Searching for the source

[Fjordan]

((Open to anyone who thinks they can contribute.))

As always, Tirisfal Glades looked as it always has. Gray, gloomy, depressing, et cetra. Brill was no exception, of course. Only the gloomier and ever so more depressed residents made it worth visiting, for trade reasons. Etaurseytu emerges from the zeppilin tower, clad in his battle robes, with his Crown of Endless Knowledge floating above his head. It was obvious from his mere expression that many troubles ran through his mind. He hoists his messenger bag across his shoulder, and walks to Brill; specificly the Gallows' End Tavern. Upon entry, he notices how empty the place is. Only the innkeeper and a couple of fellow forsaken men stood together, conversating amongst themselves. Etaurseytu took it to himself to sit at the table infront of the fireplace. Sighing, rubbing his forehead due to stress, he talks weakly to himself briefly. He takes out a large, battered tome that seems to be bound in different patches of leather, an ink-well, and a well crafted pen made from fel iron. He begins to scribble and write in a blank page of the book, of what looks like a journal entry.

A shady figure, the likes of which is probably a person, sits in a dark corner, minding his own business. The figure is cloaked, hooded, and carries a staff in his / her lap. The figure's main concern seems to be the stressed elf writing near the fireplace...

[Sabachthan]

With a loud snap the fire sends a swarm of sparks spinning out from the hearth. A different hooded figure is leaning over the fireplace, folds of his billowy robe wrapped about the handle of a poker. The newcomer plunges the heavy metal tip again and again in methodical demolition of the timbers and embers, stirring up storms of smoke and fire. The fire hisses in anger at the disruption, but in the end it burns brighter and warmer despite the chaos and destruction perturbing it moments before.

Satisfied with his work, the figure turns and seats himself before the pale Sin'Dorei. As he sits, a bony hand rises up from the folds of his robes and draws back the hood, revealing a bald pate with a circle of greasy-grey hair about the sides of his head. The Forsaken smiles at the blood elf, but in place of warmth the expression seems to convey superciliousness made all the more grotesque by the leathery look of the flesh used to reconstruct the man's jaw.

"What are you writing?" he asks, then after a brief pause he purses his lips and raises his eyebrows as if surprised by his own rudeness. "Perhaps I overstep the bounds of etiquette suddenly broaching such a question. It's only that the writing itself seemed of interest," he mused, the focus of his eyes flicking over to the other hooded figure still sitting in the shadows of the corner, "and you -- how should I describe it? -- exhibit an air of one who has been experiencing unusual nightmares, and the best way to sort such horrors out is to imprison them with ink to parchment. Nightmares greatly intrigue me, so I thought I might inquire for a glimpse of your ink-bound menagerie."

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu smiles at the grotesquely built Forsaken man; a smile of warmth and welcoming.
"As far as proper etiquette follows up, in my eyes, it does not exist. But I do appreciate your courtesy, sir. You do not see much of it as of late," he says, sighing with slight depression, pondering over the rude people he has encountered over the years. "But as for your question, this is my personal journal, see, and I tend to write in it daily. Not only will it act as a memoir for my apprentices, but it will also serve as a spectacular background of my life. You see, I am no mere warlock. I am a Fel Surgeon. A warlock who uses the skills of a physician and the powers of darkness to cure others," he says, holding his calm smile.

The pale Etaurseytu closes his book and slides it in the Forsaken man's direction, and packs up his ink well, quill pen, and other effects of the sort in a large, leather messenger bag.
"Be my guest and look around in it. I do hope you find pleasure in reading it. Perhaps you may actually be of some help if you do read it," he adds, folding his hands with his elbows on the table; he rests his chin on his hands, which gives him a rather malignant and sinister posture to his smile. "Oh, and I do thank you for stirring the fire about. It was beginning to be rather chilly in here."

"You speak of nightmares; I agree with you when you say they are fascinating. My nightmares are unique, and so many others are," he says, reaching for his wine glass across the table. He swishes it around a bit, observing its thick, gritty texture, a smile still on his face. "Through darkness and demons, we trail them, unable to stop them," he says, almost chuckling. He sighs in small delight, and takes a sip of the horrifying wine.

