The slender elf whimpers in her sleep. She draws her knees to her chest, curls her fingers into fists, and pushes her face against the pillow before she begins to weep.
A dead man sits on the edge of the bed. He runs his thumb along the back of her neck and then examines the sweat as it dampens the patterns on his skin. Starlight leans through the windows and divides the room into sections of dark and darker. The girl’s skin is an ashen gray; her hair is the color of raven feathers. She trembles.
The man stands, says, “What nightmares do ye see tonight?”
The girl gasps for air, then shudders as she exhales.
The man kneels beside her, his dull eyes watching as hers roll beneath their lids. He studies the details: the way her long, pointed ears part through her hair; The low groan of her teeth grinding against each other. He reaches forward, palm flat against the mattress, slips his hand beneath her pillow until a metallic point touches his index finger. He slips the knife out from under her pillow and then limps across the room. He puts the dagger high on a shelf, looks at it, then takes it down and tucks it into his belt.
“Ain’t seen ye have one this bad in some time, love,” he says.
He opens the front door of their house and has the distant sensation of cold air blowing against his face. The Sin’dorei girl shivers. He turns back, gathers blankets from the foot of the bed and then drapes them over her. He goes outside, closing the door behind him.
The moons, White Lady and Blue Child, move slowly against a star-speckled sky. The man draws air deep into his lungs, holds it, then breathes out slowly. The air, cold as the rest of the night, falls straight down through the cracks in his jaw. The ocean breeze hums alongside the crickets; the bones in the man’s shattered leg squeal against each other as he walks.
He steps away from the small abode where he and the elf live. He walks through the rows of the garden, stopping now and then to pinch the leaves of his plants. He imagines that he can feel the processes inside, the life circulating through green veins. He addresses one of them: “Ye be coming along just fine, little one. Despite the chill.”
He moves his hand along the stalk, pauses with his thumb on the end of a thorn. “Ye want te see something?” He asks. He listens to the wind, then nods. He pushes his thumb over the thorn until it pierces the flesh. The skin parts and then a single thick drop of green fluid rolls down his wrist. “Ye see? We both got the same color blood.”
He holds his wrist to his face and licks the green trail of embalming fluid, says, “Though I guess it don’t be fair te call this blood.”
The breeze shifts and the crickets become quiet. The temperature drops and the man turns towards the trees surrounding their dwelling. He grips the hilt of the dagger in his belt and slinks beneath the branches. He moves through the sparse woods that provide a barrier between their home and the beach. He listens, watches, lopes through the trees with the silent finesse of a cat, and when he is certain that nothing is near his house, near the sleeping elf, he moves toward the ocean.
He stands on the shore and watches as a single point of light looms larger and larger on the black horizon. The object takes shape, becomes a thing of wood and canvas, sails and masts. The man produces a rare flower from his pack and runs one of the petals along the edge of the dagger. He pulls his cloak tight against his body and retreats back to the tree line.
The boat drops anchor and a small landing craft is lowered into the water. A lone figure rows against the gentle tide until the vessel scrapes against the shore. The figure exits, then drags it a small amount over the sand.
It is a man, a tall man, and thinner than he should be. Moonlight washes against dark armor – armor which makes metallic sounds as he moves. He removes his gloves, his helm, and stands beneath the moons almost as if in a spotlight. His eyes glow pale and blue, and the air around him seems to crystallize and fall.
The dead man calls from the tree line, “State yer business.”
The newcomer blinks, narrows his eyes and looks for the source of the voice. “Have you forgotten my face so quickly, Addikus Grace?”
Addikus emerges from the shadows, squinting at the pale face. “Aleister?”
“I have come to settle our debt.”
Addikus walks toward the newcomer, his head tilted to the side, studying the man’s appearance. “What have ye got?”
Aleister smirks, “I have never seen your face before.”
The realization strikes, and Addikus clumsily pulls his cloak to cover his face.
Aleister continues, “I have located Phineaus Maily. He is an old man now, lives in a small house on the coast of the Hinterlands. I can show you, if you wish.”
Addikus hesitates. He turns his head from Aleister, to the direction of his house, then back. He speaks through the fabric of his cloak, “I’d givin’ up on ever findin’ that fella alive.”
“Of course you did,” Aleister opens his hands and spreads his arms to indicate the island. “You chose,” he sneers, “this. This mound of dirt and grass and your pink-skinned madwoman.”
“If Drinn heard ye talk of her like that, she’d take yer insides and make ‘em outsides.”
Aleister grins, “You think to frighten me, rogue?”
Addikus considers, then shakes his head. “So ye found old Finn, eh? I’ll have te think about this.”
“I do not mean to stay. You may come back with me, or you may wait on this dirt clod until some other ship passes by.”
Addikus counts out three breaths, then says, “Alright, just ye give me a couple minutes te collect me things.”
“Quickly, then. This island sets me ill at ease.”
Addikus hobbles through the woods, back through the garden, and through the front door of his house. Drinn sweats and murmers in her sleep while the dead man pulls things from drawers and cabinets. He fetches gold and weapons, rancid poisons and dusty armor. He finds a simple white cotton shirt, Drinn’s, and tears it. He ties it around his face, the top edge on the bridge of his nose. Then he sits beside the sleeping elf. He runs a hand through her hair.
“Ay love,” he says, “I have te head back te the Eastern Kingdoms fer a spell. If I woke ye, I’d know ye’d just try te stop me. Besides, ye ought te be accustomed te me just takin off from time te time, by now. I’ll be back, soon as I take care of a bit of business.”
He reaches for her left hand, uses one finger to touch the metal ring that bound them in marriage. “Feel like I ought te say more, but I don’t know what te say. Eh. Mind yerself, love. I won’t be long.”
Drinn curls up tighter, a single word escapes from her dream: “Don’t,” she says.
Addikus stands; his bones pop. He leaves.
Trial of Sacrifice
Re: Trial of Sacrifice
Aleister climbs the rigging, hand over hand, until he hoists himself into the crow’s nest. The tip of the mast parts a cloud into halves and a billowing mist looms downward over the deck. Addikus presses himself against the wooden slats to make room for the larger undead man. When Aleister speaks, his voice seems to resonate from the depths of a tomb. “We’ve received a bird. The veil around Pandaria has lifted and we’re changing course to go there.”
Addikus stares into the fog, his chest expands, contracts, expands – the vestigial patterns of a life long lost. His toes press into the base of the nest, his hands grip the rim while the ship gently sways from side to side. The moment stretches until Aleister thinks the rogue hadn’t heard him. He opens his mouth to speak again, but then the smaller man begins to talk. “Used te know a girl what had a ship like this. Crazy as a imp, always gibberin, talkin te voices nobody else could hear. Bit of bad blood got between us, but wasn’t her fault and it weren’t mine. Anaie was her name.”
Aleister waits until Addikus finishes; the fog eats his words. “I’ve drawn a map marking Phineas Maily’s location in the Hinterlands. Look.”
