Conquest of the Horde

-Endling-

Rays of sunlight steamed through the planks of the Zeppelin, dimly lighting the hold. Endling lay against the wooden floorboards, quivering as her still conscious mind rattled on.


Would she not wake? She had come so far, to have it end now. Was she damned to lay here, motionless and rigid, until she was simply interred like a corpse? Would they even be able to tell she was still alive?

Would they even care?


Endling awoke with a start, gasping and holding onto herself tightly, shuddering and shielding herself from the empty room. Slowly realization dawned upon her, as she lifted up her head to the silence of the docked vessel.


She had made it.

Slowly Endling made her way up onto her feet, wincing in discomfort as the still afflicted leg went rigid. From upstairs she heard footsteps, Krilari and Castella descending into the hold to help the others out, the still wounded Isadorian requiring the most, of course.

Endling gave the pair a nod, following on behind wordlessly.


Out from the zeppelin Endling found herself shielding her eyes, the bright sun above giving this land a beautiful golden gleam. She had been here before, though when failed her. Descending out from the anchored craft they made their way along the cobbled road, towards a grand red and golden gateway. Endling found herself greatly humbled amongst the grandeur of this place; it felt so out of place for her here.

The sheer scale of this place was intimidating. Grand figures of might and mysticism towered up high above her, their etched eyes staring down, as if judging this unsightly newcomer.

Endling hung her head low and timidly followed in. Silvermoon; that was the name. She remember faintly the visit before. She was in awe then, as well- Even if it had changed greatly now, it was still so magnificent to what had become her previous life amongst tortured soil and rotting wood.

Up ahead she heard the others speaking; plans and such, what they would do now that they were finally at ease.



What will you do?


She wasn't sure.She was not fit for this city and it's grandeur. She would not return to the Undercity; and she was fearful to attempt to return to the plaguelands. Nor did she really wish to.

Perhaps there was no place to go. Wandering would do then, perhaps, as she had done before.

"Take a seat, please."

Endling blinked, drawn out of her inner thoughts. Isadorian had been rested upstairs; the others had by now taken to relaxing in the room, eager to rest tired bodies. Almost without thinking Endling eased back into a nearby couch of sorts, closing her eyes and giving a sigh of relief as she felt the weight of her body alleviated amidst the silken cushions.


She could stay here for a time, perhaps.

Apparently this was retconned.

-Endling-

Endling entered into a tent on the grounds of the Argent Tournament, setting her cloak aside and holding herself tight, sighing.

They had just returned from a siege upon a Scarlet settlement, spearheaded by the Crusade; Endling had followed up into the cathedral itself, but had drawn back soon after. The whole place sent chills through her body- And the grandeur of the holy cathedral, though tainted by the Scarlet dogma, cast a veil of gloom over her as long as she had been within it.

She took a glance down to the manacles around her wrists, feeling over the Scarlet's insignia. She was grateful no one had been killed in this battle. Some had drawn close, and were certainly not aided by the mutinous Forsaken amongst the group, but reason had pierced through. It seemed many were quite willing to convert away, though indeed force was needed to bring them to this.

She had at least tried to remain close to Sir Dawnsend through it all, though- She knew better than to place her trust once more in any of them. The chains she wore now reminded her of that.


More concerning to her on the matter of trust, though, was something that had occurred even before coming to this cold, desolate land of the North. Tavren Black.

Endling winced, a chilling wind blowing outside, shaking the tent terribly. With a shaky hand she took out a quill and scroll of paper, took a seat on her cot.

Quote:Sir Black,


I know now what you are. I realize indeed that I have been misguided, both in my trust in you and my understanding of you. I know now, among other things, that you are both a warlock, and a murderer. You have taken many lives so far, and I do not fathom that you will not have taken more by the time of my writing.

Then again, I have yet to hear of your fate. I know only that Sir Windstrider pursued you, and that you were injured.

I do hope you are well, though. Despite what I know now, I do know there is at least a margin of kindness in you. And if I am wrong, and perhaps I am, then so be it. Ignorance of this, at least, will not harm anyone but myself.


I do wish you well, Sir Black. I only wish that I could do so with good faith that it is what is best for others, too.


My regards,
Endling

Endling sighed, folding up the letter to send tomorrow. Again, the chill! She shivered, bracing herself as the tent was battered again.

She put out her candle, and with another shudder pulled herself into her cot, staring up to the top of the tent through the sleepless night.

-Endling-

Endling arose to the battering wind, pulling up from her cot as the walls of her canvas tent shuddered from the gale. With some initial hesitance she pulled on her cloak, walking out from the tent and into the cold.

