|
|
Post by Archivist~Alabaster on Feb 15, 2006 17:41:03 GMT -5
Writer: Verrine, Horde, Forsaken Warlock
Archiver: Alabaster
Prologue
********
All souls return to the Twisting Nether, that void from which the spark of life springs forth. In the beginning, the young soul breaks free of the arcane tempests. Falling into the world, the soul takes on form. He burns brightly, illuminating all that lies before him. But this shall pass. What an irony that the very beauty, the spark, that is the soul, consumes his form! As the candle withers, so does the strength of the flame. After reducing himself to cinders, the soul limps back to the Nether. It’s fierce winds strip the soul of its memories, of its past. Over time, the soul regains its strength and again departs the void.
Thus is the cycle of life.
But, within this storm lives a race that has existed since the Nether’s beginnings. They feed off the Nether’s streams of magic, following its currents.
They are known as demons.
And from time to time, they have been known to play a hand in the cycle of life.
~From the journals of Anthony Verrine
|
|
|
|
Post by Archivist~Alabaster on Feb 15, 2006 17:41:38 GMT -5
Writer: Verrine
A warlock understands the importance of a name. A name bestows upon a form identity. Tree. Water. Fire. In essence, behind the words lies our very nature, our very being. Once a name has been given to someone or something, one can recognize that form. That recognition brings power. For once you possess a form’s name, you exercise control over it.
This law is crucial in our magics. The demon is brought into our realm through the use of its name and he is bounded to the warlock’s service through his name as well. Even these powerful beings are at the mercy of this simple law.
That is why the warlock ritual of naming is central to our cabal. Through a new name, we protect ourselves from becoming victims of those who serve us. If the servant ever learns his master’s name, woe unto him, for the demon is so cruel, so merciless a creature, that he seek any opportunity to supplant his master.
However, the warlock has nothing to fear from his servants because they can be controlled. How ironic that the true reason why a warlock takes on a new name is out of fear of other masters, in other words, his compatriots!
~From the journals of Anthoney Verrine
The darkness of the chamber was held back by the flickering, emerald, light of a fel candle. The eerie light illuminated a series of circles, made of fragments of the demonic and old Kaldorei tongue, that had been chiseled viciously into the marble floor. In the center circle sat a hooded man, clothed in the blood-red robes of the warlocks. Silently, he mediated, his ravaged visage taut with an unnamed worry. For days he had sat there, memories and images passing before his eyes. Names and faces of men and women he once knew were strangers to him now. These memories were dead to him, provoking no laughter, nor regret.
The man remembered being on Dreadmist Peak. He had been trapped cornered. One of the attackers had already fallen. He was being strangled by the women. A pain from behind. Falling. A sword. More pain. The sensation of slipping away. Darkness. They had left him for dead upon that forsaken peak. His hand drifted to his mangled face, a wave of hate surged through him as his fingers felt the cold of the revealed bone.
The memory did not end there. Heat. Fire. These feelings broke the encroaching slumber. Like a moth, he fled to it, embracing and drinking it in. He awoke to find himself within these halls. The halls of Jaedenar.
A soft knocking stirred him from his thoughts. A human female entered his chambers, a felhound close behind her. The beast bounded in front of its master, its tentacles sniffing the air around him. With an ill look, the women glared at her servant, who whimpered and retreated back to her side.
“It’s time.” She whispered softly.
He nodded to her and rose to his feet. He reached for the worn leather satchel near him and slung it around his waist. The two of them walked through the labyrinth-like halls of Jaedenar, silent. On the walls hung the banners of the sects; the Burning Blade, the Searing Blade, and countless others.
“Have you chosen yet?” Her eyes looked at him with a hungry impatience.
“Yes.” The women flinched as he turned to look at her. Silence fell upon them again until they arrived at a great wooden door.
“Enter, my lord.” She pulled upon the mighty iron handle of the door and the cries of celebration swept over him. The frenzied joy was intoxicating, a withered smile played upon his lips. He began to walk to the altar at the center of the hall, where an old orc stood. He made his way past the mobs that lined the floor and the balconies and stopped to kneel before the old orc and the altar of bone. The old orc waved his decrept hand, making the hall fall silent.
“Brothers and sisters! We are united in celebration. For centuries, the Shadow Council has embraced those who dare to walk the path of true power. Master Gul’dan was promised by Lord Kil’jaeden power beyond imagination. Now, that promise is shared with all of you. Today, we welcome another into our pact, one who will stand in triumph among our numbers when we receive the Legion’s reward.”
The orc slowly moved to the altar.
“From the beginning, the blood of Kil’jaeden has bonded us to him and him to us.”
The orc took a bowl from the altar, holding it in his hands.
“You who wish to join our ranks, do you feel the burning of your passion?”
