An Account, of sorts, of Dark Events.

[Nostra]

”You shouldn't have come back. It was bad enough that you left... returning, what did you expect?”

The knife was buried once more, digging deep in his chest, tearing a low moan from his lips, but not by pain. There was no pain in this, not of the body anyway, only the burning cuts of betrayal. He let out a wheezing breath, feeling, as if from far away, a strange new movement as he breathed. At least one lung had been punctured this time and more damage was to be expected.

The hands holding him down withdrew, the dry creaks of their owners departure over the snow sent a shiver of relief down his spine, or that's how he would've described it. The man standing above him, glaring, if one can truly glare when lacking eyes, said nothing for several heartbeats Heartbeats? What a joke. But there was communication there, of a sort, a feeling shared between the two of them. And the knife spoke it's own silent threats. Through the eye, or in the neck. Then that's that.

But no more words were uttered, no insults or pleas, no dire warnings or promises of revenge. Only silence. But I suppose it can speak loud enough. Loud? Hah! Until the knife was sheathed and the third set of feet trudged away through the snow. Relief wasn't the response now, he wasn't sure what was. But then he rarely knew what he felt these days. Just a dead sort of neutrality, perhaps. Live or die, what does it matter once you've been through it already?

“Thought for sure he'd finish you there, boss.” At that he flinched, eyes darting over the trees to find the source of the voice. Maybe not so indifferent after all? He couldn't spot anyone, not that he really thought he would have. The voice of another friend, one even older than the last one at that. And far less merciful.

“Gotta say, never thought we'd see you again. Got some guts coming back now, and calling on the old steelpot like that, like it was all like it used to be? Heh, heh... Guess he managed to carve out most of it though, yeh?” A deeper shadow seemed to materialize from among the trees, taking the form of a thin, no, skeletal, man dressed all in ragged leathers that once might have been coloured black but now were more of a dirt grey, with a matching smell too, to be sure

He was right about the guts though, damn him and his morbid humour. The front of the robes were left a ruin of torn cloth and flesh, all manner of unspeakable things welling out over his lap and even beyond. Certainly a lot worse than a punctured lung. A disgustingly sad state of affairs, all in all, and a pitiful start of what should have been a glorious return. Aah, the dreams, the vanity!

Drawing another wheezing breath, he collected himself for a reply. Preferably a witty one, something sharp to end this charade. But before he could open his mouth, or even formulate something that possibly could sting the mockery out of Raef the ugly little shit stunned him with his next few words.

“We better just stuff all that back inside you, as good we can, Charles is liable to change his mind any moment now. Or one of his boys might come crawling back to see if you got something worth the killing.” The lines and shadows of Raef's face twisted into a most unsettling leer as he looked on on the feeble attempts to bring some order to the ripped open belly. “Good thing you still have some friends, eh? Though I wager you expected me holding that knife. Guess things change, they certainly have around here and not much to the better I can tell you. But don't you worry, I'll bring you to someone who can stitch you up, and then maybe you and I can make some changing of our own. Just like the old days, eh? Or the old, old days I suppose, Apothecary.”

[Nexi]

It's a good thing she liked to sew. She liked it, but that doesn't mean she was particularly good. She did well enough for her own needs, stitching up those children of hers as wear and tear often left them battered with limbs and flesh in dire need of replacing. An aging mother with no genuine love for her spawn, or genuine emotion at all, "All the world's a stage" she would say, an uncannily adept actress in her later years who just so happened to find herself putting on her latest performance.

"You can't be serious, Frostshackle," came the childish whine from the slouched man standing before her, a festive red hat gripped in a limply-hanging arm, a large decorated tree complete with an assortment of empty boxes topped with ribbons behind him, and an abnormally large wreath flanked by many nailed stockings on the wall to his right broke the cliche villainous feel to the crypts. But the Gnome looking up at him simply brought the tips of her index fingers in front of her lips and slid them in an upward crescent, grinning broadly as she did. "Smile, darling."

She had stitched the hats herself from whatever tattered cloth still adorned the corpses of the tombs, and while the materials were low and incredibly sub-par, she was rather pleased with how it all turned out and insisted the guards wear them during this most jolly time of the year. She didn't quite understand what all the fuss was about. It was a rather simple request that helped to ease the tension mounting from the petty squabbles among all the wannabe bad asses down here.

Chaos and disorder and betrayal for stupid reasons or no reason at all were the call of the day. Or year, rather. Ever since De Vladren went missing it had all slowly fallen apart. Nobody listened to the Gnome, and despite all the killings she ordered or performed herself in an effort to maintain order all of her targets would mysteriously return to life within a week, much to her befuddlement. After killing the same target for a second time and taking great care to burn the corpse to ash and scatter the ash all over Azeroth only to find him knocking at her door a mere month later, she had given up on trying to dispose of her enemy via death. Add on the fact that the Kirin Tor had revoked her Portal and Teleportation License, and you end up with quite the aggravated woman.

She had plans to leave, and she'd spend countless hours thinking of the most humorous way to go. "They want control of this place? -This- place? ...they can have it," she would often think to herself while toxic fumes exited her lungs inhaled moments before from the end of her pipe. Thoughts of tossing the keys to the prison and control room into the center of the arena and having everyone slaughter each other for them always very nearly brought back a genuine sense of cheerfulness to the woman.

But at last she left the young Necromancer's side and waddled down the long stone hall toward her chambers, calling out well wishes to guards and guests alike.

[Nostra]

It's amazing what one can grow accustomed to, or even come to associate with home. It was cold, or so he surmised from the mist coming with every breath of the two poor wretches sharing the long workbench with him. Though they sported heavy chains and manacles while he found himself surprisingly free of any constraints, free except for the hole that made up most of his stomach, of course.

