The Vault

[Edgar]

Spoiler:

The wind howled across the barren landscape, sand whirling about like angry bees without a hive. Hands up to his face, Edgar tried in vain to protect his eyes from the vicious onslaught as he trudged through the sand at his feet. The man risked a brief glance out at his surroundings, though his gaze fell upon his hands instead. Skin and flesh covered his normally exposed bone and cartilage. This caused him to halt his progress and trace a finger along the skin of his right hand. Peering down, he realized he was quite nude and yet, he didn't care.

"I'm alive." he thought, taking in his form in awe.

Show me to it...

Edgar jerked his gaze up and around, squinting through the sandstorm for the source of the voice. Shielding his gaze with an arm, he settled it on an obscured, shadowy figure to his left. Black robes adorned this person completely, offering little insight to their race or gender. A hood was pulled up and over their head which was accompanied by a scarf. The foreboding appearance of this figure is not what worried him, however. His robes remained still as the wind buffeted the area with sand. He was utterly unaffected by the elements, as if he wasn't there at all.

Show me...

Edgar shook his head to clear it of the whispering of this... thing, taking a few unsteady steps backwards. The wind seemed to have picked up now, its steady gusts thundering in his ears.

"No!" he shouted, "Leave me alone!"

Everything stopped. The howling wind and sand disappeared as if a switch had been flipped. He took in his surroundings curiously, noticing the mysterious figure was nowhere to be found. Then, he felt it. The sand beneath him seemed to come to life, writhing and twirling itself around his legs and feet. He gave a gasp of surprise as he was pulled downwards by the living sand. Struggling against the supernatural strength of this unknown enemy, he sunk quickly, the sand wrapping itself around his torso. Soon his flailing arms were caught in the tendrils of sand and buried. He howled in fear as the sand crept up and around his neck, slowly making its way over his chin almost teasingly. Throat raw from his screams and eyes burning with sweat and tears, the living sand finally slid down his throat and into his lungs. His chest heaved in protest and, above all, agony as he began to suffocate. The edges of his vision began to blur and darken as the voice returned.

You will show me, Barlton. Or you will be tormented for the rest of your days...

Suddenly, he was in Dalaran. Caught off guard by this sudden change in scenery, he swung his gaze to-and-fro. He realized he was back in his old, rotten body standing near the fountain in the city's square. Shaking his head, he collected himself. He thought back to what he could remember. 'Vida', a draenei bartender at the Sable Dragon Inn. The worgen next to him, inquiring about his memory moments before. His hurried exit and his assurances that he was, indeed, fine.

"No," he muttered, lowering himself onto the edge of the fountain, "No. I'm far from fine."