( I dont know how many people read TNG so I'm double posting this here, It would be open if anyone felt like jumping in.)
Mordria woke up slowly, the sunlight from the window warming her naked body. The sounds of early morning conversations and barking of trade orders floated by. She tried to open her eyes. Something wasn’t right. Her eyes would not open, she rubbed at them with the back of her hands and found them caked with some dry crusty substance. She rolled over and tried to sit up, reaching out blindly, she froze. There was another body in the bed. and the sounds outside did not have the musical quality of Dalaran, but seemed instead the rough drawl of Orgrimaar.
“What the…â€
Re: The morning after.
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Nymare
Re: The morning after.
Nymare followed the pacing girl with her eyes, storming back and forth infront of the fountain in Falconwing Square. Yes, she had been asking questions, that was her job, but this was not one of the answers she had expected. Infact, she had not bothered to ask Mordria at all if she had managed to murder and eat a troll in the last week, but the confession came out just that easily.
"Ok! So I might have accidentally killed a troll and ate him. It was an accident!"
Which begged the question of how one accidentally eats and kills anything. The answer was simple enough - she did it in her sleep. Simple, yes. Did it make any sense whatsoever to the Rangeress? Not at all. Mordria continued to pace and Nymare continued to stare, desperate for some idea on exactly what to do about this, if anything. The fact that another Horde was involved bothered her, but Mordria was not exactly Grim yet. It would be easy enough to just hand the girl over to authorities and be done with it.
"And I wasn't planning on telling anyone, but you asked. You asked HARD!"
Blinking, Nymare had no idea what that meant, but she did not like it. Out of the blanket of shadows that she was normally wrapped in, Mordria looked to Nymare like a girl, small enough for a Sin'Dorei, and not at all a creature capable of overpowering and eating anything bigger than biscuit, even in her sleep. She let the priestess continue to pace, short cropped black hair flipping wildly each time she pivoted to march back in the other direction.
Drumming her fingers against the back of the bench, Nymare picked up her stone. There was no way in Hellfire she intended to deal with this alone, and Qabian at least knew who she was with, why, and likely where. Even if he was not lurking nearby, she knew he could be to them quickly if it were necessary.
"Ok! So I might have accidentally killed a troll and ate him. It was an accident!"
Which begged the question of how one accidentally eats and kills anything. The answer was simple enough - she did it in her sleep. Simple, yes. Did it make any sense whatsoever to the Rangeress? Not at all. Mordria continued to pace and Nymare continued to stare, desperate for some idea on exactly what to do about this, if anything. The fact that another Horde was involved bothered her, but Mordria was not exactly Grim yet. It would be easy enough to just hand the girl over to authorities and be done with it.
"And I wasn't planning on telling anyone, but you asked. You asked HARD!"
Blinking, Nymare had no idea what that meant, but she did not like it. Out of the blanket of shadows that she was normally wrapped in, Mordria looked to Nymare like a girl, small enough for a Sin'Dorei, and not at all a creature capable of overpowering and eating anything bigger than biscuit, even in her sleep. She let the priestess continue to pace, short cropped black hair flipping wildly each time she pivoted to march back in the other direction.
Drumming her fingers against the back of the bench, Nymare picked up her stone. There was no way in Hellfire she intended to deal with this alone, and Qabian at least knew who she was with, why, and likely where. Even if he was not lurking nearby, she knew he could be to them quickly if it were necessary.
Last edited by Nymare on Tue Feb 17, 2009 10:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Qabian
Re: The morning after.
Qabian shuffled through his stack of papers again. He had intended to be more organized and entertaining about this. He was disappointed that it was likely to lose any mystery and appeal in the time between creation and understanding. And what he lost was directly because of the masks he wore. Bah.
And after that overdramatic gratitude for something she didn't need, mmm... They could change that, too, the nature of gratitude. They could change anything.
But she was seeing to the girl, the girl they'd recognized from her first contact that she might pose a problem, showing tendencies a few troublesome others had shown.
He almost always had a sense of waiting to hear from her when she wasn't around, even at the height of war. That was part of... the things that had changed. Not that he couldn't find a hundred ways to keep busy while he waited, but he waited nonetheless.
And then what he did hear was definitely unexpected.
"...what?"
"She killed and ate a Troll."
Did he deserve it? He smirked to himself, but before he expressed the thought, especially knowing the girl's tendency towards a disturbingly happy nature, she continued.
