Tales Along the Road

Journal,

What a spectacular holiday. We visited my brother's spirit for a second time. He really does look just like me. I think for a while, I wondered if I ever really did have a brother, if I could trust my own memories.

I miss him so much, but at the same time, I'm wary of Labrae's idea. Ayan seems to not mind, but he doesn't know what we're hunting now. So much can go wrong. What would I do if my family were harmed or destroyed? Could I keep myself, in my grief and rage, from destroying everything we've worked toward?

We'll see, I guess.

-Zanik

Journal,

A strange joy has crept into my gut. I must be careful, or it may become more fuel for the fire.

I've never liked rogues very much before. All trickery. No way to tell if they mean what they say. The curse of a liar, I suppose. But maybe this one is different. She is cunning and calculating... perhaps cold at times. She fights well. I like that.

I suppose we'll see how this turns out, won't we, journal?

-Zanik

Sleep crusted eyes creaked open, then squeezed shut again. Zanik lifted his hand, shielding his gaze from the seemingly harsh light. As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he surveyed the room he was in. A study of some sort, with many tall bookshelves lining the walls. He squinted, straining his eyes, but he could not see the titles on any of the spines. Giving up his efforts, his eyes swept the room's finer details.

Somewhere off to his right, on the wall behind his rather comfy chair, was a door to a hallway. He didn't pay it much thought. On the wall to his left, a window; the sky was bright and blue outside, though the horizon was dotted with strange clouds. In front of him, a fire place. The stone was solid and evenly cut; a grate forged from some sort of blackened metal seemed to keep the fire at bay as it raged and swirled in it's cage. Above the well-built fireplace, an old and battered shield rested. Little more than a slab of crude metal, it never-the-less gave an air of pride and dignity, having served it's owner well in it's day.

Zanik's mind took in his surrounding slowly, still sluggish from waking up. His eyes fell to his lap as he registered a slight weight there. A small book lay in his blueing hands, opened half way. The pages were blank. Must have dozed off while reading, he thought, as he carelessly dropped the book aside. His arms wrapped about his midsection, his breath suddenly frosting. His eyes watered, his vision shook. The clouds on the horizon darkened, the shadows in the corners of the room seethed. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

A cold had creeped into the room, and as he opened his eyes, Zanik watched as his breath made tiny little puffs of steam. His eyes flicked to the window; the clouds were no darker. The shadows danced with the fire instead of with the horrid life they had but moments before. His eyes widened at the thought. Fire. Leaving the safety of his chair, he leaned down and swept up the book he had discarded. His feet dragged on the wooden floor, his muscles feeling as though they were freezing around his bones. His eyes were fixed on the flame. He needed it; the warmth, the light.

His knees stung as he feel upon them, his shaking hands slipping the book past the grate. The fire seethed, and he stretched his hands, warmth spreading through his arms. His mind slowly woke from his sluggish stupor and his eyes admired the room about him anew. A fine place, he had built it himself. He smiled, allowing himself a little bit of satisfaction in the knowledge that his prediction had come true. The creeping cold had returned, but this time he had been prepared. He knew that if it weren't for this house, he would be taken. He wouldn't last a minute outside it's safety, it's light.

Light, he repeated. "Light," the word rolling past his tongue. His mind raced. What light had he, in his life? His eyes turned to the fire. "Fight." He rubbed his hands together and stretched them toward the fire once more. The warmth had spread all about his body. He glanced to his left, at the bright blue sky. "Light..." He smiled. His brief moments with Beth lit his world and kept him grounded. His fingers brushed against the hot grate before pulling back. Were this all there was in my life, he thought, I would surely burn out.

Content with this knowledge, he curled up beside the fire to sleep, safe from the cold and happy with his life. A good fight and some time with his daughter was all he needed. "Wouldn't it be nice," he whispered, "If the fighting would never end."

Journal,

As things go, my days have been relatively calm. Mild. Little excitement to be had anywhere. I've met up with some old friends, shared a few drinks here and there. Everything's at a standstill, it seems. Waiting for the next tragedy.

I can't say I didn't notice Fawn. Poor, poor Fawn. The times I'm available, she's gone and disappeared somewhere. Maybe if she can cut that vanishing habit (as I have, it seems), something might come of this.

Condition isn't improving, but it's worsening at a slightly lesser rate. Beginning to feel the edges unravel. Or, are they? I can't tell. Probably means I'm already gone. The crazies don't know they're crazy, right?

Going to have to contact him if this keeps up. Get some answers to all this.

-Zanik

Journal,

You of all inanimate objects should know the answer to this question.

What am I doing?

