World of Warcraft®

Sister Clottia was dealing with a thirst and a hunger that no food nor drink could indulge. It had been like this for days. Bugs, flora, fauna and even a rock were eaten - all to no leverage. Her normal drink of lukewarm water and two tea leaves only left her frustrated. Even the uses of magic potions or spells and the juice of a dead maggot from between Jeremiah Peyson‘s toes did no good. The Forsaken simply could not be satisfied.

Disheartened, she jumped into the swill of the Undercity canals and gave the florescent green liquid a turn in her mouth when it hit her. She floated, facedown, for hours all to no amusement. Eventually, her desiccated body bumped into the stairway and she slowly pulled herself from the gunk, soaked and dejected. Every action was taxing her frail body. The Priestess’ finely worked garb, sopping wet, were added weight making all but the smallest movements nearly impossible. Gently and carefully, Clottia made her way to the Apothecarium.

“Yes, I know just what I need…” she rasped out. “Maybe a tour of the torture pens will lift my spirit.”

The curs being tormented in the basement of the Apothecarium could be heard screaming, begging for mercy, from the War Quarter. This brought a smile to her face as memories of a distant Stormwind swirled in her head. “Alas, even the Dark Lady knows not how to bring true, lasting pain to her prisoners. Nothing like that dog, Benedictus….” her voice trailed off as she nearly fell off the precipice into the dripping mess that was made from the mystery beast being milked in the gallipot.

The tour was most unsatisfactory. “When in Ironforge…” she whispered to herself and started thinking quickly of anything that might sate the gnawing irritation that had vexed her so. Her sightless body found quarter in the humid surroundings of the Apothecary. So much so, she remembered most of an old compound from the days of ‘Creator’. “This *might* work…”

Drippings from a bodiless head, blood from an albino bat, a dribble of tears from a caged Dwarven lady, bile from the gallbladder of a hanging abomination, a few secret tidbits and finally one drop of sticky, gel-like spit from Clottia’s mouth (her own musing) were placed into a mortar and pestle. She took the hodgepodge mix and slid it towards the nearest worker.

Apothecary Zinge tilted his head and hummed a long forgotten tune as he ground the mixture to a pulp. “Madam, you realize this concoction may kill most of the Orphanage by contact. Is that the goal?” He inquired of her.

“Not quite. I have no plans to terrori.. Excuse me.. play with the kiddies in Orgrimmar today. I am simply getting ready for Tea. I shall leave that up to you to interpret.” she clicked out as she ran a finger in her empty eye socket. “Please hurry.” she quipped.

The pharmacist, finished with his task, handed the bowl to Clottia. “I shall have to inform Master Faranell of this. In case there are repercussions, of course.”

The Priestess took a wad of bright pink gum from behind her ear and crafted a thick, gooey basin and poured the lot of the mix inside. Carefully closing up the parcel and satisfied with its security, she put the gum back behind her ear. “Of Course! You are welcome for my patronage, worm.”

By the time the gold hit the floor, Sister Clottia was already on wing headed far from the Undercity.

*****************

A few bells later:

“Would anyone care for a drink in Stormwind? I’m thirsty!!” the hearthstone crackled.

Clottia put the lid back on a jar filled with what looked like a pickle. She wiped the dribble from her mouth and gently put the jar into her coffin as she heard the stone burst to life. "Stormwind…. Yes. Yes, I think this may be my answer." she thought.

“I do not know who you are, but tell me where to meet you and I will willingly go for a ‘drink’.” She scratched out into the stone as she felt behind her ear.

(To Be Continued/Added On/Pile On + Cookies)

*several corpse runs later*

"The Blue Reclussse, yesss! That choicessst of choice drinking essstablissshmentsss, where the finessst in Horde Drinkersss met with the bessst of the Alliance drinking Championsss in a tessst of Alcoholic induced frenzy, yesss! look, a Broodin isss lunging at usss, clawsss ablaze with our corpssse-light, yesss! "

*WHAMMO*

"Another corpssse run, yesss..."

((Remind me to kill you mercilessly next time. Repeatedly.))

((I love it when Abominus comes to visit!))

((I'll be adding to this IC in a bit. I hope people will get involved in this. It's open cross faction rp that we desperately need.))

((Part II))

The Orc and Clottia met at the Zeppelin tower outside of Brill headed for Grom’gol. “An Orc... How predictable. It says a lot for your race to be so…thirsty. Let us hope they have tea.” Clottia remarked as they boarded the Purple Princess. The strong armed Orc gave the Forsaken a very toothy grin and winked. Not many more words were said aside from meeting in the Blue Recluse in Stormwind. Clottia did not even know his name.

She found comfort in his behavior and was happy about the fact her new orc ally was the quiet type. She watched him tend to his beast and check his bowstring with great fervor. This left room for her mind to wander back to a time long past where she was once an accepted, no appreciated clergy member, for her efforts in Orphan Relations to the poor children of Stormwind. Her thoughts of happy children came to a swift end as the zeppelin lurched forward, goblin machinations beating rhythmically, lulling her mind back to the catacombs of Stormwind Cathedral. The smell of crushed bone, blood and tears filled Clottia’s head with memories she thought long forgotten. “Pain is purifying..” she thought to herself while they traveled.