"She says she'll show me where it happened in Orgrimmar. What's left might still be there."
"Mm. On my way."
~~
Qabian and Nymare stood staring at what indeed had been left behind untouched. The girl herself refused to approach, standing with her warbear at a distance out of hearing. Qabian shook his head, covering his mouth and nose with one hand. Nymare observed, comparatively unphased by the gore and the smell.
"We could destroy the evidence. She's not Grim yet. We wouldn't be connected," Nymare suggested.
"Or we could just hand her over."
She smirked at him. "She said she doesn't remember much."
"Does she even know if she was the one who did it?"
"It happened while she was asleep."
"Hm."
They discussed the situation a while. Whatever this girl was, she was clearly dangerous. It was possible she was only dangerous to those she got drunk and spent the night with -- Qabian shuddered -- but that wasn't exactly reassuring. They weren't babysitters. They couldn't lock her up and force her sobriety. They also couldn't just let her wander around boozing and killing. Although maybe if they could get her a pleasant little house somewhere in Stormwind, a job as a whore, fade her eyes a little...
He snapped his fingers, setting the bedding alight, watching a moment to make sure the rest of the small hut caught fire as well before stepping outside with Nymare to observe.
He idly watched the flames, musing on possible solutions. The idea of killing the girl before she became more directly troublesome had its appeal, although she had been around long enough that people might notice her absence. They could knock out all her teeth. At least she wouldn't be able to eat anyone else while they figured out what the hell was wrong with her and how to put a stop to it permanently. The piece of evidence that made him fairly certain this hadn't been done by something else, some animal, was Mordria's continual fascination with gnawing at her own fingers even between battles.
"...and then there's her hands."
He blinked out of his reverie. "Hm? I had noticed she was wearing gloves..."
And after that overdramatic gratitude for something she didn't need, mmm... They could change that, too, the nature of gratitude. They could change anything.
But she was seeing to the girl, the girl they'd recognized from her first contact that she might pose a problem, showing tendencies a few troublesome others had shown.
He almost always had a sense of waiting to hear from her when she wasn't around, even at the height of war. That was part of... the things that had changed. Not that he couldn't find a hundred ways to keep busy while he waited, but he waited nonetheless.
And then what he did hear was definitely unexpected.
"...what?"
"She killed and ate a Troll."
Did he deserve it? He smirked to himself, but before he expressed the thought, especially knowing the girl's tendency towards a disturbingly happy nature, she continued.
"She says she'll show me where it happened in Orgrimmar. What's left might still be there."
"Mm. On my way."
~~
Qabian and Nymare stood staring at what indeed had been left behind untouched. The girl herself refused to approach, standing with her warbear at a distance out of hearing. Qabian shook his head, covering his mouth and nose with one hand. Nymare observed, comparatively unphased by the gore and the smell.
"We could destroy the evidence. She's not Grim yet. We wouldn't be connected," Nymare suggested.
"Or we could just hand her over."
She smirked at him. "She said she doesn't remember much."
"Does she even know if she was the one who did it?"
"It happened while she was asleep."
"Hm."
They discussed the situation a while. Whatever this girl was, she was clearly dangerous. It was possible she was only dangerous to those she got drunk and spent the night with -- Qabian shuddered -- but that wasn't exactly reassuring. They weren't babysitters. They couldn't lock her up and force her sobriety. They also couldn't just let her wander around boozing and killing. Although maybe if they could get her a pleasant little house somewhere in Stormwind, a job as a whore, fade her eyes a little...
He snapped his fingers, setting the bedding alight, watching a moment to make sure the rest of the small hut caught fire as well before stepping outside with Nymare to observe.
He idly watched the flames, musing on possible solutions. The idea of killing the girl before she became more directly troublesome had its appeal, although she had been around long enough that people might notice her absence. They could knock out all her teeth. At least she wouldn't be able to eat anyone else while they figured out what the hell was wrong with her and how to put a stop to it permanently. The piece of evidence that made him fairly certain this hadn't been done by something else, some animal, was Mordria's continual fascination with gnawing at her own fingers even between battles.
"...and then there's her hands."
He blinked out of his reverie. "Hm? I had noticed she was wearing gloves..."
-
Mordria
Re: The morning after.
