World of Warcraft®

The beast looked down from above the village, the rocky ledges that surrounded the Emberstone mine making for excellent points from which to survey the area. The bulk of Gilneas had been largely abandoned by forces both living and dead, and that meant this area now belonged to the beast.

Now, however, there was an intruder in the village. The beast looked down from above at the figure that stalked so brazenly through its territory. The stench of death was faint, but present nonetheless. A low growl rumbled within its throat.

The figure below seemed to hear it, and it vanished into the shadows. Startled, the beast leapt down from its perch and began to sniff about, trying to pick up the scent that would lead it to its prey.

A voice sounded from somewhere nearby, causing the beast to pause, looking around to find the source of the noise. What it said could not register in the feral mind, of course. To the beast, it was nothing but noise with which to locate the prey.

The beast wheeled around as it caught sight of a flash of something out of the corner of its eye, but found nothing. Irritated, the growling rose to a snarl as it continued to search for this pest that dared to play games with it.

And then, there he was; melting out of the shadows, the being that smelled of death stood, unguarded before him. Roaring, the beast leapt at the annoying intruder, claws first, intending to rip the insolent corpse to shreds. In an instant, however, the intruder was behind it, a dagger buried in the beast’s shoulder. Howling in pain and fury, the beast ripped the blade from its shoulder and tossed it aside, looking around for the attacker. Gone again.

In just a moment, the beast felt a foreign exhaustion taking hold, its energy seeping away. Trying to shake it away, it looked around again for the intruder, but fell to its hands and knees. It would be unable to stay awake much longer. The voice sounded once more, behind him. Even had it been able to register the words said, it was too tired to do more than let out a weak growl before collapsing into unconsciousness.

* * *

The beast awoke slowly, an unfamiliar feeling surrounding it. Attempting to rise, the beast let out a snarl as it realized that, aside from still being addled by the sedative that had coated the dagger, it had been bound in chains, and an iron muzzle placed on its head. It whined as a sharp blow was dealt to its side, ignoring the further noise that spouted from the creature. It yanked on the chains that bound it, forcing the beast to its feet, and pushed it forward. The beast growled, but complied, unable to fight back with the chains binding it.

Periodically, the beast would slow, or turn back to its captor to growl, but was swiftly punished each time. As they neared the great massive gate in the enormous wall, the beast turned back once more, and was knocked to the ground once more. This time, the captor leaned down over the beast, and spoke again. Meaningless noise, but the dagger pressed firmly against its neck drove the point home fairly effectively. The beast was at this being’s mercy. Once again, the captor pulled on the chains, yanking it to its paws once more.

The beast dared not struggle during the ensuing boat trip – bound and chained, it could not possibly swim. Upon arrival at their destination, the beast found itself led deep into the dark tunnels, eventually leading to a cell, where the captive proceeded to attach the chains that bound it to various fixtures in the cell, even further limiting its movements.

Soon, another arrived, a female. The two began to converse. The noise irritated the beast further, and the growling grew. Every so often, the female would turn to it, touching one claw-like finger to its cheek, causing it to recoil in anger, or alternatively she would smack it lightly over the head with her staff. More than once the female’s hand had only been saved by the presence of the iron muzzle.

Following the discussions, it was left relatively alone, but food was left in the cell – just out of reach of the beast. The smell of fresh, warm meat tantalized its nose, and it reached desperately for the food, to no avail. Eventually the beast submitted that the food was unreachable, but nonetheless settled itself down as far forward as its chains would allow. As soon it could escape these chains, the fury it would unleash would be immeasurable.

((The repetition of 'the beast' makes it clunky and messes with the flow. Calling the beast 'it' seems unnecessary. I could give other critiques but I've more than once encountered someone who wanted nothing to do with constructive criticism so I'll leave it at that unless you're open to more.))

((Eh, not gonna be hostile over it, but not really looking for criticism, this was a writeup of a little encounter in-game, waiting to see what the other guy adds to it.))

Deep within the confines of the hallowed sanctum of the Modas il Toralar, Vectus pored fervorously over more than a dozen open tomes, moving swiftly from one to another in no particular order. For several hours he continued in this manner, pausing intermittently only to scribble down notes or to rifle listlessly through the pages, all the while muttering incomplete and often completely incoherent musings to himself.

