Lightslayer and the Deathstalker

Puddles of blight dot the Southshore landscape, forming a sort of barrier against the living who might otherwise trespass. In recent months the Inn had become safe haven for a group of Forsaken, an assorted lot of undead who rallied under the banner of ‘The Bones’, more formally known as the Nexus. On a good many nights, the Inn seemed to thrive as if it were open for business once more: Forsaken filtering in and out as they conducted business and sought shelter.

On more than one occasion, the Inn served as a way point for troops on the road. Tonight, the Inn served was a way point for two Forsaken: a female Deathstalker, and a male Lightslayer. Both were veterans of a number of wars.  As they discussed matters of politics and religion, each paced the wooden tavern floor. Neither figure bore a name nor identifying marks, as both had fashioned themselves to be as generic and untraceable as possible. Faceless and nameless, both had distinct personalities and views.

The only thing that could break their concentration from the discussion at hand was the arrival of another, a third undead. A young Gilnean turned undead, the third man was but a common messenger that most Forsaken would deem a ‘shovel head’. Deathstalker and Lightslayer alike regarded the new arrival with the sort of wary contempt that their harsh lifestyles breed: who was he? Why was he here?

“Deathstalker….is there ah…..a Deathstalker Field Commander here?”, he’d mutter out. Without the benefit of a name, introductions and inquires were awkward. To this the Deathstalker stepped forward toward the messenger, her pose seemingly relaxed if only for knowing that the Lightslayer would easily address any threats as she played the role of bait. Just because someone was undead, did not make them a friendly force.

“I’m most likely the one you were sent here for. Why is it you are down here? What matters would press you to scurry out of our collective hole in the ground to favor the tavern?”, her words were offered in Gutterspeak. To the outsider, the words were horrific if not guttural sounds that bordered on the feral.

From the messenger there were no further words. He wanted nothing more than to deliver the paperwork, and be along his way. Once the messenger had departed from the Inn, the Deathstalker broke the magical wards on the paperwork and paused to review the missive at hand. It took her but a moment to review the order, and then lift her blind and hollow gaze to the pensive Lightslayer.

“It seems we shall need your services sooner than later. The Siege in Orgimmar is nearing its climax and with Garrosh’s fall we are the likely next target for the Alliance to home in on. It is time to go raise some new dead,” she would offer while walking over to the fireplace. There the paperwork was cast into the flames, and reduced to smoldering ashes.

To this the Lightslayer had little to say, their prior debate was over. Ever eager to join the fray, he simply awaited orders.

The Chair And Her Many Gifts (RP Story)

(Written with permission, knowledge, and consent from the other adult RPer that this scene features. This story is that of a scene that took place in the Undercity last night between Ban and a prisoner as a part of Dance Of The Dead.)

The Chair And Her Many Gifts

The capture and retention of Worgen had posed a variety of complications to the Forsaken. Painful trial and error had taught the Forsaken many lessons when working with the Worgen. The primary trouble being in that the beasts could easily shift forms and through such escape or destroy restraints. Having learned from their commonly fatal lessons, a variety of rather painful restraints had been developed over time: the most popular was a certain chair that sat in the depths of the Undercity Labs.

The trick that they had learned was to acquire a Worgen in human form, and restrain them in such a state. More so, insure that the restrains used on the limbs of the subject were strong enough so that if the person shifted into their larger and more dangerous bestial form, that the restraints did not give way, and would potentially crush bones.

From the lot of Prisoners fought and acquired in Pyrewood, Ban selected one. She did not want to select someone deemed vulnerable  weak, or a dishonorable target for what she had in mind.  Selected was a larger male who struck her as a sort of leader figure, Nicholas Graveshire. Nicholas was not retired to the prison cells, rather his still unconscious body was dragged down into the labs, he was sent to the chair.

Restrain after restraint was put into place, securing the unconscious human form to the chairs frame. Each restraint, a mixture of leather reinforced with metal that would lock the victims limbs in place at several key pressure points. Last, his head was pulled back, and secured in an upright position, jaw shut. When finally the work of securing the newest victim to the chair was done, those assisting with the task departed, leaving the Deathstalker to her work.

Within the labs, and specifically the laboratory, the tables surrounding the chair offered a dazzling collection of horrific tools. Most of these tools were not sterile, still befouled by previous victims or experiments. Some of the tools had been designed just for Worgen, others were re-imagined for Worgen. Ban’s personal favorite of the tools was a simple devise that was originally used by morticians: a sort of bolt gun used for wiring a mouth shut.

She’d grown tired of the threats, and banter of the prisoners and was no sooner inclined to listen to this new mutt bark at her than she was any others. More so, this method she had found was extremely effective at addressing the danger of Worgen bites. Holding the slender instrument in hand, Ban moved to claim a seat in the man’s lap, straddling his legs and facing him in a manner in which a lover might. This act was to be intimate, but if only to further leave him with a sense of violation. He would live, and he would be whole…but he would not forget her.