Mordria sat at the her dressing table lost in thought. The previous day had not gone at all like she had imagined. It was supposed to be a relaxing day of shopping and lounging around. Until she decided to check the mailbox. There was a letter from Nymare, strange enough in itself since the huntress had barely said more than two words to her since her induction into the Grim, and neither of those words were particularly sociable. So when the note proposed a meeting Mordria was filled with equal parts worry and excitement. She chose a simple outfit with one of her many new pairs of gloves to match. And after a bit of discussion they wound up in Farstrider square.
It started out simple enough, Nymare wanted to know what her thoughts were on the part she would play in the Grim. It was obvious there were some doubts as to her worth or motives. Mordria silently cursed herself again for the hasty and impetuous things she said in her entrance letter, the words she had hoped would inspire confidence in her abilities as a killer had come off as nothing more than the ranting of an attention hungry child.
But then she had asked about the gloves.
Mordria stared down at her hands, her accursed hands. Why did anyone have to ask, why did they even care. She carefully stripped them off and looked down at them. Her poor dead hands. The bones still shown as neat as pearls under the torchlight of her room. She sighed. Nymare had made her take off the gloves, would not take no for an answer in fact, and though she was gentle in her examination of them, Mordria could still feel a burn of shame. Someone else’s perfect pink fingers poking around at her dead flesh. As soon as the huntress had finished Mordria had put the gloves back on, rubbing them against her legs to soothe the burning itch.
She reached under the dresser and opened a drawer, removing a sheaf of paper and a bottle of fresh ink. She set them down gently in front of her and looked up into the mirror. She winced slightly.
It had only gone downhill from there, the questions kept coming and she had tried her best to keep up. But she had gotten confused. The topics were shifting, the huntress seemed after a particular answer. One second she was happy to be having a friendly conversation the next she would feel guarded. There were thoughts in her head and she couldn’t remember what she had spoken aloud already or what was an interior dialogue. There came a point she must have blurted something out, because Nymare looked shocked and Mordria found herself pacing back and forth across the cobbles.
Then she decided to call Him. Her boyfriend, he of the smirking and killing of cats. Mordria was silently horrified. It was bad enough to have one person stare at her much less someone who seemed to delight only in picking on her. He came and took them to Orgrimaar, Mordria wanted no part of it, she stayed back as far as she could while they went into the house. She could only imagine them in there, smirking and making fun of her. They told her to stay while they discussed her punishment. At one point the huntress seemed surprised that she did in fact stay, asked why she didn’t attempt to flee. As if she had anywhere to run. The only family she had left could do nothing to protect her if the Grim, or even the Horde authorities came to collect her. Better to wait and assume it was something she would live through.
And live through it she did. A weak smile came to her lips as she looked in the mirror. One skeletal hand came up to caress the thick black stitches adorning her face, closing her mouth. Preventing any harm to the Grim. Its hard to bite when your mouth is sewn shut.
She picked up a pen and began to compose a letter.
It started out simple enough, Nymare wanted to know what her thoughts were on the part she would play in the Grim. It was obvious there were some doubts as to her worth or motives. Mordria silently cursed herself again for the hasty and impetuous things she said in her entrance letter, the words she had hoped would inspire confidence in her abilities as a killer had come off as nothing more than the ranting of an attention hungry child.
But then she had asked about the gloves.
Mordria stared down at her hands, her accursed hands. Why did anyone have to ask, why did they even care. She carefully stripped them off and looked down at them. Her poor dead hands. The bones still shown as neat as pearls under the torchlight of her room. She sighed. Nymare had made her take off the gloves, would not take no for an answer in fact, and though she was gentle in her examination of them, Mordria could still feel a burn of shame. Someone else’s perfect pink fingers poking around at her dead flesh. As soon as the huntress had finished Mordria had put the gloves back on, rubbing them against her legs to soothe the burning itch.
She reached under the dresser and opened a drawer, removing a sheaf of paper and a bottle of fresh ink. She set them down gently in front of her and looked up into the mirror. She winced slightly.
It had only gone downhill from there, the questions kept coming and she had tried her best to keep up. But she had gotten confused. The topics were shifting, the huntress seemed after a particular answer. One second she was happy to be having a friendly conversation the next she would feel guarded. There were thoughts in her head and she couldn’t remember what she had spoken aloud already or what was an interior dialogue. There came a point she must have blurted something out, because Nymare looked shocked and Mordria found herself pacing back and forth across the cobbles.