Many more hours passed, and suddenly--without any manner of provocation--he flew into a violent, murderous rage, roaring out in frustration and knocking over the nearest desk. All at once, he began to tear pages from their seams, strew about his notes, and fling several of the tomes clear across the room. The sounds of havoc were quickly joined by shrieks of terror as another Torallite hastened to flee the room, lest they become the next object the Claviger's wrath.

Vectus paused and attempted to calm himself, inhaling deeply, though erratically, through gritted teeth. A brief moment passed, and as quickly as the fit began, it ended. He slouched into a chair and held his head in his hands. After clearing his mind, he searched about for a quill, a blank parchment, and an unspilled vial of ink, and began to pen a letter in an elegant, slanted script:


Dearest Fernand Argustus,

As you may have heard, we have recently come into possession
of one Jonathan Harmarth of the Pillar of Honor. Doubtless, you
would not recognize him in his current state, as he has been
afflicted with the Worgen curse.

We seek to mold him, to shape him, and to use him as an agent
of destruction to set loose upon his former allies. Unfortunately,
though, he is completely feral. Our plans necessitate that his
cognizance be restored, such that he be made self-aware, yet
still unable to control his primal and savage instincts. In order to
achieve these goals, I have set forth to concoct an alchemical
solution which will cause said desired effect.

To that end, I have conducted much literary research, scouring
through every manner of text related to the subject. And while I
have learned a great deal about the curse and its history, despite
my sincerest efforts I have found no information whatsoever
regarding the mechanism by which it affects its hosts. Obviously,
I must have this information before I can create an alchemical
compound to negate its effects.

And so, it is with humility and defeat that I turn to a superior mind.
If you would oblige, I would like to work with you in an effort to
isolate and analyze the physical nature of this curse. Your assistance
in this matter would undoubtedly go a long ways towards finding a
solution to our problem.

What say you, old friend?

~Vectus

Fernand's office was a perfect replication of his personality: the desk was spotlessly clean of clutter; several pieces of parchment rested silently in the far corner of the desk, at perfect right angles to the wooden surface; numerous ink pots and quills were arranged on the opposite corner, not a single drop of ink spilled or otherwise marring the desk. Before the desk sat the undead Apothecary, who was completely absorbed by the letter he had just received. Apparently, one Jonathan Harmarth was in the Modas il Toralar's possession.


It had been almost a month to the day that Fernand instigated a ploy to transform Ashenvale into a New Silverpine, a refuge for the Forsaken which was sorely needed on Kalimdor. The Modas il Toralar had systematically spread a combination of virulent compounds throughout the elven forests, from Astranaar to the very doorstep of Darnassus itself. The Toralites had finally been defeated, but not before the mainland had been thoroughly contaminated - every major lake, which fed every stream, every elf and plant and lowly animal. Unlike many of the Toralites, Fernand had managed to escape Darnassus by teleporting to the Undercity. In retrospect, this was not a particularly wise move - later that evening, within the Apothecarium, Fernand was cut down by one Jonathan Harmarth.


The injuries the Apothecary suffered were extreme. Fernand's already frail, slightly decomposed body was ruined almost beyond repair; indeed, it was only through blind luck that the undead managed to 'survive'. Over the next month, Fernand was confined to the Apothecarium, his time devoted between the attentions of the Fleshwerkers, priests of the Forgotten Shadow, and assisting the Royal Apothecary Society with their preparations for an attack upon Southshore. All the while, Fernand was acutely aware that Ashenvale had to monitored - if the Forsaken's New Silverpine was ever to be a reality, the correct data had to be collected in the wake of the Modas il Toralar's attack. These ambitions failed utterly - Fernand could not complete the Ashenvale experiment in his ruined state, and now it appeared the fool Garrosh had staged an invasion into Ashenvale for the orcs. It seemed highly unlikely that the Forsaken would ever establish themselves in Ashenvale. However, the Royal Apothecary Society did succeed in laying waste to the humans of Southshore, and claiming Hillsbrad entirely under the rule of her Majesty Sylvanas, so Fernand supposed he should be content with that victory.


However, he could not easily forgive or forget the damage one Jonathan Harmarth did to both his body and, far more importantly, his ambitions for the Forsaken race.

(( Sorry, I'll reply properly after work today :P ))

Written in a prim, neat, slightly slanted script.


