Another whisky...

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Another whisky...

Post by Mordazan on Mon Nov 29, 2010 2:13 am

”Another whisky”

My throat was dry and I coughed harder than usual, the shirk of pain only adding to my bitterness and self-pity. This was not fitting, not at all.

“I said give me another fel-spawned whisky!”

I turned in my chair only to see the barmaid. A fine young lady that had left me undisturbed for most of the night, in spite of my foul mood. It was logical. I was old enough to be her father, the grey stings in my hair and the scars around my face making me look exactly as old, battered and bitter as I was.
Hours ago there would have been joy for just seeing her. When you’ve walked around in a darkness for so long, seeing nothing but things for faint shades and people as flowing, liquid smoke of their meta-physical nether-bound selves, the appreciation of gazing upon the world is… Hard to explain.

“Listen, Sir” her voice no more than a whisper, the respect and humility towards a man that seemed to have been through much was edged with a poisonous notion that I was scaring customers, which was unacceptable. “Either you keep it down or I’ll have to ask the fine gentleman in the bar to throw you out”

Her face was stern. She was trying to scare me. The ironic notion almost made me smile. She had no idea. I let her think her threat had taken hold as I watched her silently and she put the small glass in front of me, turned on her heels and hurried off. She didn’t like it. I wasn’t like her other customers, even one so void to the Netherworld as a simple barmaid could feel it. Something just wasn’t quite right…

“The things we do” I mumbled to myself, lifting the glass and letting the liquid burn its way down my throat. It was good whisky. Such a shame to cast it down so carelessly. The things we do indeed…

I remember when I left the academy. After my first years of utter failure, of laughs and talk behind my back, my dear mistress had found me. She didn’t do it because she liked me, there was no sympathy or pity in her voice when she offered me to turn all that humiliation around. She did it because of my potential, because I had what it took. My hate, my bitterness, my wish to control and humiliate those who laughed only served to enforce that greatly.

My first kill was a void thing. I don’t even remember his name.

Some stories about me is that I laugh as I kill people, that I employ hooks and knifes upon my minions, their pain supposed to be enjoyment for me, or even that the rush of controlling life and dead is all that keeps me alive.

He was running. He never was good at that. Best in his class. The Dalarian robe that was so fine and clean when we graduated, I remember how he stood and laughed, thinking he was the only one that needed to be on that podium. When we were just kids he liked to put my things on fire, convincing our teachers that it was my own failure to control the pyromagic that caused all the trouble. I had burn marks for weeks. Without any pity. Teachers were more easily convinced by their favorite student than the boy who is only here because he has nowhere else to go.

His robe was tattered and torn, the bloodstains drying in by now. I had let him run for a while. He was good, I’ll give him that, but he wasn’t ready to fight. He wasn’t a murderer. I tried to make his pain amuse me, tried to rejoice the fear in his eyes, trying to think of all the pain he put me through.
There was nothing. I took out my knife. I had prepared it. It was custom made. I spend all the money I had after the academy to have it made. A simple leather handle with a slightly crooked blade. I had the blacksmith redo it twice. I wanted it to be perfect.
There was nothing. I just didn’t feel a thing. I took the blade and let it sink in deep. He was too weak to resist, too tired, too far inside this horrible nightmare which he had never seen coming. I don’t know if he realized he had died. I didn’t care. I just left.

I remember the priest. The old fool I discussed with. I was young and brash, thinking I knew the world better than anyone. At first I wanted to enjoy myself tearing down all arguments of this old fool.
I put tears in his eyes, I remember he bit his lip, but whenever I got close he just blocked my arguments, but not with arguments of his own. He just said ‘faith’ as if that ever explained everything. Whenever he knew I was right, whenever he knew that my argument was flawless, he just deflected it with excuses of faith.

I killed him the same night. He cried for his granddaughter. I remember how he knelt, he knew he could not match me, my simple knife coming easy from its sheath. He was ready to die. ‘Please’ he begged in his voice, broken from crying.
“Forgive hi-“
The knife tore easily into the old man. I wanted to ask him who was right, who had the power, where was his thrice-damned Light now!?
But I didn’t. I just walked away. That was the last time I killed someone without purpose. Feelings was never a valid argument. It never was.

I met Ataris. A God amongst insects. My soul connected to his Sphere.

I served. I watched. I waited. I saw Dark Lords rise and fall. Slowly, ever so slowly, I reached for power myself. I needed absolute control. I saw how a jump in power destroyed men unable to withstand the power or handle the authority. I served beneath several masters and mistresses, soaking their knowledge and shaping something greater out of all the parts I gathered.