Upon arriving off the coast of Grom’gol, both Horde dove onto their flying beasts and made haste for the Capitol of the Alliance. Flying high above the range of the guards, making entry into the Blue Recluse was child’s play. Though the game quickly ended once their feet touched the floor.

The Blue Recluse was nearly full to capacity of nothing less than an armada of well armored Alliance. All of them smeared their war paint on and gladly accepted the challenge the two Horde presented. Clottia could not make heads nor tails of anyone. All the smells were foreign in to her nose, but quickly a scent filled her lungs she had not smelled in a decade.

The owner, a lady paladin, was poised near the entrance of the place, sword in hand and ready to meet Clottia’s spells. In an instant, her blade lodged itself deep into the right torso of the Forsaken and she quickly released a guttural scream, “GENTYL….!!!”

Knowing she would soon be in the Gray, Clottia reached behind her ear and jammed the wad of pink, stale bubblegum into her maw. Chewing feverishly she knew she had moments to make encounter count, for a change. As the inner contents leeched into the Priestess’ mouth she gave a coy grin to her nemesis from days past and knew what needed to be done post haste.

Taking her staff, she knocked the sword from Gentyl’s hand and, very bug-like, grabbed it. With all her remaining strength, Clottia bit deep into her flesh, so deep she could feel bone and sinew popping against her teeth. Her mouth coated in a mixture of sweet blood and tannic poison, she stood as straight as possible for her empty eye sockets to meet the gaze of her snack. “Enjoy.. I did.“

She was almost laughing as her body hit the floor in a lifeless clump.

*****************

Two Days Later:

Clottia sat next to Jeremiah Peyson under the ledge of the Undercity Bank thoughtfully writing while holding a squirming Undercity Cockroach between her lips. After crumpling what seemed like 25 pages, the Priestess grinned and rolled a completed note into a tight spiral.

“Little bug, do your best.. “ she hushed out to the insect as she tied the letter to it’s hind leg, “This letter is a matter of death, so make haste…” Sister Clottia shoved the bug into a box and wrapped the paper delicately. As she wandered off, zigzagging towards the Apothecary one would swear she was nearly skipping.

((I’ll leave it here for now. Gentyl and others can fill in the gaps or add their own side/perspective. Clottia will be visiting the Recluse the regular at night (with or without allies) to *try* to check on her patient. No worries, she won’t be there long enough to ruin anyone’s experience..just enough to leave a bloodstain or five. >.< ))

[ I just want to remind everyone that if Gentyl is murdered, she promised I could have Pia, soon to be renamed Princess Khromie's Fanclub. ]

(*Clears her throat* Just remember. You offered!

https://twitter.com/KordrionS/status/580233594930515968

((Thank you!!! I knew i could have raised the alarm, but I didn't want a bunch of non-rp, pvp twinked out punks showing up and turning you two into little oil stains. :)

Nothing like a sap while you're digging under a rug looking for your nose....))

From Gentyl, stolen from her mind by a Maggot of Extreme Forgetfulness and Time Stealing:

As interviews go, this one had been interesting because of some unexpected answers to questions all recruits faced. Martethus would broach no thievery even if the thief was a destitute knight down on his luck. He would have taken the knight to task in no uncertain terms. When I pressed him on the subject, he never wavered. No, he did not care to reconsider. If anything, he restated his position more solidly. Woe to the man...on top of his other woes.
I took out the small jeweled dagger Turn had given me long ago and sliced a lemon into four precise wedges, then squeezed one into my tea. Joachim had kindly stocked the orange spice tea I preferred, but I still liked the little extra kick of lemon.
"Cookie?" I snagged a couple of peanut butter cookies from the platter and pushed it toward Martethus and the others. I loved the cookies here. Well, let's be honest. I loved cookies. If anyone wanted to snare me, all they'd need was a basket of fresh cookies.
I pondered the idea of learning to bake again. Surely the authorities would lift my ban by now. I should check with Orwyn about that. Well, maybe I'd wait a few days. I'd been fishing with dynamite in the lake not long ago. I didn't see any no fishing signs, but sometimes Orwyn could be a Commander Cranky Pants about things. No sense of humor at all. Obviously, his helmet must be too tight.
Then there was that whole Charitye getting her balloon tangled up on a dead body in the lake and disarming it. Dragging a rotting arm into the Recluse was bad enough, but Broodin trying to eat it was worse. The Union weren't in a good mood about the Pia cats.
Yes, I would wait to discuss the ban with Commander Cranky Pants.
Martethus took a cookie and passed the platter down.
We got to the goldfish question. I had hopes here. Entirely too few people ever chose C. Marte might just be the one.
Nope, we would not hear the lamentations of women and goldfish on this night. He was going to beat the man until there was nothing left but whispers and promises.
Ah well.
We were nearing the end of the interview, and the cookies, when a flurry of rotted robes and teeth attacked. The thing's hair was matted and smelled of old hewn death. There are different smells of death. The fresh, coppery scent that comes new pennies and new death many are familiar with.
Then there is the rotting smell of meat, be it human or animal, that once smelled is never forgotten. The brain stores it away and throws it down like a young card player with his first winning hand. You wish your brain weren't so efficient at keeping this filed away for just the right time, but there it is and you know without doubt, if you follow your nose at the end of the meandering you will find a body. It will be bloated, unless it's already burst. The maggot house is being devoured by animal and nature until there be nothing left but rags and hair.
The last one is more earthy. This one has been stowed in a crypt or grave. It's musty, mildewed and moldering. The scent of soil clings to the corpse and often the soil itself does also. It's been hewn from its resting place and returns to either serve some nefarious purpose, bones of the dead are popular with the necromancer sorts, but these days it was usually to walk again as an undead. The desiccated flesh no longer has that rotting ammonia scent clinging to it. The worms have done their work. If there are any dried bits of flesh, you can see the tiny holes where they wended their way in and out as they fed and bred. The flies lay the eggs. The rice-like offspring make their way through their rotting feast and quick as you can say Abominus, there's another generation of flies doing what comes natural and laying more eggs. So it goes and the once lovely face becomes pocked with wormholes until there is nothing left to feed on.
The creature attacking me had the earthy smell of the grave about her. She'd been dead for a while. As soon as I collected my wits, I determined to put her back where she belonged. Luckily, others were not as shocked and sprang to action, but not before the thing bit me twice on the hand that had just moments ago held the last peanut butter cookie.
Not only did we have an undead on our hands, me literally, we also had an orc hunter. What the fel were they doing here?

((Thank you Oh Supreme Lord of Maggots for posting Gentyl's bit. I'll add more when her story develops a little more.. Thank you again..and thanks Gentyl. YOU NO DIE YET!))

More from the Almossst Wife of Abominusss, yesss....

After numerous attacks, the priestess and orc hunter left off for the night. I was completely drained and sick to top it off. If they had attacked again, I probably would have handed them my sword and helped them get it over with.

"I need to leave." I poured another cup of tea and dosed it liberally with honey and mint to settle my stomach. Joachim brought over the bill and I didn't even debate Charitye's part of the tab. She "hunted" in the Recluse constantly and we paid her bill. Why she couldn't go track a squirrel instead of a herd of roasts, I had no idea, but this was her favorite hunting ground. Normally, it was a healthy bill, but not terrible. Well, aside from that time she hunted down half a beef to give Lyov. That was a little expensive and the mountain that is Lyov probably didn't even eat a bite of it. "Joachim, do you have some crackers or dry bread? I'm getting sick."

He looked at me knowingly.

I glared at him and removed the knowing part of the look. "No, I am not pregnant. I think that damnable undead had rabies or something. Can you give me a full water skin also? I'm thirsty, but I need to get back to Hearthglen."

He gave me the skin and some dry bread crusts. I waved the change off and staggered out the door to my gryphon. Someone was beside me...maybe behind me also, my vision was blurring. Friend or foe, there was nothing I could do about it. I chewed the dry bread and washed it down with some water, then lurched onto Valor and leaned forward, whispering in his ear. "Hearthglen"

He lifted from the ground in a great whoosh and I lost it. Tea, dry bread, and cookies spilled to the ground below where someone shouted angrily.

"Sorry," I whispered and clutched the feathered mane. I wrapped my wrists in the reins so they would hold me on somewhat if I tilted. Then I said a prayer. It wasn't elaborate. It was the short, desperate prayer of someone who knew they had little time to clear their conscience and speak some brief words of dedication and maybe a plea. I didn't even know what to ask for, so I just gave thanks and nodded off.

In my dream I heard the sound of other wings around me. I wondered if some celestial being was hauling me off to be judged. No, it was probably just a vulture. As long as it wasn't a Val'kyre. I doubted Turn would appreciate an undead wife in a skimpy leather outfit. Maybe he would. Were they undead? Who knows. They looked undead, but not like that rotted priestess. My mind meandered.

I shuddered. I must still be alive. I felt like I was falling, falling. Valor landed in front of the tower and took a few steps to catch his balance. I hoped it was our tower. I couldn't see, but it smelled like the correct mixture of explosives, homemade bread, herbs, and ale. One of the gnomes had dragged explosives by here recently. I unraveled my left wrist from the rein and tried to lean down to free my other wrist. I fell. Valor shied from the sudden movement and lifted up. The leather around my wrist tightened and then broke. I dropped to the ground like a sack of scrap iron.

"Wahl, woulda looka thet! It's rainin' paladins."

"Toldya it was gonna rain fire an' brimstone if ye dinna straighten up."

"'Taint fire an' brimstone. Ay believe thet be Gen."

"Close enough ta fire an' brimstone. Best get her inside."