Grim Views

Chavie and the Children: Awakenings

Chavie - April 23, 2006

The corpses of children sat in a circle, illuminated by the
flickering green light of an enchanted fire. In that tiny cellar,
beneath one of the abandoned structures of Caer Darrow, the air
crackled and pulsed with a dark magic. Lying sprawled by the
fire, in the middle of the circle, a dishevelled Chavie slept
fitfully, gnawing on her knuckles.

She dreamed.

Under a full moon, the sands of Tanaris looked like snow. Chavie
stood and looked at the dunes with a smile. She loved this
beautiful desert, full of so many memories...

A part of Chavie knew this was a dream. She accepted--without
revulsion or alarm--her peachy, unrotted skin, her lank and
uncombed brown hair, her awkward teenage humanness. She touched
her face; her mouth wasn't slit, and she had no makeup. Her lungs
drew air in and pushed it out at a steady pace. Her heart was
beating, thrum thrum thrum.

Chavie crouched in the swirling sand and ran her hands through
it. She pulled up handfuls, and watched them seep away through
her fingers and be blown off by the wind.

When she looked up, she saw someone standing before her, maybe
seven or eight yards away. A female figure, wearing all black,
with a long lacy veil. At first Chavie thought it was a mourning
outfit, but when she squinted at it more closely, she realized it
was the outfit of a high priestess. Chavie shuddered and took a
step back. It was watching her. A dead boy lay in the sand
between them, his throat slit.

"H-hey!" Chavie shouted, trying to look unconcerned and annoyed.
"Go away." She swallowed. "I'm playing here."

The veiled lady didn't respond and the wind whipped her veil and
skirts around; they made a flapping sound like wings.

I'm speaking Common, the sleepy, observer part of Chavie noted.

Chavie's heart was beating quickly; the rush of blood in her ears
was unexpectedly loud.

"Come on," scowled Chavie, resting her shaking hands on her hips.
"I've got things to do. I'm raising my army. Say something, or go
away. You... you're wasting my time!"

Sand swirled against black lace like stars in battle and the lady
jut watched and watched. Chavie couldn't see her face, but there
was a feeling of familiarity... She felt a horrible sense of
regret as if she'd lost something. That part of Chavie's mind
that knew it was a dream was just puzzled.

Then the lady in black turned, oh so slowly, and began to walk
away.

And for some reason, Chavie cried out silently, not wanting this
familiar unkown intruder in her dreams to leave. Her eyes darted
around, scanning the sand, trying to think of something to make
the veled dark priestess stay. She saw the dead boy, half buried
in the shifting sands; his throat was a big red toothless grin...
But that was all wrong, it wasn't his throat was cut, it was
something else that killed him--

(Who's Jack?)

Then she realized--she had something to show the silent lady!
Chavie bent down and picked up Wa Yit, held him out in front of
her to the veiled priestess who was already walking away.

"I found him!" Chavie called, over the rushing wind. "I found our
kitty, see? His name is Wight. See?" Wa Yit squirmed and mewled,
wanting down.

The lady turned her head around, so slow, so painfully slow, and
spoke. At the sound of her voice--soft and sad--the wind stopped
growling.

"We never had a cat."

Dumbfounded, and angry at this denial, Chavie stared as the lady
turned away.

Then Warneshi appeared, just left of Chavie, looking at her.
"Warneshi iss wondering how old thiss little undead iss... musst
tasste it to ssee." And he drew a deep breath, sucking in air and
sand and night and--

Chavie woke up and moaned. The side of her face was pressed
against the packed dirt floor, which was almost all she could
see. Beyond the floor a inty slack-jawed corpse stared at her in
dumb fear. The green fire was sputtering and dying.

Painfully, Chavie pushed herself up to her hands and knees, and
crawled around the circle, inspecting her children. The dream
bothered her, but she tried not to think about it. The
children--most of them--showed no real change. But a couple
seemed to be growing a kind of crystallized fungus... which meant
the spell was working.

Smiling, Chavie felt around and found the sack of supplies, and
dug out the necessary ingrediants and tools to keep the spell
going.

An anonymous letter waiting in Chavie's mailbox:

I can no longer supply or instruct you, Sister. My new family has
certain prejudices, and they've told me they don't like my
special cooking recipe. Alas, only you have this recipe now. May
the children enjoy the dish in the privacy of their own hall.
Good luck and be careful--our enemies abound.

It was a surreal day, like the small half-dreams you have when
you're nodding off. Over the hearthstone, Grims were greeting
her. One of them sounded like a Dwarf and she didn't know him and
he was being very patronizing. The earth was shaking. A string of
music kept playing in her ears, a long-forgotten wordless
lullaby.

In between sleepy responses to her wonderful guildmates, and
opening letters and packages, and the ground tremors, Chavie
would pass out, again and again. Waking once more, she abandoned
her mailbox and pulled herself onto Bu Bat. "Ni tu go ba tu Ker
Da Ro," she told him, before passing out again.