I became a Lord myself.

They began to cower, they began to obey. The Light-dogs turned at my bidding, the king and his men hunting nothing but shadows, my own neophytes more dedicated and loyal. They trusted in my power. They obeyed because they knew I hadn’t reached to power without being able to back it up. They knew I had the power to destroy them if they didn’t.

Destruction, void, shattered, lost, darkness.

There I was when he returned. We were endlessly few. Ataris the Soulblighter called upon all who would answer. Nothing was like before.
And then it began.
Ataris had to leave. He told me everything. His secrets are safe with me.
He gave it to me. I held it. The round shape of this seemingly harmless object. Perfectly round, as if shaped from glass, its surface just as smooth. The purple, flickering souls in there. Like calm smoke it twisted and turned, as if the wind blew at random within the orb. The distant cries for mercy, power and blood revealing the actual power beneath the smooth surface of this ancient artifact.
I held the Sphere. The greatest goal of all. Standing on top of the world, looking down knowing that the end of the stair was reached.

And I build it up. I took the grey ashes that were the Sphere and I shaped it. With the Soulblighter’s teachings I build up the Sphere in my own image.

I build it up. My acolytes bowed. My most trusted willing to march against the armies of Stormwind, I needed but to say the word. I controlled mortals, I took hold of the darkest and forgotten Gods of Old deep within the Nether. I drank deep from the pond of Power. I even forced a greater deamon to take hold of my body, blood binding him in servitude. The destruction he wrought was immense. Nothing could compare.
I fought for years in the Nether for those few days where he shook the ground of Duskwood. But the price was great.

A man is never the same after that. I delved into powers unknown, hidden and forgotten to humankin, things that no mortal should ever lay eyes on I took and forced into my iron grip.
But there is no power without a price.

It wasn’t because I couldn’t control it. It was because I thought I could control it. In my arrogance, the subtle works of the netherbeasts could play out far too easily.

I died. I think. What is death really? Who was my killer? The deamon who took my body or the man who put me to the blade? Reality is a strange thing. And far less consistent than most fools betray themselves into thinking.

My soul wasn’t lost for aslong as the Sphere wasn’t locked. And it was unshattered as the deamon had caged it far away in the nether.
I had not believed them able. But they did it. It is a complicated process to force a soul back.

And that is when I had to give it up. If I continued I would die and in a whole different way than being impaled by a blade. I simply could not do it. I cannot walk myself straight into my own destruction. It is as illogical and irrational as possible…

I gave it up. All I have worked for. All I have strived for in all my existence I got. Through hard work, through effort, had I build up to be exactly what I had always wanted to be. The sweat on my brow, the blood on my hands, the scars on my face all evidence of my work.

Yet I had to give it away. Willingly. Without resistance. My knee falling to the ground for the first time in years.

I coughed. I coughed hard. I pushed my chair out to bend over as I coughed as if my loungs wanted to escape my body. I fought to breathe as the barmaid ran to me, her face pale as snow, placing her hand on my shoulder to help. I pushed away her arm as I used my sparesome breath, slowly getting the coughs under control, each word separated by the coarse sound of air fighting its way down my throat

“I need… Another… Whisky”
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Mordazan

Posts : 160
Join date : 2010-02-02
Age : 28
Location : Denmark

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Re: Another whisky...

Post by Baròth / Olian on Mon Nov 29, 2010 9:42 am

A really, -really- good read. And a great story, I belive I've come to understand Mordazan a bit more now.

Moar please! Very Happy
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Baròth / Olian

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Join date : 2010-01-30
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Re: Another whisky...

Post by Valerias on Tue Nov 30, 2010 7:48 pm

Well admittedly it was the title as caught my interest - nothing like a good whisky Wink But it was a really interesting read, the struggles and journey of a mind. Nice one.

_____________________________________________________
Valerias, courtesan of shadows
Aniane, loud-mouthed barkeep
Rohwyn, the peasant Chairlady
Amirah, grumpy noblewoman


Also playing:
Spoiler:

Khemayah, the desert witch
Sylvera, shy mage
Aedric, young mercenary
Gerard (Maldrin), Kirin Tor researcher
Izraka, Warsong blade
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Valerias

Posts : 1945
Join date : 2010-02-02
Age : 31

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Name: 'Lady' Vale
Title: courtesan

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Re: Another whisky...

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