That Which Unites Us
Posted: Sat Nov 08, 2014 10:23 am
Nathandiel scratched absently at his neck as entered his office. He pulled of his scarf and draped it on one of the hooks on the coat stand. He dropped his key ring on the side table, a soft clatter of metal on wood peppering the silence in the dark chamber. He lit the oil lamp and tucked his lighter back into his over coat before shrugging out of it and hanging it up.
The lamp provided enough light to ensure he had a safe trip around the room, lighting wall sconces and candles. Not all of the staff offices were privy to electricity and persons like himself made due with the older methods of casting light upon their daily toils.
The light set's the mood though. He thought. This was true. The underground facility was a vault of suffering shrouded in darkness and apathy. The light cast by flames suited it's sinister purpose and no where did he feel the chill of his macabre surroundings more than in the sanctum of his private office. This where where he carried on his duties as if they were civil, as if they were worthy of professional conduct. This was where evil really loomed over his shoulder.
He sat down at his desk and opened the middle drawer, taking out a rumpled package of cigarettes. He lit one and sat back, his eyes falling to the stack of patient files that had been left for him. He'd been away for a few days and they had piled up. Mharren Sil'Orah had put one of her underlings in charge of his 'patients', but he would still need to review the charts and make the appropriate signatures. He made no move to begin.
His thoughts fell to the past three days; to his application to The Grim, to the man under whom he was now a supplicant, and to the satisfying tryst he'd had with his new Kitten. At the thought of her he smiled. She was sweeter than she pretended to be and he was glad he had pursued her. He fingered his lower lip thoughtfully and it seemed he could recall her warmth. In a place as cold as this a man needed the warmth of a woman.
The Grim were an interesting bunch and he thought he could learn much about how things were done in the East by moving amongst them. None of them had seemed particularly impressed by him, if anything they had toyed with him, calling him quick-tongued and making reference to his ethnicity as an Elf. He chuckled at that; race would always divide people, regardless of what brought them together.
The Dreadweaver - Atticus Grace - had given him the task of killing a little over a thousand members of the Alliance in order to complete his first trial. "Ye have a month to do it, but if ye want te make a good impression on sweet old Attie, do it in a week." Grace had said, speaking in that broken dialect of Orcish that made Nathandiel's insides curl. Nathandiel had decided to do it in two days, but then he'd been with Kitten. She'd gotten his undivided attention.
She's going to be a distraction...He thought with a sly smirk. She would be, but she'd also be a welcomed one. He'd have Grace's request fulfilled by the next time The Grim came together. A thousand people were not so many and if he found himself lacking insignias he worked in the perfect institution in which to collect more. He suspected Grace meant for him to fulfill his quota on the battlefields, not in the operating theater, and that was fine, but if worse came to worst Nathandiel had options.
He closed his eyes and swiveled slowly back and forth in his chair. He was tired and there was much to be done. It was a never-ending pile-up of work, of patients needing actual treatment and prisoners needing to be surgically altered or put down entirely. He had not trained as surgeon specifically but his employers didn't care what abbreviation followed the name on his diploma, they cared if he could cut. He had turned out to be a better flesh mechanic than he'd ever anticipated and there was something fulfilling in the heartless work. His employers gave him the opportunity to violate his oaths and with that had come the affirmation that despite his selection of an altruistic profession, he was still more a primordial monster than he was a man.
He opened his eyes and tucked into his desk. He opened the first file and reached for his quill. He'd make quick work of his duties, then perhaps he would sleep. Once he was rested he would go back to the fields and reap what there was to sow.
Then he'd present the harvest to Grace.
The lamp provided enough light to ensure he had a safe trip around the room, lighting wall sconces and candles. Not all of the staff offices were privy to electricity and persons like himself made due with the older methods of casting light upon their daily toils.
The light set's the mood though. He thought. This was true. The underground facility was a vault of suffering shrouded in darkness and apathy. The light cast by flames suited it's sinister purpose and no where did he feel the chill of his macabre surroundings more than in the sanctum of his private office. This where where he carried on his duties as if they were civil, as if they were worthy of professional conduct. This was where evil really loomed over his shoulder.
He sat down at his desk and opened the middle drawer, taking out a rumpled package of cigarettes. He lit one and sat back, his eyes falling to the stack of patient files that had been left for him. He'd been away for a few days and they had piled up. Mharren Sil'Orah had put one of her underlings in charge of his 'patients', but he would still need to review the charts and make the appropriate signatures. He made no move to begin.
His thoughts fell to the past three days; to his application to The Grim, to the man under whom he was now a supplicant, and to the satisfying tryst he'd had with his new Kitten. At the thought of her he smiled. She was sweeter than she pretended to be and he was glad he had pursued her. He fingered his lower lip thoughtfully and it seemed he could recall her warmth. In a place as cold as this a man needed the warmth of a woman.
The Grim were an interesting bunch and he thought he could learn much about how things were done in the East by moving amongst them. None of them had seemed particularly impressed by him, if anything they had toyed with him, calling him quick-tongued and making reference to his ethnicity as an Elf. He chuckled at that; race would always divide people, regardless of what brought them together.
The Dreadweaver - Atticus Grace - had given him the task of killing a little over a thousand members of the Alliance in order to complete his first trial. "Ye have a month to do it, but if ye want te make a good impression on sweet old Attie, do it in a week." Grace had said, speaking in that broken dialect of Orcish that made Nathandiel's insides curl. Nathandiel had decided to do it in two days, but then he'd been with Kitten. She'd gotten his undivided attention.
She's going to be a distraction...He thought with a sly smirk. She would be, but she'd also be a welcomed one. He'd have Grace's request fulfilled by the next time The Grim came together. A thousand people were not so many and if he found himself lacking insignias he worked in the perfect institution in which to collect more. He suspected Grace meant for him to fulfill his quota on the battlefields, not in the operating theater, and that was fine, but if worse came to worst Nathandiel had options.
He closed his eyes and swiveled slowly back and forth in his chair. He was tired and there was much to be done. It was a never-ending pile-up of work, of patients needing actual treatment and prisoners needing to be surgically altered or put down entirely. He had not trained as surgeon specifically but his employers didn't care what abbreviation followed the name on his diploma, they cared if he could cut. He had turned out to be a better flesh mechanic than he'd ever anticipated and there was something fulfilling in the heartless work. His employers gave him the opportunity to violate his oaths and with that had come the affirmation that despite his selection of an altruistic profession, he was still more a primordial monster than he was a man.
He opened his eyes and tucked into his desk. He opened the first file and reached for his quill. He'd make quick work of his duties, then perhaps he would sleep. Once he was rested he would go back to the fields and reap what there was to sow.
Then he'd present the harvest to Grace.