Post by shinnjin on Apr 3, 2006 4:45:37 GMT 1
((Just a little thing inspired up by a combination of insomnia, Ingolfion and boredom. Hope you enjoy it.))
It was a night not out of the ordinary at the tavern.
This is to say it was anything but ordinary.
The young heroes bragging about their endeavours were conspicuous with their absence; the shady characters one always finds in dark corners were however in abundance.
This was due to the fact that this tavern was the local haunt for the Fallen Ones and their allies.
So, rubbing bony shoulders with the rough hides of orcs were free-willed undead, often referred to as the Forsaken; mighty taurens and sly-witted trolls were having drinking contests.
Or they would if this was an ordinary night, but this was, as we’ve already established, anything but.
Tonight something that hadn’t happened for as long as anyone could remember was putting a spell on the crowd.
It was raining.
The loudest sound to be heard was the gentle smattering of raindrops on the windows and the low crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.
Mighty warriors and tavern-maids alike were transfixed by this rare occurrence.
Suddenly the stillness was shattered by the sound of the door being flung open and a sack of bones clattering in over the threshold.
The only effect this had on the room was one troll reaching out and pushing the door closed again.
The pile of bones lay still for a minute before slowly picking itself up of the floor.
The young priest Logosh brushed himself off and checked that all his bones were in their correct places before looking around.
Sensing the mood he quietly made his way over to a mostly empty table and sat down opposite a tauren shaman who was buffing at his equipment with a piece of cloth.
“Sombre mood tonight,” said the undead in a quiet voice, “is anything the matter?”
The shaman didn’t look up, but the cloth stopped in mid-motion.
“You haven’t been with us long, have you?” The tauren asked in an equally quiet voice.
“I cannot say that I have. Is there some custom I am not aware of that has so entranced us?”
A low growl was suddenly heard from the dark corner in the far end of the room followed by the unmistakeable sound of a sword being eased in its scabbard.
Logosh slowly turned his head and looked straight into a pair of glowing red eyes, staring menacingly at him from across the room.
“If you value what you call your life. You will lower your voice even more, or better yet, don’t talk at all.” Said the tauren without moving a muscle.
Using all his training as a member of the clergy, Logosh tried to make himself seem as unthreatening as possible.
After a few minutes the red eyes disappeared and the mood of the room eased a fraction.
The shaman slid a tankard of beer over to Logosh who gratefully took it and chugged down a big gulp, quietly.
“Our friend in the corner doesn’t wish to be disturbed tonight. My advice is to grant that wish.”
Shuddering in remembrance of the complete remorselessness in the glowing eyes Logosh nodded.
Almost whispering he asked, “Who, or what, is our friend over there?”
Putting the cloth down and inspecting the piece of armour he’d been buffing, the shaman replied.
“That, is Shinnjin, one of the rogues that frequent the tavern. She’s a troll, and usually a nice girl with an infections laugh and a somewhat odd sense of humour.”
Setting the piece of armour aside, the tauren sighed.
“Is, I say, although I’m not so sure anymore. Something happened a few months ago that changed her…”
“Changed? In what way?”
“Well…” The tauren scratched his neck, “She has a darker mood now, and she can go all quiet and just look at you in a way that makes you feel like a rabbit before a snake.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“I don’t really know the details, but from what I’ve gathered, it all started the night she came out of Onyxia’s lair bearing the fabled blade Vis’kag the Bloodletter.”
“I have heard tales about it. Supposedly the grandmaster blacksmith of the Horde and his opposite number of the Alliance cooperated in forging it during the final days of the Grand Alliance. A truly magnificent blade by all accounts, but why should that have such an effect on the rogue?”
Glancing at the dark corner, the shaman leaned in closer and lowered his voice even more.
“My guess would be that the blade is cursed, you know as well as I do that the old dragons are master spellcasters. It would probably be a small thing to put an evil hex on a weapon.”
At this, Logosh couldn’t but agree.
“I can tell you a few more things, but we should probably do it some other place, fancy a stroll in the rain?”
Downing the last of the beer, Logosh stood up and nodded.
From the corner, Shinnjin watched the two noisy ones leave and settled back, relaxing a bit.
She sighed, had they stayed much longer she would have had an excuse for some more blood-spilling, a prospect that had been looking more and more tempting every day since the fateful meeting in Dustwallow.
Drawing Vis’kag from it’s scabbard, she studied the magnificent blade and for the hundredth time tried to remember how it had been before acquiring it.
“Ya didn’ choose a good vessel dat nite metinks my beloved. But I’ll do what needs ta be done…”
A sudden flash of blue in her eyes was all that anyone would have noticed had they been close enough to see inside the hood.
