Almost Paradigm - A Meditation.

[Daala]

((This is a work IN PROGRESS.))

((Originally posted 1/6/2006 5:12 PM at The Grim))

It was an ordinary enough farmstead, and yet, it bore a curious signature. Harvest seemed to be in bloom throughout the land, but despite the subtly obvious signs of habitation the fields were rampantly overgrown, untended and neglected from the attentions of plow and scythe. More peculiar was that the vines seemed to be trampled, or crushed. But then, little of the agrarian compound could be seen; much was shrouded by a thick glen of verdant forestry.

The vibrant sights and negligible sounds; a slender slip of a woman basks in each. Though her height was of a common sort, she would confound one's perception, radiating an impression of a petite stature. Heavy robes, cowl and mask, gloves and boots, all obscured the slender slip of the seemingly petite form from the world. A small cat, Persian, and a quintessential kitten, wriggles free from a roomy enough saddlebag, eagerly hurtling towards the ramshackle home silently standing watch over those fields that thought themselves mudballs and dustbowls. A startled, mildly frightened cry whispers from cloaked lips; the dame nearly falls from her horse in the haste of dismounting.

Merrily lit windows cast some semblance of illumination, and the woman takes a stride, then another and another when a grizzled giant of an aging man lumbers through the dilapidated building's door, the fragile little kitten peeping from the towering walls of those gnarled fingers of those cupped, leathery mitts of his hands, mewling softly and giving all sign of perfect security and contentment. Like a sea-swept bluff, the man is tall, well over seven feet, very, very large, and bearing pockmarked, worn, and scarred flesh. To all appearances he'd fought and survived every conflict in humanity's history, consecutively. A narrow strip of buckskin leather rests over his eyes, concealing them entirely. A craggy rumble like the shifting of boulders; the basso bore with it a juxtaposed intonation. The first, the hard lack of inflection inherent in many seasoned combatants. The second, a gentler, more kindly cushion. Overall, there was an effect of steel swaddled in silk, a slayer of sentients struggling to tame the rougher angles of his nature. Enough of his voice; the words.

"This kitten is well-kept, cleanly groomed. Certainly no stray. Might its owner come forth to claim it?"

With some hesitation, the woman takes a single step forward, making no attempt at all to conceal the noise of the gesture. The man smiles, but it seems an un-natural concept. Imagine, for a moment, a child born with no knowledge nor indication refuting the idea that he is the only of his kind. Suddenly, another of his species discovers the naked wildling of a child. And thus, the child attempts to assimilate unto the newfound culture of his brethren. He dresses himself with no concept of what is fashionable, or aesthetically trendy to his race. The result can be nothing but naively comical, jarring, and un-natural. The child's sense of dress and the smile of this man were the same in this regard.

Another lope of a step. Then another. In no time at all, the woman and the man stand very close, though the former maintains something of a distance. As she gingerly takes her kitten from the blind man's hands, two small children run out, then another, and another, more and more. Their clean, meticulously well-kept dress sharply contrasts with the craggy man's shabby attire. But not so much as the vibrant noteworthiness of something of a more basic nature. Perhaps a dozen children milled about, smiling shyly at the woman and tugging upon the giant's leggings. Most were human, a dwarf or two, several High Elves, and a Kaldorei. But amongst their number also stood children of the Orcish, Trollish, and Tauren races. Sounds carry over the whispering winds, and it is evident that more children are at play within the glen behind the ramshackle farmstead. They are chirping, eagerly pointing towards the woman, crying, "Kaius, Kaius, a new friend? A new playmate?" The woman makes no indication of hearing, and instead, hesitantly murmurs in the tongue of the Sin'dorei, slowly, as though worried that her words might fail her. "I'm afraid that I was raised in a sheltered home, and never learned Common...do you understand me, Good Sir?"

Slowly, the man nods. The speed of the gesture does not seem to imply a cautious answer; rather, the quiet aches of a burdened carriage, creaking limbs that move at their own pace, willpower be damned. "My Elvish is rusty, I'm afraid...but I'll try and make do. Please, come in. My name is Kaius, and these are my...children."

The woman nods, and yet, makes no motion to move. "I...I'm a leper, Good Master Kaius...I wouldn't think of unintentionally preying upon your hospitality..."

All of the children continue to mill about, not at all bothered by the fact that they'd no clue what was going on. Strangely enough, even the High Elven younglings gave no sign of comprehension.

"I was stricken by a fearsome malady that stripped away my eyes. Though the other effects of the contagion have since faded on, thank the Light. Even so, I've little fear of disease, even for the younglings. Please, I couldn't think of turning you away without a bowl of soup."

Time seems to slow, stood upon its head for a while. Clutching her kitten a bit tighter to her breast, the woman nods, a little quicker than is typical to the gesture, implying a slight unease or fear. "By all means, then...oh...I'm dreadfully sorry, I've forgotten my manners entirely. My name is Mara...I am indebted to your kindness, Good Master Kaius..." As he chuckles hesitantly, a little uncomfortably, and tells her not to think anything of it, would she please take a seat inside as he holds the door open, the children make up in their own minds that the stranger is not yet ready to play, and scamper off into the woods. Kaius smiles, not looking after them, for what good would that do? But it is a smile uncomfortable, like the last one, as though he's not entirely sure of himself or his own.

Across the common room of the house, larger than initially apparent, more fields can be seen. Unlike those in front of the house, they are maintained and blossoming with crops, albeit a shoddily and sloppily performed job of it. Enough food to maintain a thorp or small village, it seemed. Countless tiny chairs line a large oaken table, with a larger seat at the head, presumably belonging to the mountain of a man, a tiny soup bowl appearing almost comical in both scale, and the over-abundance of care with which he held it. The woman takes silent stock of the place, noting that the dining table seemed recently used. Sure enough, Kaius brings a bowl of soup over within moments, likely surplus from a newly concluded meal. A blink from shrouded eyes; left-overs, with so many mouths to feed? Curious...with gracious, murmured thanks, she takes one of the tiny seats, managing after ample attempts to find a point of balance. As she begins to eat, slowly, half-heartedly, Kaius begins to speak.