When she woke they were on their way to Silverpine. Having no
energy to turn him around, Chavie kicked him on. The bats at the
Sepulcher would take her to Tarren Mill just as easily as the
Undercity bats would...

Was it the ground shaking, or just Chavie? Before she could think
to sort it out, she slipped from her saddle, landing on grass.
Stupid Bu Bat wasn't sticking to the path... She was so
tired--this necromancy was a lot of work! Chavie closed her eyes
and let her consciousness drift away.

A sudden sharp wind caught the letter she had been clutching and
blew it away. She didn't notice; she was already out.

Chavie woke, feeling much better, but still weak. She stood, and
stretched, and slapped dirt and dried mud from her Atal'ai
Prophet's kilt. Yawning, she looked around... and frowned.

"Wat am a du in in Sil Ver Pan?" she asked the hearthstone, which
was buzzing with greetings from Syreena, Yichimet, Lilliana,
Lucrena, Coussa, and more. It was good to hear them again!

Chavie whistled for Bu Bat and when he came she got on and
directed him toward the Sepulcher. She had to get back to Caer
Darrow; she didn't know how long she had been passed out and the
children shouldn't be left alone, not before she'd completed the
spell.

Over the hearthstone, Chavie asked about the Grim in general, and
Vuudu in particular. Syreena's whisper came over the hearthstone,
while Chavie was en route to Tarren Mill, saying Vuudu's
condition was worse--but not too uch worse--and that Syreena
herself was afflicted, too. Lilliana had helped her, though.
Still, Chavie was worried... but the worry was distant. She
needed to get back to Caer Darrow, and finish what she had
started.

Approaching the bridge leading to Scholomance and Caer Darrow,
Chavie told Syreena to give Vuudu Chavie's love and say hello.
She told the Grims that if they needed her, they were to find Wa
Yit at Scholomance and leave any messages with him. He liked
wandering the ruins...

Then she turned off her hearthstone and walked toward her
precious little cellar. A thought occured to her... Syreena
understood wor sa fa chal about as well as Vuudu, and if she was
troubled by dragons too... She should be made an official Sister
of the Children. Chavie would speak to her about it. Later.

Right now, the other children waited.

Another dream, in that tiny magic-infused room: The sands of
Tanaris and a starry night, and Chavie in her human body. She
felt her face; it was uncut. She remembered with happy nostalgia
those early days at Deathknell..

Chavie sat in front of a cracked but usable mirror, a knife in
her hands. She'd picked it up off of one of the zombie guys. She
kept slicing at the corners of her mouth, wiping away the green
ichor, and examining the effect in the mirror. If she didn't like
it, she'd heal it and try again. She tried again and again until
at last she had her crazy, unnatural grin perfected--then she let
it heal on its own. Like piercing an ear, but so much more
satisfying!

A lot of the undead--the forsaken--were wearing X-shaped masks.
It delighted Chavie to do the same; at the time she thought it
was just popular fashion. Later she'd learn a lot of them wore
those masks to keep their faces from falling off. It didn't make
the mask any less fun. Made from leather, leather so light and
thin it didn't interfere with her spell-casting.

There was a cheap case of crumbly makeup in Chavie's lap. She
used it to make herself look scary, then pretty, then angry. She
experimented with it until settling on a macabre harlequinn look,
deep purples and reds and blacks, on a near-white face.

She cut her hair.

She emerged from the run-down building a new person. Her own
person. Self-made and happy, so happy.

But now she was alone in the desert and her face was just another
human face. Chavie frowned and let her hands fall back down to
her sides. All that work for nothing. She felt around her dress
for pockets, but they were empty. She looked around the desert,
thinking she should find someplace with a general store, but it
was empty, just wind and sand and

that woman in black.

Chavie glowered. "You keep following me."

"You keep coming here," said Wa Yit at her feet. He had the voice
of a young boy, accented in such a way that she couldn't tell if
it was human or what. He looked at her with wise and curious
eyes.

"What do you know?" Chavie sneered at Wa Yit, angry at him for
interrupting. "You're just a cat."

Bu Bat, just to the right of Chavie, shook his mane and said in a
rumbly, horsey voice, "He sees things I can't. He sees the ghosts
of those children you and I only hear, for example. He brags
about it to me; it's really quite insensitive of him. I'm fairly
certain I could see ghosts, back when I was a healthy young
stallion. I don't really understand it, but I have this
theory..." He seemed to sense Chavie's impatience and snorted.
"The gist of it is, we could be one of those ghosts, but we're
trapped in dead bodies. Neither living or dead. We're outside the
natural order of things and have lost our Sight. Us animals, that
is--I don't know that living humans are ever gifted with such
Seeing without the aid of narcotics."

Chavie looked again at the woman in black.

"Furthermore," continued Bu Bat, "I'm not sure this is my
rightful body. I seem to recall not being so scrawny, but perhaps
that is just wishful thinking. What do I know about the methods
you ex-humans use to reanimate the dead and return their souls to
their original bodies? I'm just a horse. Or I was..." He plodded
off in search of something to chew. "I think..."