Master Vectus,


I was not aware that Master Harmarth was currently under our dutiful care. You may not be aware, but my absence from the Sanctum of late has been, in no small part, due to the consequence of Master Harmarth's actions. I suppose I should attempt to persuade you to destroy Master Harmarth while the opportunity presents itself. On the other hand, the pragmatist in me cannot help but recognise the potential application of your plan.


It does not surprise me that your research has yielded few results. Legends and myths are a poor subsititute for scientific methodology. The Worgen currently pose many interesting questions for us: is the cause of this so-called 'curse' magical in nature, or biological? Why can we not revive the fallen Worgen as Forsaken? Why do some afflicted humans weather the infection and retain their sanity, while others lose their minds? I admit that I do not have the answers to these questions. I can offer several basic observations that may assist your research, though.


The fact that this 'curse', for want of a better term, is transmitted through wounds caused by an infected host is typical of several diseases. Furthermore, the fact that most of the infected individuals are able to control the disease, while only a small proportion suffer a severe, acute form (in which they lose normal function and become 'feral') is also characteristic of several diseases. In short, the simplest solution may be the one you seek: attached to this document you will find a comprehensive list of basic medicines that boost an individual's immune system, thereby aiding the body to fight infection. I cannot guarantee that this will assist Master Harmarth in regaining lost mental capacity (many factors may be involved, such as irrepairable neurological damage) but it is my opinion that this is a valid starting point.


I wish you the best of luck in your endeavours,
Fernand Argustus
Paragon of the Fel Hand
Modas il Toralar

Fernand,

Unfortunately, the medicinal compounds you recommended I
test have failed to produce the desired effect in all six of the
subjects I have managed to acquire.

The subjects, I should note, were previously unaffected by the
curse. Before I began the tests, I exposed each to the curse
via several bites from our dear Jonathan Harmarth.

I tested each of the compounds individually over the course of
several days, administering increasingly larger dosages to the
test subjects. All subjects have since died due to fatal over-
dosage, without showing the desired traits of cognizance and
awareness of their condition.

However, I cannot say these results are surprising. Indeed, they
were expected. If finding a solution to our problem were so
simple, surely I would have found some information regarding a
cure in the course of my literary research.

As per your other suggestions, I have decided to take my
research in a new direction. In addition to the aforementioned
tests, I have begun efforts to identify a causative agent in the
contraction of the curse.

I have had several blood samples delivered to your lab, labeled
A1 through F1 and A2 through F2. These samples were taken
from the same six test subjects both before infection, and
immediately after displaying symptoms of lycanthropy (but of
course, before any other treatment was attempted).

I would be deeply obliged if you could analyze these samples,
should you find the time. I would do so myself, but sadly such a
task is far beyond my level of proficiency.

~Vectus

Written in a prim, neat, slightly slanted script.


Master Vectus,


Unfortunately, at this point in time I am unable to accept your request. While the nature of the worgen 'curse' has created much speculation and curiousity-driven discussion amongst the RAS, I fear that I may not have emphasised the gravity of such a project as isolating the causative agent. The initial work of identifying an agent could take years, or perhaps longer, as in many instances we are still limited by the extent of our technologies. Furthermore, there can be no guarantees that by identifying a causative agent, we can aid Master Harmarth. In the majority of clinical cases, such extensive disease damage cannot be healed. At any rate, my duties to our Lady consume my time, and if you will excuse me for being brutally frank, attempting to cure the worgen of their affliction is not a high priority for the RAS, or the Modas il Toralar.


Your ambitions to use this worgen as a tool against our enemies is highly novel, and I commend your imagination. Alas, it is my opinion that the wisest course of action is to put Master Harmarth out of its misery. If you so desire, I can arrange for this to be carried out as soon as possible.


My sincerest apologies,
Fernand Argustus
Paragon of the Fel Hand
Modas il Toralar

Mr Argustus,

Some news has come to light recently that seems to have cause a great deal of distress to my Order. I was under the impression that you were looking for a ceasing of hostilities between our orders due to the chaos it causes. This action as escalated things to a point where I am concerned they may never be returned from.

You have our man. We wish him returned. I am hoping that a gentlemen's agreement can be made on this. I know what the High Guard is planning and I assure you it will cause a great deal problems for your field of study. I believe she can be dissuaded from her current course of action if he is returned to us.

