Mad Woman (Completed)

[Rosencrat]

Mad Woman
One Woman's Path to Fel Sworn

"Dream no small dreams for they have no power to move the hearts of men."
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

[left]Part One
No Love Lost[/left]




By all accounts, Marianna's time spent with Eric Bendhotter was both tragically common and easily avoidable. After all, there is little variation to the play that is young love; no matter the actor, setting or scene the script will always follow a common trend. And yet variations do occur, however rare. For good or ill, these divergences of romance can play such odd games with the endings of love.

Marianna caught Eric Bendhotter on a busy day in autumn. He was a handsome face snatched from the shifting crowds of the Alterac market, a mop of dark black hair painted upon a pastel white face perched atop a lean body. His features were blurred by the shifting throng, cheeks rounded and jaw softened until he took on an almost morbidly wealthy air, the fat of opulence dangling upon a handsome bust. The girl's breath caught for a moment before she pushed her way through the crowd, a dervish of black silks and furs as she chased the face.

Even at the age of thirteen Marianna had a man's build; shoulders wide and evenly set with eyes of coals set in a block furnace face. She preened herself between thrusts, fingers curling through the black ringlets that billowed up and tumbled down around her pale face. She ground her teeth quietly –an ugly habit picked up from her father's tutelage- and bellied up to the curb.

The crowd eddied about the curb, offering the two children a moment alone. The trick of the throng left Eric's opulent visage emaciated. Yet even with the shadows of his cheekbones and the softness of his eyes there was a certain debonair quality to the boy, of a wounded past and quiet brooding. His fine clothes were tattered and kept together with bits of twine and prayers. His hair was gelled with spit and his smile had yellow holes drilled through. When their gaze met she saw the whites of his eyes were a mottled red, a fungal infection that would ravage him in time. Yet all she saw a handsome boy one year her senior, a tired soul who needed the love Marianna knew only she could offer.

She introduced herself to him and they chatted for a time upon the curb, he leaned against the wooden wall of the market place and she tucked atop a wooden crate. They made an odd pair, she in her fine furs and he in his tattered rags. Yet when they parted two hours later she left with a smile and he with an address.

+-------------------+

The House of Bisen lurked in the shadow of Alterac's capital buildings, a cookie-cutter palace of stone and timber with a grimly ostentatious face. Additions had been added over the years, each patriarch of the Bisen Family doing their part to sate their own ego. There was a solarium and a greenhouse, four balconies and five bedrooms. And in the center of it all was the courtyard, a small square of dirt and snow cluttered with decaying crates and a stone statue of a family progenitor, its body worn through with cold cracks and wrapped in a layer of thick frost.

It was to this house that Little Marianna was delivered, a bloodied and battered mess.

It took three hours before the doctor could rouse the girl and get her to tell them what happened. The story came in fitful bursts, choked from between swollen lips and teary eyes. She told the house physician about her date, how they met in a quiet little inn by the Northren gate. How Eric had asked to walk her home afterwards and how she blushed and said yes. She told them how he had taken her down a dark alley with promises of reaching her home quicker. She shivered her way through how he had pushed her to the stone and dug his knee into her stomach until the breath blew out of her. She spoke of boots and sneers and blood, of how his heels dug into her scalp and breast until the only sound she could make were hoarse gurgles. She told them about how he yelled for her money and how she finally, between racked sobs, pushed her fattened purse forward. And with one final gasp she told them how he had left her to bleed in the snow, a quiet black bundle in a shadowy alley.

Marianna recovered quickly enough. The family's physician, with his mastery of the Light, worked wonders upon her broken lip and bruised ribs. By the third day she was fit and strong once more, with only the faintest pallor to her chest where the ribs had suffered the worst. Yet her heart could not heal so quickly. As the days went by young Marianna fell further into despondency. Her fencing coach struck her when her grip faltered. The magus of the house singed her when she mumbled the incantations. Even her father's current lady, an austere woman ten years his younger, sneered at the smudged powder upon the girl's cheek and the redness of her eyes. She mourned the silly things that she felt she had lost. She cried over her lost innocence, over her broken heart and empty soul. In this twisted state she blamed herself for his betrayal, blamed herself for her ugliness and how he had left her. It was in this presence of mind that her father found her, curled up in the study trying to scratch out her misery into poetic prose.

Marianna's father was a tall, dark man with an angular jaw and a vile smile. A childhood of silent brooding had left his skin pale and pock-marked, flesh tightened around his lips and sunken around his eyes. Those brown eyes, eyes that smoldered as he wound a hand around her collar and dragged her from the couch and onto the floor, dropping her at his feet like a load of filth.

"Get up."

"Father…I…!" She sucked a mouthful of air between her teeth, choking back as sob as she dragged herself to her knees before the man.

"Shut up you miserable girl!" There was bile in that voice, a venom that dripped out with every word. He watched her for a moment, face twisted into a hideous scowl. It was a few tense seconds before his hand cracked against her cheek, driving her back down to the floor.

"Have all my lessons been all but fluff in your ear? Or have you just thought your elder's wisdom not worth your attention?" He spat as he watched his daughter squirm beneath him.

"I neve-!"

"What have I told you? What have I said all these years!?” His boney fingers curled through her dark locks, yanking her gaze upwards to his. "There is no one to blame for this but yourself."

He let go of her hair, dropping her back down to the earth. He began to pace, moving about the study with hands clasped behind his back. Every word he punctuated with a nod of the head, speaking so quickly that soon his head bobbed and swam as he worked his way from corner to corner. "The Bisen Family has survived the centuries because we have always known that we must put ourselves first. Ourselves, daughter. There is no one in this world more important, more intelligent, more driven and dedicated than a member of the Bisen Family."

Marianna sat there mutely, eyes streaked with tears as she watched her father. Yet she listened, eyes smoldering quietly through the tears.

"To love another is to open yourself to the trappings of the human condition. To associate with society in any way other than a master would a slave is to become just another wretched soul of society.” He turned upon her. In the dull evening light he looked like a wraith, his gaunt features cutting shadows across his pale face.

"Love only power. Lust only after wealth. Ask only of fear from others and expect nothing less. Only then, my daughter, will you know the true pleasure that pure power can bring. Anything else…Love, friendship, relationships…They are hollow pleasures, empty of the ecstasy of pure strength.”

"Avoid them daughter, and your eyes will be left unclouded and the road to dominance will be left illuminated before you.”

Marianna rose silently after this. She dragged her sleeve along her nose, whipping the spit and tears from her cheek. She hiccupped softly before turning to her father. She watched him for a few quiet moments.

"You have no more use for love…” Her father stepped forward, kneeling before the girl. He took her face into his hands, calloused flesh grating against her skin. She winced gently yet could not turn her gaze away from those dark eyes. "You never needed it to begin with. Opening yourself to another puts you in their power…And our family is in nobody's power.”

"Yes Father…" And Marianna smiled, bearing rows and rows of tombstone whites. "I promise…This will never happen again."

+-------------------+

On the seventh day of winter the Alterac Guard found a young boy laid out in an alleyway, his body crushed and quietly oozing into the snow. Any evidence had been wiped clean by the night's snowfall, buried under a clean sheen of white. All they could find were the causes of his mortality, of the way he was beaten and kicked and struck and left to bleed out into the cold night air.

They left it as an unsolved crime, just another orphan boy caught up by a mugger and left to bleed. Just another poor boy who made a mistake by turning down the wrong side-street and who caught the wrong type of person.

[Rosencrat]

"The wise always keep an ear open to the whispers of power."
Proverb

[left]Part Two
A Demon's Representative[/left]



Marianna had to break an arm.

It wasn't that the situation demanded it. It didn't. And it wasn't as if her opponent would only concede when his humorous was in an unfunny position floating in his chest. A few more good socks to the jaw and a foot to the knee would put him out cold just right. No, it was Marianna's murderous rage that called for a broken bone. It was either she broke an arm or broke a neck. It was only a dull presence of mind that kept her from committing bold faced murder out here in front of the leering crowd.

Marianna and her brother Jeremiah were outer ring nobles in the sphere of Lordaeron, two-bit players with a trash pedigree cobbled together from odds and ends gleaned from the fallen empire of Alterac. They had spent their time in the city circling the outer rings of nobility, nipping at the heels of balls and galas while they scavenged for bits and pieces of noble blood. It had taken them a year and three months, but they had finally scrimped and lied enough to secure an invitation to a noble's birthday party for the Young Lord and Lady Si'ben. It was to be the break out gala, the crown jewel in their elaborate lie of rank and position.

And that is how Marianna got to be in the nobleman's barn, surrounded by a ring of rowdy butlers and stable boys trading punches with an amateur pugilist. It was a fight club of sorts, from what she gathered, a bit of sport for the un-invited to enjoy between gobbling down bottles of wine and hors' de vors gleaned from the actual party roaring a few feet away. Between drab conversations of economy and politics Marianna had staggered out here. A whiff of blood and a shot of courage and she was in the sawdust ring.

Marianna and her opponent circled each other for a time, squaring off for the next dance. The girl had grown since her childhood, spreading out from a short, blockish youth into a tall, austere teen. Her dark hair had been straightened out, cropped short and smoothed to her scalp with gel and blood and sweat. The dough of youth had given way to hard muscles, bundled tight beneath her pale skin. There was blood on her knuckles and a split lip was oozing red onto her white military tunic.

The man she was facing was a tall brute of a creature, a stable-boy with a strong brow and a soft jaw with wide pores and sallow eyes. He was of the breed of man who prided themselves on having trouble squeezing their muscles into their blue coveralls and having anvils for hands.

Through bloodied eyes Marianna saw his fist plod its way around towards her jaw. She rocked forward, catching his forearm beneath her own. She could taste the blood in her throat and feel the hate on her lips. She would not make this quick.

The warlock slid her free hand around his arm, bracing it against his elbow. A quick jab of pressure and he howled, his focus stuttering for a moment as his elbow swung inward, bones and sinew splintering. Her foot jabbed at his toes, crushing a few as she swung inwards, throwing her head into his face. There was the soft, pleasant crunch as his nose re-adjusted to the shape of her skull and a silky wetness pooled against her forehead. She pulled back and let the man fall, a bloodied heap soaking slowly into the straw floor.

She did a slow trot about the ring, letting the crowd howl their approval before she swung back to the downed man. She swung her boot into his temple, driving him down and into oblivion with a sickening crack.

+-------------------+

“That was a lovely fight you had, Lady Si'ben.”

He was a portly man, full figured and dimpled. He was a nobleman, to be sure; success and wealth hung from his jowels and purple silken drapery. He had a simple face, kind and direct, with the faintest white beard tickling his jaw. At the moment he was standing beside the woman, a bit of cheese dangled in one plump hand, smiling easily up at her.

"I don't know what you're talking about, My Lord." Marianna bristled beneath her uniform, glancing down at the portly man before fixing her gaze at the party. The two of them were tucked in the shadow of an alcove, removed from the great oak dance floor and the mingling throng it contained.

“No…” He laughed softly, popping the piece of cheese past his lips. He quietly dabbed away a few crumbs with a silken handkerchief. “I'm quite sure that you don't, my lady.”

Marianna bit back a scowl, keeping a closed-lip grimace up. She watched as her brother swept across the dance floor, glowing in his crimson dinner gown and woman in tow. The boy flashed his sister a churlish smile before swinging off into the crowd.

“And I am sure you know nothing of the Count De Monset and his basem-”

The last words were choked from the fat baron's lips. The two disappeared into the darkness of the alcove, the man squeezed against a cold stone wall with the woman's fore-arm squeezed against his throat. He let out a few choked wheezes as her face swam into focus, leering into his.

"I'll dispense with the machismo if you with your subtlty, you piece of shit…" She hissed between clenched teeth, "Tell me why I shouldn't bash that knowledge out of that grey old skull of yours."

“Be…Because..” He worked a fat hand against her arm, pushing it back and inch. He sucked in a lungful of air, spittle dribbling from his lower lip. “I..I want to take you on as my apprentice.”

