The bloated corpse of mighty G’huun laid atop the rubble of titanic machinery. In its own rot, the tendril of an Old God still steamed with the dissipating heat of its hunger. The detritus of the cyclopean terrors drifted through the cavern air, lazily adrift in the stillness that comes after battle. Like the gentle snowfalls of Winterspring, the spores coated all within the Blood God’s lair in a blanket of sickly grey.
Unclasping the latches of his mask, Khorvis set aside his helm and raised his face to the chamber’s ceiling. A labyrinth of titansteel pipes and wiring that was once the Reorigination Drive, sundered and inert, yawned back at him. The orc’s exhausted panting slowed in the aftermath of combat, and closing his remaining eye, he stuck out his tongue to catch a falling spore.
The iron tinge of blood. No, something more foul. Hot. Corrosive! Worse than the acid of a goblin battery!
Bloodstar sputtered, heaving and puking up the last of his Captain’s feast. Hands on knees, he glared at his offal, knowing that if Inquisitor Grimfire learned of his wasting good cooking, the orc would be in for a lecture. He turned his head, catching sight of Awatu brushing spores from his own armor. The Sunwalker had held the abomination’s attention during the battle for what had seemed like hours, keeping its thousand maws at bay long enough for the war party to ply their grisly trade.
Khorvis straightened and squinted at his Commander. Something was amiss. Striding across the chamber’s stone floor, he confronted the hulking tauren with a perfunctory grunt and salute. It had been many years since Awatu ordered the Lasher to seek out the Seers and refine his spirit into a more suitable vessel for the Mandate. While the invasion of the Legion had left little time for sociability, Khorvis wagered that his continued service (and evasion of outright execution!) counted for enough that his guildmaster still placed some measure of trust in the orc.
“Commander Stonespire! What does ail your shieldarm?” Khorvis barked, his aching tongue laden with concern.
Raising his left gauntlet, Awatu displayed the ruin of his armor dispassionately. As if sped in a Bronze timewarp, the metal of his shield rapidly corroded, falling to the ground in heaps of slag. Miniscule black tendrils wriggled from pock-marks like void-touched maggots, gorging themselves upon their host. The Sunwalker sloughed the shield to the floor in a sickening clatter and made a motion with his hand. A blast of Light ensorcelled the armor and the void tendrils screeched in silent agony, vaporized almost instantly.
“That was… unexpected,” understated Awatu. He leveled his stare at Khorvis, almost but not quite accusingly. “What do you make of it, Lasher?”
Patting himself frantically, the orc searched for similar aberrations in his own armor. “I do bloody think that it better not be catching!” he yelped. Fortunately, only blood ticks were to be found, but much of his bracers and gauntlets bore similar pocketing as if sprayed with an acid that had annihilated perfect half spheres. Khorvis fingered the indentations, fouly curious at their smoothness.
Nodding at Bloodstar’s outburst, Awatu reasoned, “Yes, my thoughts as well. Still, we had best take precautions.” Turning to the coven of assembled Grim arcanists and spellweavers, he ordered, “Make way for us a portal to the Halls. And gather a sample of the tendril. This threat likely did not die here.”
A Shattering of Shields
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Before Awatu even gives the order, Gavriil has already summoned the shivarra, Demva. He stands at a distance to avoid soiling his robes with rot and blood, directing the demoness as she carefully and begrudgingly cuts into G'huun's bloated corpse. He glances over, acknowledging the exchange between the orc and tauren, seemingly impassive at the rot-covered armor and the reaction between the void tendrils and the Light.
By contrast, despite the closeness and intensity of the battle just fought, Gavriil stands entirely composed and untouched. In truth, he feels empowered by his surroundings -- The void, the death, the bloodrot -- he was able to draw much of his strength from the enemy itself.
And this was troubling. But he did not show it.
"Demva, that seems as though it could be of use?" Gavriil points at what seems to be a bleeding, swollen gland as the shivarra peels away layers of flesh.
She glares back at the warlock, with half-lidded eyes. "I only have so many hands --"
He cuts her off, "Indeed, you do," and promptly turns to Qabian. "Magister, would you be so kind as to aid in the transportation of these ... delicates, back to the headquarters? I would highly appreciate your assistance."
With a polite nod, and not waiting for a direct response, Gavriil returns to harvesting as much of the Old God's corpse as he is able.
By contrast, despite the closeness and intensity of the battle just fought, Gavriil stands entirely composed and untouched. In truth, he feels empowered by his surroundings -- The void, the death, the bloodrot -- he was able to draw much of his strength from the enemy itself.
And this was troubling. But he did not show it.
"Demva, that seems as though it could be of use?" Gavriil points at what seems to be a bleeding, swollen gland as the shivarra peels away layers of flesh.
She glares back at the warlock, with half-lidded eyes. "I only have so many hands --"
He cuts her off, "Indeed, you do," and promptly turns to Qabian. "Magister, would you be so kind as to aid in the transportation of these ... delicates, back to the headquarters? I would highly appreciate your assistance."
With a polite nod, and not waiting for a direct response, Gavriil returns to harvesting as much of the Old God's corpse as he is able.
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Qabian did notice Khorvis being a complete moron and letting something floating in the air in the depths of a pit of rot, curses, and blood magic fall directly onto his tongue, and though the Magister had invested more time than he cared to admit into preparing the feasts that fed such idiocy, he was less concerned about the loss of the work's result and more questioning the sanity of continually relying on these people. Qabian needed ruthless people, but sometimes ruthlessness seemed to go hand in hand with stupidity more often than made him comfortable.
With the order for portals, the thought of simply sending them nearby but with a long drop crossed Qabian's mind, and he grinned at the daydream, but the portal Qabian actually cast instead went where it was directed, to the ley-linked location within the guildhall itself.
He stared, deadpan, in response to Gavril's comment, then turned away intending to work on another portal. "I hope you mean simply facilitating your travel along with everyone else's rather than actually helping you carry anything. If your arms are broken, perhaps you should petition for some new ones." Qabian flexed his gloved right hand into a fist while a smirk crossed his face
The mage then looked down at his left hand, moving partway through the series of gestures for a second portal and changed his mind with a sidelong glance toward the pile of melted metal that had once been Awatu's shield. Perhaps it was best to give whatever they were about to investigate only one escape route.
With the order for portals, the thought of simply sending them nearby but with a long drop crossed Qabian's mind, and he grinned at the daydream, but the portal Qabian actually cast instead went where it was directed, to the ley-linked location within the guildhall itself.
He stared, deadpan, in response to Gavril's comment, then turned away intending to work on another portal. "I hope you mean simply facilitating your travel along with everyone else's rather than actually helping you carry anything. If your arms are broken, perhaps you should petition for some new ones." Qabian flexed his gloved right hand into a fist while a smirk crossed his face
The mage then looked down at his left hand, moving partway through the series of gestures for a second portal and changed his mind with a sidelong glance toward the pile of melted metal that had once been Awatu's shield. Perhaps it was best to give whatever they were about to investigate only one escape route.
