A Deal with the Devil

Apothecary.

What does the word mean? Was it a title? A badge of honour? Of Pride? Intelect? Or was it a Job? A Vocation? A Career?

Whatever the definition, He was one. An Apothecary all his unlife which, concidering the deal he had just made, had probably got a lot shorter.

It was all her fault. Thrakha Ironsong. Chieftain of the Shatterskull Marauders, and a thorn in his side ever since she took over from the fly ridden pushover Kharn. She had shut him down in Stranglethorn, stopped him in Shadowfang, and then sent him to sit for two months in the slammer over a couple of missing orcs. Fortunately, courts could be tricked, and once more he was free. Even adopted an orphan. But he could only hide behind his false smile and charitable demeanour for so long, and it was time to attack her pride and joy. His next project, would strike the marauders personally, and best of all, it will follow all the Laws the Horde have set. No legal issues here. He was going to attack the Warband, by attacking the Alliance.

Unfortunately, due to Thrakha’s meddling, he had lost two things he had taken for granted. He had lost his sight, and he had lost his power. Which put him at a certain disadvantage, because his plan needed to call upon the laws of Necromancy that he had spent so long perfecting. And so he had finally given in, and made the deal. A deal with the Devil, so to speak. It had introduced itself to him as Zanth, but through extensive research through tomes acquired from the Twilight Hammer, he knew the creature’s real name. The name N’Zoth.

Using himself as a Vessel for the old Gods power, fuelling his own spells, he intended to pull the spirits of the dead from wherever they are hiding, provoke them into taking the ghostly form of their old bodies, their dying cries echoing from their spiritual mouths, before sending them to utterly destroy the coastal town of Menethil. A victory for the Horde.

At this exact moment, he stood on the broken bridge that once crossed the chasm between Arathi and the Wetlands. The Thangol Span. Here, years ago, a great battle was fought. The Marauders against the Alliance. Many died, as happens in war. But those spirits will be torn from their eternal rest, twisted and tortured by his will. They will attack. And the Alliance, seeing the spirits of the Marauders attack, will respond with all their might, retaliating not against him, but against the Warband.

And the spell would only take two months of constant chanting to complete. For someone who has waited a Thousand years, a few weeks is nothing. This time, nothing will get in his way. No-one knows he is there. And there is no chance of failure.

Because if Cain fails, N’Zoth will take him.

Seems interesting! I am looking forward to learn more.

The first time it happened, he thought he was actually dying. It was a feeling he had experienced once, and the sensation was entirely familiar. It had started at his fingertips, as if they had been dipped into a freezing pool of water, quickly spreading up his arms and legs, before he could barely feel his limbs. It centralised itself around his heart, before fading. Now, a week on, the feeling had become common, the freezing sensation happening very hour or two, as his disembodied spirit travelled through a living creature, far away from its body during its search for souls. The battle had happened years ago, and the dead had scattered far and wide, but even now, only a week from the beginning of the hunt, the shadowy sky above the body swarmed with writhing souls, lured back to their deaths and held there by the great evil below.

”Daddy why did that man betray his friends?”
“Because he’s a bad nut Cain. He was devoid of love from birth, and wanted nothing but power.”
“Will his friends die?”
“Wait and see Cain. Wait and see.”

His Consciousness was with his body, which was suspended several feet above the bridge. His empty eye sockets brimmed with green light, his wrists and ankles bound tight by ethereal chains that hung him spread-eagled from the towers on either side of him. A Fifth chain, battered and broken from an age of bombardment in the hope that it may one day break, sprouted from his chest where it had been shackled there a thousand years ago to prevent his spirit leaving. The same spirit was now attached to the other end of the chain, halfway across the Shadow World, hunting for its prey. Thousands of lost souls, only a handful of which it needed. Still it hunted. Still it searched.