The woman simply scowled, face and arm hovering close.

“I…I've heard of you. Of the woman with blood on her lips and hate in her eyes. The one who has been learning of the Arcane fro-”

"I don't need another two-bit charlatan magician to promise me the world and give me a Frost Bolt instead."

“No..no you fool! I..I can teach you about…” He paused for a moment, eyes swiveling in his skull. He whetted his lips, continuing in a hoarse whisper. “W-what do you know…of Fel…?”

For a moment there was silence. After a time Marianna pulled her arm away, dusting the spittle from her crisp red sleeve. She regarded the man for a time, dark coals smoldering through his soul. When the teen spoke her voice was just as low as his.

"What is your name?"

“Lord Erice Cortion, at your service Ladi Si'ben.”

"Tell me everything you know, Lord Cortion…." She leaned in, eyes burning. A slow, tombestone smile stretched across her face. "I am...Very interested in hearing more."

[Rosencrat]

It had been a month since the ball and their erstwhile first meeting. Yet, like young romance, they fumbled their way through their first month together. Little came to fruition but tentative whispers and little notes left beneath doorsteps. All Marianna had to occupy the time apart from her new tutor were the drills the militia put her through and fantasies of those tantalizing that he had whispered into her ear.

After their introductions the two had left to settle into a dark bedroom of the manor. It was there, behind locked doors, that the good Lord Cortion had poured into her ear the first true whispers of power. He told her then of Warlockry, of demons and the Void. He filled her mind with thoughts of dark, twisting powers and souls imprisoned. He told her of destruction, of entropy and curses. He told her of a sea of power, of a fountain that never ceases to flow to the receptive. He told her about Fel, about that power that bestows upon its wielder a mantle of strength that men only dream of in their darkest times.

For the first time in a very long time, the girl had let out a churlish giggle when the lord had finally departed for the evening.

The last note he had left her had been an address and a time, scribbled on the bottom of a rock dropped down her chimney. She had arrived promptly, a dark figure in an empty night. The door to the cellar glided on greased hinges as she opened it and dragged it shut behind her.

The Rivenmane Estate had once been a fixture of the gala season, a fine estate on the fringes of Lordaeron's territory. Yet time had not treated the land well. It had burned down a decade previous. Since then it had been rebuilt and razed, flattened and excavated until finally the kingdom had simply built a bulwark upon it and left it as such. Yet throughout the changes the foundation remained, a deep, dark basement propped up with stone and timber. The only entrance to the hall was a rusty wooden trap door, set into a grassy hill by the wall. The city had long since locked it shut, tacking a sign to its front saying the basement was a being prepared for re-filling.

Papers were cluttered and forms changed and nobody ever got around to filling the Rivenmane Basement. After a time even the keys to the cellar disappeared. In time, memory faded and the cellar was taken under new management.

+-------------------+

"The first rule of our art is secrecy, Marianna…You must always practice your magic away from prying eyes."

Marianna sagged into a pile of rubble, staring moodily up at the nobleman. Their attire had changed little since they had first met; she still in the red and whites of a Lordaeron private at leisure and he in the robes and shoulders of a nobleman. The only change was her cloak, drapped across the rubble pile and his staff, a dark, wizened piece of blackened wood clenched in fat hands.

"You're going to give me the power to consume souls and melt flesh and not let me use it?" She cocked a brow, slipping into a smug little smile. She balanced a piece of rock against her folded knee, rolling it slowly up and down her calf.

"I am saving you from the trappings of power, Marianna." He leaned upon his staff, exhaling softly as he peered at her over the bridge of his spectacles.

"The only ‘trappings' to these lessons, ‘Master' Cortion, is that you are treating me like a child." He smirk faded into a smoldering scowl. She leaned forward in her chair, staring darkly up at the warlock. "I am not going to go around summoning imps and melting faces in Lordaeron Square. I will be subtle. I will be good. I'll be the best little school girl you ever had. "

The noble let out a deep, thrumming laugh. He shook his head, staff clicking slowly against the stone as he paced. "I will expect as such. The path of Warlockry is a dangerous one… "

Marianna let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. " ‘Because the weak fear power and those who wield it, and will always hate that which they fear.' "

The warlock peered at the girl, raising a bushy eyebrow. "Who ever told you that, dear?"

"Just a family saying." She scrapped a finger along the corner of her mouth, fixing the man with a wry smile. "Go on! I am sorry for interrupting your lesson, ‘Master'."

"The danger of the rabble is indeed part of it…But you must understand, pupil, that the path towards the Fel is one that consumes all. Your motives must be pure at all times, your vision unclouded…Lest you fall to the temptation of the whispers of power."

A slow smile spread across the girl's face, a tombstone grin that showed rows and rows of delicate whites. Her eyes smoldered slowly as she rose, looking down upon the portly warlock.

"I swear Master…" She laid a hand upon her breast, bowing her head. "My motives are pure. My hunger is noble. Sate me, Master…And I shall do only good work with my powers."

"Ah…Marianna…You will make a fine pupil…" He turned away, clapping as he moved over towards the workstation. A Summoning Circle was already there, smoldering in the gloom. The thick miasma of potions and grimoires hung heavy in the air. "Now come! Let's begin your instruction…!"

Marianna dawdled for a moment, watching that rotund shape disappear into the crowd. Her smile wavered, teeth gnashing. She stifled a little laugh.

"Thy will be done, Master…"[/quote]

[Rosencrat]

" Advance, and never halt, for advancing is perfection. Advance and do not fear the thorns in the path, for they draw only corrupt blood. "
Kahlil Gibran

[left]Part Three
Corrupt Blood[/left]



"Again."

Marianna set her jaw and began again.

It had been a long two months since she had sworn fealty to Lord Cortion and his coven. Exhausting months, restless months, time of sleeplessness and labor and failure. The warlock had been putting her through her paces during this time, working her slowly through the schools of her new trade. She took to his lessons in Destruction easily enough, burning and fracturing with a cathartic zeel. The lessons of her magi tutor remained still fresh upon her lips and fingertips. Yet the schools of Demonology and Atrophy, the more esoteric of the warlock's trade, proved more elusive to the girl.

The curse flew from her fingertips, sizzling a dark black for a moment before fading into the darkness of the cellar. The goat tethered to the far wall let out a bleat and set itself back to masticating its cud.

"Again."

Marianna dragged her arm across her brow and began again.

+-------------------+

"You've been doing very well, Marianna…"

The girl let out a low hiss, doubling over her bundle of clothes. Light was seeping through the cracks in the old wooden door and the flames were spluttering low in the fixtures. The night and their training were drawing to a close.

"You have spirit. Most would have abandoned this work weeks ag-"

"Master…?" The pale girl turned, giving the man a somber little look.

"Ah..Yes, Marianna?"

"Stop giving me these self-described ‘Morale Lectures' after ever dismal class. " She turned back to her pack, unfurling her cloak and spreading it out over the dusty flood. "My failures are no cause for praise, Master."

The man was silent for a time. He watched her from beneath the brim of his cap, leaning quietly upon his staff as he watched her prepare to leave.

"Walk well tonight, Master." She spoke the parting words flatly and with little passion, drawing her cloak about her and unlocking the door. With a moment's pause she stepped out and into the early morning dawn.

"And you as well…" He watched her go with a heavy sigh. It was a long time before he turned away from the door, moving with a slow purpose to the summoning circle. With a sigh he began to incantations, energy flowing from his fingertips and into the runic circle.

+-------------------+

"There are no short roads to power, Marianna."

The next night came quickly enough. Marianna arrived punctually and without a word, drawing the door shut, unclasping her cloak and taking up her familiar seat. Lord Cortion stood some distance away, his back to her and gaze fixed upon the papers that covered the table. He waited for a time for her to reply. She did not.

"There is no way to get the strength that you want for free. If you… He caught himself, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. It was a long time before he spoke again. "The path to Fel is a dangerous one…That can swallow the careless and greedy and consume them whole.…"

He turned upon her, a cold look in his eyes. Clasped in his hand was a blackened flask, its sides wrapped in brown paper and its head sealed with wax. She stared somberly upon the man, eyes cold and lips drawn.

"I do not want to see you become lazy and greedy. I..Want you to understand that nothing worth having in this world is free…Only effort and…and expenditure of time, of life and limb and soul can earn you the strength to wield this power." He held out the flask and she took it quietly, weighing it in her hand before turning back up to him.

"Everything has its price…I..Want you to taste the price of short cuts. To understand why Fel is a cruel and corrupting evil to those who abuse it…" He gave her a thin, weak little smile. "I know that you are strong enough to resist this temptation. But you need to experience the suffering that laziness causes…"

Marianna nodded mutely and ran her thumb along the waxen lid. A spark of fire from her fingers and the wax began to bubble and seethe, melting down the neck. She took a careful snif and nearly dropped the bottle, reeling back with tears in her eyes.

"Fel Blood…The blood of demons. It is…Pure power, Marianna. Pure, easy power…" His voice was somber and drawn as he watched her press the bottle greedily to her lips and drain it.

"That many abuse…And all who do suffer a fate worse than death."

+-------------------+

With a hideous sound the goat crumpled to the floor, the sinews and bones in its legs shriveling into a puddle of gristle. Another wave of the girl's hand and his tongue swelled, twisting about in his throat until his breath came in choking gasps. The imp at her side leapt from foot to foot merrily as she raised her hands up and brought them down, fire bursting from the poor creature's mouth as the inferno consumed him from the inside out. She stood there for a time, panting as she watched the creature sizzle into nothing.

"This…" The girl lifted her balled hand up, smile stretching from ear to ear as she let lick from finger to finger. "This is…Everything…That my father told me about!"

She waved a hand and the demon scampered away to dance before the burning corpse, making merry little chirps as its mistress turned to the ancient warlock. She laughed, pure and happy.

"This blood…Master, this is not corruption! This is a blessing! With this, no warrior can stand before us! No enemy can keep us! Who needs the Alliance when this blood flows in our veigns!?" She threw her head back and laughed, turning back to idly sling a few idle bolts of dark entropy at the walls.

The old warlock simply shook his head. "Every joy…Will come with a sorrow, Marianna. You may have the evening off tomorrow. I assure you, you will need the rest after tonight's drink…"

[Rosencrat]

Libraries have different uses for different people. For the inquisitive its musty tomes provide knowledge. For the lost its open doors provide shelter. For the truly bedraggled its silence provides rest. And for the perverted its ancient books of Sin'dorei exotic dancing provide enjoyment.

"Hello, Sir…" A Librarian peeked around a bookcase, offering the young Jeremiah a little smile. She adjusted her spectacles and eyed the boy. "Do you need any help finding anything?"

"Hmm…?" Jeremiah was an attractive youth, a child of good blood and better breeding. He had strong features flushed with youth and preened daily with care. Only the finest clothes, powders and perfumes graced the handsome socialite.

"Oh…Yes. Yes actually…" He offered the woman an alluring smile, lifting up a worn leather tome. Upon its cover a gold embossed High-Elf was frozen in place, stuck in mid gyration. The artist had paid high attention to her figure and little else. "Do you have the second book in the ‘Lady Skimpy' series? I have ‘Adventures in the Twisting Vine Bush', but I was hoping…"

A few moments later and Jeremiah swung around the corner of a bookcase, grinning brightly down upon his sister's prone shape.

"You do realize that we have a perfectly good bed at home for such a purpose, dear sister."

It had been a day and a night since she had first taken that sweetest sip of ambrosia. Fel Blood, how sweet the power it had given her. She had practiced for hours and hours since then, blood boiling with energy as she pushed her studies forward with leaps and bounds.

Yet now the Fel had left her with only agony to wield. Her eyes were red and raw, the flesh on her lips cracked and dry. Every word made her rasping throat burn and the slightest twitch made her muscles burn like Felfire. She had spent a day weak and groggy, a miserable bundle of flesh and bones curled up in the dark of her room. But her neighbors decided silence was less then golden. The moment the first few churlish squeals of a party's birth rung through the walls Marianna was halfway down to the library, her brother firmly in tow.