Get back to me sometime,

-Zanik

Journal,


I'm not sure what to do anymore.

I find myself wishing that man took away the early memories of my 'life' after waking up. But then, I wouldn't be prepared for this. Such a severe case of déjà vu this is. She's uncertain about me. Unsure if I'm the man she loves still. Afraid I've become somebody else. What can I do? There's no words here that can comfort a worry like that. There's no reassurances, atleast not from me. All that's left is to wait and prepare. Prepare for another Delial

As much as I hate to say it, I think I'm getting too old for this.

-Zanik

Journal,

A lot happened today. I can't really describe it. Things seem to be getting crazier and crazier all around me, but suddenly I'm the only sane one around. It's so calm inside. That windmill's gone! There's a house where it used to be. There're clouds in the sky (which is whole!), there's a sun, a gentle breeze... it feels like home. Like my very own mind.

I woke up today tortured by haunting dreams and cracked skies. A slave to my own soul. I lay down, now, a free man. A man in control of himself. Freedom of self, it seems, is a freedom taken for granted by most. It's truly an amazing thing. Labrae, though, is skeptical. Thinks I'm some kind of trap. I can't describe how much it hurts, the way she looked at me. The way she talks to me. Careful, cautious. Like I could explode and kill her at any moment. Like I'm some kind of monster

I just wish she'd say "I love you, too". Without her, I'm not complete after all.

-Zanik (Going to have to write some happier stuff in here from now on. Awful book of bad memories, you are.)

( (MASSIVE SPOILERS ZOMG) )

( ... )

( ... )

The tavern of Booty Bay brimmed with patrons. Loud music filled the ship-topped bar, bawdy jokes drew raucous laughter from the various patrons, and a large selection of kegs provided every booze imaginable, from Junglevine Wine to the less popular Molasses Firewater. The patrons ranged from stout gnomes to shaggy tauren, and while their physical similarities were few, they all shared at least one goal; drowning their worries and escaping the now-besieged Stormwind and Orgrimmar. All, except a pair of patrons in the darkest corner of the tavern, huddled close and speaking in hushed whispers.

Rheumy eyes leered out from behind damp, clumped hair. Perhaps once a rich, full, long waterfall of blond strands, weeks of grime, sweat, and lack of bathing had left the hair of this human a complete mess, more than a few strange creatures skittering just under the surface of the vile mane. His pockmarked face did little to help the disgusting mop, and rotted teeth coupled with stained and malodorous clothing completed the image of a walking disease. Despite the sores and scars, he sported fair-sized muscles, and his calloused hands would have spoken of a life working the forge if they didn't play host to a multitude of growths and sores of their own.

The filthy human's companion was not quite as unpleasant, but the malefic air that clung to his weary body gave off a sense of wrongness and evil-doing that proved to be nearly as off-putting as the odor of the living scab sitting across from him, if not more so. Even that disgusting individual seemed perturbed.

A simple, unadorned, black robe hung from the bony, emaciated body of the Forsaken man sitting across the filmy-eyed smith. The skin of his jaw seemed to have been parted from his face long ago, along with his eyes, and perhaps most of his hair. What was left of the stringy (though fairly clean, in comparison to his companion's) locks formed a single ponytail at the back of the Forsaken's head.

"I apologize for my choice in meeting locations," spoke the Forsaken, "but few places are safe these days, you understand."
His companion sighed, a very unpleasant smell wafting from his maw. The Forsaken made a point to cease breathing for the duration of the meeting. "'twas awful wearisome, convincing them bruisers I weren't plagued and whatnot," the human grumbled in a lazy drawl. "I reckon I deserve somethin' of an up-front payment just fer THAT work."

The thin Forsaken scowled, or maybe smiled. It was difficult to tell the difference with him. "Your efforts will be compensated, of course, but talk of payment must come later. Your master has briefed you on what you are needed for, I trust?" The lounging human sat up a little straighter. "Yes, 'course. Ya'll understand a praw-ject like that wern't be easy, yeh?" A slight nod affirmed that the Forsaken did. "Ya'll gonna haf to supply the labor... competent labor, mind. Can't 'ford no butterfingers droppin' things or muckin' up the praw-cess." Another nod, accompanied by that vague smile/sneer. "And the materials?"

The music downstairs grew louder and the sounds of feet pounding the floorboards echoed up to them. Many patrons were joining in on the dance. The Forsaken man waved a bony hand. "Never you mind the materials. I will supply everything per your request." It was the human's turn to smile, a sight that might've been pleasant if not for the rotted, hole-filled teeth and the blackened gums. "Good't'hear. Now, 'bout that pay..."