Good Fortune

-Captain Jericho Damascus.

With an annoyed sigh, Vectus crumpled up and tossed Argustus' letter aside after little more than a cursory glance and buried his face deep within his palms. He had no interest in 'curing' the worgen, or 'aiding' Jonathan in any way. Oh no, he thought, much the opposite. Jonathan's suffering would be immense... exquisite... delightful. Not to mention the death and agony he would cause once he was set loose upon his former allies.

He sat forward at his desk, resting his elbows on its surface and folding his fingers together under his chin. Negating the effects of the curse through alchemical means might be impractical, but there had to be another solution. He wasn't willing to give up just yet.

He racked his mind, searching for ideas. He could think of several solutions that would achieve the end result of effectively, and controllably turning Jon against his former allies--other alchemical means, mind control, soul swapping... But they didn't address the problem of Jon's feral unawareness. And that was unacceptable. He had a score to settle with Jon, and it wouldn't be fulfilling enough unless he could be made to suffer through every single moment of it.

And then he had an idea.

In his research, he had learned that the first Worgen were actually druids of the claw who, in desperation, had given in to their primal urges and allowed the inner beast to take control of their minds. Jonathan's mind was likely still intact, but locked away within the confines of the body that the beast now controlled.

Vectus recalled a particularly vivid memory of a conversation he had with the late Yorgoth Voidseer, concerning the nature of souls, memory, and awareness....

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


"Good eve, Elder Voidseer, and dark tidings. I thank you for taking time from your studies to indulge my curiosities..."

The aged orc nodded solemnly. "Throm'ka. What is it you seek?"

"I seek knowledge that I have been unable to find elsewhere. I am interested in learning of the physical nature of the mortal soul."

Hearing these words, the decrepit old orc quickly livened up. He spoke again, with a glint in his eye, "Ah... a simple question, yes. But with a complex answer to fill a library..."

"Yes, indeed. And unfortunately, the information I seek is hardly found left lying around in libraries."

The orc nodded, and continued, "The soul... as with magic... represents a force that can be directed. The nature of the soul remains not perfectly understood. Do not forget this."

Vectus nodded as well, listening intently to the words of the wise old orc.

"Know this: the soul is not you. It is of you, yes... but just as your organs are not the sum of your whole, neither is the soul. ..This is subject of debate still, but it is my opinion on the matter."

Vectus nodded again in acknowledgement. After a short pause: "What I seek is understanding of its nature, so that I may know how and in what ways it may be maniuplated."

The ancient orc took a long, deep breath before responding. "Hmm, yes... The nature of the undead, such as yourself, complicates this matter. It was once thought that the soul, the mind, and the brain as organ... were one in the same. Yet there are creatures without souls... that clearly have mind and brain... creatures without a working brain, who clearly have a mind... And what of golems? Once again, our understanding of being becomes more complicated." At this, the old orc chuckled softly to himself.

"Theory: the soul is memory... or better yet, the fabric... the energy that dictates our memories and awareness. Truly, our minds are the sum of these memories... Were one to steal the memories of another, they are no longer who they once were. Yes, the body remains, but *WHO* you are, is no longer equal to *WHO* you once were." Yorgoth again paused to take his breath--the mere act of speaking seemed to be too much exertion for him.

"Your words are insightful, old one."

"This I notice much with the undead. Many remember every detail of their previous lives. But others? They forget a detail, great or small, and that is what recreates them as a new person. It is no wonder why so many select a new name."

Vectus smirked. "Yes, I believe I would fall into that category myself."

"That is what I thought," replied the orc, "Now. Is it lost? It could be, but that isn't always the case..." He took another deep breath which rattled his old bones.

"Sometimes, the memory remains... within the soul, just as it does within the mind. The soul, as with the brain and the mind, *can* be fragmented. But the fragments may still remain. What you discover, however, may not be truth."

"What is the truth of our memories? Perhaps what you find, what you *think* you discover about yourself... is nothing more than what you want to believe. There is the world as we know it, and the world as it *really* is... the same goes for ourselves."

"Through the will, you may discover that which you are... Or you may discover only who you choose to be. Which is of greater value? I cannot say..."

This was all interesting, to be sure, but it wasn't what Vectus wanted. It was clear to him that the old orc would have no qualms about droning on in this manner until he collapsed from exhaustion, should he be given the chance.