He unrolls a scrap of parchment drawn over with crude lines. “This is the coast, these are the cliffs, and beyond them, tucked here, are about six acres of land where your quarry lives. Do you see?”
“Aye.”
“Good,” Aleister nods, “then our debt is settled. We’ll deposit you at the nearest port. The rest is on you, rogue.”
Addikus turns now, faces the frozen knight. He crosses his arms and leans backward; his curved spine rolls his shoulders forward, steals inches from his height. Two dark eyes peer from above his mask, searching the other’s cold face. “Nearest port is Ratchet. Ye mean te drop me on the wrong side of the maelstrom.”
“You’ll find your way across.”
Addikus narrows his eyes, “So that’s how it’s te be, eh? After what I done fer ye?”
Aleister steps forward, crowding the two men even more. “I pursued your goal even after you had forsaken it. I remained steadfast while you wasted your days picking flowers and reciting poems for your plaything. Yes, Addikus Grace, this is how it’s going to be.”
The rogue clenches his teeth and the loose bones inside his jaw click against each other. His muscles tense, then relax. Addikus shrugs, says, “Aye then, this is how it’s te be.”
Addikus grips the other man’s shoulders, pushes him off the crow’s nest. He watches the other man fall, thinking, if Drinn were here, her heart would have beat five times before Aleister crashed into the deck.
Coarse ropes chew into Addikus’s wrists while he wrestles with the binds, channels his concentration into his fingertips, searches for the loose end. He stands on the balls of his feet and distributes his weight counter to the bounce in the wooden plank on which he stands. Aleister, ten paces away, kneels to pick up a stray piece of his own skull.
A row of forsaken men stand at the edge of the boat with weapons leveled at Addikus. The rogue’s smile is hidden by his mask. “Ye don’t have te get so sore about it,” he says.
Aleister passes the fragment of bone to one of the crew members, who reaches for the back of the knight’s head, tries to fit the piece back into its place. “It don’t fit right, boss.”
“We shall sort it out later.”
“Yeah but your brain is sorta leaking.”
“It is?”
“Yeah your brain is leaking out.”
“How much?”
“Just a little, but still.”
“We will deal with it later.”
The crewmember frowns. “Fine, I guess. But your brain is leaking out.”
“Addikus, you hear that? Give me one reason why I should not keelhaul you. One reason why I shouldn’t let the barnacles flay you.”
Addikus considers, then responds, “It was a accident.”
“I should cut you into cubes and load you into my cannons.”
Addikus takes a step from the end of the plank, toward the deck. “Yer bein ridiculous. Cannon’s don’t shoot cubes.”
Aleister unsheathes his broadsword in a single smooth motion, “One more step toward my ship and I’ll have your head. I vow it.”
Addikus stops. The sun breaks through the clouds, pours over the surface of the sea like molten gold; light dances across his eyes, dazzles him. “I saved yer life once, ye scourge.”
“A debt which I’ve repaid, rogue.”
Addikus works at the knot behind his back, his fingers feel too fat, too short, as if they’re covered in clay. The realization hits – he’s rusted up. The killer instincts, the finesse, have dulled over the past four years. “Well then make up yer mind. Do something, eh?”
“My marksmen have so much lead aimed at your face, you will turn to vapor when I give the order to fire.”
Finally, he escapes the binds. The rope falls into the ocean. Addikus reaches down, pushes against his bad leg until the bones pop into alignment. “Ye mean te make me swim fer it, don’t ye?”
“Marksmen, fire on three.”
“Ye don’t need te be so dramatic about it.”
“One.”
Addikus slips off of the plank and falls into the water. Aleister leans over the railing, says, “Don’t forget your map.”
He tosses the page overboard. Addikus swims to it, plucks it from the surface and notes that the ink already bleeds into a mess. He folds the page into a neat square and tucks it inside his cheek. “Ratchet is that way,” Aleister says, pointing, “give my regards to the sharks along the way.”
Addikus treads water while the ship travels into the distance. He is silent for a long time, then says, “Sharks don’t go fer corpses, ye fool.”
He looks to the air above, where three seagulls fly in a ring, their figures black against the sky. “Them fellas, on the other hand,” he says.
Addikus turns in the direction where Aleister had pointed. There is no sign of land but for the birds. He begins to swim.
Night falls and dawn begins to whisper before Addikus drags himself onto the shore of Ratchet. His clothes cling to his emaciated body, his hair hangs in thick clumps that obscure his vision. He forces himself to heave up a stomach full of sea water, then he lies on the sand for a while. The mists of the previous day are gone, and the sun rises in full force. It bakes the water from him, loosens the numb and stiff joints. He considers his situation: Far from home and penniless. No supplies but for the clothes on his back. His objective is on the far side of a distant continent, and he has no means of getting there. He could stow away on one of the ships from here to Booty Bay – but should he be discovered, the Goblins would be even less forgiving than Aleister. The little ones liked to tinker and jest, but were deadly serious in all things concerning gold.
He could pick pockets for change. He could pick up an odd job here and there, maybe even appeal to old friends from the Cleft of Shadow – but those people were as likely to rob him blind as he was to rob them.
He sighed, resigned himself to only option that seemed reasonable: He would have to barter his way back into the same group which had shattered his leg, spilled his blood, and driven he and Drinn off of the map. If he meant to kill Phineas, if he even dreamed of killing the others, Poe and Shaw, he would have to cast his lot with the only group that had the kind of resources, the kind of madness that he required. He would have to rejoin The Grim.
Addikus stares into the fog, his chest expands, contracts, expands – the vestigial patterns of a life long lost. His toes press into the base of the nest, his hands grip the rim while the ship gently sways from side to side. The moment stretches until Aleister thinks the rogue hadn’t heard him. He opens his mouth to speak again, but then the smaller man begins to talk. “Used te know a girl what had a ship like this. Crazy as a imp, always gibberin, talkin te voices nobody else could hear. Bit of bad blood got between us, but wasn’t her fault and it weren’t mine. Anaie was her name.”
Aleister waits until Addikus finishes; the fog eats his words. “I’ve drawn a map marking Phineas Maily’s location in the Hinterlands. Look.”
He unrolls a scrap of parchment drawn over with crude lines. “This is the coast, these are the cliffs, and beyond them, tucked here, are about six acres of land where your quarry lives. Do you see?”
“Aye.”
“Good,” Aleister nods, “then our debt is settled. We’ll deposit you at the nearest port. The rest is on you, rogue.”
Addikus turns now, faces the frozen knight. He crosses his arms and leans backward; his curved spine rolls his shoulders forward, steals inches from his height. Two dark eyes peer from above his mask, searching the other’s cold face. “Nearest port is Ratchet. Ye mean te drop me on the wrong side of the maelstrom.”
“You’ll find your way across.”
Addikus narrows his eyes, “So that’s how it’s te be, eh? After what I done fer ye?”
Aleister steps forward, crowding the two men even more. “I pursued your goal even after you had forsaken it. I remained steadfast while you wasted your days picking flowers and reciting poems for your plaything. Yes, Addikus Grace, this is how it’s going to be.”
