Voodoo Child

Chapter 13 – Melchiah

By Genoscythe

AN: Yes, the Hindenburg was one of the first zeppelins, and it was also one of the first to erupt into a giant fireball. More than appropriate, considering what happened to Hin Denburg's zeppelin…

Xan took a look at the ethereal green water flowing through the ruins of Lordaeron, thought about washing off the soot and ash from his face, then wisely reconsidered. Once the initial shock and adrenaline rush had worn off from their earlier escapade, he realized what a dreadful place Tirisfal Glades was, and it made him a bit homesick. All he had to do was remind himself that there was a suicide mission waiting for him back in the Barrens, and the homesickness passed immediately.

He perched himself atop a ruined statue, watching and attempting to eavesdrop on Argam's conversation with captain Hin Denburg. From what he could gather, the Zeppelin Master was more upset that Argam had ripped off a piece of the ship's prow to complete his fishblade than the fact that the rest of his ship no longer existed as more than bits of tinder and hydrogen chloride. He was demanding that Argam pay for the blade so he could replace it (Captain Denburg did not seem daunted that there was nothing to replace it on).

It had been half an hour since Zuridan had descended below the surface in search of some clues to freeing his demons, and Xan was getting tired of waiting. After an eternity, the Zeppelin Master gave up on trying to converse with Argam and left for the zeppelin tower. As if waiting for the goblin to leave, Zuridan appeared out of the oppressive gloom and trudged toward them.

"What'cha got?" Xan asked, but Zuridan shook his head.

"Absolutely nothing. All of Lordaeron's old books were destroyed when it fell, and all the warlocks down there just laughed when I told them what was wrong."

"Fine. Betta get moving, then."

"Wait," Zuridan interjected. "While we're here, maybe we should look for another ally."

Xan raised an eyebrow. "Why here?"

"Isn't it obvious? We've got a troll, a tauren, and an orc. All we need to complete this sad little politically correct montage is a Forsaken."

Xan grimaced. "Jus' 'cause we don' have an undead don' mean we need one."

"What's your problem with the Forsaken?"

"What's your problem wit Tirisfal?" Xan retorted. Zuridan gave him an astonished look. "If you don' wanna come wit us, jus' say so."

"Well, I…" Zuridan was at a loss for words. "I just think we should find some more group members. You two go ahead while I get some."

"Fine, fine," Xan conceded. "Try to get us a woman, if we still goin' for da political thing."

"I'll see what I can do," Zuridan spoke, sounding relieved.

Half an hour later found Xan and Argam trudging warily through the forest of Silverpine. Along their way, Argam met a charming young squirrel that had obviously been dead and picked clean by scavengers weeks ago. That squirrel was now slung over Argam's shoulder, and from what Xan could tell, it was shouting out orders to the tauren. He could tell because Argam would shout into Xan's ear, then timidly respond to himself as if he hadn't heard anything.

Needless to say, Xan started feeling just as barking mad as Argam was after a while. So barking mad, in fact, that when Argam next shouted "Do they have ethanol products at this Sepulcher?", Xan rounded on him.

"I don' know, mon!" he roared. "If you shut ya mouth for a bit, we migh' get dere a li'l bit faster!" Being barking mad as he was, the outburst wasn't directed at Argam so much as it was directed at the rotting squirrel. Whether schizophrenia was contagious, or if it was just a symptom of being barking mad, Xan didn't know. He just wanted some peace and quiet to listen to.

"Vessel, silence this troll," Argam said for the squirrel.

"No! I don't want to hurt Xan!" Argam said for himself.

"He's getting in the way. Personally, I think you should have done away with him a long time ago." Argam as squirrel.

"Xan got us beer, remember?" Argam as Argam.

"You could get your own beer if you had a grain of intelligence in that massive head of yours."

"My head isn't massive!"

"It feels much bigger when you're forced to live in it."

"…what?"

Xan thought it would be a pretty neat idea to interrupt their conversation with an important question, and so he did. "Where da hell are we?"

The two soldiers stopped and glanced about for the first time in ten minutes. They were inside a group of trees huddled next to an abandoned farm. The road was nowhere in sight, and probably had no intentions of coming back. As if to accentuate the point that they were hopelessly lost, a wolf bayed in the distance.

"Good job, mon," Xan muttered, twirling a knife anxiously. Once again, he managed to nick his wrist with it, and hastily put it away before he got a chance to cut deeper.

"Let's see if anybody's living at the farm," Argam suggested.

"What, da smart one's on now?"

"No, and I'm amazed he even managed that little feat of brilliance," Argam as squirrel said. "Ever since you gave him his first drink of alcohol at Ratchet, his mind has been deteriorating rapidly."

"An' you don' think bein' a schizo is 'deteriorating'?" Xan had trouble forming the word 'deteriorating' (because it's just not in a troll's vocabulary), but he got around it.

"Actually, Argam isn't schizophrenic."

Xan stopped walking.

"What." The disbelief in his voice made it sound more like a statement than a question.

"It's an interesting story, actually. I'm – " Squirrelgam was drowned out by a howling wolf, and this time it sounded much closer. It also sounded much less like a wolf and much more like a pack of wolves.

