A trip to the south.

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A trip to the south.

Post by Dunderholm of Ambermill on Thu Mar 28, 2013 2:52 am

This story was written by me some time ago and dates back to my rogue days.

Enjoy Smile


A wyvern shoots through the skies just north of Elwyn forest. On its back, a forsaken coated in dark purple leather armor. A blade inlayed mask was covering most of his face, and strange dark glows coming from where his eyes should be, were casting eerie foreboding shadows across his mask. Several small pouches were attached to his chest-piece and belt. A metal hook was tapping against the forsaken’s side. Rusted blood and some small pieces of skin were covering the surface of the hook.

“Bright, too bright” The sky was blue and not a cloud was in sight, it was like nature itself was testing him. No shadows to hide in and no cloud to soar above to hide or mask his approach.

“It’s better this way” he thought “keeps me on my toes”.

Dunderholm was looking towards the horizon, not paying much attention to the lush landscape below he had seen a hundred times. The sight of green trees in their prime, the wide fields of grass and small ponds made him sick these days.

In his former life the forsaken served as an agent for SI:7 and was stationed in these parts. In those days the big issue was the upcoming Defias Brotherhood and the occasional corrupt noble or bandit lord playing it Bogart. But those days lay behind him. Still, fragments seeped into his attention from time to time. Although unlike some others he tried to draw wisdom from past experiences rather than let them guide him or dwell on it.

The landscape beneath the forsaken started to change, the trees no longer lush and green but gray and sick. The sky itself turned darker as well, the Forsaken seemed to relish the change in scenery as he chuckled and looked toward where the sun should have been at this time. It was hidden behind dark clouds.

“Even here the Forgotten Shadow aids me in my task” he revered the thought.

He steered his wyvern towards the ground, the beast growled as the command was given but still did what it was told. The beast maneuvered gracefully through the branches of the trees and landed on a small hill in the far south of the area known as Duskwood. Several tombstones decorated the immediate area and a few mindless ghouls were wandering around, although they hardly seem to pay attention to him. Dunderholm smacked the wyvern on the back and the beast snarled, taking off to the skies awaiting its master’s call.

“Now… let’s see here.” Dunderholm murmured as he pulled out a rusty pocket-watch from underneath his armor. He tapped against the glass with one of his boney fingers and looked at the little thing.

“Most excellent… I should be just in time” He nodded and put the pocket-watch away. He searched through one of his pouches and a light clatter of glass vials bumping into each other came from within, he grinned.

Despite the fact that the local flora was dying or at least corrupted it still provided a thick cover for him to move through. The forsaken closed his pouches and checked his equipment for the final time before heading north towards the town of Darkshire.

As he snuck towards the town he thought of the massacre that would most likely lie ahead and found it hard to withhold a chuckle at the irony of his plan. Suddenly a flock of birds flew up in the distance, something must be approaching he thought. He halted and heard several voices heading his way. Quickly he looked around the immediate area and spotted a rather large tree on the edge of the path. As he sank his boney fingers into the wood he started climbing upwards as easy as a squirrel going to its nest. He placed himself upon one of the branches hiding behind the layer of leaves and his daggers at the ready.

Beneath him passed a patrol of humans, some had their weapons ready and some were merely carrying torches, small crossbows hanging from their belts.

“Men of the night watch” Dunderholm thought to himself. This organization was very small a decade ago but in the past few years it has grown rather rapidly.

As the men approached, Dunderholm could overhear them talking about everyday life. One of the guards spoke of his wife who had just given birth to his third child. The other men laughed at him and made practical family jokes but congratulated the guard nonetheless. Another spoke of the bad state the roof of the town hall was in after the last thunderstorm and they needed to call for some artisans quickly or they would have an indoor lake.

Dunderholm patiently waited until the patrol had passed by and then gracefully let himself slide of the branches. Landing on the ground he hardly made a sound, eyeing down the road into the direction of where the patrol went.

