Tales Along the Road

Plans, Plans, Plans

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 20:39:33 GMT

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

Fuel

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 14:27:22 GMT

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

Come In From The Cold

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 08:13:48 GMT

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."

Unknowable

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 20:33:13 GMT

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

Hmm

Tue, 24 Feb 2009 07:31:22 GMT

Journal,

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

What am I doing?

Get back to me sometime,

-Zanik

Lost

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 15:55:34 GMT

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

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 01:52:01 GMT

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.)

Free

Sat, 14 Feb 2009 23:04:56 GMT

The echo of footsteps bounces along the halls of the Undercity as Ezekiul follows the dwindling trail of fire left behind by his imp minion. Peering around the corner of a wagon, his gaze falls upon the sleeping figure of Zanik. His project, his masterpiece, his son. As the necromancer kneels beside the prone figure, inspecting the symbol carved nearby by his imp, his mind begins to wander. All the mistakes... all the plots, the plans, every action he'd taken since the day he killed his son had led to this moment.

Drawing a knife hidden among his robes, the necromancer traces a line along one of his palms and let the ichor seep out onto the diagram. A purple glow gently suffuses Zanik as his father taps into his soul. A cascade of raging fire floods into his mind, nearly overcoming his defenses. Where...

Ah, there. His gaze locks on to a slight discoloration in the fire. A flame within a flame, the color of blood... yet compared to the raging inferno around it, this small blaze was calm and somehow gentle. It's position set firmly in his mind, Ezekiul began his spell.

Zanik woke with a start, his mind drifting up from a comfortably deep sleep. My mind...? He stood on shaking legs, supporting himself by leaning against a nearby wall. His gaze swept his surroundings. Yes, he was where he fell asleep at... of course. But on the ground, at his feet, what once may have been an intricate design lay smeared along the cold floor. He tried to think... and to his amazement, he succeeded. His mind didn't wander, nor did it draw blanks. Memories didn't flood him, but instead gently washed over him. His father, his mother, his origins. But somehow, he didn't feel angry. He was upset, for sure, but the horrible burning that he expected to rise up in his chest did not come. Just normal, natural, plain old anger.

"Curious..."

Live

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 19:10:53 GMT

Footsteps echoed off the cursed stones. Blood red light washed over them as the robed figure walked. The stone in his hands flickered and pulsed with an unholy life. Yes, that was the best word to describe what the stone held. Life. He would know, of course. The stone in his hands was a result of his experiments, after all.

The bald forsaken marched through the twisting maze of corridors with a purpose, his skeletal jaw set in it's eerie grin. His eyeless face held an expression of triumph; he had gained both the parasite AND a host body. Ahead, a faint green light could be seen coming from a doorway set in the corridor's stones. He turned into the room and surveyed the occupants.

A vast, rectangular room stretched out before him. His three most loyal acolytes busily darted around the laboratory, checking test-tubes, measuring liquids, and comparing notes in hushed whispers. As their master entered, they stopped and turned toward him, bowing deep at the waist. He waved his free hand dismissively and they went about their work again. At the far end of the chamber, a slab of black stone was being crowded by a number of animated skeletons. The body secured to the slab was what interested him most.

A filthy stench akin to rotting meat and dead animals wafted past him as he approached, though he knew it did not originate from the cadaver strapped to the slab. A human that could be best described as a walking plague snapped orders at the skeletons. His gloved hands held a pair of massive tongs, which in turn held something in the fires of a furnace. A pair of skeletons worked the billows, while another pair hastily filled a bucket with water. The man's diseased and pockmarked face was drenched in sweat, giving him an even more unhealthy look.

At the robed forsaken's approach, the smith bowed his head and the skeletons bowed at the waist, which drew angry scolding from the smith. "I trust all goes well?" The robed man wanted to know. "The time is almost nigh."

Staring into the fire of the furnace, the smith gave a slight nod, then jerked his head in the direction of the slab. "We did what yer asked. Cut tha hair wher yer said, dug out 'is eyes, blackened what were left o' 'is hair..." The robed man nodded, returning his gaze to the corpse on the table. Possibly a handsome man in life, the face of the cadaver had suffered through some minor decay, and his eyesockets were void of eyes. His chest held a horizontal scar right over where his heart would be; something had passed between the ribs at an angle and pierced him. His head was crowned with a shaggy black mop, though some of it had been cut away.

