Voodoo Child
Chapter 28 – Vae Victis
By Genoscythe
AN: Your reviews give me sustenance. Thanks for that. Also, the damn line-maker button is being finicky, so I apologize for the lack of proper scene changes in this chapter.
By the way, there's quite a bit of Legacy of Kain references here. See if you can spot them all!
In a valiant show of irony, it was custom in Stormwind to hold the executions of holy men on the lawn outside the Cathedral of Light. Officially, it was because holy men were allowed a degree of honor and decency in death.
It was more widely believed that God demanded front row seats. In this case, God probably would have demanded it on tape too if anyone had been listening. This wasn't just an execution for some priest who didn't know how to keep the altar boys quiet – this was Marek Belheim, one of the human race's least tactful sinners. For this, he was undoubtedly going to hell, and Sir Ulrich Gadwyn wanted to see him there personally.
The paladin was already locked into the lunette, and most of the spectacle had already been taken care of. People sat, some with buttered corn on a stick, some with diced potatoes topped with lard, all with a hungry anticipation for the main event. The Archbishop had already given his speech, and so had the rest of the clergy. It was all fire and brimstone, too. Great stuff for a guillotining.
However, before the executioner could drop the blade, Sir Gadwyn walked across the platform, brandishing a small stone etched with green.
"I've been thinking for some time now…" Gadwyn began, tossing the hearthstone up and down. "I just have to say it. There is no way you're getting out of this one. See this? This is the hearthstone you pilfered before the execution. I saw it in your hand during that long-winded old bag's speech." He added the last bit almost silently. "It's mine, now. I wonder what I'll do with two hearthstones? No, make that three. I still have your original."
"What's your point?" Marek asked, yawning.
"W-what? Aren't you terrified? Aren't I intimidating you at all?"
"Naw. Let's just do this thing. Get out of the way so the man can let go of the choppy part."
Gadwyn lowered his arm, speechless. He never expected Marek, of all people, to go gracefully to his death.
"Wait, wait, lemme just tell you one thing," Marek started as Gadwyn began to return to the side of the platform. "Come closer." Gadwyn leaned in. "You know why I'm so happy about this?"
When Gadwyn realized this wasn't a rhetorical question, he shook his head.
"Angela said I was better."
The older paladin straightened, coloring and glancing at the Archbishop's daughter on the other side of the platform. Hotly, he stormed back to his side and watched eagerly for the executioner to release the blade. In the excitement, he must have pocketed the hearthstone, for he no longer felt its magically charged surface against his fingers.
After a veritable eternity, the blade swung down. As expected, it was stopped short by a glowing aura around Marek. Gadwyn knew he would prolong his life for the extra ten seconds a Divine Shield allowed, but it was a waste of mana since he couldn't manage anything else.
Paladin executions were tricky like that. Most of the time, there was nothing to worry about since most spells worth mentioning take time and concentration to cast. Mages, warlocks and priests were of no consequence. Paladins, however, had one of the most useful, easy to use spell in the whole damn book. It used to save them from hangings, when the ropes snapped in trying to tighten around a Divine Shield.
That is, until the guillotine was invented. Now all the paladin's trademark spell did was drag out their already meaningless existence. Unless of course said paladin was like Marek Belheim (Read: in possession of a hearthstone).
"Oh no…" Sir Gadwyn's vocal cords managed even as his jaw fell slack. Marek had grabbed the hearthstone from right out of his hands, and now rippled with green energy. His own hands! Not a minute before the blade dropped! Damn etiquette, damn futility, Gadwyn felt himself compelled to do something. So, he did the only thing a mature adult could do in a situation in which he'd been totally and completely shafted.
He ran up to the guillotine, screaming and slamming his fists against the impenetrable wall of holiness. Marek waved goodbye, and the hearthstone whisked him away just as the shield disappeared and the blade snicked thin air. The crowd gasped, and the Archbishop fainted. Gadwyn beat his hands against the bascule in righteous fury.
However, a thought plodded casually into his brain and he slowed the beating. All hearthstones owned by the Silver Hand returned the owner to one place, and one place only. That place was called the Cathedral of Light, and it was standing a mere ten feet to their right. Marek looked about dazedly on the lawn, wondering why he was still roughly in the same spot sans guillotine.
Their eyes did not meet at exactly the same time, but for the sake of dramatic reading let's say they did. Marek jumped, startled, and Gadwyn shouted "Guards! After him!" The City Patrol, as well as several paladins and a handful of priests tumbled off or around the execution platform and ran across the lawn to a quickly-recovering Marek Belheim.