"If the true nature of the soul is that of the energy which dictates memory, would it be a fair assumption to say that tampering with the soul could cause inconsistencies within the memories and awareness of the host?"

The old orc paused momentarily. His eyes wandered about, as if he were attempting to collect his thoughts. "It could... in a way. Just as torture can do as well...as with other moments of strife."

The orc seemed to be growing more and more weary with every passing moment. It was clear to Vectus that he would not have the energy to carry on the conversation for much longer.

"One more question, if I may."

The old orc nodded. "Ask."

"Would you consider it possible, or at least plausible, that the memories and awareness of a host could be tampered with through precise and subtle manipulation of the soul?"

After pausing yet again to draw a deep breath, the orc replied: "Yes. I believe it so. It would be the least effective: but truly, the only way to target certain beings that are magical in their nature. Such as undead, spirits, golems..."


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

"Or feral Worgen..." Vectus thought, as the memory faded back into the recesses of his mind. Yes, he would take a new approach here. Understanding the physical nature of the curse was not at all necessary.

If Yorgoth's theories were correct, all that was needed to restore Jonathan's cognizance was careful and precise manipulation of his soul. And he happened to know a warlock with the skill to carry out the task.

Vectus gathered a parchment and quill and began to pen a letter addressed to "Magus-Diabolist Eralos Felwinn..."

Written in a prim, neat, slightly slanted script.


Dear Captain Damascus,


May I at first express my sincerest apologies concerning this issue. If you will allow me to briefly explain the events that have brought us to this juncture: recently, a feral worgen attacked a member of the Modas il Toralar; this worgen was captured, and brought to the Sanctum. In truth, we had no reason to believe that this feral worgen was a member of your esteemed Order, due to the obvious fact that the creature has completely lost its mind and is incapable of reason. Upon receiving your missive, I have personally inspected the most recent prisoners of the Modas il Toralar, and it does appear that the feral worgen is wearing what could be the tattered remains of the tabard of the Pillar of Honour.


Of course, we are only too happy to return your wayward member. The moment after I send this message, I shall begin to draw up Prisoner Release forms, and once completed, shall have them processed by the appropriate authorities. This may take a day or two. Once approved for release, I shall personally see to it that your worgen is released from our Sanctum, free of harm.


Once again, I do apologise for what I hope you will recognise as a simple misunderstanding. Furthermore, Master Vectus and Mistress Thelinna wish to pass on their best wishes to your Order as a whole, and to your High Guard in particular.


Have a pleasant day,
Fernand Argustus
Paragon of the Fel Hand
Modas il Toralar

Jericho eyed the missive closely for several long minutes making sure he read it properly before stating

"No %$#@9ng way it' that easy"

He lingered a little longer starting confoundedly at the response.

The crippled Necromancer limps into the holding chamber, relying entirely on his staff to support his weight with each step. He shuffles right up to where the Worgen is held, being careful to remain an inch out of reach.

“So you are the one Vectus has got himself worked up over. Very well… I am Magus-Diabolist Eralos Feliwin, Necromancer of the Fel Hand. I shall be the one rending your soul in twain today.” He says, giving a slight bow.

After it is made clear that the chained creature has no understanding of Gutterspeak, which in hindsight would have been a given, the Warlock attempts another angle. “Who’s a good boy? You wanna biscuit boy, huh? You wanna biscuit?” and similar phrases are muttered whilst lobbing unedible doggie treats at the Worgens forehead. This of course only causing further anger from the subject, and cruel amusement for his jailor.

Thoroughly satisfied with his own entertainment, Eralos snaps his fingers and brings the runty Imp Quzuri clambering into the room, who begins setting up a series of orbs on pedestals in a pentagon slightly beyond the creatures reach. Eralos brandishes a smaller orb from the folds of his robe and begins the ritual.

The room grows dark and almost fades away entirely as the six orbs begin to emanate a purple glow, energies reaching out to each other to create a circle of demonic power. As the energies build, the smaller orb floats out of the Warlocks hand and into the center of the ring.

With a quiet hum it almost seems to inspect the subject, looking deep inside of its being. Not with eyes, there are no eyes, but with a wave of creeping darkness, cold and crushing. Satisfied, Eralos begins to channel a Drain Soul spell into the creature through the orb. The subject howls in pain as the spell burns away at its being, it’s very essence being drawn from the body.