The robed forsaken inwardly smirked at the irony of it. He had pulled the parasite from Zanik, only to place him into a body that looked exactly like Zanik. He had the body of Zanik's brother excavated for this sole purpose. A little tweaking and the twin of the knight looked the part perfectly. The final touches were to be made very soon.

The robed man cleared his throat. "It is time. I trust it is ready?" The smith grunted and withdrew the tongs. They gripped a work of art the robed man prided himself on. Two oval metal bands welded together at two points. On the underside of this one, runes and symbols of death and destruction were raised. The initials "E.B." glowed at where the bands met at one point. The smith, working as though his life depended on it (for it likely did), cautiously slipped the bands over the head of the body, which was being lifted by the skeletons that worked the billows. The bands slipped over it's head without touching anything, just as the robed man predicted.

A barked order brought the second pair of skeletons forward, bearing a bucket of water. As they poured it over the heated metal, cooling it, it shrank the rest of the way to the body's head, fitting perfectly over where the hair had been cut. The smell and sound of sizzling, burning flesh filled the air, but nobody present seemed bothered by it. Steam rose from the metal as the last of the water was emptied onto the cadaver's head, setting the bands firmly into his head, the runes on the underside burning their way into the skull permanently.

"You've done well." Ezekiul praised the smith. "One of my followers will retrieve for you your payment. You may leave now." Dismissed and satisfied that he still lived, the smith hurried away. The necromancer turned to the body, appraising his work. Indeed, except for the differing scar, the body now looked eerily similar to Zanik. The hand that clutched the glowing gem reached over and placed it upon the scar. The gem evaporate, and it's light sank into the chest of the body.

Fingers twitched, limbs jerked. The body in it's entirety shivered and convulsed, then fell still. Two thin red lines formed in the eyesockets. A moment later, they snapped over, a pair of orbs formed from blood-red fire gazing out into the world. A steady stream of fire gushed from the previously empty eyesockets. Kinaz turned his gaze toward the necromancer. "Give me... a sword."

Rip

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 03:47:58 GMT

Green electricity crackled through the heavy air of the darkened corridors as a pulse of sickly green light shot through them. Where the light touched, intricate runes and letters glowed upon the walls, and as the light moved on, the revealed markings faded with it. Whether the runes crawled along the walls along with the light, or were always there but only revealed by the light, could not easily be discerned.

Another wave of light pulsed along the walls, floor, and ceiling. The strange emerald light held a disturbing quality to it. It felt tainted, vile. Corrupted. The scrawling the light revealed upon the wall seemed to hiss their meaning, and while the corridors were illuminated by the passing light, the cramped passageways felt somehow darker, as though the light twisted and mutated the stones, warped the air; as though the light itself was a malevolent presence.

The source of the radiating luminescence justified these descriptions. The room was relatively small, and held no furnishings or windows. The entirety of it's floor was dominated by a circle, within which a complex pattern was painstakingly drawn. The sharp scent of blood hung in the air; were the design not glowing a vile green color, it would be easy to tell that it was drawn with blood. The circle held four key points on it's circumference, as a compass; north, south, east, and west.

Candles of black wax burned on certain spots in the design, their green flames adding their light to the strange glow of the blood. Five humanoids occupied the glowing room, four of which sat at the key points on the circle. Two small, thin figures took up the positions of east and west, their fingers tracing signs in the air above twin candles. Green lines hung in the air where their fingers carved it, and when they had finished with one, they would flatten their palms against it. A wave of the disgusting light pulsed from the design on the floor and crawled it's way out of the room's single exit. The pair paused briefly before working in unison to carve the air once more.

While the dark-robed figures kneeling on the east and west points of the design were slim and small, the hulk that squatted on the southern point was unmistakably tauren. His hood could not cover his jutting snout and horns, as well as the braids hanging at either side of his head. His thick fingers were balled into fists at an odd angle, clutching two invisible objects; a green glow suffused his palms.