"Tch…Dear, dear sister…" He settled into a seat before him, dropping his pile of books down before him and propping his head on the stack. The pages made an uncomfortably damp squelch. "You really shouldn't drink so much. Liquor loosens lips, you know…"

"I wasn't…Ugh…" She folded her arms on the table and buried her headi n the darkness. She let out a low wheeze before shifting an eye free, giving her brother a bloodshot glare just above her cuff. "It wasn't alcohol. Jus-"

"Drugs? My dear, you really shouldn't take the powder those wretched plebian soldiers pass around. Why, your lily-white maidenhe-"

"Shut up." She hissed.

"Tch…" Jeremiah rolled back, propping his boots upon the table and folding his arms upon his well-trimmed breast. He smiled. "Fine. Suffer in silence; I wash my hands of you and your agony, dearest sister."

They sat in silence for a time, he scanning the stacks for the teenage librarian he scarred off and she painting the wooden table with her agonized glare. It was a long time before she lifted herself up and spoke.

"What…What would you do for power, Jeremiah?"

"Why…Anything." His cocky smile sagged by a notch. "Are you truly so sick as to doubt our lessons, Marianna…?"

"No it's just…" She nibbled thoughtfully at her lower lip for a time. "I have the chance to become truly strong. To…Go above and beyond what our father could ever have dreamed."

"Ah…" Jeremiah grinned, a little glint in his eyes. "So that is what you have been up to each night…"

"But the cost, Jeremiah…I've…Been looking into the cost of this new power. I could lose everything…My mind, my soul…" She set her jaw, looking at her brother sternly. "Maybe power is not so noble a cause…"

"Or maybe…Just maybe my big, oldest sister is a coward." Jeremiah laughed, picking himself up and looking down upon the bleary eyed wreck sagging quietly before him. "You were always too weak to seize an opportunity. You now have the strength in your hand and you are too clouded by morality and fear tha-"

Marianna stood up abruptly, shooting her forehead up into her brother's chin. He reeled for a moment and she caught him, putting an open-palm strike right to his jaw. He teetered for a moment, eyes crossing before he crumpled.

"I am not weak, brother…" She rose, standing above him with fists clench. There was murder in her eyes. "And I will not falter. I will…Seize this power…"

She spat open him, turning away and towards the door. "And I'll force that old man to give me more…He will need to be taught who is the greater…"

Nobody would find her brother tucked away in the far section of the library. He would pick himself up in a little bit anyway, wiping the blood from his chin. He would have his revenge, she knew it. Until then, she had lessons to go to.

She had so much to learn ahead of her. So, so much to master. So much to take. Any hesitation that stayed her hand was gone. She would not fear this power like the commoners that she and her master hid from. She would seize it and make it hers.

[Rosencrat]

Marianna dug the shovel into the freshly turned earth and paused for a moment to take stock of her life.

It had been years since she had first begun her path down Warlockry. She still had the same strong build and smoldering eyes. Yet her training had ironed out her softness, carving the paunch of youth and decadency from the girl to leave only a lean and efficient woman. Gone were the private's pips and uniform, left to rust in some field before the falling Lordaeron. Gone was her brother, the traitorous swine. There were no tears to be shed over his grave. All that was left was Marianna Si'Ben, refugee of the Third War and her tutor, the Warlock Cortion.

Judging by the shaking of the earth beneath her old Master was still getting comfortable in his new living tomb. He would be out of the picture soon enough.

"Restraint, ethics, duty…" The pupil weighed herself against the stone monument of the grave's previous owner and regarded the grave for a time. Silverpine Forest had yet to fall to this new, dark plague that was even now moving through the Kingdom of Lordaeron. Yet this graveyard was still a danger and she did not wish to linger.

"They are lessons for a church, dearest ‘Master', not a coven." She picked at her teeth idly. The capillaries in her eyes glowed in the gloom, a dull shade of green that was only visible to the truly observant. Yet it was there, a clear sign of her addiction.

Marianna put on a wide, easy smile. "A shame, really…All the rest of your lessons were so very valuable. Destruction, Demonology, Atrophy…Cortion, you have given me the tools that I required and for that I thank you."

"A shame that your lessons are of no more use to me. You won't be holding be back any longer, with your prattle of consciousness and restraint." She reached into her cloak and withdrew a metal flask. With slow, shaking hands she undid the top and pressed it to her lips. She took a long, slow drink before wiping the residue from her lips with her hand.

"To Master Cortion…" She rose, passion and fire in her voice once more. She lifted her flask up in a toast. "In life you gave my existance new meaning…And in death, you set me free of my conscious. "

"May you rot in the Twisting Nether, you sentimental fool. I expect to see you there…" She spat upon his grave, her phlegm caked in blood and filth. She turned away, downing the last of her flask and tossing it away, letting it steam quietly in the long grass.

There was no need for such evidence. She had a plagued kingdom to escape. She had a city to find, a life to fabricate. She had more blood to find, more cruelty to begin. She had a destiny to reach at any cost.

"Blood for blood, Cortion! May your rotted hide never grace my door!"

[Rosencrat]

"The teacher only appears when the student is ready."
Chinese Proverb

[left]Part Four
Lessons In Sacrifice[/left]



Marianna spread her letters out and gave them a long, careful look. She picked one up. She set it back down. She shifted them about into a different order, letting them fall into drifts before her. She exhaled, digging out her wineglass from the pile and taking a generous sip. She plucked up another letter and began to read.

“It makes me sad that you get so many letters and I get none. What do I need to do, buy a mailbox?”

Marianna had met Lily at an unspecified location at an unspecified time on an unspecified assignment. She was a pale woman in a simple black dress, a mortician and petty healer with long black hair and quiet blue eyes who always wore the tiniest little half smile with whomever she met. She had a sarcastic tongue and a placid tranquility that reared itself often, two traits that had made Marianna grab her and slam her head into a bookcase four minutes after meeting. Despite it all she had remained the only woman Marianna would ever consider a friend after starting her new life here in Stormwind. It was in her that the woman confided her secret passions, her dreams and –most importantly- the blood that was slowly becoming more and more a part of her life.

Time had changed the warlock. The impulses and rage of youth had been ground down by the flow of time, polished into a quiet sheen. Her usual attire had been swapped out for a dark red and black dress, a formal dress for the time out. After all, the Marianna Bisen of Warlockry was Lady Anna Si'Ben, a ‘noble in exile' of Stormwind. Her hair was longer and her face softer, her appearance and manner slick and slightly greasy. The flesh around her eyes were red, the milky whites of her eye laced with ever so delicate veins of green. She had been drinking poorly diluted Fel Blood for a year now and was in no state to stop.

The two were currently tucked away in a dark, private little corner of the Slaughtered Lamb, swapping drinks over pleasantries and letters.

Marianna watched the girl over the top of her letter. Despite her best efforts the girl actually managed to work a little grin out of the warlock. “You need to buy informers. You get a lot more fan mail when you pay people to be your friend and tell you interesting things.”

“And you don't possess the patience to wait for the news to arrive by normal means?”

The woman sighed, dropping her letter onto the pile. “Have you ever thought of me as a patient person?”

“I haven't really thought of you as a person.”

“Touché…” She took a letter from a pile and passed it over to the girl. “Anyway, the news we get regularly is hardly as interesting as the news little birdies whisper in my ear.”

She had gotten this from a human merchant working around Ashenvale. It was a brief letter, its story scrawled in chicken scratch on a bit of wax paper. Despite the poor grammar and spelling the story was legible enough: A group of Satyr's had captured a band of Night Elf travelers and were preparing them for a sacrifice to tempt a powerful demon into giving them Fel Blood. A band of heroes had swept in, massacred the satyrs and saved the travelers all in a very heroic and very boring fashion.

Lily balances the letter and drink between both hands, alternating between sips and snippets of text. “You know I'm prone to spilling wine, ink and blood while holding letters, correct?”

“Your paper cuts are the least of my worries. Tell me, what are your thoughts on it all?”

“Your informant should use better ink. It's starting to fade.”

The sarcasm wiped the smile from the woman's face. She scowled, leaning over and snatching the letter back. “Be serious, Lily. I was never aware of such a thing as this existing.”

“I don't really care about some shabby little cult in Ashenvale. Why is their demise noteworthy?”

“The act itself is drab. There are enough copper-store heroes floating around that a massacre of a Demon-worshipping Satyr Cult is back page news at best...” The woman leaned forward, a little glint in her eye. “But its news to me that such a practice as sacrifice existed…I never knew that demons could be summoned with such offerings.”

“Didn't Felwood show you how bad demon summoning can get?” Lily leaned back in her seat, twisting her glass back and forth, the wine sloshing dangerously back and forth.

Marianna drummed her fingers quietly on the table. “What the Burning Legion did to that little elven park is not really my concern. All I care about is the possibilities of the act, Lily.”

“And you want to go there and learn from them? It's a long way from home and there are a bunch of long eared freaks that will most likely block your path. It's in their nature to be annoying.” The woman made a face at the mention of the elves. Both the warlock and the healer had little in common, but their disgust with the Kal'dorei race was one common passion. Marianna laughed softly.

“A little traveling never stopped me before.” She met Lily's gaze and gave her a devious little smile. “Anyway, I won't need to go to that wretched forest and argue with satyrs to learn how to perform the ritual…I'm sure I can find teachers much more...Willing to impart knowledge.”

“You want to learn the ritual from someone else to summon a…demon?”

The warlock nods, a little glint tracing through those dark eyes. “I'm sure if I can get a strong enough demon's audience I can make my…Well, let's just call it a ‘pitch'.”

“Making a powerful demon a slave? That won't end well. I don't think he'll be your best bud after a few hours of maltreatment.”

She stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “My, it is a good thing you are better at word play then demonology, Lily. I have no intention to enslave a powerful demon. My hubris is great, but not blinding.” She folded one leg over the other, clasping her hands upon her knee. She rocked quietly in place, rather pleased with herself. “Just..Make a trade. I'm sure he'll part with blood in exchange for services rendered.”

“Demons are rather attached to their blood…”

“And also to an assistant. I'm sure that once I've offered him suitable compensation I'm sure he will give me enough blood for the rest of my life…”

Lily spills her drink. “Poo…That could have been your letter, too.”

Marianna was too involved in her own little fantasy, staring off to a vague point on a far wall as she rolled the thought of the demon blood around on her tongue. She hadn't had a swig of Fel Blood in almost ten hours…

Lily's normally placid smile faded and she gave Marianna a stern look. “There is only two choices in this, living or dyeing. You're making the wrong choice.”

Marianna roused herself enough to scowl at the girl. “There is always a little danger on the road to power. It makes the fruit all the sweeter and desirable.”

“Or you are just too blinded to see that the road is pitted and the fruit is bitter.” She took a sip of her wine. “Probably like Vinegar.”

"Lily, what is your profession?" She watched the girl darkly for a time, eyes narrowed. The flesh around her eyes were red and raw, her irises surrounded by little veins of green.

“I'm unemployed, but I could be a confectioner. Or a mortician. Take your pick.”

“You are a common mortician, girl. When you know of power then you may lecture me.” She leans forward, hissing her words around the candelabra dividing the table. “Until then, give me only a token smile and a friendly word.”

“How am I to offer you helpful advice and speak a friendly word at the same time? I mean, you're asking me to do two opposites.”

She watched the mortician for a time, staring darkly at the girl for a few quiet moments before her scorn dissolved into a wry smile. “Mmm…You're right, Lily…Thank you, but I am not as blind as my hunger makes you believe. Let me take the fruit for myself and see if the fruit is as bitter as you believe.”

“You can take the taste, yes. But it will be bitter.” Lily smiled. “Luckily it's poisoned so you won't have to bear the yucky taste for too long.” The woman leaned forward, her wine glass falling from her hand and spilling red all over the table. “Oh poo.”

The warlock was already up with all her letters folded away. She smiled, adjusting her dress. “I'm going on a trip, Lily. I'll write to you soon.”

