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duraxxor · 5 years

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Prelude of Myotis - Part 2 Dathuro Deathcleave

The combination of hammer slammed across metal possessed many meanings. For some, it was no more than a consistent percussion. To other's, it was a telltale sign of labor in construction. There was something rhythmic from that silent delay to clanking collision of metal against metal, whether it be iron or steel. But for other's it was the tidings of war production, something that was quite common amongst the denizens of Azeroth. And for a lone, orc death knight, it was a means to calm the storm within his plagued heart.

CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!

Dathuro Deathcleave. A name that had occasionally graced the lips of Daevara himself for several circumstances. A Blackrock clansman that had chosen not to partake in the demonic blood like most of his kin. However, this did not save him from a future associated with death as he fell to the Lich King's grasp. Despite his unlife, Dathuro continued to uphold his art of craftsmanship, evolving further and further. And if not for a pact made with none other than Duraxxor many moons ago, he may not have the pleasure of continuing his work. Now, the time has come for Dathuro to rejoin his ally as Benjamin Lewinters seeks out Deathcleave. . .

Even in the warmest times of the year, Icecrown's winds chilled deep down to the marrow, shelter or not. And while Bolvar has chosen to remain inactive in most cases, the restless dead speak otherwise. Yet, Deathcleave had found refuge within one of the destroyed spires upon it's northern most gate known as Aldru'thar. Accompanying him was none other than a pack of geists that the death knight commanded to assist him in his endeavors. Many weapons and armor pieces were on display and most appeared to be quite the professional take. However, Dathuro was not satisfied in even his best work. Each clash represented his inner frustrations as he sought the perfect combination to his work. Each grunt and growl resonated within his hallow throat, occasionally spooking his accomplices who occasionally peered back as a reassurance this orc would not go on a rampage.

CLINK! CLINK!

" Slaughter them all. Take up our axe and cleave their souls in twine. You know you want to, Dathuro. " A sinister thought plagued the orc's grizzled features. Hog-like tusks clenched tightly at the gnawing irritation that began to bristle. Blackened veins began to sparkle with the runic magics that were infused deep within the orc's flesh. " Cease this endless work. Remove their head's and drink the blood straight from their socket. . . " The whispers grew louder, only dulled by the sound of the hammer that struck the runeforged metal upon the smith's table. The geists all began to stare directly at the master as his anger began to boil over. Some already retreating to hide their bodies while other's froze, bearing witness to a war veteran's torment. . .

CLINK! CLINK! Clunk. . .

The rhythm of Dathuro's toll ceased, interrupted by the orc’s poor strike against the piece of metal, creating a crack upon it's surface. Oh how that imperfection infuriated Deathcleave to the point that the lichfire eyes ignited much like the azure flames of the runeforge before him. And without a second thought, Dathuro grabbed ahold of the weapon table and picked it up off the ground, tossing it across the entire hall to clash directly at the doorway. The very act was reminiscent of the primitive ogres tossing boulders to crush their foes. Geists scattered, murmuring in cacophonous distraught as they fumbled for safety. Their was the even the rancid scent of soiled drawers that clearly needed proper disposal.

" Do you always make such a fuss when you make a mistake, Deathcleave? " A ragged voice called to him just beyond the remains of what was once a table and Dathuro's mistake. The hooded creature looked at though his tattered sleeves dangled with icicles from Icecrown's frigid cold. The chill itself suited the hobbling man as he began to make his approach within this hideaway beneath the saronite ceiling. " Honestly. You can't be getting upset from such a miniscule thought. Otherwise Lord Daevara will see you as nothing more than a blundering behemoth. " The mockery in his voice was as clear as the crystalline ice that began to fall off of his form. " You are much bigger than I was told though, I'll give you that. "

The orc instantly grinded his teeth with great disdain as the man's smell coated his nostrils. " Either one of my geists fell into a batch of acid or I smell embalming fluid. " The orc's retort was clearly meant to strike at the Forsaken's disposition. It was true that other than the obviousness of his condition, there were dribbles of formaldehyde mixture that were practically amber-like from the dropped temperatures. Even the geists began to slow crawl from the dark hideaways as their master ceased his primal rage. Curiosity claimed one as he stepped in closely to examine the figure with his single stare. " And you speak of a dead man, have you come seeking some sort of offering. Well you can forget it, corpse. I'm not interested in anything except war and craftsmanship. "