The man nodded. “With utmost zeal, my lord.”
“That is good. That shall give you endurance.” The orc dipped his thumb into the bowl and wiped the blood onto the man’s left cheek.
“You who wish to join our ranks, do you know the fire of your hate?”
The man nodded again. “It consumes me to the core, my lord.”
“That is good. That shall grant you power.” The orc wiped the blood onto the man’s right cheek.
“Lastly”, You who wish to join our ranks, do you know the blaze of pride?”
The man nodded once more. “I shall fall to the earth and scorch the lands, my lord.”
“That is good. That shall grant you victory.” The orc wiped the blood on the man’s forehead.
“Drink”
The orc held out the bowl. After a moment’s hesitation, the man took the bowl and drank its contents greedily. Once he was finished, he threw the bowl to the ground and rose to his feet. Proudly, the man pulled back his hood, revealing straw blond hair.
“Lastly, brother, what shall we call you?”
A wicked smile slowly grew upon the man’s face.
“You shall call me…Anthony Verrine.”
The orc bellowed and turned to the masses.
“All hail Verrine!”
Whispers broke the silence. The whispers grew louder and louder into a deadened chant.
“All hail Verrine…All hail Verrine…All hail Verrine”
The wicked smile grew larger.
Soon, Blyythe, soon…
Marcus Terpin is dead. Long live Anthony Verrine.
|
|
|
|
Post by Archivist~Alabaster on Feb 15, 2006 17:42:25 GMT -5
Writer: Verrine
The warlock has historically been an outsider, an outcast who makes empires tremble. Seeing a power outside of his control, the masters of the world recoil in fear and decry the warlock’s power as an usurpation of nature. They ascribe a moral condition to an immoral force. The teeming masses, the ignorant cows that they are, devour the rantings of their masters and deify this fear. Thus, we are spurned and reviled, pariahs.
However, these conceited masters will never be able to eradicate our brotherhood. For every soldier, peasant, and priest that these buffoons send against us, there is a convert to our cause. These beings are a rare breed. There is something in their soul that resonates in sympathy with our ways. Something primal, something universal.
And sometimes, that kindred spirit can be found in the strangest of places.
~From the journals of Anthony Verrine
***
She was an odd child. She never smiled, cold as the winter gales that shook the branches of Winterspring. The other children avoided her, never inviting her to their games amongst the forest glades of Ashenvale. The girl never seemed to mind. She preferred to pass her hours in the ruins. Her curiosity in the forbidden Elven past had earned her the scorn of the druid elders. But no punishment could contain her curiosity. The child would always return to the remnants of their fallen past.
The sweet breezes of autumn blew gently through the small home. The small child sat sullenly at the table as her mother placed her dinner in front of her. The girl recoiled at the plate of assorted roots and berries, prompting the mother to sigh in exasperation. The mother prepared her own plate and sat at the table alongside her daughter. She murmured a prayer to Elune to bless the meal before them. The child remained silent. Once she had finished the blessing, mother and child began to eat.
“Druid Leafwind told me that you tricked Alis and Xelynn today. He said that you led them into the ruins and left them there.” The mother said.
The daughter chewed darkly on a nut.
“He also said that the girls were lost for hours and barely made their way back to the village.”
The girl’s head sank.
“He’s lying.”
The mother sighed tiredly.
“Daughter, why would he lie?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. Alis and Xelynn deserved it. They were showing off their stupid garden.”
“Daughter, that is no reason to put them into danger. You should be happy for them that Elune has blessed them with such a gift.”
The girl’s eyes remained fixed on the floor, her voice a whisper.
“I hate them. They aren’t so great as they think they are.”
The mother’s voice rose in warning.
“You upset the goddess with such talk. Such contempt for her creations”
“I don’t care. I hate them.”
The mother rose and took the child’s plate. The girl left the table too and took a book from the bookshelf. A tense silence hung over the house.
BOOM.
A deafening roar shook the house to its foundations, throwing the mother and daughter to the ground. Outside, they could hear the faint crackling of fire. The mother stood first, cautiously making her way to the door.
“Daughter, stay here.”
“But Mother…”
“Do as I say, child.”
The girl pouted as the mother went outside. Pulling aside the shattered doorframe, the mother found a small, smoking crater outside. Carefully, she slid down the slope to its center. There rested a twisted boulder, smoldering from its furious descent. As she extended to her hand to touch it, a wisp of green flame lashed out at her hand violently. The mother recoiled and scrambled back up the slope. The daughter was waiting by the door.
“What is it, mother?”
“Daughter, we have to leave. Now.”
“But what is it?”
She seized her daughter by the hand and they ran together into the forest. The mother frantically hoped that she could make it to the town in time to warn the druids. The tree branches and roots themselves seemed to stand in their way, blocking their flight and tripping their feet. After an eternity, they reached the hill overlooking the town.