Marianna Bisen was out the door before the girl could finish mopping up the wine and say anything.

[Rosencrat]

On the first roll Marianna caught a mouthful of sand. The second, a bit of rock. From there her trip down the dune was an uneventful blur of twisting limbs and patches of yellow and blue until the final calm of the landing.

The warlock had gotten the name and location of Doctor Kebrig F. Tinytamper from a friend of a friend in Dalaran. After all, you drop a letter in the right box with enough coins in it and information has a funny way of getting back to you in a punctual manner. And with such a vague request as a name and location for ‘An eccentric researcher of fel magick theory' attached to that gold nobody will ask any lingering questions.

Marianna wished she had asked another question: ‘How eccentric is this guy?'

The letter had sent her to Tanaris and, dutifully, she had made the trek across the roiling sandy expanse with only a compass, a horse and a poorly drawn map to her name. It was four hours before she finally spotted the gnome atop a sand dune, a little black and green dot on a blank, featureless landscape.

"Dr. Tinytamper!" The woman dismounted and crested the dune, all smiles as she bridged the short distance between her and the gnome. He remained stoically with his back to her. "I'm sorry if I am interr…upting…"

Marianna reached out and gave the gnome a gentle pat on the head. It rolled off, spewing sand as it fell. The gnome was a scarecrow, a dud of sand and sacks wrapped in the gaudily green and gold robes of the arcanist himself.

It was at this moment that Doctor Kebric F. Tinytamper, naked as they day he was born, erupted from the sand behind her. He let out a bloodcurdling yelp, planting a square kick to her shins that folded her up in a snap. She was gone before she could even swear, rolling down the dune hill and picking up speed with every revolution.

By the time Marianna had dragged herself up to her feet and wiped the sand from her eyes the gnome was fully dressed and glaring down upon her, a hand upon his hips and a cocky smile plastered upon his hairy little face.

"Haat haat haat…You're in the wrong place to try sledding, Ms. Female Dog.”

With a groan Marianna spat out a glob of sand and began the climb again. She wore a deathly glower.

+-------------------+

"Feverishly I hope you're following that I'm furious that you figured out to find me to figure out Fel for your findings."

After the briefest of explanations atop the dune the doctor agreed to help the woman's ‘research'. He had insisted that, while he was very interested in helping, a snake had eaten his legs and that she had to carry him back to his ‘research headquarters'. After a heated debate over the fact that the gnome had, in fact, perfectly good legs fell on deaf ears the two had set off across the dunes, the warlock walking with the little man wrapped around her shoulders. Besides the periodic fits where he jumped off her shoulders and ran around her like a dervish, the two managed to work their way back to his doorstep.

"And I, Doctor Tinytamper…" She grunted, dropping the gnome at the door to his shack. With a little snort he undid the door and waddled inside. "Have already apologized for that fact and would further appreciate it if you stopped using words that started in F."

The gnome's abode was a little wood and silk tent tucked in a valley formed by the dunes and a natural rock wall. The arcanist had dragged over an assortment of bones and rocks over the years, building a little mound up and around the tent to form a cavern's mouth. Within the tent was a single chamber, the walls coated in odd charts and the floor with wooden boards and a huge, hideous rug. Assorted tables and bookcases ringed the walls, piled high with musty text books, acrid candles and assorted rusted gadgets and foggy crystals. There were almost a dozen stools around the place. A basilisk head hung from the ceiling, its skull painted pink and a wizard's cap sown to its cranium.

"Haat haat haat…" Marianna cringed at the gnome's helium laugh. It was an airy sound, crawling from her lips like a dead animal to die in her ear. "You're tense. ‘Ihne. ‘ohr what reason do you need to know about ‘Ehl?"

"By the Titans…! You can use words beginning with F! Just…Don't make all of the words you say begin with it. Is that a good compromise?! " The warlock slammed the door behind her, the green veins in her eyes flaring up. It was only the work of a few quiet moments of breathing that she managed to calm herself enough to put on a smile. "I'm writing a book. Now…I wanted to ask you a few questions about Demon Magic. I heard you were currently doing research into it and that you're very knowledgeable…"

"Knowledgeable? Knowledgeable!" The gnome laughed again, wheezing softly as he trotted across to a far table, hauling himself up onto a stool. He rummaged about on the pile of books, tossing them about. "I've spent two decades looking into the blasted stuff! The only person who knows more about it then me is a demon!"

Marianna gave the gnome a waxen smile and a plastic laugh. "Well, I have no intention in talking with a demon…So it seems you're the only one who can help."

"Haat! Fine, fine…I'll give you some help…" He glanced back, popping out a lens in his goggles to give the girl a wink. "But only ‘cause I love helping a pretty face."

Marianna gave the man a blush. The moment he turned around it and her smile dissolved into a vinegar scowl.

"Here…" He lifted a fat leather notebook from the pile and jumped off the stool, waddling over to the girl and holding it up for her. She knelt down and took it, flipping through the pages. The book was written on vellum, each page thick and brittle from the dry wind. She winced with every crack and crinkle.

"Fel Magic is nasty stuff. It's pure arcane, demon magic pulled straight from the Twisting Nether." The gnome began to pace, gesticulating as his small gate took in into a slow orbit around the warlock. "And don't you believe that the demons give it up willingly! They just love corruptin' people with it. It's how they get their rocks off or somethin'."

"Mmmh…" She leafed slowly through the pages. There were images of demons, of arcane sigils and runs. The mad ramblings of a gnome locked away from society for years spread out across every page. "How do these demons get in contact with mortals?"

"Haat haat haat..! Easily, that's for sure! But a demon, a really strong and proper one, will only seek out a mortal if they have something they really want. Usually that's if they can be useful for their nefarious deeds…You can't catch a demonic fish just by jumping in the water and sloshing around unless you're a really juicy morsel."

"And unless you're a Queen or a leader of some powerful group a demon ain't gonna try to get you. You need to bribe a medium level one into meeting with you…And that calls for sacrifice!"

Marianna feigned disgust. "How barbaric!"

"Indeed! Nasty stuff…I was planning on doing some research on the ritual at one point. To look into the rites you needed to perform, the reagents you needed and the demon knowledge behind the cultists. Lined up a few names, should be in the book…Check out the back."

Marianna smiled softly, flicking her way to the back of the notebook. There, on a page beneath a series of spells and incantations was a list of three names and locations. She closed the book with sandy snap.

"All I managed to get around to was looking into the spells behind the ritual. Rather nasty stuff, really…A lot of soul channeling and portal crafting to send the sacrifices into the Twisting Nether."

"And are all the spells written in the book?" Marianna tucked the journal against her breast, drumming her fingers silently on the leather face. She was all smiles.

"Oh, yes yes…My memory isn't the best so I wrote all the incantations, reagents and gestures needed to cast them down…" The gnome turned, hopping up onto the stool and going back to sift through his books. He settled into an easy rambling pace, going on and on about Fel and other such things. The only pause came when he laughed or coughed.

"I see…" Marianna gently sat the journal aside and flexed her hands. She watched the mad little gnome for a time, watching him blither on and on in his own inane little world. She sighed softly, a little plume of fire forming in her hands. She didn't want to see his face when she did this. Didn't want to hear his last words. She didn't even want to know his life or family. It would be better if she didn't consider him a human being. "Thank you for all your help, Dr. Tinytamper…"

+-------------------+

Two weeks later the basilisks grew bold enough to crawl down into the valley and inspect the tent. The giant beasts shouldered through the broken door, snuffling through the dusty air. The beasts shouldered through the drifts of sand and books, slithering over a broken table and the acrid pool of sludge that had once been an alchemy lab. After a few minutes of quiet prodding the beast waddled over to the charred pile of meat and cloth in the corner. It swatted it with a talon, watching the charred skeleton roll onto its back. A pair of broken and dusty green goggles fell off its face to the sand.

Satisfied, the basilisk plodded away to hunt bigger prey.

[Rosencrat]

"You know, after my fourth boyfriend…After he left me, I knew…Just knew that I should become a Death Cultist. He died, by the way. Died in the war. First War I think. A stupendous hero, able to kill a million orcs in a single strike. More beautiful than any man in the world. Fell only for me, of course. But when I left for a trip he couldn't bear being apart. Killed himself from the sorrow...”

Marianna silently ground her teeth and continued to smile. "You don't say? How grand…Now, about the ritual…"

The first name on the late gnome's list had been that of Miss Emelia Watkan of Felwood. From what Marianna had learned from idle chatter at the Cenarion Circle Outpost she had been a novice writer of rag paper romance novels who had wandered into Felwood to ‘get a setting' for her latest book, ‘The Fel Flute's Call to Love'. She had taken an armed guard into the woods and emerged a week later, sans guard and with an odd little glint in her eyes. Ever since she had scorned society in favor of a little camp hidden away in a cave a mile from Jaedenar. She had changed her name to Deathmoora Lovepower and had taken a vow that she would join the Shadow Council, make Sargerus fall in love with her and become the greatest Demon Cultist the world had ever seen.

"Did I mention Illidan and I had a little romp?" She sat before a cracked mirror in her full regalia, dabbing chalk make up onto her already palid face. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel, freshly bleached to take on a ‘crypt-stalker white'. "I had to cut it short, of course. Broke his heart, it did. Probably why he went off to Farland or whatever it's called…"

Marianna bit her tongue. The thick fog of Fel that hung over this forest was making her palms itch and her brain reel. It was only by force of will that she didn't slam the girl's face into the mirror. "I came here on a research expedition. For Doctor Tinytamper. He wanted to ask you for information concerning Demon Summoning Rituals…"

"Ah, the ritual! Yes, yes I remember I talked with the dear a while ago. Offered to sacrifice him to a demon. He declined. A shame…" She uncorked a shadowy potion from her dresser and began to dab it along her throat. Marianna cringed, her eyes watering from the stench. The cultist turned around, giving the warlock the brightest little smile. "Would you be interested in offering your soul to the great lord of the Burning Legion?"

Marianna's plastic smile faded. She met the woman's gaze with an icy stare, lips turned into a razor-thin scowl. "Enough! You know enough about summoning a demon. Tell me what you know.”

The woman blanched, the dark bands under her eyes running. She sniffed back a tear, dapping at her cheek with a handkerchief. "F-fine…"

"I've been watching Jaedenar for a long time now…"The woman crossed the cave and moved to the mouth. Settled in the thick overhang that curtained the gate was a scryer's ball. It was pointed at the Shadow Council's lair far in the distance. "Not inside the Shadow Keep, of course…But I've seen enough of the rituals they perform there to learn enough…"

Marianna stepped over and peered into the crystal. Through the murky fog of the glass she could see the dark fortress, cultists working the perimeter. In the very center there was a sacrifice taking place.

"So I inspected the rites…Listened in on the incantations, followed the motions…"She hummed to herself, turning around and disappearing back into the cave. Balanced upon her little bed roll in the back was a pink journal, caked in dirt and smeared with ink. She returned with it, leafing through the sheaf's of poetry and brooding melancholy. After a time she came to a block of illustrations and instructions in the back. She passed it over and the warlock took it.

The illustrations were surprisingly detailed. Beneath a checklist of processes and a timeline were diagrams of arrangement, illustrations of hand postures and timings for incantations and sacrifices. She had pictures of the summoning circles and the placement of the victims and the invoker. And on the last page was a list of materials and items for the ritual.

"It's surprisingly easy! I mean yes, there are a lot of things to remember. And a lot of reagents to get. Bells and scrolls…And candles. You need special candles mixed with the blood of a warlock. It's an awfully long list of stuff you need, actually…"

Marianna scratched the bridge of her nose thoughtfully, glancing up from the illustrations at the girl. "Are they hard to get?"

The girl laughed, waving a hand. "Oh no! Most are quite easy, if rather exotically expensive. You'd need the help from an Alchemist and an Enchanter, but you could make or find most of the reagents easy enough."

"Now, did you ever get taught these from the cultists themselves?"