The rogue clenches his teeth and the loose bones inside his jaw click against each other. His muscles tense, then relax. Addikus shrugs, says, “Aye then, this is how it’s te be.”
Addikus grips the other man’s shoulders, pushes him off the crow’s nest. He watches the other man fall, thinking, if Drinn were here, her heart would have beat five times before Aleister crashed into the deck.
Coarse ropes chew into Addikus’s wrists while he wrestles with the binds, channels his concentration into his fingertips, searches for the loose end. He stands on the balls of his feet and distributes his weight counter to the bounce in the wooden plank on which he stands. Aleister, ten paces away, kneels to pick up a stray piece of his own skull.
A row of forsaken men stand at the edge of the boat with weapons leveled at Addikus. The rogue’s smile is hidden by his mask. “Ye don’t have te get so sore about it,” he says.
Aleister passes the fragment of bone to one of the crew members, who reaches for the back of the knight’s head, tries to fit the piece back into its place. “It don’t fit right, boss.”
“We shall sort it out later.”
“Yeah but your brain is sorta leaking.”
“It is?”
“Yeah your brain is leaking out.”
“How much?”
“Just a little, but still.”
“We will deal with it later.”
The crewmember frowns. “Fine, I guess. But your brain is leaking out.”
“Addikus, you hear that? Give me one reason why I should not keelhaul you. One reason why I shouldn’t let the barnacles flay you.”
Addikus considers, then responds, “It was a accident.”
“I should cut you into cubes and load you into my cannons.”
Addikus takes a step from the end of the plank, toward the deck. “Yer bein ridiculous. Cannon’s don’t shoot cubes.”
Aleister unsheathes his broadsword in a single smooth motion, “One more step toward my ship and I’ll have your head. I vow it.”
Addikus stops. The sun breaks through the clouds, pours over the surface of the sea like molten gold; light dances across his eyes, dazzles him. “I saved yer life once, ye scourge.”
“A debt which I’ve repaid, rogue.”
Addikus works at the knot behind his back, his fingers feel too fat, too short, as if they’re covered in clay. The realization hits – he’s rusted up. The killer instincts, the finesse, have dulled over the past four years. “Well then make up yer mind. Do something, eh?”
“My marksmen have so much lead aimed at your face, you will turn to vapor when I give the order to fire.”
Finally, he escapes the binds. The rope falls into the ocean. Addikus reaches down, pushes against his bad leg until the bones pop into alignment. “Ye mean te make me swim fer it, don’t ye?”
“Marksmen, fire on three.”
“Ye don’t need te be so dramatic about it.”
“One.”
Addikus slips off of the plank and falls into the water. Aleister leans over the railing, says, “Don’t forget your map.”
He tosses the page overboard. Addikus swims to it, plucks it from the surface and notes that the ink already bleeds into a mess. He folds the page into a neat square and tucks it inside his cheek. “Ratchet is that way,” Aleister says, pointing, “give my regards to the sharks along the way.”
Addikus treads water while the ship travels into the distance. He is silent for a long time, then says, “Sharks don’t go fer corpses, ye fool.”
He looks to the air above, where three seagulls fly in a ring, their figures black against the sky. “Them fellas, on the other hand,” he says.
Addikus turns in the direction where Aleister had pointed. There is no sign of land but for the birds. He begins to swim.
Night falls and dawn begins to whisper before Addikus drags himself onto the shore of Ratchet. His clothes cling to his emaciated body, his hair hangs in thick clumps that obscure his vision. He forces himself to heave up a stomach full of sea water, then he lies on the sand for a while. The mists of the previous day are gone, and the sun rises in full force. It bakes the water from him, loosens the numb and stiff joints. He considers his situation: Far from home and penniless. No supplies but for the clothes on his back. His objective is on the far side of a distant continent, and he has no means of getting there. He could stow away on one of the ships from here to Booty Bay – but should he be discovered, the Goblins would be even less forgiving than Aleister. The little ones liked to tinker and jest, but were deadly serious in all things concerning gold.
He could pick pockets for change. He could pick up an odd job here and there, maybe even appeal to old friends from the Cleft of Shadow – but those people were as likely to rob him blind as he was to rob them.
He sighed, resigned himself to only option that seemed reasonable: He would have to barter his way back into the same group which had shattered his leg, spilled his blood, and driven he and Drinn off of the map. If he meant to kill Phineas, if he even dreamed of killing the others, Poe and Shaw, he would have to cast his lot with the only group that had the kind of resources, the kind of madness that he required. He would have to rejoin The Grim.
Re: Trial of Sacrifice
During the months after Addikus swam out of the surf in Ratchet, he managed to make contact with members of The Grim. The dark priest Araun asked him the old questions, and Addikus gave the old answers. They granted Addikus the right to bear their colors and their name – again - and with each passing day he felt his reflexes, his instincts, honing toward the deadly sharpness that he once knew. The Grim used him as a slayer in their various crusades, and Addikus used the Grim to prepare for his campaign of revenge…
Addikus limps through the streets of Silvermoon. The elven city reflects its own light back into the night air, casting shades of ruby and gold onto the forsaken’s cold, pale flesh. Sin Dorei faces linger as he passes, their vibrant eyes studying the dead man. He sees idle curiosity in some expressions. He sees cold offense. There are some that look at him with pity, and others that look at him with disgust.
“Ye all be just the same as I remember ye,” he says.
He follows the curving streets into the darker corners of the city, where the addicts, half mad in their starvation for magic, tremble in the gutters. He reaches an unlit building, ascends the stairs leading to the back, and picks the lock on the rear door.
He lights the old lamps and looks at the room where he and Drinn used to live. The room is small and spare. Dark. The air is thick with dust. He passes his hand over a wall, feels the various cuts and notches. He looks at the floor, where old blood spatters decorate the wood.
“Used te fight ye fer hours just so ye could get te sleep. Yer nightmares was so bad back then. Ye were so afraid of ‘em. Had te exhaust ye.”
Addikus reaches down to his bad leg and pushes on his thigh. The shattered bones click into place. He carefully lowers himself onto the ground, where he sits and waits for his visitor to come calling.
His mind reaches backward to memories from the old days. Meeting her. Training her in the hills above Arathi. The first time she managed to slice him open.
Other memories: Him drinking Cessily’s blood. Scalping Grogkor. Getting his leg shattered by Deathshadow. All for Drinn.
He sits there, toying with his wedding ring and reminiscing, until a hand knocks at the door.
He rises from the floor and picks the lock, swings the door open, is greeted by an elf with auburn hair and emerald eyes. She holds a black back. "Hello Addikus" she says.
“Ay Fanyare. Good of ye te come. Te help me with this.”
"Of course, what good are you with that leg? I had planned for a cleaner location for us to work on that bone. What's with the dust pit?" her nose crinkles at the collected dust and grime from a home left vacant.
“This be me home. Or at least it used te be. I ain’t been here fer years.”