“Yes, you will…” Said the slightly metallic voice of Shinnjin.
It was a night not out of the ordinary at the tavern.
This is to say it was anything but ordinary.
The young heroes bragging about their endeavours were conspicuous with their absence; the shady characters one always finds in dark corners were however in abundance.
This was due to the fact that this tavern was the local haunt for the Fallen Ones and their allies.
So, rubbing bony shoulders with the rough hides of orcs were free-willed undead, often referred to as the Forsaken; mighty taurens and sly-witted trolls were having drinking contests.
Or they would if this was an ordinary night, but this was, as we’ve already established, anything but.
Tonight something that hadn’t happened for as long as anyone could remember was putting a spell on the crowd.
It was raining.
The loudest sound to be heard was the gentle smattering of raindrops on the windows and the low crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.
Mighty warriors and tavern-maids alike were transfixed by this rare occurrence.
Suddenly the stillness was shattered by the sound of the door being flung open and a sack of bones clattering in over the threshold.
The only effect this had on the room was one troll reaching out and pushing the door closed again.
The pile of bones lay still for a minute before slowly picking itself up of the floor.
The young priest Logosh brushed himself off and checked that all his bones were in their correct places before looking around.
Sensing the mood he quietly made his way over to a mostly empty table and sat down opposite a tauren shaman who was buffing at his equipment with a piece of cloth.
“Sombre mood tonight,” said the undead in a quiet voice, “is anything the matter?”
The shaman didn’t look up, but the cloth stopped in mid-motion.
“You haven’t been with us long, have you?” The tauren asked in an equally quiet voice.
“I cannot say that I have. Is there some custom I am not aware of that has so entranced us?”
A low growl was suddenly heard from the dark corner in the far end of the room followed by the unmistakeable sound of a sword being eased in its scabbard.
Logosh slowly turned his head and looked straight into a pair of glowing red eyes, staring menacingly at him from across the room.
“If you value what you call your life. You will lower your voice even more, or better yet, don’t talk at all.” Said the tauren without moving a muscle.
Using all his training as a member of the clergy, Logosh tried to make himself seem as unthreatening as possible.
After a few minutes the red eyes disappeared and the mood of the room eased a fraction.
The shaman slid a tankard of beer over to Logosh who gratefully took it and chugged down a big gulp, quietly.
“Our friend in the corner doesn’t wish to be disturbed tonight. My advice is to grant that wish.”
Shuddering in remembrance of the complete remorselessness in the glowing eyes Logosh nodded.
Almost whispering he asked, “Who, or what, is our friend over there?”
Putting the cloth down and inspecting the piece of armour he’d been buffing, the shaman replied.
“That, is Shinnjin, one of the rogues that frequent the tavern. She’s a troll, and usually a nice girl with an infections laugh and a somewhat odd sense of humour.”
Setting the piece of armour aside, the tauren sighed.
“Is, I say, although I’m not so sure anymore. Something happened a few months ago that changed her…”
“Changed? In what way?”
“Well…” The tauren scratched his neck, “She has a darker mood now, and she can go all quiet and just look at you in a way that makes you feel like a rabbit before a snake.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“I don’t really know the details, but from what I’ve gathered, it all started the night she came out of Onyxia’s lair bearing the fabled blade Vis’kag the Bloodletter.”
“I have heard tales about it. Supposedly the grandmaster blacksmith of the Horde and his opposite number of the Alliance cooperated in forging it during the final days of the Grand Alliance. A truly magnificent blade by all accounts, but why should that have such an effect on the rogue?”
Glancing at the dark corner, the shaman leaned in closer and lowered his voice even more.
“My guess would be that the blade is cursed, you know as well as I do that the old dragons are master spellcasters. It would probably be a small thing to put an evil hex on a weapon.”
At this, Logosh couldn’t but agree.
“I can tell you a few more things, but we should probably do it some other place, fancy a stroll in the rain?”
Downing the last of the beer, Logosh stood up and nodded.
From the corner, Shinnjin watched the two noisy ones leave and settled back, relaxing a bit.
She sighed, had they stayed much longer she would have had an excuse for some more blood-spilling, a prospect that had been looking more and more tempting every day since the fateful meeting in Dustwallow.
Drawing Vis’kag from it’s scabbard, she studied the magnificent blade and for the hundredth time tried to remember how it had been before acquiring it.
“Ya didn’ choose a good vessel dat nite metinks my beloved. But I’ll do what needs ta be done…”
A sudden flash of blue in her eyes was all that anyone would have noticed had they been close enough to see inside the hood.
“Yes, you will…” Said the slightly metallic voice of Shinnjin.