Then she decided to call Him. Her boyfriend, he of the smirking and killing of cats. Mordria was silently horrified. It was bad enough to have one person stare at her much less someone who seemed to delight only in picking on her. He came and took them to Orgrimaar, Mordria wanted no part of it, she stayed back as far as she could while they went into the house. She could only imagine them in there, smirking and making fun of her. They told her to stay while they discussed her punishment. At one point the huntress seemed surprised that she did in fact stay, asked why she didn’t attempt to flee. As if she had anywhere to run. The only family she had left could do nothing to protect her if the Grim, or even the Horde authorities came to collect her. Better to wait and assume it was something she would live through.
And live through it she did. A weak smile came to her lips as she looked in the mirror. One skeletal hand came up to caress the thick black stitches adorning her face, closing her mouth. Preventing any harm to the Grim. Its hard to bite when your mouth is sewn shut.
She picked up a pen and began to compose a letter.
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Qabian
Re: The morning after.
In the shadowed gloom of the Apothecarium, Qabian took Master Apothecary Faranell aside and explained to him the situation, leaving out most of the details of course, but at least getting across that they required certain services in the manipulation of flesh with a certain goal in mind to stop the girl from unintentionally eating things, and they needed it now. Faranell called Keever over to them, and they discussed the situation quietly, but with enough enthusiasm to be more than a little disturbing. Such a procedure certainly wouldn't be safe for the girl, but neither was letting her eat Trolls in her sleep. Qabian watched as the two Forsaken moved over to a table covered in alchemical paraphernalia, then returned to him and handed the elf a vial. They nodded solemnly and went about their work clearing another table and calling certain assistants to them with the quiet assurance of those who enjoy what they do.
Qabian handed the vial to the girl, assuring her it was a sedative. It was an assumption of his own. He hadn't made it. He didn't know what was in it. For all he knew, they were intent on giving the plague to yet another hopeful seeker for help. If they did kill her, that might be unfortunate when mind control was useful, but it would certainly save a lot of trouble.
"Will it hurt?"
"Not until you wake up."
Mordria warily drank down the concoction and collapsed to the ground. Qabian and Nymare looked on with a certain disinterest. Stupid girl, he thought to himself. He focused more on observing the actions of the apothecaries as they set up their equipment and readied their subject. There was too much thread involved, not enough metal. But perhaps they knew something he didn't about the temporary nature of the situation he had suggested. After all, Qabian was not a doctor.
When she did finally come to, lips stitched closed and mumbling, he was satisfied enough. For the present at least, she might look like she'd been attacked by a sadist -- which strictly speaking was not so far from the truth -- but she wouldn't be eating anyone in her sleep. Now if she wanted to puree someone while she was awake and suck the mess through a tube, that was something else entirely, but at least it would be intentional.
That was the easy part. As for finding out what was wrong with her, causing her to do these things and preventing her from repairing her hands, that would take more work.
~~
Qabian looked idly out over the city as Nymare spoke with the dead Troll, Karnya, on the balcony of the unremarkable Dalaran home. The Troll's relationship to Mordria made little sense as it was. Something to do with the priestess' sister and experiments. They learned a few things, although not nearly enough to conclude the situation with any satisfaction. They learned that whatever was wrong with the priestess had been going on a long time, enough that she had been locked away in rooms at night. They learned that whatever was affecting her hands was also apparently affecting her feet. They learned that the girl had been found in a closet with a pile of her family's corpses after the Scourge overran Quel'thalas.
He knew of the tragedy that had happened in Silvermoon. He knew why they had taken the name Blood Elves. He knew why they had turned their backs on so many. He knew why Sylvanas meant more to his people than maybe she should. That didn't give him any pity for a foolish girl who let herself get in one situation then and was letting herself get in other situations now. If she knew that whatever happened to her happened at night, if she knew something was wrong with her, why didn't she try and fix it herself? Why would she let herself get drunk to the point of unconsciousness, when she knew there was a reason to be locked up? Why would anyone stay in a closet with corpses? He couldn't imagine any situation, no matter how horrible, that could convince him to end up like that.
And what was wrong with her? A zombie disease the Troll said? Zombies... the shambling corpses that still held onto too much flesh, mindless and rotting. Or were they? And something that hadn't killed her after this long? Most of the shamblers were not quel'dorei, but still. Must be the sister and the interference of the "pally light" as the Troll had put it. The girl should be dead. Put her out of her misery. Stop delaying the inevitable. If she's Scourge, she's Scourge, and she goes the way of the Scourge. Or she breaks out of it and lives with her curse in a state of undeath and walks with Sylvanas. This halfway in between dissolution of the body and mind was just disgusting.