And then, silence. The room brightens as the surroundings come back into focus, the ring humming gently in place. The central orb hovers where it was left, encased now in the chest of the ghostly figure resembling the human Jonathan Harmarth.

“Welcome Mr… Harmarth was it? To the Sanctum. May I introduce you to your new owner?” With a sly grin, the Warlock turns on his heel and limps out of the room once more.

((Probably very rough, but I wanted to keep the story moving rather than polishing it up. Hope its still a good read.))

Vectus clapped enthusiastically as he witnessed the spectacle. "Splendid! Well done, Magus." He nodded in acknowledgement to Eralos as he left, before turning his attention to Jonathan.

Jonathan's eyes opened, and he slowly looked around, taking in his surroundings. "Wh... what's... where am I? What's going on?"

"It has been some time, Jonathan." Vectus slowly paced around the ghostly form, studying it carefully. The shade's clothing was tattered and torn, and several claw and bite marks were visible about his body.

Jon's eyes fixed on Vectus. "You..." He looked down, and his eyes widened as he held his ghostly hands in front of his face, realizing what had become of him. "What the hell have you done?!"

"I have done you a favor. In a manner of speaking, at least." He grinned maliciously. "You see that?" He kicked the soulless body of the Worgen. "That, is you."

Jon's gaze followed Vectus to the body lying beneath his floating ethereal self. "...that's...?" He paused, "I... the curse, it... " He reached toward his body's face, but pulled back. "The last thing I remember was... in Gilneas..."

He watched his body in silence for a moment, before realizing that it was still breathing "I'm.. still alive? But... what's going on? What have you done?!"

Vectus chuckled lightly to himself. "You know, your friends miss you dearly. They seek your release even as we speak."

"They know I'm here?!" Jon paused momentarily. "...How long have I been gone?"

Vectus ignored his questions and continued on. "The Magus tells me that in this ethereal form, you can sense, perceive, feel, and interact with your surroundings. Is that so?" As he spoke, he held out a long, jagged dagger, turning it in his and and studying its features.

Jonathan slowly reached for the dagger and attempted to grab it. Vectus recoiled quickly. "Oh, no. I don't think we'll have any of that."

The shade glared at Vectus, "I'm going to assume we're inside the Modas' sanctuary." His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. "What do you want with me?

Still ignoring Jonathan's questions, Vectus spoke again. "He did warn me that I should avoid compromising your will to exist in this form... else, you would likely cease to exist." He smiled, if you could call it that. It was more of a twisted, sadistic expression of expectant delight at what was to come. "A pity, as that is often my favorite part of this game." After a short pause: "Tell me.. your friends--what do they mean to you?"

Jon's reply came quickly and with fervor, "More than scum like you could understand!"

Vectus laughed. "Oh, I am sure that is the case. But you misunderstand--I wish only for you to focus on your memories and feelings of them. Just think of old Blazieth, and how much he must worry about your safety..." He turned the dagger over again in his hand. "You see, your existence depends on it." At this, he plunged the dagger deeply into the shade's ethereal body.

Jonathan gasped in pain and gritted his teeth. "Do your worst, fiend. I'm not going anywhere until I see to it that you and the rest of your kind are ancient history."

"Oh, what resolve! It seems I have much more room to work with than I originally thought." Vectus laughed again as he withdrew the dagger.

"As you might have guessed, you are not dead. You .. well, I'm not sure of the specifics, to be entirely honest. You just *are*. And when I am done with you, I will return you to the prison of your feral body." He motioned to the worgen laying supine on the ground.

Jon's eyes widened "...What do you want with me?!"

Vectus locked eyes with the shade and leaned in closely. He spoke, with a cold, emotionless tone: "I want you to suffer."

Jonathan's expression darkened. "I suppose this is about that time I caught you off guard, isn't it? Pulled your own move on you from behind?"

"Oh, no." Vectus laughed again. "That whole ordeal--that was planned. Every step of the way, it was planned."

The shade turned his head away. "So this is just a hobby of yours, I suppose?"

"Truth be told, you only caused me a minor inconvenience when you confiscated my tools for examination. But yes, I do rather enjoy this. And any excuse is better than none..."