"Used to be a Paladin. Couldn't stand the internment camps, though. We'd enslaved the Orcs; whether or not we put them to work, they were slaves. Whether or not they'd massacred our people, their young'uns, their civilians, they didn't deserve that. I thought that I might serve the light in more ample ways than with the hammer, so I gave that up. All of the children living at this farm are orphans. Most, because their parents were killed. Some were abandoned. You must've seen that there are babes of the Horde's own, amongst the children. A few of those, they came from nearby villages. People there wanted nothing to do with them, but couldn't stand the thought of infanticide. The others, they came to me in the same way as the others. Or I found them on my own. Still get about to an extent, even without my eyes. All of them, I raised from close to birth. Alot of them for that, you say? Well, three massive wars in one lifetime tends to leave alot of orphans. That's why they all speak common. Though I've tried to teach what I know of their native tongues, it's...been more of a failure than a success... I'm a soldier, not very familiar with other cultures outside of the context of war. It's incredible...not a thought nor a care to their diverse appearances amongst that lot. They don't know anything about their native cultures, I suppose. I've had those come to me that are older, of course. Those that know something of their heritage. Most leave when they're old enough; want to rejoin their kind. Can't blame them. Now, you come to my doorstep. A leprous woman, probably as cut off from your brethren as these lads and lassies under my care. You walk with a heavy stride of a rended spirit, same as my walk. Would that I might have found you, sooner...your voice sounds like that of a maiden. Perhaps, if we'd met at an earlier juncture, I would've cared for you, as with these babes. Might've cured your malady...my divine abilities are why I'm not afraid for the kiddos. I can snuff out leprosy if it's in the early stages. In any case, I've let my mouth run. I'll stop blowing smoke up your bum, and let you eat in peace..."

In truth, the woman hadn't taken a bite in awhile, though blind Kaius couldn't possibly see that. She sat very, very still, as though gripped in a profound moment, or deep within that part of ourselves that others cannot see nor hear. Suddenly, the reverie snaps. Digging into her robes, she quietly lays five pieces of gold on the tabletop with a very shaky hand; Kaius should know the feel of the coins.

"I...I'm sorry, Good Master Kaius. I really should be leaving...thank you again, na-"

He cuts her off, quietly, and still quite respectfully. But he cuts her off, nonetheless.

"You're not a leper. I know that you're a Forsaken, it's quite alright..."

By the time the words began to emerge from his weathered lips, Daala had been a pace from walking out. By the time the words were finished, she hadn't taken a single step. A shudder cascades along the curves of her spine, and she turns around, whispering, so very quietly, "Would that you might have found me, sooner..."

Washrag and cooking pot are gently set down as Kaius halts what he is doing. "I gave up the hammer, but not that which is more deeply etched in my bones, as a Paladin of the Light. I detected your anatomical nature well enough. The children didn’t seem to care, but why should they? Your strangeness isn’t any different than their own, to them. You could've slaughtered me, or any of the children, at any juncture. I do not think that that stemmed from kindness or mercy; you have a soldier's smell, and this is a time of war, after all. Rather...I think that this place somehow resonates with you, it speaks to you. Either you grew up in a very similar fashion as my children...or a manner that was the complete opposite, I think. Tell me, Miss Mara. Why have you waited so many years to cry?"

A pause. A long, long, long pause. They stood there for perhaps ten minutes, neither moving an inch. And then, Daala bursts into silent sobs, a hacking, coughing thing as though the tears struggled to break free, but something held them back. A distance of ten feet is cleared in two strides and Kaius tenderly holds Daala to his tree trunk of a chest in a very paternal manner. They stream freely now, the tears, and continue to do so for some time.

She only makes a sound once, about halfway through; a haunting wail of agony and pain, lethal poison pent up for all the years pouring forth. After that cry, she is silent in her wracking tears, and when they finally ceased and she left the place, she vowed that she would protect Kaius and Kaius' children, and that it would not be the last time that they meet.

[Daala]

((Originally posted 1/10/2006 4:56 PM at The Grim))

She comes in perhaps once a week. Mara, that is. She'd told him more than once that her name is Daala. But then, Kaius knows himself to be an aging man, and of all the earned privileges afforded to those approaching twilight's advent, few are enjoyed so thoroughly as stubborn self-delusion.

So far, she has made correspondence two times after the first. They were enjoyable enough, but Mara seemed restrained, and talk was altogether mundane and small-time. Trust issues, most likely. Not that he minded. Conversation had always been trying on the old bear, but something about Mara instigates an easily bubbling brook of articulation. In any case, today shouldn't be like the others.

A knock; that would be Mara now. She is shushed to the table, and made to cover her eyes; there is a puzzlement in those eyes, unvoiced by those lips, as violet fabric veils her burnished orbs. A few moments pass. A chilled gust that's not completely unpleasant. Chattering children churn behind the scenes. Scents of the forest and all of Her wards. Kaius returns; the cloth is whisked away. Before Daala's eyes, swaddled in a brilliant blanket of runecloth, is the most angelic countenance of an infant human girl that had ever blessed the soul with her benedict, consecrated, and most hallowed presence. To all appearances, she is no more than a week old, every proportion, ever aspect of that whisper of a soul is quintessentially flawless. Daala is entranced by the babe, love at first sight. It takes the woman a good few moments to process the fact that that tiny breastplate stands utterly still.

Looking to Kaius, she projects an ill-fated facade of a gruff demeanor, betrayed by a crack of the voice. "A corpse. What of h-...what of her?"