Nymare left the Troll and approached him. "What do we do?"
Qabian frowned. "Leave her mouth closed and keep looking for a more permanent answer." He gestured in the direction of the Troll. "She gave us more details, but no solution."
"I guess now we look for the sister, and for healers who might have better ideas," she said with a sigh.
He nodded. "This shouldn't be our problem."
Qabian handed the vial to the girl, assuring her it was a sedative. It was an assumption of his own. He hadn't made it. He didn't know what was in it. For all he knew, they were intent on giving the plague to yet another hopeful seeker for help. If they did kill her, that might be unfortunate when mind control was useful, but it would certainly save a lot of trouble.
"Will it hurt?"
"Not until you wake up."
Mordria warily drank down the concoction and collapsed to the ground. Qabian and Nymare looked on with a certain disinterest. Stupid girl, he thought to himself. He focused more on observing the actions of the apothecaries as they set up their equipment and readied their subject. There was too much thread involved, not enough metal. But perhaps they knew something he didn't about the temporary nature of the situation he had suggested. After all, Qabian was not a doctor.
When she did finally come to, lips stitched closed and mumbling, he was satisfied enough. For the present at least, she might look like she'd been attacked by a sadist -- which strictly speaking was not so far from the truth -- but she wouldn't be eating anyone in her sleep. Now if she wanted to puree someone while she was awake and suck the mess through a tube, that was something else entirely, but at least it would be intentional.
That was the easy part. As for finding out what was wrong with her, causing her to do these things and preventing her from repairing her hands, that would take more work.
~~
Qabian looked idly out over the city as Nymare spoke with the dead Troll, Karnya, on the balcony of the unremarkable Dalaran home. The Troll's relationship to Mordria made little sense as it was. Something to do with the priestess' sister and experiments. They learned a few things, although not nearly enough to conclude the situation with any satisfaction. They learned that whatever was wrong with the priestess had been going on a long time, enough that she had been locked away in rooms at night. They learned that whatever was affecting her hands was also apparently affecting her feet. They learned that the girl had been found in a closet with a pile of her family's corpses after the Scourge overran Quel'thalas.
He knew of the tragedy that had happened in Silvermoon. He knew why they had taken the name Blood Elves. He knew why they had turned their backs on so many. He knew why Sylvanas meant more to his people than maybe she should. That didn't give him any pity for a foolish girl who let herself get in one situation then and was letting herself get in other situations now. If she knew that whatever happened to her happened at night, if she knew something was wrong with her, why didn't she try and fix it herself? Why would she let herself get drunk to the point of unconsciousness, when she knew there was a reason to be locked up? Why would anyone stay in a closet with corpses? He couldn't imagine any situation, no matter how horrible, that could convince him to end up like that.
And what was wrong with her? A zombie disease the Troll said? Zombies... the shambling corpses that still held onto too much flesh, mindless and rotting. Or were they? And something that hadn't killed her after this long? Most of the shamblers were not quel'dorei, but still. Must be the sister and the interference of the "pally light" as the Troll had put it. The girl should be dead. Put her out of her misery. Stop delaying the inevitable. If she's Scourge, she's Scourge, and she goes the way of the Scourge. Or she breaks out of it and lives with her curse in a state of undeath and walks with Sylvanas. This halfway in between dissolution of the body and mind was just disgusting.
Nymare left the Troll and approached him. "What do we do?"
Qabian frowned. "Leave her mouth closed and keep looking for a more permanent answer." He gestured in the direction of the Troll. "She gave us more details, but no solution."
"I guess now we look for the sister, and for healers who might have better ideas," she said with a sigh.
He nodded. "This shouldn't be our problem."
-
Nymare
Re: The morning after.
A gust of wind picked up over the gently rolling plains of Mulgore and rushed through the grass, bringing a chill as it stirred Nymare out of her half-slumber. Murmuring, she grabbed a cloak and pulled it over herself as she rolled onto her side and yawned. Directly in her line of sight, illumined briefly by 'Mu'sha's' overly bright light before a cloud passed infront of the full moon, was a bag filled with potions. Her mind worked backwards from there.