This place was quite different to her; blanketed in snow, devoid of life- Outside the tournament grounds, at least. The tournament grounds seemed to be a beacon amidst the dark wastes below, bustling with merriment and life. This beacon made things bearable for the crusaders here, she supposed- Otherwise they might simply be lost to the shroud of darkness even now still cast onto the glacier by the walls of Icecrown Citadel. From the point of the tournament grounds it was hard to believe that it was the plaguelands she had dreaded so, before. There had been, at least, a fleeting trace of hope in the dead grass and decaying trees- At least life had a semblance of having once existed there.

There was a sense of comfort, here in the tournament grounds, but as well there came over her a feeling of isolation. She saw people of all races about- Save, for the most part, undead. Why would she expect them to linger here, at any rate? She had no reason at all to supply, of course. Perhaps people asked the same questions of her- she was, after all, not naive to the skeptical eyes cast onto her.

You would be better off in the Gla-

No, none of that. There was no doubt that she was meant to be here, at least for the time. She remained with what was familiar to her, and at the moment the only thing she could say that of was her friends. The chapel may have sheltered her, but they brought her comfort. Inadvertently at times, in the case of Miss Castella.

The cold wind battered against the Tournament Grounds. She shivered, pulling her cloak close around her, deciding to seek some shelter from the cold.

It was better to be inconvenienced by just the cold than to be alone.


Her body ached still from the affront on the Scarlet harbor still; Regardless, she knew she would need to be ready for more come the night. Krilari's trial was to begin, and as far as she could tell she would likely be one of the only ones administering to the wounded. Still her palms were scorched from only the work of a night or so ago, and there was more already.

She would do this all happily enough, though. It was for them that she came to the frozen north in the first place; otherwise she would be laid into a chair in Silvermoon, with her weight off her shoulders.

The notion of it brought pause to her for a moment; She had been quite inactive lately, as it were. Such things weren't good for her, she knew- She would need to keep her focus if she would remain on the path of the Light.


Endling came before the shadow of the Argent Tournament's arena, and took a seat to wait for the others.

-Endling-

Endling set out from the Argent Pavilion, with no true destination in mind.

Upturned snow lay littered all about the ground outside of the pavilion, from earlier into the night- The great, lumbering prints of a proto-drake sat in the middle of the field, where Commander Duncan had taken flight from.

Things had been quite tumultuous throughout her stay on the tournament grounds. There had been battles against the Scarlets, the granted battle with the Scourge, Sir Dawnsend's trials, and a tournament. It was quite a bit for her to take in; luckily, not many had been injured throughout this entire series of ordeals. It was something she was hardly used to, though it was surely a welcome change of pace.


Endling looked up, leaning against her staff in the midst of the snow. While she hadn't quite got involved with all of the shenanigans about the camp at the time, there was a very rejuvenating feeling to it all. There was a true sense of progress, and a overall feeling of safety with the Argents. So much that she hadn't been called upon to heal in some time, for the larger part of things.

She glanced down to her bandaged hands- Singed, but not completely charred, for once. She smiled beneath her mask, flexing the digits a bit, able to 'feel' the light sparks of pain the recent light use had wrought. The pain still pulled at her- but it was faint. She had been able to relax here- and she could feel it.


Her bones shook, but no longer did they tremble ceaselessly at night. She felt chilled, but she was sure it was partly due to the Northern wind. She was no longer so afflicted with the simple weight of her shoulders- She hardly needed the support of her cierge, even. The worst she had worried about here was an angry human, even.

It all gave her a very pleasant, peaceful feeling within. She felt young, in a sense.

Then again, twenty-nine is hardly old.


Endling shrugged, wincing as a cold burst of wind cut through the tournament grounds. She shivered, bundling against her cloak and moving along to her tent.




And what do you plan to do now?

Endling flopped onto her cot with a lack of grace, grabbing up the pillow on it in a hug, bracing it as she shuddered from the wind's chill. Clearly, her path was now set for the Plaguelands.

Why?

Why was truly not much of a question to her, by this point. She had followed behind Sir Dawnsend this long- and the company of the Argents she found to be strangely soothing. Why would she not?

You can trust no one. You surely have learned by now.

The idea resonated within her; Twice, by now, she had been betrayed. It surely did not help that Sir Black lurked about the tournament grounds even now. She adjusted herself in her cot a bit, squeezing the soft linens with her arms, letting out a exasperated sigh of relief and contentment as her bones seemed to lull in their shaking, for once.

Perhaps she had been betrayed before; but Sir Dawnsend and his allies had never done anything to arouse even the slightest bit of skepticism. They were friends.

Like the Warlock.

Endling yawned, paying the nagging doubts in her head no mind. They prattled on, but she simply shut her eyes, falling into a dreamless, sleepless night.