The former paladin dashed off across a bridge and into the main streets, the guards and clergymen following in hot pursuit. The chase zigzagged through the meager stone buildings, and at several points Marek actually doubled back and ran into his pursuers. For some reason, Gadwyn thought the scene would have been funnier if it were sped up and accompanied by saxophones. Why he thought the display should be funny at all was unexplainable in itself – he should have been furious.
He would have been furious, if he didn't believe Marek's resistance was just another Divine Shield at the guillotine. He was only one man in a city of dozens – and most of those dozens were guards. However, Gadwyn once again failed to take into account two things: First, that Marek was a paladin, and second, that Marek was a paladin with conviction.
They were cutting it close, perhaps too much so. Melchiah hadn't counted on the detour to Orgrimmar to last them an entire day, and hadn't prepared for the continued ineptness of goblin engineering in any case. He also didn't anticipate having to wait for Argam to run back to Orgrimmar halfway through Durotar in order to get his guitar back, but at least this didn't come as a surprise. They were currently on a ship bound for Booty Bay, but Melchiah expected Luna to tear out of the burlap sack at any moment. The retching had almost completely subsided, and now only a sickly bubbling could be heard inside the bag.
At least elves don't smell bad even when they're wearing their guts on the outside…he mused, eyeing the bag warily. Zuridan turned his attention back to Xan and Meridia, who were speaking in hushed tones against the railing.
"As soon as we hit the beach, they'll be on each other like flies on shit," Melchiah observed tactfully.
"Is that the only kind of analogy you can make?" Zuridan asked wistfully.
"I have an analogy," Argam interrupted. "Two shamans walk into a bar with burning alpacas under their arms – "
"That's not an analogy," Zuridan educated him. "That's a horrible joke."
"Oh, come on. I've never been able to tell the entire thing…" Argam muttered sullenly, trudging off to any part of the ship that wasn't tainted by goblin.
Zuridan and Melchiah watched on in silence. Nothing of consequence appeared to be happening. It was amazing how Xan'Jin's vaunted promiscuity could wither in the face of honest love. Not true love, Melchiah clarified for only himself, but at least honest. The kind of lust that targeted the thing up top as well as the thing below. It was the best most people could get.
"Which do you reckon is the fly, and which is the shit?" Zuridan finally asked.
"That's not what it means, but since you're asking…I think it's obvious."
"The elf's a pretty fly, at least."
"Yep."
"A well-endowed fly."
"Uh-huh."
"A strong, healthy shade of green."
"Yeah." Gears in Melchiah's brain that had decayed long before his physical body did were now scrambling into motion. Synapses that had fought to survive the undeath process and won the favor of some higher power through sheer determination began tingling once again. Finally, with mental power that could shake mountains, Melchiah got a lock on what he wanted to say. "Wait, what?"
"Huh?"
"What was that last thing you said?"
"She's well-endowed. Busty. Ample. Full-figured."
"After that."
"Comely. I didn't say anything."
"That's it, you said she was green."
"Buxom…I did?" Zuridan took another look at her, blinked, and looked away. "What…I could swear, for a second…"
"Spit it out, it couldn't have been that dramatic."
"For a split second, that voluptuous figure over there turned green and pigtailed."
Melchiah grunted in surprise. "Why would she do that?"
"I don't know! She looked like…"
"Stop stopping, damn it!"
"Sorry. She looked like my sister."
Melchiah took a step away. Warily, he sidled over to Xan and made one of the most deadly mental slips of his life. He reached out to tap Xan on the shoulder, but Meridia's sword was up in an instant to block the incoming claw. Upon touching the fluid iron, Melchiah found himself and retracted the hand like lightning.
Meridia turned the sword on him, but by then the front half had rusted and fallen off. Only now did Xan turn around from whatever blissful reverie that had kept him from noticing his near-undeath experience.
"He tried to touch you!" Meridia hissed to Xan.
Xan raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?" He turned to Melchiah and repeated that in orcish.
"Slipped my mind, the curse did…" Melchiah shrugged. If he had had any reason to be worried about a sword pointed at his neck, then it was no longer a concern as there was no sword left.
"Holy shit," Xan muttered, glancing at Meridia. "Accident, babe."
"Are you sure?"
"Chill. I tolja, we ain' so bad once joo get past da faces."
"But he's…nevermind." Meridia unconsciously tried to sheath the bits of rust flakes in her hand, and subsequently realized that her sword no longer existed. She had been so zealous in trying to protect Xan that she forgot the Forsaken's curse would affect her blade.
"He be fine. I'ma go talk to 'im now, but I'll be back." He affectionately wrapped an arm around her shoulder, which she assumed was supposed to be some sort of calming gesture. It didn't help, but she sighed like it did.