"To sooth so sorrowful a soul as yours? Only pure and abject balm or bane, and I'll have nothing to do with one of the two."

"You're more straight-forward than this. What are you planning?"

"You're suspicious. Wouldn't expect anything less; I've blind-sided you. Most would accuse you of being controlling, and only comfortable while serving in that capacity. I think that you've just been snapped from the dark too often. You just want to see four walls, a roof, a few doors, and the floor you're standing on."

"...please, Kaius. What is this about?"

"I found this poor lass not a few hours ago, apparently too late to avert whatever killed her. Strange, but my hands couldn't find any sign of why she died. Maybe your eyes can see something I can't? No? No matter. A spirit as pure as - don't deny it, I can see it in your eyes, so to speak - as this babe might just douse your private inferno. Mara, this child hasn't had her last hoo-rah! Your sitting here is that testament. Raise her as your own!"

Blinking rapidly, a sudden dizziness grips Daala. No time for that; it is pushed aside. She stammers.

"I...Kaius, I-...I'm not in a position to bring up a baby girl!"

"You're rationalizing, trying to tell your burning need to call her your daughter that it isn't feasible. I can keep her here, until you're able. She can have plenty of little aunts and uncles, a place that you might come to at your discretion, and an old soldier with a touch of experience in this regard."

"A Forsaken baby? What if she cannot develop? She'll be trapped in that body..."

"What has she got to lose? What have you got to lose? Oh, and you're still rationalizing, by the way."

She's biting her lower lip, but doesn't seem to notice. There's no real conflict in her mind; Wily Kaius had won without saying a word. A little conflict, actually, but reserved for the choice of which Apothecary should resuscitate the baby.

"What will you name her?"

"Madadayo Snowfeather. The latter was a sister to me, and I'll always honor her memory. The former...in my old tongue, it means, "Not yet!"

[Lovely]

((Ooooooh! Bravo! Especially the last line.....))

[Daala]

((Ooooooh! Bravo! Especially the last line.....))((Thank you^^

I actually had to adapt the last line because I wrote this the night before Snow got sucked into the amulet. In any case, she grinned when I told her OOC that Daala was naming a daughter after her.

I intend on greatly adding to this riff, by the way!))

[Daala]

((Just kind of riffing here, from want of writing.))

It is an idyllic sort of day and Kaius is chopping onions on a block, as Daala perches on the counter. With free-ranging thoughts, she ponders whether it is more curious to slice even portions without the boon of sight, or to watch such an event unfold. She offers no assistance, and none is asked of her.

Visits to the farmstead had become somewhat routine in nature. Here, Madadayo may live with a score of children who are well enough adjusted to strange sights. A normal childhood...something that Daala had desperately needed to give to her progeny, something she had despairingly resigned herself against years ago. Why, though, would so intrinsically suspicious a soul not scrutinize such sublime surroundings, the succor of sanctuary? Sangfroid and sanguine in the sanctioning of safety, savory in scherzo, so stands this scenic scorning of the Scourge. The simple answer is that the place seemed to acknowledge and embrace oddity. It is not "too good to be true"; rather, there is a surreal quality that sheds typical archetypes of normalacy. For instance, the place is near enough to settlements for Kaius to find lost children, but nobody ever seems to wander by. No visitors, patrols, jackals. Not a single bloody soul. Why does Kaius never eat in anybody's presence? Not Daala's, and if Madadayo speaks sooth, not with the children, either. The Forsaken has never delved into such things; truthfully, she takes comfort in them. The place is enigmatic enough to keep her from putting on her guard.

And Daala herself has found comfort in the old man. A bizarre thing, but they almost seem like a married couple, without the romance, or the fornication. It is at this moment that she fingers the medallion about her neck, that which contains the twin souls of Snowfeather and Kari. So it is that she murmurs that it is a damnably heavy thing.

"I suspect that there's more of her in your heart and head than within that trinket, lass."

"Then surely she mourns for her fate."

"At least she isn't alone. How many can say that when they lay it all down?"

"She's a virgin, you know. I can't stand the thought of her going out like that. And spare me the lecture, Paladin."

"Lecture? Lass, if Faol himself told me he was laying a tavern wench, I'd truthfully say and honestly feel that it's a grand thing. Matters of the bedroom are excellent for tempering uneven urges."

"I'd tell you you're the first Paladin to not condemn lust, but that's not exactly true."

"You speak of this woman you've mentioned, the one with the strange name. I'll lecture you anyways. Lust is no sin. Lust is a blessing of whatever you choose to pray to. Lust is the vanguard of biological existence. What lust may inspire, that may be sin."

"That's an interesting point of view for a man of your station. Why do you think it's so unpopular amongst your lot?"

"My lot? I'm retired. I shouldn't have to remind you of that. Ignoring that anachronism, my answer to your question is the same. Why do you think I'm no longer of the Light's flock? Because I bore an abundance of agreement with dogma? You're being stupid, so I suspect that you're spewing fluff. Are you distracted, or just wish to avoid silence?"

"Both, I suppose. We're all so...so terribly lost, aren't we?"

"Yes. I'd pray to the Gods for guidance, but I believe they have just as poor a clue. Rather aimless thing, all of this."

"Everything's coming to a boiling point. It's as though the world could not choose an apocalypse, and chose to throw dozens into the mix to see which would do the trick first."

"Maybe it's a culling. Now you're just rambling, you know this conversation won't go anywhere."

"True enough."

And so it is that things become silent, as silent as things can be with the sounds of merriment in the background. There is a curious sense at times, when speaking to Kaius, that it would not be terribly unlike speaking to a divine being. The detachment, the disinterest...only at times, though.

"Kaius, I'd like for somebody to meet you. Is that alright?"

"I'll make up my mind with their advent. If I don't take a fancy to them, then I won't meet them."