Perhaps all will be well, indeed.

-Endling-

The cool northern air swept across the silent land of the Eastern Plaguelands. On the fields lay the remnants of the fallen; broken weapons, shattered armor, scorched and scattered bones. Though there was a moment of silence in this dangerous land, it was only fleeting. Amidst this war zone there was a building which, though decrepit and aging as it was, held still a breath of life. It sat isolated near the mountains, its stately frame holding fast against the elements still. Its windows smeared with dust and dirt, its door clawed and beaten, it still acted as a sanctuary in the dying land of Lordaeron.

Within the small chapel sat a lone form, light of frame and supported at her back by the wall. She was almost motionless, save for the gentle heave of her chest.

Endling kept her eyes closed, submerged in a blanket of darkness. For a month she had been here; In this time she had done hardly anything; simply sit and wait. Nothing could happen, at least nothing against her favor. There were no rage filled mercenaries, plotting warlocks, or even so much of a scourge presence here, secluded from the rest of the world.

It was not quite a surprise that she felt so well. Her bones no longer shook, and her seared hands once scorched were no longer so disfigured and twisted. She found herself very calmed, and finally able to rest. At least, her body could; her mind continued on through the sleepless nights, deep in thought. Her pain wasn't anything inflicted by the world, or the scourge; The pain she had endured was from the Light itself. A month without it had restored her greatly. She even had started to remember her past, little by little.


It was only fleeting. They would not remain, and for this reason she did not dwell on these long forgotten memories. She perhaps might recall some heritage, some family, friends, even her name- But it would not be long after she returned that she would lose these precious mementos of her life, torn from her by the Light she loved so dear.


"You could stay."

The voice was not accusing any longer. It wasn't even truly spiteful; instead the emotionless thoughts were soft spoken, pleading, almost fearful. They no longer spoke without a voice, but with her own.

"You would never have to hurt again. You could remember."


Endling took hold of her cierge, standing upright and pulling it over her shoulder; she had no need of its support for now. With a slow nod of recognition she began to walk towards the door.

Comfort at the price of another is hardly worth consideration.

"You would be accepted here."

Acceptance is a luxury, not a necessity. I must do without.

"You would be safe."

My faith is my protection. And with it I will shield others as well.


Endling came to a halt at the battered door, casting a gaze back to that ichor-stained altar, the soul inhabitant of this lonely chapel. With another nod she would walk out, out from the secluded darkness of the abbey and into the dim light of a dying land.

Steady beat...



Machinery running...



Ready.


Rodile brought up an ornate pocket watch, standing to the side of the incapacitated Dwarf, bound down to the ground by iron restraints and stakes. He would replace the watch in his pocket, flicking out a few instruments from his bag.

"Patient injuries are heavy. Injuries consist of a plethora of blunt force trauma to the head. Ribs. Curiously, pelvis."


He rubbed his mask, taking a syringe and jabbing it in the side of the Dwarf.

"Patient is now temporarily incapacitated. Proceeding with operation."


The crack of the doctor's elastic gloves echoed around the clearing. With a inspecting glance once more over the injured patient the doctor pulled a keen cleaver up from his side, tapping its flat lightly against the man's heaving chest.

Jerking- Pain. Broken, of course it was in pain.

With another dose from a syringe Rodile fed a tube into the Dwarf's mouth, it was time to begin.



Rodile hummed to himself as he went to work- The sickening sound of flesh relenting to his blade sounded in the clearing.

"Incision made."


Patient still stable. Continuing.

Indeed, the Dwarf had sustained some extreme damage to his ribcage- Nothing Rodile could not fix. A quick search of his bags produced a few iron struts, the doctor measuring out the required length before beginning to affix them.

Understandably, having metal bands drilled into your bones caused some minor discomfort. The patient struggled, but between his dosage and the life-sustaining tube stuffed down his throat, the Dwarf was helpless to cry out in the slightest.

"Iron reinforcements should prevent further damage and reinforce the broken bones. Abomination band crude, but effective. Making note for future operations."


Toying with this heaving creature's heart was tempting- a few strikes away... But this one was not scheduled for any of that work. No- Only what was called for.

On to the head.



Luckily, the patient's skull had suffered less than his chest. Some fractures were visible with a bit of work around the skin, but they were minor, not seeming to have inflicted any internal bleeding or the like. This was already evident by the fact the man hadn't died already, though, really.

"Probability for neurological damage is... low." asserted Rodile, rubbing his mask. "Reinforcement needed."

The doctor washed off his hands, producing a few small metal plates from his bag. He wasn't extremely familiar with this sort of operating ground, but it was always best to improve by practice. By Royal Apothecary handbook rules, this was -perfectly- in line with protocol.