"You sure about that? I have keys to my home." Fanyare looks suspiciously at Addikus raising a brow.
“Heh, there never was a key. More secure that way. Plus, there be very few locks what me and Drinn couldn’t pick just as fast. Anyway. Come in. How are ye?”
"Well, wether it's yours or not, it doesn't much matter as it looks to have been left for quite a time and will work well enough. I am thankful for a day away from battle, so we can finally tend to that leg. Speaking of which, how has it been?"
Addikus pushes on his leg and the bones pop. Fanyare winces. “Same as ever,” he says. “But that be why yer here right now, ain’t it?”
"Then let us get to it. Take off your pants if you don't want me cutting them, and don't you go getting any idea of funny business"
Addikus shrugs, then loosens his belt. He pulls off his pants. He folds them neatly before setting them on the floor. Fanyare tilts her head as she studies his exposed legs. He is a very thin man, and now he seems much more slight, more delicate, than she has ever perceived him to be. His skin is a very light shade of blue. Fanyare wrinkles her nose at the distant smell of death, then purposefully restores her face to a neutral, professional expression.
Apart from its thinness, its color and smell, one of Addikus’s leg looks to be in decent working order. The other leg, though, is a disaster. The flesh twists around misplaced fragments of bone. The structures squeak and moan as he settles back onto the floor. He lies on his back, tilts his head to watch as Fanyare kneels beside him. She pushes against his thigh, feeling all the movement under the cold skin. Her stomach turns. She takes a deep breath in, then lets it out very slowly.
"So how long have you had fragments for a femur?"
Addikus watches her, tries to discern her thoughts through the expressions that play over her features. He speaks through his mask, “If this bothers ye so much, just be glad ye can’t see me face.”
"It's not the look, it's the smell!" her nose crinkles again as she reaches into her pack and removes a rose, placing it behind her ear to help mask the smell. "How long as it been shattered?"
Addikus looks up, counts backward in his mind. “Almost five years.”
Her eyes widen at the time he has dealt with his damaged leg "What did you do to get it such a terrible spot?"
Addikus turns his palms toward the ceiling, raises his hands a few inches from the floor. “Just one of those things that happens.”
Her eyes narrow "Just one of those things?"
She begins to roughly handle his leg, aligning it for the procedure. "I can either be nice, and you tell me what happened, or I'll bind you to the floor and force the leg into place without any care."
Fanyare reaches into her bag while the rogue begins to answer. She places various medical instruments in a straight row along the floor. Knives as sharp as any. Steel wire. Adhesive compounds. Addikus begins to speak.
“Ain’t much te tell about it. Got in a fight with someone who got the better of me, left me with a little something te remember him by. As fer why I ain’t replaced it, that be another story.”
Fanyare grips a blade and rests the edge on the skin. She looks Addikus in the eyes, hesitates.
"Are you ready for this?"
“Don’t ye be worried love. It’ll be fine. Just get te cuttin.”
Fanyare inhales, bites her lip, then sinks the blade into the meat of his leg. Her body stiffens against the shouts that she expects, but Addikus only watches as the knife cuts down to the bone. He grunts, then addresses the elf. “I be undead, miss. This sort a thing don’t hurt much at all.”
Relieved, Fanyare begins to cut a long line from Addiku’s hip all the way down to his knee. Old embalming fluid weeps out of the severed veins, and the stench of death grows much stronger. Fanyare starts to breathe through her mouth. "So about that story? this is going to take a while and it'd be nice to hear something more than sawing and grinding"
“Well, this be an old story. Goes back te the days before there was a horde. Te the days before any human ever even seen a orc. It was passed around, mouth te ear, before folks come up with a way te write things down. I don’t think any of it be fact, but something about it ring true.”
Fanyare nods. She finishes the cut, pulls a pair of gloves over her hands and pulls the leg open. Her hands slip into the wound and she begins assembling all the fragments and splinters into order. Her fingers feel the bone fragments, far many more than she expected "Addikus. I don't know if we can put this bone together, it would be much stronger if we just replaced it"
Addikus continues, “And there used te be this hero of the land. I can’t seem te recall his name. Rupert? Nah. Anyway, this Rupert. He be a great adventurer, and he got himself a magic boat. Had it blessed by the gods, aye? He set off on his boat te some distant land. Te fetch the magical doodad. The golden apple. The singing bush. Whatever it was. He set off te get this thing and fetch it back fer his people.
Fanyare arranges the pieces as best she can, then leans back for a look. She nods, then reaches for the spool of wire. She unwinds a length of it and then reaches back into the leg, begins wrapping the bones together.
“And on the way, old rupert has te do all sorts a things. Has te fight a dragon. Has te find a diamond hidden somewhere in a desert. He has talks with gods and devils. Goes through all sorts stuff just te get his thing, and then he finally does.”
Addikus scratches a phantom itch on his good leg. Fanyare looks at his hand, the wedding ring, then looks back at her work.
“And when he gets home, with his golden apple or whatever it was, the people all make a big shrine fer him. Make songs about him. Ye know. And he tells his folks, ‘hey, I be givin ye all me magic boat what made this even possible. It be blessed by the gods, ye see. And so long as ye keep the boat in good shape, our people will always be in good shape too.’”
Fanyare listens, nods. She twists off the top of a container filled with white putty. She smears some onto her fingertips, then spreads it over the bones.
“So, the folks, they take right good care of the boat. Rupert, he gets old and dies, same as anyone. And all them original folks, they get old and die. Then it’s their kids takin care of the boat. And when all them die, then it be the grandkids. On and on this goes, for ages. These people, though, they don’t never seem te get sick. Or go hungry. Or get inte wars. They all gets te have long, good lives.”
“And things start te go on the boat. Lightnin strikes the mast and cracks it, so they has te put in a new one. Or the rudder rots through, so they have te make another one. Boards along the keel start te go, so they have te patch ‘em over.”
Fanyare finishes with the first layer of putty and then begins to wind more wire in. Her gloves are clayed with embalming fluid and paste. She no longer notices the smell.
“This goes on fer long as anyone can remember. Somethin breaks, so they has te replace it. Over and over. Until one day one of the people gets up and asks, ‘we been patchin up this boat fer so long, can we even call it the same boat anymore? None of the original boat be there.’”
Fanyare stops working for a moment and looks at Addikus’s face.
“That same night, ye know what happened, love? The land broke and the whole lot of them were swallowed up by the sea. Not one of them folks managed te live through it.”
Fanyare cracks a smile from her previous stern concentration, inhaling to laugh, but quickly exhaling as the smell became fresh from the deep breath "If the earth ate them all up, how did you hear the story?"
Addikus stops, thinks. Then shrugs. “Don’t know. Never rightly believed in the story anyway. But, like I told ye, something about it rings true with me. Ye keep letting parts of yerself go, keep patchin things over, replacing yer pieces, soon enough ye can’t know fer sure whether or not ye be the same thing as ye used te be.”