At the north point kneeled an unremarkable looking undead man. His hood was pulled back to reveal a bald head, shining in the green light. A ragged ponytail made up what little hair he had left, and his jaw was locked in a perpetual, skinless, skeletal grin. His empty sockets leered at the figure in the center of the circle. The four robed figures all chanted in a harsh, demonic tongue, with the undead man leading them in a commanding tone.

Slumped in the center of the design was the fifth occupant and the only one not wearing a robe. In fact, the Forsaken man wore little more than tattered trousers, his feet and chest bare. A jagged scar arced across his chest, starting just below his right shoulder and ending just above his left hip. A shaggy mop of black hair crowned his head, and a pair of metal bands were burned into his head. His eyesockets, like the undead in front of him, were empty. His ankles were firmly shackled to the floor. His wrists, while not secured in a similar fashion, looked as though they were being gripped by two large, three-fingered hands. Two glowing initials were carved where the bands met on his face. The letters "E.B." were impossibe to miss, being highlighted with the same vile light the design sported.

Zanik was out cold, or in a similar state. On his knees, his chin on his chest, his limbs were limp and he made no struggle against his bonds. The undead on the north point of the design grinned as he chanted. His bony hand reached over to tear the right-arm sleeve from his robe, tossing it away. A wicked, serrated dagger appear in his left hand, and as the chanting grew to a thunderous din, the blade swept down.

If the robed undead felt any sort of pain, he made no sign of it, his booming voice never faltering. Runes and symbols were carved into the flesh of his arm, what passed as his blood leaking down in a steady stream. As the drops of lifeforce fell from his hand, they hit an invisible barrier, and as more of the precious fluid fell, something began to take shape. The outline of a large, clawed hand came into existance as the blood smeared across it's invisible surface, it's fingers twitching to mimic that of the undead man's right hand.

The chanting voices grew ever louder, as it now seemed a multitude of other voices, some distorted as though by swollen throats, some sounding demonic in origin, were chanting along with the four robed figures. The undead man drew his right hand back, the runes glowing. The disembodied demonic hand followed. A malevolant look overcame the usually-calm expression of the undead, and as the words echoed around him, he plunged his arm forward.

What followed could be considered the stuff of nightmares. The demonic, blood-lined hand plunged through the chest of the chained Forsaken, though no physical wounds could be seen. All at once, the green glow of the design shifted into a glaring, angry red. The acolytes on the east and west points flattened there palms and held fast, as though keeping back a great force. The countless runes along the walls and ceiling, once only visible in the passing green pulses, flared to life in the same fashion the design did.

Zanik was lifted from his knees and seemed suspended in the air as the robed undead pulled with all his might. His mouth opened in a wail of unbelievable torment, and the tauren on the south point strained to keep his grip on glowing bands. Zanik's cry of agony took on new levels as the demonic hand began to leave his chest, a blood red silhouette of Zanik leaving with it. The hand gripped something imbedded in the silhouette's chest. Hurricane winds bellowed about the acolytes, drowning out the chanting.

WIth one last pull, the robed undead tore the hand from Zanik's silhouette, which sank back into Zanik, who slumped back onto the floor. The angry red glow of the design died out instantly, as did the glow of the runes upon the dark stones. All went silent, and darkness flooded the room. The single light in the room was cast by a pulsing, blood red glow streaming between the fingers of the robed undead. It bathed his face in it's light, and his followers could see his triumphant grin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Alternate~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Zanik blinked in the bright sunlight several times before realizing what he was doing. He sat up abruptly, then plopped back down, gripping his head. His vision swam, and after a minute he sat up again, albeit far slower. He gaze drifted first along his body; it was whole. He stared down at the tanned, living skin of his hands, and felt his face. No bands. Eyes. Warm skin. He glanced over his shoulder and groaned. A windmill towered behind him.

Rising to a stand, the knight took in his surroundings; the familiar endless plains of grass, buffeted by a gentle breeze. The cloudless, sunless, summer-time sky. He shielded his eyes with a hand, though he had long ago ceased wondering why there was sunlight without a sun. Somewhere on the horizon, he could make out a small shadow.