Without a moment of consideration he began- One plate here, another there... Don't use the regular drill- Much too long. Likely to pierce through. Check pulse- Quick. Still alive. The machine was doing an excellent job at inhibiting the nervous system- Any other way, and he likely would have snapped from the pain coursing through him from the open wounds and general modifications.

After a moment of consideration, he began to seal back up the attended areas, taking out his thread to close them up. Thick cord- It would hold better. The patient was a dwarf, he could easily deal with the inconvenience of removing the thread.




An hour or so after Rodile had spirited this poor, injured man away, a howling cry of pain shook through the Stranglethorn jungle.

Operation: Complete

Success rate: 2/3.

-Endling-

It had been not even a month back amongst the living. It came to her as no surprise that her welcome was limited, and that already she had began to garner her troubles back once more. None of it was surprising in the least, just...

Well. She hadn't expected this so fast.


Endling found herself awkwardly discarded into one of the beds in Silvermoon, staring straight down into the silken purple linens. Occasionally a pang shot through her body, trying to muster enough strength to right herself up and at least change her field of vision. Nothing came, though. She had overexerted herself once again, and there was no remedy for it now.

She waited. It was very quiet. Sir Dawnsend and his friend had left previously, not long after she found herself in this predicament. She hadn't expected them to stay and chat- Though perhaps it would help her in the future to inform them of how her consciousness continued on, even once her body had failed her.

It would likely be inconvenient, and rather awkward, though. Best to leave it be.


She had expected by, by now, at least a few spiteful words from within. Her mind had been strangely content lately- Whatever voice once ushered her against her course seemed to have long faded away. It was troubling, almost. She closed her eyes, trying with all her might to gather enough strength to simply right herself, and in the slightest just manage a better view of the room.

Nothing.


She winced, not managing to shift even the slightest. Nothing but shivers came.

Inwardly she gave a groan of pain- They had been gone. Why must they return now? The chattering of bones, the cold chill retaking her. She felt nothing but this icy touch, and it brought a dreadful fear over her. She screwed her eyes shut, body shuddering as another pang of the chill swept through her.

She needed a voice. Something to divert her from this growing pain.


Misery was more bearable in the illusion of company.

Disclaimer: This story is not full of fun things. Do not read if Forsaken doctors are disturbing to you.

"Fandu-dath-belore!"

Rodile entered into a small room, machinery jutting out from all of the walls. In the middle, strapped down by iron bands and nails screwed into his joints lay a Night Elf, the man struggling wildly, howling out in agony as movement brought the jagged bolts against his bone again.

"Myes. Evening." began Rodile, bowing and flicking on the power to the central piece of machinery. With a hellish roar of gears and a slowly increasing din of crackling static, Rodile approached the elf.

"Tor ilisar'thera'nal! Bandu thoribas!"

Elven tongue. Speaking of the tongue, it was quite a vestigial thing to keep on this man. He would remember to remove that in future acquisitions.

"Myes, indeed. Right." Rodile rubbed his hands, seeming unmoved by... whatever gibberish this Elf was barking at him. The elf opened his mouth to speak again before Rodile snatched a cleaver, slamming it into the table right next to the elf, the man's eyes widening.

"...Ash karath."

With a grumble Rodile grabbed a gag, shoving it down into the elf's mouth and giving a flick of the lever next to the man's table, a short zap of electricity shuddering across the metal surface. The man cried out from beneath his gag, but Rodile considered this sufficient. With a nod he proceeded to turn on the rest of his machinery, a large blade whirring above the now silenced Elf, who only stared up at the iron monstrosity as it slowly lowered to be only a foot or so above.

Rodile walked over to the man, attaching a few wires onto him and injecting him.

Thud.
Thud.
Thud.

Thud.


Thud.


Thud.

Nothing. Rodile nodded. The compound was having the desired effect. He quickly removed the needle, disregarding the bubbling wound around the impact of the syringe. He rushed about, tuning the large coils around the table with meticulous efforts.

The elf simply lay there, eyes wide in shock, mouth in a seemingly suspended cry of terror.


"Operation proceeding according to projected results. Concurrent with all calculations. Continuing."

He would yank down the lever from before, more electricity arcing over the table. It continued like this for a moment before the coils around the table seemed to take the charge, starting to spark and crackle as the electricity was diverted into them. Rodile took a few wires, affixing them around the elf. He kept one idle, removing a short iron rod, the tip narrowed into a sleek spike.

With barely any consideration he traced the tip of the spike along the Elf's chest, near the heart.

"Calculations should place the area for effective charge... here."