"I have to admit, if I was even a fraction as twisted as you are, I might have made use of some of the more interesting things I took from you."

Vectus cackled maniacally as he slowly approached the shade. "Oh, my friend--you have no idea."


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


For several hours, screams of agony accompanied by maniacal laughter were heard echoing throughout the dungeons of the Sanctum.

"Had enough yet?" Vectus inquired callously, obviously not caring one way or the other. He slowly twisted and pulled the incorporeal blade of his Greatsword of Horrid Dreams from Jonathan's ethereal form.

The shade let out a soft cry through gritted teeth. He didn't respond verbally, though he was clearly exhausted and in agony. He simply glared defiantly at his tormentor.

"Have you ever experienced the feeling of being aware inside of a body that does not respond to your will? I couldn't tell you what it's like, personally. But I am sure there are many Forsaken who can relate."

Jon's gaze shifted wearily down to his soulless, transformed body, and then back up to Vectus. For the first time since his soul was ripped from his body, a glimmer of fear was present in his eyes.

Vectus closed his eyes and breathed deeply, a look of satisfaction and fulfillment on his face. "Tell me, Jonathan. How would you feel as you watched your mindless, feral self rend your friends' flesh from their bones?" The fear in the shade's eyes grew, and he shook his head in disbelief. He tried to say something, but no sound came out.

"Because that is exactly what will happen. And, you will witness every moment of it." He paused between each word of the last sentence, emphasizing to the best of his ability the reality of Jonathan's fate.

Holding Jonathan's soulstone at arm's length, Vectus offered a slight, knowing grin as he crushed it in the palm of his hand. Immediately, the shade faded away and the feral body of the worgen began to stir. Vectus keeled beside the beast, grasping its muzzled jaw firmly and looking deep into its eyes. It growled menacingly, but didn't resist.

"Are you in there, Jon?" His words were heavily laden with cruel, sadistic pleasure. The beast's eyes narrowed in raw hatred--human hatred--as he tried to pull away, attempting to jerk his head out of Vectus' grip.

Vectus smiled and laughed. "Yes, I thought so. I shall inform Lady Thelinna at once." He forcibly shoved the beast's head into the cold stone floor as he released his grip. The worgen whimpered as his head collided with the floor.

Vectus stood, turned, and gave the beast a final glance as he exited the cell.

Mere minutes later, Vectus returned to the cell, Lady Thelinna Que'sheth closely behind. The worgen's nose twitched as his eyes opened, glaring at Vectus and Thelinna.

Vectus kicked the worgen harshly. "Get up." It growled, but complied.

"He seems to be listening now," Thelinna smirked, carefully studying the beast. "And he seems to be growling less. I suppose that is also an improvement." Almost as if in response, the worgen let out another low growl.

"Wonderful, isn't it?"

She sighed, but gave a small nod. "Do you think he is ready yet?"

"Hmm..." Vectus stroked his chin in thought. "Doubtful. He would be operating on little more than instinct."

Thelinna replied: "Well, perhaps we can use his baser instincts to get him to do as we want. He'd be reliant on smell, correct?" As she spoke, the beast tugged on the chains which bound him, looking steadily in Vectus' direction.

"I believe so, yes. With proper conditioning, we could train him to associate certain cues with his anger."

"Excellent!" Thelinna remarked, "I happen to have a tabard from someone from the Pillar of Honor. Would that help? We could get him to hate it before setting him loose in Stormwind."

"Hmm. That is quite ingenius, actually"

"I would also like to mark him as property of the Modas il Toralar. Something that would last, just in case something happens." Thelinna tapped a finger to her chin. "..A brand on his chest or arm, I think." The beast let out another low growl in her direction, again tugging on the chains.

An evil grin spread across Vectus' face as he pulled a small dagger from under his cloak. "I can take care of that."

"Ah, go for it dear! Perhaps if we introduce the smell of the tabard afterwards, he can associate it with the pain. I did bring it with me..."

"Wonderful! May I see it?"

Thelinna pulled out a small bag, adjusting the gloves on her hands as she produced a Pillar of Honor tabard and handed it to Vectus. He immediately donned the tabard and turned again to Jonathan. Thelinna stepped back, but kept close watch. The beast simply stared at Vectus, with limited understanding, if any, of what was happening.