A loud thunk interrupted the human. The forsaken had produced a bulging canvas bag nearly the size of his head and deposited it upon the table between them. The human cautiously reached forward and plucked open the top of the bag with two cracked fingers. A nearby light played off the gold coins that greeted the smith's watery eyes, and his smile turned into an open-mouthed awestruck stare. The forsaken gave a nod. "This should cover your troubles coming here, in addition to the cost of the tools needed and... of course... your time." The smith eyed his companion warily. The forsaken's face twisted, but this time it was hard to mistaken his attempt at a wide grin. "... and this amount will be doubled if you complete the project within a day."

The smith stood and slipped the sack of gold into his pack. "Yer got yerself a deal. Master Burdupus weren't kiddin' when he said yer treat yer em-ploy-ees right." He gave bow, a movement that looked awkward coming from the disease-riddled man. "Lookin' forward t' werkin' fer yeh, Master Ez-" The Forsaken interrupted him. "Master will be fine."

The robed undead watched the smith saunter off, his pack over his shoulder, a wry grin across his diseased face. And he grinned. Truly, having connections in high places paid off.

Night had fallen. A myriad of stars shown overhead as Zanik snoozed dreamlessly but peacefully beside his wife on a bench near Silvermoon. The crowd of chatty blood elf students had retreated to the safety of the walls of the city along with their instructors. Frogs croaked a quiet song from the nearby pond. Everything was peaceful. Everything was still.

Except the shadows. The darkness around them seemed to grow deeper, taking on frightening new depths. Two figures detached from them, zig-zagging from tree to tree, before stopping behind the bench that the pair of Forsaken slept upon. Two slender, pale hands reached out from each shadow to carve signs and runes into the air above them, sibilant voices murmuring in a dark, vile tongue. Zanik shivered, then stiffened. One shadow lifted his hands, palms down, and twitched his fingers. Zanik's limbs twitched in response, sickly green, ghostly bands forming around his arms, wrists, legs, ankles, waist, and torso.

As the hissing whispers fell silent, the shadowy puppeteer forced Zanik, whom slept an unnatural sleep now, to stand and move away from the bench. The second shadow glided over between the undead warrior and his puppeteer companion, chanting words in a more arcane tongue. A portal opened, it's depths swirling black and distorted. Zanik was made to enter, and the shadows followed behind him. With their leaving, and the portal closing, the darkness of the night around them slowly eased into a more natural sable cloaking. All was right again, though a residual sense of wrongness hung in the air from where the portal the shadows summoned appeared and disappeared.

Elsewhere~
Zanik groaned in his forced stupor as he was led down dark corridors, the cold, blue-black stones sucking the light from the single torch the 'shadows' carried. The light revealed pale, elven faces and cloaks that seemed to absorb the light in the same manner the stones around them did. A charged feeling permeated the air as they descended further and further from the natural world, and the stench of death rose from the deepening darkness to greet them.

( (A little something, nothing much) )

I think something's wrong with me, again. I'm not entirely sure. Sitting up here on top of Orgrimmar's Auction House, I hear a gentle rumble, a stirring. I've been hearing it at about the same time every day for the past week, and it lasts only a few seconds. It is akin to thunder, but if I strain my ears, I think I can hear distant voices masked in it's depths.

Shadows seem to move of their own will in my vision. Sometimes I see a hazy figure in my periph, at just the right spot where I can't see any features. I get this cold feeling, a pair of eyes burning into me, and when I turn the figure is gone. Perhaps it was never there.

If I don't look at anyone directly for a few minutes, I feel uneasy. I see things. Everybody in my vision always seems to be staring at me... and if I wait long enough, their conversations quiet down. It gets so unbearably quiet, and their eyes... just staring. Wide and empty. Whenever I focus on someone, though, it's like time unfreezes. Conversations continue as if they were going despite my hearing them stopping. I see that nobody is staring at me after all, and everything is normal again.

It's so quiet up here. Dreadfully quiet. I can feel their eyes.

There are many fears within me.

Many stay with me at all times (though some may quiet themselves at times, they are still there), but there is one that does not.

This fear, it pounces upon me from the abyss, tears into my soul, and leaves as swiftly as it came. I fear deep down that peace will come to our land, our Azeroth. I fear that the fights will come to an end, the enemies and masterminds will fade away or be defeated, and there will be no more conflict.

I cannot survive without conflict. I must fight, for that is all I am.

I fear peace. I fear prosperity. I fear that day all the inhabitants of Azeroth will come to accept each-other.

But my fear is unfounded. There will always be war. Always.

There are many fears within me.

