should join in with the boisterous round of applause.

“I was… being polite,” Taviast replied, his tone half hearted and weak.

“Of course you were. I’m not denying that. But you weren’t yourself. Your mind was elsewhere.”

“I--”

“I know you by now, Duskwither. I have stood on your left for far too long and have overseen many of your operations.” The warlock folded his hands in front of him, posture straight and austere. “I am your second-in-command, representing the Horde. I am to offset Archdruid Ebonfang. I have seen, and done, and performed so many tasks on your behalf. I have murdered, and tortured, and whittled information out of our enemies in order to do what must be right for this order you’ve created. I have even opened my home-- my safe haven, a place I can hide away from the Horde-- to you. To you, and your order.”

“And I thank you for that,” Taviast piped up, rather quickly, hoping to end the conversation. “I am ever so grateful for your hospitality.”

“I have looked after you all as you slept. I have walked the ramparts at night, keeping my gaze to the distant horizon. I am your shadow. I am your darkness. I am everything you wish you could expose to the world.” He narrowed his gaze, jaw tightening. “I kill when you cannot. I torture when your pathetic stomach cannot handle it. I soak my hands in the blood of our enemies when you can’t even so much as look at a twisted corpse.”

“I get it, I get it,” Taviast testily replied. “I’m fucked up in the head, hmm? Is that what you’re getting at here? That I secretly wish to take over the world and harm people, murder, en masse, in order to shape Azeroth as I see fit?”

A sly smirk spread across the Forsaken’s face. “Not quite what I was getting at,” the warlock teasingly replied, “but it’s amusing to imagine you going to the darkside. And, besides… lately you’ve been killing almost as much as me.”

The Archmage fell silent, and he cast the warlock a resentful look. His own golden eyes grew colder, and their glow seemed to darken.

“Excuse me? Are you suggesting--”

“The point is,” Guntharius interjected, “I know you better than anyone else. I know how much darkness you hold inside. And how much you hate yourself for things. How much you blame yourself for things that go wrong. Especially,” he pointed at the elf, “Saurfang’s death.”

Raising his hands up in a gesture of peace, the Archmage shook his head. “Now, now. Where on earth did you get such a peculiar and outlandish notion?”

“It’s not peculiar. And it’s not outlandish. It’s the feldammed truth.”

“I could not prevent Saurfang’s death. I had nothing to do with it.”

“And yet you still blame yourself.”

Taviast was ready for a rebuttal when the warlock stood up. He watched Plaguespitter walk about his studies, examining the shelves heavily burdened with their magical trinkets, and baubles and tomes. He watched as the warlock deftly plucked a thickly bound leather book from one particularly weathered shelf before proceeding to leaf through it’s aged pages.

“Before you try to come up with a reason as to why my logic is wrong, Duskwither… ask yourself, how many times have you mourned the passing of someone?”

“I--”

Snapping the book shut, the warlock sharply turned to face him. “Innocents. Horde, and Alliance alike. Allies. Friends. Leaders.”

“Well--”

“Vol’jin.”

Once more, a well placed imaginary blow struck him, and he felt himself reel from the force. He was grateful he was sitting, for had he been standing, he wasn’t sure he would be able to stay upright at all. The force of the grief, of those memories, were like a sickening tonic that poisoned him each and every time he brought it to the surface.

“Saurfang’s death,” Guntharius continued, “reminds you of the time we, as a Horde, lost Vol’jin.”

The truth. There it was. There was no denying it. The moment he heard of Saurfang’s death, Taviast remembered the Darkspear Troll who once had given him the hope that things could change. That peace could be achieved. That there needn't be any senseless wars and bloodshed. That all of this could have been avoided.

Garrosh Hellscream robbed the world of a chance at seeing peace. And it had set them back quite a bit, ruining alliances both within the Horde and without.

“Crescida’s speech made you think of Vol’jin.”

“Yes, and… and no,” Taviast confessed. “A little bit of it, I admit. But Saurfang can’t be compared to Vol’jin. Both were exceptional people, but incredibly different.”

“In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. Their ideologies may have varied to some degree but, for the most part, Duskwither, you have to admit… they were the same.”

