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[The Ebon Redemption] Chapter Three: The Plagueworks

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PostPosted: Sat Oct 23, 2010 4:53 pm    Post subject: [The Ebon Redemption] Chapter Three: The Plagueworks Reply with quote

„After the triumph over the Deathbringer, the army was hard pressed to gain access to the Upper Spire. It took almost a full week’s effort to bring down the massive gates that separated the army from the Lich King’s inner sanctum. Even after they brought down the gates, the assault was slowed by sinister traps and ambushing geists.

Once the inner hallways were crossed the battle once again began in its earnest. The Upper Spire housed some of the most vicious and fearsome of the Lich King’s subjects. When not battling cunning geists and ghouls, the invaders were forced to deal with the airborne valkyr, winged harbingers of the Lich King, with powers to torment both the body and the soul. Nevertherless, the army pushed forward, their spirits rallied by their continous success, eager to take on whatever horrors Arthas throws at them.

The first step in securing the Upper Spire and unlocking the route to the Frozen Throne led the army to the Plagueworks. These foul halls were the very heart of the Scourge’s horrible plague that turned corpses into the monstrous undead. It was here where – under the supervision of the insane Professor Putricide – the Scourge would develop more and more deadly strains of the plague. Putting an end to Putricide’s wicked machinations was essential in achieving victory over the Lich King.

The Plagueworks housed the most horrific abominations the Scourge has ever produced. Stitched horrors, gigantic dreadhounds, rotting frost giants were but the forerunners of what awaited the army beyond. In order to gain access to Putricide’s laboratory, his twin creations Festergut and Rotface would have to be put down. These two massive flesh horrors were the result of years of perfecting the „art” of abominations. Putricide has stitched together the remains of the mightiest beasts of Azeroth and empowered them with the deadliest forms of diseases known to man. Fighting the monsters was one but the least of the army's worries. The true threat of the twin abominations lied within their ability to inflict their victims of the most sinister diseases. Most soldiers died not by their hands, but during the aftermath of the battle when diseases ravaged their bodies. Nevertheless, the army kept pushing forward, despite the losses, despite the grief.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the army, the end of the two abomination was instrumental in Seja Victrix’s secret project in forging Shadowmourne. The acidic blood of both Festergut and Rotface was the only substance destructive enough to form the impure saronite that the axe would be made of. As the army prepared to move against Putricide, young Victrix snuck back to her dark master Morgraine. Together, they have fashioned Shadow’s Edge, the blade that after being tempered by unholy deeds would become Shadowmourne and would take Seja Victrix one step closer to her destiny.

After the two abominations had been dealt with it was time to move against Putricide. His laboratory was truly a stuff for Hallow’s End stories. Dismembered bodies littered the floors, gigantic glass tubes were scattered all over the place, with all manners of creatures trapped within them. The stench of foulness hung in the air. Few soldiers could resist the urge to convulse. It was truly the foulest of all places. The „Professor” fought with the wickedness associated with Scourge tactics. He released toxic fumes and corrosive mucus on the armies, not even afraid to further deform his own body by ingesting his own foul experiments. However, the army came prepared. With the aid of alchemists and scientists withing both the Ashen Verdict and the Order of the Ebon Flame, the army managed to overcome Putricide’s dark experiements. At his last, most desperate moment he drank all his foul concoctions at once. The combined powers of his alchemical horros turned him into a berserk monster, blinded by rage and bloodlust. But not even in his most powerful form was he a match against the Order of the Ebon Flame.

After the end of Putricide his laboratory and everything related to his works have been burned down, saving the world from having to relive his horrors again. His death also marked the first step in tempering the blade that would become Shadowmourne with the power of unholy."

- excerpts from the Ebon Archives
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed

Last edited by Fenmapus on Sun Jun 19, 2011 12:16 pm; edited 1 time in total
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PostPosted: Sat Oct 23, 2010 5:26 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

written by Heba

Oh What Tangled Webs We Weave.

mere moments after the death of Professor Putricide

The entire wing had been sealed off, almost as soon as it had been purged of Scourge. Sentries had been stationed and the new occupant had requested the company of one of the few surviving prisoners among the Cult of the Damned caught fleeing the Lower Spire halls.

Hauled unceremoniously through the blockade by his hair, the unfortunate cultist was kicked roughly into the battlefield that was shortly before, the Plagueworks' upper chamber. The creature which previously dwelled here, for that was all it could be described as now, hulking and malformed in its second death, was sprawled against the wall, its vast corpse smoldering beneath the generous coating of oil it had been doused in. Standing over the collection of bottles, vials and alchemical stations, her back turned to the new arrival was one of those who had lead the sieging of the Oratory. One of the Warlocks, as he recalled. Having seen previously her aptitude for obliteration, the prisoner was in a less than defiant state of mind. The lack of anyone else in the chamber also added to his growing discomfort at this new development in his captivity.

Turning around slowly, she watched him a while, almond shaped eyes studious, although not contemptful, as many of the others gazes were when rested upon him. Quietly, she crossed the room to him, holding out a hand, offering what appeared to be a small, round stone of obsidian.

