A Limping Prisoner, Babbling and Bound. (Gijan)
Posted: Sat May 09, 2020 7:25 pm
A battered-and-beaten human vagrant stumbled from person to person and door to door, bound at the wrists and covered in the grime of a long road, his crazed mutterings unclear to most that would hear them. After demanding the Grim, he'd start reciting some manner of memorized speech to whomever was unlucky enough to meet his gaze. Most folk interrupted him and turned him away, but he managed to get out his full spiel a few times.
"Please. Please! He said you'd give me the antidote if I relayed the message. Are you with the Grim?"
The wild-eyed human man kept rambling, much to the chagrin of the bystander he'd beset.
"He said, 'I am Gijan the Fang. I know what it is to have a purpose and to chase it with intent. Nothing can stand in the way. No one can stand in the way. Lately, I lack purpose. It's why I come to you. The Horde has shown me hospitality for long enough. I will forge my new purpose in the blood of our foes.'"
The moment those last words escaped the vagabond's lips, something in his throat seemed to disturb him. He began to claw at his neck. His eyes grew bloodshot as they looked for any escape from the doom that face him. His pleas for help quieted to muffled gags until he found himself foaming at the mouth and collapsed in the dirt. Finally, he became still.
Written in blood on the back of his ragged shirt appeared to be the name of a street in Orgrimmar. When Gijan sends a message, at least he leaves a return address.
"Please. Please! He said you'd give me the antidote if I relayed the message. Are you with the Grim?"
The wild-eyed human man kept rambling, much to the chagrin of the bystander he'd beset.
"He said, 'I am Gijan the Fang. I know what it is to have a purpose and to chase it with intent. Nothing can stand in the way. No one can stand in the way. Lately, I lack purpose. It's why I come to you. The Horde has shown me hospitality for long enough. I will forge my new purpose in the blood of our foes.'"
The moment those last words escaped the vagabond's lips, something in his throat seemed to disturb him. He began to claw at his neck. His eyes grew bloodshot as they looked for any escape from the doom that face him. His pleas for help quieted to muffled gags until he found himself foaming at the mouth and collapsed in the dirt. Finally, he became still.
Written in blood on the back of his ragged shirt appeared to be the name of a street in Orgrimmar. When Gijan sends a message, at least he leaves a return address.