Squinting his eyes, his gaze on that far off shadow, it took him a moment to realize it had vanished. A moment, and a light tap on his shoulder. Nearly jumping out of his skin, Zanik leapt forward and spun, glaring at the all-too familiar figure before him. After all, it was like staring into a mirror. The undead man wore pitch-black, spiked plate armor, and his grinning face was an exact copy of Zanik's real visage... though this phantasm sported two leering orbs of fire as eyes. "Fancy meeting you here," Kinaz grinned.

Zanik took a step back, his hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Settle down, meatbag." The phantom's grin instantly faded, replaced by a disgusted sneer. "I'm not here to fight you. Not right now, anyway." At his living counterpart's look of bewilderment, Kinaz made a vague motion toward the sky. "I'm getting out of this wretched hole."

The living among the two followed the dead's finger, and instantly wished he didn't. The sky distorted off in the distance, reality bulging outward toward them. A moment later and the bulge tore, a blood-red hand that looked like it belonged to a dreadlord reaching out. It's clawed fingers closed, and Zanik realized that the phantom was slowly disappearing. No, disappearing wasn't the word; the knight recoiled as the phantom's left arm began to burn away, the ashes sucked away into the grip of the demonic hand. While Kinaz looked unperturbed, Zanik felt as though his insides were catching fire and his arm were being ripped from it's socket.

"Don't die, now..." Kinaz mocked him. "I'm not through with you. Not by a long shot." His jagged, ear-to-ear grin returned. "I'm free now, you see... you can't push me down anymore. The world is mine to paint red with blood." His legs succumbed to the crawling flames and it was all Zanik could do not to black out. "Don't get cocky, though..." The phantom's grin somehow grew wider as his torso was devoured by the hungry flames. His neck slowly burned away, and as his head followed suit, he spoke again. "I was the least of your proble..."

As the last of Kinaz melted away and Zanik slowly sank into the darkness of unconsciousness, the ashes of the phantom coalesced into a small red gem in the palm of the hand. Said hand withdrew from the mindscape, the hole in reality resealing behind it, leaving the twitching knight to his restless slumber.

Deal

Tue, 11 Nov 2008 06:56:02 GMT

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.

Steal

Mon, 10 Nov 2008 19:17:51 GMT

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.

Meditate

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 08:41:44 GMT

Zanik glanced to the two shades that stalked after him and his wife. He couldn't tell their intentions, but they were a welcomed change from the blank, milky stares he had been receiving the past few days. He felt strangely reassured with them nearby. As he felt his body relax for the first time in days, he turned his focus inward. With the plague mostly contained, he felt he had little to worry about.

As his consciousness slowly slipped inward, the world around him faded away, replaced by fields of vibrant green grass, rolling hills and a comforting, blue sky above. He glanced over his shoulder; sure enough, the windmill was there. His cursory glance didn't catch the jagged crack hidden in the shadows of the towering building. His gaze instead focused on a distant figure. He felt it's gaze even from what felt like miles away... a familiar burning sensation springing forth from his heart. Gathering his courage, Zanik set off in the direction of the vague figure with the hateful red eyes, far far in the distance.

Things

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 23:04:16 GMT

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.

A Fear That Comes And Goes

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 00:12:16 GMT

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.

A Fear That Boils

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 14:53:28 GMT

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.

A Fear That Festers

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 21:05:52 GMT

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.

Nightmare

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 13:00:04 GMT

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.))

Time

Wed, 06 Aug 2008 04:20:41 GMT

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

---

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 02:24:20 GMT

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."

((Standing))

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 07:13:30 GMT

Vloek cried out as his left arm was torn from him by the traitorous necromancer Ezekiul. His remaining hand gripped the bloody stump, his entire arm severed by dark magics just above the elbow. His orange glare burned into the dark mist the necromancer hid behind. How he thought this blight upon existance could grant him power, he did not know. The mist parted a second time, Ezekiul's grinning face coming into view, and before Vloek could react a second bolt of vile energy tore his right leg out from under him.

The shaman's vision darkened as he collapsed, his mind retreating elsewhere to escape from the agony. Vloek... son... His clouded mind cleared and he found himself standing upon an icy cliff in far-off Northrend, whole and bare. Ahead of him, an aged troll couple sat side by side on a white bear pelt. Vloek recognized the shaggy white mane of his father and the eerie blue skin of his mother. Both long deceased. "What..."