The girl squirmed at that, looking down. Quietly she scuffed her feet along the dusty ground. "Not…Really. I wanted to be a good summoner before I go down and try to join the others down at Jaedenar." She perked up ever so slightly, smiling. "But I've had a bunch of warlocks come by here. Some of them were so very helpful. With a few of their books and help I ironed it all out, so I'm positive I got all the details of the ritual down!"

Marianna tapped her chin, nodding. She snapped the book shut. "What are the runes for the summoning circle? You didn't put any down…"

The girl went right back down to looking at her feet. She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip for a time. "It's hard to see the runes when Scrying…But I'm sure if you found a good enough rune master he could pencil them in no problem! And maybe help you with a few of the reagents!"

The woman smiled, raking her fingers slowly through her mop of greasy hair. She nodded at the cultist, hefting the pink journal in her hand. "Your assistance has proven invaluable, Miss Lovepower."

The girl clasped her hands together, beaming from pale cheek to pale cheek. "Ah, stupendous! Now, won't you stay? I have some wonderfully strong tea and this grand sacrificial dagger I wanted to show yo-"

Marianna brought the book around, cracking the girl across the temple with it. She staggered, her eyes crossing. She turned, staggering towards the door. The book came around again, hitting her squarely in the back of the head. With a strangled whine she crumpled into a heap at the warlock's feet.

"Blithering idiot…."

+-------------------+

An hour later Miss Deathmoora Lovepower picked herself from the dirt. She groaned, gingerly rubbing the raw bit of skull. When she finally managed to crawl herself to her feet she would find her little lair ransacked, her charts, illustrations and what little reagents she had collected gone. She noted with a whimper of sorrow that her journal was also taken.

Her collection of demon love poems were now off in another's filthy hands. She shuddered to think how much money the wretched woman in red would make off her genius writing.

[Rosencrat]

In her defense, Doctor Benton Kavalier was the first Forsaken she had ever met. As such, her poor grasp of undead durability, or lack-there-of, could be forgiven. After all, she had helped the man find a new jaw after she had broken the other.

Marianna had picked the location of Doctor Kavalier up from a troll outside of Booty Bay. After a rousing round of drinks and an hour of bitter smiles the troll sailor had told her that a ‘rotter nasteh mahgeh' had taken up shop in an ancient troll crypt just north of the bay where he was doing some ‘realleh bad shtuhf, ladeh'. After half a day's trek through the jungle she reflected, rather bitterly, that asking directions from a racist troll who was wasted on rum was a poor choice of directions. It was only by dint of luck that she had stumbled upon the vine-covered crypt door and into good doctor's abode.

Doctor Kavalier had, in life, been a mage of Dalaran, a dedicated pupil of runes who had studied in the magical city for decades. Yet fortune did not look favorably upon the haggard mage and luck found him in Lordaeron during the Plague. Years of service to an undead master left the once jovial, rotund figure emaciated, the skin rotting and hanging off his thin frame in billowing folds. His eyes were sunken little pinpricks of life in his wrinkled face and the flesh upon his jaw –and his once magnificent beard- was scrapped away to bare discolored bone. He wore tattered white robes, stained with splotches of colorful ink and bits of fetid filth.

When Marianna first saw him she delivered a quick upper cut right to his jaw. It sent the bone flying, separating it from the mage's jaw and driving it into a far wall. It shattered, leaving a sullen silence in its wake.

+-------------------+

"Look, this one is about right."

Marianna dragged a mummy from his crypt and laid it out on the mossy ground. She ripped the gauze from around its face, peeling back the filth and gristle to expose a wizened skull. She stuck her hand into the corpse's jaw and levered it free. She picked the tendons from the joints and passed it over to the Forsaken, slumped over his writer's table in the back of the crypt.

"Ugh ahoubht…" He dusted a few scraps of linen from the rotted teeth and tried it on. He waggled the bone back and forth, clattering his teeth. Quietly he pulled it free and began to lace the joints with copper wire.

"A jaw for a jaw…" The warlock picked herself up and kicked the corpse back into its crevice. "And I am sorry about the…Well, mistaken identity. I was expecting you to be dead."

"I ahm deahed…" He laced the ends of the wire into his upper jaw and tugged them tight. He flexed his new jaw and, satisfied, turned upon the girl. He gave her a ragged, skinless smile. "My dear. But that doesn't stop me from doing my work and, evidently, getting disrespected."

Marianna soured, her knuckles turning white in her fist. Those dark eyes flitted along the shelves, inspecting the books and grimoires piled upon the crypts and stone altars. He had converted this ancient troll burial chamber into his study, the corpses his meals and guardians and their altars his desks. She was sure there were enough books there for her to learn rune inscribing…But she didn't have the time. "I am…Deeply, deeply sorry. As I said, I was surprise-"

"Enough." The Forsaken waved a gnarled hand, a quill already balanced between his delicate, boney fingers. He turned back to the desk and his work, a stretch of funeral wrappings laid out across the stone altar. He dipped the quill into a vial of fetid brown ink and began to scrawl. "If you came here to kill me you didn't finish the job. What do you need, my dear?"

Marianna unclasped a parcel from beneath her pauldrons and stepped over, unfurling the vellum and pressing it out onto the stone table. It was the sigil from the circle from the woman's book, painted in thick black lines on the pale yellow skin.

"I need you to fill in the spaces…" She tapped her finger against the empty spaces between the thick lines. "Runes. I need this thing to work."

The mage picked the scroll up and inspected it. "You want this to do what…?"

Marianna picked her words carefully, eyes set level upon the man. "Summon a demon."

The Forsaken laughed. It was a dry, reedy sound that caused his lungs to crackle. "You don't need such a complex circle to summon an imp, my dear."

"I need it…" She set her jaw and looked at the back of the Forsaken's head. There was a patch in his skull cap where tufts of bloody white hair poked through. "Because I intend to sacrifice people to summon a strong demon."

The Forsaken was quiet. After a time he laughed again, tapping the bridge of his nose. He produced a thin black book from his robes and flipped it open. Lines and lines of runes flitted past as he thumbed through his spell book. He took out his ink set and ran his dry tongue along the nib of a fresh quill.

"And why would I want to help you?"

"Because if you don't then I'll send a letter to Dalaran about what you are doing here."

Marianna put on her sweetest smile. The mage replied with his own polished grin, his skeleton smile forcing him to smirk. The two watched each other quietly for a time.

"Well why didn't you say so earlier, my dear."

+-------------------+

The diagram was filled by the time the sun was setting. The Forsaken had filled the empty circle with careful runes and sigils, tiny little characters that swam beneath the eye. He had attached a scale and length to the picture, precise measurements that would allow the girl to inscribe it to accurate lengths later.

"Stupendous…" She took the diagram up and rolled it away, slipping it back into the depths of her robes.

"Four outer circles on it need to have a sacrifice, my Dear. Fresh, whole, healthy souls…Living souls. Tied up, sedated, willing…It doesn't matter."

Marianna nodded vaguely. The smell of the crypt and the mage himself was beginning to make her dizzy. She needed more blood. It had been almost three days since her last taste and already she could feel her lips blistering and cracking. "Just four? Sounds fine.."

"Activate the runes on the outer circle. They'll do the rest. It's a sigil, so you'll just need to pour a little bit of energy into it and th-"

Marianna held up a hand and nodded, turning away. "I know enough of this. So long as the rituals are good then your work is done."

The mage tutted softly, turning on his seat to watch her go. She stopped at the doorway and looked back into the gloom. Two golden pinpricks of light watched her silently.

"Only humans. I promise you, I'll only sacrifice humans, Doctor."

"Stupendous, my dear. " The mage laughed once more, wheezing softly. The two little pricks of light faded away as he turned. "And your part of the agreement…?"

Marianna stepped through and into the muggy night air. The jungle around her howled and murmured and rustled. She scowled at the gloom. "Your little hobby will remain with me. So long, of course, that this ritual goes off without a hitch. If not...Letters will be sent to Dalaran."

Marianna set off through the gloom, the last name on the list quietly smoldering behind her raw, red swollen gaze. With a low, soft sigh the mage turned back to his table. He looked over at the corpses, reaching out to pat a vaguely feminine one.

"Now, let's see if we can't get you back on your feet, my dear."

[Rosencrat]

On the small wooden door, picked out in ornate golden swirls, was a card with his name and title: “Russer Clay the Learned Veteran, Master of Demonology Theory.' The word ‘Theory' was scrawled as an afterthought, lopsidedly attached to the placard in grubby black ink.

Marianna knocked just below the plate. She waited. She knocked again. She tested the doorknob. She tested it again with more force. She tested it with her foot. The door gave way and the warlock stepped into the home proper.

The office of Russer Clay was, even to its occupant and his passion for glorification, nothing more than an old wooden pantry in the back of an inn in Dalaran's Underbelly. It leaked whenever more than twelve people decided to flush their toilets and the south wall was growing a patch of particularly violent yellow mold. Every morning the toxic fumes from the sewers turned the air a sickly beige and open flames sputtered and spat in the miasma. Despite it all the single room home was immaculately swept and clean, the wood varnished and the walls furnished with tasteful –if sparse- ornamentations.

The room was empty, only a hammock swinging and a little stove bubbling to disturb the still. A half-finished witticism bubbled from the woman's mouth before she snapped it shut. The warlock sighed, dropping her bag by the door before making her rounds. She picked her way around the room, shifting her way through bits and pieces, books and trinkets and other trappings of a poverty-stricken egotist.

There was no blood, that was good. No broken furniture or signs of a struggle. That ruled out that the doctor had been captured and dragged away to be tortured. The warlock tipped the lid off the ice box open with the tip of her boot and nudged her way through the stacks of ice. And there was the explanation: An empty milk bottle.

Marianna slunk over to a hammock and dropped herself in, letting out a strangled groan as tension bled from sore muscles. She watched the ceiling rock, fingertips tracing along the red, raw flesh that ringed her eyes. A little flake of skin came off on her thumb and she stared at it for a time.

She couldn't do this. Not anymore. Her throat was as dry as chalk. Her skin was burning, clammy and bathed in sweat. Her limbs screamed with every step and there was a wretchedness in her core, an agony that possessed her, making her heave about at night and scream soundlessly for catharsis. She was a coward. A failure. Her father wa-

The front door eased open on shattered hinges and Marianna snapped up and out of her reverie.

She had asked a few people about ‘Clay the Learned'. They had described him as an idiot, a rambling prat of a Blood Elf who trotted around in threadbare robes and with a faux-diamond cane. He rambled and drank and waved his education about like an orc would a severed hand. But he was a he and he was an elf. The creature standing in the doorway was a she and a draenei. She wore thick, golden chainmail and wielded a thick blade. Yeti t was the look upon her eyes, of pure murderous rage, that caught Marianna first.

And then it was the blast of Holy Fire that erupted from her hand that caught the girl first, the warlock barely able to tip herself out of the hammock before it dissolved beneath roils of flame. She staggered to her feet, spitting and swearing as she wheeled around.

[left][/left]

"Ma'nari!" The paladin grabbed a box of books and swung it at the warlock, clipping her shoulder and sending her slamming back against the wooden wall. "Faramos il enklin zar!"

The woman was working herself up into a rage, fumbling with her sword as she weaved towards the warlock. Marianna threw her hands up and let loose a blast of entropy, a green lash of fel melting into the woman's chest. The draenei staggered, her muscles screaming as weakness crept over her.

"By the Titans…!" The warlock clutched her shoulder, feeling the little bones floating within that were anchored down a few moments before. "What…What…Do I look like a damned Elf scientist to you, you fucking stupid goat!?"

" Kazile te mannor, you piece of vilth!" She spat out the words. The draenei's accent was thick, the Common words flowing clumsily from her lips. "You kihled him! You kihled him, Ma'nari!"

