Acherontia lies on her back near the decrepit wagon, her orb of Fel-light floating and dancing above her supine form. She stares down at herself through the demon-eye, sees her right hand tucked inside her robes over her heart, sees her left stretched out beside her, dagger in hand, tip poised against the floor. Sees her own hand scratch another mark into the stone.
Another beat.
Sees her chest rise and fall with each breath, sees her own lips moving as she channels the spell.
Beat.
Sees her hair fanned out from her face in a dark cloud, gaping eyes that see nothing and everything, face marred by old teeth marks that will never heal.
...Beat.
The Eye begins to fade, and with a curse, Acherontia begins calling it up again.
Beat.
The warlock meticulously lays the dagger down upon the stones and rests her left hand on her lower abdomen. Feels, through her robes, the linen stiffened with dried blood and ichor, rotting just as she is rotting. Reminds herself to change it again after - beat - the clock strikes the next hour.
Acherontia picks up the dagger once again, prepares to scratch the next mark, waits for the next beat.
...nothing.
The hand holding the knife begins to tremble.
She lets the Eye disappear and closes her eyes. Concentrates.
Running, fighting, throwing spells, falling under a warrior's blade, draining the life out of a fleeing foe...
Nothing.
The thrill of flying, soaring over the beautiful landscape of Mulgore, dropping from the air suddenly after her flight from the cannon, the ground rushing up to strike her in the face, wandering, lost in the spirit world, Melchisedech calling her back, should she go, should she not, eyes open, he touches her shoulder, panic, yelling, turning away, anger, hate him, anger...
...nothing.
A panicked sob escapes the tiny woman's throat. She presses her hand harder against her chest, groping for the thing that has to be there, that must be there...her breath startes to come faster, in short, frightened gasps, she squeezes her eyes tighter and reaches back further...
Face to face, warmth...Light, she can barely remember...hands tangling in her hair, picking her up, carrying her, Simon, strong arms encircling her waist, frantic kisses, Simon, eyes closed, heart pounds, Simon, sweat, panting, Simon, whimpering, need, Simon, Simon, Simon...
Beat.
Her breath explodes from her in relief. Beat. She isn't lost, not yet. Beat. Beat. Beat.
The clock strikes the hour, the tolling thundering and echoing through the tunnels.
Acherontia straightens her robe and sits up, laying the dagger to one side. Conjuring the Eye once again, she stares at the floor and counts the marks.
Counts them again.
She sits motionless for long minutes. Four fewer than last week. Ten fewer than the week before that. And the week before... The panic begins to rise again, slowly, creeping up to choke her.
Acherontia draws her knees into her chest and wraps her arms around them. She is losing herself. Leaning back against the wagon wheel, she begins to tremble. She feels very small.
She does not move again for a long time.
A Human Reaction by Acherontia
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Keeper Of Lore
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Re: A Human Reaction by Acherontia
by Melchisedech
Melchisedech walked through the streets of the Undercity, large tome in hand and open. His eyes scanned the pages, barely registering where he was walking, navigating through peripheral vision and instinct. His research regarding Pandaren had been mostly fruitless thus far, but he was unwilling to give it up.
Entering the alcove where Acherontia kept "her" wagon, Melchisedech nearly tripped over the corner of a rug turned up on the stone floor. Angrily, he kicked at the offending fabric, flipping it up more. With a sigh, he calmed himself. Minor irritations did not used to get to him so. He used to have more discipline.
Gently, he closed the book and rested it on one of the wagon's small shelves. He knelt, grasping the corners of the rug. Getting annoyed with inanimate objects served no purpose. If there was a problem, fix it.
Melchisedech flipped the rug up to straighten it, glimpsed something, paused. He moved the rug, running his fingertips over the series of scratches in the floor. Tallies. Acherontia's, no doubt. The rug concealed them well. Something she wanted hidden, then... and not likely from random passers by. This was something she wanted hidden from him.
Melchisedech sat back. What did Acherontia have to hide? Something to do with her life, no doubt. Melchisedech had never been the most tolerant regarding her preoccupation with her previous life. What could it be? He ran his bony claws over the scratches again. Tallies. Years? No, far too many. Days spent as Forsaken? Was she trying some sort of calendar? No, still too many.
Melchisedech shrugged and resumed replacing the rug. What could she be tallying? As he smoothed the corners of the carpet, ensuring he would not trip over it again, he resolved to ask her when next he saw her.
Melchisedech walked through the streets of the Undercity, large tome in hand and open. His eyes scanned the pages, barely registering where he was walking, navigating through peripheral vision and instinct. His research regarding Pandaren had been mostly fruitless thus far, but he was unwilling to give it up.
