Eternal Exile :: Chapter 1

A Rude Awakening

Cold.

It was the first thing he felt.

… no.  No. That… wasn't quite correct.  It was… the first thing of which he was aware.  

Cold. Smooth.  Stale.  Some distant sort of understanding, yet without truly feeling it.  

Any of it.

He groaned, the sound wet, clinging to the damp walls around him.  There was something wrong, though, about that sound… so unfamiliar…

Eyelids sticking together, presumably from the residue of sleep, he finally managed to pry them apart.  Then, after a moment of darkness, his vision slowly returned: grainy, dull around the edges, too bright at the center.  He waited for it to clear…

… and waited…

… and waited…

… but nothing changed.  A slow, aching sort of fear began to bleed through his veins, wrapping around his consciousness when he finally realized what he was looking at: a colorless stone slab, not six inches from his nose.

Panic slammed into him headlong.  Making that unintelligible sound of a trapped animal, he began to scrabble at the walls of his prison.

In his frantic flailing, his left hand suddenly found the edge of the stone above him.  Too forgone to feel foolish, he all but threw himself out, collapsing to his hands and knees on the ground below.

Eyes wide, flicking frantically, sightlessly  Ears clogged with a painful, throbbing whine.  Around him, human architecture, damp and mossy stones of…

… oh… gods… they… they buried me…

Lurching forward, he hit the floor again as his limbs refused to function in tandem, each going every which way.  He couldn't stop though, couldn't give up—he had to get out…!

Finally, his body was beginning to move together, if badly.  Jerking, stumbling, he all but fell up the stairs, grasping at the slime-slicked stones.  There was light, he could see it, a bright spot in the colorless snow behind his eyes…

He fell three times, either a foot or hand slipping as he clawed his way up on all fours like a frightened beast.  Then suddenly his sight was momentarily whited out as he reached the top of the stairs, scrambling to his feet to try and make a run for it…

A vice grip clamped down on his arm, making him stumble.  A shriek escaped his throat, wet and wild, as he blinked frantically, trying to see his attacker and remember anything to save himself…

"Ho there."  He felt the pressure—a hand?—tighten against his skin, holding him steady as his eyes began to focus as best they could.  "About time you woke up. We were ready to toss you into the fire with the others, but it looks like you made it."

'Made it?'  In his mind, those were the words he spoke: clear, if frightened.  In his mind, even trembling lips could have found those shapes.

But the sound that escaped him was nothing like what was in his mind.

Stumbling backwards, the… thing… holding him letting him collapse against the wall, spine cracking loudly against it.

Shock, confusion, terror… he considered it a small miracle he wasn't trembling all over.  They had buried him, and there was something terribly wrong.  Some lingering sickness, or injury, or…

His arms now free, one hand braced himself against the wall, the other flicking up to cover his mouth.

But…

… it wasn't there.

His mouth wasn't there.

He would have screamed, but he found his throat too tight as he began to shake, feeling as if he was coming apart at the seams.  What… what..?

The creature in front of him—it looked human, but with whatever was wrong with his eyes, he couldn't rightly tell—seemed not only unshaken, but… rather bored.  "I am Mordo, the caretaker of the crypt of Deathknell." The thing, Mordo, gestured down the stairs from which he had just come. "And you are the Lich King's slave no more.  Although…"  It—he?—paused then, "You seem to come out a little worse for wear than most of us."

… wh… what?  It was… all that he could think.  Leaning heavily against the wall, he just stared ahead. Lich King's slave?  Worse for wear…? Why…why couldn't he talk?

A moment of silence passed, and the Mordo just shrugged, sweeping its hand down to motion to a path at their feet.  "No matter.  Speak with Shadow Priest Sarvis in the chapel at the base of the hill, he will tell you more of what you must know."