He continued his journey towards Darkshire, the town already loomed on the horizon. It was a sad reflections of it's former glory, once called Grand Hamlet and one of the first places to suffer the might of the old horde during the first and second war. Recently the evil within the tower of Karazhan had been spreading its taint across the landscape and this town was the one to suffer the most of it. No repose for the inhabitants of this town.

As he circled the town from the shadows, sizing up the guards and the forces gathered, he recalled a time he was here with a detachment trolls of the Second Gurubashi Empire. Many of the cultists were also present that day. But this time he has no army at his back, he needed a diversion, a more subtle way to reach his destination before it was too late. He started going over the options. Killing a guard and taking its place was no longer valid as his posture would betray him these days, not to mention the smell. Causing a small fire would most likely draw to much attention and lead to too much panic. Also that would lead to people being suspicious as they would most likely see that the fire was set-up. You can the living of many things, but entirely stupid wasn't one of them.

But then the forsaken recalled what one of the guards mentioned before, the state of the roof was in bad shape.

“Most excellent…” he thought himself chuckling softly beneath his mask letting himself get out of the tree slowly. Carefully looking around to see if none of the guards or townsfolk saw him. Some branches complained beneath the weight of the forsaken and his leather armor. Once on the ground he looked up quickly, "nobody around" he thought.

Walking around the town meant going over a small field and past the blacksmith, or he had to move past some small hills and the local Gryphon roost. It would have served him better if he landed more north of the town, although that way the only viable landing spot would be near the river. And that would leave him to exposed and open for detection.

Dunderholm eventually choose for the fields and not the hills as that would leave him more open to be spotted by incoming travelers heading towards the Gryphon roost. Crawling between the rather low grass he made his way to the trench on the side of the road which led to Westfall. Carefully and silently he stuck his head up and looked around, shifting his gaze from left to right looking for anyone that could see him. When he was sure that the coast was clear he hastily moved across the road and dropped himself on the ground as soon as he reached the other side.

From here it should be relatively easy to reach the town hall. Dunderholm went for his pock-watch again whilst laying on the cold and wet ground. This would use to bother him but these days he couldn’t care less. As he checked the time on the watch he sighed softly.

“All the time I need” And placed the pocket-watch back into one of his many pouches. Sometimes others wondered why he had some many and what he would be carrying in those things. He mostly just shrugged and said that he didn’t want to carry all his things in one bag. This is true of course, spreading ones resources to several locations lowered the threat of people stealing all your useful items. It also lowered the rate at he would be patted down for anything illegal as most of the guards in the cities couldn’t be bothered searching through all of them. And since they were mostly attached to his gear he couldn’t just hand the pouches in so they would most likely leave it at that.

As Dunderholm made his way towards the back of the town hall he noticed that some of the covering on the roof was indeed missing, storm damage by the looks of it.

“This will prove a nice challenge” Dunderholm murmured to himself as he tried to sink his boney fingers in the wood of one of the support beams belonging to the town hall. After a few tries he could finally find his footing and steadily climbed up the beam towards the gap in the roof.

After he finally reached the top he looked at the gap, it was too small for him to fit through. But perhaps he could manipulate it enough for him to squeeze through. After all, after his death he wasn’t as hefty as he used to be. Skinny bones and dead skin took the place were once was muscle, fat and skin.

Carefully he removed some of the covering on the roof, carefully placing it aside. But suddenly a gust of strong wind blew of some the coverings he removed towards the ground. And they crashed into patch of dirt below making quite the noise, immediately voices came from in front of the town hall. And footsteps headed his way in response of the suddenly loud noises.

As quickly as he could Dunderholm tried to squirm through the hole he just created. The lack of most of his meat and flesh came of use here. Carefully sliding his feet in first quickly followed by the rest of his body, he disappeared within the gap. Just in time as well, as guards were coming around the corner.

“Seems like some of the cover on the roof has fallen off again” Dunderholm heard one of the guards say.
“I hope the carpenters can fix this soon before the entire roof falls down” Another guard responded to the first.