”When I grow up I’m going to be a Hero and stop men like that!”
“Yes Cain you are, which brings me to your next surprise. Archmage Herat is coming over for your Birthday dinner, and he’s bringing his three Daughters! The Eldest is about your age, we were hoping you would get along.”
“Why would you hope that Daddy? I get along with everyone!”
“Well Cain, you’re almost eight, and already the making of a fine knight. You’ll need a beautiful – and powerful – wife if you are to make yourself noticed to the king.”
“Wife? Ewwwww! I don’t want to get married! I want to be a Hero like the one in the play!”
“Perhaps if you learned their names? Lilly, Serra…”
“No!”
“…And Drellia.”


He chanted out the words of calling in a long, monotonous drool, the worn chain weaving around his body as it moved on to the next soul, the latest gliding in overhead to join the swarm. Now the army above him no longer consisted of just marauders killed at the Battle for Thangol Span, other marauders had been drifting in for the better part of the day, marauders his spirit had happened to come across on its quest. Inside his head, he felt a stab of pain, which quickly subsided to the whispers that had been drilling at his mind for years. Whispers backed by a steady four-beat. Boom-Boom-Boom-Boom. Boom-Boom-Boom-Boom. Louder now than ever before.
Not long now. Just a few more weeks. He’d betray them. He’d betray them all.
”Drellia, I know I’m going off to the war, but I just wanted to see you before I left.”
“Cain, I know.”
“How long have you…”
“Since we first met, ten years ago. I’ve fought it every inch of the way – our fathers want you to marry my oldest sister, Lilly but-”
“Father won’t sit in the Hall forever Drell. And once he’s gone, I’ll ask your father for your hand.”
“Don’t wish things like that Cain! You never know what might happen!”
“I don’t care! My father has always got in my way, I just want him gone!”
“Drellia? Are you out here?”
“Quick! Its my father! You must go.”
“I don’t want to leave you!”
“Go!”
“I love you.”
“I love you too Cain.”

He opened his eyes again, the light once more seeping from his eyes. Below him misty figures moved about the Bridge, the living, completely unaware of the goings on in the Shadow Realm. Not Just any creatures, Marauders. Fitting, he thought, that they moved so unaware of their doom, so close to them, and yet so out of reach. Perhaps one of them would see a spirit cross over. Just out of the corner of their eye. But they will dismiss it for nothing. Fools. His mind flittered to the Marauders he specifically wanted dead. The Orc he’d cured in Stranglethorn. That irritating whelp of an elf. The Blood-Traitor Raldorr. More and more faces popped into his head, as his brow furled in anger. The sooner he got this done, the better.
“Archmage, I am here to ask for your daughters hand. As you know, my Father passed away last week, pulling me back from the line. I am to sit as Lord of Andorhal, and I would like your little girl to be my Lady.”
“Splendid! I’ll call Lilly Immediately-”
“With respect sir, It is for Drellia’s hand I ask.”
“Drellia? But she hasn’t shown any interest in a man her whole life! Just sits in her room studying magic… If she doesn’t limit her work she could be dangerous…”
“Sir, I have Loved your girl Drellia all my life. I beg of your permission to ask her hand.”
“Alright lad… But I doubt she’ll say yes.”
“Yes!”


Her face filled his mind. As it was then, and as it is now. How she looked at him when she saw him cut and blind. How the marauders had taken her away from him. It was Ironsong’s fault. It was the marauders Fault. It was their entire fault. And they would all pay. Not just the marauders. All of them. He would destroy them all, In the name of N’Zoth, and then live with Drellia for the rest of his days. It was perfect. When everyone was dead, there would be no-one to keep her away from him. They would be together again. At last.

“Drellia, I can save you, just hold on a bit longer!”
“Cain, its too late, the dagger grazed my heart…”
“No Drellia, we just need a healer, a healer HELP! GET A HEALER!”
“Cain… Just let me say-”
“No Drellia! You’re not going to die!”
“Cain I… I…”
“NO!”
“I…”
“Drellia?”
…
“Drellia?”
“I love you Drellia.”

For the last four months, Pynke’s life had been rather dull.