"While our enemies remain, peace is not victory." ~Warchief Sylvanas Windrunner
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Once safely within the Halls, Awatu barked an order to any Grim that had opted to utilize the portal. "Well fought. You are all dismissed to your own devices and desires." Afterwards, he began making his way to the Barracks to doff his armor and see to any injuries. His skin felt itchy and he could feel his fur bristling underneath his armor. Glancing at his left gauntlet, he could see where acid and blood and finally pierced through the heavy metal. The armor around him clattered as straps were loosened beyond their normal means.
Once inside the Barracks, Awatu sloughed the armor off him. The process was quicker and less graceful than normal, with some armor scraps falling away as their structures were compromised. Awatu checked each piece for an remnant corruption, occasional soaking a piece in light-fire from his hand. Once cleared of his armor, he directed one of the Minions working in the armory. "Decontaminate and scrap this armor. It is no longer of use." he said as the Minion deposited the scraps into a bin and wheeled them towards the Labs for decontamination. All of it was mostly inert but further precautions would not hurt.
The large hammer Awatu preferred as a weapon was largely intact and unaffected, it being a focus for his divine magics keeping it protected from the dark magics in Uldir. Some cleaning an light reforging would see it good as new.
Now able to stretch and inspect his body, he took to a personal inspection. He no longer felt the itchy uncleanliness that the armor bore, but in little more than a linen under coat and breeches he could see where his armor was weakest. The cleansing magics of the battle menders kept any potential corruption at bay, but tears and bloodstains in the clothing indicated where the fangs and weapons of the crazed Blood Trolls and their unholy masters tore into his hide. There was a particularly nasty scar in his right shoulder from the hydra abomination's fangs and acid.
The soreness had just begun to set in and he would need to rest soon.
Once inside the Barracks, Awatu sloughed the armor off him. The process was quicker and less graceful than normal, with some armor scraps falling away as their structures were compromised. Awatu checked each piece for an remnant corruption, occasional soaking a piece in light-fire from his hand. Once cleared of his armor, he directed one of the Minions working in the armory. "Decontaminate and scrap this armor. It is no longer of use." he said as the Minion deposited the scraps into a bin and wheeled them towards the Labs for decontamination. All of it was mostly inert but further precautions would not hurt.
The large hammer Awatu preferred as a weapon was largely intact and unaffected, it being a focus for his divine magics keeping it protected from the dark magics in Uldir. Some cleaning an light reforging would see it good as new.
Now able to stretch and inspect his body, he took to a personal inspection. He no longer felt the itchy uncleanliness that the armor bore, but in little more than a linen under coat and breeches he could see where his armor was weakest. The cleansing magics of the battle menders kept any potential corruption at bay, but tears and bloodstains in the clothing indicated where the fangs and weapons of the crazed Blood Trolls and their unholy masters tore into his hide. There was a particularly nasty scar in his right shoulder from the hydra abomination's fangs and acid.
The soreness had just begun to set in and he would need to rest soon.
-
Mirathendia
- Member
- Posts: 86
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Mirathendia's muscles burned from exertion, her sword heavier than usual, and her lungs were full of the stench of blood and corruption. Though she'd not invited it into her mouth the way Khorvis had--like the first time she'd tasted falling snow--she still had to breathe and the spores of corruption felt ashy in her throat.
And the echo of whispers still filled her head.
Her sister's running commentary and haughty observations through the grueling fight had mingled with the old god's own near-incomprehensible chattering until Mirathendia couldn't tell where one voice ended and the other began.
Gavril's shivarra collected samples and Mirathendia shook her head. They should probably leave it be, not bring it out into the world where it might have an opportunity to do Light knew what. At least here, in the titan's facility there was some measure of protection.
Oh, but where is the fun in that? The words slurred as though her sister had drunk too much, and they were rough and gravelly, too, as though she'd spent an evening taking smoke from a water pipe and had to cough them up.
Mirathendia closed her eyes, hissed a, "Shut up," through gritted teeth, then strode toward the portal Qabian opened. Something tugged on her as she stepped through, pulled her hair like her sister used to do when they tussled as children.
On the other side, in the Grim hall, the clean air did little to clear her head and the whispers chattered away in the back of her thoughts. She strode to the small room she kept there in the hall, specifically for nights like that one, the nights where she feared what she might say to Ri either intentionally or in her sleep, the nights when she felt her beloved would be better off if she left, if she'd never come with her from Draenor.
With the door closed behind her, Mirathendia uncorked a bottle of brandy and drank from the neck of it. The burn washed away the taste in her mouth and she took another long pull.
The drunk one. The echo of her sister's laugh chased the words through her thoughts.
Mirathendia clenched her jaw tightly and ground her teeth to hold back the scream of anger and denial and regret that boiled in her breast. When the moment passed, she sank to the floor, took another long pull from the bottle and rested her head back against the wall.
And the echo of whispers still filled her head.
Her sister's running commentary and haughty observations through the grueling fight had mingled with the old god's own near-incomprehensible chattering until Mirathendia couldn't tell where one voice ended and the other began.
Gavril's shivarra collected samples and Mirathendia shook her head. They should probably leave it be, not bring it out into the world where it might have an opportunity to do Light knew what. At least here, in the titan's facility there was some measure of protection.
Oh, but where is the fun in that? The words slurred as though her sister had drunk too much, and they were rough and gravelly, too, as though she'd spent an evening taking smoke from a water pipe and had to cough them up.
Mirathendia closed her eyes, hissed a, "Shut up," through gritted teeth, then strode toward the portal Qabian opened. Something tugged on her as she stepped through, pulled her hair like her sister used to do when they tussled as children.
On the other side, in the Grim hall, the clean air did little to clear her head and the whispers chattered away in the back of her thoughts. She strode to the small room she kept there in the hall, specifically for nights like that one, the nights where she feared what she might say to Ri either intentionally or in her sleep, the nights when she felt her beloved would be better off if she left, if she'd never come with her from Draenor.
With the door closed behind her, Mirathendia uncorked a bottle of brandy and drank from the neck of it. The burn washed away the taste in her mouth and she took another long pull.
The drunk one. The echo of her sister's laugh chased the words through her thoughts.
Mirathendia clenched her jaw tightly and ground her teeth to hold back the scream of anger and denial and regret that boiled in her breast. When the moment passed, she sank to the floor, took another long pull from the bottle and rested her head back against the wall.
The Grim: Mirathendia Morrowblood | Tweezle Sparkscatter | Nahmiri
Blood Moon Rising: Rilasuka | Nethendia | Nahedrie | Merralynnia
Blood Moon Rising: Rilasuka | Nethendia | Nahedrie | Merralynnia
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Having transported several internal glands and organs from G'huun and other tentacles from the monstrosities in Uldir to the guild hall, Gavriil wasted no time in claiming laboratory space to begin research. Dressed in a simple deep green linen smock, hunched over a large steel table fitted with a drain, Gavril's arms are covered in gore, to the elbows. He has peeled back layers of tissue from a particularly large, still-pulsating sack of Old God flesh, draining purple ichor into a stone bowl positioned just below the metal table.