As Dunderholm was as silent as the grave he awaited what would happen next, he was in no position to fight and he couldn’t really run away anymore. His boney fingers tapped softly on the floor. Small rays of light came from below between the cracks of the wooden floor and scattered small shadows on his face and mask. The attic of this place hasn’t been cleaned in ages. Several small bugs crawled around the place and spider webs were almost in every visible corner.

Then the voices from outside again, “Let’s go, it’s nothing”.
“Good point, say when do get off? Maybe grab a cold one at the inn?”
“Ah man, my wife will kill me if I spend my salary on alcohol again, we can hardly pay the rent at the moment”
The other guard laughed and responded to the other, but they were too far away for Dunderholm to make out anything.

“Back to the job at hand” The thoughts entered Dunderholms mind again. He rolled over to his belly and crawled softly toward one of the cracks in the floor. Some of the pouches on his chest-piece touched the ground and scraped the floor leaving some damages on its surface. As he crawled towards one of the cracks on the floor he could hear muffled voices from downstairs.

“Was he too late?” He cursed a bit behind his teeth, blaming nothing but himself for being careless. He peered through one of the cracks in the floor and tried to make out anything useful. He sighed softly as he noticed that it was just the altar boys setting everything up for the local sermon in honor of that cursed and false Light. One of the boys was carrying a small piece of cloth with the emblem of the clergy. He slowly unfolded the piece of cloth and respectfully placed it upon the altar. Another boy brought a chalice and placed this in the center of the altar. The third and final boy carried what looked like a book and placed this beside the chalice in line with the table.

With eager eyes Dunderholm stared at the chalice that was placed upon the altar, he unsheathed one of his daggers and started carving into the wood trying to widen the crack already present.

After mere minutes that seemed hours the forsaken finaly carved a hole big enough in the wood to see properly but small enough not to be spotted. He tried to move the woodchips towards him as he carved the hole, but sadly some made their way down on the altar. The chips were small and so he hoped no-one would notice them before he completed his plan.

As he sheathed his blade once again his hand moved to one of the satchels on his belt. Quickly he pulled out a small vial containing a colorless fluid. If one would look at it, it would seem like a mere vial of water. But looks are deceptive, a lesson hard learned in his past. Betrayed by the ones he trusted with his life, removing the cork with a carefull pop, he took great care in keeping the vial upright as to not spill any of the fluids inside. The contents were obtained from the apothecary Joseph Sarrif “Be very carefull with this creation” the apothecary had said.

Sarrif was an odd forsaken who occasionally supplied him with fresh poisons to coat his blades in. Thus far he had never let him down so he trusted he wouldn’t do so now. The apothecary allways seemed a bit absent minded, never with his focus in the now. He was always shifting between the past and the present and most of the time he didn’t make sense at all.
Rambling about potions and new found scientific revelations. And then that crazy so called wife of his, Poxis. Never had Dunderholm seen her without a fish in her hand or an oversized cleaver. He had occasionally pondered what she did with those, but he found it best not to linger on those two too long. Just nodding and ignoring most of their rambling seemed to work best.

Slowly but securely Dunderholm placed the vial near the crack in the ceiling and he waited.

After a few minutes he heard several footsteps and voices. People where entering the town hall. Farmers, artisans, guards and other townsfolk he couldn’t place in a profession immediately. Childeren were holding their parents hand as they walked in taking a seat on the benches that were in front of a the altar. All of them were unaware of the skulking forsaken on the rooftop carefully biding his time. A baby was softly sobbing in his mother’s arms as she sat down. The mother was already cradling the infant trying to calm it down.

As the town hall filled itself with more and more people a wet and cold sensation suddenly got hold of Dunderholm. As he looked up to the sky he saw dark clouds gather above the town and raindrops were already making their way down from the sky. Slowly but surely the skull of the forsaken was getting wet and a small stream of water followed the lines of the mask.

Suddenly every person in the town hall stood up as a single person made his way through the center of the lane. Dressed in a serene white robe, the man that walked that almost seemed to glow in the dark and gloomy town hall. In his right hand he was holding a staff with on top of it the symbol of the Light, the religion Dunderholm now cursed.