The main reason for this would probably be because it had ended four months ago. That does tend to put a stopper on someone’s day. His Military record would go on to say he had died of natural causes. Confidentiality, that kind of thing. His wife had been notified and there had been a significant amount of tears. His will was taken from his lawyers office, and honoured as far as it could be. Life had gone on. In Azeroth.

But Pynke had not died in Azeroth, and there had been nothing natural about his death. He had died three miles below the habitable area of the Netherstorm when, along with a dragon he happened to be fighting, he had smashed into a floating rock following a rather violent and bloody fight that had raged from the point of Jumping at the Dragon to the point of impact. Normally, that would be the part where the Soul of Goblin and Dragon would depart the body, and float off into the spirit realm, where they would enjoy their respective afterlives. Unfortunately, this would not be the case. Both Dragon and Goblin had a bit of a grudge that they didn’t fancy letting go just due to a slight case of death, and so the fight continued. And when the Spirit of Pynke finally defeated the Dragon, bridling him and mounting him, he discovered that both Goblin and Dragon spirit had been ensnared by the borders of Outland – they had crossed into the Twisting nether. And for a realm of chaos and unrestricted entropy, the twisting nether was a really boring place for a spirit.

Day 120 in the Nether, and Pynke, sitting on his Dragon Sally, was bored. Hanging in stasis is a pastime Generals tend to not enjoy, and to make matters worse, he still couldn’t find his axe. He also had an itch on his nose. Raising his translucent hand, he went to scratch it. It didn’t help. Somewhere, something was touching the nose of his body. With a huff, he tugged on Sally’s reigns, who gave an angry snap of his jaws before complying, turning around to go from looking at one patch of nothingness to another.

Pynke felt that it was time to imagine something to do. Slowly, beginning with a few flashing black spots in the blankness and gradually growing, an obstacle course unveiled in front of him, a trail of small gaps, high walls and monkey bars. Lastly Pynke imagined the ground, and dismounted, his feet sinking several inches into his ground before he remembered to make everything solid. He spent the next few hour – or minutes – or days (It’s hard to tell) running through the course, making it harder each time. By the end of the session, he had perfected the track into a Labarynthe of flaming hoops and swinging knives, which he navigated himself across on the back of Sally, despite the great ghost beast’s complaints. At last Pynke dismissed the imaginary Obstacle course, and sat back down in the saddle, with a huff. Death, is Boring.
So something interesting happened. Colour burst into the blankness, an explosion of flame and lightning as a hole burnt itself into the very fabric of the Nether. A Portal had opened – but not into the Twisting Nether – this wasn’t a Portal to summon a deamon, this was a Portal to the Spirit Plane that existed Paralell to the Nether. Something was coming for him – and this wasn’t just his Imagination. Three thick tentacles burst through the Portal and wrapped themselves around Pynke and Sally. For a Split second Pynke saw a Chained Forsaken laughing, before everything went black.

One more Soul for the fight.

Todays story was in memory of all those who died fighting around the globe.

We will remember them

Prophecies come in all shapes and forms. Dreams for example. Not your run-of-the-mill dream mind you, but one that lasts in your memory long after you awake. Dreams that you remember at the perfect moment, and can change the course of events. Other prophecies can come from the ramblings of the elderly – and its always the elderly – who suddenly act out of character and say things very unlike their personality. And there are those prophecies given by an individual who has made it his life work to find and present these prophecies.

Such people are called prophets. Often their work goes without severe recognition – Mediv’s spirit almost singlehandedly changed the course of the Third war with his Prophecies, and yet very few mortals today know of his actions. Many Prophets live in caves, peddling their skill for a few coppers – after all, it is very difficult to tell the future accurately, and for vague ramblings a high charge is often rare. Other prophets attach themselves to a king or ruler, taking a high wage to privatise their art, and using that money to buy the regents needed to make the most accurate predictions.

