08-10-2013, 02:48 AM
Lorailis had never been punctured this many times in his life. He felt as if he were going to fall apart. He wasn't, though – there were Humans stabbing him that needed to be disposed of. Were his arms not removed by a halberd, he'd not be lying around on the ground, watching others fight in his stead.
The impotence would enrage him far more than his normal despising of Humans, and he'd focus the hate within him productively – bouncing thoughts off the inside of his head with extreme prejudice.
"Now look. They're walking over you. They think you're dead. If you could just call someone over it'd be fine. You useless vessel."
His thoughts would be intruded by a Human's jackboot crunching down on his skull – part of an entire platoon.
"How do they think they'll keep Hillsbrad?"
Another boot. He could feel a clavicle snap in two – or it may have been a twig. He felt a bit dissonant with his own body.
"They're all alone. They know it. They'll die. They're wasting troops. Good."
He'd look much like a broken artisan's marionette. Both arms severed – the blows from the Human's implement had disconnected them – one at the elbow, one at the shoulder. It would take a lot of doing to fix this, but it would be fixed. Forsaken are more durable than any Human, both in mind and spirit. Another boot steps on him. The pressure withdraws again, and mercifully nothing more is broken. He would turn his head – his fifth and sixth vertebrae giving worryingly sharp cracks as he does so.
"No medics. Where are they."
The sound of battle would reach behind him, now – he had fallen backwards, so that meant only one thing, and he wouldn't abide by that. They wouldn't retreat, they had the advantage on this ground. No losses today. He needed a medic, then he could help. Why weren't there any medics?
"If Rosie were here."
Rosie was dead.
He tilted his head backwards, feeling a tendon resist. They were winning, it seems – the Humans were being cut down by the dozen, and the Forsaken could be repaired. He could be repaired. But they weren't winning fast enough. Maybe if he could just get up.
So, he tried to get up. His legs were intact, so they curled up against him. He forced his torso to work in tandem, but it was no use. Were he anything but dead, he'd be dead – his abdomen functioned more as a window now. He just needed someone to pull him up. He could form a plan, rout them. Nobody was around, nobody he could depend on to see or aid him.
"They think you're insane."
Why did he say that? He meant it. The Deathguards snickered at him when he reported for duty at the Forsaken's borders. How dare they laugh at him? He'd seen more combat than they, he'd led real troops into battle, not ghouls.
And every single one of them's dead.
Maybe it was his armor. His uniform was old, it had lost its sheen. It was a sight to behold when he first designed it, when nobody had yet died. The dye was powerful, but not powerful enough to last a year of self-endangerment. Now it was grey, and red, and, should you look close enough, the smallest shade of thistle. He still wore the tabard, but it had long shredded. Hardly anyone, let alone the Deathguards, cared enough, but a curious specimen could see just the littlest remains of the original stitching. Lorailis craned his neck just a little to the left, trying to see how the fight is going.
"I think I see a scarecrow."
When Forsaken can't feel emotion, they tend to resort to irony – whether out of sheer malice or some kind of search for meaningfulness is hard to tell. Why had he picked a scarecrow, of all things?
Then, a figure loomed over him. He didn't see it coming, despite it being clad in all that the taxes of Stormwind have to offer – golden plate armor. He knew what paladins did, they consecrated the dead, and he was about as good as any vile, bloated Human body that could be found. It took some doing to tilt his head far enough, but there would be no doubt what body the paladin was regarding. He had maybe half a minute before he was cast out of this plane by the magnanimity of the holy Light.
"Prove your worth, body. Get up. I won't tolerate death."
The impotence would enrage him far more than his normal despising of Humans, and he'd focus the hate within him productively – bouncing thoughts off the inside of his head with extreme prejudice.
"Now look. They're walking over you. They think you're dead. If you could just call someone over it'd be fine. You useless vessel."
His thoughts would be intruded by a Human's jackboot crunching down on his skull – part of an entire platoon.
"How do they think they'll keep Hillsbrad?"
Another boot. He could feel a clavicle snap in two – or it may have been a twig. He felt a bit dissonant with his own body.
"They're all alone. They know it. They'll die. They're wasting troops. Good."
He'd look much like a broken artisan's marionette. Both arms severed – the blows from the Human's implement had disconnected them – one at the elbow, one at the shoulder. It would take a lot of doing to fix this, but it would be fixed. Forsaken are more durable than any Human, both in mind and spirit. Another boot steps on him. The pressure withdraws again, and mercifully nothing more is broken. He would turn his head – his fifth and sixth vertebrae giving worryingly sharp cracks as he does so.
"No medics. Where are they."
The sound of battle would reach behind him, now – he had fallen backwards, so that meant only one thing, and he wouldn't abide by that. They wouldn't retreat, they had the advantage on this ground. No losses today. He needed a medic, then he could help. Why weren't there any medics?
"If Rosie were here."
Rosie was dead.
He tilted his head backwards, feeling a tendon resist. They were winning, it seems – the Humans were being cut down by the dozen, and the Forsaken could be repaired. He could be repaired. But they weren't winning fast enough. Maybe if he could just get up.
So, he tried to get up. His legs were intact, so they curled up against him. He forced his torso to work in tandem, but it was no use. Were he anything but dead, he'd be dead – his abdomen functioned more as a window now. He just needed someone to pull him up. He could form a plan, rout them. Nobody was around, nobody he could depend on to see or aid him.
"They think you're insane."
Why did he say that? He meant it. The Deathguards snickered at him when he reported for duty at the Forsaken's borders. How dare they laugh at him? He'd seen more combat than they, he'd led real troops into battle, not ghouls.
And every single one of them's dead.
Maybe it was his armor. His uniform was old, it had lost its sheen. It was a sight to behold when he first designed it, when nobody had yet died. The dye was powerful, but not powerful enough to last a year of self-endangerment. Now it was grey, and red, and, should you look close enough, the smallest shade of thistle. He still wore the tabard, but it had long shredded. Hardly anyone, let alone the Deathguards, cared enough, but a curious specimen could see just the littlest remains of the original stitching. Lorailis craned his neck just a little to the left, trying to see how the fight is going.
"I think I see a scarecrow."
When Forsaken can't feel emotion, they tend to resort to irony – whether out of sheer malice or some kind of search for meaningfulness is hard to tell. Why had he picked a scarecrow, of all things?
Then, a figure loomed over him. He didn't see it coming, despite it being clad in all that the taxes of Stormwind have to offer – golden plate armor. He knew what paladins did, they consecrated the dead, and he was about as good as any vile, bloated Human body that could be found. It took some doing to tilt his head far enough, but there would be no doubt what body the paladin was regarding. He had maybe half a minute before he was cast out of this plane by the magnanimity of the holy Light.
"Prove your worth, body. Get up. I won't tolerate death."