Lewinters sighed heavily as he brought one of his boney digits to caress a pairs of spectacles in readjustment beneath the hood. " The pot calling the kettle ebony, aren't we? Actually, Duraxxor Daevara is very much alive. Well, as alive as someone who has died twice can be. And he has sent me to bring you to him while he attends to his own business. And trust me, friend. . . " A brief delay in his sentence was graced with a disgusting grin which contained crooked, rotting teeth with degrading gums. ". . . I wouldn't keep him waiting. Clearly he needs a beast of your talents. And for your information, it's nothing personal, but an orc was responsible for my death so I'm not particularly fond of the kind that go around beheading people. "

As if it wasn't bad enough that the orc himself could hardly contain his own echoing laughter, the geists joined in the merriment, creating an orchestra of humor in the process. There was even one who giggled like some sort of choked goose. " You fear me, dead man? You are wise in doing so. " With a instant reach of his powerful arm, he grasped the handle of his runic axe and anchored it upon his massive shoulders, slowly bringing himself towards this individual with heavy, metallic bootstep. The very sound familiar to the orc and his minions who organized themselves beside and behind their creator. Dathuro came to a halt two paces in front of Benjamin, narrowing his lichfire eyes with questioning. " Do you have history with elven warlord? "

The Forsaken's exposed jaw grew slack on the left side, showing a hint of intrigue that the brute would even consider asking such things. " In a time where I'm guessing you, Daevara, and I breathed, you could say that we helped one another out of some tight situations. But after his fall, I came across him when he was in a state of his own confusion, much like you and I experienced. Undeath is not kind to anyone. And Daevara was reborn as one of the worst creatures Arthas had conjured into existence. " The mandible of his jaw creaked occasionally with every other word. The mention of Arthas brought distaste to the other party however as the geists grumbled alongside their master. " When I found him, he was quite the emaciated mess. No memory. He had nothing but a body and an empty heart. With a few pulled strings and a fresh meal, I guided him back to his family. Or at least what's left of it. Now, that debt has been heavily paid for considering he once again saved me from the sacking of the Undercity. " The wooden cane tapped the saronite floors twice before he gave the orc the floor. " And you, Dathuro Deathcleave... forgive my manners, I am Benjamin Lewinters. But, what about you? "

Deathcleave brought his chin to raise as the name rang familiar in his head, remembering a time where Duraxxor himself had mentioned such a name. " Throm'ka, Benjamin Lewinters. As for the story of how the warlord and I became allies, well. . . It once started as a rivalry. The Blackrock clan came into contact with the elves a few times and there was something about how the wars occasionally brought his blade and my axe to collide. Each Mak'gora, one might say, always ended in a draw and we always carried a battle scar from each one. But those times came to an end when the Lich King claimed us both from segregated events. " The iron gauntlets tightened around his mighty weapons handle, thankful that it was reinforced by an even stronger substance. The deathly stare gazed across the halls of Aldru'thar in remembrance for the souls that cried both in agony and battle the day the Ashen Verdict alongside the Horde and Alliance clashed with the Scourge. It was when Deathcleave gestured to the battered cage in some remote corner that the story began to connect. " For some reason, Duraxxor was imprisoned within those bars of reinforced saronite, left by his brothers and sisters to rot. I was tasked with another group of the Ebon Blade to make sure there were no survivors that would ambush us. And just when the bloodthirst began to settle in my eyes without a single thought of mercy for the prisoner, he pointed a sharp talon behind me as one of the other knights had attempted betrayal. " Blood still stained the floors around them even after all this time as one of the geists whimpered. " The traitor had killed my comrades and decomposed them with insidious plague magic. If Duraxxor had not of motioned in that moment, my own head would've endured the fate you spoke of. So when the scum was disposed of, I released him. I told him to run and find his path. I told him to not be like the rest of the San'layn filth. And so he did. "

