Tag: windsongwrite

“Broken people don’t hide from their monsters. Broken people let themselves be eaten.”

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NSfW with some dark /mature themes.

There were only so many ways to kill a man. But to minimize the damage required careful planning and as Windsong quietly closed the door behind her. The soon to be dead man had several years to fix up his home. Walls had been carefully erected, sealing the elements outside and leaving a decently sized entry room to double as his relaxation area. Lit up by arcane lights the  erected walls were hollowed just enough to allow for bookshelves. The books bore gold and silver lettering, looking like they were bound in leather. Leather chairs were in a circle around a dog clawed table.

 A rich carpet decorated the floor. The spell that had hid her for so long broke and the feeling of dry cold water against her skin vanished as it faded away. Leaving her visible and standing in the lobby. As she stepped onto the carpet her boots made no sound. The smell of rotting flesh and  the sounds of someone hard at work came from a doorway that revealed a way down. What an easy way to get to the workshop.

She allowed a grin to come on her face. It faded quickly as she noticed the too small skeleton skull on the dog clawed table next to a bright beaded bracelet. She could make the start of a name on the tiny blocks. N-A- Quickly she looked away, refusing to read the rest. Taking a deep breath she faced the only other doorway in the room. “Probably doesn’t get any visitors.”

She murmured and then took a deep breath, focusing on her magic and opening her mind up. She could never describe it well. It wasn’t anything easily described with words. Words would define it, give it limits and set walls of understanding around it. To see the countless possibilities and decisions that could be made. Everything looked different, spontaneous and heavily shaded by red. She could see the building when it was alive and thriving with Quel’dorei, when the Scourge tore through it, long-dead Farstrider’s fighting for their lives and their corpses hitting the floor. She could feel the cold when it was a dead building, exposed to the elements and feel the sorrow of the ghosts that wandered the village. She saw the building becoming a stronghold, filled with undead- all looking like porcelain dolls. Focusing on the possible future instead she breathed slowly.

She saw herself stepping forward and as she entered the doorway her foot stepped on the trap rune and recoiling as she was set aflame. She saw herself turning away and leaving. Inspecting the books.Squinting she focused on where the rune was, focusing on all the possibilities there. They ran through her mind like the pages of a book turning- all the possible outcomes. Carefully she began to approach the door, fingers twitching. She saw herself stepping through the door successfully, mimicking the possible reality where she walked through the door unharmed. Following the red possibility.

And now she would face the dark spellcaster alone.. It was a sobering thought that, even if she could see what would happen she would still die. The odds were not high in her favor. But it beat bitching and moaning how sad things were. But she had her edge: the Diviner’s sight. She followed down the stairs, keeping her steps quiet and avoiding the magical rune traps. They were everywhere- the floor, the ceiling, the walls leading down to the basement. Following each successful choice the vision’s chose.

When she entered the basement the red possibilities of the future died, fading to grey. Spiders everywhere she looked, covered in grave ashes. Wherever she looked they were at the edge of her vision. Silent and still and ashen grey as solid and real as the beating heart pounding in her ears.

The basement was decorated with the wealth of the dead- their furniture, their items, precious gold, and prized possessions. The elegance and expensive items scattered around the basement were ruined by the corpses stacked in the corner and the dried blood and gore on the floor. A sickly sewer smell that came only from the dead and their corpses.

Windsong didn’t give the fear a chance to build, gathering her courage and walking straight ahead, boots striking the stone floor. The sound echoed in the basement.

“MAGE.” She bellowed. “PREPARE YOURSELF. YOUR DEATH HAS BEEN FORETOLD.” Even expecting the mage to react she felt fear as he turned from the corpse on the table. His long brown hair was tied back in a loose tail and dressed in his black robes and shoes- very stylish compared to her dull enchanted clothing. His shaggy eyebrows and handsome features were highlighted by the dark purple light held in his hand.

A pair of blood-red candles flickered brightly next to him, illuminating the chalk outlines of the circle that surrounded him.