"But you are not a boat, I still think it would be best to replace the bone."
Fanyare adds another layer of putty and then pulls the gloves from her hands. She pulls a needle and thread from her back and begins closing the leg. "If you want this to last, you need to let the putty set. One day is good, two is better. No fighting, no anything, keep your weight off it or you'll walk crooked"
“Ye see why I don’t want nobody else’s bones in there?”
"I understand your reason, and if keeping a bone keeps you who you are, then we'll keep glueing you back together. But eventually you might be more putty then bone"
((Co-written with Fanyare))
Addikus limps through the streets of Silvermoon. The elven city reflects its own light back into the night air, casting shades of ruby and gold onto the forsaken’s cold, pale flesh. Sin Dorei faces linger as he passes, their vibrant eyes studying the dead man. He sees idle curiosity in some expressions. He sees cold offense. There are some that look at him with pity, and others that look at him with disgust.
“Ye all be just the same as I remember ye,” he says.
He follows the curving streets into the darker corners of the city, where the addicts, half mad in their starvation for magic, tremble in the gutters. He reaches an unlit building, ascends the stairs leading to the back, and picks the lock on the rear door.
He lights the old lamps and looks at the room where he and Drinn used to live. The room is small and spare. Dark. The air is thick with dust. He passes his hand over a wall, feels the various cuts and notches. He looks at the floor, where old blood spatters decorate the wood.
“Used te fight ye fer hours just so ye could get te sleep. Yer nightmares was so bad back then. Ye were so afraid of ‘em. Had te exhaust ye.”
Addikus reaches down to his bad leg and pushes on his thigh. The shattered bones click into place. He carefully lowers himself onto the ground, where he sits and waits for his visitor to come calling.
His mind reaches backward to memories from the old days. Meeting her. Training her in the hills above Arathi. The first time she managed to slice him open.
Other memories: Him drinking Cessily’s blood. Scalping Grogkor. Getting his leg shattered by Deathshadow. All for Drinn.
He sits there, toying with his wedding ring and reminiscing, until a hand knocks at the door.
He rises from the floor and picks the lock, swings the door open, is greeted by an elf with auburn hair and emerald eyes. She holds a black back. "Hello Addikus" she says.
“Ay Fanyare. Good of ye te come. Te help me with this.”
"Of course, what good are you with that leg? I had planned for a cleaner location for us to work on that bone. What's with the dust pit?" her nose crinkles at the collected dust and grime from a home left vacant.
“This be me home. Or at least it used te be. I ain’t been here fer years.”
"You sure about that? I have keys to my home." Fanyare looks suspiciously at Addikus raising a brow.
“Heh, there never was a key. More secure that way. Plus, there be very few locks what me and Drinn couldn’t pick just as fast. Anyway. Come in. How are ye?”
"Well, wether it's yours or not, it doesn't much matter as it looks to have been left for quite a time and will work well enough. I am thankful for a day away from battle, so we can finally tend to that leg. Speaking of which, how has it been?"
Addikus pushes on his leg and the bones pop. Fanyare winces. “Same as ever,” he says. “But that be why yer here right now, ain’t it?”
"Then let us get to it. Take off your pants if you don't want me cutting them, and don't you go getting any idea of funny business"
Addikus shrugs, then loosens his belt. He pulls off his pants. He folds them neatly before setting them on the floor. Fanyare tilts her head as she studies his exposed legs. He is a very thin man, and now he seems much more slight, more delicate, than she has ever perceived him to be. His skin is a very light shade of blue. Fanyare wrinkles her nose at the distant smell of death, then purposefully restores her face to a neutral, professional expression.
Apart from its thinness, its color and smell, one of Addikus’s leg looks to be in decent working order. The other leg, though, is a disaster. The flesh twists around misplaced fragments of bone. The structures squeak and moan as he settles back onto the floor. He lies on his back, tilts his head to watch as Fanyare kneels beside him. She pushes against his thigh, feeling all the movement under the cold skin. Her stomach turns. She takes a deep breath in, then lets it out very slowly.
"So how long have you had fragments for a femur?"
Addikus watches her, tries to discern her thoughts through the expressions that play over her features. He speaks through his mask, “If this bothers ye so much, just be glad ye can’t see me face.”
"It's not the look, it's the smell!" her nose crinkles again as she reaches into her pack and removes a rose, placing it behind her ear to help mask the smell. "How long as it been shattered?"
Addikus looks up, counts backward in his mind. “Almost five years.”
Her eyes widen at the time he has dealt with his damaged leg "What did you do to get it such a terrible spot?"
Addikus turns his palms toward the ceiling, raises his hands a few inches from the floor. “Just one of those things that happens.”
Her eyes narrow "Just one of those things?"
She begins to roughly handle his leg, aligning it for the procedure. "I can either be nice, and you tell me what happened, or I'll bind you to the floor and force the leg into place without any care."
Fanyare reaches into her bag while the rogue begins to answer. She places various medical instruments in a straight row along the floor. Knives as sharp as any. Steel wire. Adhesive compounds. Addikus begins to speak.
“Ain’t much te tell about it. Got in a fight with someone who got the better of me, left me with a little something te remember him by. As fer why I ain’t replaced it, that be another story.”
Fanyare grips a blade and rests the edge on the skin. She looks Addikus in the eyes, hesitates.
"Are you ready for this?"
“Don’t ye be worried love. It’ll be fine. Just get te cuttin.”
Fanyare inhales, bites her lip, then sinks the blade into the meat of his leg. Her body stiffens against the shouts that she expects, but Addikus only watches as the knife cuts down to the bone. He grunts, then addresses the elf. “I be undead, miss. This sort a thing don’t hurt much at all.”
Relieved, Fanyare begins to cut a long line from Addiku’s hip all the way down to his knee. Old embalming fluid weeps out of the severed veins, and the stench of death grows much stronger. Fanyare starts to breathe through her mouth. "So about that story? this is going to take a while and it'd be nice to hear something more than sawing and grinding"
“Well, this be an old story. Goes back te the days before there was a horde. Te the days before any human ever even seen a orc. It was passed around, mouth te ear, before folks come up with a way te write things down. I don’t think any of it be fact, but something about it ring true.”
Fanyare nods. She finishes the cut, pulls a pair of gloves over her hands and pulls the leg open. Her hands slip into the wound and she begins assembling all the fragments and splinters into order. Her fingers feel the bone fragments, far many more than she expected "Addikus. I don't know if we can put this bone together, it would be much stronger if we just replaced it"
Addikus continues, “And there used te be this hero of the land. I can’t seem te recall his name. Rupert? Nah. Anyway, this Rupert. He be a great adventurer, and he got himself a magic boat. Had it blessed by the gods, aye? He set off on his boat te some distant land. Te fetch the magical doodad. The golden apple. The singing bush. Whatever it was. He set off te get this thing and fetch it back fer his people.
Fanyare arranges the pieces as best she can, then leans back for a look. She nods, then reaches for the spool of wire. She unwinds a length of it and then reaches back into the leg, begins wrapping the bones together.
