Acherontia trudged wearily up the stairs of the inn to the room she had taken in Shattrath City. Her first few weeks in the Outlands had been difficult, but not nearly this impossible. Always there had been his presence at her back, always there had been his magic complementing hers, always there had been his healing powers nourishing her whenever she drained herself too dry in order to replenish her magical energy.
Alone, though, she found that surviving in the Outlands was much harder. It was turning her hard as well.
Yichimet knew. Somehow, Melchisedech had gotten his mutilated hands on his hearthstone and babbled something...nonsense words, no doubt, but the shaman had heard him. He called to Acherontia over the stone and the warlock had to bite her lip to keep from begging him to come help her friend. It wasn't safe, not yet. She could not even swear that Melchisedech would not harm her, let alone other members of the Grim. The murders he had committed in the Undercity were enough to condemn him three times over - Acherontia did not know what the priest was capable of now that he had been changed into a gibbering, shadowed monster.
The warlock heard the scratching as she approached the door to the room. The green light disappeared from her eyes as she squeezed them shut, collecting herself before placing her gloved hand flat against the wood. As soon as she touched the door, the scratching noise stopped - she could almost picture him on the other side, head cocked, listening...waiting...Acherontia called out to him softly. "Melchisedech?"
A pause, and then: "Acherontia."
How can a whisper sound so much like a scream?
It was the first coherent word she had heard him speak since she had rescued him from the Apothecarium. He knew her. It was enough.
It had to be enough.
Withdrawing the key from her pocket, she placed it into the lock and turned it with a snick. At the sound, she thought she heard him shift, thought she heard the shush-shush of his robes as he moved.
"I will always be here."
Acherontia swallowed her dread down into her stomach and opened the door.
The Old Ones by Acherontia
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
by Melchisedech
She'd been gone for so long. Days? Weeks? Maybe just hours. Time seemed so different to him. He'd grown restless. He needed to learn more, to find out why he had been brought to this place. But he did not want to leave the room, lest she return and find him gone.
The creature had come into the room. It was clearly an invader. It had warbled and gibbered at Melchisedech when he had pulled it further into the chamber, bound its flailing limbs with the sticky, scaly sheet-like substance that covered the bed.
He'd been able to study it.
He had turned his hands into his instruments. He needed little else. First, he examined its form. It was vaguely man-shaped, but its limbs were distended, its face misshapen, as if looking into a warped mirror. Acherontia looked the same. Whatever these creatures were, they must be trying to corrupt Acherontia as well.
Curious, he tore at the filmy, gauzy covering these creatures wore like he wore clothing. It came away like cloth in his hands, leaving the alien's slimy, scaly flesh bared beneath. He pressed against it with his fingers, felt it warm and yielding. Odd. He'd expected them to be more reptilian.
He pressed in with his sharpened fingertips, felt the flesh part beneath his tools. A thick, green fluid welled out, almost like blood. Melchisedech lifted his dripping claws to his tongue, flicked a droplet from the talon. It tasted like blood. Intriguing.
He slowly became aware of an unusual noise filtering through the room. He peered about, seeking the source of the high-pitched whine. In mild puzzlement, he realized it was being emitted by the creature. He crouched down, poking at its face. Almost as if it could feel. How peculiar.
He dugs his fingers back into its abdomen, pulling apart the scaly flesh with a sound like wet parchment tearing. A flood of the blood-like substance spilled out, and he dug through it, plucking out organs that seemed very like a human's. With a cold detachment, he wondered why the creature had stopped making that keening noise.
He lifted one to his lips and began to feast.
Acherontia opened the door onto a horrific sight. A chambermaid had been tied to tbe bedpost with a length of sheet, torn open, and parts consumed. Melchisedech smiled at her as she entered, licking the last few drops of blood from his talons.
"Acherontia," he said, pointing at the corpse. He babbled incoherently, seeming fascinated, pointing between the dead woman and himself with some sense of pride. Mid-sentence, he seemed to trail off, his eyes glazing.
"Melchisedech?" He waved off her concern with absent-minded indifference, moving toward the door. He pushed it shut, as if enthralled by the movement. On the back of the door, carved by a bone talon and inked in blood, was a pair of concentric circles surrounding a square, with odd runes carved between the circles.
"Acherontia... C'Thun."
She'd been gone for so long. Days? Weeks? Maybe just hours. Time seemed so different to him. He'd grown restless. He needed to learn more, to find out why he had been brought to this place. But he did not want to leave the room, lest she return and find him gone.
The creature had come into the room. It was clearly an invader. It had warbled and gibbered at Melchisedech when he had pulled it further into the chamber, bound its flailing limbs with the sticky, scaly sheet-like substance that covered the bed.
He'd been able to study it.
He had turned his hands into his instruments. He needed little else. First, he examined its form. It was vaguely man-shaped, but its limbs were distended, its face misshapen, as if looking into a warped mirror. Acherontia looked the same. Whatever these creatures were, they must be trying to corrupt Acherontia as well.
