Malerage
07-27-2006, 11:45 AM
It is during the inbetween times, when the sun had fled but the moon has not yet cast her full light upon Azeroth, that images of the transformation come to me. I remember her...me...the person I was...I see the scene once more, as I so often have in the past:
...This disheveled young girl with lilac eyes, cheeks warmed by the once-dear sun, and voice that cracks like a whip against the wind as easily at it settles like mist on the water, now finds herself awakening to the dull orange of torchlight and the scent of cold jasmine on the air. She is clothed in her best dress of white lace, cotton and other fabric of the breaking spring that has pushed away rough coats of thick wool as easily as it swept the dark and brooding clouds back to the north land. She sits slowly, this one. Bewildered? Perhaps; but not paralyzed. Though she has never seen this place, some deep sense of placement tells her she is not far from home. And though she has no recollection of having come here, she is determined that fear will not get the better of her.
Standing now, she circles the room slowly, bare feet falling lightly upon the pale yellow blooms that fragrance the cool chamber. At first, it appears to her that the room has no egress, but under the flickering light of the torch that she now holds in her white-knuckled hand, one of the walls gives up a secret - a great stone door, visible only as an outline against the stark rock of the chamber. Though cut of heavy stone, it swivels easily inward as she sets her weight against it, pondering her situation. Whatever mechanism allows the door to move so freely is unknown, but she thanks her good fortune and pushes through into a darkened passageway built of the same thick stone and ventilated by a cool current of moving air that feels its way along her face, across the folds of her dress, and finally into the room of jasmines behind her. Heartened by this, she moves forward, for surely a way to the outdoors is near at hand and, once out of the building, she can orient herself and make for home.
But thoughts of home are short lived, for no sooner does she set one foot in front of the other along the cracked stone floor than she is seized in the grip of an icy anxiety. She labours in her breathing and the very air presses against her, forcing her down onto one knee. There is no increase in wind or in any other element that leaves itself identifiable to the physical senses, but something, whether internal or external, exerts such a force upon her that she retreats a step out of sheer terror. She collapses onto the cold stone and rolls onto her back, her recently white gown picking up dust and dirt, pebbles and webs as it sweeps the floor beneath her.
How long she lies there she does not know, but she ultimately decides that she must rise once again or die in this barren place. She resolves to meet force with force, hoping that by such methods she can win out over the strange energy that closed the apparently-open passageway before her. She backs into the room of jasmines and, gathering the folds of her skirt quickly about her, sets off towards the passage at a run, feet now slapping the ground as she goes. Whatever force has arrayed itself against her hits like a hammer striking an anvil, crushing her beneath its enigmatic weight, driving her jaw hard against the floor. Her momentum carries her forward as she falls, and sharp cracks in the floor cut and peel her jaw line so that when she finally stops and raises her battered head she can feel a portion of dislodged flesh swinging sullenly beneath her chin, numb weight like a sleeping arm. Perhaps because of her fear, she feels no pain, only a ghastly revulsion at what the hard rock has done to her flesh. Quietly, she weeps, and though tears do not come she is wracked with shuddering convulsions that increase in intensity until she feels as though she might batter herself against the floor and walls and surely perish.
And then she stops
She stops because the wracking of her body is beginning to hurt her and every inch of flesh that moves erupts in white-hot pain that sears across limbs and straightens her spine. She tries to curl onto herself, to instinctively go to that position known before birth as safe and secure, but her skin will not allow it. A struggle takes place beneath the surface of her body - tightly coiled muscles push hard against one another, ever-hardening skin refuses to bend. She can see the knots and knobs of struggling tissue just beneath her flesh, like swollen waves across the surface of a mostly-still lake. Her skin is becoming as hard as dry leather. Even her muscles know the futility of it. Finally, as the petrification extends to her deepest self and takes her lungs, she lapses into blackness.
But it does not end there.
Some small insect or rodent viewing this scene from a dispassionate perch in the stone passageway has seen the gradual cessation of motion - the hardening of skin, it has heard the final gasp, perhaps smelled the earthy last breath. But, if this hypothetical creature choses to stay, it will also see the wispy webbing that eventually surrounds the body like cancerous arteries over a corpulent tumor. And long after the recognizable form of the young girl has vanished beneath that grey pestilence, this creature will see motion once again.
Jagged motion.
Frantic. Determined.
Our diminutive spy will see the cracked, clawed hand that may once have been human as it erupts from the threaded chrysalis. Our spy will run at this point, leaving the girl alone.
Her fear is gone. She tears her former flesh asunder like a butterfly leaving a cocoon, glistening skin drying quickly against the still-cool breeze. She runs forward, a shaky run as though on new legs, but a run nonetheless. The mysterious force that has previously contained her no longer hampers her way. Her arms are gaunt and white and her teeth bite deeply into the inside of her cheeks. Things are still changing.
In due time she reaches a short stair leading upward to a bolted wooden door. Far from the frantic thing that once wore white, she strides strongly forth and strikes the door with her full might. With a crack, portions of wood splinter and are cast into the air around her, releasing a mildewed smell that tells her the doors are rotten and cannot contain her. With a final cry that pierces the night air, Malerage emerges from the ground alongside the other crypts in the churchyard and returns vengefully to the world of the living.
