The Friend

One could say a lot of things about Booty Bay. It was no secret that the port town harbored an unsavory amount of sex, drugs and corruption which spread and infected all who inhabited like a bad case of the snatch scratchers. However, there was one thing, one saving grace, which preceded Booty Bay's reputation despite all its infamy: the booze was good, cheap and plentiful. And Korot knew this well.

Even though he had wandered into a tavern he had never visited before, a twinge of nostalgia briefly warmed the ichor in his veins. The bar was his home; the stool, his throne.

"What's ya' poison?" the goblin barkeep asked as Korot approached, greedy eyes narrowing in on the priest as if he were nothing but a walking coin dispenser.

"Strongest drink in the house," Korot gruffly greeted, leaning his staff against the bar and settling into a seat. The goblin gave a fraction of a nod and then disappeared. Moments later he returned, setting a mug before the forsaken.

"Careful with that," the barkeep warned, drolly, "that stuff could kill the dead."

Taking note of the near tangible hatred emanating from the scowling priest, the goblin remembered he had some mindless, repetitive task to do on the other side of the tavern and scurried away.

Satisfied with the barkeep's retreat, Korot finally turned his attention to his 'poison', as the goblin had so eloquently put it. Indeed, looking at the foaming concoction bubbling over the rim of his mug with a skeptical frown, he did begin to question the toxicity of the drink.

However, Korot decided to swallow back any lingering doubts and boldly brought the mug to his colorless lips. To him, it was tasteless, without odor, and, since he no longer felt those once frequent pangs of thirst, it failed at its primary purpose for consumption. Despite this, Korot drained the mug as if it were some sort of miracle elixir; like some sort of medicine that would cure him of that excruciating, incurable disease called reality.

As was to be expected, the results left much to be desired.

This never deterred Korot, as he merely ordered another mug. At least he was able to validate his existence in the faint sensation of warmth from the liquor. It was one of the few things he could still actually feel. The feeling was distant, weak; as if his whole being was entirely numb. But he could feel a limited range of emotions. He could feel pain.

And he could feel warmth. Most importantly, Evamarín's warmth. If Korot was thankful for anything in his woebegone unlife, it was being able to still experience the warmth of another mortal being. Thinking back to what had transpired between the two only half an hour before, the man reached for his mug, which had recently been refilled.

Yes, on the outside Evamarín was warm, like an intoxicating wine… yet on the inside, she was colder than Northrend frost.

"Woman troubles?"

Korot jolted from his private musings, startled by the sudden inquiry. The voice seemed to originate from his right, where a human had seated himself without the forsaken noticing. A wave of revulsion struck Korot almost immediately, and, after a moment of studying the man, he discovered why. The human practically grinning in his face, sitting mere inches away, was undoubtedly, undeniably, unquestionably a paladin.

Korot glanced around. There was no one else nearby who the paladin could possibly be talking to. After taking a moment to formulate an intelligent response, Korot's jaw dropped and a mangled, incredulous, "What?" tumbled out in Common.

"Well," the man explained, matter-of-factly, "You were sittin' there inna' daze like a man whose got some lady trouble. I was jes' tryin' to strike up a bit o' polite convo'sation."

Sneering, Korot's surprise was quickly squelched by an instant flaring of burning hatred so volatile he could not keep it contained even if he had a desire to.

"So you must be from the Archbishop's most recent batch of flunkies," the forsaken quipped, not in the mood to be trifled with. "Well, in that case, I'll try to dumb this down as much as possible. If you want to mock someone, for your sake, I suggest you find a mindless ghoul because any undead with at least half a mind and time to spare will not hesitate to shove your holier-than-thou Light bullshit so far up your conceited ass you'll be shitting candlesticks from then on."

Korot felt his features split into a wicked grin, satisfied with the deadpan expression frozen on the human's face. However, instead of the accustomed challenge to a duel to defend his offended honor… the man simply laughed. A loud, boisterous laugh which caused him to even going as far as to hold his sides in mirth.

Again, this strange man startled Korot. He tensed, as if expecting a sudden blow. But none came.

"Shit candlesticks! Honestly, I've been known tah receive an insult 'er two but I ain't never heard that 'un before. That's a good 'un!"

It was about then that Korot began to question the man's sanity. "Are you a new breed of stupid?" he asked, genuinely puzzled by the paladin's behavior. "What the fel is wrong with you?"

Rather than reply immediately, the paladin caught the barkeep's attention and ordered the "cheapest dwarven ale" before turning once more to Korot. "I jes' thought I'd like some good comp'ny while I drink. Seems I picked well, eh?"