Slumping a little in his seat, the Archmage sadly looked at a shelf. Anything but at the warlock. He let his gaze grow distant, and his focus became unclear. The world seemed a bit more fuzzier, and it wasn’t the wine talking.

“You’re an elf. You have a long lifespan.”

“And with our font of power restored, and the Sunwell purified… quite possibly immortal.”

“Things to consider, yes, yes.”

Taviast knew exactly where Guntharius was going with this. And he couldn’t help but think of everyone within The Circle. He knew what the doctor wanted him to speak about.

As the leader of The Circle, it was his duty to have the final say on who got sent out on various missions. He had to make the final note of approval on which targets to take out. He had so many lives on the line-- lives who were people. People who were friends. And these people who were loyal enough to follow him. He knew that the loss of lives happened with life, especially when war was involved. But he had bent himself over backwards in order to keep his order safe. So much so that he had magically exhausted himself more than once during a mission, keeping those accompanying him safe. He remembered one time waking up after being drug off to safety, only to have Guntharius himself leaning over him, shrieking about how foolish he had been, and how he had to save his ass by using a demonic portal, and some other egregious nonsense that had clearly pissed off the deadman.

“Everyone in The Circle… is family to you.” The necrotic doctor returned to his chair, settling down in it, the book he had been studying since abandoned.

“They are,” he admitted. “Everyone. All of them. They are my family. And I can’t stand the thought of losing any of them.”

“I understand this,” the warlock replied, acknowledging his feelings, “more than you might believe. But, Taviast, the situation still stands. Like Saurfang, and Vol’jin… the time will come. And you, as our leader, will have to come to terms with that.”

“...and I refuse to.”

A little amused, the warlock sat back in his own chair, arms crossed against his thin chest. He let out a small huff of acknowledgement before posing a question. “What if Crescida fell?”

Taviast sharply looked up.

“Or Archdruid Ebonfang. Or Kippen. Or Raustul. Dreamweaver, Petalhoof, or my brother, Brevaar. What about Zinaji, or Tase? Wanja, the rest of the Sul’tusk? Or any of the other Trolls you’ve managed to befriend over time?”

“Died?”

“It will happen one day.”

“May. May happen.”

“Will.”

“You pessimistic pest,” Taviast grumbled out.

“Part of the package of being Forsaken, peacock.”

Taviast knew that this was a bitter sort of medicine the ‘good doctor’ was prescribing him. But he had to admit… the warlock wasn’t that far off. His friend-- for lack of better terms-- was giving him a dose of medicine he sorely needed. Someone may-- no, will-- eventually fall. Someone will die during a mission of his. So far they have had close calls and closer scrapes. There had been some minor, major and severe injuries to be had. So far… they had been lucky.

That wouldn’t last forever. He knew that.

Archdruid Ebonfang was disabled now. He had lost his arm in a fight to an elite Dreadlord. And though it happened in an event that had not derived from one of The Circle’s missions or chosen targets, it had happened. And now the old Druid existed with a part of him gone, forevermore. Thankfully he could grow his arm back using nature magic-- a sort of nature-bound prosthetic-- and he could repair it, steadily, over time, if it ever got damaged… but it took a lot out of him. To maintain it, and to repair it as needed. And he could no longer feel with that arm. He had lost all sensation (save for the phantom pains that often wracked his body at night, when everyone else was asleep). He had also retained some general weakness. But that was to be expected. After all, bark could be strong, but it could also be brittle, and fragile, and very much a liability.

Ghelror had a lover. He had found a lover, and he had found a purpose in his life. He had found happiness. He had a life outside of The Circle. If only so many could be as blessed as such. Taviast knew only snatches of Ghelror’s history, but he knew that the elf was long lived and was very particular about who he surrounded himself with. He knew of his half-brother, Raustul Shadeshifter. And he knew that the guardian of the claw only occasionally visited The Circle’s headquarters, seeing as he was, mostly, a teacher to the younger, fledgling Druids of the order, and he helped look after orphans in his spare time (children who lost their parents, typically Druids or Shamans, to the war).

But all of this… in an instant, Ghelror had almost lost it all.