With a jab of his fist the spike cut into the man's body, a wire quickly affixed into the spike. Rodile paced about, checking to make sure all was correct. "Hmm... All seems adequate for the intended purpose."

He came to the levers operating the table, clasping his hands. "Now to see..."

With a flick of the lever electricity arced all over the table, the man overtook in a violent shaking, smoke starting to rise. The crackle of the electricity grew, and grew...

Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.

Quickly a muffled cry of agony filled the room, the elf thrashing about as the machine powered down. His eyes were closed tight, blinded. His body was ragged and torn, having torn his arms and legs attempting to struggle up after the machine's work.

A pity. He had been a long serving specimen.


With a nod to the man Rodile walked to the door, yanking down a switch. Above the elf the cruel, bladed machine began to turn. The elf cried out- He didn't understand, of course, but it sounded important. The bladed machine dipped down steadily.


Rodile exited the room, flicking the lights out. The sound of visceral blades tearing flesh were all that could be heard behind him in the room, the man's cries of peril quickly cut short.

Operation: Complete.

Success rate: 1/1

Disclaimer: This story is not full of fun things. Do not read if Forsaken doctors are disturbing to you.

A darkly robed man entered into the Catacombs. His face was veiled in shadows, a cowl pulled over his head. With a curt nod to the skeletal guards he made his way onward, hand resting at a concealed dagger under his cloak.

From under his hood he took in the many horrors of this depraved place- the shambling monstrosities which walked it's halls, and the dark masters who raised them forth. Without a second thought he would have placed a blade to their backs, and driven them to the nether.

He was not here for anyone, though. His target had been specific.


It had been weeks since his brother had left Duskwood. Since then, his father and a pair of farmhands had left as well. None had returned. He had received letters from his mother about these disappearances- They weren't the only ones- Peoples of Darkshire and other regions passing through the area would seemingly vanish, without a trace. Some were wolves- they found their mangled bodies not far. Some were the local restless dead- They, again, found the bodies.

There were no bodies for those taken lately, and whispers traveled far for an adventurer.

With subtlety he spent time observing the wretches of the catacombs. He was careful to know his act- It was lucky he was a man trained in the art of poisons, or surely his lack of knowledge regarding their laboratories and spellweavers would have outed him quickly enough.

It had been only a day until he discovered his target. The man was not subtle- Always walking the halls trailing more bodies, either unconscious or simply dead. What he did was, without a doubt, abominable- He observed him occasionally now and then in the laboratory, creating sick and twisted mockeries of the human body; A malformed, half mechanical hand. Replacements for legs, or for joints in the body. He waited, though- He had to understand his prey.


This man was a Forsaken. He was unlike the others of his kind he had dealt with- There was no overly malicious tone to him, simply an aura of arrogance and, to a degree, stupidity. His words were always short- Habitually repeated, or paused for a 'Myes'. He was, of course, seriously disturbed. Not unlike the other people frequenting this place, of course.


His blade was thirsty, and he had seen this man take too many lives. His family would be avenged.



It was in the dead of night that he came to the man. He had spoken with him occasionally, answered a few questions for him. Each night, he saw him return to one of the rooms in the upper floor of the catacombs. He had followed him there, and made a strong note of it.

Reaching his room was rather easy- It was not hard for one skilled in the practice of killing to blend in here. With some hesitance he regarded the monolithic iron door before him, preparing himself for the kill.


The door opened to Rodile's office slowly. A man clad in a black coat and hood entered, the doctor looking up from his book.

"Myes? Hmm. Hmm. Clinic is closed."

The robed man stood completely still, surveying him. The man wasn't even armed. There wasn't anything to stop him. He drew his blades, taking a step forward.

"I've come to consult you, doctor." he began, grinning under his hood.

Rodile glanced over the man, leaning to one side of his chair. "Hmm. Myes- I am afraid the docket is quite full. Hmm. Myes. Packed."

A flick of his wrist directed the man's eyes to the side- vats with living people, seemingly caught in some sort of sick state of lucid awareness, suspended in a drowning state and preserved by an tube, jutting into them through their neck.

With a snarl the man began to charge forward. Rodile simply kept leaned aside. Suddenly his arm jerked, having slipped under the table.

Click.

A mechanical thud echoed through the room, and the man was taken aback by a blast of a strange, discolored mist. He opened his mouth to cry out, pulling his arm to throw his blade in an attempt to foil the man's gambit for survival- His vision went blurred, though, as a combination of the gas and a heavy wooden mask and cowl slammed into his face, sending him falling flat to the floor.

As his sight began to fade the figure of the doctor came over him. His wooden mask was gone, a gas-mask revealed beneath that.

"I'm afraid I don't have another spot in the vats readily available for you, my friend."

