Sing a Song of Roses
:: One ::
The Shadow Grave was cold. The very air itself chilled and fetid with the lingering sorrows of undeath. Cadavers, shriveled husks of their once-living bodies, lay strewn in haphazard fashion, like discarded dolls. In one corner, closest to a guttering, smoke-belching torch, the ragged form of a Forsaken sat cross-legged, facing the wall.
She rocked forward and back, her arms wrapped tightly around a small bundle in her lap. Her voice, was high-pitched and lilting as it sang in a hoarse whisper to itself:
"Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb...
Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow.
Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went...
Everywhere that Mary went, that lamb was sure to go."
She used her right hand to stroke the bundle in her lap, softly crooning to it in a comforting fashion, "There, there," she said aloud, "It's okay now, Tarty..."
The ocherous gaze of the imp looked up at her as it lay still in her lap. It accepted her petting, even sat compliant as she pulled it against her bony chest in a hug. "You're my best friend and I won't let anybody hurt you, okay?" She whispered.
It is often said that we can become prisoners of our dreams; so ensorcelled by them that we begin to lose cognizance of what is Real and what is Not. If we can be prisoners of our dreams, can we then, by supposition, also be prisoners of our nightmares?
I cannot begin to analyze what has happened. Every time I try, a pressure builds until I feel as if the very fiber of my being might implode. All I have left are my memories, but even these, when I examine them closely, bring me nothing but dread. And rage.
My life was devoted to my science; to the elaborate intricacies of apothecary. My world, my very being was the essence of meticulous control, of units of measure. Of patience. Of diligence.
I was on the brink of discovering a cure to the plague that devoured my beloved Lordaeron! Until the day the Hooded Man came to my door. I'll never forget the smell of death that surrounded him, or the way his sickly yellow eyes seemed to gaze to the very depths of my soul.
"The Royal Apothecary Society has need of you," I remember him saying. Then, everything was blackness...and then bright pink. Pink like crystal glass. From within this glass, I could see the world, feel it, but this part of me... my logic, my reason, my science, seemed a thousand miles away.
All it left behind was this child-like remnant of who I am. The fel-bound imp, Tartik, watches me carefully and uses his power to keep me in check should I attempt to struggle. Am I dead? No. Dying? No.
I am forced to live a nightmare where I have no control, merely a silent observer to this un-life in which I find myself imprisoned. To what end? For what purpose? I am sure I will discover the answer to these questions and more, whenever my captors allow it.
My name is Doctor Andrea Rosemont. I cannot forget. I must not forget. Else I am lost.