He stared in shock as she began to stride briskly across the room.  “How dare you!” Came the shout.

“We need to talk.”

His shock transformed into anger in a heartbeat. He snatched up the wicked looking knife and send unfocused power everywhere. Trying to buy more time. She could see the spell he cast, bracing herself, just before the crates behind her exploded, throwing her against the ground. Pain rain up her leg as she grabbed at the ground. The wood had torn into her leg and she saw her own blood dotting the floor.

The countless possibilities continued to move in front of her but she focused soley on the dark mage.So many red visions moving and changing, all of them the same shade of color. But as the dark mage began to choose an action they faded and the outcome became solid just seconds before his hand lifted and he cursed her. Fire washed over the basement  towards her and she tugged her shirt over her head as it washed over her. Flames licked at the back of her hands.

The corpse on the stone coffin coughed and let out a pathetic groan. Alive. The mage looked behind him but there was nowhere to run, no traps in here. The visions keeps moving. So many possibilities, so little time to find the next action and react.

“Using fire to defend yourself? Real cute, eh? All mages learn that in their first month. I’ve been watching you for weeks and what do you do with your talent? Wasted it.”

“Who are you?” His hands begin to move, making arcane gestures. “Death.” To many mages relied on magic, to used to thinking about it. The solve all, end all to a problem. Relying on the speed the enchanted boots gave her she lurched forward, driving her shoulder into his chest, slamming him against the stone coffin he’d been working on. His spell hit her, breaking the enchants that made her clothes as good  as real armor. It was all he needed so his dagger could cut through her clothing, leaving a burning red line where it touched.

He moved as she went to knee him in the gut and she caught him in the groin instead. It would have been so much easier just to watch his heart explode or to call for one of her demons to deal with him. Kowlnash would rend him into pieces. Selneri would charm him into killing himself and Hakuum would drain the magic from his being while Naltal would burn him alive. Mezznak would simply wait for her orders.

As she struggled her diviner’s sight left her and it suddenly became much harder to avoid the furious blows the mage threw. Managing to get her hands around his throat she pressed her thumbs against the skin  and then up and pressed.  She just needed to hold out for a few minutes.

“Die.” She hissed between her teeth. She’d lied to the Magisters for weeks about him. If she’d said anything maybe the owner of the bracelet upstairs would have been alive. He grabbed her wrists to try and pull her away but she leaned forward, putting her weight into it  as her hands squeezed.

It was two minutes and a stabbing pain later before his hands began to let go and slow. Three minutes in and the snarling anger and desperation became confusion and gasped sounds. She wasn’t suffocating him but she was. She was causing brain death rather than damage anything else.  To much anyway. When he finally gave up his last gasp and the light left his eyes she kept her hands in place for another minute more, unwilling to have the mage wake up.

It was with stiff hands she pulled out the dagger that had buried itself just beneath her flesh at her hips. She leaned against the coffin, breathing heavily and looking around.  “-please.” The weak voice came from the corpse on the table. It sent her heart into a rapid thudding against her chest. “Help me. Please.”

Slowly she rose up, using the coffin to help herself up.

The elf on the table was badly abused, bruises and cuts covered his body. His eyes were gone but still he searched for her. “Please.” Came the pitiful sound. “He has my daughter- Nailia.” He kept on. Nailia. There had been a bracelet upstairs that started with an NA. She wasn’t fond of children and lacked that parental instinct but the realization brought bile to her throat.

“Hold on.” She gasped when she could breath. Between the pain and the realization her stomach had no interest in trying to keep calm.  “Nailia-” The elf began. “Is fine. With the guards. Sunwell! Just give me a minute.” A soft sigh from the table. “She ran for help. Good girl.”  Windsong pressed her hand to her stomach as relieved rambling came from the elf. Maybe the lie gave him some comfort and strength and talking to her as she recovered herself helped him.