Taking it cautiously, the prisoner kept his gaze lowered, trying to conceal his shock when she began to address him in the tongue of the Nerubians. A Scourge tongue he believed in his ignorance. Looking up at the speaker, he asked how one of the non-believers came to speak in such a manner, stopping abruptly as her chittering voice suddenly broke into common. Although her lips still moved and shaped what he knew should be alien sounding dialect, her voice carried through in perfectly understandable wording.

“It is the Qiraji stone, to satisfy your obvious unspoken question. A relic from my homeland and a far simpler means for us to converse.”

He listened, the unease of being a prisoner gone for the moment as he tried to take in what he was being told. Her voice was a few notes deeper and very heavily accented much different than that of the women he recalled from his past life in Stormwind, before his true awakening, and her features were not familiar of the city either. Darker skin, mocha in color and almond shaped eyes, a hue of brown generally suggestive of a life beneath the sun’s gaze. For the briefest of moments, he found himself appraising her exotic beauty before chastising himself inwardly for the lapse. Such things were of no importance anymore, although since the Deathwhisper had been slain, the overwhelming iron like conviction had faltered more than a little. Reminding himself of his past life had become horribly simple since that harrowing scream had erupted from the Lichess’s shattering skull.

“Well then. I think we shall begin and end with this single, simple request. Confirm for me the names upon this scripture were not among those we “eased” from darkness along with your mistress.”

She held out the script in a slender hand, the nails decorated elaborately in patterns and runes, which he could not place. Casting his eyes over the listings, he found himself glancing at the ember-covered form, slumped in the corner and wondered what the Professor was in life to have such perfect, handwriting and quite how he managed it with the pair of “claws” which adorned his arms in death.

“I should point out to you my friend, the difficulty in lying to me. Everything you speak will be confirmed afterwards, so, let us not encourage any unpleasantness between us, no?”

Her eyes flickered to the entrance behind him.

Just as he began to move his lips in reply, a searing but very brief jolt rampaged through his mind, jarring him noticeably. For those few seconds, he became very aware of another presence blanketing his mind and holding dominion over his whole self. Looking around towards the entrance, he was met with the steel stare of a hooded male. Obviously one of their priests and clearly the one who had just so easily trampled through his mind.

“He recognized the names.” Spoke the priest, giving the cultist a dry smile.

“They were among the recently dead, no?” asked the female, never moving her eye from the cultists. The priest shook his head, eliciting a smile from the woman, the expression spreading over her full lips with great satisfaction.

“This is good, wonderful even. I have longed for another, epic adventure! Sujjuik, my friend. Thank you, in the tongue of my home. I assure you, I shall take good care of your conspirators. No expense will be spared them.”

The Priest watched and added quietly after: “Heba, you are going after them yourself?”

“I am friend Ortias. There is much to be said to those listed here, much to show them and teach them. I would not pass over such a fine chance as this. Tolerate not the infidel Sirah, but be generous in the giving when showing to them the stupidity of their false faith and failings.”

She returned her gaze to the Cultist. His expression was one of impotent rage. Everything she had asked was known and taken without even a word from him. Her living, self-assured smugness coated her like a tangible film to his eyes. She turned her back to him and he found himself uttering something that had surfaced when the Priest spoke her name.

“Heba Al Amin Alsaieed. The Silithian whore girl from the West. I know you. I was a priest myself, of that weak faith, same as that one, before I opened my eyes. How does it feel then to serve the city which hung you?” She paused, leaving her back to him before purring her reply.

“You see my fallen, failed friend, that is the difference between your culture and mine.”

Heba spun, lightening fast, her spellblade up and moving with speed only possible through her demonic embrace. Ortias blinked at the sudden motion, just registering what had happened as the prisoner’s head and body parted ways, landing with crack on the stone floor. So swift was the execution, his body took a moment to even realize it should bleed.

“We do not waste time with dances of words. We know how to treat those beneath us…”

“Was that entirely needed Heba?” asked the Priest, looking at the headless body now resting in an expanding pool of crimson.

“It was swift, clean. More than it deserved was it not?” The question was not asked in expectance of a reply. Ortias nodded to himself.

“I’ll inform Chess you will be away from the siege then.”

Walking back down the ramp to the lower wing, the Priest went over in is mind what exactly she was likely planning. Given the nature of her trip and the factor of the conspirators all hailing and living within Stormwind City, he imagined her actions would likely be a venting of her dislike of the place. Had they not been now named as heretics, it might have disturbed him to see her unleashed as such but the truth of it was a simple one. What ever happened to them would be final and no less than deserved for their planned crimes against their own people. Punishment at the hands of the very one the city had once sought to kill for her faith. Ironically enough, now to be indebted to her. He wondered to himself why Heba was even fighting on their side sometimes. Her allegiance to the Old Gods had turned sour, at least that was how he understood it, but she acted very much in the interests of the greater good. Not something, he had ever expected from one of the Twilights Hammer. Later that evening, she took many of the documents with her, back to Dalaran, presumably for use in the spinning of whichever web she favored for the unfortunates now beneath her scrutiny. Perhaps it was cleaner this way for all concerned. Shadow consuming shadow. No need for any staining of other hands in what was already a filthy affair all round with this Light-forsaken place.
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed
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