Time to come home, Vloek.
Vloek's brow furrowed. "I cannot. I have stained my soul! I have lost my place among our ancestors..." His Drakkari dialect came smooth to his tongue despite having not spoken it for what felt like ages.
Vloek... you are forgiven. Die standing, my son. Come home. Vloek's father turned slightly, his blind gaze somehow fixing upon his son's eyes.

Vloek stirred despite his gushing wounds. Thunder roared overhead, the darkened sky suddenly alight with charged energy. With a fierce howl, the dying shaman stood upon his one leg and reached toward the heavens. Bolt after bolt of lightning struck his outstretched hand, the crackling energy condensing into a massive ball which enveloped his hand and suffused him in a purifying white light. His eyes blazed with static power and with one last roar, he sent the energy swirling toward the shocked necromancer.

Ezekiul barely managed to conjure a bone wall in time to stop the blow, his raised left hand still left marred and useless from the lightning. Two spears of darkness ripped through the smoke and pierced Vloek's heart though no visible wounds were made. As the life slipped from his blank gaze and his soulless body fell back, an icy wind rolled past.

In the distant afterlife, Vloek sat beside his father and mother, cleansed of the shadowy blotch that stained his soul at last.

Rise or Fall?

Wed, 21 May 2008 12:30:07 GMT

Not long after Tabetha was 'defeated' by Loche's plot, two figures descended from the sky above Westfall, landing beside a small copse, the smaller figure dismounting from the larger figure and stumbling toward the barren trees. Zanik gripped the trunk of the tree tight, his fingers digging into the bark as he groaned. Zaronaku observed from a fair distance away, unsure whether he should comfort his companion or flee. A low, guttural, almost unnatural growl rose from Zanik's throat, and Zaronaku launched into the air, content that if he stayed much longer, a confrontation would ensue.

Thoughts and emotions coursed through Zanik's body, as tangible as the armor he wore. At the forefront of those emotions was one he was quite familiar with; hate. Hatred slithered through Zanik's veins like blood, setting one of his empty eye sockets alight with a hellish, unnatural fire. This was a subconscious method for Zanik's body to vent out his boiling hatred, but at this point, it did nothing to ease his raging mind. Such was his hatred, that the entity that had once been a part of Zanik surged up from the depths of his soul to grapple with him for control. His hands flew to his head and he reeled backwards, howling in torment...

~Deep within Zanik's mind...~

The once-peaceful stretch of plains that served as the warrior's mindscape was ablaze in the same fire that pumped through Zanik's veins. Zanik's mental manifestation sat in the midst of the flames, observing as the distant windmill slowly smoldered. A heavy black cloak was draped about his shoulders, and his trusty sword was gripped in his hands as though letting go could kill him. He turned his head to eye a bright patch of flame that sprung to life nearby, and his eyebrows lifted in shock as the flames cleared away.

The representation of Zanik's anger, greed, paranoia, and sorrow stepped forth from the charred spot. His armor was similar to Zanik's though his posture and height suggested a more human look to him. Such suggestions could not be taken, however, when one's eyes trained on the fiend's head. His facial features were a mirror image of Zanik's face, the E.B. etched into Zanik's metal face-bands backwardly chiseled into the fiend's own face-bands. His entire skull was conflagrant, the oily red flames the same hue as those that burned the plains and sky around him. The eye-sockets of the fiend were nearly engulfed in two orbs of hatred-made-physical, and a toothy, ear-to-ear grin stretched the skin of his cheeks to the limit.

Clasped in both of the rage-fiend's hands were two copies of Zanik's sword. The twin Lionheart Executioners were painted black, the trim a bloody red, and the eyes the same crimson. The gems set in the hilt and pommel of the jagged lengths of metal were stained black, the center of each smoldering with it's own primal ferocity. Zanik unsteadily stood, grasping his sword and holding it at the ready for all he was worth. His empty gaze bore into the fierce glare of his own hatred, a silent challenge exchanged between the two. The battle was joined, and the rest is history.

Daul's Log

Tue, 20 May 2008 12:21:04 GMT

Day 1 - Enchanting stores managing well. Should be able to work my way up to substances from Outland.