[Sabachthan]

At the warlock's mention of his unusual profession, the Forsaken sends a single eyebrow up into the barren reaches of his bald forehead. Taking the book, he calmly flips through the pages, skimming the material as Etaurseytu speaks of pleasantries and nightmares. He nods.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so certain of that. Many fade away like the dawn's mist to the morning light, naturally burnt away from the brightness of day. Others may be warded with dream-catchers and seals. No less than a fire," he muses, glancing at the hearth, "a nightmare may be properly contained and then provide the power needed to sustain life." He snaps the book shut. "Or it may become a conflagration and destroy us all."

For a brief moment a look of sadness passes over his eyes as he envisions a world of ashes and a young elf woman. Then he focuses on the elf before him.

"Sometimes, it even becomes necessary to use controlled fire in order to halt the ravages of that outside of control." Then, with a sigh, he sets Etaurseytu's journal on the table in front of the elf and leans back relaxedly. He glances at the hooded figure in the corner, then stares at the fire. "Unfortunately, Surgeon Etaur-sey-tu Va-an'Straz (am I saying that correctly?), I don't see you finding many apprentices. I find it interesting enough that a single whorelock might worry for the living's bodies while caring so little for their souls. A dwarf, no less," he huffs, with a sniff. "Tell me, how is it possible that the nightmares such as you conduct on men's souls can make it possible to accomplish the work normally relegated to the Light which saves men's souls?"

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu merely smirks, still taking sip after sip of the wine that looks like it came from a swamp. Meanwhile, the hooded figure in the background stirs only ever so slightly, so his eyes are visible. He is concentrated solely on the two holding conversation at the fireplace.

"A lot can happen in one's life, my friend. Sometimes more than one can ask for. No one person should ever have to suffer, you see. Motivation, hard work and trail-and-error is all one needs to succeed in life. Give or take a few other necessities, of course. But, if those who have fallen ill or are injured come to me, I feel like I plant a sort of seed within their brain, that makes them think '...perhaps that not everyone in the world is bad,' which in turn can create happiness among this world. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps my visions on helping the world are all in vain. Or perhaps my words are truth, and that with every patient I take on, hope is created," he says, staring at the table.

"You see, my friend...my history is one I might should mention. I never had a family. They were destroyed by the demonic lord, Illidan Stormrage. Though his carnage was supreme...he made sure that his mark was left. He raped my mother, and as time passed, his demon bastard spawn came unto this world. Said infant is sitting in front of you," he says, lowering the collar of his robe to expose his torso, which is inscribed with dark and coarse demonic scars.

"I am of my own race...or so I would like to think. Part night elf, part demon, part high elf, and whatever might be in my family line. I hold no grudges with what happens within the past wars, because I simply take no stand in a faction. I help all who are willing to be helped. Once again, I say that perhaps these words are poison, and will be the end of me. On the other hand, they could improve so much more."

He takes out a dagger, the handle of which is encrusted with emeralds. "I will give a demonstration," he says, stabbing his palm with the dagger. Blood runs down his arm as he takes the dagger out. He holds his hand in front of the Forsaken man as it glows a green, eerie aura. "I have learned such spells to where I can manipulate fel energy to combine with other magics to enhance the body. By casting a certain curse on myself, and adding...oh say, energy of the nature class," he says, searching for a vial of green, earthy liquid, and then pouring the fluids onto his hand, "I can heal a wound," he says, as an odd reaction between the two magics combine and correlate with each other. The wound begins to seal into itself. Etaurseytu sits there, a smile on his face.

[Sabachthan]

The Forsaken, on the other hand, looks slightly disappointed. He opens his mouth, but whatever speech he had intended is interrupted by a burst of insane giggles. He slaps himself once and sobers instantly. "Excuse me." Looking slightly annoyed, he stares silently at the fire for a few moments. When he speaks again, his voice starts low but then gradually grows in intensity.

"Parlor tricks. Pseudo-druidism. Voodoo mumbo jumbo with dances and rituals and shaking of leaves.

"You identify yourself as a bastard, Surgeon Vaan'Straz, but your heritage is that least singular of you. And least illegitimate, even if doubly so.

"Naturally you would render aid regardless of faction. But why stop short when true greatness lies before you?"

Sabachthan sniffs. One hand reaches out and plays about the cover of the fel surgeon's journal, the other taps idly along the table. A barely noticeable stream of Shadow drips from the finger tips of this latter hand to the cracks in the floorboards, its movement obscured by the misdirection of the other slamming down on the book-cover with significant force.

"So! What do you intend to do about this matter? After the apothecary returns his findings and, hopefully, an alchemical cure to resonate with your fel healing?"