Orgrimmar. The Cleft was only as noisy as the business down there ever got as travelers of the city's underbelly moved from shadow to shadow in search of profit or secrets to trade. Qabian and Nymare were ready to leave, to return to some sorely unfinished business, when they suffered yet another interruption in a line of interruptions that had plagued their evening thus far. Sorchea, the sister, rode down the earthen slope on her Charger, a distraction of metal and light in the Cleft of Shadow, and proceeded to give them a few more missing pieces to a puzzle they wanted as little to do with as necessary. Words like "disease" and "antibodies" were used. She went on to tell them about how she had spent the past year ignoring her own training as a Blood Knight in favor of trying to find a cure for her sister, body and mind, but not once had she taken it upon herself to tell Mordria what the potions were really for, how they really helped her, and, instead, relied on a maid to make sure the diseased and largely irresponsible priestess got her "medication". And when this failed, not only did others end up victims to her sister's insanity, but Mordria suffered for it as well. And why hadn't she told her sister what the potions were for?
Nymare closed her eyes once more to what remained of the night, even as they rolled at the thought. She didn't want to cause the poor girl any unneeded stress. Because there was nothing at all stressful in waking up next to a troll's corpse, or having to hide your own corpse-like hands, or having your mouth sewn shut to keep you from doing anything else, because you happened to miss a meal that had been drugged by a maid or otherwise were denied a dose of whatever the paladin had concocted and poured into those vials to preserve her sister. While Sorchea seemed far more grounded and grim than her bubbly younger sibling, the one thing Nymare believed the two did seem to share was a complete lack of sense.
"You may think her a child," the paladin warned, "but a child she is not. And if you try to kill her..." Sorchea had left that threat open-ended as she whistled for her Charger and left, laughing. After it having just been insinuated that Mordria speaks with Scourge like a hunter might speak to an animal, silent threats from an half-armored paladin was the least of Nymare's cares.
And she had, infact, just missed her poor, dear sister, who had left the dark hut uncharacteristically sad... the result of yet another interruption. Tecun Uman's voice over her stone earlier in the night seemed curious at first, wondering why Nymare had sent him a letter asking what he knew about zombies and why he might want to examine Mordria. It was difficult to give him details while her attention was focused elsewhere, and she thought it fortunate when it turned out that he had spotted Mordria in Orgrimmar and could take the case up with her himself. She left him with a warning about the priestess' mouth and returned to what she was doing...
...for a few minutes, at least, before the Shaman began with the questions and the need for clarity. And when her distractions were keeping her from giving complete or quick enough answers, the troll's voice seemed to grow impatient.
By the time she and Qabian arrived in the Cleft, Qabian very clearly disgruntled by the situation as he stalked off to the side, arms folded, to observe from the shadows, Mordria was going on as best she could about how the troll tried to trick her into eating him, and something about cutting off her hands and replacing them with mechanical ones. But he had at least looked at her. Her gloves were off. The white tips of bone that used to be the ends of her fingers were startlingly obvious, even in the darkness. However, for as much as Nymare had hoped a Shaman could help where the Light could not, as soon as Tecun appeared to understand exactly what Mordria had done which led to the current predicament - having managed to kill and eat a fellow troll in her sleep - he quickly backed away from the girl.
She could not even remember what Qabian had said to inspire Mordria to shout, tearing her stitches through her lips as she did so. Something about nightmares and... Parents. Dead and eaten parents. They watched as she healed herself and then later stitched her lips back up, something which left Nymare somewhat unsettled. Wiring her jaw shut would likely need to be the next step. Qabian was right. That, at least, would require some assistance to undo and re-do.
And through it all, they had been asked several times why they cared, what their stake in all this was. She didn't have an answer. She didn't want an answer. The simplest answer was that Mordria was her responsibility, her "Minion", something to oversee and guide among The Grim for the next few months. But this was... unexpected. If Mordria was everything that her sister seemed to make her out to be, if she required constant care because her mind was too damaged to understand the need to take care of itself, Nymare wondered just how many exceptions would be made to keep the girl, even as only a tool to be let out of it's cage when needed for destruction.
Another cool wind swept across the plains, carrying with it the scent of rain. She stirred again, her body aching. She was exhausted. The night had been too long, too full of obstacles, but all was eventually overcome and then, finally, silent - free of any voices but their own. Heavy lids lifted as an arm draped over her.