An open tome hovers to his right, an animated quill scrawling notes as Gavriil dictates his observations out loud, his hollow, spectral voice echoing in the otherwise empty laboratory, which have yet to see much use since the Grim's occupation of the Alterac mountains.
“Oh, good evening --” Gavriil turns to his left, having heard what he thought was another Grim come to use the facilities, but … Nothing. The wooden door to the laboratory stands open, torchlight from within illuminating a sliver of stone floor on the otherwise darkened hallway.
He narrows his eyes. “How odd...” And returns to his work.
Again, movement. Darkness in the periphery.
The warlock turns. Nothing.
He shakes his head, “Losing my mind, it seems... Can't stop now.”
And returns to his work.
An open tome hovers to his right, an animated quill scrawling notes as Gavriil dictates his observations out loud, his hollow, spectral voice echoing in the otherwise empty laboratory, which have yet to see much use since the Grim's occupation of the Alterac mountains.
“Oh, good evening --” Gavriil turns to his left, having heard what he thought was another Grim come to use the facilities, but … Nothing. The wooden door to the laboratory stands open, torchlight from within illuminating a sliver of stone floor on the otherwise darkened hallway.
He narrows his eyes. “How odd...” And returns to his work.
Again, movement. Darkness in the periphery.
The warlock turns. Nothing.
He shakes his head, “Losing my mind, it seems... Can't stop now.”
And returns to his work.
Re: A Shattering of Shields
The newly established base of Grim operations beneath the ruins of Alterac felt both alien and familiar to Harbinger Bloodstar. While the basic architectural elements of the catacombs near the entrance held the usual Lorderanean appointments, square cut marble blocks and vaulted ceilings, the human influence faded quickly as the orc progressed deeper into the complex. Something older, ancient even, carved these tunnels. Something primal.
Khorvis's mind wandered among these thoughts as he passed the barracks, running his hand over the smooth cavern stone. The spirits of the earth were not completely silent here, as they were in the more blighted lands of Lordaeron. Only slumbering - snoring. The orc made a mental note of this, tucked away for later. For now, more pressing concerns goaded him on to the laboratories.
The wooden door to the facility stood open, illuminated by torchlight and silent. It lasted for only an instant of delusion, but Khorvis would have sworn on Vol’jin’s beard that the silhouette of a man blocked the entryway, seen only from the periphery. Blinking, the visage was gone, only the roughly hewn arch remaining, emitting some soft slopping sounds from within the adjoining rooms.
“Felmancer Nikolaev!” Khorvis barked as he marched into the lab. He nearly balked as he saw the gory scene laid bare upon the operating table, but rapidly regained his composure and approached the warlock.
The necromancer looked up again from his grisly work with a welcoming smile and a cheerful greeting. “Ah ha! Lasher, welcome! I thought I had heard you in the hallway. So very glad you could join me in this most important discovery!” The deluge of greetings tumbled from Gavril in a sincere and overwhelming flood. “Quickly, fetch for me the smallest pair of forceps from the far table… yes, those!”
Bewildered but obliging, Khorvis stomped over to a stone slab over which was unfurled a soft and clean surgeon’s kit of burgundy velvet. An veritable armory of shining steel tools were arrayed in neat rows, each more curious and wicked-looking than the last. Selecting what he judged to be the tiniest pair of tongs ever forged, laughably diminutive in his calloused hand, Bloodstar delivered the utensil to the operator.
Gavril quickly snatched the forceps from his unwitting assistant and delved into G’huun’s liberated organ, the forsaken’s spindley arm buried nearly to the shoulder. As he spelunked the innard, Gavril casually rambled about the operation in good natured optimism. “You know, Bloodstar, we may be the most fortunate band of adventurers. To find such an intact specimen of Nazmir’s rot, I could scarcely ask for a more ripe opportunity!” The last words were disturbingly punctuated by an outgassing of pustulence. “Why, the insights we might gain into the Blood Trolls…”
Nikolaev’s words continued to meander during the process, while Khorvis settled into a nearby observational chair. The orc let the monologue wash over his ears, uneducated in the nuances of apothecaries and anatomical research, instead contenting himself to watch the shadows cast upon the stone walls by the scattered candelabra. While the wax burned down, Bloodstar lost himself in the dance of silhouettes.
The battle of Uldir replayed in his mind, writ upon the wall in shadows, only this time the heroes of The Grim were assaulted not by cyclopean terrors, but by voidlings borne of darkness, not unlike the aberrations which had hunted him recently. The great writhing worm of G’huun dashed about armor-clad warriors in a whiplash of black tendrils. Seeking out the life and light of each combatant, they latched onto Khorvis’s brothers and sisters, whispering dark promises of madness. Insanities echoed in the cavernous chamber, softly at first, then grower louder. Louder. A screech tore Bloodstar from his reverie.
“Khorvis! Snap out of it you oaf!” Gavril was howling at the warrior and backing away from his ‘patient’. The flesh of G’huun had sprung to life, rearing its shredded form as if another appendage of the Blood God and aiming to strike at the orc. Twisting and corkscrewing in a queer dance of inked negation, its shadow cast upon the wall failed to mirror its owner in mad incroguity.
The Lash coiled at his waist yanked Khorvis to his feet, the barb with a life of its own slicing a gash in the orc’s thigh as it reacted to the threat. Like two strange cats, the flesh of the Blood God and the Lash quivered and snarled at each other. From the pock marks in Khorvis’s gauntlet began to arise tiny voided tendrils, reaching out and yearning with petulant mouths for their feeding.
Khorvis fumbled at his waist for his dagger, trying to keep his prosthetic gauntlet, the Hand of Ashran, away from the monstrosity upon the operating table. “Felmancer! What in the bloody Nether do you be summoning in our Hall?!”
Khorvis's mind wandered among these thoughts as he passed the barracks, running his hand over the smooth cavern stone. The spirits of the earth were not completely silent here, as they were in the more blighted lands of Lordaeron. Only slumbering - snoring. The orc made a mental note of this, tucked away for later. For now, more pressing concerns goaded him on to the laboratories.
The wooden door to the facility stood open, illuminated by torchlight and silent. It lasted for only an instant of delusion, but Khorvis would have sworn on Vol’jin’s beard that the silhouette of a man blocked the entryway, seen only from the periphery. Blinking, the visage was gone, only the roughly hewn arch remaining, emitting some soft slopping sounds from within the adjoining rooms.
“Felmancer Nikolaev!” Khorvis barked as he marched into the lab. He nearly balked as he saw the gory scene laid bare upon the operating table, but rapidly regained his composure and approached the warlock.
The necromancer looked up again from his grisly work with a welcoming smile and a cheerful greeting. “Ah ha! Lasher, welcome! I thought I had heard you in the hallway. So very glad you could join me in this most important discovery!” The deluge of greetings tumbled from Gavril in a sincere and overwhelming flood. “Quickly, fetch for me the smallest pair of forceps from the far table… yes, those!”
Bewildered but obliging, Khorvis stomped over to a stone slab over which was unfurled a soft and clean surgeon’s kit of burgundy velvet. An veritable armory of shining steel tools were arrayed in neat rows, each more curious and wicked-looking than the last. Selecting what he judged to be the tiniest pair of tongs ever forged, laughably diminutive in his calloused hand, Bloodstar delivered the utensil to the operator.