Now, it was true that for an undead, Korot was remarkable well preserved. He took special care to avoid physical violence to keep his skin intact and even had Dahj concoct potions for him specifically to impede the decaying process. Besides the deathly pallor of his complexion, only the haunting glow of his eyes alluded to his state of undeath. Yet, he could never be accidentally mistaken as human, which made the paladin's statement even more perplexing.

This could lead to only one logical conclusion: The bastard was drunker than a horny dwarf at Brewfest.

"No matter how cheap or watered down, a good Dwarven ale can still knock your senses to Northrend and back… especially if you've already had a few. That said, it would be in your best interest to direct your drunken antics towards someone less likely break your leg and rip the marrow clean off your bones like you were an all you can eat crawler dinner."

With a misty mug now set before him, the paladin chuckled under his breath, drawing his beer close to take a careful, trial sip.

"I ain't drunk, dead 'un. Well, not yet, in any case."

Korot's grip tightened around his glass. "Then it still begs the question, why are you talking to me?"

For the briefest, minutest of minutes, the human's incorrigible behavior reminded him of Taja'ki. Somehow, he had the same feeling that everything he said was merely going in one ear and coming straight out the other.

"Well," replied the paladin, "ya' ain't done me no wrong so I ain't got nothin' against ya'."

The forsaken gave an odd sort of half-snort, half-grunt. "And that hardly constitutes as a logical reason for trying to engage me in conversation. When did you tight-leashed, paladin dogs begin to disobey the attack command and decide to foolishly bark just for the sake of barking?"

Rubbing the back of his neck methodically, the human answered in his easygoing drawl, "The way I see it, you were once human, jes like me. You were someone's brother, son, 'er husband, even. Ya' can't help that ya' died an' were brought back. Wasn't like ya' asked that Lich bastard tah make ya' undead. So long as ya' ain't doin' anything ya' ought not right now, then I don't see any harm in exchanin' civilities wit' ya' dead'uns."

Korot's jaw descended to speak, but was quickly snatched back shut without a word. Up until that point, all his responses had merely been automatic; it was at this moment that his mind broke free from autopilot and began running manually at his command.

How long has it truly been since I've had a normal conversation with a human? Evamarín has never been one to humor me with an actual conversation... the priest contemplated to himself. Truthfully… aside from Evamarín, no human has ever made an attempt to try and talk to me, which is understandable, but...

Although it felt odd to be speaking in Common to anyone other than Evamarín, some part of Korot tentatively admitted that it not only felt somewhat pleasant but rather natural. Had it been anyone else, the cantankerous priest would have tossed a few insults in Gutterspeak the paladin's way and ignored him.

However, from the get-go, the human had already drawn him into conversation without him even realizing it. Korot shook his head at his own gullibility, having lost to this man even before he had spoken one word.

"Alright then," Korot rasped, looking at the paladin in a whole new light this time. "So let's say that all you've said is true and fel, let's go as far as to say that we're even having an honest conversation right now. If that is the case, then how did you know that I'm having 'woman problems'?"

The paladin gave a wink from behind his mug. "Easy 'nough. Ya' jes' look like ya' had the life sucked from ya'."

At this, he laughed at his own horrible joke, nearly choking on his beer. "Figuratively, I mean."

With a faint nod of agreement, Korot added, "Aside from the Plague, I doubt that there is anything that can suck the life right outta' a man like a woman."

This prompted the paladin to laugh boisterously, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in mirth. "Cheers tah that!"

He lifted his mug and held it out towards Korot, an amiable grin stretched wide across his face. Hesitantly, the forsaken lifted his own mug and slowly tipped his mug until it clinked against the other.

Both men then drank deep, Korot downing his without need to pause for breath.

"Sometimes I envy warlocks," the paladin continued, wiping the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "They need a warm body for their bed? She's just a summon away. Tired of listenin' tah her naggin'? Send her tah tha' Nether an' beyond with but a word. Despite bein' tha' mighty paladin that I am, even I'm hopelessly wrapped aroun' tha' delicate finger of a doll-faced she-demon."

The human sighed, then slammed his fist on the bar repeatedly, indicating to the barkeep that he wanted a refill.

"Oh, I forgot! I ain't intra'duce mahself yet. Name's Garrick."

Looking at the beer in his hand, he decided to part with it momentarily and extended his now empty hand towards the priest.

For a long, awkward moment, Korot merely stared at the man's proffered hand like it was the strangest object he had ever seen and didn't quite know what to do with it. Finally, he managed to mechanically extend his own hand, mumbling, "Korot."

"Wait! Gah, where is yah mind tahday, Garrick?" said the paladin, retracting his hand. He sifted through the pack at his feet, retrieving a pair of dark leather gloves. Shoving his hands inside, he once again turned to the Forsaken.

