Ceryna
12-14-2005, 03:45 PM
The Scourge staggered and limped around the abandoned farmstead, occasionally savaging a rat that grew too bold. Around them, the Plaguelands festered and bubbled, like a cauldron of putrescence, simply simmering patiently until it could boil over and consume Azeroth.
In fact, the black, iron cauldron in the center of the field served as fine microcosm for the Plaguelands as a whole, jumping and kicking, belching forth voluminous clouds of putrid gray smoke that corroded and rotted anything they touched. Four massive chains held the cauldron bolted to the ground, and the Scourge guarded it vigilantly.
However, their vigilance was focused on the field, not the farmhouse, and so they missed the small, hovering, green eye that skimmed the ground nearby. It peered within the splits of the shack's wooden walls, noting the lone ghoul within and the large hole in the back wall, far away from the sight of the Scourge. Then, it vanished.
As she let the Eye of Kilrogg disappear, Ceryna, safely behind one of the festering trees a hundred feet away, returned to her own senses. He was here, or had been recently. She looked down at the felstalker by her side, felt its everpresent malice and shivered. It was not proud of its feat, tracking her quarry all this distance. Demons did not know pride, as such. All they knew was hate and fear.
Haagrym, the hound, had trailed her prey to this farmstead, less than a day's ride from Lordaeron, or the ruins thereof. To think, all this time, she had been so near. This could have ended weeks ago.
And yet, weeks ago, she would not have been prepared. She lacked the skills, the patience, the raw magical power to survive these lands. Weeks ago, she would have been torn apart by the Scourge. No, the time had been put to good use. Now, she was ready.
With but a look, she impressed upon Haagrym the need for secrecy. The pair began to creep toward the farmhouse. Haagrym led the way, silent as a cat and surefooted, while Ceryna followed, fumbling through the darkness. If her heart still beat, she was sure it would be in her throat. In the darkness of night, the farmhouse suddenly loomed from the shadows in front of them.
It was simple work to pry a few rotting boards loose, enlarging the rotten hole enough for the pair to enter. The only sound from the ghoul on the ground floor was a startled gurgle and the thumping of its head rolling across the floor.
Ceryna wiped the ichor from her scythe and peered at the ghoul. Not him. She looked warily at the stairs, sighed, and began creeping upward. She winced as she stepped on a creaky stair, and paused, but no alert came. She continued.
On the second floor, corpses were strewn about the main, large room, impaled on boards jutting from the walls, hung from rusty chains dangling from rafters. Tiny streams of silver moonlight filtered through the cracks and splits in a window too otherwise caked in grime and gore to allow light. One victim, his arms twisted around behind him to clutch futilely at the iron hook in his spine, was frozen in a scream of terror and anguish, forever silenced by the rusty hacksaw buried halfway into his neck.
The door to the one remaining room stood halfway open, and muffled whimpers and shrieks escaped from within. A trickle of blood ran from the door, and shadows lit by a weakly flickering candle thrashed and rolled in the night.
Ceryna pushed open the door and gasped involuntarily. It was a bedroom, or it had been. Two beds lay within, matted and soaked with blood and sweat and ichor, white sheets turned brown with age and rot. On each bed a woman lay, thrashing and writhing, chained spread-eagle to the bedposts. One was human, the other a troll, and both were hugely pregnant, stomachs grossly distended. Ceryna could see something moving in the human's stomach, like the print of a hand pushing against her flesh from the inside. The walls were coated in a thick, semi-solid, gray mucous that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. For the first time, Ceryna was glad death had robbed her of her sense of smell.
"Do you like my vision?"
Ceryna turned slowly, scythe raised defensively, and Haagrym snarled at the stealthy newcomer. He looked like neither a ghoul nor a skeleton, but like a particularly decayed Forsaken. The right half of his face was completely gone, leaving a scarred, pitted skull grimacing hideously. His tongue, forked, dangled from the side of his head, through the gap in torn, rotten flesh and broken, jagged teeth. His eyes burned with a red fire, and he was clad in pale, patchwork leather. It took Ceryna a moment to realize the true, repulsive nature of his grotesque harlequin's melange.
"Jacob?"
It stopped, its head tilting a bit. "Allison?"
Ceryna tightened her grip on her scythe. "Allison is dead. So are you."
"Yet, here we are... I knew. Somehow, I knew you would come. That is why I never hunted you down. I knew you would come to me." The monster slowly drew a pair of wickedly serrated knives, gobbets of flesh still dangling from some of the more gruesome hooks.
"What the hell is this place?"
"Ah... this is my creche. Those are my children, Allison. The children you never could bear."
Jacob slowly circled, and she moved to avoid him, putting her back to the stairs. Haagrym was taunt as a drawn bow, just waiting for her command to attack.
"When I rose again, I knew you would come... but I did not know when. I needed someone to fill the nights. I needed someone to make my dreams come true... and such dreams!"
"Nightmares."
"To some. I am breeding a new form of life, Allison... neither Scourge nor Forsaken, but something other. Something older, more primal. I have spoken to Him, and He has shown me the way."
"Him?"
"You know Him... he told me you would come."
