Post by warraven on Nov 5, 2007 22:08:28 GMT -5
There was a cold wind in the Felwood, blowing rain into his face that felt far too much like ice instead of water. Eonthane shuddered and pulled his cloak tighter around him, once again quietly thanking the person who had made it for him. It offered no defensive value as the leatherworker had not poured her usual arcane talent into the crafting of it. He had asked her a favor and Warraven, being the gentle tauren soul she was, obliged. She hunted the beasts in Winterspring for their furs and created a long and thick cloak that went down to Eonthane’s ankles and was plenty deep for him to wrap around himself and hide his face in its lined hood. It went over all his imbued robes that served as what pitiful armor he could wear on his frail frame. Even then, in this wind and rain, it still didn’t feel like enough.
He was far too north. The trees hid the sun from his delicate skin and that was a relief from the harshness of the Barrens but it was still too far north. And the season was growing late into autumn. It would be winter soon and Eonthane wondered if perhaps he should retire to Silvermoon for a time, before the snows started.
“Jaedenar is to the north,” the tauren was saying and Eonthane forced himself to focus. He did not know this area and any instructions would be appreciated. “You’ll see pillars off to the side of the road – those lead to the area. As corrupted as this area is I cannot imagine it being any different there. It will be dangerous. Are you certain you will do this?”
The Emerald Circle’s cause meant little to him. There were other reasons he would do as they needed – an excuse to be away. Promise of reward. And reasons he would barely admit to himself, much less a stranger. So he nodded, briefly, and she told him in further detail what she needed of a scout to that area and warnings to be on his guard. He promised to return with what information he could and turned away from the outpost, once again facing the rain. He raised a gloved hand to hold the hood of his cloak down and walked to where his hawkstrider waited. The beast hardly acknowledged him, used to disinterest from its master, only serving to bear him from one location to another and nothing more. There was no bond there and there never would be. Eonthane knew the beast had a purpose and did not assign it any other emotion or attachment other than its role in his life.
He mounted, letting go of his cloak briefly and letting the cold in. Shivers wracked his frame and he grabbed the reins and dug his heels into the bird’s side. It squawked and broke into a trot, turning northwards up the road at his command.
The corruption around him bothered him not at all. He was not like his tauren friend Warraven who could feel it intensely and wished to restore this place with a passion. He felt power here, yes, but he dared not touch it further as the evidence of what it had done was written across the very landscape. There was also the temptation, that constant gnawing that beckoned him. So sweet, so raw, so seductive.
He dismounted at the broken pillars that marked the pathway to Jaedenar. He left the reins loose, as the bird was obedient enough to stay where it was until he returned for it. The forest was quiet around him save for the patter of rain on the leaves and the creak of branches above. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud and another gust of wind whipped up inside his cloak and tore back his hood, exposing his cheeks to the sting of the rain and ice. He snarled.
There was a way to be rid of the cold. He knew it. He hated it. But if Jaedenar was dangerous… he would need it. Still, it was not a pleasant option. It would remove the physical cold in favor of something else entirely, a different sort of cold that would stay in his bones for hours to come. Eonthane paused and grimly smiled, finding the ironic humor in that he would resort to something he feared to survive.
The shadow power came easily to him – too easily – and he let it fill his veins like so much ice, coursing through his body, into his bones and lungs until his very form was altered, the patterns of dark power swirling just under his skin like an obscene tide. Shadowform, they called it, the priests that chose to forsake the holy path and walk the one he had chosen as well. The rain and the wind were distant now, as they had been replaced by the chill of shadow within his body, a numb sort of cold that he felt remote and detached from. It pulsed in his ears and he forced it away, knowing that it had done its purpose and would stay there until he dismissed it. Any more would be risking disaster.
The magic always pulled at him. Always. Sometimes he had trouble discerning if it was the magic itself that was so greedily hungry for him to succumb or his own tainted weakness that longed to just give in to the base instincts and become one of the Wretched.
He continued on, the thick fur cloak hanging loose about his shoulders, no longer needed. Tendrils of shadow trailed from his boots, unable to be contained solely within his slender body. He felt stronger like this, a welcome change from his usual physical frailty. Up ahead there was the entrance to a shrine of sorts and Eonthane paused, seeing movement. Not much, but it was there. He dropped into a crouch and edged along the ground, trying to get a better angle. Yes. Two figures, orcs by their build, huddled near a small fire. Another creature, a demon hound of some sort, not too far away and keeping watch. There was corruption in this place.