Entering the alcove where Acherontia kept "her" wagon, Melchisedech nearly tripped over the corner of a rug turned up on the stone floor. Angrily, he kicked at the offending fabric, flipping it up more. With a sigh, he calmed himself. Minor irritations did not used to get to him so. He used to have more discipline.
Gently, he closed the book and rested it on one of the wagon's small shelves. He knelt, grasping the corners of the rug. Getting annoyed with inanimate objects served no purpose. If there was a problem, fix it.
Melchisedech flipped the rug up to straighten it, glimpsed something, paused. He moved the rug, running his fingertips over the series of scratches in the floor. Tallies. Acherontia's, no doubt. The rug concealed them well. Something she wanted hidden, then... and not likely from random passers by. This was something she wanted hidden from him.
Melchisedech sat back. What did Acherontia have to hide? Something to do with her life, no doubt. Melchisedech had never been the most tolerant regarding her preoccupation with her previous life. What could it be? He ran his bony claws over the scratches again. Tallies. Years? No, far too many. Days spent as Forsaken? Was she trying some sort of calendar? No, still too many.
Melchisedech shrugged and resumed replacing the rug. What could she be tallying? As he smoothed the corners of the carpet, ensuring he would not trip over it again, he resolved to ask her when next he saw her.
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Keeper Of Lore
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Re: A Human Reaction by Acherontia
"I would beg a single favor from you."
Acherontia turned to Melchisedech, the lights of the Undercity's Magic Quarter casting an eerie glow on her pale features. "...what is it?"
"You were wounded this evening." Many Scarlets lay dead in their Monastery, and the chapeau of High Inquisitor Whitemane rested in Melchisedech's bank. "Let me tend you."
Acherontia shook her head. "It was not serious."
"Your spirit left your body."
"It came back. It was not even a difficult choice this time."
Melchisedech nodded. "So you did. But I beg of you, allow me to tend your wounds. Let me give them the attention they deserve, not simply a hasty spell of mending hurled like an arrow in the heat of battle." Acherontia scratched at her abdomen distractedly, but Melchisedech continued. "Let my hands bind your wounds. Let my fingers knead the ointments and healing energies directly into your body. Let me treat you not as a combat medic, but as a physician."
"And what about yourself? Why do you not give those attentions to yourself?" Acherontia's voice was tight, clearly stalling for time.
Melchisedech sighed. "I shall tend myself, as I have many nights before. Would it make you more comfortable to see me tend myself first? I assure you, it is neither unusual nor intrusive."
Acherontia looked at him pleadingly. "I am not comfortable with-... I mean, I was not..."
Melchisedech cut her off. "I shall meet you at the wagon when... and if... you decide to rest." Turning, he began to walk away.
"But after Arathi... you may." Melchisedech stopped and turned back to her. "I am not used to physical contact. Except for the enemy. And, occasionally, you, but not..." Melchisedech smiled softly, and Acherontia threw up her hands in frustration. "Oh, I don't know!"
Melchisedech nodded. "I shall not be intrusive. If what I do makes you uncomfortable, all you will have to do is ask, and I will stop."
Acherontia shook her head. "I do not understand why you wish this...your spells are sufficient, but...you are a healer after all. I know you take better care of me than I ever would." She looked embarrassed.
"I do not seek you harm. I do not seek to make you uncomfortable. I have only your best interests in mind, Acherontia. You have been receiving only my spells for some time now. Especially after Arathi, I think you could well benefit from a more relaxing and thorough session."
Acherontia sighed. "Very well. I am in your hands."
Melchisedech smiled. Together, they walked back to the wagon.
Acherontia turned to Melchisedech, the lights of the Undercity's Magic Quarter casting an eerie glow on her pale features. "...what is it?"
"You were wounded this evening." Many Scarlets lay dead in their Monastery, and the chapeau of High Inquisitor Whitemane rested in Melchisedech's bank. "Let me tend you."
Acherontia shook her head. "It was not serious."
"Your spirit left your body."
"It came back. It was not even a difficult choice this time."
Melchisedech nodded. "So you did. But I beg of you, allow me to tend your wounds. Let me give them the attention they deserve, not simply a hasty spell of mending hurled like an arrow in the heat of battle." Acherontia scratched at her abdomen distractedly, but Melchisedech continued. "Let my hands bind your wounds. Let my fingers knead the ointments and healing energies directly into your body. Let me treat you not as a combat medic, but as a physician."
"And what about yourself? Why do you not give those attentions to yourself?" Acherontia's voice was tight, clearly stalling for time.