"Fair enough."

[Daala]

((Mature warning))

He was standing outside, waiting for her, and immediately she tenses. Not once, not a single time in all the time that she has known him has Kaius waited for her, and the prospect promises dramatic departure from the continuity of things. As she dismounts, he does not immediately speak; the opportunity to take inventory is embraced. He is not disheveled in appearance, yet he seems conspicuously disheveled in manner. A closed jaw that seems shut too tightly to be natural. Poise belying raised hackles and that most terse instance of ultimate preparation to partake a course of action. He speaks.

“There’s a child in my care named Lucretzia. A human girl, she tells me she’s about nine, though that’s anybody’s guess. I was out gathering food. Fish, from the shore. I returned, and she was missing. Children told me she and two others were poking a bee hive. Set them off, they all panicked and ran in different directions. I also found a piece of parchment, which was not present at the time of my departure, in the dining room, which no child entered during my absence. I’m afraid that Lucretzia has been taken, but I cannot read the note. Please…help…”

Kaius gasps and starts, the gesture of a man recoiling from a particularly brutal jab to the gut. The movement is echoed a few more times, as though he is silently retching. A watery, rust-colored trickle cascades that cliff-like façade, as tears mingle with blood long dried and caked throughout obsolete sockets. The note is in the man’s hand, and Daala lays a gentle touch on his shoulder until his grip eases, just enough for her to wrest the thing free without risk of warp or tear.

Parchment in hand, she closes her eyes, drawing a long, quivering breath. She’s shaking, as though stricken with the sort of chill that she hasn’t known since she had a pulse. The back of her mind idly muses that it is a strange thing that she is so affected. Perhaps Kaius’ temperament is infectious. Perhaps it is the knowledge that chance alone spared Madadayo a weasel in the chicken’s nest. She counts to five, and resolves to speak every word as she reads, to protect her resolve to enlighten her friend, so that she will not be frightened into deceit or reticence.

“Dear Mr man. in the secund war, a pal of min, Danyel, survd in the xpedishunary forses, deployd to stranglethoarn. he and his budees all went ashoar and got drunk. when they got back, there boat was gone. had to go talk to trolls for food. anyhow, they had some peepul capshured and held. they told my budee and his budees to eat them. parts of the nood bodee of boys or gurls wur brot out and they piked wut they wanted. the ass was the sweetest part, and they had to bargin reely hard for it. Danyel steyd there for too yeers. wen he caam bak to Stormwind, he had developd a taast for hyooman flesh. he stol too children, one 8 one 12. he took them hom and made them get nood and stay in the clost. he spaynkd and torturd them manee tims over manee days to make them tendr and chooee. the old wun was furst, becus he had the fatst ass. all of him was eetn excpt the hed, guts, and bons. he was rostd an boyld an fryd and stood. the littl boy was neckst, in the saam way. he so oftn deelitd me with his tals that i desided to try it myself. i hapnd to find a litl girl today, so i took hr. she wud look pretee with daysees in hr hayr. i am goin to chok hr to deth, and cut her in litl peecs so I can taak my meet to my room. cook and eet it. i can onlee imagn how sweet and tendr hr little ass wil bee whn i rost it. i wil nt fuk hr tho i cn if i wshd. she wil di a vrgn.”

If time were not an issue, it would have perhaps been more difficult to spit out the vile script, to comprehend and absorb the magnitude of the writings. A snap of her fingers is all that it takes for Traashon, a full-blooded felhound, to prance from nothingness. A more trying task then typical; it is only with the fourth attempt that quaking limbs manage the feat. The creature whiffs in the scent of the ink, of the dead skin, of the oils saturating the paper, as Daala speaks with a choked knot.

“Shut up, just don’t say anything. Don’t fucking cry, I can’t deal with it! Just don’t start…I’ll get her back. Just please, don’t cry..I can’t deal with it..right now.”

And so they stand in broken silence as nobody can think of anything to say. The reverie is shattered when Traashon bounds off into the woods, a paragon of wrath on his heels.

[Yichimet]

(( Boy did I miss your writing, Daala. Welcome back! ))

[Daala]

((Thank you! Expect a follow-up some time today.))

[Daala]

Information and data are nothing more than glimmering points in an ethereal mist. Conclusions are drawn by connecting individual points in a manner that seems sensible. The abductor, whom has been mentally dubbed Nuij, the Low Elven term for “fiend,” seems to be operating based on the parameters set forth by his deranged friend, Daniel. This would imply that Lucretzia should be safe for as long as four, perhaps five days. Certainly she will be tortured, but one may not be entitled to all echelons of satisfaction in any endeavor. There’s some saying about this that Daala cannot bring to mind. Something about pastries. No matter. Traashon is tireless, her steed bearing her with utmost fidelity as she draws cowl cape and cloak. Subtlety might serve a beneficiary course.

Ultimately their destination is revealed to be the fishing thorp of Southshore. Too small to mean a damned thing, but just large enough to hold a regular militia. A tiresome statistic at best, but alerting the securities would prove counter-productive. The course is clear, only the means of achieving it, the target, remain murky. The Town Hall? Too high priority, the diversion would be short-lived at best. The Inn should be much more suitable. Raging, incoherent fury seems suitable to Daala’s current idiom, and so it is that an Infernal is summoned sufficiently east of the town, sent westward to inspire havoc. By the time it reaches its objective it will likely wrest free from its fetters, but that is no matter. Daala, in the meantime, stealthily wheels around the town’s perimeter, slowly staking her way to the house that Traashon indicated.