“And on the way, old rupert has te do all sorts a things. Has te fight a dragon. Has te find a diamond hidden somewhere in a desert. He has talks with gods and devils. Goes through all sorts stuff just te get his thing, and then he finally does.”
Addikus scratches a phantom itch on his good leg. Fanyare looks at his hand, the wedding ring, then looks back at her work.
“And when he gets home, with his golden apple or whatever it was, the people all make a big shrine fer him. Make songs about him. Ye know. And he tells his folks, ‘hey, I be givin ye all me magic boat what made this even possible. It be blessed by the gods, ye see. And so long as ye keep the boat in good shape, our people will always be in good shape too.’”
Fanyare listens, nods. She twists off the top of a container filled with white putty. She smears some onto her fingertips, then spreads it over the bones.
“So, the folks, they take right good care of the boat. Rupert, he gets old and dies, same as anyone. And all them original folks, they get old and die. Then it’s their kids takin care of the boat. And when all them die, then it be the grandkids. On and on this goes, for ages. These people, though, they don’t never seem te get sick. Or go hungry. Or get inte wars. They all gets te have long, good lives.”
“And things start te go on the boat. Lightnin strikes the mast and cracks it, so they has te put in a new one. Or the rudder rots through, so they have te make another one. Boards along the keel start te go, so they have te patch ‘em over.”
Fanyare finishes with the first layer of putty and then begins to wind more wire in. Her gloves are clayed with embalming fluid and paste. She no longer notices the smell.
“This goes on fer long as anyone can remember. Somethin breaks, so they has te replace it. Over and over. Until one day one of the people gets up and asks, ‘we been patchin up this boat fer so long, can we even call it the same boat anymore? None of the original boat be there.’”
Fanyare stops working for a moment and looks at Addikus’s face.
“That same night, ye know what happened, love? The land broke and the whole lot of them were swallowed up by the sea. Not one of them folks managed te live through it.”
Fanyare cracks a smile from her previous stern concentration, inhaling to laugh, but quickly exhaling as the smell became fresh from the deep breath "If the earth ate them all up, how did you hear the story?"
Addikus stops, thinks. Then shrugs. “Don’t know. Never rightly believed in the story anyway. But, like I told ye, something about it rings true with me. Ye keep letting parts of yerself go, keep patchin things over, replacing yer pieces, soon enough ye can’t know fer sure whether or not ye be the same thing as ye used te be.”
"But you are not a boat, I still think it would be best to replace the bone."
Fanyare adds another layer of putty and then pulls the gloves from her hands. She pulls a needle and thread from her back and begins closing the leg. "If you want this to last, you need to let the putty set. One day is good, two is better. No fighting, no anything, keep your weight off it or you'll walk crooked"
“Ye see why I don’t want nobody else’s bones in there?”
"I understand your reason, and if keeping a bone keeps you who you are, then we'll keep glueing you back together. But eventually you might be more putty then bone"
((Co-written with Fanyare))
Last edited by Atticus on Sun Feb 24, 2013 4:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Trial of Sacrifice
The walls of the Apothecarium seem to resonate with the torment of its test subjects. Captured members of the Alliance plead for death in the chambers where they are imprisoned. Their voices combine and congeal into a low and constant murmur that travels from hidden depths to the surface where Addikus now stands. The air smells of wet stones, standing water, and death. The stench of death hovers over everything like a haunting memory, a relentless reminder.
Addikus shifts his weight to the crutch tucked under his arm. He bends the knee of his bad leg so that air slips between the bottom of his foot and the stone walkway. The limb feels heavy, unbalanced, but the bones do not shift when he flexes his ankle. The cement, or plaster, whatever it was that Fanyare had used, is beginning to harden.
The chamber is lined with bookshelves full of ancient and forbidden tomes. Chemical glassware occupies tables. Foul mixtures bubble and steam, condense and drip. The apothecaries wear masks to protect their eyes, their lungs, from the poisons they concoct.
Addikus leans backward, aims his gaze to the ceiling. Cages hang suspended; iron contraptions house myriad prisoners. Some natural. Some living. Some not.
Master Apothecary Faranell speaks, “I am positively delighted that you are here, uhm…”
“Addie.”
“Ah yes, Addikus, was it? Yes. Though I see that your leg proves to still be problematic? I remember how stubborn you were about that leg. Your attachment to it struck me as particularly idiosyncratic. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind and wish for us to replace it? Yes, of course, I’ll just have Zachary clear an operating table…”
The stoop in Faranell’s frame straightens. His fingers tighten on the staff that the man uses to support himself. Addikus reads excitement in his eyes, an eagerness to cut something open.
“Nay, apothecary. It just be that I had some work done te the leg. It still be me own leg, and I aim te keep it. I came te ye fer fluid. Lost a lot. Plus it’s been years since I had it changed anyway.”
Apothecary Faranell turns, his lips compress into a thin line, then the corners of his mouth turn up into a smile. “Embalming fluid, then, yes. Actually, I’m quite pleased to inform you that we have made several improvements to the formula in the last few years. Also, we’ve made a new machine.”
“Ye have?”
Faranell turns his body halfway toward another of the apothecaries. He makes a gesture with his hands and then turns back to Addikus. He points to one of the daggers tucked into the rogue’s belt. “Indeed we have. May I?”
Addikus pulls out the dagger, inspects the edge for any trace amounts of poison, hands it to Faranell.
Faranell hefts the dagger, makes a few practice jabs into the air. “Ah, as you can see, I was never one for a style of combat so direct, so elegant, as one which employs bladed weapons. But I digress. May I cut you?”
Addikus reaches forward with one hand. Faranell uses one quick little hand to grab Addikus’s ring finger. He uses the tip of the blade to poke a hole in the flesh, massages the skin, forces dark green fluid out of the cut. It oozes downward over the ring. “It’s gone almost black, master rogue. See the color? Examine its viscosity. Why, I’d have to say that you’ve not benefited from any kind of preservative properties for two, maybe three years.”
“Hm,” Addikus muses, “Drinn’s been sayin I was getting te be sorta ripe.”
Faranell offers the dagger back. “Ripe isn’t nearly accurate. You’ve been decaying for far too long. Another year or so and you’d be mindless as the scourge. Or worse, an Orc.”
“Good thing I be here, then.”
“Indeed it is. The new fluid…it has some properties which can reverse some of this rot. But it can only do so much. I strongly advise that you never go so long without a change again.”
The apothecaries carry a mechanical box and chair to Faranell, who directs Addikus to sit. They hang a large bag of fresh embalming fluid from a stand, and run a line into Addikus’s wrist. They cut open his femoral artery and run another line from the incision to the box.
“This machine,” Faranell says, “forces the new fluid into your system by sucking out the old fluid.”
Addikus shrugs, “This don’t be me first time getting it done, doc.”
Faranell grins, “Perhaps not – but it will be your first time having it done in less than five seconds.”
