In truth, Darroc Dawnfire did not know what to expect from the cave.
The Black Rose lifted her head at the sound of the rapping on the door to her house. She looked at the clock on the wall and smiled, right on time, just as she expected. The woman grabbed her mask, settling it over her face before she grabbed a handful of mana crystals and went to the door. Opening it, she saw exactly what she thought she would-a wretched, his haunted blue eyes flicking around nervously as he fidgeted with the large bag in his hands.
"Ahhhh, right on time, excellent, excellent! You have everything I asked for, yes?" she asked. The wretched nodded rapidly, his eyes finally finding the mana crystals in her hand and locking onto them with the intesity of a starving lynx. "E-everything, y-yes. I didn't touch any of it, can I have my mana now? I haven't had any in days, I need it, PLEASE." Rose grinned wolfishly as she backed up, beckoning him inside. "Shut the door behind you."
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.”
“…and even after Devlin rose again, from being rent down to the bones at the very hands of the Scourge to which he had betrayed his family, he found himself shunned and outcast among his risen bloodline. To this day, he roams the edge of Agamand mills, alone even among the dead.”
“Well, up UNTIL this very day,” someone interjects, tossing a gleaming white shape from his pack.
The skull of the Scourge once known as Devlin Agamand sends up sparks as it crashes into the embers of the firepit, surrounded by a half-dozen freshly minted Forsaken soldiers and their hollow laughter. Part of the new waves, risen by the banshee queen’s Val’kyr. The Agamand Mills have been used as a testing ground for years, a trial by fire pitting young warriors against the scourged remnants of the once-prolific inhabitants of the mills. These days, the atrocities of the past seem lost on youth, using the tales as fodder for their gallows humor.
Daraman found Lyndra waiting for him back in the private chambers where he had renewed his service to Sylvanas, that cold, mocking smile on her face. He said nothing, but instead reached into his pack and handed her the books. She took them, still grinning as she thumbed through one, then the other.
"Took you long enough, Dar," she remarked.
"I'm sorry. It's not like there were big signs saying 'Secret Tomes of Demonic Lore!' pointing at them," Daraman snapped back.
"Fair enough," Lyndra replied, and calmly tossed both tomes into a nearby brazier, reducing them to ash in mere moments. The tauren cried out in shock and disbelief as he watched all his hard work literally go up in smoke.
"Lyndra, what the hell is wrong with you?" he shouted.
He wanted to protest. It had been a hard and painful night, how could he leave Asilia to find her way past every soldier the death knight had to throw at them on foot. Another thought let him clam his mouth shut and nod. He had no fallen for Asilia because she was a damsel in distress. She would be as likely as he to make it home alive. More if his injuries and her natural abilities were taken into account. He gave her a kiss and leapt onto his gryphon. He needed to get Jasria help now. Asilia was strong. He would see her soon enough.
He felt the horror of impending doom well up in him as Bennet described the state Delphiee was in. He would find a way, or someone else would. As always, when there was life there was hope.
he dream came to me tonight, exactly as promised.
I found myself standing in a desert landscape, nothing but rolling dunes in every direction. Everything was silent and still, save for a faint buzzing noise in the distance. I began to wander aimlessly, knowing there was something here I was meant to see, but uncertain where I was meant to go. The harsh sunlight stinging my eyes, I kept my gaze locked on the ground.
((Originally Posted: 31 Oct 2006))
((This is a straight-up horror story, in honor of the day. This has no connection to any of my other writings.))
Once, the Twilight Cultists had tortured him. There had been beatings, brandings, and cuttings. Many times they had immersed him in water so long that he almost drowned. They had driven nails into his hands, fingers, kneecaps. When those failed they had become even more creative.