"You, ah, told her about the curse?" Melchiah asked as soon as they were away from the railing.
"Ja. She been on edge eva since da stop in Orgrimmar. She ain'…adjustin' well."
"Well, I have a feeling you two'll love Stranglethorn. Anyway. Just wanted to warn you that Zuridan's been fantasizing about his sister."
"Dat's it?" Xan gave him an incredulous look.
"I didn't think it would turn into a whole damn production!" Melchiah bit off in reply.
"…his sister? You sure?"
"That's what he said."
"He hates his sister. I hate his sister. Far as I know, everybody hates his sister."
"Zuridan's got something else up his sleeve, besides the whole cannibalism and homicidal minions thing. I have a feeling he's not telling us because he doesn't know about it himself."
Xan glanced at Zuridan. He was absent-mindedly chewing on Gimpy's leg. "I don' care ta find out yet."
"Me neither." They parted ways, Xan back to Meridia and Melchiah back to Zuridan and the bag. There was a strange quality about it, and almost too late Melchiah realized that it wasn't retching anymore. It was, in fact, beginning to expand. As they watched, a claw shot through the side of the bag and tore it away. The bag never touched the deck, as it disintegrated in mid-flight.
Standing amidst a pile of fluid and elf organs, an emaciated creature hunched viciously. It hardly looked like Luna anymore. Her skin had faded to a light blue, and it clung to her sharpened bones doggedly. Of her abdomen, there was nothing left but her spine. A thin layer of skin stretched around her ribcage, and it was apparent that her clothes did not bind to her soul as Melchiah's armor did. However, she seemed to have become asexual during the transformation.
"What the…hell did you do to me?" Luna growled through half a jaw.
"I gave you a taste of my medicine," Melchiah answered, kicking off and grabbing her by the throa – er, neck region. Reversing direction, he threw her off the port side and over Meridia's head.
The half-elf screamed, and Melchiah allowed a grin. He hadn't been trying to scare her on purpose before, but if she was going to be a bitch about it…
Luna splashed into the water head first. The current from the Maelstrom was as strong as it could be without sucking the boat in, so Melchiah had to hope for the best. He thought about what kind of damage she would do if she ever swam back to Orgrimmar. It wouldn't be pretty, but such things hardly ever were.
The wraith-like creature struggled against the current, but was eventually pulled out and dragged under. Melchiah planted a foot victoriously on the railing.
"Woe to the conquered," he muttered to the ocean, contemplating adding a "Bitch" on the end but deciding that it was too tacky. He was soon surrounded by Zuridan, Meridia and Xan. Argam was nowhere to be found, and that worried him.
"So we're done, huh?" Zuridan remarked. "We can go back to Kalimdor. And not Stranglethorn."
"Why not Stranglethorn?" Xan asked.
"Because it's a very exotic, relaxing tropical death hole. Plus, this boat docks in Booty Bay."
It dawned on Xan. "We may not even make it off da ship."
"Well, it's too late to start bitching now," Melchiah growled. "Since you did your duty to the Horde in Ashenvale, it's time to do your duty to me. I need some or all of you to help me get to Duskwood without being swamped by the Alliance."
"Don' sound too hard."
"That's because you've never been to Stranglethorn before," Zuridan clipped.
"An' joo have?"
"Yeah, with…someone…" The orc looked as if he had just received a nasty shock. "I can't remember who, though."
"Okay, great. Why joo wanna go to Duskwood, Mel?"
"I think Araj might be there."
"Why would he be there, of all places?"
"Liches like dark forests. I don't know. I'm reaching with this one, but I can feel his presence…you know?"
"No, but den I neva been cursed by a zombie shaman," Xan remarked, shrugging helplessly.
"I'll go with you," Zuridan volunteered. "If we make it through Booty Bay."
"Fantastic. I would have just taken you anyway, since I don't trust the other two to watch my back."
"Three," Xan interrupted, jerking a finger at a very confused and distraught Meridia.
"What? Oh, I guess so. You and Argam – "
"An' Meridia…"
" – should see if Grom'Gol has any quests for you. It's that, or stand around and get eaten by…whatever tries to eat you in Stranglethorn Vale."
"Everything," Zuridan clarified grimly.
"Hey, where is Argam?"
End
If I could somehow physically insert the Benny Hill theme into your minds during the Chasing Marek section (and while we're at it the mental image of a Tommy Hilfiger model reject being chased around Stormwind by a gang of clergymen), I would smile for days on end knowing my real purpose in life has been fulfilled. Alas, such is the way of physics.