"Home?" Qabian asked with a certain tired sarcasm, his hand already moving... if lazily... to conjure the portal.
"Hommmme~" she echoed sleepily.
She would think about the rest tomorrow.
Orgrimmar. The Cleft was only as noisy as the business down there ever got as travelers of the city's underbelly moved from shadow to shadow in search of profit or secrets to trade. Qabian and Nymare were ready to leave, to return to some sorely unfinished business, when they suffered yet another interruption in a line of interruptions that had plagued their evening thus far. Sorchea, the sister, rode down the earthen slope on her Charger, a distraction of metal and light in the Cleft of Shadow, and proceeded to give them a few more missing pieces to a puzzle they wanted as little to do with as necessary. Words like "disease" and "antibodies" were used. She went on to tell them about how she had spent the past year ignoring her own training as a Blood Knight in favor of trying to find a cure for her sister, body and mind, but not once had she taken it upon herself to tell Mordria what the potions were really for, how they really helped her, and, instead, relied on a maid to make sure the diseased and largely irresponsible priestess got her "medication". And when this failed, not only did others end up victims to her sister's insanity, but Mordria suffered for it as well. And why hadn't she told her sister what the potions were for?
Nymare closed her eyes once more to what remained of the night, even as they rolled at the thought. She didn't want to cause the poor girl any unneeded stress. Because there was nothing at all stressful in waking up next to a troll's corpse, or having to hide your own corpse-like hands, or having your mouth sewn shut to keep you from doing anything else, because you happened to miss a meal that had been drugged by a maid or otherwise were denied a dose of whatever the paladin had concocted and poured into those vials to preserve her sister. While Sorchea seemed far more grounded and grim than her bubbly younger sibling, the one thing Nymare believed the two did seem to share was a complete lack of sense.
"You may think her a child," the paladin warned, "but a child she is not. And if you try to kill her..." Sorchea had left that threat open-ended as she whistled for her Charger and left, laughing. After it having just been insinuated that Mordria speaks with Scourge like a hunter might speak to an animal, silent threats from an half-armored paladin was the least of Nymare's cares.
And she had, infact, just missed her poor, dear sister, who had left the dark hut uncharacteristically sad... the result of yet another interruption. Tecun Uman's voice over her stone earlier in the night seemed curious at first, wondering why Nymare had sent him a letter asking what he knew about zombies and why he might want to examine Mordria. It was difficult to give him details while her attention was focused elsewhere, and she thought it fortunate when it turned out that he had spotted Mordria in Orgrimmar and could take the case up with her himself. She left him with a warning about the priestess' mouth and returned to what she was doing...
...for a few minutes, at least, before the Shaman began with the questions and the need for clarity. And when her distractions were keeping her from giving complete or quick enough answers, the troll's voice seemed to grow impatient.
By the time she and Qabian arrived in the Cleft, Qabian very clearly disgruntled by the situation as he stalked off to the side, arms folded, to observe from the shadows, Mordria was going on as best she could about how the troll tried to trick her into eating him, and something about cutting off her hands and replacing them with mechanical ones. But he had at least looked at her. Her gloves were off. The white tips of bone that used to be the ends of her fingers were startlingly obvious, even in the darkness. However, for as much as Nymare had hoped a Shaman could help where the Light could not, as soon as Tecun appeared to understand exactly what Mordria had done which led to the current predicament - having managed to kill and eat a fellow troll in her sleep - he quickly backed away from the girl.
She could not even remember what Qabian had said to inspire Mordria to shout, tearing her stitches through her lips as she did so. Something about nightmares and... Parents. Dead and eaten parents. They watched as she healed herself and then later stitched her lips back up, something which left Nymare somewhat unsettled. Wiring her jaw shut would likely need to be the next step. Qabian was right. That, at least, would require some assistance to undo and re-do.
And through it all, they had been asked several times why they cared, what their stake in all this was. She didn't have an answer. She didn't want an answer. The simplest answer was that Mordria was her responsibility, her "Minion", something to oversee and guide among The Grim for the next few months. But this was... unexpected. If Mordria was everything that her sister seemed to make her out to be, if she required constant care because her mind was too damaged to understand the need to take care of itself, Nymare wondered just how many exceptions would be made to keep the girl, even as only a tool to be let out of it's cage when needed for destruction.
