I just realized I skipped a chapter. Please ignore this discrepancy until I can fix it. Also, I enjoy the reviews. They are what keep inspiring me to write.

-NetherscreamNordune

Chapter Eleven: Maxwell

His gloved fingers peeled the crisp sheet of paper off the wall, frowning at the image that was hastily drawn on. It seemed to be a young human boy, with blonde hair.

Interesting. Not the usual muscular Orc, or drug crazed Troll…

His undead eyes wandered over the features of the face drawn on the tattered paper, memorizing them. The boy had the thin face of a prince, beautiful almost. Then, his eyes wandered down to the bottom of the sheet, and read:

"Tyrion Menethil, escaped slave. Wanted by the Horde or the Alliance. Two hundred gold alive, one hundred dead."

"Menethil"…so he is of royal blood. And young, too. This will be easy money...The problem will be finding him without someone else getting to him first. That would be quite…annoying.

Two hundred gold was hardly enough for a live slave, but it didn't matter. He wasn't in it for the money anymore. He grimaced behind his tattered face wrap. He could feel his yellow teeth poking through the rotting skin of his jaw. He carefully folded the bounty sheet and stuffed it in his trouser pocket, turning away. He began towards the gate of Grom Gol to collect his mount and then be on his way.

A light rain began to fall, and quickly grew to a downpour as he neared the front of town. There were no guards on post tonight, and he could hear them partying in the tavern from one hundred feet away. Some sort of holiday, maybe.

Maxwell could no longer feel the rain's cold or the sun's heat since his death. He lost his sense of touch, as well as his devilishly good looks. They rotted away over time, and after a while he began to wrap most of his head and his limbs in tattered cloth.

He was not bothered by the rain. In fact, he loved the way that rain covered his tracks and washed away the dried blood on his blade and his clothes. His rusted blade, as long and as ancient as he, clanked on his back as he walked. Still, the familiar weight of the claymore was comforting.

Maxwell stopped, his black cloak ruffling with the wind. He'd heard something, he was sure.

Someone was behind him . "You. Stop where you are, eye blight."

Maxwell turned to face him. It was a Blood Elf, sword drawn and pointed at the ground. He was not much taller than he, and didn't seem much stronger. Maxwell grinned. He'd seen those features before. Still, he pretended not to know. It was more fun that way. He put on his best confused face.

"Who…me? Is there a problem, sir?"

The Blood Elf walked towards him with a royal strut, lifting his sword slightly. "You're damn right there is a problem. You killed my brother for a damn gold piece. I saw you with my own two eyes." His voice was wavering slightly, as if he were trying very hard to control of himself.

"I-I-I'm afraid…"The undead stuttered. "I'm afraid I do not recall." He glanced around. No guards were in sight.

"You do not have to recall." The Blood Elf held his blade with a fencing stance, and then rushed him, lunging for his heart with the thin rapier. Maxwell quickly stepped to the side, dodging as if it were second nature, and wrapped his hand around the Blood Elf's wrist. The Blood Elf struggled for a moment, twisting and turning, trying to pull his right hand out of Maxwell's grip.

Maxwell stood there, holding him with an iron grip, grinning through the torn cheek skin. Then, Maxwell jabbed four fingers into the Blood Elf's side with pinpoint precision, and then twisted it violently. The Blood Elf froze, every muscle in his body tensing. He gritted his teeth as he struggled to move.

Maxwell stepped back with a sigh, shaking his head as he pulled the entire claymore from his back. Maxwell fought hard to conceal the moan of pleasure that vibrated from the base of his throat, his toes flexing with the raw ecstasy.

So good…this adrenaline…this raw pleasure… it's the only thing that opens my veins…

It was the only thing he felt anymore.

The Blood Elf yelled behind his clenched teeth for help, but no one could hear him over the raging storm. His yelling in desperation brought a pang of pleasure to Maxwell, like a lovers touch after orgasm.

Maxwell pulled a small knife from his hidden ankle sheath and etched a tally onto his claymore blade. That would make thirty deaths, all of them righteous.

He sheathed the knife as simply as if he were putting away a pen. He turned back to the Blood Elf he had paralyzed, lifting the sword above his head and keeping it there with great effort."Do you know what your sin is?"

The Blood Elf looked up at the blade, his eyes widening in panic. He muttered something behind his clenched teeth, all composure completely lost. He was a panicking man trapped in his own paralyzed body.

"Your sin is pride.", he sighed. Maxwell brought the blade down with all of his force.