...This disheveled young girl with lilac eyes, cheeks warmed by the once-dear sun, and voice that cracks like a whip against the wind as easily at it settles like mist on the water, now finds herself awakening to the dull orange of torchlight and the scent of cold jasmine on the air. She is clothed in her best dress of white lace, cotton and other fabric of the breaking spring that has pushed away rough coats of thick wool as easily as it swept the dark and brooding clouds back to the north land. She sits slowly, this one. Bewildered? Perhaps; but not paralyzed. Though she has never seen this place, some deep sense of placement tells her she is not far from home. And though she has no recollection of having come here, she is determined that fear will not get the better of her.
Standing now, she circles the room slowly, bare feet falling lightly upon the pale yellow blooms that fragrance the cool chamber. At first, it appears to her that the room has no egress, but under the flickering light of the torch that she now holds in her white-knuckled hand, one of the walls gives up a secret - a great stone door, visible only as an outline against the stark rock of the chamber. Though cut of heavy stone, it swivels easily inward as she sets her weight against it, pondering her situation. Whatever mechanism allows the door to move so freely is unknown, but she thanks her good fortune and pushes through into a darkened passageway built of the same thick stone and ventilated by a cool current of moving air that feels its way along her face, across the folds of her dress, and finally into the room of jasmines behind her. Heartened by this, she moves forward, for surely a way to the outdoors is near at hand and, once out of the building, she can orient herself and make for home.
But thoughts of home are short lived, for no sooner does she set one foot in front of the other along the cracked stone floor than she is seized in the grip of an icy anxiety. She labours in her breathing and the very air presses against her, forcing her down onto one knee. There is no increase in wind or in any other element that leaves itself identifiable to the physical senses, but something, whether internal or external, exerts such a force upon her that she retreats a step out of sheer terror. She collapses onto the cold stone and rolls onto her back, her recently white gown picking up dust and dirt, pebbles and webs as it sweeps the floor beneath her.
How long she lies there she does not know, but she ultimately decides that she must rise once again or die in this barren place. She resolves to meet force with force, hoping that by such methods she can win out over the strange energy that closed the apparently-open passageway before her. She backs into the room of jasmines and, gathering the folds of her skirt quickly about her, sets off towards the passage at a run, feet now slapping the ground as she goes. Whatever force has arrayed itself against her hits like a hammer striking an anvil, crushing her beneath its enigmatic weight, driving her jaw hard against the floor. Her momentum carries her forward as she falls, and sharp cracks in the floor cut and peel her jaw line so that when she finally stops and raises her battered head she can feel a portion of dislodged flesh swinging sullenly beneath her chin, numb weight like a sleeping arm. Perhaps because of her fear, she feels no pain, only a ghastly revulsion at what the hard rock has done to her flesh. Quietly, she weeps, and though tears do not come she is wracked with shuddering convulsions that increase in intensity until she feels as though she might batter herself against the floor and walls and surely perish.
And then she stops
She stops because the wracking of her body is beginning to hurt her and every inch of flesh that moves erupts in white-hot pain that sears across limbs and straightens her spine. She tries to curl onto herself, to instinctively go to that position known before birth as safe and secure, but her skin will not allow it. A struggle takes place beneath the surface of her body - tightly coiled muscles push hard against one another, ever-hardening skin refuses to bend. She can see the knots and knobs of struggling tissue just beneath her flesh, like swollen waves across the surface of a mostly-still lake. Her skin is becoming as hard as dry leather. Even her muscles know the futility of it. Finally, as the petrification extends to her deepest self and takes her lungs, she lapses into blackness.
But it does not end there.
Some small insect or rodent viewing this scene from a dispassionate perch in the stone passageway has seen the gradual cessation of motion - the hardening of skin, it has heard the final gasp, perhaps smelled the earthy last breath. But, if this hypothetical creature choses to stay, it will also see the wispy webbing that eventually surrounds the body like cancerous arteries over a corpulent tumor. And long after the recognizable form of the young girl has vanished beneath that grey pestilence, this creature will see motion once again.
Jagged motion.
Frantic. Determined.
Our diminutive spy will see the cracked, clawed hand that may once have been human as it erupts from the threaded chrysalis. Our spy will run at this point, leaving the girl alone.
Her fear is gone. She tears her former flesh asunder like a butterfly leaving a cocoon, glistening skin drying quickly against the still-cool breeze. She runs forward, a shaky run as though on new legs, but a run nonetheless. The mysterious force that has previously contained her no longer hampers her way. Her arms are gaunt and white and her teeth bite deeply into the inside of her cheeks. Things are still changing.
In due time she reaches a short stair leading upward to a bolted wooden door. Far from the frantic thing that once wore white, she strides strongly forth and strikes the door with her full might. With a crack, portions of wood splinter and are cast into the air around her, releasing a mildewed smell that tells her the doors are rotten and cannot contain her. With a final cry that pierces the night air, Malerage emerges from the ground alongside the other crypts in the churchyard and returns vengefully to the world of the living.