Silence descended upon chamber as if there was a brilliant respect tethered to the two creatures of death. To which, Lewinters had his own commentary. " So because of you, he was given the opportunity to find me. What a small world after all. So how did you reunite with him and why are you not under the wing of the Ebon Blade? "

A good question, indeed. One that Dathuro had no issue explaining. " During the Siege of Orgrimmar, We both were deployed in the same unit. He was posing as a death knight under the decree of your Dark Lady while I was a Horde Ebon Blade. After Garrosh was dismantled of his father's legacy, I decided it was time I pulled myself away from the faction conflict, much like Daevara had. I called him a warlord because him and I share a similar regard to battle. We would rather continue to fight a powerful adversary rather than end the fight in an instant. " Behind the large, right tusk, a faint smirk could be seen from the dark-skinned orc.

Benjamin huffed at that obvious statement. " By all that is unholy, it's true. The man could go on for hours about how he embraced through the pain and the iron will of those that were worthy of his slow deaths. " A single tap was given from the cane as the wayward geist had attempted to grab upon the object with wonder. " So will you come with me and assist him? Do you believe me? " He sounded as if he were truly exhausted at this point from all the constant acitivity as of late.

The orc considered it for a moment before he brought one of his thick, sausage like fingers to prod the Forsaken's face. " I believe you speak with truth. And while I would normally rather fight one to see if they truly speak from their honest mouth, you seem to b- " The orc was suddenly cut off as his finger caused Benjamin's jaw to snap open even further. Never had anyone seen those yellow orbs turn violet so swiftly as this Forsaken brought his cane to beat the larger being upside the head.

" Gerd ferking dom-it! Your ooverpoowered oof! " The forsaken shouted with anger as the geists began to cackle like a pack of hyenas at their master's punishment. His other limb reaching to support the mandible back in place so he could at the very least speak more clearly. " Son of a... Hrngh. We're leaving now before you sever my head with a simple push! " Never in the undead's life had he created such a fast portal to their next destination. Arcane tethers fizzled, causing the geists to jump up and down as if they were a pack of monkeys that had found some sort of shiny object. " Get the hell in there before I change my mind about you, Deathcleave! " And so, with a series of grumbles and a caress of his forehead, the death knight and his minions stepped through the portcullis to the next rendezvous point. But before Lewinters made his own departure, he couldn't help but wonder, what exactly did Duraxxor have planned? " Project Myotis, aye, Daevara? I hope you aren't going in over your head this time, friend. " The forsaken turned around and slowly began to materialize as the particles of his small rift began to fade away, leaving the Deathcleave hideout silent other than the chilling winds that never ceased deep in the heart of Northrend.

#Project: Myotis #Benji #Deathcleave #memoirs of Daevara past

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theonyxpath · 6 years

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Last week we looked at the intro fiction to Geist’s first edition. This week we do the same, but previewing some of the text from Geist’s 2nd Edition, currently on Kickstarter. This is the Prologue for “A Brighter Morning.”

Two women sat at the candlelit dining room table with their hands on the spirit board, unaware of the figure that hovered above them. Oliver knew them very well. Like all his tenants, Oliver had given them a “grace period,” a time to settle into the house before he made himself known. He took that time to learn all about them. He knew that the older woman in the ponytail and long white t-shirt was named Jade, and that the younger woman in the full pajama set who kept her hair long and untamed was named Trisha. They were the daughters of Hari Patel, who still slept in his room on the other side of the house, where Oliver’s parents slept when they were alive.

The Patels had fascinated Oliver from the moment they moved in. Hari was a single father who lived entirely within Oliver’s walls, running a business from the room that had previously been a nursery and worshipping at a household shrine tucked away in a small closet. Jade and Trish left the house far more often. On bad days, when Oliver felt compelled to wander the house and re-create his own death, he’d watch them leave for school instead. Jade went to a university downtown, Trisha to a high school a few miles away. The schools had names he couldn’t recognize and the subjects the women talked about sounded more like things that belonged in the pages of Amazing Stories than the world outside his window.

