Leftovers
Chavie - January 14, 2006
Part One: Curse you, Smokeywood Pastures.
They told him he would have a very short life, but that while he
lived, nothing could hurt him... except fire. He was immune to
all kinds of magics and weapons. They told him he would spread
the cheer of the season wherever he went. They put him in a
little box, and wrapped it up, and placed it under the tree.
He had listened eagerly as, one day, the wrapping paper was
ripped off. He had braced himself when the box, his little house,
was shaken a bit. And then the lid opened, and he smiled up
into... a grinning, rotting face wearing a leather mask. He
watched the face's grin slide into what seemed to be severe
disappointment. He wasn't sure about the emotion, though. He
hadn't been around people much--and also, his new owner's mouth
was a little deformed, so she looked like she was smiling all the
time. She stank of death.
What could he do? He was bound to her. Whenever she took him out
of his little box, he had to follow her and stay near her. At
first she was content to try to outrun him. He would toddle along
after her on his miniscule little legs, feeling panicked,
desperate not to lose her. She would make as if to strike him,
but, true to his manufacturing, he couldn't be hurt. He liked to
think she was just playing around. That she knew she couldn't
hurt him.
Until one day she took him into a fireplace and began dancing. He
caught fire. His skin blistered and burned. His clothes were
aflame. He couldn't breathe. His owner made as if to heal him, as
she was healing herself (and he hated, hated watching her burns
heal with a lazy wave of her hand!), but then she would shrug. Oh
well, she seemed to say. Immune to magic.
And he died, suffering more pain than he thought possible.
But that wasn't the end. Oh, no. She put him back in his box,
where he regenerated. When she opened it the next time, her
grotesque smile streatched wide, and she laughed. No longer
disappointed in her gift.
This had been going on for weeks. The Feast was long done with.
He wondered when she'd run out of snowballs.
Part Two: Ho ho ho.
She had the cutest little red outfit that she was just so so very
proud of. When her Mistress saw how cute she was in it, she went
into a magical chamber and came out wearing a matching red
outfit! Mistress was short and plump, too. That's when the little
red helper knew her Mistress loved her.
They played chasing games in their matching outfits. Mistress
even took her to battle a couple times! Oh, they had such great
fun.
But the magic dressing chamber went away, and Mistress had to
walk around in her stinky rotten flesh. But that was okay. It
wasn't so bad once you got used to it. Besides, this little red
helper was made to make people happy, and spread holiday cheer
for as long as there were snowballs to be found! She was very
optimistic.
There was another helper, a boy one... She wished she could see
him, sometimes. He never made any noise, except when he was dying
from the fire. She wished they could talk to each other, but they
weren't made to speak, and they were never let out at the same
time. They were made to be cute and make their masters and
mistresses happy. They didn't need each other.
And oh, the little red helper was doing such a good job.
Sometimes Mistress would take her out of her box and dance with
her in the fire. Sometimes there would be a little crowd
watching! The little red helper did her very best to smile big
and look cute as she burned to death. She found a way to deal
with the pain: just pretend it isn't there. Ask yourself, what's
pain, anyway? Pain is nothing!
She knew her Mistress loved her. Otherwise why didn't Mistress
throw her away, and get rid of all her snowballs? Sometimes she'd
pat her, or tickle her, or laugh at her, or give her a kiss on
her smoldering little head... Mistress was very affectionate. Of
course Mistress loved her.
It's just that, well... Sometimes the little red helper wished
her Mistress would show her love in less painful ways.
Part Three: There's more gravy than of grave...
One of the worst mistakes of Chavie's life was stepping into that
stupid goblin contraption during the Feast of Winter Veil. If
there was anything she hated most in the whole world, it was
gnomes. She hated gnomes even more than murlocs and losing
battles. The first time she transformed into a fleshy pink fat
little gnome, she was appalled, and screamed incoherently at the
goblin running the machine. Soon she thought it was funny, but
there was always an awkward element about it...
To add insult to injury, two of her gifts that season were little
gnomes. She had wanted a tiny reindeer, that would have been
cute. But gnomes?
She made them into a game, too, once she discovered they could
get hurt by fire. That was fun.
But this whole gnome thing... It was getting to her. Sometimes
she'd be dreaming, and dream she was stuck being an ugly fat
gnome. People would stare at her, or ignore her. Sometimes they'd
think she was Alliance and would kill her. Sometimes she'd dream
she was shoulder-deep in snow and dwarves were trying to hit her
head with mallets, like it was a ball, and she could only scream,
"A yam na ta bal, a yam a nom!" And they'd say, "What? Why's the
ball talking?"
Chavie had another gnome dream last night. She was going to meet
with other Grims for a raid on Southshore. For some reason, she
was taking a zeppelin there, which was ridiculous, since she had
her hearthstone set to return her to the inn at Tarren Mill.
When she'd gotten aboard the zeppelin, a Deathguard had told her,
"Sorry, but gnomes above their twentieth season aren't allowed to
board. We will hold onto your unauthorized spells at the tower."
And suddenly she'd lost half her spells and abilities and all the
strengths she'd developed since her twentieth season.
And she was still wearing that skanky red outfit.
[http://www.imagedump.com/index.cgi?pick=get&tp=372158]
A very experienced warlock was standing next to her. She frowned
at Chavie, obviously realizing Chavie was very under-equipped,
and said, "Here, you need this armor more than I do." She
stripped, and Chavie put the armor on.
It wouldn't go on right. The red holiday outfit seemed to be
eating up all the layers of cloth, absorbing them into itself.
Pigtails sprouted from Chavie's head, and her legs fused together
with the skirt of the robe.
[http://www.imagedump.com/index.cgi?pick=get&tp=372160]
The zeppelin landed outside Southshore, and Chavie hurried out,
dragging a scythe behind her."Yam re di!" she called out,
nervous, as she approached the raid of Grims.
"Why is there a gnome here?!" Yichimet roared. Everyone charged
her, laughing and screaming, and she woke up.
Scowling, Chavie rolled out of the Undercity coffin, letting her
head bang into the stone floor with a satisfying crunch. What a
dumb dream. She fumbled around her bags, and pulled out a red box
and a green box. "I ni mi ni ma ni mo," she muttered, tapping
each box in turn. When she said "mo", her fingers were on the red
box.
So she let her little red helper out, and led her to the fire by
the cooking trainer. She felt like dancing all of a sudden.