Curious, he tore at the filmy, gauzy covering these creatures wore like he wore clothing. It came away like cloth in his hands, leaving the alien's slimy, scaly flesh bared beneath. He pressed against it with his fingers, felt it warm and yielding. Odd. He'd expected them to be more reptilian.
He pressed in with his sharpened fingertips, felt the flesh part beneath his tools. A thick, green fluid welled out, almost like blood. Melchisedech lifted his dripping claws to his tongue, flicked a droplet from the talon. It tasted like blood. Intriguing.
He slowly became aware of an unusual noise filtering through the room. He peered about, seeking the source of the high-pitched whine. In mild puzzlement, he realized it was being emitted by the creature. He crouched down, poking at its face. Almost as if it could feel. How peculiar.
He dugs his fingers back into its abdomen, pulling apart the scaly flesh with a sound like wet parchment tearing. A flood of the blood-like substance spilled out, and he dug through it, plucking out organs that seemed very like a human's. With a cold detachment, he wondered why the creature had stopped making that keening noise.
He lifted one to his lips and began to feast.
Acherontia opened the door onto a horrific sight. A chambermaid had been tied to tbe bedpost with a length of sheet, torn open, and parts consumed. Melchisedech smiled at her as she entered, licking the last few drops of blood from his talons.
"Acherontia," he said, pointing at the corpse. He babbled incoherently, seeming fascinated, pointing between the dead woman and himself with some sense of pride. Mid-sentence, he seemed to trail off, his eyes glazing.
"Melchisedech?" He waved off her concern with absent-minded indifference, moving toward the door. He pushed it shut, as if enthralled by the movement. On the back of the door, carved by a bone talon and inked in blood, was a pair of concentric circles surrounding a square, with odd runes carved between the circles.
"Acherontia... C'Thun."
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
"I know what your laws say, Eredar. It's why I made it perfectly clear before taking the room - why I would not take the room unless you agreed - no one was to enter." Acherontia's eyes blazed with the green light - a modified version of her Eye spell that allowed her to see with double vision - and her voice was low and tight with anger. "Was I in any way unclear?"
The slanted eyes of the Draenei flicked over Acherontia's shoulder to the Peacekeeper patrol that was passing by the door of the inn. "You bring criminal into my inn. Unclear, yes - I did not know what he is."
The warlock shook her head. "That does not matter. My gold buys our anonymity. I believed it bought our privacy as well, as you had said. Either the maid was a simpleton or you were a fool - but you were warned." At the mention of money, Acherontia saw the innkeeper's resolve falter slightly. He could not afford to lose her patronage, she knew. She had chosen this inn for a reason. Poor, shabby, ill-kept, yes - but out of the way of the many who passed through Shattrath daily. She was fairly certain that she would not meet with any she knew in this part of the city.
The Draenei folded his thick arms and narrowed his eyes at Acherontia. "Double. You pay double, no trouble." He chuckled at his rhyme and spit on the floorboards.
In an echo of his mistress' irritation, Phuukun snarled at the innkeeper. The tiny warlock glared up at the Draenei and arched an eyebrow in amusement. "Or you could put us in a different room, dispose of the body, keep your mouth shut - " Acherontia smiled sweetly as she continued. " - and I won't flay the flesh from your bones in the middle of the night."
The innkeeper's jaw tightened and Acherontia brushed by him, her felhunter close on her heels. "The only thing more important to you than gold is your pathetic, miserable life. NO ONE," she called back over her shoulder as she ascended the stairs, "is to enter."
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He looked as though he had lost something. He kept watching the door, looking at his hands, staring at the place where the maid's body had been. There were no designs and symbols carved into the wood of the door - this new room looked exactly the same as the old one, with the exception of the absence of those marks. And the blood, of course.
Melchisedech sat in the only chair in the room, his tabard spread out on the table in front of him, tracing the red skull with one clawed fingertip. Acherontia was seated on the bed, her legs folded beneath her and her hearthstone in her hands. She turned it over and over again as she watched the priest focusing on the garment and pretended that he wasn't watching her as well.
"What am I going to do with you?" she whispered softly.
He raised his head to smile at her. His smile, for the most part, hadn't changed - yes, he knew her. He pointed at the tabard on the table and babbled something to her, then pointed at her tabard and babbled some more. Acherontia's frustration grew as she was forced to shake her head and communicate with him as she would a child - through gestures and short, clipped sentences. "I don't understand," she said helplessly, shrugging her shoulders in an exaggerated gesture.
It wasn't right. Melchisedech was learned, wise, eloquent. All that he had now was this gibberish language and the gestures of the dumb. Her hand clenched around her hearthstone as she considered taking the risk and calling Yichimet for help, but her stomach turned within her at an image that blazed into her mind - the shaman laying on the floor, naked, flesh ripped open and bits of fur and skin scattered everywhere as Melchisedech poked at him in curiosity while feasting on his organs.