A sufficient uproar rages in the town by the time she slips in, every inch of flesh bound and covered in skintight silks. Traashon does not accompany her, instead vaporizing back to the nether for a brief hiccough of continuity. A grungy, red-haired man rises to greet her. A near-instantaneous combination of two magicks renders the man immobile, and he collapses to the ground in a quivering heap as his muscles quake and spasm and dance in every which way. The next near-moment brings about the next advent of the felhunter, who wastes no time in rooting all about the house like a boar scrounging for food. She turns to the man, clearing the dividing space between them in two strides, and plants a foot, fortified in a striking example of a boot, square on his collar bone, grinding slightly for good measure. She then kneels, casually drawing four stilettos from her knapsack. One is staked through the flesh and muscle of each of his four limbs. The man does not jerk, does not tense. His only reaction is a sharp and brief widening of the eyes.

“Good Farmer. I believe that you’re hiding something in this hovel. Please understand that I have eaten men and women, civilians, such as you, for no reason more than that I was razing the area they coincidentally occupied, and I was in need of sustenance. My friend over there is searching. If he finds what I know you possess, I’m going to slice off all of your limbs, bind you with flotation devices, and toss you into the Great Sea. The fish will judge your innocence. If you are innocent, then look on the brighter side of things and know that I’ll just leave you here. I’d expunge the blades, but I’m afraid I haven’t that degree of time. I’m sure you understand.”

He is still writhing like a shocked worm. When he speaks, it is a quivering thing, born of jerking tongue and jittering jaw.

“Cow, I’ll yell.”

“Good Farmer, I’m afraid that your kinsmen are currently occupied with matters graver than your lot in life. Besides, you don’t want me to drain all the moisture from your body in a heartbeat, do you?”

And so a strangest of smiles is born. He repeats his words, and this time, Daala is silent. An orchestra of Traashon’s rummaging, a woman’s screaming, and the clashing of swords fills the chasm. And then it is that she understands something of this man.

“No. I’ll kill you instantly, painlessly. No sensation, no experience. You won’t feel a thing.”

For the first time, the red-haired and filthy man shows a glimmer of fear. He is silent. Traashon yowls; a sound reminiscent of a bark, but as though the hound’s lungs are half filled with goo, a gurgling rumble. She turns her head to regard her friend; he is steadfastly trained upon a cabinet in the adjoining room. Daala whistles, and takes two steps towards the object in question. By this time, Traashon has bounded over to open massive maw, resting a hundred needly fangs along the entirety of Nuij’s head. Four more steps. The cupboard is opened, and Daala gingerly withdraws the hunched form of a young girl, huddled in a fetal position. A thick linen is tied about her neck, completely engulfing her head, and streaks of dirt and blood and mucus and tears are etched about her, some staining through the cloth veiling her visage. She is breathing, and unconscious, and that is enough. Daala decides that the purpose of the bag was to muffle her cries. An unfortunate thing that it is immediately rectified.

It should be noted at this juncture that Daala possesses a link of souls with her daughter. This is due to a modicrum of fel essence that Madadayo’s mother implanted, granting compatibility with the Soul Link technique. She now asks her darling whether or not today Lucretzia was wearing a violet sun dress with actual petunias stitched in. The description is confirmed, and Daala, child over her shoulders, returns to regard Nuij.

“How many more are there?”

“None.”

Her reply crashes with the fury of Vulcan’s hammer in the form of a massive scythe intimating its tip with the man’s newly severed arm. He shouts out, and she rams the blunt end of her weapon against his temple. Just hard enough to shut him up while preserving coherency.

“How many more are there?”

“None!”

“Fair enough. Won’t you join me, Nuij?”

This time, it’s enough to knock him out. She attempts to withdraw the remaining three stilettos, but suffers enough difficulty with the first to inspire impatience. And thus she simply severs his remaining three limbs just above their respective stakes, force-feeding three healing formulas to coagulate and halt the considerable blood flow. So severe, so concentrated is her umbrage that a positively gargantuan barrage of fire energies blasts into the posterior wall of the house, incinerating it completely. Her mare takes a cautious step from nothingness. A random townsman sees her, and begins to point and shout. She flicks her wrist, and his cries are transformed into the harsh tongue of demons, rendering him incomprehensible. Nuij is slung like the sack of meat that he is. Daala climbs to a mount, cradling Lucretzia’s sleeping, stained form as she gallops on from a churning settlement, Traashon struggling to maintain her pace.

[Daala]

She does not return at once. A hard enough thing to impose upon her friend, but her cargo, already the weight and scent of a rotting elephant, grows but more and more cumbersome with every inflation of his wretched breast. Disposing of him in a timely manner seems prudent above all things. The babe sleeps yet, all the way to Tirisfal. Perhaps a defensive measure, her spirit knows awareness would be a bane. The occaisional Forsaken stares at her tiny human engine, to be glanced away with Daala's murderous gaze. With one arm cradling Lucretzia, the other clutches Nuij by his matted locks, a macabre attaché case, as the Zeppelin awaits. Voices drift down from the spiraling stairwell, a pair of young Tauren braves complaining of the wayward pilot's typical tardiness. On an unconscious level, Daala inwardly laughs. Their wait is about to become all the more unpleasant.

Despite lacking limbs, Daala grows weary of Nuij's burden. He thuds to the wooden planks. There is such mortification in the cow-men's eyes that they do not speak, screwing their eyes shut and turning, shuddering like a leaf. A disgusting sight. Turning face at the abyss' gaze? They are dominated by their fear, and pathetic things for it.