Crouching above the small hole he made the forsaken waited, his vial ready.

As the rain started coming down from the heavens, Dunderholm couldn’t help but let out a small and soft prayer to the shadow. It was clear that even so far from its homeland the shadow still held power, sensing the assassins plan.

“My Children” The white robed man spoke. “Please, please be seated. I am so glad that many of you still follow the path of the Holy Light.”

A small twitch expressed itself on Dunderholms face as the human spoke the word “light”. As an almost automated response he wanted to curse it. But he holds his tongue, he knew that if he made a noise he could be discovered and there would be nowhere to go.

“Life has been hard on us the last years my children. I know that, and so does the holy light.” The man continued to speak as he raised his hands to the sky.
The forsaken was holding his position in anticipation, peering through the cracks of the wood, listening to the man preach about the holy light. The weather above the forsakens head was really taking a turn for the worse as the rain started to pour down heavily. Big fat drops of water made their way down from the heavens and landed on the rooftops of the houses and the pavement. It almost sounded like a drum orchestra, starting up the beat for things to come.

But as the rain became heavier so did the leaking in the church. The room Dunderholm was keeping a preying eye on showed clear signs of water leaking inside. Remaining tenacious as he was taught he waited, and waited.

Finally the white robed man finished his speech and grabbed the chalice from the altar one of the altar boys had placed there earlier. Dunderholm got ready with his vial and looked up to the sky a final time; a creepy grin was forming behind his mask. As the white robed man held the chalice above his head, the vial in Dunderholms hand emptied. The contents seeped through the craps of the wood and would go in sync with the rain beautifully.

“Let the light wash away our sins, and let this water be its vessel. May it renew us as the light renews life.” The white robed man brought the cup down and the placed it against his mouth. If Dunderholm had to breathe he would have hold it.

As the white robed man sipped from its contents he suddenly froze, everyone in church including the stalking forsaken in the attic looked at it with some surprise. Suddenly the man began twitching, dropping the chalice to the ground. Bloodied tears came from the man’s eyes as he looked towards the congregation in the church. Everyone gasped, and some of the woman started screaming but all were frozen with fear. The man fell to the ground, his limbs twitching violently, screams of inhuman agony came from his mouth as he eyes melted from his sockets and become no more than liquid ooze.

Panic arose in the church and the villagers where tripping over one another to get out, the guards were desperately trying to save the white robed man and leading the villagers to safety. In the attic the forsaken was cursing behind his mask, “to soon dammit, curses on you Sarrif. It shouldn’t go this fast.”

As the forsaken silently retreated from the attic the people of Darkshire were left with nothing but a deformed and partially melted priest in their midst. At least the job was partially successful.

Last edited by Dunderholm of Ambermill on Thu Mar 28, 2013 9:13 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : grammar and story flow.)
Dunderholm of Ambermill

Posts : 132
Join date : 2011-10-13
Age : 31

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Re: A trip to the south.

Post by Shevillson on Thu Mar 28, 2013 4:26 pm

Dunderholm of Ambermill wrote:This story was written by me some time ago and dates back to my rogue days.

Enjoy Smile


A wyvern shoots through the skies just north of Elwyn forest. On its back, a forsaken coated in dark purple leather armor. A blade inlayed mask was covering most of his face, and strange dark glows coming from where his eyes should be, were casting eerie foreboding shadows across his mask. Several small pouches were attached to his chest-piece and belt.

You just described my rogue on some missions.

Posts : 41
Join date : 2012-08-04
Age : 20
Location : Zadar, Croatia

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Name: Eldritch Moore
Title: Deathstalker

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Re: A trip to the south.

Post by Dunderholm of Ambermill on Tue Apr 02, 2013 1:42 am

Well there is only so many outfits (sets) to choose from as a rogue. I used the Tier 4 Netherblade for some time, after that I moved on to 5 for a RP set.
Dunderholm of Ambermill

Posts : 132
Join date : 2011-10-13
Age : 31

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Re: A trip to the south.

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