The girl was weak, though. Yichimet is not. If he attacked Yichimet, it could wind up being Melchisedech laying on the floor with his skull smashed in, and then what?
Acherontia unfolded her legs from beneath her and walked over to the table where Melchisedech sat, placing her gloved hand over his and tracing the red skull with both of their fingers. "Do you know this symbol? What does this mean to you?" The warlock shrugged her shoulders again and pointed at the symbol on her own tabard, then at his.
The slanted eyes of the Draenei flicked over Acherontia's shoulder to the Peacekeeper patrol that was passing by the door of the inn. "You bring criminal into my inn. Unclear, yes - I did not know what he is."
The warlock shook her head. "That does not matter. My gold buys our anonymity. I believed it bought our privacy as well, as you had said. Either the maid was a simpleton or you were a fool - but you were warned." At the mention of money, Acherontia saw the innkeeper's resolve falter slightly. He could not afford to lose her patronage, she knew. She had chosen this inn for a reason. Poor, shabby, ill-kept, yes - but out of the way of the many who passed through Shattrath daily. She was fairly certain that she would not meet with any she knew in this part of the city.
The Draenei folded his thick arms and narrowed his eyes at Acherontia. "Double. You pay double, no trouble." He chuckled at his rhyme and spit on the floorboards.
In an echo of his mistress' irritation, Phuukun snarled at the innkeeper. The tiny warlock glared up at the Draenei and arched an eyebrow in amusement. "Or you could put us in a different room, dispose of the body, keep your mouth shut - " Acherontia smiled sweetly as she continued. " - and I won't flay the flesh from your bones in the middle of the night."
The innkeeper's jaw tightened and Acherontia brushed by him, her felhunter close on her heels. "The only thing more important to you than gold is your pathetic, miserable life. NO ONE," she called back over her shoulder as she ascended the stairs, "is to enter."
***************************************
He looked as though he had lost something. He kept watching the door, looking at his hands, staring at the place where the maid's body had been. There were no designs and symbols carved into the wood of the door - this new room looked exactly the same as the old one, with the exception of the absence of those marks. And the blood, of course.
Melchisedech sat in the only chair in the room, his tabard spread out on the table in front of him, tracing the red skull with one clawed fingertip. Acherontia was seated on the bed, her legs folded beneath her and her hearthstone in her hands. She turned it over and over again as she watched the priest focusing on the garment and pretended that he wasn't watching her as well.
"What am I going to do with you?" she whispered softly.
He raised his head to smile at her. His smile, for the most part, hadn't changed - yes, he knew her. He pointed at the tabard on the table and babbled something to her, then pointed at her tabard and babbled some more. Acherontia's frustration grew as she was forced to shake her head and communicate with him as she would a child - through gestures and short, clipped sentences. "I don't understand," she said helplessly, shrugging her shoulders in an exaggerated gesture.
It wasn't right. Melchisedech was learned, wise, eloquent. All that he had now was this gibberish language and the gestures of the dumb. Her hand clenched around her hearthstone as she considered taking the risk and calling Yichimet for help, but her stomach turned within her at an image that blazed into her mind - the shaman laying on the floor, naked, flesh ripped open and bits of fur and skin scattered everywhere as Melchisedech poked at him in curiosity while feasting on his organs.
The girl was weak, though. Yichimet is not. If he attacked Yichimet, it could wind up being Melchisedech laying on the floor with his skull smashed in, and then what?
Acherontia unfolded her legs from beneath her and walked over to the table where Melchisedech sat, placing her gloved hand over his and tracing the red skull with both of their fingers. "Do you know this symbol? What does this mean to you?" The warlock shrugged her shoulders again and pointed at the symbol on her own tabard, then at his.
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
Melchisedech peered at the symbol of the Grim, stroked it softly. It was frustrating for him to have to speak to her in single words and child's gestures. Whatever had corrupted her tongue had made her words the babble of an infant to his ears, but he knew her mind was still keen. He could see it in the frustration in her eyes.
He touched his tabard. "Let us begin with this... I will learn this slavering tongue if it kills me." He traced the symbol. "This is the symbol of the Grim." He touched her tabard. "The Grim."
That was a fine place to start.
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Two hours later, they had managed a few words. "Grim." "Dark Iron." The names of some foods and objects around the room. And yet, he still felt like she viewed him as a mental invalid. He was frustrated beyond belief. Sentences, grammar, verbs... these things all escaped his grasp. For an instant, he was filled with the ridiculous notion that he had suddenly forgotten how to speak, and she was nursing him back to health. The thought made him laugh.
And yet, he kept coming back to the circles and square, the runed image that would not leave his head. He found himself idly scrawling it into the floor while he "spoke" with Acherontia. It loomed in his subconscious, constantly.
Acherontia noted the symbol, pointed to it. She made a noise that he had come to associate with a question. He sighed, trying to explain.
With a flash of inspiration, he grabbed the tome he had pilfered from Blackrock Mountain, flipped through it excitedly. He pointed to a picture of the shaping of the world, then at the symbol.