Addikus blinks, “What?”
“As I said, we have made many improvements. You will lose consciousness for a few moments. In fact, it’s almost identical to death, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Faranell nods at one of the other apothecaries.
Addikus begins to shout, “Wait!”
The apothecary flips a switch, and Addikus falls into oblivion.
Addikus shifts his weight to the crutch tucked under his arm. He bends the knee of his bad leg so that air slips between the bottom of his foot and the stone walkway. The limb feels heavy, unbalanced, but the bones do not shift when he flexes his ankle. The cement, or plaster, whatever it was that Fanyare had used, is beginning to harden.
The chamber is lined with bookshelves full of ancient and forbidden tomes. Chemical glassware occupies tables. Foul mixtures bubble and steam, condense and drip. The apothecaries wear masks to protect their eyes, their lungs, from the poisons they concoct.
Addikus leans backward, aims his gaze to the ceiling. Cages hang suspended; iron contraptions house myriad prisoners. Some natural. Some living. Some not.
Master Apothecary Faranell speaks, “I am positively delighted that you are here, uhm…”
“Addie.”
“Ah yes, Addikus, was it? Yes. Though I see that your leg proves to still be problematic? I remember how stubborn you were about that leg. Your attachment to it struck me as particularly idiosyncratic. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind and wish for us to replace it? Yes, of course, I’ll just have Zachary clear an operating table…”
The stoop in Faranell’s frame straightens. His fingers tighten on the staff that the man uses to support himself. Addikus reads excitement in his eyes, an eagerness to cut something open.
“Nay, apothecary. It just be that I had some work done te the leg. It still be me own leg, and I aim te keep it. I came te ye fer fluid. Lost a lot. Plus it’s been years since I had it changed anyway.”
Apothecary Faranell turns, his lips compress into a thin line, then the corners of his mouth turn up into a smile. “Embalming fluid, then, yes. Actually, I’m quite pleased to inform you that we have made several improvements to the formula in the last few years. Also, we’ve made a new machine.”
“Ye have?”
Faranell turns his body halfway toward another of the apothecaries. He makes a gesture with his hands and then turns back to Addikus. He points to one of the daggers tucked into the rogue’s belt. “Indeed we have. May I?”
Addikus pulls out the dagger, inspects the edge for any trace amounts of poison, hands it to Faranell.
Faranell hefts the dagger, makes a few practice jabs into the air. “Ah, as you can see, I was never one for a style of combat so direct, so elegant, as one which employs bladed weapons. But I digress. May I cut you?”
Addikus reaches forward with one hand. Faranell uses one quick little hand to grab Addikus’s ring finger. He uses the tip of the blade to poke a hole in the flesh, massages the skin, forces dark green fluid out of the cut. It oozes downward over the ring. “It’s gone almost black, master rogue. See the color? Examine its viscosity. Why, I’d have to say that you’ve not benefited from any kind of preservative properties for two, maybe three years.”
“Hm,” Addikus muses, “Drinn’s been sayin I was getting te be sorta ripe.”
Faranell offers the dagger back. “Ripe isn’t nearly accurate. You’ve been decaying for far too long. Another year or so and you’d be mindless as the scourge. Or worse, an Orc.”
“Good thing I be here, then.”
“Indeed it is. The new fluid…it has some properties which can reverse some of this rot. But it can only do so much. I strongly advise that you never go so long without a change again.”
The apothecaries carry a mechanical box and chair to Faranell, who directs Addikus to sit. They hang a large bag of fresh embalming fluid from a stand, and run a line into Addikus’s wrist. They cut open his femoral artery and run another line from the incision to the box.
“This machine,” Faranell says, “forces the new fluid into your system by sucking out the old fluid.”
Addikus shrugs, “This don’t be me first time getting it done, doc.”
Faranell grins, “Perhaps not – but it will be your first time having it done in less than five seconds.”
Addikus blinks, “What?”
“As I said, we have made many improvements. You will lose consciousness for a few moments. In fact, it’s almost identical to death, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Faranell nods at one of the other apothecaries.
Addikus begins to shout, “Wait!”
The apothecary flips a switch, and Addikus falls into oblivion.
Re: Trial of Sacrifice
The bottom falls out of his mind and he slips downward, ever downward, through a void. Memories project against the walls of the abyss, they mingle and juxtapose.
----
Drinn, small and fierce, reaches forward. She unties his mask and pulls it away from his face. She drops the scrap of cloth and pushes her fingertips into his cheekbones, his nose. Her hands gently feel along the straps and rivets that give structure to features which are so hopelessly broken. “It’s okay,” she says, then she leans forward.
----
His mother turns red, then purple, then gray. Her legs thrash at the air, trying to find purchase.
----
Addikus struggles against the ropes that bind him to the mast. Poe swings his arms, stretches out his shoulders, then he reaches for the sledgehammer.
----
The man passes a vial of poison between the bars. “This is the best we can offer you,” he says. Then he leaves the underground prison.
Addikus looks at the vial for a long time. The nerves in his face scream in agony every time his heart beats.
He throws the vial against the stone wall. The poison hisses into steam.
----
Blood wicks through the bandages until they’re saturated. Fat red drops fall from his chin to his chest. His breath is all fishhooks and razor blades. He collapses onto the side of the road. Shouts of fear and suffering fall out of the sky like dead birds. The clouds above Stratholme reflect red.
----
Lascivious unties his mask, drops it to the ground. She stands so close that he can smell the oil in her hair. She tilts her head slightly to look into his exposed face. The leader of the Grim speaks very softly, “You are forgiven.”
----
Drinn, small and fierce, reaches forward. She unties his mask and pulls it away from his face. She drops the scrap of cloth and pushes her fingertips into his cheekbones, his nose. Her hands gently feel along the straps and rivets that give structure to features which are so hopelessly broken. “It’s okay,” she says, then she leans forward.
----
His mother turns red, then purple, then gray. Her legs thrash at the air, trying to find purchase.
----
Addikus struggles against the ropes that bind him to the mast. Poe swings his arms, stretches out his shoulders, then he reaches for the sledgehammer.
----
The man passes a vial of poison between the bars. “This is the best we can offer you,” he says. Then he leaves the underground prison.
Addikus looks at the vial for a long time. The nerves in his face scream in agony every time his heart beats.
He throws the vial against the stone wall. The poison hisses into steam.
----
Blood wicks through the bandages until they’re saturated. Fat red drops fall from his chin to his chest. His breath is all fishhooks and razor blades. He collapses onto the side of the road. Shouts of fear and suffering fall out of the sky like dead birds. The clouds above Stratholme reflect red.
----
Lascivious unties his mask, drops it to the ground. She stands so close that he can smell the oil in her hair. She tilts her head slightly to look into his exposed face. The leader of the Grim speaks very softly, “You are forgiven.”
Re: Trial of Sacrifice
He wakes with a hypnic jerk that throws him to his feet. Daggers in hand before his eyes crack open. The chair slides across the floor, the tube in his wrist comes tearing out, spills embalming fluid on the floor.