He’d have to silence the watch if he were to get any further into the place. Thankfully for him, this was not a problem.
There were ways of fighting the cold and the addiction. Eonthane had found his long ago, when he had first killed the Wretched and found no remorse in the act, despite what it meant for him and his kind. Turn suffering into suffering and find the release there that he craved.
He rose to his feet and broke into a run, hoping to be on them before they noticed. The hound had just turned its deformed head in his direction when he dropped the first spell, unleashing a bolt of shadow into the mind of the first orc. He put no finesse to it, just released his frustration and hatred and gave it a physical feeling, throwing the agony of his struggles with the arcane addiction into the mind of another. The orc reeled from it. He cast quickly then, invoking the word of pain on one, then the other, then the hound. On the first orc he put another spell, a connection to the body of the creature that linked the two together. He could taste its pain now, as the curse sent spasms of feeling coursing through its nervous system, like some delicious brew that renewed him even as the creature suffered and felt its life being drained away.
It caused no physical damage. But it was pain, pure and simple, running along the body and confusing the mind with its signals. Enough of it and the creature would die, the mind unable to take the agony and finally succumbing as the brain shut down and the tortured creature’s death-cry broke off. He’d seen it countless times before and he drank it in, feeling it soothe his soul and take the bite of the addiction away.
It was the one relief he’d found and he would use it. It was a razor-fine line he walked, controlling the addiction with the pain of others, striving to retain what little compassion and mercy he had left so that he did not become a monster in the doing so.
The three had closed in on him and he raised his hand, invoking his shield, and their blows struck the magical barrier instead of his own body. He’d have to finish at least one fast, else they would break the shield and he could not stand up for long if their weapons touched his own skin. He concentrated on the one with the connection, a bolt of bluish light lancing out and striking it in the chest, pouring forth Eonthane’s power into the orc, ripping at the mind with sounds and thoughts that were not its own. For a brief moment Eonthane felt the terror, felt the vision going dark around the edges as the mind reeled under such an attack, stumbled, and fought away the nether. He shuddered and smiled, giving in to the satisfaction this gave him. Then the orc gasped and fell, the connection broke, and Eonthane was left with a lingering taste of despair, that last moment when realization of death came.
Teeth clamped into his leg and a wooden stave was slammed into his shoulder. He cried out in pain and staggered back, jabbing at the hound with the butt of his staff. The word for a shield was on his lips again and he felt the weakness in his body force it away, unable to dredge up the strength to cast such a spell.
“You will suffer tenfold,” Eonthane hissed, his green eyes focusing on the orc, for that was a sentient mind and could understand fear and hate.
He summoned the shadow magic to him, ignoring the blows from the orc and the hound that tore his skin, bruised his body, until the blast was gathered to the forefront of his mind and ready to be unleashed against his attacker.
Blood vessels burst in the orc’s brain, collapsing the support system to the mind, and it fell with blood streaming out of its ears and nose, sightless eyes rolled up to the sky so that almost no pupil showed.
Now he could cast the shield spell. And the hound, nearly mindless, tore at the magical barrier while Eonthane calmly took control of himself. He’d kill this one quickly. He’d had his sport, now it was time to do what he had been asked to.
The tauren watched the elf approach. He rode slowly, no longer bothering to hold the cloak so tight around him as he had before. She watched in curiosity as he dismounted and walked up to her. His eyes seemed emptier than they had before and she peered at him for a moment, unable to see if he was injured or not underneath his cloak. His cheeks seemed more wan now and when he spoke it was cold and carried a trace of disgust in it.
“There is corruption there,” he said, “It runs deep. There are demons there, and followers of demons. I saw a moonwell as well, tainted like the waters in this place are tainted. Is that what you wished to know?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied softly, still searching his face for a sign of what she heard in his voice, “We are grateful for your aid.”
He merely shrugged. She paused, wanting to say something more.
“The taint in this place,” she began, “is difficult to bear…”
“I care nothing about that.” He cut her off and looked aside as he did. Why such disgust in his voice? “The demon-followers will be burying their dead. I slew those I came across.”