"Old Gods." He peered at her intently. He'd noticed names tended to be the same across languages, save those that meant something else. "C'Thun."
Cursed Old Gods, let her understand at least that much...
He touched his tabard. "Let us begin with this... I will learn this slavering tongue if it kills me." He traced the symbol. "This is the symbol of the Grim." He touched her tabard. "The Grim."
That was a fine place to start.
________________________________________________________________
Two hours later, they had managed a few words. "Grim." "Dark Iron." The names of some foods and objects around the room. And yet, he still felt like she viewed him as a mental invalid. He was frustrated beyond belief. Sentences, grammar, verbs... these things all escaped his grasp. For an instant, he was filled with the ridiculous notion that he had suddenly forgotten how to speak, and she was nursing him back to health. The thought made him laugh.
And yet, he kept coming back to the circles and square, the runed image that would not leave his head. He found himself idly scrawling it into the floor while he "spoke" with Acherontia. It loomed in his subconscious, constantly.
Acherontia noted the symbol, pointed to it. She made a noise that he had come to associate with a question. He sighed, trying to explain.
With a flash of inspiration, he grabbed the tome he had pilfered from Blackrock Mountain, flipped through it excitedly. He pointed to a picture of the shaping of the world, then at the symbol.
"Old Gods." He peered at her intently. He'd noticed names tended to be the same across languages, save those that meant something else. "C'Thun."
Cursed Old Gods, let her understand at least that much...
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
Acherontia stalked through the streets of Shattrath City, Phuukun close behind her, always aware for any hint of danger that might befall his mistress. The inn was far enough away from the center of the city that the journey normally took twenty minutes, but the warlock stretched it out with unnecessary twists and turns, glancing back over her shoulder at every corner to ensure she wasn't being followed. Almost an hour after she left Yichimet in Thrallmar, she walked through the door of the inn to find the common room deserted.
The warlock bought a flagon of the horrible, sour-tasting ale from the tired barkeep and seated herself by the cold hearth, watching the door and collecting her thoughts. She felt herself being tossed between despair and anger - she had finally allowed Yichimet to see him, only to have the shaman tell her that, for Melchisedech, death was the only thing that could be done.
No, not death, thought Acherontia. Murder. And only because it's what your damn "spirits" see. What do you see, Yichimet?
She wouldn't allow herself to believe that the shaman was right. His was a world of animal blood and bones, feathers and totems and dirt. All that was to be found in nature - why shouldn't he see Melchisedech as anything other than something to be purged? Acherontia swallowed another mouthful of the ale with a grimace. To a Tauren, what she and Melchisedech used to be was an abomination. And to a shaman - where in nature did the dead never die? The Forsaken were a violation of whatever natural laws there were. No, there was no hope for Melchisedech in Yichimet's world.
Now, far away from the Tauren, it was easier. The warlock was able to forget that she was young when she was not standing in front of him; she was able to forget that he had no doubt battled in the spiritual realm as well as the physical for far longer than she herself had been alive. Now, alone, she was able to forget everything except the one thing that was truth to her at this moment - Melchisedech must be saved.
She left the mug of ale unfinished on the table and mounted the creaking stairs to the upper floor. Ignoring the sounds of panting and moaning coming from more than one of the dirty, shabby rooms, she unlocked the door to the one she shared with Melchisedech and opened it to find him pacing the floor and muttering to himself. It wasn't his usual gibberish language, though - he was repeating the words she had been teaching him. He was so focused on trying to remember them all that he didn't see her enter, and as she stood there in the doorway and watched him she noted with a pang that the word he came back to most often was her own name.
Acherontia closed the door quietly, but he finally noticed her with a start and stopped his pacing. His shoulders were slumped and his back was curved as his entire body was buckled under the weight of his frustration - no longer did he stand tall as he once did. He looked to be a man utterly defeated, and across his face were splashed the words that his mind could not seem to figure out how to put in his mouth. The faint, weary smile that she gave him was sad and soft as he pleaded.
Help me.
The warlock bought a flagon of the horrible, sour-tasting ale from the tired barkeep and seated herself by the cold hearth, watching the door and collecting her thoughts. She felt herself being tossed between despair and anger - she had finally allowed Yichimet to see him, only to have the shaman tell her that, for Melchisedech, death was the only thing that could be done.
No, not death, thought Acherontia. Murder. And only because it's what your damn "spirits" see. What do you see, Yichimet?
She wouldn't allow herself to believe that the shaman was right. His was a world of animal blood and bones, feathers and totems and dirt. All that was to be found in nature - why shouldn't he see Melchisedech as anything other than something to be purged? Acherontia swallowed another mouthful of the ale with a grimace. To a Tauren, what she and Melchisedech used to be was an abomination. And to a shaman - where in nature did the dead never die? The Forsaken were a violation of whatever natural laws there were. No, there was no hope for Melchisedech in Yichimet's world.