A keen blade tracked along his chest. It was hard to stay awake- The noxious fumes seemed to drain him by the second. With a gasp of desperation he reached for the undead's neck, the hand being sent away with a quick jab from the doctor's blade, impaled against the wooden floor by the wicked dagger.

"But you seem to be growing -deathly- ill, my friend. I am sure I can find an alternative accommodation for your case."

Operation: Accepted.

Success rate: To be soon determined.

Disclaimer: This story is not full of fun things. Do not read if Forsaken doctors are disturbing to you.

Vision returned slowly.

Darkness was all around him. Steadily in the background he could hear machinery pulsing- The hiss of steam, the grind of gears. It was as if this machine, whatever it was, was breathing. He felt like he was strung up along something- felt sharp iron chains digging into his arms, which were held up above him, suspended there. His feet narrowly touched the ground, just enough to keep him able to breath.

Noise. A creaking sound. It became louder quickly, and suddenly he found himself sent reeling by a punch, the feel of cold, dead fists laying into him spiking the pain that already had begun to fill his body.

With a sharp gasp for clean air the bag around his head was torn off. The Doctor stood before him, cruel kris dancing across his fingers. He had shed his wooden mask and robe, clad in the standard garb of the Forsaken chemist.

"Worthless wretch!" snarled the man, jabbing the dagger into his chest, dragging a tear down his body, punching it into his stomach as he reached it. For a moment the undead was in a brutal rage, rending flesh with quick strikes of that crude, jagged blade. A slew of hateful cries came from him, though the man's own cries of pain far outweighed the Doctor's.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. As soon as he had began the onslaught he drew himself back and upright, arms crossed behind his back.


The room was in tense silence. All the man could hear with his own ragged breathing and the sound of his blood dripping to the floor.

"My apologies."

The human blinked, trying to gasp out a reply. "Y-you..."

Again. The undead cried out, stabbing his dagger into the man, a cleaver drawn and sunk into his chest in a blur of metal blade and bony claws. By the time the Doctor had stopped the man was in shambles; Already his will was fading, only pleading silently, the coursing pain overpowering his gasps for mercy.

Once more the doctor recomposed himself.

"It is rude to interrupt. Speak only when requested."

There was a pause, as if he was just waiting for the man to speak.


With a nod the undead paced around him, tugging his dagger out of the man with a shrug.

"I commend your audacity. To charge so brazenly into my domain, with such poor a stratagem. Surely you knew you were doomed. Or did you not see through my facade? It is in such shambles lately- So much to do. So much work. So much time..."


With a unholy howl of anger he lashed into his back- the man cried out, pleading for mercy as he felt more of his body carved into by that wicked dagger. "Please, I beg of you! For all that is holy, stop!"

The undead obeyed. He ceased, pacing back in front of the man, looking up to him.

"Holy?"

The man just stared back at him, hoarsely gasping for air.

"You poor man. You stand a flickering flame, before a drowning torrent. There is nothing holy here."

He didn't seem to understand. He only croaked out another plea, but was silenced by another gash being slammed into his chest. The man growled, trying to move out of the line of fire. There was no use. Again and again the blade plunged into him. The undead would pace about, doing the same, making a point to rip through the back of his legs as well. With a relieved sigh the Doctor walked to the table in the room, setting the dagger aside.

"How are we feeling?" he inquired, clasping his hands together.


The man said nothing, staring down in shock. His mind was becoming clouded, vision going blurred.

"My, you seem quite ill indeed! My poor man, you've lost so much blood... You won't last much longer."

At this Doctor spun him around. A large, bubbling green vat lay before them.

"I believe we can help you though. With science, anything is possible."

The Doctor walked aside, retrieving his wooden mask.


"Myes, my friend. Do rest well."


With that the machinery began to grind, the suspended man slowly being brought over the viscous ichor-filled vat.

-Endling-

Endling braced herself through each step, not far past the dead scar break in the path to Fairbreeze Village. The way was long, and the slightest fair weathered breeze chilled her to the bone. With each deliberate step she found herself feeling weaker and weaker, her feet threatening to give way beneath her without any warning. By now she had become used to this walk- but at this time of day, after a few paces through Silvermoon, she found the coming path to be quite daunting.

She stopped, catching herself with her stave as a stone in the cobbled path forced her forth more than she had anticipated.

A break. That was always nice. She had already stopped herself many times thus far, but once more she found herself falling down against the grass, gripping her cierge and quivering as another chill went through her body.

"H-hello?"

She looked down the empty path. Weren't there guards on duty here? She surely remembered at the least a pair of apprentices which frequented about. Surely one of them was near.

"Anyone? I... require some assistance."