[Fjordan]

"My main goal as of late is to find a counter-act to get rid of this disease, and in the time-variable we will hunt down the source, we being the factions I have contacted and myself, and end this corruption once and for all," he says hopefully as he cleans the bloodied blade of his dagger.

"I still have my supreme doubts, but it seems to be our best option as of late," he says, sighing. "Oh...might I ask you your name, friend?" he asks, putting the knife in his messenger bag.

The shady figure in the corner stands up and walks to the upper floor of the tavern swiftly, armor clanging quite fiercely with each step the man takes. At a glance, his face is bound by two leather straps, but the icy glow of a Death Knight's eyes peek through.

[Sabachthan]

"Friend?" he chuckles. "How fortunate we meet at a time that doesn't leave me bristling at such an idea, no matter the direction and kindliness of your art. My name is Sabachthan. Alchemist, former priest, master of Shadow, g--"

His speech is suddenly cut off as he bursts into a fit of coughing. After he resumes his composure, he continues. "Excuse me; frog in my throat. Ahem.

"Finding the source could prove most enlightening. Will you be going at it alone, then? I'd be delighted to offer whatever assistance I could provide in this matter, if only to satisfy my own curiosity." He smiles grimly. "Maybe we could even learn a thing or two from each other."

[Fjordan]

"Well, seeing as how you are an alchemist, you are more than welcome to tag-along as you please," Etaur says, smiling. "It is a pleasure, Sabachthan. A true honor," he says, bowing his head politely.

Meanwhile, the death knight approaches down the stairs and to the table where the elf and the forsaken man are conversing with his cloak missing. He is clad in full, heavy armor that clangs quite loudly with each step, and he is wielding an axe larger than the forsaken death knight himself. He clears his throat, which seems to be filled to the brim with muck and mucus.

"Oh! There you are, Phylersias. Phyl, this is Sabachthan. He will be joining us on our journey to find this source of the plague / disease monstrosity. Sabachthan, this is my good friend Phylersias."

Phylersias begins to extend his hand for a hand-shake, but a bloodworm manages to crawl out of his decaying face. He takes out a jar from a satchel on his belt, the label of which written in exquisite penmanship saying 'Phylersias 100% Grade-A Home Grown Natural Bloodworms'. He opens the already mostly filled jar, and picks the fresh worm, placing it in the jar. "S'cuse me. Collectin' them," he says in quite a gnarly and gurgley voice, closing the jar of grotesque worms.

He extends his hand back to the conjurer of shadows, Etaur smiling at the two of them.

[Sabachthan]

Sabachthan extends a gnarled hand and shakes that of the Death Knight. "Pleased to meet you as a friend rather than a foe, Master Phylersias."

[Fjordan]

"Likewise," coughs Phylersias.

"Well, now that we are all well acquaintanted, I do believe we are almost ready to depart. We will be leaving for Stranglethorn Vale as soon as the apothecary arrives with word of the disease," exclaims Etaurseytu, who seems to be too excited for his own good.

[Sabachthan]

[[ defers to Etaur's initiative or another on the boards joining in this RP ]]

[[ EDIT: lol, I'm saying don't wait for my post if you want to join this open thread or continue the story; i.e., I "PASS" on posting anything ]]

[Fjordan]

((Pardon my low vocabulary...but you are going to have to put that in simple terms. ^ ^;;))

[Netharius]

Netharius's footsteps are noiseless; hardly noticeable, even with the quiet prevalent in the tavern. Rounding the corner and entering the Inn proper, he turns his head slowly, seeking out something or some one. Smiling, he walks towards an old bookshelf in the corner and removes a half-burnt tome from the rack. Turning to leave, he notices Vaan'straz.

Netharius walks towards the young doctor, coming up behind the elf and placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Good evening, Doctor." he says in a quiet, yet authoritative voice.

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu turns about and smiles. "Good evening, master Netharius! Come. Have a seat. Sabachthan, Phylersias and I were just discussing the matter of the Stranglethorn Flu and the other related diseases. Sabachthan here has agreed to travel with me and Phyl," he says, hope abundent in his voice.

Phylersias sets his axe on the ground, it conjouring a loud "THUD!" when it hits the floor. He takes a seat at the end of the table, picking bloodworms from his skin and placing it in the jar.

[Vardyag'n]

Traedral is walking in the doorway, and as soon as she can see near the fire she spots Etaurseytu. Running at full speed, she preforms a leaping hug, landing on Etaurseytu. "Hi, Etaur!" She does not really notice anyone else in the vacinity.