Now, far away from the Tauren, it was easier. The warlock was able to forget that she was young when she was not standing in front of him; she was able to forget that he had no doubt battled in the spiritual realm as well as the physical for far longer than she herself had been alive. Now, alone, she was able to forget everything except the one thing that was truth to her at this moment - Melchisedech must be saved.
She left the mug of ale unfinished on the table and mounted the creaking stairs to the upper floor. Ignoring the sounds of panting and moaning coming from more than one of the dirty, shabby rooms, she unlocked the door to the one she shared with Melchisedech and opened it to find him pacing the floor and muttering to himself. It wasn't his usual gibberish language, though - he was repeating the words she had been teaching him. He was so focused on trying to remember them all that he didn't see her enter, and as she stood there in the doorway and watched him she noted with a pang that the word he came back to most often was her own name.
Acherontia closed the door quietly, but he finally noticed her with a start and stopped his pacing. His shoulders were slumped and his back was curved as his entire body was buckled under the weight of his frustration - no longer did he stand tall as he once did. He looked to be a man utterly defeated, and across his face were splashed the words that his mind could not seem to figure out how to put in his mouth. The faint, weary smile that she gave him was sad and soft as he pleaded.
Help me.
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
He had walked the Long Walk, following a new Spirit on its way to its new home, speaking with it for days and days. The new spirit would be closer to the world, and so able to tell him more about the cleft in the world's surface that was the priest Melchisedech.
Now he remembered only the green of the path, the black of the Spirit, the confusion then terror it had sent his way, wordlessly. He has opened a terror. Omens floated in and out of Yichimet's mind as it began to lose the dreaming walk: a long tendril of fog, waving like a tentacle; eyes-not-eyes, terrible deep pools of nothing draining all of color; a feeling of dread, disgust, the deepest despair he had ever known.
When he woke, his body was weak, hungry but nauseated, and he had learned too much to keep his mind clear. He wandered outside of the tent to smoke the peacebloom pipe and smell the fresh air and chew a piece of dried salted meat.
And the next day the Forsaken had let the priest out of whatever prison she had been keeping him in. Yichimet heard her voice over his stone, and felt the priest's presence, and went to meet them.
When he found the priest, standing at the wyvern rider in Thrallmar, staring at the sky and ignoring him, he saw what so scared and confused the Spirit: the priest was a hole in the world, a Nothing wrapped with Everything; Yichimet did not understand it. He felt all his hairs stand on end. When he was not looking directly at him, Yichimet thought he saw tentacles and eyes waving around the priest, but could never be sure that it was so.
He yelled at Acherontia while the priest babbled and shouted gibberish. He used words he would not have if he wasn't so terrified of the things he was seeing; he called her girl, and dead one, and lost his temper and would have killed the priest there if she hadn't been pleading so hard.
And when they both flew off, he waited mere minutes before mounting a wyvern to follow them, to find where they were staying, so that if they both left the room again soon, he could enter it and find the book the priest had muttered about before he lost his mind.
Now he remembered only the green of the path, the black of the Spirit, the confusion then terror it had sent his way, wordlessly. He has opened a terror. Omens floated in and out of Yichimet's mind as it began to lose the dreaming walk: a long tendril of fog, waving like a tentacle; eyes-not-eyes, terrible deep pools of nothing draining all of color; a feeling of dread, disgust, the deepest despair he had ever known.
When he woke, his body was weak, hungry but nauseated, and he had learned too much to keep his mind clear. He wandered outside of the tent to smoke the peacebloom pipe and smell the fresh air and chew a piece of dried salted meat.
And the next day the Forsaken had let the priest out of whatever prison she had been keeping him in. Yichimet heard her voice over his stone, and felt the priest's presence, and went to meet them.
When he found the priest, standing at the wyvern rider in Thrallmar, staring at the sky and ignoring him, he saw what so scared and confused the Spirit: the priest was a hole in the world, a Nothing wrapped with Everything; Yichimet did not understand it. He felt all his hairs stand on end. When he was not looking directly at him, Yichimet thought he saw tentacles and eyes waving around the priest, but could never be sure that it was so.
He yelled at Acherontia while the priest babbled and shouted gibberish. He used words he would not have if he wasn't so terrified of the things he was seeing; he called her girl, and dead one, and lost his temper and would have killed the priest there if she hadn't been pleading so hard.
And when they both flew off, he waited mere minutes before mounting a wyvern to follow them, to find where they were staying, so that if they both left the room again soon, he could enter it and find the book the priest had muttered about before he lost his mind.
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
"Where is the book?" Acherontia pressed her palms together in front of her and then opened them so they were facing the dingy ceiling. Melchisedech's brow furrowed; the priest dropped his eyes to her hands, then looked her full in the face and shook his head. Acherontia sighed, then repeated the gesture again with exaggerated movements. "BOOK," she said, slowly, drawing the syllable out over several seconds. The warlock lowered her face and wrinkled her brow, running a finger over the imaginary pages and turning them, nodding to herself while feigning enlightenment from what she was "learning".