Gavril quickly snatched the forceps from his unwitting assistant and delved into G’huun’s liberated organ, the forsaken’s spindley arm buried nearly to the shoulder. As he spelunked the innard, Gavril casually rambled about the operation in good natured optimism. “You know, Bloodstar, we may be the most fortunate band of adventurers. To find such an intact specimen of Nazmir’s rot, I could scarcely ask for a more ripe opportunity!” The last words were disturbingly punctuated by an outgassing of pustulence. “Why, the insights we might gain into the Blood Trolls…”
Nikolaev’s words continued to meander during the process, while Khorvis settled into a nearby observational chair. The orc let the monologue wash over his ears, uneducated in the nuances of apothecaries and anatomical research, instead contenting himself to watch the shadows cast upon the stone walls by the scattered candelabra. While the wax burned down, Bloodstar lost himself in the dance of silhouettes.
The battle of Uldir replayed in his mind, writ upon the wall in shadows, only this time the heroes of The Grim were assaulted not by cyclopean terrors, but by voidlings borne of darkness, not unlike the aberrations which had hunted him recently. The great writhing worm of G’huun dashed about armor-clad warriors in a whiplash of black tendrils. Seeking out the life and light of each combatant, they latched onto Khorvis’s brothers and sisters, whispering dark promises of madness. Insanities echoed in the cavernous chamber, softly at first, then grower louder. Louder. A screech tore Bloodstar from his reverie.
“Khorvis! Snap out of it you oaf!” Gavril was howling at the warrior and backing away from his ‘patient’. The flesh of G’huun had sprung to life, rearing its shredded form as if another appendage of the Blood God and aiming to strike at the orc. Twisting and corkscrewing in a queer dance of inked negation, its shadow cast upon the wall failed to mirror its owner in mad incroguity.
The Lash coiled at his waist yanked Khorvis to his feet, the barb with a life of its own slicing a gash in the orc’s thigh as it reacted to the threat. Like two strange cats, the flesh of the Blood God and the Lash quivered and snarled at each other. From the pock marks in Khorvis’s gauntlet began to arise tiny voided tendrils, reaching out and yearning with petulant mouths for their feeding.
Khorvis fumbled at his waist for his dagger, trying to keep his prosthetic gauntlet, the Hand of Ashran, away from the monstrosity upon the operating table. “Felmancer! What in the bloody Nether do you be summoning in our Hall?!”
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Greebo's spirit had been wandering for most of the past many months but recent hours had seen him yanked unceremoniously back from his drifting in the nether and slammed firmly back into place in the lanky form that he had called home for the last decade. Thoughts like quicksilver traced through the dry and creaking flesh, granting it once more the supple appearance of life. "Something has called me back; something more important to the Mandate than mere battles against Sargeras or the Old Gods."
The realization shocked him into movement as he began to pace his dusty chambers to sense some sort of clue to what it could be. A threat more subtle than iron and fire. His talons dragged over the broken down and discarded titan engineering projects and felt no tremor of attraction. Powerful staves and blades, artifacts of great power, stood inert in their armoires; helms, robes, bracers won at great cost stirred nothing within him. Passing by a workbench covered in a silken sheet and a deep layer of dust he felt a twitch. Sliding the dust cover off he stared at the gems and dusts of long-ignored enchantments. "I can't believe the fucking imps moved the dust too when bringing this here." he muttered to himself, making a mental note to make them suffer for their petty resistance at being tasked with menial labour.
He picked up vials and crystals one by one, examining them with an inner sight to see if any resonance was detected. Some, but only weak was the conclusion and he replaced them in disappointment. He turned to leave. Elsewhere in more recently active laboratories there would be others that might be what he needed. A few long strides took him to the ivory portal. Pausing with one hand on it, he found his gaze drawn to a satchel sitting on the floor where he had dropped it the previous week, too tired to catalogue and file the contents after a brief return, too eager to be free to fly the nether again. Reaching in he pulled forth some kind of trollish garb, still soaked with the blood of its previous owner and wrapped around a soulshard containing a fragment of the unfortunate in question. Something in this blood, in this thread, in this lattice spoke to him. An essence leaking into the Terrace of Sorrow was responsible for his return. Two elegant pouches soon held some Gloom Dust and the shard and he left to see what stirred in the halls. He bright yellow eyes flickered darkly in the torch light as he strode along the primaeval stone corridor.
The realization shocked him into movement as he began to pace his dusty chambers to sense some sort of clue to what it could be. A threat more subtle than iron and fire. His talons dragged over the broken down and discarded titan engineering projects and felt no tremor of attraction. Powerful staves and blades, artifacts of great power, stood inert in their armoires; helms, robes, bracers won at great cost stirred nothing within him. Passing by a workbench covered in a silken sheet and a deep layer of dust he felt a twitch. Sliding the dust cover off he stared at the gems and dusts of long-ignored enchantments. "I can't believe the fucking imps moved the dust too when bringing this here." he muttered to himself, making a mental note to make them suffer for their petty resistance at being tasked with menial labour.
He picked up vials and crystals one by one, examining them with an inner sight to see if any resonance was detected. Some, but only weak was the conclusion and he replaced them in disappointment. He turned to leave. Elsewhere in more recently active laboratories there would be others that might be what he needed. A few long strides took him to the ivory portal. Pausing with one hand on it, he found his gaze drawn to a satchel sitting on the floor where he had dropped it the previous week, too tired to catalogue and file the contents after a brief return, too eager to be free to fly the nether again. Reaching in he pulled forth some kind of trollish garb, still soaked with the blood of its previous owner and wrapped around a soulshard containing a fragment of the unfortunate in question. Something in this blood, in this thread, in this lattice spoke to him. An essence leaking into the Terrace of Sorrow was responsible for his return. Two elegant pouches soon held some Gloom Dust and the shard and he left to see what stirred in the halls. He bright yellow eyes flickered darkly in the torch light as he strode along the primaeval stone corridor.
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
Re: A Shattering of Shields
The warlock fishes an ornate metal cube from the front of his smock, raising it in his gore-soaked hand towards the abberation.
“I summoned nothing, Lasher. But I do intend to banish it.”
Focusing his own magics through the central shard inlaid on the cube, Gavriil thrusts his hand towards the creature. No visible signs of magic come from the cube, but all at once the mutilated organ stretches to full length, convulses, and shudders, weakly lashing out one final time at the orc before collapsing, half draped over the operating table. The surface tissue continues to twitch and spasm for several moments before falling entirely still, black-violet ichor having been spattered across the room and both its inhabitants.
Gavril quickly stows the cube back into his smock. “How odd that it had lain inert this long before animating – it could have easily caught me alone before now. Unless, perhaps, something had set it off? One would think that such a distance from Nazmir would render any connections to its former biology null and void … pardon the pun … Though, in the end, it is beyond our possible fathoming. And I had assumed that the corrosive properties of its blood were neutralized with the Old God's death? Mmm... Not entirely corrosive, however – nothing like acid, at any rate, but more like an accelerated rot, nothing like I've ever seen...”