"I'm thinkin' we betta get to dat farm," Xan intoned, picking up the pace again. They were halfway across the rotting field when three pale white forms broke through the trees. They loped across the field on two legs, growling and giving half-assed yelps of hunger. These werewolves were apparently new to the species.

Argam bounded forward, scooping up Xan with his fishblade. Nobody noticed, not even the werewolves, the squirrel corpse being left in the dust.

The tauren burst through the farm house door, and Xan quickly slammed it shut behind them. However, they immediately noticed that there was a door on the other side of the house, and it was wide open. They ran to shut it, but two wolves made sure that they didn't. One leapt down from a window on the second story, and the other skidded through the open door. The four combatants faced each other like a pair of elementary school bullies facing a pair of elementary school nerds. That is to say, one pair was terrifying, and the other pair was terrified.

Before Argam and Xan could get themselves torn apart, a shudder seemed to pass through the floorboards of the dilapidated farmhouse. Argam, Xan, even the wolves turned to the dark corner of the house on their right. A golden pair of eyes glared back. The eyes bobbed, and the heavy thud of an armored boot echoed through the room. Another thud, and the eyes bobbed closer. The werewolves drew back instinctively, but Argam and Xan didn't know any better, and so they watched in awe.

A form was beginning to take shape in the darkness. A mess of feathery black hair hung over the glowing eyes, and dull bones shone in their light. As the form drew closer, they made it out to be a Forsaken clad in scaly golden armor. The skin of his jaw was nonexistent, and a sort of permanent grimace affixed his face. Besides his face, his body was mostly covered by armor and large boots. However, his hands were bare and revealing huge hooked claws.

He passed a table, and dragged one claw along it menacingly. Behind it, a line of decayed wood was left in the table. Xan and Argam were transfixed, but the wolves were at the point of whimpering now. They seemed to know what was about to happen, but they made no move to stop it.

The Forsaken exploded into motion, nearly flying at the first wolf and impaling it on a short sword that seemed to come from nowhere. The wolf exploded, literally this time, from the force of the blow. Its companion howled and scampered up the wall toward the window on the second floor. The Forsaken watched as it tried to escape, then leapt up after it.

Now he pulled a hulking shield from his back and slammed it into the wolf, who fell off the windowsill and onto the ground outside. Argam and Xan watched through the doorway as the undead man dropped from the sky and beheaded the werewolf all in the same move. He disappeared to (they assumed) kill the third wolf, and returned to them with his armor spattered in blood.

"Well? Get out." His voice was metal grinding on rock.

"Wh…wh…wha…" Xan found his windpipe clogged by stupefaction.

"I told you to get out," the Forsaken repeated, kicking bits of the exploded werewolf out the door. "You speak Orcish, don't you?"

"That…was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen…" Argam murmured reverently.

"You're not gonna leave, are you?" The Forsaken muttered, sounding almost bored.

"Mebbe sometime…" Xan replied. At that moment, he remembered what Zuridan had suggested. All we need to complete this sad little politically correct montage is a Forsaken. Well, here's a Forsaken... Words seemed to tumble out of his mouth at no warning at all. "You wanna come wit us?"

The Forsaken burst out into a riotous laugh that inspired more despair than mirth. "Hold on. Shake all that stupid out of your head and ask me again."

"C'mon. It'll be fun."

"Listen, son. I'm cursed."

Youthful rebellion flared up in Xan. "Please don' call me son."

"You're young enough to be mine. Hell, you're probably young enough to be my grandson."

"What, you a trollophile, mon?"

"When your life cycle ceases to exist, you start thinking in broader terms, son."

Argam cleared his throat so loud they both thought he was dying. Apparently, he hadn't yet mastered the art of interrupting an argument. "Excuse me, Mr. Forsaken. It's 'more broad', and you skipped the part about being cursed. Could you please explain?"

The Forsaken let out a rasp of annoyance, letting an ethereal steam hiss through his jaws. "I hate it when people correct me. Let's get that part clear right now."

"Okay, it's clear."

"Now, I really don't feel like explaining it all to someone who's about to leave my house and never see me again, but I will say this: I'm cursed, I've been cursed, and I always will be cursed. Not a namby little gypsy curse, either. This is black magic. Bad shit."

Argam looked at Xan, then turned back. "I don't think we're comprehending."

"We ain' comprehendin', mon."

"All the more reason for you to leave."

"No freakin' way!" Xan insisted. "We need you, mon."

"You won't when I tell you about the curse," the Forsaken suddenly split into a wicked grin, finally finding a way to be rid of the two soldiers. "Everything I touch withers up or decays. Everything living gets dysentery and nonstop vomiting for about a week, then they become just like me. In other words, I'm spreading the disease unless I keep my hands in my pockets for the rest of eternity."

"Okay," Xan said, nonplussed.

"Okay? What's okay about that?"