… Shadow Priest?  What…?  Where was he?  What… what happened?  All he could remember… all he could remember… what could he remember?  Just… brief flashes, images, disjointed and broken… but…

He'd worn out his welcome, though, and the Mordo made that quite clear: it huffed, gesturing more sharply.  "I have to stay here, to guide anyone else who wakes up.  Now get going.  I don't have all day."

Blearily, he looked down the path once more.  Eyes… somewhat adjusting to the light, he could at least begin to make it out, and his body seemed to be… slightly more responsive…

Feet shuffling awkwardly, he finally began to move away, all but dragging himself down the dirt path unthinkingly. Shadow Priest Sarvis.  Chapel at the base of the hill.  Then… then he could ask… what was going on…

Logically, he knew the walk hadn't been a long one.  Not even a quarter of a mile (maybe less, he couldn't be sure) but it had taken him a… shamefully long time.  He'd stumbled more than once, picking himself up awkwardly.  His body just didn't seem to want to move properly, nothing seemed to want to work right.  But yet… yet he didn't hurt.  He felt like he should, but… he just… didn't.

Perhaps he was just stiff.  He had no idea how long he had been… well.  However he had been that they had thought him dead.

He suddenly found himself at the base of the hill, having passed through the cemetery gates and now standing in the middle of… what looked to be some sort of decrepit town.  It was hard to tell… details failed him, as did…

He blinked, suddenly realizing the world was… nearly colorless.  There were… some soft shades of bluish or reddish grey, but… other than that…

Chapel.  Shadow Priest.  Glancing around, he realized he was but right next to… what had to have once been a quaint little chapel.  Fighting with his feet for a moment before he managed to tame them, he shuffled forward… only to trip on the steps and land with his face against the splintering floor of the chapel.

"Ah, careful!" The sound of scraping footsteps grew closer and closer, until, for the second time that day, he felt clawed, bony hands on his shoulders.  "Come, now. Another of the walking dead, hm? Must have been quite a shock, waking up in the crypt with only the cold and Mordo to greet you..."  The thing holding him clicked its tongue, 'tsking' quietly.   "Come on, in here…"

Finding his feet once more with the help of the hands still steadying him, he felt himself led forward and more or less gently sat down on one of the creaking, lopsided pews.  "There you go.  You'll get more used to your body with time and… a little care."

Inside, the light wasn't so bright, and while he found his sight still fuzzy, he was able to see a bit better than before.  Blinking, he began to make out the face in front of his own.  It was male, looked human, but… it just wasn't… quite… right…

The man (thing?) looked away from him, sitting on a skewed pew just a few paces away.  The more he looked, the more he began to realize that this… man… was… he wore tattered priest's robes, and there was a flap of skin, a looseness of his (its?) jaw…

This had to be Sarvis, or at least he so assumed.  After all, he was in the chapel, and priestly dress…

"I'm Shadow Priest Sarvis."  Ah, so he was indeed correct.  "I see the confusion on your face. Let me try to explain… your… our… situation… to you."  The priest took a breath, making the flap of skin flutter.  "You are… a unique case, at least as far as I have ever seen, so I can't imagine what you're thinking.  What understanding—if any—you have of… what's become of you.  So I'll keep this simple and short."

The chapel went silent, then, and he simply waited, mind blank and far away.  It felt like a dream… even so, though, he noticed that the priest hadn't spoken again.  Only then did he realize that he'd dropped his eyes at some point, and slowly, so slowly, raised them back up.

Once his eyes met that of the Shadow Priest, the… thing… nodded and began again.  "I don't know your story.  But I can at least tell you this much.  You died, and rose again… from what I can tell, under the control of the Lich King, as part of the Scourge."

The moment after that had been said, the priest stopped talking, and wisely so.  He would have never heard another word after had the man continued.

His ears were much too full of the sound of his entire life falling apart to have heard anything else.

Nothing made sense.  Died?  How could he have died…?  All he could remember…

—the regiment!  The regiment was dying of the Plague.  He was immune, he had to get back to them.  Had to!  Sir Rainecourt was counting on him…!