The warlock hurriedly skitters through various hypotheses, turning towards the mass of flesh for further inspection and abruptly falling silent. The operating table was riddled with steaming, blackened holes, the drainage system entirely corroded and the bowl underneath reduced to slag. Gavril looks down at his arms, entirely covered with G'huun's blood – Nothing. They were practically skeletonized, true, but that was no different than normal. He was untouched.
He turned to Khorvis, “This bears further research. I am woefully unable to thoroughly examine the alchemical properties, but perhaps there is another who could? Surely we have members of the Royal Apothecary Society amongst our numbers ...”
The warlock trails off, turning his back to Khorvis and moving to resituate the disembodied appendage and return to his work, seemingly unperturbed at the disturbance for the most part.
“And then, I suppose, deliver a report to the Commander.”
“I summoned nothing, Lasher. But I do intend to banish it.”
Focusing his own magics through the central shard inlaid on the cube, Gavriil thrusts his hand towards the creature. No visible signs of magic come from the cube, but all at once the mutilated organ stretches to full length, convulses, and shudders, weakly lashing out one final time at the orc before collapsing, half draped over the operating table. The surface tissue continues to twitch and spasm for several moments before falling entirely still, black-violet ichor having been spattered across the room and both its inhabitants.
Gavril quickly stows the cube back into his smock. “How odd that it had lain inert this long before animating – it could have easily caught me alone before now. Unless, perhaps, something had set it off? One would think that such a distance from Nazmir would render any connections to its former biology null and void … pardon the pun … Though, in the end, it is beyond our possible fathoming. And I had assumed that the corrosive properties of its blood were neutralized with the Old God's death? Mmm... Not entirely corrosive, however – nothing like acid, at any rate, but more like an accelerated rot, nothing like I've ever seen...”
The warlock hurriedly skitters through various hypotheses, turning towards the mass of flesh for further inspection and abruptly falling silent. The operating table was riddled with steaming, blackened holes, the drainage system entirely corroded and the bowl underneath reduced to slag. Gavril looks down at his arms, entirely covered with G'huun's blood – Nothing. They were practically skeletonized, true, but that was no different than normal. He was untouched.
He turned to Khorvis, “This bears further research. I am woefully unable to thoroughly examine the alchemical properties, but perhaps there is another who could? Surely we have members of the Royal Apothecary Society amongst our numbers ...”
The warlock trails off, turning his back to Khorvis and moving to resituate the disembodied appendage and return to his work, seemingly unperturbed at the disturbance for the most part.
“And then, I suppose, deliver a report to the Commander.”
-
Alfyrin Lightsblade
- Posts: 5
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Throughout their service, the Grim had gathered an impressive amount of knowledge. Such was they're tenure in their duty to the Horde, that their library seemed to contain all a scholar may ask for - from the mundane to the obscure. It served the Priestess well, for her self-imposed isolation over the latest years had left her in great need to learn the violent shifts Azeroth had suffered in recent times, and she was pleasantly met with much more than she had bargained for - a trove of insight and knowledge.
Recent encounters linked to the coming of the Burning Legion had expanded Azeroth's knowledge of its place in the Great Dark Beyond a hundred fold, and not a few had set to the task of casting theories about the nature of the universe. In all her politeness, Alfyrin had requested permission to borrow these accounts, and there she sat surrounded not only by more recent collections, but also old tablets, grimoires, tomes and guides that spoke of a time when widespread knowledge was still scarce, and therefore valuable.
As thirsty as she was for such knowledge, Alfyrin found herself distracted. She had heard the commotion from adjacent chambers as the Grim returned from their assignment, and initially attributed her lack of focus to this. Yet as soldiers retired each to end their own winds, she found the discomforting sensation remained. She couldn't place her finger on it… It was something in the air, like a foul stench, a disgusting taste in her mouth she couldn't easily dismiss. Like a voice echoing faintly in the great dark, a sensation of which she'd become uncomfortably acute.
The sensation had lingered so insidiously at the back of her mind that when it flared to life, the Priestess was startled out of her seat. With a white-knuckle grip she had held onto the table before her, steadying herself though her body urged to the contrary. Radiant eyes had snapped wide in an absent glare, bleeding surges of Light energy from her tearducts that cast a terrible glow about her face. Creeping from beneath her sleeves and collar, her veins came alight, vessels flooded by coursing Light pulsing in luminous webbings beneath her flesh. Her entire body was seized in painful tension, thoroughly alert and at the ready for this, this…
As suddenly as it had come, the sensation then left her, and readiness was promptly replaced with nothing short of utter confusion and paranoid wariness. Her eyes came back to focus and snapped to glance across the chamber for something, anything… She hadn't imagined it so, and there was no mistaking the nature of such foul presence.
Slowly, her head turned to glance over her shoulder. Her husband sat none too far from her, having happily agreed to accompany her in her diligent study. With lips half agape, Alfyrin released a quiet breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
“Darrethy… Did you feel that too?”
Recent encounters linked to the coming of the Burning Legion had expanded Azeroth's knowledge of its place in the Great Dark Beyond a hundred fold, and not a few had set to the task of casting theories about the nature of the universe. In all her politeness, Alfyrin had requested permission to borrow these accounts, and there she sat surrounded not only by more recent collections, but also old tablets, grimoires, tomes and guides that spoke of a time when widespread knowledge was still scarce, and therefore valuable.
As thirsty as she was for such knowledge, Alfyrin found herself distracted. She had heard the commotion from adjacent chambers as the Grim returned from their assignment, and initially attributed her lack of focus to this. Yet as soldiers retired each to end their own winds, she found the discomforting sensation remained. She couldn't place her finger on it… It was something in the air, like a foul stench, a disgusting taste in her mouth she couldn't easily dismiss. Like a voice echoing faintly in the great dark, a sensation of which she'd become uncomfortably acute.
The sensation had lingered so insidiously at the back of her mind that when it flared to life, the Priestess was startled out of her seat. With a white-knuckle grip she had held onto the table before her, steadying herself though her body urged to the contrary. Radiant eyes had snapped wide in an absent glare, bleeding surges of Light energy from her tearducts that cast a terrible glow about her face. Creeping from beneath her sleeves and collar, her veins came alight, vessels flooded by coursing Light pulsing in luminous webbings beneath her flesh. Her entire body was seized in painful tension, thoroughly alert and at the ready for this, this…
As suddenly as it had come, the sensation then left her, and readiness was promptly replaced with nothing short of utter confusion and paranoid wariness. Her eyes came back to focus and snapped to glance across the chamber for something, anything… She hadn't imagined it so, and there was no mistaking the nature of such foul presence.
Slowly, her head turned to glance over her shoulder. Her husband sat none too far from her, having happily agreed to accompany her in her diligent study. With lips half agape, Alfyrin released a quiet breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
“Darrethy… Did you feel that too?”