Still, despite the feeling of home it was rather unnerving to be placed with what obviously constituted subjects, especially when they were of such poor quality. Suspicion muttered in the back of his head, but found itself largely ignored, much to its surprise. He wasn't going anywhere, no matter what was being planned behind that mouldy drapery.

“You know, boss, I enjoy this. Refreshing to be the one doing the talk for once, no acid replies or fucked-over orders.” Raef's grinning face hovered above him, even less pleasant a sight than the many hooks and chains hanging above, each holding an arm or a leg, a lump further away might even be an oversized head. Raef's own head remained, looking as if he was waiting for something, then his shoulders appeared briefly in what presumably was a shrug before he stepped away.

Looking to the side he could see two shapes standing at the end of the table, heads together conspiratorially, the vague word or two he heard weren't uplifting. The flash of clean steel in their hands as they approached sent another ghost-like shiver down his spine. He closed his eyes and submerged his mind in the dark.

----

It was the sound of a stranger that woke him. The voice was loud, bombastic, and the shape that he could spot standing in gloom of the entrance equalled that voice in size. The large man-thing brusquely shouldered his way past the doctor who vainly tried to keep in step with him, chattering in his low mutter obviously trying to dissuade the newcomer from his path.

Alistus closed his eyes again but this time didn't let the darkness embrace him, he remained aware and listening. The man-thing had stopped just short of the work bench, presumably staring down at the desiccated shambles that was the Apothecary. The doctor fell silent, Alistus imagined his stricken face, the attempt at swallowing the imaginary stone in his throat. Nothing was said for some time, then he felt something covering his face. A hand, hardened with callouses, grabbed him by the chin, turning his head this way and that, examining him.

“He is alive?” his assailant grunted out, letting go of his head. “You assured me that he was alive. The payment was for the Apothecary alive, not this rotten corpse.” The response was more of the doctor's murmured chatter, something that was quickly becoming intolerable. The nervous little man obviously felt the weight of the stare and fell silent.

“He dun't look very alive, does he, eh? But then I suppose none of you do...” The giant man, or Orc, as Alistus believed it to be, stepped away. “Get something that will make him lively, I ain't bringing him unless it's the real deal, got it?”

At that Alistus dared to open his eyes, stealing a glimpse of the Orc as he was turned away, seeing him preoccupied with watching the doctor Alistus took his chance. He said the words, almost stumbling over them in his nervousness, stiff fingers moving to trace the lines of a small sigil in the air, his free hand moved down to a pouch, digging around. Relief showed as he found and took out a black figurine about the size of his fist. He kept muttering the chant, and kept the sigil glowing long enough to put the figurine in the correct postion. Then he let go, feeling the energies fall down over the black, stone-like material, being absorbed.

The doctor must have felt something as well for he turned, wearing a curious frown, seeing the fading sigil and the figurine his eyes widened, panic had him in its grip. The Orc too turned, and seeing his charge awake grasped for his weapon, a heavy axe that gleamed dangerously in the low light, and charged with a furious snarl.

Alistus dove for cower, tumbling off the table and onto the ground, not a sound escaped him now as he stared intently on the figurine still in his hand. A slight movement of one of it's legs caught him, and he scrambled backwards just in time to avoid a cleaving blow by the axe. It dug deep into the old wood of the table and for a brief moment was stuck. The Apothecary wasted no time and threw the figurine at the warrior who didn't even seem to notice it as it hit him in the chest. One more second passed and he ripped the axe out, stalking towards Alistus with murder screaming from his eyes.

Then he stopped.

Looking down he saw black blood well out from a large wound in his stomach, incomprehension shone from him as he stared down at that black hole, then a pained scream clawed it's way out of his throat. It was short lived however, and so was he. Seconds passed and the Orc collapsed, blood quickly forming a pool around the corpse.

Alistus found himself gaping at the body, which showed the occasional twitch and odd movement where the scarab was clawing itself through the flesh. Too close, much too close. Again. He hadn't been prepared for the attention his return would garner, nor for the betrayal of his trust. Something had to be done, and quickly. He had to regain control or else events would continue to spiral down.

His attention turned to the doctor, eyeing him with cold calculation, something had to be done about that one too. He took a step forward, opened his mouth to speak but before anything was said he was interupted by the slam of the door. Someone else had entered, standing by the entrance...

[DrinkArizona]

(I had an xbox hueg post for this, but it accidentally itself. I'll keep it short and sweet :<)

In the doorway stood a paragon of undeath; A perfect example of why dead men tell no tales....
Some called him 'Pariah', as nobody could understand what his name was from his own speaking. Or lack of.

Martin Fintley was a man of literature, so his entire life his time was dedicated to writing. Some would give critics on his work, others would give criticism on the fact that he did -no- work but rather stayed inside and wrote all day. No matter the reasoning, all fell with the Scourge. It just so happened that the silent poet would lose his jaw in undeath, thus...when Sylvanas helped free him of the shackles of the Lich King, one was stuck as he lived: Silent and lazy.

Fate wouldn't smile, either, as an ambitious orc would soon enslave him for the purposes of a tour guide through the Trisifal Glades. Day after day of abuse, the undead would learn to wield a sword--hell, he had to, his master pushed them through all kinds of hell holes. He only hoped that whenever they try to kill something more powerful then them, the orc would die first.

And so it happened. His master met his demise at the hands of another undead. Was he free? Or did his ownership just change hands? He wouldn't wait for an answer. Slamming the door to the doctor's place, he stood in front of them. No jaw, no cares.

And he kneeled.