Many of them are quiet things, things to brood on when you're alone in the dark. There are a few that deviate from that, however.

There is something inside of me. Something, someone... it has become increasingly difficult to tell if it's/his machinations and heated bloodlust are the instincts of an animal or the madness of a sentient soul. I'm not sure which disturbs me most.

This thing/person, it/he struggles for control of my body. He used to, anyway. He has been quiet for some time now. I dare say he's recessed completely. My fear, this fear that keeps me awake at night, a fear that grips me like an iron claw and boils forth in the heat of battle, is that he will resurface when I am weakest, and steal away control. That he will become me.

I fear him. I fear what he represents. I fear that he is not the only one.

I fear he will make me watch as he kills my beloved family.

There are many fears within me.

One of the worst is also the one I cannot assuage, no matter how hard I try.

I fear, deep down, that I am nothing. That I am only one in a million, and that my passing would go unnoticed. My need to be a 'hero' comes from this fear, this fear that slowly rots me from the inside. I dread the thought of being forgotten, of my second, permanent death being one of unspectacular proportions.

I fear that I will be forgotten. I fear I am nothing of note. I fear I will not be missed.

I fear she will move on.

I had a nightmare! Oh, it was glorious* terrible, journal...

I was in the Basin for whatever reason (I never seem to need a reason these days), defending the lumber mill. Horde needs wood, you know? So this human girl comes along. A priest, by the looks of her. And like all priests, she tries to take me over and send me over the ledge.

I don't know why it happened or how, but the world around me descended into chaos. The skies burned red and lightning shot out from black clouds. Fires sprang up on the horizon, I could swear they were slowly burning their way toward the Basin. I felt that terrible hatred boil up inside me. How dare this pathetic wretch try to control me! I am nobody's puppet!

I ran at her with my sword ready. Before I cut her down, I caught a glimpse of her through my clouded vision. She was on her knees, her hands clasped about her ears. She was wailing, trying to wish away this hell that had sprung up from her tampering. Her nose bled freely and tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes... she looked at me, with the most terrified eyes I'd ever seen.

I cut her down, and woke in a panic. If I could sweat, I'd be drenched. What does it mean?

-Zanik

((*The word "glorious" has been scratched out almost to the point of being unrecognizable, nearly completely covered in a patch of ink.))

I've had a lot of time to myself lately... to think and brood and all that. Maybe fate is preparing m

It's worrying. Usually, I see in my dreams things and events and people before they come to pass or they meet with me. I have been having no such 'visions' lately. My dreams are certainly symbolic and surreal, but nothing definable or remotely recognizable can be drawn from them.

Could this mean there's nothing to worry about with Labrae? Or maybe it's this flower's effect... she did say he'd help me sleep better. Maybe I should put it away for a while... maybe give it to Zaron. He's been having trouble sleeping, too.

My mind is given to wandering when I'm alone like this. To my past, my present, my future... and certain events I have trouble putting any definitive time frame on. There are so many holes in my memory. I can't remember my parents' names... or their faces. I can't remember where -exactly- we lived... on a farm, I know that, and near Stormwind. Everything is so fuzzy and clouded and confusing. Granted, things aren't much better after I... got back on my own two feet, let's say.

I wonder where Delial's gone. I suppose it doesn't matter. Suppose I don't really care anymore. Though if I see Loche I'll crush his sk

I wonder what's in store for us... that's all I can do. Wonder. May the Five have mercy on us in the troubles to come.

-Zanik

Zanik's heavy footfall echoed through the sewers of the Undercity as he made his way to the designated meeting point, his pointy figure draped in several cloaks to hide his identity. His helmet hide his stony expression as he clomped through the twisting maze of corridors and dead-ends, the stench of decay and rot wafting around him. He did not notice the rotten stink; his mind was elsewhere.

"So you come..." a crackling voice greeted him as he reached the dead-end that marked the meeting point. His scowl could be heard in his voice as he replied. "... because I have no other options."

A bony figure barely able to keep on it's feet under the weight of it's rich purple robes stepped forth from the shadows, it's features obscured by the cold darkness clinging to this corner of the forsaken capital. "I am the eyes and ears of our master-" "YOUR master," Zanik interrupted. "I am a slave no longer."

The cold, gravelly voice crackled and popped, the sound of bones clacking together in mocking laughter. "We shall skip the pleasantries, then. The master, his name carved into you as a sign of ownership, wishes to know why you call upon him. Speak, worm, and be thankful his greatness has given you the time of day to do so."

Zanik's voice lost it's protest as the reason why he had come here flooded back to him. His gaze dropped and he took a deep breath.

"She is dying."