“Her mother and siblings are at the house. We were on the way and-” He inhaled slowly. “Thank you, thank you so much. Can you-” The chains clinked. “Nailia- I need to see my children, my wife.” Windsong rose up, grunting at the pain. “Yeah, yeah. It’s probably gonna hurt though- looks like some of those chains dug in.” A happy nod from the elf on the table. “Just stay still.” Another nod though it was weaker than the first.

When the rusted stiletto buried itself in the man’s lower abdomen he didn’t make a sound. Blood slowly began to leak from the wound. She didn’t need any witnesses to this. “Go to your child.” She whispered before turning towards the body. “Mezznak.”

A flicker in her mind responded to the name. “Mezznak.” The shadows wavered, shifting as the voidwalker began to come into the world. “Mezznak.” The darkly glowing eyes looked to her for orders. “The body on the floor, take it. You know where. Clean it. Then stasis.”

“Monsters are born of pain, and grief, and loss, and anger. “

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Diviners always seem prepared for everything. In truth most Diviners tended to wing it, having a extra leg up by using the information they could wrest from nowhere. Being able to use the extra information came in handy and with so few mages specializing in the school of Divination it made them seem far more knowledgeable than they were. It gave a reputation and Windsong relied heavily on her divining and that reputation. But even a master of the school of divination was just as fallible as any other mage.

She had been forced to learn a new school after the Sunwell had been destroyed and a crippling addiction to magic had been made clear. She was loathe to use her darker skillset but if she had no choice then maybe Alexander could wait longer for a new body.

So before she had left that morning she had prepared herself. The enchanted socks for added speed. Her favorite dagger and thick leather boots and a folded scrap of gold cloth in her pockets and the spells needed for the body, stored on vellum scrolls.  She had several of her clothes enchanted and despite the look of the cloth and leather it was as good as a suit of armor.

Carrying out a full enchantment was hard to do but she made certain to regularly renew it. It was invaluable to have the lighter cloth without the layers of linen and heavy armor. Of course the risk of the enchants breaking at the wrong time was always there. Cloth was not as good at holding the enchants as metal, stone, or any other lasting material.

I headed towards the ghostlands, taking a day and some hours to get there. Even renting a hawkstrider did little more then shorten the trip by a few mere hours. They might have reclaimed much of Quel’thalas but there was still enough danger to be found that Windsong preferred to travel on the crowded roads where guards kept patrol. It held the promise of safety, not that she was afraid of what lurked by the dead scar or in the shadows of the trees. As she reached the bridge leading into the Ghostlands there was a definite feeling riding up her spine. Anticipation.

Her slender fingers caressed the leather reins as the hawkstrider continued on. Her last stop with the hawkstrider was Tranquillen. The only large city of noteable worth that was in the ghostlands. The residents were hardened, stoic elves. If Windsong had to guess they had been there for some time.When she dropped the hawkstrider off she took a few minutes to breath, centering herself before she walked down the road, off the beaten path and towards the ruined village.

“Victory or death.” She whispered softly to herself, having already seen countless possiblities before her. A familiar defiance stirred to life in her chest and her nose rose up.  She would not know fear.

Anger was easier.

“There are no heroes. In life the monsters win.”

Her home was small. Absurdly small. It could have been affectionately  called a micro apartment. Located in a corner or Murder Row Full of creaks and reassuring noises and the soft whispers that trailed in from the outside when she left her window creaked open. WHile Murder Row was a dimly lit alley the residents there kept their business out of sight  and she had rarely seen any trouble in the years she had lived there.

The apartment was a one bedroom with one narrow hallway connecting the bathroom, the tiny closet she used for her sewing, and the living / bedroom. A small kitchenette was in the hall and as she passed it she ran her fingers against the cool wall.. It was decorated and the floors thickly textured- carpets she had made by hand, a collection of enchanting bric a brac, her staff, and enchanting supplies crammed onto the one bookshelf she had. And in that same corner was a pile of books that she really would organize. Eventually.

Some day.