As she raised her eyes to Melchisedech once again, she thought she caught a flash of color in him that she had come to associate with concern - No, she thought. Not concern, but...panic? The priest hesitated, then said "Buk." But he didn't move.
Acherontia smiled encouragingly at him and nodded in the way that made her stomach turn at the thought of having to use such over-emphasized gestures to communicate with Melchisedech as though he were a dog or a child. "Book," she said, "yes. Where is it?"
There it was again - the slight tightening of his brow, that lightning flash of unease. "Booook?" he asked.
"Yes, book! Where book, where is the book?" The warlock tried to keep her voice calm, but she felt as though Melchisedech was stalling - Yichimet's angry voice echoed in her mind as she recalled how he had ordered her to find it - "I don't care what you do with it, fool, just get it away from him!" - and she realized for the first time that doing so might be harder than she had expected.
Melchisedech turned toward his satchel that lay on the floor near the bed, then hesitantly went over to it and began to rummage through his belongings. He withdrew a leather-bound volume from it and held it out to Acherontia. "Book."
The warlock took the book from his hand and peered at the cover. " 'The Old Gods and the Ordering of Azeroth' ?" she asked, puzzled. She remembered him picking it up from a table deep within Blackrock Mountain - but he had already been changed by then. He babbled constantly about the Old Gods, though...perhaps this was what Yichimet had been talking about. She glanced up to see Melchisedech watching her expectantly and gave him a tiny smile, seating herself on the bed. "I read, yes?" she asked him.
The priest nodded at her. "Read. Yes." Acherontia opened the volume and strengthened the spell which filled her eyes with the green light of Kilrogg and enabled her to see. As she turned to the first pages, Melchisedech moved to sit at the lone table and stare off into the middle distance.
Soon, Acherontia's ears were filled with the sound of his finger-bones scratching on the wood.
As she raised her eyes to Melchisedech once again, she thought she caught a flash of color in him that she had come to associate with concern - No, she thought. Not concern, but...panic? The priest hesitated, then said "Buk." But he didn't move.
Acherontia smiled encouragingly at him and nodded in the way that made her stomach turn at the thought of having to use such over-emphasized gestures to communicate with Melchisedech as though he were a dog or a child. "Book," she said, "yes. Where is it?"
There it was again - the slight tightening of his brow, that lightning flash of unease. "Booook?" he asked.
"Yes, book! Where book, where is the book?" The warlock tried to keep her voice calm, but she felt as though Melchisedech was stalling - Yichimet's angry voice echoed in her mind as she recalled how he had ordered her to find it - "I don't care what you do with it, fool, just get it away from him!" - and she realized for the first time that doing so might be harder than she had expected.
Melchisedech turned toward his satchel that lay on the floor near the bed, then hesitantly went over to it and began to rummage through his belongings. He withdrew a leather-bound volume from it and held it out to Acherontia. "Book."
The warlock took the book from his hand and peered at the cover. " 'The Old Gods and the Ordering of Azeroth' ?" she asked, puzzled. She remembered him picking it up from a table deep within Blackrock Mountain - but he had already been changed by then. He babbled constantly about the Old Gods, though...perhaps this was what Yichimet had been talking about. She glanced up to see Melchisedech watching her expectantly and gave him a tiny smile, seating herself on the bed. "I read, yes?" she asked him.
The priest nodded at her. "Read. Yes." Acherontia opened the volume and strengthened the spell which filled her eyes with the green light of Kilrogg and enabled her to see. As she turned to the first pages, Melchisedech moved to sit at the lone table and stare off into the middle distance.
Soon, Acherontia's ears were filled with the sound of his finger-bones scratching on the wood.
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Keeper Of Lore
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
Book.
The word made his head hurt. He was confused by it. He knew its meaning, but there was something else, almost a second definition, lurking behind his eyeballs, and he could not conjure that definition no matter how hard he tried.
He knew, too, that it was important. Whatever it was that he could not think of had something to do with why the world was like this. If he could just remember, he might be able to bring Acherontia back to Azeroth, make everything right. He could let her speak correctly again, instead of being forced to learn this alien tongue. He could save her.
The frustration only grew. He was utterly helpless. He could not speak. He could not think. He could only act, and even then, he needed Acherontia to make sure he did not harm one of the Grim in their peregrine shapes. Squamous and repugnant as this world was, it seemed to have allies.
Except Yichimet.
Melchisedech's teeth ground together when he thought of the shaman. The tentacled creature that called itself Yichimet wanted to hurt Acherontia, he knew it. He would not let that happen.
Acting purely on instinct, Melchisedech went to his satchel, drew forth the Book of Names. He flipped it open, cursed when he realized it was all written in the strange gibberish... and then seemed mildly bemused when he realized he could remember every word as if it were written in his mind.
Excited, he took the tome to Acherontia, pointing at the words and at his head, trying to make her understand that he could translate, that they could use this book as a language key.