What excited Oliver most about the Patels was that Trisha could sense him. He was sure that he saw her looking at him from the corners of her eyes and that she shivered whenever he was near. He broke the grace period early, touching the bathroom mirror while she was brushing her teeth. She saw the imprint of vapor that his hand made. While it was disheartening to see her scream and bolt directly into the bathtub, the makeshift séance before him now was an encouraging sign. After years of reaching out and driving people away, someone was finally going to reach back.

Below him, the women talked.

“It’s here,” Trisha said. “I can feel it.”

Jade rolled her eyes. Trisha couldn’t see it through the dim light, but to Oliver it was clear as day.

Trisha laid her fingers on the planchette. “Let’s get started.”

Jade said, “Trisha, if this is some kind of prank…”

“It’s not a prank. You saw the picture.”

“The hand on the mirror? Anyone of us could have done that.”

Oliver hadn’t breathed in decades but his chest rose and fell as if he were hyperventilating. He grabbed at the planchette. Trisha lifted her hands from it, and Oliver’s fingers phased through the plastic.

“I saw it happen, right in front of me!” Trisha said. “And it’s not just that! Sometimes I can hear things.”

“Like now!” Oliver yelled. “Right now!”

She knitted her eyebrows and looked up at where he was. Jade leaned over the table. The creak of the floor boards caught Trisha’s attention. Oliver stiffened at the sound.

“Trish, it’s an old house. It’s going to make noises.”

Jade moved back into her chair, making a louder creak. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut. He kept saying “No” to himself, each repetition less steady.

“I know what an old house sounds like!” Trisha threw her arms up, gesturing to the whole house.

“This isn’t it. You can’t hear it?”

“What am I supposed to be hearing?” Jade stomped a foot into the floor. “This?”

Oliver clasped his hands on his ears. “Not now!”

Mid-day. August. School’s around the corner. The whole family goes out for a drive but he’s at home. Slept in. Oldest child but just can’t keep routine. Feels bad, wants to make it up, starts making lunch for everyone. Sees a car roll up, rushes out to greet them. Only it’s not the Packard like it should be, it’s the shiniest Rolls Royce he’s ever seen…

Trisha put a finger to her lips. “‘Now.’ That’s what I heard, ‘now.’ Listen!”

Jade stood up. Another creak.

Four well-dressed men come out of the car. He knows them now, recognizes the leader with the grin that’s far too wide. They’re not just here for Father’s money this time. Boy sees the shining glint of silver in the man’s hands, and tries to run…

“It’s just the pipes, Trish.” Jade walked over to the sink with sure, steady strides. Creaks and groans rose from the floor with every step. She turned on the faucet.

“Dad told me about this. We just have to run the water for a bit and it’ll settle out.”

Trisha whispered. “I-i-it’s not the p-p-pipes.”

Jade turned and saw vapor rising from her sister’s mouth. It glowed in the candlelight.

Goosebumps ran up her spine.

They catch him. Beat him down and break all his limbs. They stamp every tender part of his body until he feels bruises forming down his torso, between his legs. The floorboards creak as they pull them up. They bring in a shovel, dig a hole right next to him.

“Your pa squealed about our little arrangement,” the man with the grin says. He’s still grinning, maybe even wider now. “So your kin’s dead. They’re gonna find them, but your pa loved you an awful lot. So I got something special.”

The boy sees the silver thing. A hacksaw…

Jade took a step towards her sister. The dining room table flew into the air and fell over, slamming the spirit board into the wall. The kitchen cabinets all flew open at once and every dish flew towards her. One shattered on her head and she tumbled to the floor.

Every door in the house opened and slammed in a chaotic pattern. Hari ran out of the room, demanding to know what the girls had done. The circuit breaker behind him burst and he was silent. Jade rose from the floor to see her sister staring at a man standing before her, sliced into parts and held together by the thinnest viscera.

Trisha whispered prayers under her breath as Oliver shambled towards her.

“Help me,” he said. “It hurts.”

Join the Kickstarter Krewe at the Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition prestige Kickstarter!

#Onyx Path Publishing

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