"My apologies. I wouldn't want tah purge the unlivin' daylights outta' yah jes 'cause I used mah bare hands."

A little more tentatively, Korot stretched out his arm and gripped Garrick's hand. The contact was brief, but it sent an unpleasant tingle along the length of his arm, instantly seized by an unsettling nausea.

"Nice tah make yer acquaintance, Korot," Garrick beamed, both at the Forsaken and the overflowing mug that had just been set before him.

The priest retracted his hand slowly, noting that his skeletal fingertips were slightly blackened. Even through the thick leather, Garrick's holy aura had sought to cleanse him to naught but consecrated ashes. The paladin's Light straining to devour his Shadow. If Garrick was aware of this, he made no indication, a dopey grin playing on his lips as the lower half of his face disappeared into his mug.

"Theramore."

One of Garrick's thick brows quirked quizzically. His mug clattered to the table as he let out a contented sigh and tilted his head in Korot's direction, oblivious to the froth still hanging onto his upper lip.

"Your accent. You're from Theramore, correct?" Korot continued, though his question carried the weight of a self-assured statement.

"Well ya' sure ain't lyin'!" the paladin affirmed, thumping his chest proudly with one hand. "T'was born in Goldshire, but mah heart resides in Theramore."

Korot made no remark to this, taking a slow, methodical sip from his cup. Never being one to give much care to faces or appearance, the priest examined the human from the edge of his peripheral vision. He had a shock of tousled, sandy blond hair, slightly damp, from either the humid, salty sea air or from being confined for far too long in a stifling helm. Unkempt stubble dappled his sun bronzed chin, his sleepy, laughing, hazel eyes charmingly magnetic. By appearance alone, he seemed to be fairly young, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, but his youthful exuberance made pinpointing his exact age rather difficult.

He looks to be about my age though, mused Korot. The age I was when I died…

All private thoughts scattered like dominoes as a strong hand suddenly gripped his shoulder.

"'Ey ya' maggot-suckin', dirt-humpin', coffin stuffer! Why doncha' take yer ugly face and bury it somewhere's I ain't gotta' look at it?"

Two undeniably inebriated human males hovered over Korot, glaring hatred down on the priest with glassy, bloodshot eyes.

"I probably would take you up on your suggestion if I had a face as hideous as yours," the Forsaken muttered in Gutterspeak, violently shrugging the hand off his shoulder. He kept his gaze low and away; to acknowledge them anymore would be an insult to anyone's intelligence.

"If ya' got somethin' tah say tah me, buzzard-scraps, den shay it 'n Common!" one of the men slurred, flecks of spittle spraying across Korot's back.

Garrick, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, turned in his seat and leaned back, peering out a nearby window. He spotted two horses tied to a hitching post outside. Sitting properly once more, the paladin scanned the tavern. There were no other human patrons in sight.

Suppressing an impish grin, Garrick cleared his throat, saying, "Them your two horses out thar, gents?"

With a hand hidden under the table, he snapped his fingers, igniting the horse's reins with holy fire. Spooked, the horses reared and bucked until they were able to break free and took off down the dock. Stumbling and scrambling over each other, the two men raced out of the tavern in pursuit of their mounts.

"I could have easily handled that," stated Korot, although his lips split into a tiny smile. "Though your assistance was appreciated."

Garrick scratched at the back of his neck, replying, "Couldn't help mahself thar, Korot. Can't stand mah own kind actin' like a bunch a' no good hoodlums."

This said, Garrick loudly sucked down the last remains of his beer, then stretched his arms over his head, joints popping audibly.

"Welp, it's about time fah me to head out," Garrick yawned, lifting his pack and helm from the floor. "Mah lady might work 'erself intah a tizzy if I'm gone fah too long which would mean big trouble fah everyone. Best I leave now so's I don't become tha' cause of the second Sunderin'."

Tucking his helm underneath his arm, he gave the Forsaken a sloppy salute.

"Thanks fah keepin' me company. See ya' 'round, friend."

And, with one last, dopey smile at Korot, he turned, whistling obnoxiously loud, and strolled out of the tavern. Korot did not watch Garrick depart, choosing to stare questioningly into his mug.

"… friend?"

He snorted, as if insulted, but the chuckle he had been attempting to suppress rumbled deep in his throat, exposing his amusement.

That's a new one, he thought to himself, wondering if Garrick was at all aware that he had tossed the word into his farewell so casually. He's got some nerve…

Korot's gaze drifted to his singed fingers, shaking his head in bemusement.

Mortals. They're an interesting lot. Can't live with 'em… and can't feel alive without 'em.

Chuckling once more, Korot raised his mug into the air, as if in a toast, gave a small, indiscernible nod, and finished off his beer, not even bothering to wipe away the froth comically arced above his upper lip.