Pressing her body close to his, she reached forward to gently shift his upper lip, exposing the upper gum line. Pressing the guns tip to his upper mandible, she pulled the trigger, firing a fine metal anchor into flesh and bone. The resulting blinding burst of pain was his rude awakening. 

In full disregard for the now fully aware Worgen, she continued to her work. Under her, she could feel him starting to struggle. Each restraint was tested and pulled on, as he tried to turn his head away. Fresh blood was starting to pour from the anchor wound, bathing his front teeth, lips, and chin in crimson.

From the top, down she moved. Once more his lip was pulled back a bit with the application of force and the gun was pressed to his lower jaw at the root of his gum line. For a moment she lingered, letting his fear  build for but a few moment before once more she pulled the trigger and fired a new anchor through his lower mandible. Through clenched teeth he screamed with renewed pain.

Attached to the back of the instrument was a collection of metal wires for this much intended job. Ban selected a wire and then wired his jaw shut using the anchor points in his upper and lower mandible.

There. Now, so long as you behave I won’t have to add anymore,” Her words were spoken in common with a rather calm tone, she was pleasant if only to add further insult. He could only scream through his closed mouth, eyes clenched shut in pain. To this, she undid the restrains that originally held his jaw shut, just for such a task. When it came to the Worgen, the Forsaken had their torture down to a science.

It was now time to retire the gun, and so she slipped free from his lap and walked back over to the nearby table of tools. The bolt gun was laid down without cleaning, as she seemed to have difficulty deciding on what to use next. The truth was she knew exactly what would come next, if only to save the man’s life for further fun. The purpose of the faux delay was to give him time to move past the pain, and to look upon the depths of the Labs. There were many horrors to behold.

Too many who engaged in torture did so on an amateur level, crudely destroying the body with no appreciation for setting, layers of pain, mood, or emotion. Here and now, she had no intention on breaking his body. Physical wounds heal quickly, far too quickly with Worgen. This man’s case required a delicate and skilled hand, one that understood the nature of prolonged suffering.

To endure those coming days, much less the next few hours Nicholas needed to heal. The original fight in Pyrewood had been violent, and bloody. From the table, she selected a rather long tube. Returning to him, Ban gave pause and appreciate the defiant bloody snarl now etched on his lips. He was seething mad beyond the realm of logic, and in his state of pain he was a prime candidate for her games.

Once more she reclaimed his lap, pressing close and lingering if only to better stare him in the eye. Under her, she could feel his struggles now mingle with revulsion as if he wanted to all but crawl out of his own skin to escape the undead woman who was now taking disgusting advantage of the situation. 

With his mouth wired shut, paired with his blind hatred and distrust for the Forsaken she would be unable to feed him anything, at least willingly. This is where force feeding came into play. “For this, I advise you to co-operate, if only to reduce the possible complications and pain that you will suffer if you do not otherwise. When you feel a tickle or scratching in your throat, you should swallow.” To that, she unwound the tube, and pressed just the end of it to the tip of his nose.

“Between the threat of your bite and the fact that most of you refuse to eat while here, preferring to try and kill yourselves through starvation we have come up with this feeding system,”  though it was unseen, she was smiling under her leather face mask. The end of the feeding tube was tapped on the tip of his nose a few more times. Without a word of warning, or even the benefit of lubrication, she proceeded to then stuff the tube up into his nose.

This was a new kind of pain, that even a seasoned veteran of combat had never before experienced. From within, a new series of nerves were awakened as the passage of the feeding tube was forcefully working its way up through his nose, into his sinuses, and then down and into his throat and finally stopping nested within his guts.

By the time the feeding tube had been secured, he was panting with rage. A sort of shiver was building as he resisted the urge to release his fury. Every part of his being wanted to rip the undead woman before him apart. Over the years, he’d heard tale and rumor of the Forsaken’s machinations, and yet prior to now had been mercifully free of such cruelty.

Once more Ban retreated from his lap, leaving Nicholas to his suffering and dread. He’d watch her move about the room, noting the sure direction and movement of the woman’s step. He noticed she lacked eyes, or an upper face and now had to question as to how such a being functioned without any handicap. He’d also note that she seemed to favor an injury, and her armor bore heavy fresh patches and mends.

From the tables she plucked a collection of bags of ‘food’, and finally a health potion before eventually coming to a stop before a common Goblin made blender. The health potion was first poured out into the blender, and then each bag was opened and carefully dumped in. From where he sat, it was hard to initially make out the contents of each bag. It was by the second bag when the ‘food’ began to try and crawl out of the blender glass that he understood that the bags contained insects: cockroaches, maggots, and flies stripped of their wings. This is the food the Forsaken ate, and in turn offered their prisoners.