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu's eyes widen and he lets out a grunt of effort as the child elf lands in his lap; he returns the hug, chuckling. "It is good to see you as well, Traedral. Everyone," he says, getting the other's attention. "This is Traedral. Traedral, this is Netharius," he says, pointing to the blood elf, "Sabachthan," he says, pointing to the Forsaken man clad in robes, "And Phylersias," he says, gesturing towards the Forsaken man cackling loudly as he puts bloodworms over his fingertips to make it seem like his fingernails are constructed of bloodworms.

[Vardyag'n]

Traedral's eyes fixate on Phylersias. "I'm Goddess Traedral Sunsworn-Dej Dynastus! I like deadies. Your wormie fingers look cuddly!"

[Fjordan]

Phylersias cackles even more, wiggling his fingers on the right hand, and his fingers on his left hand are exploring his nostrils.

Etaurseytu covers his face with his palm, but at that, a Forsaken woman in dark robes enters the room. "Looking for a....uh...'Etra-teh-suu'...anybody seen him?"

Etaurseytu, with his head down in disgrace that his name is so difficult to pronounce, raises his hand. "Over here."

"Ah. Good. Here you are, sir. I hope this helps," she says, a smirk forming from under the cowl that hides the rest of her face as she hands him a small package. She swiftly exits the tavern. Etaurseytu opens the package, the contents of which consist of the blood sample he had given the apothecary, a scroll, several small pieces of patchment with notes on them, a map and a dagger. He opens the scroll and begins to read it...

[Vardyag'n]

She nudges him. "What's it say?! What's it say?"

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu reads it aloud to everyone as shown:

http://i209.photobucket.com/albums/bb185/Etaurseytu/scan0006.jpg

((For those who can't read it all that well, it states:

Etaurseytu,

Good news! After close examination, the Royal Apothecary Society has come to the conclusion that this "Stranglethorn Flu" is indeed man-made. There have been some complications, and a good deal of the items you presented to us are lost. This is all the information we can provide, but do expect further letters from us soon.

Royal Apothecary Society

P.S. You are responsible for all of the lost items and samples you gave unto us, as you signed in the agreement.))

[Vardyag'n]

"Uhh... what's'at mean?"

[Netharius]

Netharius took his seat, nodding to those who were already present. Opening the burnt book, he began to trace the finger of one ungloved hand along the small scrawl, his head not at all changing position as he read. Smiling and closing the book as the child jumped on Vaan'straz, he nodded smartly to the elf in welcome, but returned to his book.

When the shriveled forsaken woman had come bearing news of the "flu", Netharius once again closed the notebook and observed the situation intently. After hearing that a letter had arrived, he relaxed in his chair, listening as the letter was read aloud.

[Sabachthan]

Having up until this point reduced himself to a shadow in the background of this vibrant milieu of personalities, Sabachthan now stepped forward and offered his own answer to the young elf's question.

"It means the flu is possibly more dangerous than the Surgeon expected, seeing as how the R.A.S. has deemed several of his proffered samples worthy of confiscation and further study to their own ends.

"It also means that an individual or group of individuals are responsible for the flu's production, ostensibly without connection to the R.A.S. That is most meaningful to our designs, then, because probably by finding the maker of the disease can we learn the most regarding its composition and transmission."

[Vardyag'n]

"Uhh... What? R.A.S? ostentibtilty? Oh! R.A.S.! That spells raft!" Her bat flies into the room. "Hey, Dretalra!"

[Fjordan]

"Precisely. Sabachthan has pretty much summed it up. Without further a due, I suggest we begin to plan. We all know our main goal is to find the source, find out who he / she is working for, and destroy the source, obviously. So, do we have any ideas as to were to start? I advise we, of course, move our stationing to Stranglethorn Vale; Booty Bay would be a prime area to reside."

[Vardyag'n]

"I have an idea! Wanna hear? Wanna hear? Wanna hear? Wanna hear? Wanna hear?"
She keeps repeating that until someone answers, her talking very energetically and fast.

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu covers Traedal's mouth, chuckling nervously as he looks around at the crowd. "Yes, Trae...tell us."

[Vardyag'n]

"Okay! Let's make CUPCAKES!"

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu sighs. "Gentlemen, rest while you can and pack your necessary belongings. In the morning, we leave for Stranglethorn," he says, a determined look on his face.