Melchisedech sighed. "I shall tend myself, as I have many nights before. Would it make you more comfortable to see me tend myself first? I assure you, it is neither unusual nor intrusive."
Acherontia looked at him pleadingly. "I am not comfortable with-... I mean, I was not..."
Melchisedech cut her off. "I shall meet you at the wagon when... and if... you decide to rest." Turning, he began to walk away.
"But after Arathi... you may." Melchisedech stopped and turned back to her. "I am not used to physical contact. Except for the enemy. And, occasionally, you, but not..." Melchisedech smiled softly, and Acherontia threw up her hands in frustration. "Oh, I don't know!"
Melchisedech nodded. "I shall not be intrusive. If what I do makes you uncomfortable, all you will have to do is ask, and I will stop."
Acherontia shook her head. "I do not understand why you wish this...your spells are sufficient, but...you are a healer after all. I know you take better care of me than I ever would." She looked embarrassed.
"I do not seek you harm. I do not seek to make you uncomfortable. I have only your best interests in mind, Acherontia. You have been receiving only my spells for some time now. Especially after Arathi, I think you could well benefit from a more relaxing and thorough session."
Acherontia sighed. "Very well. I am in your hands."
Melchisedech smiled. Together, they walked back to the wagon.
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Keeper Of Lore
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- Posts: 1749
Re: A Human Reaction by Acherontia
"I... um... "
"Just relax, Acherontia. Let my skills do their work."
Acherontia lay on the floor of the Undercity alcove, blankets and rugs spread beneath her to cushion her bony frame from the unforgiving granite. Melchisedech knelt beside her, another blanket rolled beneath his knees. Acherontia's robe was unfastened at the neck, the laces and buttons pulled apart to give the priest access to her back.
"I am more than a little concerned, Melchisedech, about exactly what 'skills' you are planning to utilize."
Melchisedech smiled. "Not those." From a satchel at his side, Melchisedech removed a small roll of soft woolen bandages, a few bottles, and a stick of incense. The priest grabbed Jubyap, Acherontia's imp, by the throat and shook him. "Light." The imp, yelping, conjured a bit of fire, enough for Melchisedech to set the incense burning. He released the demon and wedged the incense between two loose stones.
The scent of sage filled the small alcove, and Melchisedech opened one of the bottles. The sage almost overpowered the stench of whatever oil the priest possessed as he poured a generous amount on his hands and began rubbing them together.
"What IS that?" Acherontia shifted uncomfortably.
"Eucalyptus. It is not cheap. It is an unguent, and a very little goes a very long way." He moved his hands toward her back. "This will sting, at first, and then it will tingle." His fingers began gently applying the substance to the wounds on her back, the few marks from swords or arrows wielded by cowardly Scarlets striking from behind. Acherontia hissed a little when the oil was first applied, but she did not react much or again.
"It feels cold."
Melchisedech nodded. "It is. Cold hands warm the unguent poorly, I am afraid. Do you know why we are so cold, Acherontia?"
The warlock shrugged. "Because we are dead. The dead are cold."
"Ah, but there is more to it than that. You see, what warms us when we are alive is our blood. It is hot. Surely you have felt how hot it is when it sprays on you, when you smash a dwarf's skull in, or when your claws tear into a human."
Acherontia shifted uncomfortably and did not reply.
Melchisedech lifted a second bottle. He plucked the cork from the neck, and a much more pleasant, if musky, smell filled the alcove. "Essence of briarthorn. Its natural healing properties work much like a potion, except when spread over the skin rather than ingested, it absorbs and heals not only wounds, but also tightened muscles and imbalances in the humours, such as blood or bile."
As he began rubbing the oil onto his own dead fingers, he continued. "As for the heat in our bodies, we are colder because our hearts do not beat as they once did. The heart is not only the seat of emotion for the body, but also the source of our blood. That is why, when stabbed there, we die." He absently touched his own chest, before beginning to very gently knead the healing ointment onto Acherontia. She stiffened again at his touch and his words.
As he worked, Melchisedech let small flows of healing magic leave his body, not in sporadic bursts as in combat, but slowly, more naturally. "Can you feel that?" Acherontia nodded. "That is my magic. Released slowly like this, it encourages and assists the body's natural inclination to be whole, rather than forcing that inclination to work. It is healthier."
He shifted slightly, and in doing so, he moved the rug on the floor of the alcove. He noticed the marks once more. For a moment, he almost asked her about them, almost pried. She noticed his indecision, and pushed herself up a little.
"Melchisedech?"
The priest smiled and shook his head. "Nothing, my dear. Merely remembering my brief but intense training as a surgeon." With his foot, Melchisedech draped the rug back over the marks. They were not important now.