Day 2 - Starting to run out of dream dust. Essences fairing well, though.

Day 3 - Dust is gone. Essences slowly draining away too.

Day 4 - Ran out of gold to buy materials with. Forced to beg for money on the streets.

Day 5 - Enchanting materials completely gone. Wallet empty. Hallucinating.

Day 6 - Vision blurring. Thoughts melting together. Can't write good.

Day 7 - I see gray.

~All of this seems to have been written on the same day. On the back of the page...~

Day 1 - Woke up naked in an alley covered in vision dust. Found clothes being used as blankets for naked female wretched nearby. Stole clothes back. All is well.

To Forget

Fri, 16 May 2008 05:41:44 GMT

A new journal... where to start?

I left the Sidewinders today. I imagine the majority of members won't notice my absence, and the ones that ~~do I could care less a~~

Labrae and I still don't know when or where the wedding will be. Maybe near our new home in Westfall... maybe.

I spoke with Vivimord last night too, on Sylvanas and the Apothecarium... of Varimathras and the Burning Legion. Of a hope for the better future. He isn't as bad as I thought he was, but the way he handles things... I don't know. Dirty politics and underhanded tactics.

My beloved Labrae seems to enjoy the prospect of becoming an example for the future. The world will one day see, I think, the life we are making for ourselves... whether we want it to or not.

I had that dream again. Wouldn't it be great if I could fly?

That's all for now,
Zanik

((Crap))

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 04:45:29 GMT

((Please note, all this is not canon. It hasn't happened, it probably never will.))

Northrend. The once-howling wasteland had grown eerily still as of late. A heavy, bone-chilling fog settled into the majority of the continent and the sky (when it could be seen) was equally bogged down with clouds thick with precipitation. The whole of Northrend took on a quiet, lonely, graying look for the coming event.

Zanik trudged through the ankle deep snow that marked a thin path through the foggy wilderness. The snow itself was a darker gray than the waist-high banks on either side of the path—this was a path well traveled, though at that moment it was very empty and especially forlorn. The bitter Forsaken, clad in fur-lined armor of a metal native to Northrend and a heavy cloak to protect against the cold, looked equally as forlorn as the path his boots traversed. Zanik had lost everything somewhere along the line- his loves, his families, his assets, his honor… everything. He was little more than a walking husk, his only goal a strange pull to a destination he did not know. Even the thrill of slaughter had left him.

It was many a day of long marching before Zanik came upon his destination. Half of the time he spent was on that awful, endless road to nowhere… the second half being a more perilous route through wind-swept tundra and ice-capped mountains. The scene he’s come upon now is quite a bit more tranquil than what would be considered the norm of Northrend. In front of him stood a circle of trees, sporting bushy, leafy tops. Each individual tree’s leaves were a different color of the rainbow: Red, Orange, Yellow, White, Green, Blue, and Purple. In the very center stood a tree with paper white bark and pitch black leaves.

As Zanik entered the circle of trees, he spotted a figure leaning against the center tree. The pale, emaciated man wore dirty black robe that hung loosely from his boney form. His face bore many unhealed cuts and ritualistic scars, his jaw completely bare of skin and tissue, setting his expression into a permanent skeletal grin. Ezekiul had fallen on hard times as well; his experiments all failed, his servants abandoned him, his wealth all but gone.

No words were exchanged between the former rivals, old master and freed servant. Nothing need-be said; both knew they had been led there by some unseen pull, a longing deep in their very core. As Zanik glanced at each tree in turn, his eyes fell upon the red-leafed tree. Almost without thinking, he took his place beside the tree, as if he was meant to be there all along. Yes, he thought to himself… he belonged here.

Little time passed before the next one arrived. Ragged and pale of face and hair, Daul lurched into the circle, his heavy robes draped across his frame. Crouched so low as to almost crawl on all fours, the mana-hungry fiend glanced with dim, lifeless eyes between the other two attendees, then around himself at the colorful trees. Soon his gaze fell upon the tree with the deep, dark blue leaves, and before long he was resting beside it, his gnarled hands clutching its bark as though he would float away if he let go.