And so their motley crew awaits the vessel's advent. The old demon moans, but Daala does not strike him. Consciousness would prove fruitful. Lucretzia sleeps yet. There is no peace in her.

~~~

Dagger's steel is chill against Miranda's thundering life-tempo. Boarding the Zeppelin in Grom'gul, where not a Horde was to board, she strode forth like Sybel, a treasured heroine of the stories of her childhood. Now, she quivers and shakes and there is a stain of vomit in the corner. She is terrified to realize that she is in the heart of the fallen kingdom, and that she is in a peril greater than that of any youthful anecdote. She decided to fly to Tirisfal since learning of the death of her uncle, one of the stubborn farmers refusing to abandon the western glades. No funeral invitations were sent, as it was assumed that nobody would dare the trip. Nobody but Miranda. It is the desire to kiss her uncle's forehead against that stays shuddering feet from leaping into the waters and swimming back home. Still, there is debate whether this should prove the wisest course.

The vessel steers into port, a spindly, rickety looking tower in sight of Lordaeron itself. Peering down, she is gripped with fear, pondering the fall from such a height. Knowing it necessary did little to stave the madness. A thrumming sounds, and the vessel takes off once more. She curses - she hesitated too long! She's in no mood to gamble another circuit - come Stranglethorn, she's off. The winds will have to carry her kiss to the fallen ascendant's side.

It is over the churning seas, basking in burnished sunkiss that a ginger footstep sounds. Somebody is coming down the stairs. One peek into Miranda's little closet of a niche, and she's found out. Suddenly, she hears a desperate moan, a strangely human moan. She ventures a peek, and witnesses a dreadful fiend in woman's dress, maliciously clutching an innocent, disheveled babe, and torturing a poor old man. She retches silently to see that his arms and legs have been stripped off. The demon woman peers over the railing, and on a purely intuitive level, the frightened stowaway realizes that she's thinking of dropping her captive victims. A purest jolt of adrenaline courses through her veins. As a girl with no inkling nor notion of what adrenaline is, Miranda mistakes the energy as divine mandate that something must be done.

Just as that dreadful rotting touch grasps the poor, kind looking old man's hair, hoisting him up to toss him off, Miranda crashes against the abomination of the Light, howling and stabbing, stabbing, again and again, desperate in her attempts to save the innocent elder and his obvious grand-daughter. The monster is surprised, but not as surprised as Miranda when her hair becomes millet in the wind, her skin sloughing off like rain upon the rocks, and her head is cleanly burnt off. The smouldering, headless thing didn't even have time to register the blaze, or the heat, or the pain. The little baby does not stir, almost catatonic in its refusal to awaken. The rotting woman tosses the wrinkled man over, tenderly cradling her infantile charge as she ponders how many fish-nibbles and gull-pecks it will take to finish off Nuij's bouyant torso. The nameless human assassin is also set upon the waves, a faceless companion to the fiend in man's garb.

It is now, and only now, that Lucretzia moves, making not a sound. Just burying her head into Daala's vestments, and breathing so regularly that the woman shivers. Kaius has been kept waiting too long.

[Kurohane]

The sun was just setting over Silverpine as the Huntress dodged from shadowy outcrop to shadowy outcrop, her massive mountain lion at her side. The sound of hooves approaching on the road... she pressed herself against a tree, feeling her body merge with the shadows as her lion slid into a nearby bush without so much as a rustle.

What was she even doing here? This was maddness. She knew all too well that there were Forsaken who'd like nothing more than to get her in thier grasp, and yet... Go to him, Kurohane. I cannot say why... I just know that is where you should go. The tiniests of sighs escaped her lips as Daala's voice echoed in her head. For well over a week now she had toyed with the suggestion her friend had given her upon her last day of undeath. Again, as it always did when she tought of the warlock, a small aching rose in her chest. If only Daala had accepted her offer...

The horse road by without pause and she dared a glance at it's rider. The emblem of Infection blazed boldly on the back of the tabard and she grimaced. Now was certainly not the time to be wandering about these parts...

Regaurdless, she closed her eyes, let her sences move around the area. Nothing seemed nearby. With a small sigh at herself, she darted towards the next cropping of shadows.

[clys]

Spending time in Silverpine or Hillsbrad was relaxing to Clys. She often just wandered the area, enjoying the scenery, killing the occasional gnome. On this particular evening she was leaning against a tree, hidden as always by the shadows, considering whether she wanted to trek up into the mountains and pick Wintersbite, when she saw a movement.

"Eh? Who's that, I wonder?" she murmured to herself.

She focused her shadow sight on the area of the movement, and sniffed the air. She chuckled.

"How unexpected. I wonder if her little time with us has given her a new perspective? Only one way to find out," she thought.

Clys moved rapidly, without a sound, and then appeared in front of Kurohane. Knowing that Kurohane would not be able to understand her words, she tried to smile in a peaceful way, leaving her daggers sheathed.

"Hi. You still mad?" she said.

[Kurohane]

The slightest sound was the only warning that a rogue was in the area. Kurohane barely had any time to react before the undead stood before her - but not before there was an icetrap placed at the Huntress's feet. She frowned when she realized the figure was not moving towards her, and jerked her gaze up to find... Clys.

Her eyes narrowed automatically and she fingered the looming sword on her back. Too close for arrows, but she could get in range if need be... What was the woman grinning about? Kurohane felt a knot grow in her stomach. This had been a very, VERY bad idea. Still warily fingering her sword, wishing desperately that she could dare to move off the trap she'd placed before her, she let her gaze move over the surroundings. No other presences that she could find, but that didn't mean there weren't anymore rogues...

And worst of all, there weren't any shadows close enough for her to be able to back into.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned back to face the undead rogue, chin raised in determination. If the woman wanted a fight, so be it - but that was not what she was here for.

[Daala]