When he finished spreading the ointments and salves on her back, Melchisedech fastened up her robe and bade her sit up. With gentle hands, far gentler than his bony talons would suggest, he bound the wounds on her arms and legs. All the while, Acherontia sat tensely.
Eventually, Melchisedech stood and brushed a stray hair from her face. "There. You will find yourself much improved in the morning. You will not be as stiff, and you will possess fewer scars."
Acherontia nodded. "Thank you."
The priest smiled. "Of course, my dear. Good night."
"Good night, Melchisedech."
The priest moved to his place in the alcove,and Acherontia moved to hers.
Pulling his blanket over his skeletal frame, he sighed softly.
"Just relax, Acherontia. Let my skills do their work."
Acherontia lay on the floor of the Undercity alcove, blankets and rugs spread beneath her to cushion her bony frame from the unforgiving granite. Melchisedech knelt beside her, another blanket rolled beneath his knees. Acherontia's robe was unfastened at the neck, the laces and buttons pulled apart to give the priest access to her back.
"I am more than a little concerned, Melchisedech, about exactly what 'skills' you are planning to utilize."
Melchisedech smiled. "Not those." From a satchel at his side, Melchisedech removed a small roll of soft woolen bandages, a few bottles, and a stick of incense. The priest grabbed Jubyap, Acherontia's imp, by the throat and shook him. "Light." The imp, yelping, conjured a bit of fire, enough for Melchisedech to set the incense burning. He released the demon and wedged the incense between two loose stones.
The scent of sage filled the small alcove, and Melchisedech opened one of the bottles. The sage almost overpowered the stench of whatever oil the priest possessed as he poured a generous amount on his hands and began rubbing them together.
"What IS that?" Acherontia shifted uncomfortably.
"Eucalyptus. It is not cheap. It is an unguent, and a very little goes a very long way." He moved his hands toward her back. "This will sting, at first, and then it will tingle." His fingers began gently applying the substance to the wounds on her back, the few marks from swords or arrows wielded by cowardly Scarlets striking from behind. Acherontia hissed a little when the oil was first applied, but she did not react much or again.
"It feels cold."
Melchisedech nodded. "It is. Cold hands warm the unguent poorly, I am afraid. Do you know why we are so cold, Acherontia?"
The warlock shrugged. "Because we are dead. The dead are cold."
"Ah, but there is more to it than that. You see, what warms us when we are alive is our blood. It is hot. Surely you have felt how hot it is when it sprays on you, when you smash a dwarf's skull in, or when your claws tear into a human."
Acherontia shifted uncomfortably and did not reply.
Melchisedech lifted a second bottle. He plucked the cork from the neck, and a much more pleasant, if musky, smell filled the alcove. "Essence of briarthorn. Its natural healing properties work much like a potion, except when spread over the skin rather than ingested, it absorbs and heals not only wounds, but also tightened muscles and imbalances in the humours, such as blood or bile."
As he began rubbing the oil onto his own dead fingers, he continued. "As for the heat in our bodies, we are colder because our hearts do not beat as they once did. The heart is not only the seat of emotion for the body, but also the source of our blood. That is why, when stabbed there, we die." He absently touched his own chest, before beginning to very gently knead the healing ointment onto Acherontia. She stiffened again at his touch and his words.
As he worked, Melchisedech let small flows of healing magic leave his body, not in sporadic bursts as in combat, but slowly, more naturally. "Can you feel that?" Acherontia nodded. "That is my magic. Released slowly like this, it encourages and assists the body's natural inclination to be whole, rather than forcing that inclination to work. It is healthier."
He shifted slightly, and in doing so, he moved the rug on the floor of the alcove. He noticed the marks once more. For a moment, he almost asked her about them, almost pried. She noticed his indecision, and pushed herself up a little.
"Melchisedech?"
The priest smiled and shook his head. "Nothing, my dear. Merely remembering my brief but intense training as a surgeon." With his foot, Melchisedech draped the rug back over the marks. They were not important now.
When he finished spreading the ointments and salves on her back, Melchisedech fastened up her robe and bade her sit up. With gentle hands, far gentler than his bony talons would suggest, he bound the wounds on her arms and legs. All the while, Acherontia sat tensely.
Eventually, Melchisedech stood and brushed a stray hair from her face. "There. You will find yourself much improved in the morning. You will not be as stiff, and you will possess fewer scars."
Acherontia nodded. "Thank you."
The priest smiled. "Of course, my dear. Good night."
"Good night, Melchisedech."
The priest moved to his place in the alcove,and Acherontia moved to hers.
Pulling his blanket over his skeletal frame, he sighed softly.