Wa Yit was looking up at Chavie; somewhere a wolf howled and a
little girl sang a song in words Chavie almost understood. The
sounds were carried on the wind, faint and far away. She was
tempted to turn and find the little girl and the wolf, but the
veiled lady... the veiled lady needed her attention first.

"I know you," Chavie whispered, taking a step towards her. Her
foot kicked against something dead. She looked down and saw the
boy, mostly buried, with his throat slit, and was gripped by a
sudden and revolting terror--

"Who is Jack?" Marson asked.

The boy took shape, rising out of the sand. He seemed to grow
older. He was lean and cocky and his hair was dark. An ugly gash
raced down his chest and abdomen, and he sat up and clutched at
himself, trying to keep his guts from falling out. "Not again,"
he said. He looked up, and his eyes passed right over Chavie as
if she wasn't there, and then found the lady in black. He gave
her a lopsided grin. "Can you give me a hand with this?"

"No, Jack," the lady said. Her voice was sad and bitter and
Chavie just wanted to hit her. "Someone took my hands."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here!" Chavie shouted at them.
They didn't even flinch at the sound her voice. "I have a name!"
She glared at the lady in black, and tears fogged her vision. She
pointed an accusing finger at her. "You never called me by my
name!"

Chavie felt the other lady's burst of anger, like a gust of hot
wind, and with it came a disdainful hiss: "It was never your
name!"

For a moment Chavie was cowed. But somewhere else in the desert,
a party was killing humans much stronger than these ghosts, and
the wind carried their victory cry to Chavie: "For the Horde! For
the Grim!"

And Chavie's mouth widened in an impossible grin, and she shifted
her body into a shadow form. She tossed a word of pain at Jack,
who writhed and screamed for a couple seconds before he died
again--she didn't need him, she had Vuudu.

Chavie ran over his lifeless body, toward the lady in black. Her
target didn't move, but it did flinch as Chavie wrenched the veil
off its face... As she did, the girl's black robes turned white,
a blinding white. The grains of sand flew all around as the wind
kicked up, flying in their faces, but it wasn't grains of sand
now, it was just grain, just cursed grain--somewhere a man's
voice was calling Fresh from Andorhal! Fresh grain from
Andorhal!--and Chavie grinned her harlequinn's grin in the face
of her pathetic nemesis.

"He lo, Sa Bin," Chavie said, tossing the white lacey veil aside.

The girl's face was once Chavie's face. But it was set
differently than Chavie had ever set it; it was always trying to
be adult and serene and wise. Now it tried to hold this look but
failed, as fear and greif took over. Sabine sunk to the ground,
the sand swirling and buffeting her, and sobbed.

"I could have helped you," she wept, holding her stomach and
rocking. "I could have done so many things... I could have been a
great tool of the Light, with my cursed gifts..." She looked up
at Chavie again. "I could have helped you."

Chavie looked down at Sabine without pity. "Yu ne ver t'rad tu
hep mi. Yu did al yu kud tu kip mi lak te we..." Chavie knelt to
be on level with Sabine. They were the exact same height. She
grabbed Sabine's face and turned it to look at her. Sabine tried
to resist, but Chavie was almost at the peak of her training as a
priest, and all Sabine had were hopes. "Yu t'rad ev ri tin, ek
sep wan tin... An so yu las." Chavie grinned and stood. "An a
wan."

Sabine held her face in her hands and cried.

"Gu ba."

"Wait!" Sabine cried, looking up. "At least tell me your name
before--"

Chavie cast a spell and flayed Sabine's mind. The weak girl's
shrieks were lost in the sound of the wind.

And then she woke up.

The fire had gone out. Chavie lit a candle and looked around. She
crawled around the circle of children, inspecting them. They were
each completely encrusted with the strange greenish
crystallized-looking fungus-stuff. Chavie struck at one, at a
small girl in a flowered dress, and hurt her hand doing so.
Chavie laughed then. She admired her work.

Like her lost contact in the RAS had promised, the one who had
invented this spell, the magic had reattached the severed limbs
and in some cases regrew missing body parts. Each of the
children, undermeath their protective exoskeletons, looked better
than they had when Chavie had brought them here. She'd reversed
some of the decay. More importantly, they would be protected
indefinitely, until Chavie returned one day to touch their
spirits, and wake them up. And then the children would return to
Lordaeron.

Until then, she'd let them sleep. A rock, made from the same
crystal that protected the children, she would carry with her
whenever she went. It would serve as her link to this secret
place. The runes she'd carved into the trap door and onto the
walls would alert her if anyone tried to tamper with them. And
the crystal growth would probably, her contact had said, continue
to try to grow over her own self, but it could be skinned off
easily enough. She was a priest, she could heal any skin she
excised. If only that could work on other growths... She'd bring
it up with Vuudu and Syreena.

Today she would take time and digest her newly recovered
memories, and the dreams. And she'd let them go. Chavie would
emerge from the run-down building a new person. Her own person.
Self-made and pleased, so pleased.