Had a particularly idle wanderer rested in the boughs for an entire day while gazing into the sky he might have realized that one particular cloud never moved a lick. A silent sentinel regarding the forests as a child to ants, nothing escapes its focus, nothing goes unreported to those with an ear. Of present interest are a rabid bear indiscriminantly blasting towards birches, the corpses a family of refugees, joint in a suicide pact and floating down the river clogging up a tributary, and a purple-skin of no recognizable import other than her flesh and an opposing semi-skin.

The bear savages a fox, not a wise bout to bet upon. One corpse drifts undercurrent, lodging the rest free to wash upon a leaf-drenched bank. The purple-skin and the semi-skin are about to...

[Kurohane]

The rogue hadn't made any moves against her, the Huntress finally realized. With a small frown, she allowed her hand to fall back to her side and simply nodded to the woman in front of her. You know... Clys only wanted the same thing you seek now, Daala's voice echoed in her mind, nearly drowned out by both the memory of her own words and the same sentence sparking anew in her mind. She murdered innocent children to try and get it, though. I cannot abide that.

Her fist flexed for a moment at her side. Those orphans Clys had taken from Stormwind... infants who'd not even had a chance to know love. She felt her gaze growing steadily colder. Finally, she turned and began walking past the undead, Balah growling softly at her side as the cat watched thier foe even as he kept pace with his master.

[clys]

Clys simply turned as Kurohane walked by. From the expression on Kurohane's face, it was clear that she was not forgiven. Clys' shoulders drooped slightly, but then she squared them. Understood. My grasping at straws has left me unclean in your eyes. So be it then. Perhaps in a hundred years, or a thousand...or never. Odd that I care what you think, but I do. Enjoy your warmth, and your living flesh. And never forget what it was like to be...dead.

Before Kurohane was past, Clys raised her hand in a salute, and faded back into the shadows.

[Kurohane]

A shiver ran down her spine of it's own accord. Something about the expression on Clys' face, something about the way she raised her hand as the Huntress had passed... Why did you have to kill those childeren..? I could forgive almost anything but that.

Shaking the thought from her head, she glanced once over her shoulder at where the rogue had stood and, upon finding the area as vacant as she had expected, darted towards the next cluster of shadows. Merging with the small space that was sheltered from the moon, she sat, a frown creasing her forhead. That expression. So many things had changed since her own death and rebirth. That expression on Clys' face was almost... haunting. Had she really been so unlike Clys in those days of undeath? Desperately seeking a way to free herself of that horrid fate... That's when she realized what her own feeling had been at the sight of that expression.

Pity and regret. Regret that she had been able to come back to true flesh while the one who had sought it so hard and so long had not been able to do so yet. She squeezed her eyes shut against the thoughts. Did that one even deserve it? But... who was she to judge such things? She would never wish that fate on anyone, not even her most hated enemies.

Sighing faintly, she pushed herself up from the spot and began moving again. The night was growing late, but that did not lessen the dangers of the area for her. After all, the dead had no true need of sleep.

[Daala]

It was an ordinary enough farmstead, and yet, it bore a curious signature. Harvest seemed to be in bloom throughout the land, but despite the subtly obvious signs of habitation the fields were rampantly overgrown, untended and neglected from the attentions of plow and scythe. More peculiar was that the vines seemed to be trampled, or crushed. But then, little of the agrarian compound could be seen; much was shrouded by a thick glen of verdant forestry.

Upon the porch of this certain homestead a formidable fellow bulges in a chair that screams in agony against so momentous a burden, clutching a straight razor with which he slices at a cedar bough with no apparent rhyme or reason. Of any presence in the woods he gives no acknowledgement.

[Kurohane]

Kurohane drew up short as the moonlight spilled across the strange seen before her. With the tiniest of frowns, she glanced over her shoulder before looking back. Was not this a land of death that she still walked in? Had she not seen for herself what the Forsaken did to such farms...? Her gaze lingered for a moment on the large man sitting on the porch, obviously fully of true life.

She lets her gaze wonder around once more, a spark of concern growing in her chest. The feilds looked so terribly untended... If this fellow had somehow just stumbled upon his old farm, unknowing what dangers lay so close by... With a silent single to Balah to remain where he was - after all, she didn't want to frighten the fellow - she slowly made a dileberately visible approach. Upon reaching the range she would no longer have to yell, she raised her voice in greeting.

"I hope this evening finds you well, sir... I trust you are having no problems from your... neighbors, tonight?"

[Daala]

A craggly grin breaks across his face; the splitting of the earth. His sightless gaze remains constant, still shaving away. The smile is somewhat self-deprecating, the sense of a man once bitter but now at peace with his lot.

"A fine evening, fine evening. And I appreciate greatly your concern, Madame, but it has been a long time since I'd any neighbors to my name. What brings you to this place?"

[Kurohane]

Kurohane frowned, glancing around. As he said, there didn't seem to be any of the tainted land within sight now. Was this where Daala had meant her to go..?

"I was following the directions a friend gave me... to meet someone she seems rather fond of," she answered, turning her gaze back to him and tilting her head curiously to the side. "Though the directions were strange and I honestly do not even know where I am going. Perhaps you can tell me where I've found myself now?"

[Daala]

"Any cartographer writes what he sees. You are where you see now, Madame. As I'm sure you may see..."

Settling the blade upon his thigh, a brick-like finger points to the leather strap concealing empty eye-holes.

"...you're the more qualified in that judgment. You'd like to meet somebody, you say? Who is it you seek? And why, if that question is not too bold?"

[Daala]

((A quiet little riff, inspired by the grape Kool-Aid I mixed a few minutes before writing.))

“Mixing drinks is a fine art, finer than sculpture or brushstroke by far. There are those who value art in proportion to the difficulty in a given piece’s realization, as though one must suffer for all good things. A charmingly masochistic notion, quaint in its flimsy optimism, borne and shouldered by those who lose twelve consecutive hands of a card game, that somehow a serpent’s venom coalesces into a vintage chardonnay. These sort would dismiss the art of drinks..”