And he turned to go. That was all. She watched him as he left, mounting his hawkstrider and turning it north again, no doubt to find where Bloodvenom Post resided. Silently, she sent a prayer to the Earthmother. There had been anguish in his eyes – she had seen it. If not for the forest, if not for those he’d killed, than for whom?
He was far too north. The trees hid the sun from his delicate skin and that was a relief from the harshness of the Barrens but it was still too far north. And the season was growing late into autumn. It would be winter soon and Eonthane wondered if perhaps he should retire to Silvermoon for a time, before the snows started.
“Jaedenar is to the north,” the tauren was saying and Eonthane forced himself to focus. He did not know this area and any instructions would be appreciated. “You’ll see pillars off to the side of the road – those lead to the area. As corrupted as this area is I cannot imagine it being any different there. It will be dangerous. Are you certain you will do this?”
The Emerald Circle’s cause meant little to him. There were other reasons he would do as they needed – an excuse to be away. Promise of reward. And reasons he would barely admit to himself, much less a stranger. So he nodded, briefly, and she told him in further detail what she needed of a scout to that area and warnings to be on his guard. He promised to return with what information he could and turned away from the outpost, once again facing the rain. He raised a gloved hand to hold the hood of his cloak down and walked to where his hawkstrider waited. The beast hardly acknowledged him, used to disinterest from its master, only serving to bear him from one location to another and nothing more. There was no bond there and there never would be. Eonthane knew the beast had a purpose and did not assign it any other emotion or attachment other than its role in his life.
He mounted, letting go of his cloak briefly and letting the cold in. Shivers wracked his frame and he grabbed the reins and dug his heels into the bird’s side. It squawked and broke into a trot, turning northwards up the road at his command.
The corruption around him bothered him not at all. He was not like his tauren friend Warraven who could feel it intensely and wished to restore this place with a passion. He felt power here, yes, but he dared not touch it further as the evidence of what it had done was written across the very landscape. There was also the temptation, that constant gnawing that beckoned him. So sweet, so raw, so seductive.
He dismounted at the broken pillars that marked the pathway to Jaedenar. He left the reins loose, as the bird was obedient enough to stay where it was until he returned for it. The forest was quiet around him save for the patter of rain on the leaves and the creak of branches above. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud and another gust of wind whipped up inside his cloak and tore back his hood, exposing his cheeks to the sting of the rain and ice. He snarled.
There was a way to be rid of the cold. He knew it. He hated it. But if Jaedenar was dangerous… he would need it. Still, it was not a pleasant option. It would remove the physical cold in favor of something else entirely, a different sort of cold that would stay in his bones for hours to come. Eonthane paused and grimly smiled, finding the ironic humor in that he would resort to something he feared to survive.
The shadow power came easily to him – too easily – and he let it fill his veins like so much ice, coursing through his body, into his bones and lungs until his very form was altered, the patterns of dark power swirling just under his skin like an obscene tide. Shadowform, they called it, the priests that chose to forsake the holy path and walk the one he had chosen as well. The rain and the wind were distant now, as they had been replaced by the chill of shadow within his body, a numb sort of cold that he felt remote and detached from. It pulsed in his ears and he forced it away, knowing that it had done its purpose and would stay there until he dismissed it. Any more would be risking disaster.
The magic always pulled at him. Always. Sometimes he had trouble discerning if it was the magic itself that was so greedily hungry for him to succumb or his own tainted weakness that longed to just give in to the base instincts and become one of the Wretched.
He continued on, the thick fur cloak hanging loose about his shoulders, no longer needed. Tendrils of shadow trailed from his boots, unable to be contained solely within his slender body. He felt stronger like this, a welcome change from his usual physical frailty. Up ahead there was the entrance to a shrine of sorts and Eonthane paused, seeing movement. Not much, but it was there. He dropped into a crouch and edged along the ground, trying to get a better angle. Yes. Two figures, orcs by their build, huddled near a small fire. Another creature, a demon hound of some sort, not too far away and keeping watch. There was corruption in this place.
He’d have to silence the watch if he were to get any further into the place. Thankfully for him, this was not a problem.