Panic again surging through him even stronger than when he'd first awoken, he surged to his feet, hands flicking wildly.  Didn't the priest see?  He had to go!  Where had they gotten to?  Where had he gotten to?   It didn't matter, it didn't matter, he had to get back…

"Whoa.  Whoa.  Sit down, friend."  Those hands had found his shoulders again, and he was so weak, so shaky, it wasn't difficult to be pushed back down.  He tried to insist he had to go, and now, but all he heard come out of him was gurgling noises.  The priest only continued, speaking over him:  "You're going to fall apart if you push yourself too hard.  Just… sit."

Sit?  How could he sit…?  Where… where was he?  He'd never heard of Deathknell before.  Wasn't that what the Mordo said he was…?

"We can only speculate you've been a slave for all these years.  Deathguard Linnea found you running aimlessly.  You collapsed on the road, and she nearly put you out of your misery, thinking you were just another mindless zombie."  The priest shrugged, as if this were a normal occurrence, and for that, he thought nothing of it.  "But when you fell into a death-sleep… she thought to at least give you a chance, and we dragged you down to the crypt.  For a while we thought you were too decayed, but… here you are."

He was silent then, waiting for more.  More explanation, more hope, an admission this was a dream, anything… but the Shadow Priest just sat there, waiting as well.

But what the other was waiting for, he didn't know and didn't care.  Dead.  He couldn't be dead.  It just… wasn't…

"You've been gone for a long time, haven't you."  It wasn't a question, so he didn't bother to make any indication one way or the other.  The priest sighed.  "We have been freed from the control of the Lich King by our new leader, Lady Sylvanas. The Dark Lady guides us in our war against the hated Scourge and the holdouts of humanity who dog our every step.  We are the Forsaken… but you."  There was a pause, and Sarvis reached out a rotting hand to flick one of his ears.  He jerked back, looking at the priest with venom.  "I suppose you are as well now."

The Shadow Priest stood then, walking towards the altar.  "Can you write?"

Write?  Of course he could write.  But why did it matter?  He hadn't even been asked his name, which was terribly rude even if he didn't much want to give it.  Straightening up, he started to proclaim he was likely more literate than the Priest himself…

… only to hear the wet, sucking noises his throat made.

He… he remembered.  There was… something wrong with him.  Hands shaking, he brought them again up to his face, feeling it as if he were a blind man.  From his top lip up he seemed… more or less whole, but.. from there down…

… there was just nothing.  A few flaps of skin hanging down, some severed muscles, half of a dried-out tongue and numerous gaping holes…

When the priest returned, he came carrying parchment and some charcoal, waiting for some sign.  Slowly, he looked up at the… what had he called himself?  Forsaken?... and nodded.  Yes, he could write.

With a curt nod, Sarvis gave him the paper and charcoal.  "Name and occupation.  For our records."

He looked down at the parchment, fingering the gritty writing utensil, no more than a burnt piece of wood, and paused.  Then, slowly, with practiced scrawl, wrote down but two words:

Diatren
Mage

He looked down at it, barely able to make out his own writing.  Just his first name.  He… he couldn't give his last.  At least not right now, if the creature in front of him was correct…

However, a thought struck him, and before he handed the paper back to the priest, looked back down, and added:

Diatren
Mage
(it's pronounced Dee-tren)

There.  Looking up once more, he handed the parchment back to the priest, who glanced down at it briefly.

… and then, if Diatren wasn't incorrect, seemed to quickly glance back, as if surprised.  But he couldn't be sure… it very well could have been his own paranoia.

"Ah, a mage?"  Regardless of any shock there might have been seconds prior, Sarvis seemed simply pleased now.  "Are you trained in herbalism and alchemy?"

He nodded.  Yes, he'd been an apprenticed in both.