He blinks. Faranell and Zachary stand two paces away, their hands empty and up by their faces.
He blinks again, slides his daggers back into their sheathes. He cackles, “Maybe ye could give me more of a warnin next time, eh?”
Faranell lowers his hands to his sides. Zachary pulls the wooden staff from the ground and hands it to the master apothecary, who resumes his leaning. “Indeed. Perhaps we’ll add restraints to the chair.”
One of the Kor’kron Vanguard approaches. He is short for an Orc, and lean. His green skin seems almost effervescent in the toxic light of the Undercity. Addikus notes the dimness in his eyes, the sloppiness of his movements. Here is an orc that resents being posted to guard duty among the living dead. The guard looks at the chair, the fluid, the rogue. “Grace?”
Addikus nods.
“The Dark Lady summons you.”
*
Her quarters are spare and cold. A fireplace gapes dark and dead in the far corner. The walls are unadorned but for a row of bows and quivers slung from iron pegs. The space is only furnished with the barest essentials: a pair of chairs, a table on which a few candles glow.
The Queen stands at the opposite end of the table. She holds a parchment that is almost black with ink. She sets the page down when Addikus enters. She nods at him, calm, poised.
Addikus notes her appearance in his first glance. She’s unchanged since he last saw her, when she lead the retreat from the Lich King in the frozen halls. The thought gnaws at the back of his mind as it always does: If Drinn fell to the plague, she would look much as this.
Sylvanas speaks directly to the point, “You bear the tabard of The Grim once again.”
“Aye, that I do, Dark Lady.”
“How fares the one named Greebo?” She asks.
Addikus smirks. Should he tell her that the man she sent to spy on The Grim is now its arbiter? She knows that he turned his back on her – but does she know just how far he’s gone since then?
“He be the same as he always was.” Addikus answers.
Her eyes seem to glow red in the candle-light. She studies his eyes for a long silent moment before she speaks again. “I’ll speak plainly, Addikus Grace. I know that you betrayed The Grim once, and I also know that your loyalty to them is a matter of convenience.”
Addikus shrugs, “Looks like ye got me pegged, love.”
She ignores him. “I also know that you can be a servant of the horde when there is a sincere need. You helped in the retaking of Undercity, and in the siege against the Lich King.”
Addikus looks at his feet.
Sylvanas walks around the table to stand nearer to the rogue. There is a quality of confidence, of succinct grace in her steps. Addikus thinks of Drinn again.
“I would like to know of The Grim’s plans and movements. Who comes and goes. Name your price and I’ll see that it’s met.”
Addikus unslings the crutch from beneath his arm and leans it against the table. He stands evenly, raises to his full height, lifts his gaze to meet Sylvanas’s penetrating stare. “Me price be Mathias Shaw.”
Sylvanas considers for a long moment. “I cannot do that.”
Addikus crosses his arms, tilts his head.
Sylvanas speaks, “Name something else.”
“There don’t be something else.”
“Gold? Land? I can make certain that you and your wife have all that you would ever need.”
“All due respect, me lady, we already gots all that we need. All I want anymore be Shaw’s head. If ye can’t give me that, then ye can’t give me anything.”
Sylvanas seems to grow even colder. “And you believe that The Grim can?”
“If I play me cards right, aye.”
She returns to her side of the table. “Then we have nothing else to discuss. You are dismissed, rogue.”
Addikus retrieves his crutch. He turns and hobbles toward the door.
Sylvanas says, “Give my regards to your arbiter.”
He stops. Continues.
He blinks. Faranell and Zachary stand two paces away, their hands empty and up by their faces.
He blinks again, slides his daggers back into their sheathes. He cackles, “Maybe ye could give me more of a warnin next time, eh?”
Faranell lowers his hands to his sides. Zachary pulls the wooden staff from the ground and hands it to the master apothecary, who resumes his leaning. “Indeed. Perhaps we’ll add restraints to the chair.”
One of the Kor’kron Vanguard approaches. He is short for an Orc, and lean. His green skin seems almost effervescent in the toxic light of the Undercity. Addikus notes the dimness in his eyes, the sloppiness of his movements. Here is an orc that resents being posted to guard duty among the living dead. The guard looks at the chair, the fluid, the rogue. “Grace?”
Addikus nods.
“The Dark Lady summons you.”
*
Her quarters are spare and cold. A fireplace gapes dark and dead in the far corner. The walls are unadorned but for a row of bows and quivers slung from iron pegs. The space is only furnished with the barest essentials: a pair of chairs, a table on which a few candles glow.
The Queen stands at the opposite end of the table. She holds a parchment that is almost black with ink. She sets the page down when Addikus enters. She nods at him, calm, poised.
Addikus notes her appearance in his first glance. She’s unchanged since he last saw her, when she lead the retreat from the Lich King in the frozen halls. The thought gnaws at the back of his mind as it always does: If Drinn fell to the plague, she would look much as this.
Sylvanas speaks directly to the point, “You bear the tabard of The Grim once again.”
“Aye, that I do, Dark Lady.”
“How fares the one named Greebo?” She asks.
Addikus smirks. Should he tell her that the man she sent to spy on The Grim is now its arbiter? She knows that he turned his back on her – but does she know just how far he’s gone since then?
“He be the same as he always was.” Addikus answers.
Her eyes seem to glow red in the candle-light. She studies his eyes for a long silent moment before she speaks again. “I’ll speak plainly, Addikus Grace. I know that you betrayed The Grim once, and I also know that your loyalty to them is a matter of convenience.”
Addikus shrugs, “Looks like ye got me pegged, love.”
She ignores him. “I also know that you can be a servant of the horde when there is a sincere need. You helped in the retaking of Undercity, and in the siege against the Lich King.”
Addikus looks at his feet.
Sylvanas walks around the table to stand nearer to the rogue. There is a quality of confidence, of succinct grace in her steps. Addikus thinks of Drinn again.
“I would like to know of The Grim’s plans and movements. Who comes and goes. Name your price and I’ll see that it’s met.”
Addikus unslings the crutch from beneath his arm and leans it against the table. He stands evenly, raises to his full height, lifts his gaze to meet Sylvanas’s penetrating stare. “Me price be Mathias Shaw.”
Sylvanas considers for a long moment. “I cannot do that.”
Addikus crosses his arms, tilts his head.
Sylvanas speaks, “Name something else.”
“There don’t be something else.”
“Gold? Land? I can make certain that you and your wife have all that you would ever need.”
“All due respect, me lady, we already gots all that we need. All I want anymore be Shaw’s head. If ye can’t give me that, then ye can’t give me anything.”
Sylvanas seems to grow even colder. “And you believe that The Grim can?”
“If I play me cards right, aye.”
She returns to her side of the table. “Then we have nothing else to discuss. You are dismissed, rogue.”
Addikus retrieves his crutch. He turns and hobbles toward the door.
Sylvanas says, “Give my regards to your arbiter.”
He stops. Continues.