World of Warcraft®

"Sleeping still? My poor boy this will not do, as a rolling stone gathers no moss neither will a sleeping rogue make any coin."

The calm, soothing voice of the priest was always fresh in his mind from the morning so long ago. Every time he allowed himself the reprieve of sleep the memory was like a flood. The smell of the ocean and the morning sunlight piercing the dirty windows of the shack the trio had called home, with its creaky floor boards and rotting support beams. Havoc always waited in that same corner, witling away at a piece of drift wood in the attempt to make something beautiful. Their adoptive father of sorts would bring him tea as he awoke, eager to get the boys into the city and someday off of the docks.

Two rogues and a priest. The younger boys selling the imported goods while one would make his way through the crowd and into peoples pockets as the other held their attentions. When bids were made and payment unavailable it was the old man who’d make the arrangements, handle the guards and look after the boys if one was caught sifting through a crate that wasn’t meant for them.
Two rogues and an old priest, it always sounded funny to him. The more he reflected on the old man during his life without him the more Lyrax found it lacking. No guidance, no caring and most of all no hope. Old Zeraxis was never that old, maybe only in his late forties if anything but still sturdy and sharp with his wits. Old Zeraxis who taught them to fight and to read, to sing and laugh after they hid in the sewers for so long, rather than going on and being great himself he entrusted everything he had learned to two small children.

Then the box came. From a crate it was that damned box, with it’s jade and emerald encrusted exterior and the soft inner lining that protected the treasure within. The mask, Zeraxis had called it his prized treasure. Never to be sold and only to be kept as their own, an heirloom. It looked good sitting on the make shift mantle on the far end of the one room shack. No one questioned it or delved to deeply but always it loomed in the back of the two boy’s minds. Until Havoc wanted to try it on.It was always here that Lyrax saw as his life's defining moment. Not in the fresh unsuspecting morning but in the events that later took from him a father and a brother.
Havoc, youngest of the two had tried the mask on and fell prey to the curse of the Whisper. The ivory and steel creation forced him to wear it in the night and to kill, at first he was able to sate the curse with animals but then he started killing people. Dock workers and crew members of ships, people whom would not be easily missed or at least noticed for some time. Then he made the mistake. When Zeraxis had found out it was to be “Fate” that wore the mask, but he was never the speaker. Lyrax knew the words and had the tounge, not poor Havoc.

The young nobles daughter escaped the crazed killer and when the guards began asking word of the prized treasure on the mantle reached them quickly. Here was the night where death soaked into his bones. “They’re coming” the old priest had warned. “Hide quickly!’ Neither wanted to hide, both wanted to fight anyone who would come to this place they called home. The door caved before they could be told a second time. It was impossible for him to count the lanterns then but more than ten night watchmen had come in the rainy evening to take way his brother. Sword drawn they poured into the shack and soon the boys were cornered, old Zeraxis blocking the plate mailed guards from them.

“Step aside” The two words were spoken with finality, as if old Zeraxis was to do so immediately, Then they were asked a second, a third and upon the forth time one of the guards came forward to grab the old man. Lyrax still felt his stomach crawl, even in the dark abyss of his sleep, where he must be to see the events so clearly as this he still felt the gut wrecking fear as the mans skin hissed and bubbled as the magic plague took him.
‘He must be the one! Murderer, murderer!” They advanced, but retreated as the man burst into a strange mixture of shadow and flame.

“You step in to the realm of Zeraxis! Sovereign Lord of Shadows!”
They fell upon him like rain fell on the old tin roof so often, some took to the plague that ate flesh, others had been broken, minds warped and left blank slates or became the enemy of their allies. The last Lyrax say of that fight was his brother, Havoc leaping like some kind of rabid animal into the fray of slabbing and screaming men.

He didn’t want to look, he still didn’t want to look. His averted eyes came to the mantle with that jade and emerald encrusted box that held the ivory and steel mask. He took it for reasons he hadn’t known then and he ran. Through the hidden door in the side and down through the alley ways, out to the docks where he was finally caught at the pier.

The first guard to catch him must have been the last to be attached by Havoc, his gauntlets and bracers had been torn and gnawed on, covered in blood not his own. The man was enraged, his foot steps told his emotions better than his posture. The heavy fist took him from his feet as jagged steep caught his unprotected right eye. A second blow would have killed him if the others that pursued him hadn’t caught the man then.

The box lay only a few feet away and when one of the men picked it up and inspected the empty container he tried to question the young Lyrax. His mind numbed all he wanted to do was scream, to get rid of the pain and the hollow feeling where his eye had been. They gave up after awhile, taking the box with them and leaving the boy.

Unsure of the time, Lyrax finally felt control as the pain left him and his body became accustomed to what it was missing. He didn’t want to stand so he sat and with one eye say the damage and felt sick, relieving himself into the black night waters of the docks.
He was weak and hurt now but some day they would pay. Who ever they had been they would pay.

‘This is special.” The soothing old voice came. “This is our treasure, our legacy as a family. No matter what happens this will always be something that we earned boys. Cherish it and protect it, just as I have and will always cherish and protect you.”
These words that weighed so heavily on him them had kept the young boy from throwing the cursed mask into the dark waters and being free of it. His memory ended there, the dream stopped.

‘Now.” A new voice spoke and he hated it. A mixture of his own and something else, like grinding steel and iron. It always brought him the image of his last kill, never ceasing to display the handy work brought from its contribution. The man was there, glaring up at him with both hate and sorrow, mostly the later as the magic that had warped his mind fled. Marcus had been Lyrax’s last true kill. The last life he took.
“There’s work to be done.”
He felt his mind fight itself, the darkness of sleep fading away as his eyes slowly opened. The light was painful at first but as he adjusted and felt himself fully aware and in control of his body his sat forward, tossing his bed furs aside. Looking to the side table he saw the Ivory and steel mask he had kept with him since that day and heard again the voice that he hated so much.

“Ssssssh, it will all be over soon.”

((OOC back ground story I wanted to type for Lyrax. Since I had the time at work I did a quickie and decided to post it here for whatever reason. I apoligize in advanced if I missed some spelling, when I get rolling my typing tend to get fast and hectic. Just happy the keyboard here can keep up.

To clarify, Lyrax is not possessed or suffering from multiple personalities. The mask (which has no name itself but does like to use Fate as a way to identify itself and to mock Lyrax's father/mentor) work for Lyrax in an effort to open up its own goals which to Lyrax are unknown. Whatever they are directly require him to be alive and as of yet in one peice.

I hope you enjoy reading and feel free to critique or inquire.))