Nothing. The cool wind shook her once more, and all that responded was the flutter of leaves nearby.

Endling braced against herself, hugging to her legs as the wind battered her. She attempted to rise once more, only to find herself on one knee, struggling up.

"It... is n-not far." she said to herself, repeating this as she trudged on. She was glad to have largely even footing, though the occasional rock caused her to halt entirely, having to brace to recover her balance. Again and again she repeated to herself- one step less now. One less second in this freezing wind.


Almost at the bridge. Not much farther.


The beleaguered figure strode onwards. She found herself coming to the edge of the wooden bridge and faltering once more. She grappled for her cierge once more, though this time it slipped out of her hands, falling into the river below with a splash. With a cry Endling hit the wooden bridge, clinging against the wooden paneling, fearing that she would somehow slip even further across.

"...Hello?"

Nothing to ease but the chilling wind.

Disclaimer: This story is not full of fun things. Do not read if Forsaken doctors are disturbing to you.

It was dark within the storage room. Dark, oppressing, and lifeless. There was nothing to be seen from the slim tube he was placed in- Helplessly he could writhe and thrash around within the confines of his glass prison, but to no avail. He only could exert himself, tire his body, to the point where he could only weakly float, throat kept from screaming out from the rushing fluid of the vat.

Oh, if only to even scream. The Doctor had deprived him even of that. He had no outlet, only building tension, building agony. He was completely alone, and there was not a chance at all of anyone finding him in this horrible place.

The lights in the room began to glow dimly. The Doctor stood in the door frame, bag in hand. Each step he took was grueling- The sound of his footfalls concussive and terrible to the captive man.


Suddenly, being alone was more of a blessing than a curse.

Soon, the Doctor stood before the vat, staring up to his suspended prisoner. "Dear Mister Andrews- I am so glad to see your doing so well."

He bowed, staring back up to him through that ghastly wooden mask.

"I told you we would find an agreeable treatment for you, my friend. You are perfectly safe within there, aren't you?"

No response. The man only stared at him, eyes wide with shock.

"Well, I am sure you are eager to leave this facility... Let me apply your final dose."

The man's terror-struck eyes followed the Doctor as he paced aside. The man was working with one of the machines feeding into the vat. What he did, he could not tell. He only saw a new color mingle into the viscous green material- it was dark, having the appearance of a black mist to his eyes. As it dispersed into the vat the can attempted to cry out, only finding his cries obstructed again by the rushing fluid. He struggled, a burning sensation enveloping his body. Flecks seemed to disperse from him; his vision soon began to leave him, as he struck futile blows at the thick glass container.

He had lasted too long to die now.

He couldn't.



All went dark.


When his vision returned he found himself trapped within an iron chest. Immediately he attempted to move, tried to force himself out; nothing. He found himself almost completely unable to move. He could not feel his arms, or legs- In fact, he could not see anything. He only knew his cage by the cold metal against his body, and the cramped state of his body.

Once more he cried out, but nothing came; his voice was muffled in, unable to even struggle in vain.




Weeks later a few men in search of valuables found a metal crate amongst other relics buried near the border into the Deadwind Pass, from Duskwood.

Within they found a monstrosity- A discolored, abominable creature, deprived of most of its legs and arms. There were no true eyes, nose, or mouth- all semblance was grafted over. Tubes ran all over this poor, contorted figure, and from under the taut skin grafting of the face, the structure of a screaming skull could be made out.

The men deduced it to be some abomination of a necromancer- An attempt to create something close to a human, from the general look of the seared, revolting creature. Wishing to avoid all connection with the inhuman construct they made their way into the pass and threw the malformed beast over into the jagged rocks of the river below.

The man in charge wiped his hands clean, deeply disturbed by their find.

He could have sworn the thing had shuddered as he threw it to the water.

-Endling-

In a clearing in the forest of Eversong lay the rigid form of Endling. Around her sat two others- The first was a human- Fair skinned, black-haired, garbed in the garb of a priest. The other was an undead like her, shielding herself against a tree, quaking terribly from the cold.

"Your persistence is mystifying." said the human, resting her hands atop one another.

"Endurance is-"

"Don't say it. Do not mention a word of the Light." snapped the pained figure, words coming out in a hissing whisper. "Faith... is not what matters now."

"..."

"You are hurting. Why carry on when there is nothing more than this pain?"

"She bears only half of this anguish! We suffer too!" lashed the other undead, holding her head in her hands, writhing and balling her fists in rage.

"There is nothing to do but continue. To keep calm and strive forward. What other choice is there?"

"Leave. Go! They do not care. You have been in this forest for days. Have they come searching? Have they sent anyone to look for you? Why would they? Answer me!"

Silence.