Ceryna felt chilled, and shook her head. "He's not here now, Jacob, and we have unfinished business. You've been unfaithful."
"Ah, yes... our vows."
"'Til death do us part."
They leapt at each other.
In fact, the black, iron cauldron in the center of the field served as fine microcosm for the Plaguelands as a whole, jumping and kicking, belching forth voluminous clouds of putrid gray smoke that corroded and rotted anything they touched. Four massive chains held the cauldron bolted to the ground, and the Scourge guarded it vigilantly.
However, their vigilance was focused on the field, not the farmhouse, and so they missed the small, hovering, green eye that skimmed the ground nearby. It peered within the splits of the shack's wooden walls, noting the lone ghoul within and the large hole in the back wall, far away from the sight of the Scourge. Then, it vanished.
As she let the Eye of Kilrogg disappear, Ceryna, safely behind one of the festering trees a hundred feet away, returned to her own senses. He was here, or had been recently. She looked down at the felstalker by her side, felt its everpresent malice and shivered. It was not proud of its feat, tracking her quarry all this distance. Demons did not know pride, as such. All they knew was hate and fear.
Haagrym, the hound, had trailed her prey to this farmstead, less than a day's ride from Lordaeron, or the ruins thereof. To think, all this time, she had been so near. This could have ended weeks ago.
And yet, weeks ago, she would not have been prepared. She lacked the skills, the patience, the raw magical power to survive these lands. Weeks ago, she would have been torn apart by the Scourge. No, the time had been put to good use. Now, she was ready.
With but a look, she impressed upon Haagrym the need for secrecy. The pair began to creep toward the farmhouse. Haagrym led the way, silent as a cat and surefooted, while Ceryna followed, fumbling through the darkness. If her heart still beat, she was sure it would be in her throat. In the darkness of night, the farmhouse suddenly loomed from the shadows in front of them.
It was simple work to pry a few rotting boards loose, enlarging the rotten hole enough for the pair to enter. The only sound from the ghoul on the ground floor was a startled gurgle and the thumping of its head rolling across the floor.
Ceryna wiped the ichor from her scythe and peered at the ghoul. Not him. She looked warily at the stairs, sighed, and began creeping upward. She winced as she stepped on a creaky stair, and paused, but no alert came. She continued.
On the second floor, corpses were strewn about the main, large room, impaled on boards jutting from the walls, hung from rusty chains dangling from rafters. Tiny streams of silver moonlight filtered through the cracks and splits in a window too otherwise caked in grime and gore to allow light. One victim, his arms twisted around behind him to clutch futilely at the iron hook in his spine, was frozen in a scream of terror and anguish, forever silenced by the rusty hacksaw buried halfway into his neck.
The door to the one remaining room stood halfway open, and muffled whimpers and shrieks escaped from within. A trickle of blood ran from the door, and shadows lit by a weakly flickering candle thrashed and rolled in the night.
Ceryna pushed open the door and gasped involuntarily. It was a bedroom, or it had been. Two beds lay within, matted and soaked with blood and sweat and ichor, white sheets turned brown with age and rot. On each bed a woman lay, thrashing and writhing, chained spread-eagle to the bedposts. One was human, the other a troll, and both were hugely pregnant, stomachs grossly distended. Ceryna could see something moving in the human's stomach, like the print of a hand pushing against her flesh from the inside. The walls were coated in a thick, semi-solid, gray mucous that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. For the first time, Ceryna was glad death had robbed her of her sense of smell.
"Do you like my vision?"
Ceryna turned slowly, scythe raised defensively, and Haagrym snarled at the stealthy newcomer. He looked like neither a ghoul nor a skeleton, but like a particularly decayed Forsaken. The right half of his face was completely gone, leaving a scarred, pitted skull grimacing hideously. His tongue, forked, dangled from the side of his head, through the gap in torn, rotten flesh and broken, jagged teeth. His eyes burned with a red fire, and he was clad in pale, patchwork leather. It took Ceryna a moment to realize the true, repulsive nature of his grotesque harlequin's melange.
"Jacob?"
It stopped, its head tilting a bit. "Allison?"
Ceryna tightened her grip on her scythe. "Allison is dead. So are you."
"Yet, here we are... I knew. Somehow, I knew you would come. That is why I never hunted you down. I knew you would come to me." The monster slowly drew a pair of wickedly serrated knives, gobbets of flesh still dangling from some of the more gruesome hooks.
"What the hell is this place?"
"Ah... this is my creche. Those are my children, Allison. The children you never could bear."
Jacob slowly circled, and she moved to avoid him, putting her back to the stairs. Haagrym was taunt as a drawn bow, just waiting for her command to attack.
"When I rose again, I knew you would come... but I did not know when. I needed someone to fill the nights. I needed someone to make my dreams come true... and such dreams!"
"Nightmares."
"To some. I am breeding a new form of life, Allison... neither Scourge nor Forsaken, but something other. Something older, more primal. I have spoken to Him, and He has shown me the way."
"Him?"
"You know Him... he told me you would come."
Ceryna felt chilled, and shook her head. "He's not here now, Jacob, and we have unfinished business. You've been unfaithful."
"Ah, yes... our vows."
"'Til death do us part."
They leapt at each other.