Taviast remembered meeting up with Ghelror, not too long after the incident. He remembered the stump where his arm was supposed to be. He remembered the wan, drawn expression on the already worn-down elf’s face. His slightly hunched over posture, body trembling with agony. How Ghelror refused to speak. How gaunt the Druid seemed then. But he remembered his eyes. Hard, gaze ancient and searching. His amber eyes hid the pain exceptionally well. Yes, his eyes hid the pain… but not the shame of it all.

Ghelror Ebonfang was just one example of a close call. A close call that got far too close for comfort. And Taviast had to admit to himself that sometimes, when he caught sight of the Archdruid in the halls of this downtrodden castle, he wondered who would be next. Who would next suffer a catastrophic blow? Who next would come back from a fight-- this never ending, damnable war-- scarred?

And who would come back, at all?

“And one day I just might lose grip with my soul,” Guntharius continued, noticing Taviast’s face had gone pallid, and his gaze had become distant. “Forsaken don’t last forever, Archmage. You, out of all of us, should know that.”

“I… I do.”

“Our minds go before our bodies. Our souls detach from our forms. We can go feral, mad, and utterly lose who we are. I will lose what makes me ‘me’. I will lose my mind, and I will no longer be myself. I will just be a rabid, feral thing. And the only action one can take against what I’ll become... is disposal.”

Taviast felt that great twisting sensation again, and he noted that the Forsaken had gently, almost lovingly, placed his cool hand over his. He took comfort in the sympathetic action, and he gave a weak smile at the warlock.

“I understand,” the elf murmured weakly.

“I’m not sure you do,” the warlock replied, perhaps a bit too testily, “but you seem to understand it a little bit better. Just consider: things will happen. And even if these people-- your family-- don't fall in battle, with your lifespan…”

The pain. It hurt.

“You need to stop feeling guilty for everyone’s pain and the deaths around you. I know you feel guilty when one of us comes back hurt, but it’s our own experiences and actions that lead to our injuries. Or,” he corrected himself, “the lack of experiences or actions taken. That too.”

“I… I know.”

“Vol’jin, and Saurfang. Let them go.”

“It’s just…”

“Future deaths. Future pain. Let it go.”

Taviast numbly nodded.

“What happens happens. You’re leading The Circle--”

“For now,” Taviast meekly responded.

“For… now,” Guntharius wavered, pausing only to shoot him a confused look. That quickly passed, however. “The point is,” he continued, “we are going to follow you. Anything you command us to do, we will do it. Anything you have plotted and planned out to be done, it will be done. And I will continue murdering and torturing in your name.”

“That… that doesn’t sound particularly pleasing to me,” Taviast groaned. “Completely killed the charming atmosphere you had going on there.”

“Completely my point.”

Rising to his feet, the warlock let his hand drift away from the Archmage’s. He reached out, as if to touch the elf’s cheek. The motion was tender, gentle. Almost loving. And it sent the Archmage’s heart into a nervous tick. And yet, seconds before his chilled fingers brushed against the old elf’s skin, he deftly made a snatching motion and took the bottle of booze instead.

“Hey!”

“No more drinking,” Guntharius drawled out. “It’s long past midnight, and you need proper sleep for once.”

“Is it truly that late?” Taviast looked around, as if unsure of his surroundings.

“No changing the subject. No drinking.” The warlock crooked a pale finger at Taviast, beckoning to follow. His tone was low and dark as he resolutely commanded, “bed. Now.”

A violently colored flush spread across Taviast’s cheeks. “I, I-- I, no-- you, wait-- what?”

Groaning, the Forsaken rolled his eyes. “Not my bed, you idiot. What, you think I’m going to take you to bed and see if my inactive libido still works? That my rotted genitalia might actually be functional? You think I’m attracted to you?” He sneered, cutting Taviast off before he could speak. “Elves! You’d think they’d be smarter with all those centuries under their belts, but, no! Naive bastards, the lot of them!”

“I can hear you, you know,” Taviast grumbled out as he cleared his throat.

“Bed.” He jerked his head towards the exit. “Now. Come on. I’ll help you get to your room. Make sure you don’t scamper off back here and try to work yourself to death, like the complete and utter fool you are. Or worse: drink yourself into oblivion.”

“Charming, as always, doctor.”

“Fucking elves.”

#Cuddly writes some things

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