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Colors shifted, points in time became obscured, was this the past? the present? the future? lights dimmed, up above black lines formed around the clouds, which themselves had turned a sickly dark brown. The farm had always been prosperous, always been healthy, when the rest of the land had been corrupted by plague and undeath it alone remained almost entirely intact. Crops waved back and forth on a sickly wind, a foul odor that would of no doubt raised an alarm if anyone was away to catch it's scent, the almost overpowering rot that had tainted the otherwise fresh air.
The farmhand had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he knew something was wrong. He hadn't slept for some reason, his dreams were hard to grasp but he remembered enough to know that he didn't want to go back to bed. His dirty brown clothes and ragged pants were still smudged with grime from a hard day of work, but there weren't exactly a lot of places out here to wash. He'd have to wait until he could ask one of the guards, but at the moment it only increased his growing sense of discomfort.
His stomach was growling and he wasn't sure why, the smell that was filling his nostrils should of made him want to throw up, and yet his insides were not revolting against it. Instead he found that it was his outside of his body was the most affected, his dark brown eyes flickering across his calloused tanned hand. He pulled back his sleeve to itch at the flesh beneath, cut and scabbed over in spots, littered with small inflamed red lumps that he had months and yet never checked in on. He figured that his clothes were simply pulling at the hair, irritating the skin, and yet all morning and most of tonight they had been acting up. He scratched his scalp, he imagined it wasn't much better, but much like his arms any damage was hidden, his black hair covering what he imagined to be a dozen scabs as well.
Uneasily, he pushed the door to his small farmhouse open and went inside: It wasn't much, that was for sure. A fireplace, a table, a fireplace, a counter top, a place to store food, a pair of windows, and a bed that his wife had been sleeping in for much of the day. He didn't know what had happened to her, she had been fine a pair of nights ago had she not? yet now she couldn't even be bothered to cook, to clean, to help with the other farmhands, to cook, help with the kids, to move the wagon into the creek, or even to cook. He had to do everything himself and it was starting to grate on him, no doubt the growling in his stomach was caused by how poorly he'd been eating.
He made his way over to the counter and pulled open a drawer, he still had enough meat left over to throw something together for the night. Irritation creased his features when he realized he was running out of utensils, tossing aside a few butter knives with a grumble before he wound something with an actual edge to it, he hated living like this. His yellowed teeth ground together as he turned to make for the counter, though his expression quickly changed to one of surprise as he found himself staring out the window.
A goat, a black goat to be precise, was standing outside and staring into the room. Light above, that scared the daylights out of him, and he barely managed out a breathy laugh. He ran a hand through his hair then. "Hey there little guy, how'd you get all the way out here? Ya know the League will kill anything on sight that comes out this way and doesn't look human right?" the goat just continued to stare, all it's eyes following his hand until it once more dropped to his side. "...Right, I know, can't help it an' all, probly just smelled my food and came poken around...would ya...would ya like some?"
The goat, being a goat, didn't answer.
He was growing increasingly uncomfortable, anxious, he went over to the table and glanced over to a bowl that had just been sitting out since the morning. Chickenbones were floating in dirty brown water, it had been more appetizing when he first made it, but after sitting out in the cold he felt a distinct sense of disgust that he couldn't quite shake, either way he doubted either one of them wanted to eat that at this point. He swallowed hard, clenching his fists as his eyes wandered to the shifting lump on the bed. Frowning, he went over to pull back the sheet...
..........................................................................................................................................
Darrethy pushed his fingers into his lightless eyes, it was the only thing that stopped the ache. Alfirin's voice cut through his painful migraine and managed to rouse him from his studies, looking over to her and offering a sheepish smile at her question. "Yeah, I felt something, a tingling in the back of my spine...can't say it was terribly pleasant." he seemed mostly unphased by whatever was bothering her, perhaps he was used to these kinds of sensations? whatever the case, he pulled himself up from his chair and began to saddle a book he'd been studying at his side.
Curiously he never opened any of the tomes in the library, none for himself anyway, he always brought his own reading material from...wherever...he got them. He turned over to her and offered a hand to help her up. "We should probably check out whatever is going on, yeah? I don't like it when I feel uneasy."
The farmhand had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he knew something was wrong. He hadn't slept for some reason, his dreams were hard to grasp but he remembered enough to know that he didn't want to go back to bed. His dirty brown clothes and ragged pants were still smudged with grime from a hard day of work, but there weren't exactly a lot of places out here to wash. He'd have to wait until he could ask one of the guards, but at the moment it only increased his growing sense of discomfort.
His stomach was growling and he wasn't sure why, the smell that was filling his nostrils should of made him want to throw up, and yet his insides were not revolting against it. Instead he found that it was his outside of his body was the most affected, his dark brown eyes flickering across his calloused tanned hand. He pulled back his sleeve to itch at the flesh beneath, cut and scabbed over in spots, littered with small inflamed red lumps that he had months and yet never checked in on. He figured that his clothes were simply pulling at the hair, irritating the skin, and yet all morning and most of tonight they had been acting up. He scratched his scalp, he imagined it wasn't much better, but much like his arms any damage was hidden, his black hair covering what he imagined to be a dozen scabs as well.
Uneasily, he pushed the door to his small farmhouse open and went inside: It wasn't much, that was for sure. A fireplace, a table, a fireplace, a counter top, a place to store food, a pair of windows, and a bed that his wife had been sleeping in for much of the day. He didn't know what had happened to her, she had been fine a pair of nights ago had she not? yet now she couldn't even be bothered to cook, to clean, to help with the other farmhands, to cook, help with the kids, to move the wagon into the creek, or even to cook. He had to do everything himself and it was starting to grate on him, no doubt the growling in his stomach was caused by how poorly he'd been eating.
He made his way over to the counter and pulled open a drawer, he still had enough meat left over to throw something together for the night. Irritation creased his features when he realized he was running out of utensils, tossing aside a few butter knives with a grumble before he wound something with an actual edge to it, he hated living like this. His yellowed teeth ground together as he turned to make for the counter, though his expression quickly changed to one of surprise as he found himself staring out the window.
A goat, a black goat to be precise, was standing outside and staring into the room. Light above, that scared the daylights out of him, and he barely managed out a breathy laugh. He ran a hand through his hair then. "Hey there little guy, how'd you get all the way out here? Ya know the League will kill anything on sight that comes out this way and doesn't look human right?" the goat just continued to stare, all it's eyes following his hand until it once more dropped to his side. "...Right, I know, can't help it an' all, probly just smelled my food and came poken around...would ya...would ya like some?"
The goat, being a goat, didn't answer.
He was growing increasingly uncomfortable, anxious, he went over to the table and glanced over to a bowl that had just been sitting out since the morning. Chickenbones were floating in dirty brown water, it had been more appetizing when he first made it, but after sitting out in the cold he felt a distinct sense of disgust that he couldn't quite shake, either way he doubted either one of them wanted to eat that at this point. He swallowed hard, clenching his fists as his eyes wandered to the shifting lump on the bed. Frowning, he went over to pull back the sheet...
..........................................................................................................................................