Marianna was quivering now, her face flushed and red. She could smell blood, could taste her own rage. She had taken a draught of Fel Blood before she had come to visit the doctor and she could feel its hateful venom in every word she snarled. "He's out to get milk! Milk! By the Titan's Blade…And do I look like a fuckin' demon to you? Calm do-"

"Ma'nari! Ma'nari! Itz…itz…itz…" A Light was radiating from her, pouring out and down her limbs, easing the weakness away. She rose, unfolding that tall frame. The rage had subsided to a civil level. "'Zat vhich iz vrong'. You aare vrong…Evil…Abahminahtion!"

"W-whoever you think I am…" Marianna backed away slowly, her hands up as she retreated. A little trace of darkness crept between her fingers. "You have the wrong person…I'm no-"

"You kihled za gnome…My friend, Doctar Tinytamper…" The gnome from the desert, the little eccentric with the green robes and the little tent. It was hard for Marianna to think of such an odd creature had a friend. Had someone who cared about him. But the desert was lonely and food was hard to come by. He needed supplies, food and –most of all- companionship. So a Draenei girl, eons older then he but still young at heart, had made the trek every week to do a good deed for a lonely old man.

And when the paladin had come to deliver another week's worth of survival she had found only a smoldering corpse and a slowly creeping drift of sand. She had tracked the culprit down, following her trail through the continent. She asked flight masters and guards, shaped descriptions and paths. By the time the wizard's apprentice had pointed to the gate of the Underbelly she had a face to attach to her seething hunger for revenge.

"I…" Surprise spread slowly across Marianna's face, guilt blossoming as she bumped against the far wall. "No…You don't understand…I…"

"I don't…" She pulled the blade free, holding it out. The edge was ground to a fine razor's sliver. "I don't understand…"

Tears pricked at the corner of the Draenei's glowing eyes. "How you could kihl him!"

The Draenei lunged, swinging her blade out. Marianna lept to the side, her wounded shoulder hitting the wooden floor. She reeled, letting out a strangled wail as she felt bone grind against disjointed bone. She rolled out of the way for the second strike, the blade scoring a clean line down the boards. A moment's pause to steady herself from the blow and Marianna was back on her feet.

The blood had her. It had her by her heart, by her brain. By her muscles and tissue and soul. When she lifted her arms there was no pain as her fractured shoulder rattled. The words to the incantation came quickly from her lips, flowing without thought. The vile green light blossomed from her palms and erupted outwards, striking the paladin right in the heart. The woman froze for a time, her silvery eyes widening as she felt the cold chill creep over her soul. She sagged.

"Ma…nari…" She lifted her blade in shaking hands, the tip swaying as she dragged it up to point it at the woman in red. "Ah…bahmi…nation…"

"Silence your impudent tongue!" She felt the hatred. She needed to kill this paladin. If she did not, this blood lust, this hunger, this hatred would tear her apart herself. She lunged, another blast of shadow from her hand knocking the paladin back. She barely felt the tip of her sword, still held up, slide into her calf.

"Ma…na-"

"Silence!" She grabbed the lid of the burning stove and wrenched it free. The smell of burning flesh barely registered as she slammed the thin lip of the blade into the Draenei's throat. "Silence silence silence!"

A strangled whimper came from the warrior's throat. Marianna swung again and again as the Draenei sunk slowly downward, ramming the hunk of metal against her throat. When she pulled away the sword came with her, its tip nearly hitting her heel as she staggered backwards. The lid fell from her burned hands with a clatter.

"I'm…" The cloud of hatred fell from her eyes, her heart easing until she saw the woman for what she was; a girl, old but not mature, crumpled before her on the floor, sagging over herself as the death rattle rolled in her chest.

"I…" Here was her sacrifice. A valuable gift, a trophy for any demon; the soul of a proud follower of the Light, humbled by the blindness of hatred. She had studied the spell, the incantations that she must whisper. She had but to capture her soul, to seal it away to offer up later to an eternity of agony and suffering in the Twisting Nether.

[left][/left]

"No…" She pulled the sword free from her leg and dropped it by the Draenei's corpse, now knelt, head down, hands limp at its side. She staggered towards the door, fumbling with a few books that had scattered across the floor as she went. She picked up a few likely ones and stuffed them into her bag, dragging it over her good shoulder.

One look back was all she allowed herself. The woman was dead but the corpse was still intact. All the blood, all the muscles. It would take a few priests, a few of her friends…But they would resurrect her.

Marianna shrugged her way through the door and limped off into the Underbelly. She would leave now, find a quiet place to lay low and clean her wounds. By the time the woman was found and revived the trail would be cold.

The warlock let out a strangled, wordless sound as she limped off into the darkness. Her hand shook as she pulled out her flask and took another long, hungry drought.

+-------------------+

The esteemed Mr. Clay opened the door to his abode a few hours later to the eventual scene. Curious neighbors had found the broken door and had sent for the guard. They had found the Draenei's corpse there, slumped against the floor. The smell of Fel was thick an acrid in the air. When the swarthy elf opened his mouth to protest the guards were there in a heartbeat, clapping his shoulders and dragging him off.

After all, it's no mystery that Blood Elves and Draenei don't get along. The case was open and shut.

[Rosencrat]

"Cruelty towards others is also cruelty towards the self."
Paul Tillich

[left]Part Five
Anti-Citizen One[/left]




They were bandits. There were four of them, three men and one woman. There was a worn-down hunter, a cheap cut-throat, a lackluster hedge-wizard and a pauper of a boss. They weren't Defias, Marianna was sure of that. They had cheap weapons and poor armor and a few loaves of bread and two gold that they had stolen from a farmer whose corpse the warlock had turned up in a ditch a mile from their camp. Marianna didn't know their names. She didn't know their past or their families. She didn't know why they became bandits or what cruel joke life had given them. She didn't want to know. All she hoped was that they were bad people who deserved damnation.

+-------------------+

Marianna had coerced a mage to teleport her out of Dalaran right after her erstwhile encounter. She had touched down at the crossroads a mile outside of Redridge, a bleeding mess caked in sewer filth with raw, bloodshot eyes and a haggard limp. Her outfit was rammed into the bottom of her pack, wrapped around three books and a scroll. She wore a new robe, a simple garb of whites and browns she had nicked from a laundry line from a farmhouse outside the town. She dropped herself in the river and dressed her wounds as best she could before finally limping across the bridge and into the hamlet.

That had been a week ago. She had rented a room under an alias and had told the town physician she had been mauled by gnolls. She had been a perfect guest, spending all of her time quietly in her room studying the odd books in her possession and always settling up debts with cold currency. When her lease of the room ran out she paid without fuss and left that evening, heading off down the road towards Duskwood with a cheap wagon she had paid for with a handful of silver and gold.

It hadn't been hard to subdue the bandits when she followed the corpse to their camp. She simply watched and waited, counting off the days as she warned off caravans of food and gold from going down their stretch of road. By the second day supplies waned and starvation grew. But the Lady of Mercy had seen fit to be kind to the lawless, and on the evening of the second day the cut-throats had found an un-attended wagon from Redridge with a single crate of un-spoiled food. They ate well that night. And they slept even better.

The owner of the cart had quietly dumped the vial of sedatives and loaded the four into the cart. She bound them in coils of rope, lashing every inch of them down for the journey into Duskwood. Every time one of them roused the wagon driver quietly reached back and slammed their heads against the floor till they fell back into oblivion.

Marianna made sure they were gagged all throughout the journey. She did not want to hear them beg.

+-------------------+

Only the Titan's knew what the tower once had been. It might have been a guard house, or a wizard's sanctum. All it was now was a sagging little grey line of limestone in the black void of Deadwind Pass, a ruined hull tucked in the arms of a small gulley where it decomposed silently back into the earth. Only the basement was habitable, the only entrance to that dark void barred by a steel grate rusted shut.

Yet steel has never been a meaningful barrier against purpose. The gate had been wrenched open and the wagon nearby unloaded, the horse left to roam the fetid grasses as its owner tended to her own business.

The basement was a stone vault, a circular room of worn rock. It had survived well, the wooden roof and its supports still wholly saved of rot and decay. Only a thin layer of silt, washed through the doorway by centuries of rain, marred the quiet den. In the very center of the room, freshly carved into the living rock, was a ritual circle. It glowed faintly in the gun-metal grey light sun that filtered through the ceiling, forming a circle of tepid bulb of sickly purple light in the gloom.

The main circle had four smaller arrays orbiting its outer edge, each bearing a large rune and a single captor knelt upon it. Along the edges black candles were struck, there black flames waving even in the breezeless still. The glyphs seemed to sparkle within the array, shifting and melting together into new symbols as they spiraled around the central rune.

Marianna slipped silently out of her robes. The wounds were still there, red, raw little divots in her pale flesh. It had pained her, when the healer had treated her, to feel the Light within her. He had begged to cure her fever, to wipe away her cold sweat and the heat that she radiated. The warlock had simply smiled and told him that she didn't want to pay for something she could take care of herself.

She wore the garb that her old master had given her; the blood red and black corset, the golden pauldrons, the long black cape. The green gems upon her hips and wrists shone in the gloom as she checked the candles and tightened the prisoner's gags one last time.

Here was a month's work. Here was her labor's fruit. There was no going back after the courtship had begun, no way to undo the abominations she was about to commit. She stood at the edge and looked into the abyss. She turned away before the abyss could look back at her.

"None but a coward…dares to boast that he has never known fear." Marianna stepped into the center of the circle, lifted her hands high and began the incantation.

It was a slow process. There were reams of words and syllables. She stumbled twice and had to begin again, working her way through the lines of demonic incantations. The words had a life of their own, writhing from her lips to choke the air, burning like fireflies in the gloom as they orbited her. Twenty minutes in and her captors awoke, beginning to thrash in their bonds as they struggled to roll free of the circle. That caused her to stumble again. The black candles spat and boiled as she continued the spell, closing her eyes and raising her voice to keep out the captor's muffled yells.

A sphere of dark, mottled green blossomed from her palms as the last word passed from her shaking lips. It hovered in her palm for a moment, the seething vortex within twisting beneath the magical glass. She held it, the chill of the Void creeping through her fingers and into her soul. The last word, the ast incantation.

Marianna looked into the abyss. Only cowards ran away from power. Only the foolish did not dedicate themselves to the glory of strength. Only the weak fear power.

Marianna leapt into the darkness.

”Azhir mudas ethanol!” The orb shattered, tendrils of filthy green light pouring down and into her captors. They screamed wordlessly into their bonds as the darkness sunk into their breast. There flesh began to grow pale, the warmth of youth giving way to the pallor of death. They writhed as their muscles began to wither and age began to steel over the.

Marianna stood entranced, watching as the portals opened. One opened beneath each victim, a yawning wound of purple and black into a world of darkness and twisting energies. They began to sink into the void, dark tendrils lashing out to draw them down into the Void.

Marianna did not stumble over the last words of the ritual. They flowed quickly and easily from her lips, flowing outwards and into the doomed souls. A message, burned into the flesh of the soul, an offer to any demons who find these souls that there will be more in exchange for compensation. The bandits had become a grim gift bag, a gift for some faceless demon to chew over in exchange for an audience.

The bandits sunk lower and lower, their torsos disappearing, then their chests and necks. As they fell their skin grew paler, withering slowly against the bone. Each one let out a single wordless scream as the coldness of the Twisting Nether steeled over them. A moment later and they were gone, the portals yawning for a moment before slowly closing.

Marianna waited. She waited and waited and waited, hands still upraised, body still upright. An hour passed in silence. No demon surfaced, no monster from the Great Beyond.

The Warlock sagged slowly in place. Quietly she crawled out of the circle, finding a soft bed of silt and filth in the corner of the basement. She curled silently up against the stone wall and sunk into slumber.

[Rosencrat]

"Such is the audacity of man, that he hath learned to counterfeit Nature, yea, and is so bold as to challenge her in her work. ."
Pliny the Elder

[left]Part Six
She Who Dares To Win[/left]





Marianna slept fitfully upon her bed of silt. A fever dream had seized her and she twisted about as she slumbered. Her eyes fluttered every so often, the woman coming up from her nightmare as if to wake. Yet sleep tightened its grip about her and drew her back down into the abyss.