There were ways of fighting the cold and the addiction. Eonthane had found his long ago, when he had first killed the Wretched and found no remorse in the act, despite what it meant for him and his kind. Turn suffering into suffering and find the release there that he craved.
He rose to his feet and broke into a run, hoping to be on them before they noticed. The hound had just turned its deformed head in his direction when he dropped the first spell, unleashing a bolt of shadow into the mind of the first orc. He put no finesse to it, just released his frustration and hatred and gave it a physical feeling, throwing the agony of his struggles with the arcane addiction into the mind of another. The orc reeled from it. He cast quickly then, invoking the word of pain on one, then the other, then the hound. On the first orc he put another spell, a connection to the body of the creature that linked the two together. He could taste its pain now, as the curse sent spasms of feeling coursing through its nervous system, like some delicious brew that renewed him even as the creature suffered and felt its life being drained away.
It caused no physical damage. But it was pain, pure and simple, running along the body and confusing the mind with its signals. Enough of it and the creature would die, the mind unable to take the agony and finally succumbing as the brain shut down and the tortured creature’s death-cry broke off. He’d seen it countless times before and he drank it in, feeling it soothe his soul and take the bite of the addiction away.
It was the one relief he’d found and he would use it. It was a razor-fine line he walked, controlling the addiction with the pain of others, striving to retain what little compassion and mercy he had left so that he did not become a monster in the doing so.
The three had closed in on him and he raised his hand, invoking his shield, and their blows struck the magical barrier instead of his own body. He’d have to finish at least one fast, else they would break the shield and he could not stand up for long if their weapons touched his own skin. He concentrated on the one with the connection, a bolt of bluish light lancing out and striking it in the chest, pouring forth Eonthane’s power into the orc, ripping at the mind with sounds and thoughts that were not its own. For a brief moment Eonthane felt the terror, felt the vision going dark around the edges as the mind reeled under such an attack, stumbled, and fought away the nether. He shuddered and smiled, giving in to the satisfaction this gave him. Then the orc gasped and fell, the connection broke, and Eonthane was left with a lingering taste of despair, that last moment when realization of death came.
Teeth clamped into his leg and a wooden stave was slammed into his shoulder. He cried out in pain and staggered back, jabbing at the hound with the butt of his staff. The word for a shield was on his lips again and he felt the weakness in his body force it away, unable to dredge up the strength to cast such a spell.
“You will suffer tenfold,” Eonthane hissed, his green eyes focusing on the orc, for that was a sentient mind and could understand fear and hate.
He summoned the shadow magic to him, ignoring the blows from the orc and the hound that tore his skin, bruised his body, until the blast was gathered to the forefront of his mind and ready to be unleashed against his attacker.
Blood vessels burst in the orc’s brain, collapsing the support system to the mind, and it fell with blood streaming out of its ears and nose, sightless eyes rolled up to the sky so that almost no pupil showed.
Now he could cast the shield spell. And the hound, nearly mindless, tore at the magical barrier while Eonthane calmly took control of himself. He’d kill this one quickly. He’d had his sport, now it was time to do what he had been asked to.
The tauren watched the elf approach. He rode slowly, no longer bothering to hold the cloak so tight around him as he had before. She watched in curiosity as he dismounted and walked up to her. His eyes seemed emptier than they had before and she peered at him for a moment, unable to see if he was injured or not underneath his cloak. His cheeks seemed more wan now and when he spoke it was cold and carried a trace of disgust in it.
“There is corruption there,” he said, “It runs deep. There are demons there, and followers of demons. I saw a moonwell as well, tainted like the waters in this place are tainted. Is that what you wished to know?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied softly, still searching his face for a sign of what she heard in his voice, “We are grateful for your aid.”
He merely shrugged. She paused, wanting to say something more.
“The taint in this place,” she began, “is difficult to bear…”
“I care nothing about that.” He cut her off and looked aside as he did. Why such disgust in his voice? “The demon-followers will be burying their dead. I slew those I came across.”
And he turned to go. That was all. She watched him as he left, mounting his hawkstrider and turning it north again, no doubt to find where Bloodvenom Post resided. Silently, she sent a prayer to the Earthmother. There had been anguish in his eyes – she had seen it. If not for the forest, if not for those he’d killed, than for whom?