From this noxious combination a foul and gritty soup was made: the blender doing a fine job of obliterating it’s contents. Blender glass in hand, Ban returned to him once more. As the contents of the glass swished and swirled, Nicholas could already feel the bile rising in his throat.

“Mind that you keep this down, we need to heal those wounds and get a meal in you,” the truth was that she didn’t care if he listened. The moment fresh vomit hit those fresh anchor points in his jaw, would be when he learned to never vomit again.

This time, she would not claim his lap, knowing what was to come.

No sooner was she pouring the soup into the tube was Nicholas gagging. He tried once more to thrash himself free, wholly ineffective at even moving. The noxious mix was cold, and as the sludge began to move through him he could feel its creeping advance.

No sooner did the sludge begun to fill his stomach did a series of powerful contractions wrack his body: he had to vomit. The very moment that the fresh bile and foul concoction hit his mouth wounds he became painfully aware of the peril of vomiting. Through clenched teeth  he sputtered, trying to control the reaction while also trying to breathe. Not only was he in pain, but he also was in danger of asphyxiating. Through sheer will, and the primal drive to survive he suppressed the reaction and swallowed back his own regurgitation if only to be able to breathe.

Ban took this all in with callous disregard and trained patience. Nicholas was not the first Worgen she’d tortured, but he would be one of the few to survive.

When finally the contents of the blender glass was fully poured out did she step away, offering the top of his head an affectionate pat. “That’s a good boy, now if you just listen to my advice the next few days will go so much easier for you. I have quite a bit of gold on you surviving the Dance.”

My Mood Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxYGeTV6fCw House Of The Rising Sun, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dF-fKECmLQA Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

Let Them Run: Warrants Issued (RP Story)

Paperwork is one of the single greatest elements of her duties that Ban dreaded. Her duties as a field Commander were less than glamorous, and the fact that she lacked someone to push paperwork on her behalf was a firm reminder as to just where she sat in the pecking order of the Forsaken military. After Varimathas’ betrayal, the Deathstalkers had largely been gutted and stripped of their privilege and utility. Today, only a few Deathstalkers retained much in the way of pomp, and those individuals she personally regarded as gifted !@# kissers who knew how to manage politics more than a dagger.

Within the Undercity proper, she returned to the ‘Rogues Quarters’ and there settled in to handle the task at hand: warrants were to be issued. The gesture of these particular warrants was shallow, just a political mask for the bare minimum sake of legality for what was to happen. Quill in hand, she consulted a collective of Intel on various persons within the Alliance. Who would she damn? 

First removed from the list were the civilians, because they evoked too much of a bleeding heart complex and were not as fun to “judge”. The group of persons removed second from potential warrants were soldiers who were listed as aging, or too disabled to handle the game at hand. By the end of her sorting, Ban had a list of healthy soldiers in their prime, perfect targets to send a message with.  Quill in hand she began to write:

“ WANTED

To all whom it may concern,  following persons of the Alliance are here by marked as wanted for unlawful actions against Undercity, The Lady Sylvannas, and the Forsaken. It is preferential that they be captured alive to face trial for their misdeeds. 

• Sir Nicholas Graveshire, Commander of the Grey Hand: this bestial man stands accused of engaging in ambushes on Forsaken military and civilian targets in the Silverpine area. A variety of murders are credited to this man, he is considered dangerous.

• Talrendor Nightwhisper: This man stands accused of having slaughtered a member of the Royal Apothecary Society who was engaging in peaceful field research. He is also credited with the burning of research labs, and civilian locations. Approach with caution, considered dangerous.

• Elizabeth Longstead: This woman is wanted for her sabotage, and theft of medical supplies that were being sent to the war efforts in Orgimmar. Approach with caution. 

• Collar: This individual is only known by an assumed alias. He is wanted for the torture and dismemberment of a number of Forsaken, often killing Forsaken in a prolonged and exceptionally painful manner in a manner that implies he has the tendencies of a true sadist. Approach with caution, considered dangerous.

• Sir Alverdo Blackmoore: A known faithful of the Light, this man has killed Deathguards and Apothecaries in peace time. He has made use of the Light in combat to inflict special and malicious pain upon his targets. Those who survive are maimed, and endure long term suffering. Approach with caution, consult a Lightslayer if possible.

• Penthe: A bounty hunter who has taken claim to hunting Forsaken during war and peace time. Their targets include civilians and non-combatants. Approach with caution.

~Signed, Deathstalker Field Commander #1971U

The wording was simple and direct; there was no need for grandiose conjecture. Those who read the warrant would know its true purpose, and understand that this was just a small gesture that was a part of a far grander act. Those on the list were the desired game to hunt at the coming Forsaken festivities; The Dance Of The Dead. It would not take long for the warrant to circulate among the hands of the Forsaken, and in turn other members of the Horde….and finally perhaps even the Alliance. Her only regret was not being able to see the reactions of the Alliance when the hollow decree reached their hands.