Two bare feet upon a faded quilt of disparate oranges, itself upon the sort of floorboards that can only achieve their remarkable lack of vitality and shimmering promise through years and years of the sobering reality that the most successful floorboard is that which is trampled upon the most. One feet perches with the strangely quiet, muted, and singular quiet of a wary deer; utterly still, and reserved in its sangfroid dormancy, waiting for the world to change, or to not change. The other perches at the toes, curling and unfurling like a baby’s wantonly clenching fist. The other pair of feet are lovebirds, two of a kind, of one kind, the one and single unit being the two feet..were one to die the other would be useless. Two hermit crabs, changing shells at whim, they now warm in two heavy leather carapaces, resting latent, until needed, underneath a wooden sky..a table, itself ‘neath a wooden sky of its own.

“But the art of drinks is not only brilliant..it is, in the current mode of possibility and fashion, unique..its only worthy peer would be the creation and devisement of a living being. A statue might be beautiful..but it is but an object in space, a snare of impression whose domain is that place in our heads that, when we gaze at another person, then step so that a tree blocks our view, assures us that that person is still there. A statue’s beauty is tethered and roofed by the beauty of its beholder. It instills no particular grace or wonder..though it might evoke that which rests dormant. The sculpture’s inspiration is that inspiring ourselves to whisk a rug from atop our thoughts and memories and emotions and…sometimes…brilliances. This is why the nobility is so fond of sculpture and painting…or rather, why it so very much strives to pretend to like such things. For these arts’ sophistications are mirrors, and a disinterest makes one an uncultured boor..in the eyes of such folk, at least.”

Tremulous, nervous hands clutch at a quartered lime..her hands seem seldom still in recent days, but their energy does not touch a single other feature of her, and as such, it seems to be a mere aberration of nerves. The fruitslice is glistening and immaculate, each swollen pod ready to burst with vibrancy, each swollen pod proudly displaying all the fertility of a mother-to-be’s swollen stomach. The white core, with its radiating white lines, seems like a sunrise..,moreso than a sunset, to be sure. With extreme prejudice, the hand spasms to a fist, savagely exploding every pregnant pod, the fruit split at the seam like an eviscerated body, its juice pouring down to the glass, a soul’s descent to the abyss.

“But a drink..a drink is a rich tapestry of sensation, at the behest and direction of her maker. It is true, yes..that each soul supposedly bears a different palate, an individual spectrum of taste. And as such, there is a subjectivity that leads, again, to a popularity amongst the snoots and snigs of the upper class, competing amongst whose tongue the most vivacious. But it is easy to lie, particularly if one is a poet, or crafter of words…for all such people are utter liars…and truly, it takes such a person, more times than not, to truly articulate the exploding, orgasmic rush of pure stimulus that a drink infuses. So even the sharpest tongue might belong to a tanner..poetry is a thing of language, and the drink is a certain fornication of the senses..they’re separate domains, see. So there’s a private intimacy to drinks..they are such complex things…each could bear its own undertaste, overtaste, aftertaste..wine connoisseurs can determine which sort of wood made the barrel of that which bore their glass of the moment, y’know. Because even that makes a difference in the taste..because a wine is a living thing. Open a bottle of wine for the first time, and there is only one constant; it will taste different than if opened at any other time.”

A snowfall of ground sugar sprinkles crushed ice cubes and limejuice. Anxious to join the party, a sprig of mint cozies up, curling under the curving circular bedsheets of glass. Like the lime, the sleeping child of mint is savagely, animalistically sundered, a metal muddler pounding down like a heavenly fist, grinding the leaves into tiny shards. A special water, suffused with a flavorless gas to create tiny bubbles, races a stream of rum, each liquid chariot thundering through invisible tracks in the air, crashing down into the graveyard of ice, mint, and lime.

“With a painting, or sculpture, if one makes a mistake, it is a simple enough thing and will be accepted as a merit if properly accentuated. A book or drama can be revised…but if too much of a single component of a drink is added, or too little, or if the grapes fermenting into wine are rotten or spoiled…then the drink is rotten, spoiled. Or too strong, or too imbalanced, too unstructured, too watery…any of a number of things. Because a good drink..once tasted, will burn into the tongue, and any drink subsequent, that fails to meet the standards of the first..it will be hated, and resented, a bastardization. The complexity is like a lover; like love itself; uniquely beautiful and so very fragile and painful when set awry. And yet…there are perhaps unlimited flavors in the world, so many with differing methods of revelation. And so, there are so many drinks not yet conceived; unlimited people of the world, and unlimited possibilities of coupling, of love…unlimited potentials for paradise or perdition.”

The curling, standing foot drifts down to her companion..only to lift once more as Daala turns, her mixture complete, carrying it with the care of a craftswoman to her work, but not pretentious..not in her own mind, at least, for perception can never be fully predicted. Smiling to old Kaius, blind as the leather strip binding his sockets connotes, she takes his heavy, cumbersome hand in her own, guiding it to wrap around the glass before taking a seat across from him, the dusklight vaporous and pervasive through the windows, frolicking orphans like an approaching rainstorm with their sounds of play and troublemaking.

“A drink nearly drove me mad, a few days ago. It was very sweet…and yet very watery at the same time. I could not wrap my brain around it. No matter which proportion I altered, amongst the three cores of water, sugar, and flavoring, I couldn’t find a one that would leave me contented. It wasn’t flawed..but rather incomplete. I couldn’t throw it away; that would be like ignoring one’s problems. But I could not complete the drink, though I’ve fashioned such mixes before, with the same ingredients.”

“What did you do, then, lass?”

“Mmm. I drank it and smiled..we’re not all born perfectly. Some babies are born with one arm, or three..some with broken brains, or at least twisted, in some way…and some of us are born with purple skin. Yes, it was unsettling. But that’s why it was beautiful. Because it made me feel as no drink has ever affected me.”

[Izrail]

((Your writing is so rich, Daala.))

[Daala]

((Your writing is so rich, Daala.))

((Thank you very much.^^ I strive to flesh things out, even on the more meditative yarns, like this one. I haven't written in months, funny that my spark was watery Koolaid.))