In her dreams Marianna fell. She tumbled soundlessly downward, twisting and writhing as she descended. She caught snatches of the world around her as she fell, of blurry columns and chains and dark stone facades. And she saw the ground of the dark vault, flying towards her with gristly intent.

[left][/left]Marianna stirred. The force of earth to flesh brought her to the verge of waking. Yet the weight of the day brought her down again and she slipped back into sleep.

She continued downwards, sinking into the soft earth. Stone and root bit into her flesh as she fell, the earth parting like water for her as she plummeted. Silt filled her throat and grit caked her eyes and still she tumbled.

When the ground gave way and she broke into biting cold water Marianna stirred again. Yet as soon as her eyes fluttered open they fluttered closed again once more. The dream would not let her go so quickly.

The sea stretched out beneath her and she plummeted into its depths. As the inky water roiled around her she caught sight of dark things, slithering through the muck and silt. She saw a worm disappear into an angler's jaw before a volcanic plume of hot air boiled them both. She saw tentacles close around a delicate ball of light and swallow it whole. She screwed her eyes shut, air streaming from her battered lips as she fell into the warm blue waves below.

Marianna did not even stir when her dreams sent her plummeting from the sea and into the sky. The woman simply turned silently upon her bed of dirt, working away from a cold draft.

The warlock tumbled into the heavens. The night unfolded beneath her as she fell, the sky turning from blue to violet and finally to black. She roared through the void, the stars swimming past her eyes until they were little white streaks burned into her vision.

Marianna fell until she finally broke through the sky and back into the dark vault where she had begun. She tumbled through the gaping hole in the vault's floor, rolling end over end from the starry portal. Mercifully, the stone ceiling she struck held and Marianna's fall ended with the crack of bone and body against rock.

+-------------------+

"Azhir uval…nutarus" Marianna rolled over and stared, glumly, up at the ceiling. Or what turned out to be the ground. She herself was lying upon the vaulted stone ceiling, the expanse of muck-covered dirt and tepid water stretching out above her. She picked herself up slowly, carefully testing her joints as she inspected the chamber.

"Azhir mudas…!" She froze. " Eth…anul…"

Demonic. She was speaking in demonic. The words that came from her lips were alien, so thick and greasy that she could taste the Fel with every bitter syllable. They hovered in the air, reverberating upon the stone, growing grotesque in size and pitch until they evaporated along the dark corners of the hall.

" Dalektharu il dask daku! Riftuuz e thara samanar utamus!" The words needed to be spoken. They tore from her lips, spiraling off into the void, each one causing a tremor to roll through her. She sunk to her knees, crumpling upon the cold stone. Beneath her, the rock began to dissolve into ash.

" Elas umanes azarathan rakas ibna…" The stone melted away, forming a hideous black scar beneath her. Below the rock was a mass of sickly yellow worms, writhing and twisting upon themselves. And into the mass Marianna sunk, the gaping wound and its twisting grubs swallowing her body and soul.

As the last of her disappeared beneath the seething pitch the last of the words tore themselves from her lips. "Belanora mordanos nenaar ila mornu far-!"

"Ahhh…You know...Unless you are a thousand feet tall and have a…Forehead capable of sustaining life… The effect of those words are…Somewhat lost."

Everything screeched to a halt. The nostrils of Marianna, the only thing visible above the seething sea of worms, flared inquisitively.

"The words are...Suitable. Even if they …do loose a bit in the re-telling.” There was a measured, even tone to that voice. There was a deep rumbling behind every syllable, a hollow sound of rock rattling within a skull. Every pause it drew out, carefully picking the words with a lazy shrewdness. The faintest of echoes lingered after her spoke, resonating as if from a bottomless chasm. “I don't know how you know them. Most likely a…side-effect of my…impressing this business meeting upon your…mind."

" Azrathud Nag-?"

"Do…Be quiet, human." The voice rumbled patiently. "And stop with this…Sillyness. You have…Business to attend too, if you cannot...remember."

Stones rose up from beneath the twisting thicket, lifting Marianna and the worms up and back into the dark hall. The grubs writhed down through the cracks, squeezing away. The Warlock inhaled sharply, clawing up to stare at her savior.

He sat on a stone arch a few feet from her, perched upon the rocky rise. He was terrifically large, ten feet of muscles and wings and horns and long, smooth violet skin. His dark eyes were sunk into his skull, his face contorted into a hideous leering mask. Draped about his shoulders were two great, leathery wings. Little stars and runes covered them, stitched into the very flesh with thick, glowing rune thread. Horns, four arms, thick, heavy armor and claws rounded off the demonic image of this member of the Burning Legion.

"I received your…Down payments."The creature drummed one of his hands upon a thick ledger another held, the other two carefully busying themselves with the filling and preparation of a long, cobbled bone pipe. "Such dedication to the…Aher…Cut and thrust of business is…admirable."

" Buras melarorah zu-"

“I realize this is…Your dream. But you may be unable to realize that it is rather rude to…Speak gibberish before a…Beneficial associate." The demon scowled ever further, deep lines running along his jowls. "If you…insist on dreaming that you can speak Eredun…Can you see fit to not speak…Gibberish words? "

" Karaman?"

The demon sighed softly. "Yes…Yes. Whatever you are…trying to say…Is not what you are…Actually providing, human…If such a thought can crawl through your skull."

Marianna stared, dumbfounded, up at the creature. It was a careful, quiet minute before she managed to absorb the entire situation and speak again. "Nathrazim?”

"That… you managed well…" The demon lifted the pan of his pipe to his lips and expelled a little spark. He exhaled over it until the green flame began to smolder and he took a slow tug. Smoke billowed from the corners of his mouth as he watched the woman. "Tothrezim. I am a Tothrezim, human."

Marianna cocked her head to the side. She had long forgone any attempts at speech. Mostly because the words she spoke were giving her a pounding headache.

"No…No, I can't imagine you would be familiar with my race, human." The demon beat his wings once and rose into the air. Another beat and he closed the distance between he and the woman. With a clatter the demon descended, dropping down to tower above the warlock. "We are…The builders of the Legion. We are the blacksmiths…And scientists…And artificiers."

"Now!" He clasped his lowered hands together, rubbing the gnarled fingers together. "You have called me. You have asked for a service. You have demonstrated that you are smart enough to kill for the service."

He hunched down, leaning in. Marianna could see all the little lines and crevices upon his face. She could count the scars upon his four thick palms. She could follow the runes and patterns cut into his wings. It was all better then to face the striking reality that she was being inspected by a powerful demon.

"What is the service you…Require?"

Marianna opened her mouth and then closed it. She scrambled along the ground, dragging her nails across the worn rock. The demon watched her for a time, smirking softly before he unclipped a long chisel from his belt and pressed it into her palms. It took a few moments, but Marianna managed to carve into the rock: “Fel Blood”.

The demon scratched his jaw silently for a time. "I see…Are you sure that you would not…prefer an Infernal?"

Marianna tapped the chisel beneath her request, gritting her jaw and stealing her fears as she worked her gaze back up to the demon's. With a shiver she handed the chisel back.

"Mmm…" The Tothrezim ground his teeth slowly, dragging a talon slowly across his throat. Figures and costs rolled quietly through his mind as he stared at the words.

"I will…provide you with the blood. In exchange, you will continue to supply my…Business with souls." He smiled, offering the girl a huge, gnarled hand. "Enter into the contract and…Your blind hunger will be…sated, human"

Marianna looked between the hideous smile and the worn, leathery hand. With a quiet sigh she reached out and took it.

"But if you…Do not provide the souls…I will take…Yours. And then you shall…Work in the Void for me…For all eternity, picking stones and…Sweating in the Inferno Forge."

"Now wake…And get me six more servants for my…Infernal Forge."

The rock beneath her exploded, flames and shards roiling up and swallowing her whole.

+-------------------+

By the time Marianna woke the dream was but the faintest of whispers in the back of her mind, a half-forgotten memory roiling in the dark. The only thing that lingered was a dull, jabbing pain in her right hand…And the faintest of ideas that she required more souls for her next sacrifice.

Those words rolled around in her head as she picked herself up and moved towards the grate. The thought of another sacrifice echoed through her mind as she threw open the grating and stepped out into the fetid dawn.

[Rosencrat]

"P-please, Sire! I..I need…H-help…"

Silence hung over the murky forest of Duskwood. From behind a tree overlooking the road a shadow shifted. It peered up and down the road, its head cocked for any sounds of life. Satisfied there was none the shadow returned back to its erstwhile practices. She was an actor, after all; if she wished to pull off the ‘helpless victim' routine she needed to train.

"No…" There was a wheeze and the voice began again, trembling with sickness and sputtering about between fits of coughing. "P-please…H-help..me..."

The wheels rumbled in and out of the wagon ruts startled the warlock from her preparations. She rolled around the tree, peering into the darkness. She couldn't see a thing in the darkness of Duskwood night. Not surprising, really; Marianna could barely see the forest beyond the dull glow of the freshly incinerated zombie corpses that surrounded her tree.

Marianna swore beneath her breath and adjusted her dress, carefully minding the blood and muck she had smeared upon it. With an airy little sigh the woman tipped herself over the embankment and rolled down to the fence by the side of the road. It was there that the limp body moaned and whimpered until the wagon pulled alongside and its driver leapt down.

[left][/left]"H-help…"

"Bah the Light…" The wagon driver was a guard, a stocky woman with a busted lip and a lazy eye. She had a bit of a limp to her right foot and the softest of lisps. She was, Marianna thought smugly to herself, the kind of girl who would get into profession of beating around male prisoners just for giving her sly looks.

"Are you ahright, Mihus?”" She knelt down beside the woman. She scooped up the battered woman's head, almost gently peeling away the muck and blood from her eyes.

"I..Was attacked by ban-"

"Shhh…" Marianna winced. The spittle the shushing sprayed alone was enough to wash almost all of the filth from her clothes. "It'sh ahlright. I know you'reh not righsht…"

"I need he-"

"…In the head, for shinking that I'd fall for dish trick."

The guard slammed the woman's head into the cobblestones and the lights blinked out with a wet crunch.

+-------------------+

Seven prisoners had never so neatly fallen into the warlock's lap. When she had begrudgingly awoken she found herself bundled up in the back of the prisoner transport wagon by the guard with a few bandits and crazy cultists. She had melted her way through the bindings soon enough and cast a curse on the guard through the bars. While the bone marrow in her legs was going on vacation out her nose the warlock had blasted open the lock and taken the prisoner cargo off.

For a time, she had thought about offering the guard up for the sacrifice as well. There was wrath in those listless eyes, a hatred born from every school yard bully that she had been parceling out with every cudgel swing and steel-booted kick for most of her adult life.

But Marianna knew that the guard was one of the good guys. Her morals were twisted, her goals perverted…But she was still trying to do good. She didn't deserve eternal damnation for being a b***h. When she slid the dagger into her heart and laid her corpse to rest in a ditch she did so with only the faintest cloud upon her conscious.

+-------------------+

The second ritual went smoother then the last. It had yet to become routine to the woman, yet the shivers of girlish trepidation that had clouded her first flirtations with the void had all but evaporated. She had taken the plunge now, she knew. The cold certainty that there was no retreating from the eventuality steeled her nerves against the fear.

She spoke the last words and the portals swallowed her victims up whole. This time she allowed herself to watch one –a demented cultist- disappear into the void. It was foolish to think that this raving lunatic -who in his last breath swore upon his soul that he was Arthas- deserved to have the precious gift of life. He had squandered it with useless prattle and meaningless projects. Yet in everlasting death what he had discarded could be put to a greater purpose…

"To the victor…Aha…Goes the spoils, as you mortals so…Blither about."

She spun about within the circle. The cellar was empty, only the open flames of the candles and the unholy runes moving in the warlock's crypt. Yet the voice rumbled quietly on all around her, bouncing off the rotted planks and the scrabbled rock. Marianna's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes flitted to the door and before she could draw her feet back she was already taking steps towards it.