"Ah!  Wonderful.  The Dark Lady will be pleased."  Shuffling over to the altar once more, the Shadow Priest placed the parchment off to the side before returning.  "Perhaps you'll be a boon to the Royal Apothecary Society… but let us not put the car before the horse.  First things first.  You're in need of some new dress, and perhaps Isabella can find you a wand or a staff.  Come, the clothier is just across the way…"

For a moment, he hesitated, both body and mind still loathe to react.  But, eventually he did drag himself to his feet and began to follow the priest.

Thankfully, Sarvis wasn't exaggerating when he said that the clothier was just across the way.  Unsure and still unsteady on his feet, he lingered just outside as the priest spoke with a somewhat frazzled looking… man, he supposed is the word.

The two talked, and while had he truly wanted to listen in he could have, Diatren chose not to.  He was just… uninterested.

There were… much more pressing matters on his mind, but honestly… he didn't much want to consider those either.  If he did, he would have to really accept…

"It's not much," Diatren's eyes snapped up from the ground; he hadn't noticed the priest return to the doorway, "But at least it's whole."  And with that, Sarvis held out a stack of clothing… all various shades of gray, at least to his eyes.  "If you're worried about any kind of modesty, there are a number of empty houses around.  Once you've changed, return to the chapel.  I'll find Isabella for you, see what can be done."

Diatren nodded, and with that, Shadow Priest Sarvis turned away and, without another word, returned to his chapel.

It was… too much to process.  Too much… too much to handle… to understand…

But… at least he had something.  New clothing, that the priest had mentioned was whole.  Whole was always a good thing…

Shuffling blindly forward, he simply walked, unsure exactly where to go.  An empty house, he supposed… but he wasn't precisely where those were, either.  He would just walk, numbly clutching the material in his hands, unthinking and unfeeling… simply, lost.

By sheer luck or coincidence, Diatren very nearly stumbled on the steps of a small vacant cabin.

Either way.  It would do.

Looking down so as not to stumble, he carefully picked his way up the few steps, and then pushed open the front door that just barely hung off its hinges.  The place had been ransacked, but it had four walls and a door, so it served his purpose.  Once inside, door swung closed without any urging from him, and that was just fine.

He paused then, hesitant.  He'd always taken great pride in his clothing, but… it was hard to care, feeling… oddly half-whole, and unable to see properly.  He couldn't care about color if he couldn't see it, fabric if he couldn't feel it…

Finally setting the new robe and such on a mostly broken table, numb and stiff fingers found their way to the tie at his waist…

… or rather, tried to.  Jerking slightly in shock, he looked down only to find there was… not much there.  Only scraps, tatters.  The smallest bits of what was once a robe clinging to his shoulders, about his waist, and hanging down his legs.  Only by pure luck did he keep any modesty and…

A new robe was a good idea.  A very good idea.

Even with his body as unresponsive as it was, he shed his clothes quickly.  It wasn't that hard: they were so threadbare, most of them fell apart in his hands.

The more important step was… significantly harder, though.  Taking great pains to avoid looking at his own body—even out of the corner of his eye—Diatren fumbled with his new attire.  Thankfully, the robe was three sizes too big, and while at one time that would have irritated him to the point of yelling, now… now he was simply glad to be covered.

Once mostly modest, he allowed himself some leisure in putting on the rest: boots again too large for his crooked feet, a belt he had to tie rather than buckle…

But it was something.  Anything.

… nothing.

That was all he had: nothing.  It was all he felt.  Nothing.

Blinking, he leaned against the nearest wall, blankly staring ahead.  He found no reason to move from that spot.  If it was true…

… his fingers itched. … itched?

Curious, Diatren looked down at them, moving them slowly, molting grayish skin slithering over too-prominent bones.  They shouldn't have felt something, not like that, but… they itched.

… hadn't Sarvis said something about a wand, perhaps?  He hadn't anything else…

Still staring at his hand, he began to shuffle forward, almost as if compelled to move.

He hadn't anything else…