"Cut an unripe poppy boll, take out the contents and place into a closed dish. Grind dried laugh-weed that grows in the Ghostlands. Crush a depleted fel crystal in a mithril mortar. Pour both into the dish and dry over fire. Put the black tar under your tongue, or powder it again and breath it in".
Quite a nasty thing, by the way. But what else is left? You can't find pure morphine anywhere these days. Damn those brothels – all the best stuff goes there. And even if it were available – my miserable wages still wouldn't be enough.
And even for those… Some ten years ago I wouldn't even notice those mercenary bastards. Nothing but dust under my boots. And now, be so kind, spread your buttocks. Or die in the nearest back street from withdrawal. Not much of a choice.
Not that I've never considered that final option. No, I did, but more than once or twice. I don't have even a dagger, though. That's nothing, still… Just walk the Murder Row at a wrong hour – and it's done. But this is not what I survived for. And what for? Who knows…
What's the difference, though? The stinky piece of tar from the pouch travels into my mouth, the hard back of the chair touches mine, weary and exhausted, the den's ceiling moves apart, myriads of stars shine from the skies, the night glade is filled with the fragrance of herbs, your hands wander on my body, you cling to me, hot, smelling of sun at noon, I wish to hug you, hide in a shining cocoon of light, never to let you go, never and for nothing, the world spins around us, inconstant, unsteady, silhouettes become twisted, the trees' barks crackle, revealing green pus, a cold, piercing wrings you away from me, peels the skin off your face, tears up your veins, turns your fear-stricken features into a dead man's grin… you laugh into my face, the ground opens up under my feet, the almost-bare skull fills all the space, I fall, deeper, deeper, BANG!
- Be careful, or you'll break that chair. – a strange voice rips into my drug-tormented mind. With a great effort I crack my eyes open – no, it seems the nightmare is not over yet. The dark corner of a damn low dive in one of the crooked streets, pouring like dirty streams into the ocean of the Bazaar – and this face. Wait, is it just the face? Why does this bloody voice sound so familiar?
- What shit are you on? I've never seen a living so thrashed. Damn, now I don't regret being dead. I wouldn't want such a fate for myself.
At last I manage to focus my eyes. And immediately I fall back against the chair, moaning from withdrawal which is should have come in at least an hour. Dim eyes, grey, torn skin, some rags instead of glittery armor, grey, tangled hair. But still it is him.
- Why do you have that look, don't you like me? – yeah, and the voice is the same, although it sounds like out of a cracked jar, although there is now a tinge of hidden malice in it… - I mean, look at yourself. You're pale like death, and those bags under your eyes… I don't even ask where you got this slutty shirt and pants and how did you squander the money for your armor. And why you wear such a disgusting haircut. – that bastard. When was the last time he looked at himself in the mirror?
- So that the customers wouldn't drag my hair. – why would I hide it? Let him know. What's the difference now? – How did you get here, by the way? – the tongue won't work well, as always after a trip, and now this… - You were…
- Dead, yeah? – now the voice sounds bitter. – Right. So what? Don't tell me you're living a life now.
It's silly to sit with mouth agape – if only I knew how to answer that. Furthermore, he did not answer my question in the first place.
- I ran, ran like hell. Now Undercity is not a place for those like me. – he jerks his half-ear, as if affirming his own words. If you look in a wrong direction – the Stalkers will get you in a moment. Moreover, we don't expect Sylvanas to come back anytime soon.
- Wait… - the realization tears through the remains of the mind-blocking haze. – Have you been looking for me?
- It was hard, by the way. Especially because I started with the knights. They threw me out, naturally. I won't ask why you aren't there. – that's better, no problems and long explanations. – I'm not much of a Dark Ranger myself, as you can see. – this smirk still looks creepy.
- No, I do understand… - I mean, I don't understand a damn thing, - but… why? – how stupid must I look: sitting here and staring at an undead with lips half-open. It's good noone's looking. – Can't you guess? – I suppose I'll have to get adjusted to this look as well. – I missed you, if you wish. Don't be surprised, we can do that, too. Better than some of you, by the way. I suppose you haven't remembered me even once.
- How dare you… You… I will…
- You will… what? – still he is the same. – If you mean what I think you mean, then I've already got a room. Well, shall we go?
No, he definitely loves to make an idiot of me. The worst part is that I have nothing in response. I mean, nothing at all. So I sit and stare, like a hawkstrider at a new fold. And then I rise and follow him. Cursing myself, him and all this damn world in advance. And I cacth a glimpse of a vial on his belt with something like… Yeah, sure, almost transparent and quite viscid. He has prepared well. Bastard…