The uncommon hand of fear wound around her heart. Yet force of will was the lesson life had taught her. The woman stood firm in the darkness.

"I am no one to fear, demon! You need not hide! I have called you here, offering these so-"

He stepped out from the darkness before her. Her words fell out in a jumble as the Tothrezim glided forward, knocking past the wards and spells with a slow, pointed gait. With a gnarled hand he reached out and pushed her.

It was the gentlest of pushes. His hand only grazed her breast. Yet a tremor rolled through her and she soared backwards, striking the rock wall behind. She sagged slowly down, falling to her knees in the rank filth. She struggled for breath as, through the blood and tears, she saw her chest. Marianna choked back a scream.

The demon's strike had torn her robes open, leaving only burning tatters to give her modesty. And beneath the little green embers and smoke she could see the pearly glisten of blood. The muscle and flesh where the demon's burning touch had fallen was on fire, a burning palm print of melting skin and acrid smoke.

Marianna doubled over and wretched at the smell.

"Speak when…Spoken to, human." The demon stood in the circle now, a calm, placid look upon his face as he lit his pipe and took a slow pull. He waited until the woman was only spitting up blood and bile, smoking his way through the bone pan.

Finally the warlock collapsed into the damp silt, wreathed in smog and the little dissipating twinkles of green embers.

"Blood for…Blood." The demon ran his claw along his forearm. The smooth flesh parted and from it flowed the blood. It smelled rank, of human filth and disease, of corruption and sickness and atrophy. The yellowish green blood pooled around his feet, spreading out until the entire circle was covered.

With a little sizzle the wound closed up and the demon stepped back into the darkness.

"Drink, worm. When the blood is…Exhausted and the circle is once more visible…" The Tothrezim laughed. It was a slow, rumbling sound, like a thousand crypt doors shaking on their rusted hinges. It was punctuated by a single slow, asthmatic wheezed.

"Then you will give me…Six more souls…"

It was a long silence before Marianna was sure the shadows of the cellar were empty. With a low, quivering moan the woman rolled over and onto her side. With her hand clutching the melted scar over her breast she crawled through the muck and over to the tepid pool. She stared dumbly at her reflection in the blood, at the filthy face streaked with tears and matted with blood, at the sunken eyes, the broken lip, the scarred cheek, the raw flesh.

With a grateful sigh Marianna dipped down and began to drink.

[Rosencrat]

The canals outside of the Cathedral District of Stormwind were, like every night, quiet. A gang of priests swung from around an archway and, laughing, headed off across the bridge and towards the growing lights of the Trade District. There was a lewd comment about a Confessor's garters and they were gone, the canals silent once more. Then, from the shadows of an alleyway a shape darted out and, with a backwards glance ran down a side street.

Marianna slowed when she got out of range of the main canals. Her face was a caricature of femininity, made up in thick pastel creams and lipsticks applied generously as if with the wide end of a trowel. She dusted her boots off on the cobblestones, adjusted bottle of wine under her arm and knocked on the apartment door.

It had been a week since she first dipped her fingers into that bloody pool; one week in the dark, on her hands and knees, scrapping blood-encrusted filth down her gullet. One week of eating mushrooms and skeletal fish from the canyon near the tower. One week of anger and pain cut only by the blood and the occasional unwary monster or traveler she sharpened her teeth upon. It was only when the pool had been drained did Marianna crawl out of Deadwind Pass and slunk her way back into Stormwind.

“Seriously… Get a hold of that key...I keep walking to the door and I'm lazy.” Someone threw a latch and the door swung open. “Someday you'll be the end of me…Eehm…Wrong house…?”

A month apart and little had changed of Lily. She still wore the same robes and the same vague smile. And she still had that same capricious look of mild revulsion that she got whenever she saw Marianna. The only change was her hair, some madness driving her to give it a cheap dye job. But even through the pale red Marianna could tell her only friend.

“Right house. Right woman. Right gift.” Marianna held the wine bottle out before her, giving the girl a close-lipped smile. She managed to get her foot into the door jamb before the girl could close it. “May I come in?”

Lily hesitated for a moment before relenting, giving way to the advances of the warlock and her bottle of merlot. “I'm quite sure the answer no doesn't occur in your dictionary so be free to enter…Seeing as you know where I live anyhow.”

Marianna dropped the bottle into the redhead's hands as she passed, slipping off her hat and casting her eye across the small apartment. Small table. Smaller stove. A few sparse pieces of furniture and a bookcase. It was the same trim, pleasantly disheveled den of all single living girls. She turned on her heels to give her hostess the breadth of her smile. “Tch. Is that a way to greet an old friend after so long?”

“It depends…If they have glowing eyes and are near two feet taller than you are…Then you need to be cautious.”

With her hat off and the door closed Marianna allowed herself a little smile. Her teeth were already beginning to form points, a shark's grin coated in sickly yellow enamel. The little veins in her eyes were beginning to rupture, staining the milky whites a dull, fetid green. “I am not staying long. Just came to pick up a package.”

“I'm quite certain I don't have anything that would interest you.” Lily winked, skirting around her guest. With bottle in toe she stepped over to the kitchen table, rummaging around for a moment in a pile of cutlery before producing a corkscrew.

“Now that's not true…” Marianna rocked slowly in place, testing the points of her teeth with the tip of her tongue. “I came here to pick you up.”

[left][/left] “How are you even able to walk around in Stormwind?”

She held her hat up and stretched the brim idly. “You draw a hat down low. You don't smile. You don't melt a man's face for making a lewd comments as you pass….You act intelligent and you remain careful.” The Warlock's grip tightened ever so slightly. “I only came back for you. I assure you, this was not a risk I enjoyed taking.”

Lily blinked. She worked the cork off the bottle and held it to her breast. “Why would you come back for me? I'm just another pawn in your game of global chess. Couldn't you choose another pawn to take for a walk?” She lets out a low, tepid little yawn, looking pointedly up at the woman. “Besides, I'm tired…”

“Then the refreshing dusk air will be just the thing. It will perk you up something wonderful. Anyways…” Her temper relaxed ever so slightly, the vile grin and wicked demeanor peeling back for a moment. Beneath it all was a genuine touch of warmth. “Is it so wrong to want to see a friend?”

“No…I suppose it isn't wrong.” Lily levered the bottle up with her free hand and took a swig. With a little ceremony she dropped the bottle on the rug.

“You're just making me feel singled out…” The bottle bounced on the thick rug once before rolling, whole, onto its side. A few glasses of red wine sloshed out and soaked into the white wool. “Fine…I'm done here. I won't hold you for any longer….Let's go.”

“We're just going to walk around the Cathedral District...Nice and quiet for what I wanted to chat with you about.” Lily slumped on after the warlock, her face set on trying to recognize her impending doom as the two stepped out and into the approaching evening.

Marianna stretched, sucking in a breath of air. There was no rot or stank of death here in the canals. She had almost forgotten how clean the night was in Stormwind.“So…Will you be asking about how my month-long trip was now or later?”

“I had assumed it worked out for at least someone. And nor do I really wish to enquire on your efforts…Is there going to be a later because I was supposed to…” Lily pondered a thought over, her itinerary flitting quietly behind her gaze. It didn't take long to work her way through it. “Seriously…Do I have that little to actually do?”

They pulled out of the alleyway and swung over to the waterway. Marianna hugged the canal, keeping her gaze low and the girl at her flank, a shield against the prying gaze of what little foot traffic the street had. “It…Yielded results. At cost, but the outcome was still…Beneficial.” She paused, looking out across the water. When she spoke next it was in a low whisper. “Would you think any less of me if I told you that I killed people for what I received?”

“No? I think I already passed that point. I had expected you to kill people for power all along.”Lily slumped alongside her, gaze fixed on anywhere but the warlock.

She had felt guilt after that first night of drinking. Eleven people she had killed. Eleven lives she had damned. The thought was a lead weight around her neck, immovable and perpetual. Even the euphoria of the power did little to temper her depression. It had driven her mad, those first nights in the tower, bouncing around her skull as she quietly gorged on blood.

Yet as the week had drawn on a calm certainty had settled over her. Her feverish mind had found solace where there was none, peace where she could only find torment. “They were bad people, Lily. I promise you, they deserved what they got. They squandered life i-”

Lily looked up at the woman. She nodded dimly. “Yes, I believe that you found them to be bad people. You don't need to promise me it.”

“You don't understand.” The warlock stood so close that the putrid smell of Fel hung in the air with every breath. “ I did what was right. The lives unlived, used for decadence…Will be put to task.”

“I don't think there is anything right about this, Marianna.” She pinched her nose. “Plus, your breath smells.”

For a moment a scowl crept over her. Yet a drunken group of revelers caused her to twitch her gaze away, and when she returned there was only a closed-lip smile. “I did wrong…I admit that. Yet from this sinner I can make a savior. I think I can use this…Power to do some good in this world. I can help people. I can make my life worth something.”

“You could've made your life worthwhile without damning your soul or those of others. Just because you realize that you've done wrong…It can't just simply lead to a change of heart. I'd like to believe it could but I'll have to see it for myself.”

The warlock turned upon the mortician, grabbing her by the shoulders. They ground to a halt, the woman nearly lifting the smaller girl up and off her feet. Another vessel burst within her eye and her gaze became that much greener. “But the blood, Lily…The power it gave me. It was heavenly. It's the power of the Titans themselves. And it's mine, Lily…! The responsibility of it demands for me to use it for good.”

“Good? Would you mean the good of mankind of the good of yourself? Maybe you wish to do good upon all beggars? Orphans? Noblemen?” Lily frowned, staring now eye to eye with the woman. “There is no good and evil…Only sides which we can choose to be on.”

Marianna shook gently for a moment, something deep within her thrashing to get free. Yet the spasm died and a calm smile returned as she lowered her friend. Finally her hands uncurled from around her shoulders and she released her. “Then I choose to be on the side that people believe is good…” She straightened back up, re-adjusting her smile. “Warlocks sometimes seek out evil forces for good…That shall be me. That will be me. Do you understand?”

Lily continued to walk, Marianna now trailing in her wake. “No. You're delusional…One of these days people will know who and what you are and they will fear you. Then you'll feel betrayed after all you have done and flee. It won't take long for you to realize it's pointless to help these fools who don't even want your help…So you'll turn to another side…Preferably one that is hostile to the first, Marianna.”

“Do people not fear governments? Does the peon not fear the lash of the Overseer? And yet the common man does not turn away from them…For they realize, beneath the fear…That these forces are using their power for good.” Marianna rested a hand upon her breast, leaning forward. Her voice was slowly rising above a hushed whisper. “They will fear me…But the people will love me for my purity of purpose! I will be a savior of the downtrodden.”

Marianna was shaking now, the once placid calm shifting into a wretched rage. “What are you doing with your life, Lily? What are you contributing to the world?”

“I don't need to contribute anything to the world. No one ever said I had to contribute to the world. You could say that I'm contributing to the world by not being a person that's contributing.”

Marianna's mouth opened. The thought, of living for the sake of living, to not have a burden to bear, whether it be of ambition or morality…Was alien to her. She had always been raised to achieve, to excel. To be worth something to someone. She clenched her jaw and turned on her heels. “Useless…”

“If you want to do good then become a Priestess of the Light and heal people, help some poor farmer build a barn or just share your food with those who are less fortunate.”

The warlock was already down the road and moving across the bridge. She was scowling into the night, pulling the brim of her hat down upon her glowing eyes.

She left the girl there, on the water side. Not even a backwards glance was spared for the wretch's one and only friend. Stormwind held nothing for her anymore. As she passed through the gate she scraped the make-up from her face. Her skin was filthy, her flesh already beginning to rupture and peel. Around her eyes were thick patches of peeling scabs.

With a wheeze the warlock set off and through the woods. There was a bandit camp nearby. If they were to squander their lives then she would use them for her own benefit. She would be the savior of this world. She will be the savior.