Vectus stepped forward and took the beast with one hand by his neck, wrestling him to the ground. It struggled to resist, but was forced down nonetheless. He kneeled beside the beast, positioning himself over Jonathan such that the tabard was clearly visible. Jonathan's gaze fixed upon the tabard, still struggling against both Vectus and the chains. Thelinna chuckled in amusement as she watched the scene.

Slowly and meticulously, Vectus carved a Chaos Star into Jonathan's flesh. The beast howled and writed in pain and agony, but was ultimately powerless to do anything due to the force of Vectus' weight and the restraint of the chains.

Thelinna continued to giggle as she watched Jonathan's torment. "Ooh, I wish we could do this more often!"

Vectus finished his work, stood, and removed the tabard. He then tossed it blithely towards the beast's head.

"Do you think that is enough, Vectus?" He remained silent as he studied the worgen intently. Thelinna sighed, folding her arms as she too watched in silence. The beast wimpered as it slowly reached for the tabard and sniffed it, before letting out a slight growl.

"I would say we are at least most of the way there."

"Good, good. Perhaps we should give him some time alone. Will he be ready tomorrow, possibly? Or maybe sooner?" The beast tossed the tabard aside and instead focused on the freshly inflicted wound on his chest.

"He needs some time to allow the rage and ire to fester within him. And it wouldn't hurt to throw in a few more suggestive items, coupled with more unpleasant experiences."

Thelinna tapped her chin again in thought. "Hmh. I believe we still ahve something from when we held Mirriande. I will have to look." She turned to Vectus. "I should be able to take care of the rest, save for when it comes to actually transporting him."

"Oh, yes. Certainly. I have had my fun with him."

She turned again to the worgen. "Wonderful. Pup, we have much fun to look forward to!"

"We should allow him to feed to his heart's content tonight, and see to it that he is properly rested."

Thelinna nodded in acknowledgement. "Good."

"I will make arrangements to have him moved to another, more comfortable holding cell tonight. By tomorrow morning, he will be in prime shape to set loose upon Stormwind."

"Oh!" Thelinna exclaimed, "And whoever is feeding him, make sure they are clearly wearing our tabards."

"Another excellent idea, Lady Thelinna." Vectus nodded. "I will leave now to make preparations. Enjoy your time with the creature." He bowed. "Farewell, and dark tidings."

It was late the next morning when Thelinna returned to the Worgen's new cell. She had a small bag in tow as she moved in, watching Jonathan's reaction to her entrance. There was a chipper smile on her lips as she greeted him. “Well, good morning pup! It's wonderful to see you again today! I hope you are enjoying your new room.”

There seemed to be no response, simply the creature staring at her as she entered.

“Ah, I do love that silence from you! So much better! But I am afraid we have some business to take care of first.”

From the bag, Thelinna managed to produce a tabard, another from Pillar of Honor. She tossed it to Jonathan, managing it to land on his nose. In immediate response, he began to claw and shred the tabard to bits. The mage gave a soft laugh as she produced another item, which seemed to be a bull whip. As he busied himself with the tabard, Thelinna began to administer lashes to his back. Crying out in pain, Jonathan howled, continuing to claw at the tabard, while trying to take a swipe at Thelinna, but held away at range due to his chains.

After several lashes, she took a step back. “You see? This is what those friends of yours are doing to you. Not us.” Thelinna smiled once again from behind her cloth mask, hiding the whip again and pulling out her own tabard. After pulling it on, she gave him a small pat on the head. The worgen sniffed her, then sniffed the air as if he were looking for something else. “Ah, pup. Are you looking for something?” She questioned him, revealing a small scrap of meat. Tossing it to the ground, she stepped back to watch him quickly devour the meat, tossing another scrap as she deemed necessary.

“Ah, you were looking for meat! Very good! This saddens me, though. I do feel that you are ready to be sent off to Stormwind now. I wish I could keep you as my pet,” she murmured, giving a soft sigh and producing another scrap of meat, tossing it to him idly as she pondered on what it would be like if things had worked out differently. “Now, pup. You are not allowed to harm any of my friends. If you return without harming anyone I like, there will be a nice big cushion and a lot of fresh meat for you.”

Jonathan simply stared at her as she spoke, which caused her to shake her head. “Very well, Pup. I will see you when we send you off to Stormwind in a few hours. Goodbye!”