A/N: I know it's been absolutely forever, but I figure now is the best time to try something that's always been a great distraction in the past; my forever-beloved Imp Act laws. So now I begin the second batch for your enjoyment. So, enjoy!
Imp Act: The Second Batch
Chapter One: Valas
'Warlocks are disliked for a reason; they cannot be trusted to keep their word. But in this lies the quandary. Bind a warlock to their word, and you bind their power as well.' - Anonymous.
Valas had always been a rather happy warlock, one who could easily be found laughing or joking around. He was a good-natured fellow who rarely got into fights – unless you count his fearless and numberless battles with the agents of the Burning Legion – and believed in a healthy drink or two.
While his mother and father had died just a few years after his birth, he had managed to continue his family's legacy with a wife, a son, and a daughter. But even though he was happy with most everyone, the reciprocal could not be said. For all of his friendliness, he was shunned just for his fate as a warlock. He hadn't done anything to them, and if he hadn't been dealt to be a warlock, he would most definitely been well-liked. Even with all of his services to Stormwind, Ironforge, and Darnassus, he was cast aside as a blunder; a screw-up.
He would have died just to have a friend or two to laugh and sing tavern songs with, but no one heeded his pleas. He was alone in an unforgiving world, through no fault of his own. So one day, he had become depressed enough to drink himself far under the table and make a fool of himself. He climbed upon the tavern's bar and bellowed at the top of his lungs his favorite song. The place roared, but not with laughter borne of him, but of contempt of him. How absurd it was, a filthy, disgusting warlock, straddling the bar with a mug of mead in his hand!
Eventually he had been removed from the bar in favor of a bed, but still he sang as he was carried away. The next morning, he hadn't been in the best of shape. His hair stood haggard, his eyes were sunk in, and he moved with the thoughtlessness of a zombie. It seemed he was absolutely gone due to his adventurous raucousness the night prior, dominated by a fearsome headache. Small translucent streaks ran down his cheek, but no one had paid much attention to it – he was still the filthy warlock. Sitting down on a stool at the bar, he removed from his pack a small-yet-ornate knife, covered in runes and priceless stones of all sorts.
A few patrons looked on with morbid curiosity and disgust. They held no trust for a warlock wielding a knife, for any number of things could occur beyond that point. Valas, however, wasn't looking at anything but the knife located in his hands. He inspected it front and back, something he would normally enjoy doing, just to pass the time. Slowly, he raised the hand holding the knife.
"I have a question," he stated, his voice thick with sorrow and contempt. "Why is it that you all hate something like me, when I have not wronged you?"
No one answered him, but he knew quite well the answer. He was in control of demons. Demons that could possibly turn him into a Legion goon at any moment.
At this point, everyone's eyes had drifted to the raised knife in the warlock's hand.
"If that's the way we must do this, then by the Light, it will be done," Valas said coldly.
Fearfully, a man close to the door bolted through it and to what he thought may have been safety from a mad warlock. But instead of turning on the patrons of the tavern, he brought his dagger down, impaling his left hand. On that hand had been an inscribed rune. The very rune that had aligned him with the Twisting Nether.
As the blade made contact with his flesh, the audience gasped with shock while a sickening squelch could be heard. Gingerly lifting the knife from his hand, he inspected the cut. It had severed the rune completely. The pain in his hand, however, had overcome the pain in his head. He felt his mind clear almost completely as the demonic knowledge left him, blind to the Nether evermore.
"Now, will someone drink with me? Rounds are on me."
The rest of the patrons were too shocked to reply. All they could do was stare, mouths open, at the man who had moments ago been a warlock.
"Well?!"
Still silence.
"Fine then. Here's to me!" he called, downing a shot.
Shouts rang from outside as the beginnings of a battle made themselves apparent. Turning a blind eye to the situation, Valas simply continued drinking.
"Are you just going to sit there, warlock?" spat one patron as he worriedly looked outside to see Horde overrunning the town.
"I'm no longer a warlock. I can be of no service to you."
The man became more resolute. "I don't care if you're Illidan himself. Get out there!"
Valas sighed, still reeling slightly from the hangover coupled with the shock and blood loss from his hand. "Fine. If you must see how useless I am, follow."
Valas stood and walked to the door, exiting the tavern. There he watched briefly as the guards valiantly held off the attacking force. Sighing again, he took a casting form and thought of a spell that would normally be devastating. Within seconds, the effect could be seen after a brief look through a cloud of smoke.
Where Valas once stood was a bleating sheep, as docile as anything.
Just before finishing a guard, one of the Horde attacking noticed Valas transformed into a sheep, and after thinking that one of the assisting mages had had a hand in the situation, proceeded to cleave his head clean off.