She was staring at him in horror and shock. Why? He cocked his head to the side, unable to grasp the effect the Book might have on her...
The word made his head hurt. He was confused by it. He knew its meaning, but there was something else, almost a second definition, lurking behind his eyeballs, and he could not conjure that definition no matter how hard he tried.
He knew, too, that it was important. Whatever it was that he could not think of had something to do with why the world was like this. If he could just remember, he might be able to bring Acherontia back to Azeroth, make everything right. He could let her speak correctly again, instead of being forced to learn this alien tongue. He could save her.
The frustration only grew. He was utterly helpless. He could not speak. He could not think. He could only act, and even then, he needed Acherontia to make sure he did not harm one of the Grim in their peregrine shapes. Squamous and repugnant as this world was, it seemed to have allies.
Except Yichimet.
Melchisedech's teeth ground together when he thought of the shaman. The tentacled creature that called itself Yichimet wanted to hurt Acherontia, he knew it. He would not let that happen.
Acting purely on instinct, Melchisedech went to his satchel, drew forth the Book of Names. He flipped it open, cursed when he realized it was all written in the strange gibberish... and then seemed mildly bemused when he realized he could remember every word as if it were written in his mind.
Excited, he took the tome to Acherontia, pointing at the words and at his head, trying to make her understand that he could translate, that they could use this book as a language key.
She was staring at him in horror and shock. Why? He cocked his head to the side, unable to grasp the effect the Book might have on her...
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Keeper Of Lore
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
Acherontia exploded from her chair, knocking it over in her hasty, panicked scrabbling to get away from the arcane volume that lay open on the table in front of her. Too late? she asked herself as she began to pace, her feet tracing over the same path they had walked for the past seven nights. It was the same question she always asked herself, but each night she had forced herself to read further, deeper into the Book than she had the night before. Each night, the answer had always been no.
With shaking, clawed fingers, Acherontia snatched the book from the table and stuffed it into her satchel by touch alone - she wouldn't even look at it anymore...tonight, at least. The door slammed behind her as she exited the room and stalked through the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the streets of Shattrath. She looked neither left nor right, but moved swiftly through the sparse crowd that slowly began to thicken as she approached the center of the city and the one place that was always able to calm her mind after her delve into the darkness which held - which must hold, she repeated fiercely to herself - the way to save Melchisedech.
The peace that washed over her as she stepped into the Chamber of Light stirred an ache of memories within her that soothed the gnashing of her mind in spite of the pain they evoked. Her mother's hands. Simon resting his rough, calloused palm on the swollen curve of her pregnant belly. Melchisedech laughing with her in a tavern in Booty Bay. Acherontia allowed the green fel-fire in her eye sockets to die as her pace slowed, slowed...she found herself by one of the gray stone walls and pressed herself back against it, sliding down its smoothness to sit and gaze upon the beauty of the Naaru.
A'dal's voice was at once music and not-music, and it wrapped around the warlock's awareness like a scarf of diaphanous material, like a blanket of the heaviest, warmest wool. She clung to the memory of Melchisedech and allowed all the names, the incantations which marched through her brain and glared up at her from the pages of the Book to fade away as she tipped her head back and closed her eyelids over the gaping blackness of her hollowed-out sockets. She was safe from it, for now.
The fel-fire sprang to life in her eyes as she flicked them open in sudden realization. Melchisedech... she whispered, aloud or silently, she could not tell.
Gods... Acherontia thought. Could it be enough?
With shaking, clawed fingers, Acherontia snatched the book from the table and stuffed it into her satchel by touch alone - she wouldn't even look at it anymore...tonight, at least. The door slammed behind her as she exited the room and stalked through the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the streets of Shattrath. She looked neither left nor right, but moved swiftly through the sparse crowd that slowly began to thicken as she approached the center of the city and the one place that was always able to calm her mind after her delve into the darkness which held - which must hold, she repeated fiercely to herself - the way to save Melchisedech.
The peace that washed over her as she stepped into the Chamber of Light stirred an ache of memories within her that soothed the gnashing of her mind in spite of the pain they evoked. Her mother's hands. Simon resting his rough, calloused palm on the swollen curve of her pregnant belly. Melchisedech laughing with her in a tavern in Booty Bay. Acherontia allowed the green fel-fire in her eye sockets to die as her pace slowed, slowed...she found herself by one of the gray stone walls and pressed herself back against it, sliding down its smoothness to sit and gaze upon the beauty of the Naaru.
A'dal's voice was at once music and not-music, and it wrapped around the warlock's awareness like a scarf of diaphanous material, like a blanket of the heaviest, warmest wool. She clung to the memory of Melchisedech and allowed all the names, the incantations which marched through her brain and glared up at her from the pages of the Book to fade away as she tipped her head back and closed her eyelids over the gaping blackness of her hollowed-out sockets. She was safe from it, for now.
The fel-fire sprang to life in her eyes as she flicked them open in sudden realization. Melchisedech... she whispered, aloud or silently, she could not tell.