It was consumed in flames.
The daughter’s eyes widened in wonder. She pointed to the figures in the distance.
“What are those things, mother?”
“Those…are infernals, my daughter.”
Streaks of green plummeted from the sky and crashed into the ground. From these craters, the Infernals rose, bellowing in the night, smashing all that was in their sight. Green flames leapt off their body and set fire to the broken timbers. Smaller figures, wearing blood red robes, weaved their way through the wreckage, barking orders in the black tongue.
The Jaedenar had come.
The mother grabbed her daughter’s arm once again to flee. Their way stood blocked by hooded warlock, bent and disfigured. A twisted dagger was in his hand and a string of beads was in the other. He lifted the beads into the air, the scarlet stones twinkling eerily in the green light.
“Fernum, syhasurus!
The two stood frozen by the guttural, forbidden tongue. The forest rumbled and an infernal burst from its trees. Scorching the ground underfoot as it approached, the demon bowed before the fetish in the warlock’s hand. The twisted form extended the dagger towards its captives.
“Gornim los.”
The infernal bellowed and stalked toward its prey. The monster stopped in front of the mother and child and slowly rose its arm back into the air, poised to crush them into the ground. The mother screamed and threw her arms around her daughter. A piercing screech broke through the air.
“Artetis.”
The mother slowly opened her eyes. The infernal’s arm hovered in the air, as if blocked by the word itself. The commanding voice had not been the warlock.
It had been her daughter’s.
The mother understood now what her daughter had been doing in the ruins.
The warlock lowered his dagger and pulled back his hood. The mother gasped to see the face of a corpse but the daughter was un-phased. Slowly, the young girl proudly rose to her feet.
“Where did you learn to speak like that?” The warlock tilted his head inquisitively.
“In the ruins. I taught myself.” The girl confessed, a hint of eagerness in her voice.
“What a talented child. Did you enjoy what you learned?”
The girl nodded tentatively.
“Would you like to learn more?”
The girl’s eyes widened. Her nod was stronger.
The warlock smiled faintly and held out the scarlet beads.
“Then finish it.”
The girl began to walk towards the offered gift. The mother reached for her daughter’s hand but it slipped through her fingers. The girl took the scarlet beads from the warlock’s hand. She held them up to her eyes, a faint greed behind her wonderment.
“Do it.” The warlock commanded.
The mother saw her daughter smile for the first time, its cruelty distorting her graceful features.
“Gornim la.”
The infernal’s arm came crashing down.
***
The warlock watched the town burn in quiet satisfaction. The girl sat on his shoulders, squealing with delight as she played with his matted hair.
“What is your name, child?”
“Lyllin, what’s yours?”
“Anthony.”
“Anthony, there’s this garden and two girls…do you think…?”
“Of course.”
The girl giggled happily.
What a talented child.
|
|
|
|
Post by Archivist~Alabaster on Feb 15, 2006 17:42:59 GMT -5
Writer: Verrine
Intelligence does not necessarily equate power. Our rivals within the Kirin Tor are evidence enough of this simple truth. Holding knowledge is quite different from using it. Power only follows action.
Let us move to a more relevant example: the imp. A denizen of the Twisting Nether, the imp possesses an enormous magical potential. He is a font from which power flows. Naturally arrogant and filled with hubris, the imp is further inflated with self-importance. He believes himself an invincible force and, due to this confidence, responds to a warlock’s calls with little prompting.
However, this arrogance is the imp’s undoing. So confidant in his inherent talent, the imp falls into a lazy malaise. Ironically, one of the most powerful creatures in existence is, in truth, one of its weakest.
What a joy it is to see the unjustly proud humbled.
~From the journals of Anthony Verrine
A faint thrill ran through his bent spine. Everything was perfect, every detail attended to. The incantation had been engraved in his memory. The fetish had been carefully constructed, a small statuette made of bone. Once the summoning circles had been drawn, all of his hard work would come to an end.
Today, he would have his first servant.
Lyllin scurried about her work, adding the final details to the ornate calligraphy needed for the summoning circles. Verrine could not help but feel admiration for his young apprentice. Her mastery of the dark tongue rivaled his own and her youthful curiosity knew no bounds. She happily waited upon him, fetching required reagents for his magics and relieving his withered hands from the painful task of writing. Perhaps, someday, she would surpass him. Until that day, he would be her master.
Lyllin let out a squeal of triumph, leapt up, and skipped over to him. She handed him the bowl of black paint and the thin brush, which he placed on the table. Behind her unkempt hair, the young elf smiled happily.
"I finished, Uncle! Can I go out and play now?"
Verrine smiled and patted her head fondly.