"Your turn to listen, mon…" Xan began, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I got a cannibal warlock wit homicidal pets an' a schizophrenic metrosexual tauren wit a frozen gian' fish for a weapon. I got bad luck like you won' believe. Everyone I meet wants ta skin me, all da missions I get were made for heroes, an' people treat me like a slave. I been run ragged all 'cross Kalimdor, I got some crazy Paladin stalkin' me, I got ripped off by da rogue trainer…"

Xan now sat back in a half-rotten chair, feeling fairly confident now. "So…I really don' care abou' some curse. For what it's worth, I'm probly cursed too."

The Forsaken blinked in surprise, a gesture only detectable by a quick flickering of his glowing eyes. Finally, he spoke in a more subdued tone. "Really?"

"That's all true," Argam added, nodding with self-importance that he most definitely didn't deserve. "I'm the schizophrenic metrosexual tauren with the frozen giant fish."

The Forsaken grunted. "You don't look like a metro to me…"

"He likes dresses," Xan put in. Argam clapped with glee. The Forsaken gave a nod of understanding.

"So…the offer still stands?"

"O' course it stands, mon!"

"Alright…I'll come with you on one condition."

Xan narrowed his eyes.

"You all help me find the Lich that cursed me. I call the shots until we do."

"Deal!" Argam bellowed.

"No deal!" Xan barked, but he was drowned out by Argam.

"Come on, Xan. We could use a good quest," Argam whispered in his best persuasive voice.

"Why?"

"That's just what people do these days. They go on a quest."

"Well, I ain' like people. I jus' wanna take the short an' easy route 'till my three years are up."

"But it's a quest! That's basically our only reason for living."

"Maybe you, no' me."

"We can get more beer…"

"We can get mo' beer anywhere. Don' usually take a quest to get to a liquor store."

"What about women?"

"We can…" Xan stopped himself. His luck with women had been nothing short of abysmal (as with all other types of luck), and the closest he had gotten to being with a girl was when he had joined up with Alani the priestess. If questing was the only thing that would get him women (or put him in the right direction) then so be it. "Fine. Le's go, mon."

"Wow..." the Forsaken hissed. "It's taken me years to get someone to agree to that."

"Mind tellin' us your name?"

"Melchiah," he snarled. "If I were still alive, it'd be Colonel Melchiah." The Forsaken whipped around and bared the faded red cape draped across his shoulder plates. A colonel's insignia, or what Xan imagined as one, was embroidered in the upper-right corner.

"Hmmm…" Argam rumbled. "I guess Zuridan doesn't have to find anyone else now."

"Who?"

"And then…the dog bit my husband. I didn't know he had the plague until three days later, when he started eating me in my sleep. That was before our house caught fire, mind. And before our children died of the Imploding Rectum Disease. But really, things are even more dreadful now. So very, very dreadful…"

Zuridan wondered what it would feel like to swallow his tongue. It couldn't be that bad. Maybe a bit uncomfortable at the offset, but once he was dead it would probably be great. At least he wouldn't have to listen to this undead woman ramble anymore.

"Do you know what it feels like to become a zombie?"

"Obviously I don't, Katrina."

"It's dreadful. Every time I think about it, I get so…depressed."

Then again, maybe throat-slitting was the way to go. It was undoubtedly faster.

"Have you ever been eaten by your husband?"

He thought about jumping in the glowing green lake, but it probably wasn't as poisonous as it looked.

"It's almost as dreadful as turning into a zombie. Maybe just as bad. Both happened at the same time, so I have trouble sorting out which kind of pain belonged to which malady."

Zuridan tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for Helmon to show up.

"I don't suppose you've ever heard of the Imploding Rectum Disease, have you?"

That was it. "Do you want me to kill you again, lady?"

Katrina's mottled face broke into a smile. "That would be lovely."

Zuridan produced a dagger from his sleeve, but Katrina immediately recoiled.

"You're going to kill me with that? Ugh, how dreadfully crude. Forget I asked."

"You didn't."

"Good, now forget about it."

This just wasn't worth it. "Alright, miss. Deal's off. I've gotta get going."

"Fine. You can leave just like my husband." The heartbreaking tone in Katrina's voice merely fueled Zuridan's desire to leave. "Might as well take a bite while you're at it!" She thrust her decaying hand into his face, causing the tall orc to shrink back in disgust. He turned on his heels and ran headlong into parts unknown. Behind him, he could hear Katrina saying "Come back sometime. I've got a dreadful amount of stories to tell you!"

Fifteen minutes and three wrong turns later, Zuridan emerged from the ruins of Lordaeron. He took a step outside the massive yawning gate, and unexpectedly swooned. Recoiling back into the safety of the castle, Zuridan tried not to look in the direction of Silverpine forest. Something in his head was nagging at him, telling him not to go there. Whenever he began to question why, all he could picture was a huge floating skeleton draped in some awful caricature of a shaman's robes.

It was either into the forest or back to Katrina. In the end, there was really only one choice. Zuridan took a deep breath, what some people call a 'leap of faith', and ran off toward the forest with his eyes squeezed shut.

End of chapter 13

AN: A little bit of trivia: Melchiah is the only character so far that I've actually made in the game (the others are all based off of other characters, like Xanbeing identical tomy level 44 rogue Genoscythe). So...until next time. Whenever the hell that's gonna be.