Regents like the cards. When the first Soothsayer ritual was performed, Troll prophets were pulled from all four corners of the empire to pay tax to the First Soothsayer. Each of them was demanded upon to use their powers to craft a card, a single artefact of their power, individual to them and known only to them. Without anyone but its creator gazing upon the cards they were collected into a deck, and placed inside a metal casket that was chained to the first Soothsayers hip. Then, as the ritual progressed, the prophets were slaughtered to please the Spirits and the Loa, their souls amalgamating into one, and entering the mind of the First Soothsayer. To seal the deal their hearts were cut from their body, and were fed to the First Soothsayer, who ate every last one, over two hundred in total. Such a cruel act created the spirit of Araladin, the Soothsayer, but drove the First Soothsayers own mind to the point of Insanity. Eyewitnesses would go on to claim that the lord of time himself cursed the Selfishness of the Soothsayer, but such Rumours were never proven. The Troll himself left the site of the ritual and disappeared. He only lived another few months before dying.

Ten years later a young troll appeared before the King. He claimed to be the Second Soothsayer and, at his waist was chained an iron casket. With the Kings permission the Young troll travelled the Empire visiting Prophets and Chiefs, collecting cards and giving Prophecies. Unlike his cruel predecessor though, the Young troll did not kill the prophets, instead teaching them some of his art, and letting them continue their practice in peace. Two years later the Young Troll appeared again before the King. He requested that a Child be given when asked for, and predicted the fall of the empire and, sure enough, it collapsed entirely over the next decade. The Soothsayer disappeared completely, and wasn’t heard of again for five Hundred years, until the withered old Troll appeared before the sand Trolls of Zul’Farrak. His magically extended life had come to an end, and he requested the Child that had been promised to him. With the child, the old Troll disappeared again, and the Second Soothsayer died peacefully.

Over Ten Thousand years later, The Thirteenth Soothsayer was reaching the end of his life. A Child had already been chosen to succeed the Araladin, which left him with just one task left. Five of the cards lay before him. The strongest prophecies were always five cards. Six and the Spirits believed that the Prophet was being greedy and therefore none of the cards showed anything. Four and the Prophecy would be inaccurate, or too vague to translate. Should more specification be needed than could be provided in five cards, two or more cards may have stuck themselves together to appear as one? Otherwise, there would only be five cards. Each card could be inverted or upright which could give two completely different meanings. The order of the cards also provided different fortunes, and the interpretation could be misread, which could give a false Prophecy. Fortunately the Soothsayer had over Ten thousand years of practice – although even now he would see a card every now and again that he had never seen before.

These five however were by no means strangers to the Soothsayers sunken eyes. He had seen the same cards the last time he had tried to make a prediction, and the time before that, and the time before that. And he still couldn’t interpret them.

First, a common card. The Plan. The Plan card regularly meant there was a plot, or it could mean a plan had to be made. Under certain circumstances it would mean a certain route had to be taken.

Second, was the card “Stubbornness.” It was inverted, meaning openness and acceptance.

Third, was the Ace of Demons. A straightforward card. It didn’t always mean a bad thing would happen, but quite often did.

Fourth, was Inverted Strength. Usually means weakness.

And Last, was Fire. Fire had thousands of possible meanings, and it was this card that baffled the Soothsayer. He couldn’t for the life of him think of a combination of translations that fit the other Cards.

With a Sigh, the Soothsayer Collected up his cards and put them in the pack. Time was growing short. If he couldn’t read the cards, he would have to find someone who could.

Only a matter of weeks left, and Cain’s body was beginning to show the signs of fatigue. Months had gone since his soul had left his body, and now the floating chained mannequin’s face was paler than ever, thick green veins sticking out as the mouth ever moved, the chanting still going strong. Around him his work was obvious – the sky all around the span swarmed with a force of ghosts, darting and diving around the air waiting for their final battle. As Cain’s soul looked around, he recognised many of them – there was that Tauren, the one that had died at that thing, looking sullen and annoyed. There was that troll, looking rather smug. There was Jaelen – no, there he was again… wait no there he was… how many times had that elf died? And above them all was the General ‘Pynke,’ sitting astride a great black Dragon as he watched the army – his army – prepare itself for war.