Another cool wind swept across the plains, carrying with it the scent of rain. She stirred again, her body aching. She was exhausted. The night had been too long, too full of obstacles, but all was eventually overcome and then, finally, silent - free of any voices but their own. Heavy lids lifted as an arm draped over her.
"Home?" Qabian asked with a certain tired sarcasm, his hand already moving... if lazily... to conjure the portal.
"Hommmme~" she echoed sleepily.
She would think about the rest tomorrow.
-
Mordria
Re: The morning after.
Bright mid-morning light lay in lines across the floor, slowly creeping along as the sun made its daily trek across the sky. Its beams brightening and dimming as small clouds passed across its face. The beams marched their way steadily across the room, over a chair, eventually reaching the foot of a bed on the far side of the room. They crept slowly until with one tiny burst of light, a ray fell across the sleeping face of a female elf sprawled out across the beds surface. Her white cotton gown reflecting ghostlike in the rooms dimness. One frail hand reached up, waving in the air as if to banish the light. And even in the stillness of sleep, the shadow obeyed. Flowing outwards from her body like a mist, enveloping the light, pushing it back towards the window. The darkened shape flattened itself like a curtain, shutting out all illumination, if not the sounds from outside. Its small tentacles waved in the air, tiny mewling sounds adding themselves to the afternoons noises.
After a few minutes two small green orbs appeared in the darkness, flickering as the priestess blinked herself awake. She rolled over, feeling along the other side of the bed. It was empty. A small sigh of relief escaped her. She knew she had been drinking last night, After their assault on the ziggurat and her conversation with Cristok she had wanted to relax herself, do some shopping. But one bottle of wine didn’t seem to be enough this last week or so and before she quite realized she had consumed more than she intended. But she was alone, and that in itself was a reason to be thankful. There would be no questions, no angry glances.
She swung her feet off the side of the bed. Looking up, she motioned to her shadow fiend to climb down from the window. It mewed at her and slid form its perch, sliding along the floor to her feet. It brushed its tentacles along her leg affectionately before sliding under the bed and disappearing. She squinted as the light poured once more into the room. She brought a hand up to shield her eyes, before noticing its desiccated state and putting it down to her side again. This was all not right, it had never been this bad before, never garnished this much attention before. How would she ever make friends if everyone either hated or was afraid of her.
She stood and walked to the small room that seemed to serve as the bath. She pulled the cord against the wall, assuming it was the signal to the inn staff to bring hot water. She shrugged, hopefully that’s what it was. There was a large mirror propped against one wall and she walked over to it. A sad sight she seemed to make. A waifish girl with short tousled black hair, thin arms and skeletal hands stared back at her. The look in her eyes seemed to be nothing but shock to find her body in such disarray. She sat down on the edge of the tub, looking away from the mirror.
At least Cristok wasn’t afraid of her. She had sought him out the evening before wanting to confront him about why he was hiding outside during her “meetingâ€
After a few minutes two small green orbs appeared in the darkness, flickering as the priestess blinked herself awake. She rolled over, feeling along the other side of the bed. It was empty. A small sigh of relief escaped her. She knew she had been drinking last night, After their assault on the ziggurat and her conversation with Cristok she had wanted to relax herself, do some shopping. But one bottle of wine didn’t seem to be enough this last week or so and before she quite realized she had consumed more than she intended. But she was alone, and that in itself was a reason to be thankful. There would be no questions, no angry glances.
She swung her feet off the side of the bed. Looking up, she motioned to her shadow fiend to climb down from the window. It mewed at her and slid form its perch, sliding along the floor to her feet. It brushed its tentacles along her leg affectionately before sliding under the bed and disappearing. She squinted as the light poured once more into the room. She brought a hand up to shield her eyes, before noticing its desiccated state and putting it down to her side again. This was all not right, it had never been this bad before, never garnished this much attention before. How would she ever make friends if everyone either hated or was afraid of her.
She stood and walked to the small room that seemed to serve as the bath. She pulled the cord against the wall, assuming it was the signal to the inn staff to bring hot water. She shrugged, hopefully that’s what it was. There was a large mirror propped against one wall and she walked over to it. A sad sight she seemed to make. A waifish girl with short tousled black hair, thin arms and skeletal hands stared back at her. The look in her eyes seemed to be nothing but shock to find her body in such disarray. She sat down on the edge of the tub, looking away from the mirror.
At least Cristok wasn’t afraid of her. She had sought him out the evening before wanting to confront him about why he was hiding outside during her “meetingâ€