Darrethy pushed his fingers into his lightless eyes, it was the only thing that stopped the ache. Alfirin's voice cut through his painful migraine and managed to rouse him from his studies, looking over to her and offering a sheepish smile at her question. "Yeah, I felt something, a tingling in the back of my spine...can't say it was terribly pleasant." he seemed mostly unphased by whatever was bothering her, perhaps he was used to these kinds of sensations? whatever the case, he pulled himself up from his chair and began to saddle a book he'd been studying at his side.
Curiously he never opened any of the tomes in the library, none for himself anyway, he always brought his own reading material from...wherever...he got them. He turned over to her and offered a hand to help her up. "We should probably check out whatever is going on, yeah? I don't like it when I feel uneasy."
-
Alfyrin Lightsblade
- Posts: 5
Re: A Shattering of Shields
She'd seen it time and again, yet it never ceased to amaze her. The grace with which the Forsaken rose from his seat, the unshakable confidence, the strength of his tall, resilient form. The calm. When every bit of her body had but moments before been ready to pounce, roused the spirit of the Light in her to action by some imminent threat, he had remained utterly collected. Aware, certainly - Darrethy was not, by any stretch of the imagination, oblivious to such things. He may perhaps be too aware, in fact, so accustomed to the sensation - the presence, its power and voices - that he very simply surrendered himself to the task. It was as needed to be done.
One day, she would be as dauntless and implacable as he...
Before she knew it he was offering his bony hand, and she took it without any kind of hesitation. Walking alongside him alone helped the Priestess subdue the burning fire within her, his calm giving way to reason and logic in but a few strides. Terribly unpleasant was awfully accurate, and there was no need to inquire regarding the source when the trail seemed much too obvious to a sensitive spirit as her own. Soon the pair had been winding down stairs leading further into the seemingly ancient complex. The further they went the more tense Alfyrin became, yet it was kept in check by resolute determination.
It was at the facility's open door that she broke from her walking trance, and her eyes drew up towards her husband with a nod of acknowledgement. She was uneasy herself... but the fact it made him uneasy was far more troubling to the Sin'dorei.
One day, she would be as dauntless and implacable as he...
Before she knew it he was offering his bony hand, and she took it without any kind of hesitation. Walking alongside him alone helped the Priestess subdue the burning fire within her, his calm giving way to reason and logic in but a few strides. Terribly unpleasant was awfully accurate, and there was no need to inquire regarding the source when the trail seemed much too obvious to a sensitive spirit as her own. Soon the pair had been winding down stairs leading further into the seemingly ancient complex. The further they went the more tense Alfyrin became, yet it was kept in check by resolute determination.
It was at the facility's open door that she broke from her walking trance, and her eyes drew up towards her husband with a nod of acknowledgement. She was uneasy herself... but the fact it made him uneasy was far more troubling to the Sin'dorei.
Re: A Shattering of Shields
A gibbous moon hung high over what were once the forests of Kalimdor, at times it seemed to almost block out the sky. It was a night like this that he came out of his barrow over ten thousand years ago, his eyes struggling to adjust to the ever shifting colors that seemed to swell and spill out of the woods. One grey haired leg tentatively extended into the light, the hairs standing on end as he clicked his mandibles together. What was wrong? His other legs followed soon after and he found himself skittering across the forest floor, anxious and uneasy.
He dimly recognized the sensation of fear across the seemingly endless expanse of his mind, it was odd. Normally he would merely taste it, only a drop or two, and then it would be banished from his thoughts as quickly as it had come, replaced by hatred and anger in a matter of moments. Not so now, as he climbed one of the trees he found he did it with far more hesitation, even though the familiar silky strands on his feet should of soothed his mind.
His eyes fixated on the other treetops, all the hues around him seemed to have taken on the color of brutal ice. "This is not right." came the thought tugging at the edges of his consciousness, slowly his sight came to settle on a familiar mountain range. He remembered the sun spitting fire as he climbed into one of those caves, a goat had settled in and was painting yaks, serpents, tigers, and the corpse of a crane on the wall. He was so impressed by it's art that he pledged to be it's slave, to follow it wherever it'd go, but sadly he could not follow it into the void above.
That night they split a rattlesnake and danced beneath the stars, he wished he could go back to those simpler times.
Now a city of gold was built upon that mountain range, and all those old caves were either caved in or infested with usurpers, his thoughts turned hateful and bitter for a moment, and for a moment he felt at peace with himself. However not a second later his attention was drawn to a Brutosaur pushing through the treetops and any animals that got in it's way. Normally such a creature would go unchallenged by the world around it, it was simply too large to fight, only the foolish would try to kill it.
Unfortunately for both him and the Brutosaur, being foolish never stopped someone from being murderous.
It came out of the sky, much too large to be a pterrodax. It caused a screaming crashing noise that was louder then anything he'd EVER heard, his hairs were greeted by a unpleasant summer breeze and a mighty lions roar. It took the form of two great silver trees that somehow learned to soar, bathing him a baleful light that robbed the sight from his eyes. he could feel the ground shake under him, splitting and upturning in rebellion as blue and amber liquid erupted in a tidal wave, within moments he would lose his footing and then...
.............................................................................................................................................
A small collection of red eyes opened in one of the satchels at Darrethy's waist, if such creatures could yawn, Chungus would be yawning about now. The fuzzy creepling pulled himself out of the Defilers bag one hairy poison coated leg at a time, within a few moments the Forsaken would find that the fist sized spider was crawling up his arm. Not that this bothered him of course, in fact he barely paid the creature any mind.
Soon it perched itself on the Shadow Priests shoulder and glanced towards Alfirin, it clicked it's mandibles in something that might of been akin to a greeting as they made their way down the winding staircase. It stretched it's limbs briefly and nestled itself against the Forsakens neck, it's attention swiftly turning to the door that lay before them.
He dimly recognized the sensation of fear across the seemingly endless expanse of his mind, it was odd. Normally he would merely taste it, only a drop or two, and then it would be banished from his thoughts as quickly as it had come, replaced by hatred and anger in a matter of moments. Not so now, as he climbed one of the trees he found he did it with far more hesitation, even though the familiar silky strands on his feet should of soothed his mind.
His eyes fixated on the other treetops, all the hues around him seemed to have taken on the color of brutal ice. "This is not right." came the thought tugging at the edges of his consciousness, slowly his sight came to settle on a familiar mountain range. He remembered the sun spitting fire as he climbed into one of those caves, a goat had settled in and was painting yaks, serpents, tigers, and the corpse of a crane on the wall. He was so impressed by it's art that he pledged to be it's slave, to follow it wherever it'd go, but sadly he could not follow it into the void above.
That night they split a rattlesnake and danced beneath the stars, he wished he could go back to those simpler times.
Now a city of gold was built upon that mountain range, and all those old caves were either caved in or infested with usurpers, his thoughts turned hateful and bitter for a moment, and for a moment he felt at peace with himself. However not a second later his attention was drawn to a Brutosaur pushing through the treetops and any animals that got in it's way. Normally such a creature would go unchallenged by the world around it, it was simply too large to fight, only the foolish would try to kill it.
Unfortunately for both him and the Brutosaur, being foolish never stopped someone from being murderous.