Throwing off her shoes she sat down at her work desk. She needed to prepare for the Ghostlands. It was not an uncommon thing in a day to be mocked for being a diviner. It was often seen as the weakest of the schools, lacking the offensive spells others had in abundance. She had made up for it in other ways.

Enchanting was a process of using powders, crystals, and magic to infuse something. Most tended to view enchanting based on the results they had seen, which more often than not, meant weapons that could break boulders or bracers that doubled your speed. Windsong scoffed at the thought as she dipped her fingers into a jar of shimmering purple-blue powder. Carefully she began the process of making the desired enhancements for the next two hours.
Enchanting was a skill that required some talent at magic. So it came as no surprise elves excelled at the craft. Enchantment applied a wide variety of any number of magical touches to items and elf alike. For each enchanter there was a different recipe for the same enchant/ WIndsong had centuries of experience, and she could extrapolate the most successful components for herself to make a successful enchanting recipe.

Her favorite pair of socks were black with a single red band. Soft and breathable material that was as durable for combat as it was a day in Silvermoon. They were, like much of her clothing, made with her own hands.  The speed enhancement was made with eight ounces of arcane dust, a drop of vanilla oil and Windsong had sewn in spidersilk to make the proper spell design at the top. Purple crystals ground to dust and a hawkstrider feather, cut into tiny pieces. The dried remnants of a haste potion were cleaned from a vial and added. She added in a small flickering shadow from the corner for protection. All the ingredients were atop the sock thrumming  with magic. She breathed in and the magic felt like sweet sugar. When she exhaled it still tasted just as sweet down her throat. The finest sweetest candy to be found.
The last ingredient was simple and she muttered as she added a small scrap of enchanted leather that glowed bright blue as it was tossed atop the pile.

“I need speed.” She stated aloud and flexed her fingers. And now the effort for enchanting would come in. Collecting the magical ingredients was important and their significance to the enchanter carried weight as well. But you had to use magic to force the ingredients to cooperate and get what you desired. A focus could be used and her runed titanium rod wasn’t far off. It saw frequent usage through the decades.

But pure mental effort, raw willpower was her preference along with emotions and feelings. She didn’t want the safe way- she liked making the effort. It was perfect for draining her so she could sleep.She extended her hand over the sock, breathing in the sweet sweet taste of magic as she gathered up her emotions. Anger, bitterness, stubbornness and the smallest bit of sorrow in her soul was gathered together as she imagined it in the palm of her hand. Fuel for the spell. She murmured quietly as she felt the resistance build before throwing her magic at it, overcoming the resistance through her force of will and using her magic, fueled by her emotions. It left her, feeling like a punch to the gut as she sagged in her chair.

The enchanted leather burnt into nothing, shriveling, stiffening, and becoming dust before her eyes. The magic in the crystals and powder grew bright before the crystals cracked, crumbling into a fine dust, spent of all magic. The enchanting materials were worthless now, as fine as ash powder.

When picked up now the socks had the faint glow of magic to them as the magic held. It was simple to enchant bracers or footwear for speed, but what was often not mentioned after is how often people would trip or hurt themselves. She grinned  and shook away the dust from the socks,carefully setting them aside for the next day. The weariness she’d been hiding  all day weighed her down, like boulders on her back.
She only needed to take three steps to reach her bed, falling onto the soft sheets. She could feel herself sinking into the bed and crawled farther onto it before she just decided to lie there.

It was hard to put down a possible schedule for the next few days. Find a murderer before the Magisters. Kill the murderer. Put the body into magical stasis. Avoid her death and come out of it looking effortless.

The last was the hardest but it was the thought that comforted her as she went to sleep.

 “… not all monsters look like monsters. There are some that carry their monstrosity inside.”

“Evening Magister.” Windsong greeted with cheer as she came into the Magister’s office. A charismatic man with short blond hair and long purple robes, the Magister’s upper class origins were easy to spot. The office decorations, the many arcane trinkets and elegant painted portraits. “Now before you open your mouth let me just tell you that one:” Windsong held up her finger. “I was not harassing a man. And for the second issue you were going to address- no. I don’t have anything on the other thing you asked me. Somehow I’m being blocked.”

