The Mark
Vuudu - February 26, 2006
"Goodnight Grim, evil dreams."
Vuudu spoke her usual parting words into the hearthstone, and
paused for a moment, listening to the replies. Placing the
hearthstone next to her on the nighttable, she slid into her bed,
in her makeshift home above the light armor merchant in
Orgrimaar. She pulled up the threadbare blanket, and looked to
her left, the lights of the city casting a pale orange glow on
her blue skin. And yet, she did not sleep.
Gritting her teeth, she turned her head back to the right, and
stared at the shoulder of her rough nightgown. A dark spot was
starting to form. "Impossible," she thought to herself. "Surely,
it must be healing by now." She drew down the shoulder of the
gown, exposing her bare blue skin. A few inches below, a bandage
of runecloth covered her arm. Slowly, methodically, she removed
it, feeling a shiver of concern at the anticipation of what she
might see. Sure enough, a ragged gash marred her flesh. It looked
fresh, as though a knife had been stabbed into the muscle and
withdrawn just moments before.
Growling, she tossed the bandage aside, and wrapped a fresh one
onto the wound. Laying back, she stared up at the ceiling, images
flickering through her mind. The raid of the night before on
Stormwind. The sudden appearance of dragons in the royal
chambers. How one of them locked eyes with her, both of them
immobile. How it had reached out, and grabbed her arm and then
... and then the searing pain as she wrenched herself from its
grasp. Staggering backwards, ordering her lion Humar to rend it
to pieces. Alliance tackling her to the ground before she could
kill it.
She closed her eyes, trying to will the images from her mind. "It
is nothing ... a deep cut. Just taking a while to heal." She
tried to convince herself of this by repeating it in her mind.
"Keep using the arm, it will work itself out. You need sleep. You
need sleep."
But sleep did not come for quite some time.
[Thrysta]
Thrysta paced the Undercity's main chamber, tending to various
errands and tasks.
She encountered a few of her Grim brethren among the shops and
kiosks of her home city...some still sporting bandages and
fading, magically-healing scars from their strike on Stormwind.
Pangs of guilt assaulted Thrysta...a feeling she was all too
accustomed to experiencing. She carried guilt for her three
treasures...for failing them...but musn't dwell on that now. The
feeling persisted, digging at her. She should have been with her
brethren, tending to them in the midst of the battle and slaying
with her shadow magic.
She did what she could for those she encountered...outwardly
answering their offerings of thanks with a curt nod or shrug, but
inwardly cursing her abscence.
Some of the wounds were quite...disconcerting.
Her brethren are courageous, Thrysta thought to herself. But
these wounds were no trivial matter. She would have to keep watch
over her brethren...to make sure that their bravado did not
outweigh their common sense when it came to treating their
wounds.
[Emmons]
Emmons stood at the beach, his fishing line bobbing in the ocean.
The sun was rising, so he pulled the brim of his lucky fishing
hat down low to block it out. He heard the rabble of the telling
of wounds and scars obtained in the battle, knowing full well he
had escaped unscathed. What luck he had in the mastery of his
art, the ability to slip out of battle unnoticed if things went
horribly wrong. He smirked, knowing that though his bretheren had
failed, he would be back in stormwind later that night. Perhaps a
druid or anothe rrogue would accompany. Regardless, plenty of
citizens would die. The mage tower would be his personal
bloodbath for the night.
[Warneshi]
Warneshi was extremely lucky, the mixture of troll and demon
blood in his system made his ability to regenerate his wounds
incredible. He was lucky for this because he had almost lost his
head to one of those dragons; as he lay on the ground his neck
wide open and cut to the spine he had thought to himself how
trecherous this wound of been to any other. When finally the
wound closed shut and Warneshi escaped the city he thought to the
wounds of his fellow Grim and how they would need recovery time,
he let a smirk slide across his face; it was good to be king.
[Abric]
"Truth, peasants. It comes to you slowly... as a stream does
before the dam breaks."
Abric verbally mused about the battle in Stormwind Keep, perched
atop the ruined battlements that was once Alterac's northern
wall. He casually glanced down to the valley below, where the
members of the Syndicate made camp, gathered together as ants
busily working on some unknown task. Abric's presence was hidden,
though not by any means visually. His presence was hidden, for
few wished to gaze up into the mountains at the cementary of
failure and betrayal.
"Stormwind's might, controlled by the Black Dragonflight. A
subtle tug of greater things... a battle where Silence is power.
Yet, in our presence, *She* wished to show her own. Her plans
could unravel, or grow in strength. Such things weaving about the
heads of those higher and lower... seen only by those whose eyes
see the Truth."
A soft scuffle against stone brought Abric out of his spoken
monologue, drawing his attention to the side, where the door
leading to the only set of stairs still functioning on the wall
were. His eyes betrayed him, showing him there was no one
there... yet his mind knew exactly who it was.
"It seems your madness continues to play at me, Licidion. Here I
am, speaking to myself about things that are of few concern to
any that are not deemed worthy." Abric smirked, raising from the
kneeling position, rubbing his hands together in habit of biting
back the chill mountain breeze. A breeze that was the only sound,
upon the ruined wall.
"Indeed," Abric broke the silence, agreeing to some wordless
question or comment, "It is time. He will be found, or he will
not. Yet such things matter, if we continue here."
Moments later, both were gone.
[Guduk]
Guduk wanders slowly through Thunder Bluff, his axe dragging on
the ground once in a while before he finds his bed and settles
down, tired and sore from the strike on Stormreach. He has come
out mostly unscatched, though he limps occationally where a sword
bit deep into his knee.
Guduk grumbles as he rubs his leg and then rolls over to get to
sleep, wondering how the rest of his guild is doing.
[Reddo]
It had been days since his last lapse. As the charge rang, Reddo
drifted into the black. By the gods, he was not going to let this
happen again. He was determined to hold on.
"Muss focus, no fail to de darkness, " Reddo mutters inaudibly
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he pauses to steady himself. It
had been another sweltering day in the desolate desert of
Silithus. The open inn at the Cenarion Hold offered a little
escape from the elements. Here Reddo sat here quietly meditating.
The pain surged over him. Everything gradually melted from his
sight until once more he lapsed into the void. “Oh de loss, how
many more …”