It came out of the sky, much too large to be a pterrodax. It caused a screaming crashing noise that was louder then anything he'd EVER heard, his hairs were greeted by a unpleasant summer breeze and a mighty lions roar. It took the form of two great silver trees that somehow learned to soar, bathing him a baleful light that robbed the sight from his eyes. he could feel the ground shake under him, splitting and upturning in rebellion as blue and amber liquid erupted in a tidal wave, within moments he would lose his footing and then...
.............................................................................................................................................
A small collection of red eyes opened in one of the satchels at Darrethy's waist, if such creatures could yawn, Chungus would be yawning about now. The fuzzy creepling pulled himself out of the Defilers bag one hairy poison coated leg at a time, within a few moments the Forsaken would find that the fist sized spider was crawling up his arm. Not that this bothered him of course, in fact he barely paid the creature any mind.
Soon it perched itself on the Shadow Priests shoulder and glanced towards Alfirin, it clicked it's mandibles in something that might of been akin to a greeting as they made their way down the winding staircase. It stretched it's limbs briefly and nestled itself against the Forsakens neck, it's attention swiftly turning to the door that lay before them.
Re: A Shattering of Shields
The commotion echoed through the halls, causing Awatu to pause and listen for any further sounds of alarm. The distinct bellows of Khorvis could be heard, but they quickly died down. No other alarms had gone off, so whatever had caused the outburst was likely handled.
The cleaning of hooves was an integral part of any Shu'halo's daily life. Awatu returned his attention to his left hoof, scraping away any detritus buildup, much in the same way he had learned when he was a young calf. Removal of foreign particles and other such undesirables from between the hoof walls helped stave off infection, hoof-rot, split hooves, and a number of other maladies that could affect creatures with hooves. This was doubly important at the moment, as the slime, ooze, ichour, and other unpleasant substances found within G'huun's lair would undoubtedly create untold problems if left alone.
His thoughts turned inward and the battle replayed within his mind. At the time, it seems to last hours, but it could not have been more than fifteen minutes. The most interesting part was the cleansing beacon that struck the malodorous abominations deep within the pit. They burned away like paper in a flame, but the energy washed over himself and the other Grim as if it were water. He found this odd as previous Titan cleansing machines often targeted themselves as corruption requiring removal. Orcs, not even born of this world, were even spared the cleansing flame's wrath. Perhaps the construct before had identified them as non-threats and spared them.
Just another inconsistency from the Titans, the false gods of this world. Their failed stewardship continued to plague the inhabitants of Azeroth in so many ways. At the very least, they seem to have retreated from the cosmos in an effort to imprison their infernal brother. Even their designated keepers and chosen pets were susceptible to the sway of the Old Gods. With four out of five of the dragon aspects having gone insane through corrpuption, it would only be a matter of time before Alexstrasza, the so-called Life-Binder, would fall.
No, it was due to the work of mortals that had influenced the world of Azeroth, reshaped the stars, and conquered what not even the mighty Titans could barely contain. Earthmother-be-praised that he still drew breath, thanks to the diligent work of the menders. More battles loomed on the horizon, and though weary from one more out of thousands that had come before, Awatu stood and looked about the armory. Replacing his tools and disposing of used towels and bandages, he moved into the corridors towards the direction of Khorvis' ruckus. Perhaps he would tease the Orc about whatever had frightened him so.
The cleaning of hooves was an integral part of any Shu'halo's daily life. Awatu returned his attention to his left hoof, scraping away any detritus buildup, much in the same way he had learned when he was a young calf. Removal of foreign particles and other such undesirables from between the hoof walls helped stave off infection, hoof-rot, split hooves, and a number of other maladies that could affect creatures with hooves. This was doubly important at the moment, as the slime, ooze, ichour, and other unpleasant substances found within G'huun's lair would undoubtedly create untold problems if left alone.
His thoughts turned inward and the battle replayed within his mind. At the time, it seems to last hours, but it could not have been more than fifteen minutes. The most interesting part was the cleansing beacon that struck the malodorous abominations deep within the pit. They burned away like paper in a flame, but the energy washed over himself and the other Grim as if it were water. He found this odd as previous Titan cleansing machines often targeted themselves as corruption requiring removal. Orcs, not even born of this world, were even spared the cleansing flame's wrath. Perhaps the construct before had identified them as non-threats and spared them.
Just another inconsistency from the Titans, the false gods of this world. Their failed stewardship continued to plague the inhabitants of Azeroth in so many ways. At the very least, they seem to have retreated from the cosmos in an effort to imprison their infernal brother. Even their designated keepers and chosen pets were susceptible to the sway of the Old Gods. With four out of five of the dragon aspects having gone insane through corrpuption, it would only be a matter of time before Alexstrasza, the so-called Life-Binder, would fall.
No, it was due to the work of mortals that had influenced the world of Azeroth, reshaped the stars, and conquered what not even the mighty Titans could barely contain. Earthmother-be-praised that he still drew breath, thanks to the diligent work of the menders. More battles loomed on the horizon, and though weary from one more out of thousands that had come before, Awatu stood and looked about the armory. Replacing his tools and disposing of used towels and bandages, he moved into the corridors towards the direction of Khorvis' ruckus. Perhaps he would tease the Orc about whatever had frightened him so.
Re: A Shattering of Shields
Greebo's random meandering led him inerrantly to chambers that Gavril had commandeered.
"I ahh see that Lasher is once more in need of assistance?" he murmured.
"I do be," barked the stern warrior, "though not from the likes of you I might be thinking."
"Hush now, my brave. That is the pain speaking. But what kind of pain, mmm? What kind indeed."
Greebo turned to Gavril. "We have commenced with the outward cleansing. But ahhh what of the inward? Have we tried leeching to test the purity of his soul, his blood, his *mind*?"
He moved toward an unused work table and began to assemble a contraption of sorts, lenses, focusing crystals, purifying spirals of delicate glassware. The whole resembled a twisted hybrid of a triangular scale and a microscope. Nestled in two of the points were a small pile of Gloom Dust, glittering darkly, and pale violet gem shot-through with blackened inclusions.
Greebo patted a little wooden stool at the apex of his device. "Come. Sit a while and we shall see what we shall ahhh see?"
"I ahh see that Lasher is once more in need of assistance?" he murmured.
"I do be," barked the stern warrior, "though not from the likes of you I might be thinking."
"Hush now, my brave. That is the pain speaking. But what kind of pain, mmm? What kind indeed."
Greebo turned to Gavril. "We have commenced with the outward cleansing. But ahhh what of the inward? Have we tried leeching to test the purity of his soul, his blood, his *mind*?"
He moved toward an unused work table and began to assemble a contraption of sorts, lenses, focusing crystals, purifying spirals of delicate glassware. The whole resembled a twisted hybrid of a triangular scale and a microscope. Nestled in two of the points were a small pile of Gloom Dust, glittering darkly, and pale violet gem shot-through with blackened inclusions.
Greebo patted a little wooden stool at the apex of his device. "Come. Sit a while and we shall see what we shall ahhh see?"
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.