The Magister sighed. “Well Windsong I don’t know.” Papers were stacked on the Magister’s table and as she watched the Magister rubbed his forehead. Charismatic and gregarious with a healthy amount of ambition the Magister was focused on the future. He had good insight into people and while she had no doubt he was going to be a rising star in a decade or three right now he was barely above her on the ladder. The Magister’s mouth stretched deeper as his expression went sour. Out of the mages he was assigned to work Windsong was perhaps, the most reliable. “I’m heading out for a few days.” She began. “For personal reasons.”

“Personal.” The Magister repeated. His fel green eyes still tainted by the sourness of possible failure studied her critically.

The Magister was different than Windsong was. Where Windsong had no problem breaking rules and twisting them when she could get away with it. Violate them occasionally when it was for the betterment of  Quel’thalas. But the Magister, while he might twist and bend the law, would never break them.

It was his job to prosecute those who broke it after all.

“I gave you your orders Windsong.”

“And I, am of course, following them. However, I need to go to the Ghostlands. I can still do the enchanting order and find the missing evidence and the many other tasks you’ve assigned. However, I need to take this trip.”

Silence held for several minutes as the Magister studied her. “ FIne.” He agreed. “But before you go- I need you to try and see if you can find that for me.” He gestured at the papers on the side and Windsong took a look. Lists of crimes ranging from use of necromancy to inflict harm and to more ‘simple’ crimes such as murder. The Magister had found several connections between the crimes thanks to her help. But the culprit had been evading them for months. It didn’t seem to be slowing down either. The necromancer had been sending the undead to do his dirty work and while the Magisters could see the evidence of the necromancer’s handiwork, the necromancer remained a shadowy, unknown figure.

“We found this at the scene- the corpse had exploded while it was still alive.” He rose slightly to push a small object over the papers stacked high on his desk. A heavy silver cuff bracelet was set in front of her. “I know you can’t find him but- we need you to try. People like this don’t go away.” The stress had eaten away at him. It was evident in the way his shoulder had begun to sag and his wrinkled robes with its gleaming green gems.

“I can try.”

The cuff bracelet was heavy in her hand. Stress began to make itself known, wrapping around her spine. Grasping the large bracelet, her mind raced ahead as she gathered her strength, leaning forward.  Her breath fogged up the surface of the cuff and she rubbed it with her sleeve.

She didn’t need a reflective surface for divination but it made her life easier. With such a personal item however. There was always a price to pay for what she’d see. It came with a sharp jolt, the world shaking and twisting.

 Everything was foggy around me, my stomach a center of agonizing pain, her eyes refuses to process the sword that pinned her to the earth but I could see it. Blood pooled out from beneath her, keeping her warm as her strength faded. I didn’t want to die.  

“Whoreson!” I returned to the world disoriented with my eyes aching. The office spun around me and bile rose in my throat. Unable to stay balanced Windsong slide out of the chair, grabbing out blindly for a wastebasket. “No, Windsong, n-” The Magister’s voice broke off as she vomited into a rather expensive vase.

The more personal the item, the more likely she would experience more of what the owner had. It came with consequences. More than one Diviner had died, stuck in what they were seeing and sharing an unfortunate death. The kind of things that can be seen with Divination could be beautiful, bring tears to your eyes as you witnessed a long ago scene, exciting as you searched for answers, or they could be horrible, appalling, awful things. Visions of the past, future, and the true nature of some things. Magical stains, horrifying scenes, the physical, mental, and emotional damage.

It was like being in a stormy sea with nothing to keep you afloat. If the sea wasn’t trying to kill you then whatever in it’s depths wasn’t far off.

The Magister helped her back into her chair again and it was easy to tell him what happened. All but the man with the cold face. That information she kept to herself. Refusing the Magister’s offer to call for assistance she left. There was still much to do with no time to wait.