"Days... Days, without your 'friends'."

"Do... not ask these things of me. Regardless of others, the work that is done here is done for the better good. If the pain of one will alleviate that of many others, how can this be wrong?"

"Because we suffer with you. All of your anger and grief you conceal grows, and festers."

Endling winced, recoiling back from the other undead. She would edge back, quivering in fear from the rage filled creature. "I... do not understand."

"Because you do not try."

"That is enough." interjected the human, motioning the spiteful undead down. The ragged figure gave a glare of contempt, before curling against the tree. The human regarded Endling with a measure of pity, but she could not see- She had shielded her eyes from the pair, head buried against her sleeves.

"I am pleased that we had this talk."



A lone guardsman walked through the woods. In hand were his glaive and shield, bared out with pride against any foe skulking the land. He came to a prone figure- Female, and undead. Slowly and with caution he approached, shield ready- It was hard to determine who these creatures were loyal to on a glance.

"Excuse me! Are you well, miss?" called the man. From the figure he received a faint attempt to move- Fighting to pull herself up and onto her knees and stand. "Hold, hold- I'll help." He said with a nod, sighing in relief. He came alongside, only to find a hand attempting to nudge him back. He stepped aside, puzzled.

"I-I am fine. Please- Leave me be."

After a quick nod the Elf stepped away, leaving her near the bank. Weakly she walked on towards the path, hands tucked against her chest, bent over some from the chilling wind.

From the side of the road she could see that the path winded onward, an endless road before her. Bracing herself, she carried onward.

-Endling-

Endling rested her back against the smooth stone of the Dalaran Underbelly, wrapping her arms around her knees as she huddled to the wall. It had been a long, eventful day- While her friends busied themselves above, she felt it best to take time to collect herself.

The events of the day seemed to have cascaded by, one after the other- It wasn't long after the others awoke at dawn that she found herself carried off by portal to Orgrimmar, and from there to Feralas on some endeavor by the local warriors. While being present amongst the rest of the Horde (Or indeed any faction, perhaps) caused some considerable discomfort, she found less complaints the more she healed, and thus had few complaints until this ended in her rapid decline into fatigue.

Granted, rapid decline became a complete drop by the end of this whole escapade- Once more, she had overstepped her boundaries. From what she had heard, an orc perished in the battle. Perhaps, if she had conserved her strength, his life would have been spared.

From there came only more trouble- Issues with her hosts in the Netherstorm and what was likely some of the local demonic inhabitants, from what she could derive from a limited perspective of the scene. To her dismay, though perhaps moreover to her benefit, Sir Devosh forbid and restrained her from her attempts to aid her allies in combat with the creature- Judging by how she only now was beginning to truly feel complete responses from her limbs, though, she could find little fault in his demands.


Demons, death, and hugs. Of the three most memorable things of the day, it was notable that the last was out of place. She had never given any sign of affection much significance- Especially since her conversion into the current curse she bore now. Before it had been only a matter of an undeveloped interest- Now it was a fleeting, impossible dream. It had surely been a matter which occurred to her before, but why now was it so urgent and desired?

Comfort. It was simply comfort which caused her to long so plaintively for another's embrace. Likely unknown to Sir Dawnsend and Sir Devosh, there was a truly sort of serenity which overtook her today; Even now the quakes of her chilled form seemed to cause her mind to call out for something to steady her- Her attempts to quell the cold tremors yielded nothing, as they always had, and left her shaking, wracked in pain for yet another restless night. As little as a simple embrace was able to pacify such agony- It was amazing in its simplicity.


Amusing, really, she scolded herself- All of this was truly selfish. She had witnessed people grievously wounded, and a warrior fall in battle. Why were these things not what plagued her mind? Surely before they had, surely she felt no indifference for such sacrifice. In what good state of mind was she to regard the suffering of others as a bystander to her own mild discomfort?

A ragged, heavy sigh escaped Endling's lips, her bleary eyes peering down the walkway of the Underbelly. A concession, then.


It was folly to embrace the thought that one soul could be a true, spotless paragon, anyway.


Endling braced against the stone wall, face contorting in a gasp of anguish as the frozen chill worked its way up her back once more. Indeed, perhaps it was best to think of this as ambition, and disregard what footnote she might find to it. A moment of weakness, an indulgence to her own desires- Thoughts could hurt not a soul but herself, at any rate.

Only human... she reminded herself.


Slowly she shook her head, pulling herself upright. A little ambition couldn't hurt, really. All that was necessary was a sense of moderation. It truly did not seem much to her, but at the same time, it was the only unfaltering comfort she had discovered thus far.

Perhaps it would simply be an idle dream, then, but a dream still- To love and to be loved.