Grim Views

Angaroth paced inside the small room he rented in the Filthy Animal, agitated but for no reason he could discern. A sharp and blustery wind created an annoying buzz in a tear in the parchment window, a disturbing creak in the hinge as the frame strained under the force. Like so many things recently arrived in Northrend, Dalaran was not made for the climate. Recent changes in The Grim had driven home the point that his own direction was unsure. Daydreams of power were just that, daydreams if they lacked the iron binding of a plan.

***

Greebo swam or flew or slide from one side of his cage to another. Lacking form interfered with thought. Nouns and verbs did not apply to a discorporeal entity and he had trouble thinking of things he could not name. Change was in the air he did not breathe, in the space he did not occupy. Abric was gone, who knew where. The hollow shell of Acherontia had lapsed, lacking any animal drive. Opportunity was coming. Angaroth's grip was weak.

***

A nameless priest of Twilight's Hammer knelt in the muck, cold grey mud oozing through the threads of his robe, the pores of his skin. An ear worn down to a nub, scabbed and scarred, was pressed tightly against a fossilized shell, listening. He heard nothing, but he knew. Somehow, a thought had been placed in what remained of his mind. A vessel had been tasted, briefly. In the non-euclidean coils of the shell a drop of water here, a mote of dust there had been encouraged to move together/through/within and clenched in the fist of the priest was the result, a muddy brown crystal, humming an inhuman note. The nameless one stood and, ignoring the questioning grunts of the others who shuffled in slow circles around him, he began a slow steady lope to the north, a vision of a pier, wooden and a docked ship.

***

A dark shape hugging bony knees in the corner of a storm-tossed ship. Sailors praying to whatever gods they believe in that this cursed voyage will be over soon.

***

A young mother cries herself to sleep in the arms of her raging, helpless husband. An empty cradle stands next to an open window.

***

A wolf noses through the ragged remains of her cubs in her den, the dead arctic hare lies outside, forgotten.

***

A bony shape stands under a floating city, wordless barks torn from an ill-used throat are accompanied by clutching motions, frantic grabs to bring the prey closer. A pattern emerges, north to the coast, south west to the steaming bowl, quick visits to the forest. The forest.

***

Angaroth sat on his bed, removing a bandage to check the wound beneath it. Two days and nights it had been there, growing worse rather than better, the jagged lips of the wound red and inflamed which made no sense in a body lacking blood, or an immune system. No pus or scabs though, simply a gaping hole in his skin. The window buzzed again, although the night was still. He twitched, and tried to force himself to stay awake, the dreams of the past nights not something he relished revisiting. He did not remember them but several times each night he had woken, trembling, locked in fear of he knew not what.

***

Angaroth stumped down the stairs from the portal in Orgrimmar, his talons scratching the itchy wound on his ribs. He made his way toward the training dummies in preparation for another failed attempt to breach the walls of Ulduar, the weakling Aquizit no doubt coming up with another excuse to shy away from a real challenge, babying the newcomers. Standing before the training dummy he began to drain the energy stored in it. A pale shadow of the pleasure he got from draining a thinking soul, but good enough to make a few handfuls of shards. His mind idled, drifted and snapped to an image of a scourge or some such haggard creature he had seen in the Crystalsong forest a few days ago while gathering wood. He had drained it while Phuuzum devoured the tree spirit and his mind's eye was locked on the murky flash from its hand as the last of its life energy was drawn to him. Shaking his head to clear the pointless image, he stuffed the shards in his pouch a wandered toward the auction house to buy a few odds and ends. He idly wondered why he had come here to Kalimdor instead of his usual haunts in the Undercity but the mincing walk of a passing sin'dorei of uncertain gender, a sneeze, and the sun passing behind a cloud drove the thought from his mind. He scratched at the bandage and, noticing the bleeding he nreplaced it, dropping the old one in the middle of the dirt road.

***

Greebo hung motionless in the middle of his cage. The faint buzzing sound he imagined he could hear grew louder, less clear but more strident when he imagined he touched the,bars that no longer kept him locked but kept him safe.

*thousands of words*
The steady lifting thump of a wyvern's wings provides a rhythmic beat that the hunched figure lacks. The surges and swoops as the beast encounters violent turbulence during the long flight to Ashenvale's far shore mirror the slip and slide of tentacles stroking and bulging from the surface of one of his minds. The boneless black limbs whip themselves in to a fury as the beast brakes hard, a mist of light sand swirling up and settling. The calm body stands tall for a minute, facing north while the eyes roll and dart madly, trails of an ichorous luminescence streaking through the dull yellow orbs.

*who/what*
whatever he is doing could kill them both, he must be ready to strike, regardless of the consequences, tomorrow's inquisition means nothing compared to a dead eternity. it is already to late to save more than a shred of him.

***
Angaroth hummed unpleasantly to himself as he whistled for Fluffy to appear from whatever hell he went to when not required. The beast took longer than normal to answer and tossed its fiery mane, backing away from him until a firmly worded incantation brought its unease to bay. He dug his heels in and the demon sprang forward, driving across the long strand.

*thousands of words*
A fiery hoof strikes the edge of a tidal pool, a hissing thump as the sea is turned to salty steam. A naga turns sinuously, reaching out to strike but her trident catches nothing but sulphurous air, her target long gone. A path can be traced through the dead and dying detritus of a gloomy forest - pine needles and last year's leaves smoking for a few minutes before the damp closes in again. A demon bound in the form of a beast of burden can be seen, long shanks prancing as if unwilling to touch the ground, malevolent eyes casting about, searching for a master, calculating the pain of the punishment if it were to consider itself released and be judged in error.

*who/what*
he is near and it knows that, the grinding is almost complete, it no longer needs him to steer the body. will it discard him now that it is home?

***
Angaroth slumps against a tree, eyes fixed on a curve a few hundred yards ahead, a bulge rising from the ground in a clearing in the woods. A strand of drool hangs from a slack-jawed visage. Robed figures clamber over the lip of the hole and begin to lurch toward him, their slow dragging steps the only movement. A few empty minutes later they reach the body, each pick up a limb and begin to drag the husk back to their god.
They tie it to one of the many limbs erupting from the muck in their hole and then forget about it, returning to their shuffling, circling. A new listener has taken the place of the old one - blood drips down his neck from the wound where his ear is being abraded by the rough shell.

*thousands of words*
a body hangs in space, ungainly and strangely arched. glimmers of black light pulse in time to unseen footsteps and a swirling pattern emerges as they begin to cluster toward the figure, crawling over it, insects to a putrescing body. they crawl into cracks in the skin, the skull, chittering. zooming into the cranial cavity, you see them coalesce and consume a tentacular mass the writhes both toward and away from them. drawn to its master, fleeing for its unlife. thoughts reify - a mother, caring, tending, bleeding, weeping, dying, a fog, bleeding eye sockets, a gaping belly, a skull embroidered onto a bloody cloth, jagged rocks floating, a dull ache, head pressed to shell, a mother shouting, a fist swinging, a solid mass of unlight now hovering in no space, expanding filling the cracks, swelling, filling, wrapping around an obstacle, a cage, scalding, burning, withdrawing.

*who/what*
now is the time, swing wide the door, break open the cage, fold the bars, inside, outside, two sides of the same coin, slam it shut, throw away the key. pray to the gods who have abandoned us that our dark lady's magic is strong.