Next to stumble upon the circle was Zurtris, the bald and unassuming priest. His elaborate garb kept surprisingly immaculate throughout his trek across Northrend from parts unknown and his baring as bumbling and clumsy as ever, the priest had nevertheless undergone a change in the passed years. No longer optimistic and happy, his mood had become dour and frank, his opinions never softened with the feelings of others kept in mind. The white-clad dead man immediately took his place beside the white-leafed tree, staring off into space as if viewing some distant event.

Following behind Zurtris was Nish, a Blood Knight loyal to Silvermoon and his people. Of those gathered at that endplace, he was the one least changed by his journey through life. Ever the cold, calculating guardian, his near robotic behavior could very well be what kept him sane (and alive) through the many trials and tribulations his people had gone through. Calculating each step, Nish ponderously took his place to the right of Zanik, at the orange-topped tree.

Ehakam entered from Zanik’s left, his fur unkempt and dirty. His mane had grown untamed through his many years of travel, many fangs and skulls (often from creatures bizarre and otherworldly) interwoven with his meter-long braids and shaggy mane. His eyes were milky white, his sight struck down by a disease. Truth be told, his natural end would have come within the year. But that is a story for another time. With an uneven gait, the blind druid grasped the bark of the purple-crowned tree.

A hulking, shaggy, translucent wolf followed close behind the blind tauren, perhaps having lead him for some or all of their journeys. The wolf’s clear blue eyes scanned the assembled party before falling upon the tree sporting yellow leaves. As the canine padded toward the tree, his fur dropped away and dissipated, his figured shifting and changing, until an aging troll stood before the gold-crowned monument. Stark white hair cut a line down the center of his head, and his short, yellowed tusks sported a number of tribalistic carvings and shrunken skulls. His garb was simple, consisting of a leather kilt with a number of fist-sized scales sewn into it. A native of the icy continent, Vloek seemed unperturbed by the bone-chilling atmosphere, even while shirtless.

A heavy thundering sound signaled the arrival of the last, followed by a dull thud just outside of the circle. The clinging fog hid whatever large creature had originally arrived, but a tall and lanky elf strode into the circle before any of the members could venture out to check. Sporting a crimson shock of hair and sideburns, the stern-looking elf eyed those gathered with some measure of disdain. He looked dressed for battle, an elegant suit of shimmering green scalemail adorning his lanky form. Strangely enough, no weapons were on his person. Zoran filled the empty space in the circle beside the trunk of the tree sporting the more natural green canopy.

“The circle is complete,” wheezed Ezekiul. Zanik glanced at his former master, taken by surprise by the sudden spring of conversation. The necromancer continued. “We have come to the end of all places, of all times. We travelers, long treading the lone road, destined to lose everything loved and unloved, have answered the final call. The time is now.” The dark magi turned and placed his bony hands upon the white trunk of the center tree, a dark glow surrounding his spindly fingers.

Ehakam was the first to do the same, a rich purple shine enveloping his calloused hands. Vloek, Zoran, Daul, Nish, and Zurtris followed suit, each one becoming encased in a glow of the same color as the leaves of their respective trees. Zanik, however, hesitated. His life and unlife slowly creeped past his vision. Had all he gone through been for naught? For nothing? Was it all just used to fill in the blank between his birth and this moment, right now? Anger seeped through the cracks in his mental shields, those barriers he had long since stopped reinforcing around his core. Red fire sprang to life in his empty eye sockets… and elsewhere, too. Little holes in his face started leaking the angry material, and soon his entire body was dripping with malice. He could not resist the pull in the end, though… his palms pressed firmly against the trunk of his tree, his maw opening in one last howl of anguish.

And then there was nothing.

Somewhere, somehow…

“It’s sort of pretty,” said she, her voice music to his ears. He tilted his head at her, his crimson eyes scanning her shadowy orbs for some kind of explanation. She simply smiled. “Well it is.”

They both turned back to gaze at the horizon. A rainbow of colors pulsed far, far way, slowly building in size. On that lonely hill, surrounded by miles of grass with only a windmill to break the endless expanse, the two sat hand in hand, watching the world fade away. The aurora swirled and pulsed, spilling over the horizon and creeping across the plains. Zanik smiled.

“It is.”