Gods... Acherontia thought. Could it be enough?
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Keeper Of Lore
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
This is a nightmare.
Melchisedech felt like he was floating, no sense of pressure on his limbs. His eyes would not open. Something crawled across his brain, and he could feel the shadowy tendrils grasping at his memories.
Wake up.
The voice came from afar, and yet from within. Melchisedech felt it and heard it and knew it, all at the same time. A dim warmth began to suffuse his limbs, seeping into his fingers and toes.
Release him.
It did not speak to the priest. Melchisedech felt and heard the tendrils on his mind hiss and curl away from the warmth as it crept toward his mind. He felt his limbs jerking, but he had no control. He was a bystander.
I abjure thee. Release this priest, and return to thine own realm.
Agony stabbed through his mind as the tendrils clutched ever harder to keep their prize. He cried out, or thought he cried out, and the pleasant warmth crept ever closer.
It falls to thee, priest. Choose.
Melchisedech did not understand, but the pain hurt. He instinctively flinched toward the warmth, away from the agony, and the warmth leapt for his mind. His world went white-hot, and he screamed.
When he woke, he was laying on the cobblestones of the Terrace of Light in Shattrath City, looking up at the glowing form of A'dal. The warmth touched his mind, ever so briefly, but there was no intrusion in the touch. It was a friendly hand on his shoulder, a kiss on the cheek. He felt comforted, safe... peaceful.
He looked up to Acherontia, who knelt over him with concern etched on every feature. He smiled at her, his very being suffused with his love. "Acherontia..." He reched up to touch her cheek, and sighed contentedly. "Thank you."
She smiled, and cradled him in her arms, the two of them holding one another there before A'dal. Melchisedech felt the comforting presence of the naaru blessing their unique relationship, blessing each of them with its benevolence.
Melchisedech continued to feel the peace of A'dal even long after he and Acherontia had left the naaru's presence.
Melchisedech felt like he was floating, no sense of pressure on his limbs. His eyes would not open. Something crawled across his brain, and he could feel the shadowy tendrils grasping at his memories.
Wake up.
The voice came from afar, and yet from within. Melchisedech felt it and heard it and knew it, all at the same time. A dim warmth began to suffuse his limbs, seeping into his fingers and toes.
Release him.
It did not speak to the priest. Melchisedech felt and heard the tendrils on his mind hiss and curl away from the warmth as it crept toward his mind. He felt his limbs jerking, but he had no control. He was a bystander.
I abjure thee. Release this priest, and return to thine own realm.
Agony stabbed through his mind as the tendrils clutched ever harder to keep their prize. He cried out, or thought he cried out, and the pleasant warmth crept ever closer.
It falls to thee, priest. Choose.
Melchisedech did not understand, but the pain hurt. He instinctively flinched toward the warmth, away from the agony, and the warmth leapt for his mind. His world went white-hot, and he screamed.
When he woke, he was laying on the cobblestones of the Terrace of Light in Shattrath City, looking up at the glowing form of A'dal. The warmth touched his mind, ever so briefly, but there was no intrusion in the touch. It was a friendly hand on his shoulder, a kiss on the cheek. He felt comforted, safe... peaceful.
He looked up to Acherontia, who knelt over him with concern etched on every feature. He smiled at her, his very being suffused with his love. "Acherontia..." He reched up to touch her cheek, and sighed contentedly. "Thank you."
She smiled, and cradled him in her arms, the two of them holding one another there before A'dal. Melchisedech felt the comforting presence of the naaru blessing their unique relationship, blessing each of them with its benevolence.
Melchisedech continued to feel the peace of A'dal even long after he and Acherontia had left the naaru's presence.
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Keeper Of Lore
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Re: The Old Ones by Acherontia
by Wenstell
Wenstell took a step from the witch's portal and shielded his eyes. Spitting on the floor, he glanced in A'dal's direction. A dull pain pulsed in his head. Hurriedly, Wenstell moved to the lower portions of the city. The sounds of the vendors and visitors fighting to be heard above those of orphaned children and refugees, all unheard as Wenstell was deep in thought.
Last he'd heard, the priest was somewhere in Shattrath City. Alone, touched with the gift and probably struggling. It wouldn't take long to track him down, tales of the priest's sickness would have spread through the dark corners of the city and that underbelly could be slit open to expose what he sought.
Wenstell took a step from the witch's portal and shielded his eyes. Spitting on the floor, he glanced in A'dal's direction. A dull pain pulsed in his head. Hurriedly, Wenstell moved to the lower portions of the city. The sounds of the vendors and visitors fighting to be heard above those of orphaned children and refugees, all unheard as Wenstell was deep in thought.
Last he'd heard, the priest was somewhere in Shattrath City. Alone, touched with the gift and probably struggling. It wouldn't take long to track him down, tales of the priest's sickness would have spread through the dark corners of the city and that underbelly could be slit open to expose what he sought.