The matted trees of Feralas. It had been a long walk, but the Soothsayer had finally arrived. Leaning on his medicine stick, the weary old troll took a minute to catch his breath and collect himself, while his eyes darted around the trees. Somewhere in this forest was a spot, a spot where a decision would be made. Like every decision, the Soothsayer could not see beyond it – but every prior decision that had been made led to this one. And as is life, this decision will lead to another decision.
In his millennia of experience, the Soothsayer had learnt not to press decisions or to try and persuade the decide what to choose. They should be taken properly, and honestly. Of course Sash’nay was just mortal, and had on numerous occasions attempted to influence decisions to improve the future. Had it always worked? No. But did that stop him? If he felt he could prevent a disaster or start a relationship, he would always try to do it, and every now and again, it worked out. However the coming decision was one he couldn’t try and influence, as it directly affected his own future. The decision would be the deciders to make and the deciders own, and no matter what Sash’Nay tried – the Soothsayer would stop him.
Taking a deep breath, the Old troll took another step. His medicine staff had long ago become his walking stick, and as he used it to assist his steps, the floating carved bat roosting at the end wobbled in the wind, the dried fruits tied to the shaft rattling lightly. The forest was full of sound, movement, life, and the soothsayer saw all of its choices spread out before him like a map. But for once, he chose to ignore them as he focused on the challenge in hand – getting to the next bluff alive.

For Pynke, it had been an odd few weeks. At last, he had been pulled out of the Spirit plane of the Twisting nether, and what’s more, given the chance to forfill his life’s ambition, to destroy Menethil Harbour. He had been placed at the head of an Army of like-minded individuals, and given a new suit of Armour. He had no idea whether Ghosts could wear real armour or if they had to wear the armour they died in, but nonetheless he had it. It even had a familiar tabard, but Pynke couldn’t remember where he knew it from.
He knew what he had to do. It was right there in his mind, as it had always been. The battle would be a massacre, all men, women and children must die and their bodies be desecrated. A large shattered skull must be burnt into the side of the fort, and then painted with the blood of the dead children. It was a perfect plan, and everyone in the army agreed. Somehow they had all had the exact same plan, but Pynke had no reason to dwell on that co-incidence. For now, he had an army to lead.
As he sat astride his Dragon, one of his advisers floated up to him. He was called the Wraith, and Pynke had never seen his face, but he had been told that in life, the adviser had been called Jaelen. Somehow Pynke recognised the name, but couldn’t think of where from. Nor could he imagine why his six other advisors had been called Jaelen as well. One by one they floated up to him, bobbing in the air around him. Following the Wraith came the Champion, a proud Elven mage in the height of his career, his chest thrust out with an air of Superiority none of his other advisers possessed. Then came the Casanova, a hot-headed young elf with bright white skin, and a shimmering mane of white blonde hair. He was always lusting after one female ghost or another. Behind him crouched the Creep, an envious hunched elf with hollow eyes that darted from one shiny item to another, looking at girls chests and nice mounts like they were the last things on earth. Pynke really didn’t like him, which is why he called him the Creep. As the four bobbed around Pynke, the council started. As usual, the Wraith started, while the Champion looked at himself in the mirror and the Creep stared at him.
“We must destroy them all, violently.”
This was always the Wraiths opening address. He was a very violent thing. Probably all the black robes that hung off him. He continued talking, but Pynke wasn’t listening. The Felblood had just shown up, with a hunk of meat in one paw and a mana crystal in the other. Fellood was just as he seemed – an overweight gluttonous Fel elf that never stopped eating, drinking, or absorbing mana. Still, he was good conversation between mouthfuls. And just behind Felblood, was the Mogul. The mogul was a very wealthy Elf, always gambling for more of anything, stockpiling money, goods and food. He seemed to be the eldest of the Advisers, except perhaps the Wraith whom Pynke had no idea of his age. And that just left the Slob. But the slob never showed up. He was probably asleep somewhere, or lying around like a sloth, just not doing anything. However, with six advisers present, the council of war could finally begin. Pynke cleared his throat, and spoke.

As Cain's burning body fell from the Bridge, he could only think of one word. And it wasn't a very nice one.