"Of course. But don’t you want to see Uncle finish his work?"
"Ok!"
He took her by the hand and they walked into the center circle. Verrine reached into his worn leather pouch and pulled out the small statuette. He set the fetish before him, on the other side of the circle. The warlock looked down to his apprentice.
"Stay close to Uncle, Lyllin. You are safe as long as you remain within the circle. Do you understand?"
She nodded and stood back, her head peeking out from behind him. Satisfied that she would not interfere with the summoning, Verrine reached into his robes and withdrew his ashen wand. With the flick of his wrist, the wand shot a beam of violent light onto the fetish. The writings in the circle began to pulse with the same violet light. Lyllin gasped in wonderment as he began the incantation in the black tongue.
"I compel you forth, denizen of the arcane tempest, in the name of our lord, Kil'jaeden. May you answer his servant, who calls you forth in his name. Arise."
A shape began to form outside of the circle from the violet light. Malicious eyes glinted from its amorphous form. Its maw opened, issuing forth an earsplitting shriek. Lyllin screamed and hid behind his robes. The warlock flicked his wrist once more, sending a fierce pulse of violet light at the monster, forcing it to its knees.
"Assume a more pleasing shape, vermin."
The creature began to shrink in size and its fierce light began to dull to a drab brown. Out of the mass formed wiry arms and legs. The head took on shape, a cruel mouth of fang and bitter eye. Long, willowy ears fell down its back.
The warlock smiled faintly.
"Ah, there you are, finally."
The imp scowled and bared its fangs menacingly.
"Don't speak down to me, mortal." The little imp sneered. "You'll regret conjuring me forth."
Verrine let out a wheezy laugh.
"Oh, will I? What will you do? Gnaw at my ankles?"
The imp's scowl darkened and fire danced gracefully across its claws. With a high-pitched cry, flame threw from its hand. Verrine extended his hand, the bolt of flame snuffed out by shadow. The imp's face flushed crimson and lurched forward, screaming in anger. It leapt into the air, its bared claws outstretched. With an unnatural grace, the warlock pulled forth his staff and struck the imp, sending it crashing into the wall. The imp fell to ground, faintly whimpering.
Lyllin's head poked out from behind him.
"Is it over, Uncle?"
Verrine looked down and smiled faintly at the child.
"Almost, young one. Almost"
The smile left his face and he left the circles, walking towards the blubbering imp. He grabbed it fiercely by the neck and slammed it against the wall.
"Your name." The warlock hissed. "Give it to me!"
The imp moaned and continued to ball, tears streaming down its face. Verrine shook it savagely and slammed it against the wall again.
"Your name! I want your name!"
"Ab…Abanip" it whimpered.
With his free hand, Verrine drew out a knife from robes. The jagged blade nipped the arm of Abanip, catching several drops of blood. The warlock released his grip on the imp's throat, dropping him to the floor. Verrine placed the blade in his palm and clenched his hand around the blade, drawing his own blackened blood.
"My blood to yours. Your name is mine and I take all that it owns. Your blood to mine."
Verrine sheathed the dagger and walked over to the table. He took several strands of dirty linen and bandaged his hand.
"Rise, Abanip."
The imp, still blubbering, rose sullenly to his feet.
"What would you ask of me, my master? I am yours to command."
The imp fell to knees and bowed before him. Before Verrine could answer, he felt a faint tugging at the sleeves of his robe.
"Uncle, can I go out and play now?"
The warlock looked over to his new servant. A cruel smile grew on his withered lips.
"Of course, Lyllin. Take Abanip with you. He shall be your new playmate."
She giggled and grabbed Abanip by his long ears. Before the imp could protest, Lyllin pulled him roughly by the ears towards the chamber door, dragging him into tables and chairs as the imp tried to free himself from her grip. Even once the door closed, Verrine could still hear the imp's desperate screams echo within Jaedenar's halls.
|
|
|
|
Post by Archivist~Alabaster on Feb 15, 2006 17:43:16 GMT -5
Writer...me *stab*
Something had changed in the feel of the Demonwind. Some sense of whispers. A gathering was coming, a pulling of threads into a most interesting tapestry.
As other scurried about, as maggots upon dead flesh, tending, wondering, she simply waited. This new eternity awarded so many things. And the slow arrival of this new voice upon the wind was one silently waited for, not rushed or hated.
|
|
|
|
Post by Archivist~Alabaster on Feb 15, 2006 17:43:53 GMT -5
Writer: Yersinia, Horde, Forsaken Warlock
I knowin dis soundin silly, but...I gettin off da Zepp'lin las night, ya? An I sees joo sittin dere, jus starin off inta space. Creepy! I walk round joo mos carefully, I mus say. Dere someting powaful disturbin bout joo.
|
|