Finally. One step closer to finding this damned bastard. Once I find him, I will paint the walls with the bastard's entrails...

[Sabachthan]

"In the morning, then," nods Sabachthan, then walks out of the inn.

[Vardyag'n]

Traedral looks around. "What about the cupcakes?"

[Fjordan]

The dim morning sun barely peeks over the hills and forests of Tirisfal Glades, and Etaurseytu is standing outside the Gallows' End Tavern, his messenger bags placed on the ground at his side. He seems mildly annoyed about something; he caught no sleep the previous night, which has put him in an irritable mood. He takes out a fist-sized green gem with what looks like a flame burning inside of it. He tosses it around to himself, sometimes causing it to levitate in mid-air with a small spell of shadows, graciously humming a small, light tune to himself as he does so.

Phylersias is pacing through Brill, talking to himself, bursting a loud, rowdy cackle every now-and-again. He only carries his effects, bloodworm jar included.

[Vardyag'n]

Traedral is folowing Phlersias around, talking about cupcakes.

[Netharius]

Netharius rises from his seat, taking the opportunity to return to his study. Striding calmly through the nightmarish glades, he mutters a spell of shadow warding under his breath. It is unlikely that any beast would harm him, but since the Alliance's raid on Undercity, Netharius has been ever wary of another attack.

~

Netharius sits on a bench opposite the Gallow's end tavern, a glowing circle of runes inscribed on the stone tablet sitting in his lap. As the Forsaken merchants begin to open up shop, he moves his fingers across the carved stone, the sigils following his touch.

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu sniffs constantly, wiping his nose on a scarlet handkerchief. He spots Netharius and decides to sit next to him, setting his bags in place. He remains silent...

Phylersias begins to do cartwheels and other odd jumps and flips of the sort. "Cupcakes of death sound much more appealing, dear child!" he responds, with far too much energy.

[Sabachthan]

As the early morning begins to wear on and foot traffic in Brill picks up, Sabachthan is still no where to be seen.

[Vardyag'n]

"What's a cupcake of death, deadie?"

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu sighs, leaning back on the ground using his elbows to keep him propped up. He mumbles under his breath, and heaves another drawn-out sigh. "I do hope that Sabachthan makes it; his help is much appreciated and much desired..." he says hopefully.

Phylersias rubs his chin and ponders to himself. "Wait here, child. I will show you," he says, summoning his Deathcharger and speeding off into the distance.

In the meantime, the sun is now well visible, and most of the shops are now open, and citizens of most races are walking through the town in various armors, wielding different weapons, using many ways to get around (i.e. mounts, magic carpets, and the odd sight of a troll riding a Tauren as if he were a mount himself), and seeing all this, Etaurseytu can't help but to grow slightly impatient and nervous.

Moments later, Phylersias arrives back with a small package. He approaches Trae, jumps off of his horse, the likes of which runs off into the distance and disappearing, and shows her what is inside the package. It is a strage cupcake that is a bit larger than your average one, the bread of which is scarlet, and the toppings consist of ground up entrails, fingernails, partchments of flesh, and is topped with an eyeball. "See? Cupcake of death."

[Vardyag'n]

She pokes said cupcake. "Can I eat it? What's in it? Ohh! Is there chocolate?!"

[Vardyag'n]

((Oh, and, sorry about how I haven't been on for four days. I have been a little busy. Must have been kind of evident to Jordan, though, because I also did not text him, until last night.))

[Fjordan]

After another half-hour, Etaurseytu stands up and brushes his robes off. Phylersias is explaining the contents of the cupcake to Trae, but Etaurseytu whistles loudly to get their attention. "HEY! Come along! We're getting ready to head on to Grom'Gol Base Camp! Grab your stuff and hurry it up!" he yells, picking up his bags, masking sure to be careful with them. "Do you need any help, Netharius?" he asks the fellow warlock.

[Vardyag'n]

Traedral jumps on Phylersias's back, yelling "Giddy up, Deadie!"

[Netharius]

"Help? No, I need nothing of the sort." He closes the book on his lap and slips it into his bag. "In fact, I was here to offer you my assistance. If you plan on returning to Grom'gol, I may be useful." Attaching his bag to a chain slung around his robes, Netharius rises and regards the doctor calmly. "Would you rather I didn't accompany you?"

[Fjordan]

Phylersias immediately drops Trae to the ground and snarls at her. "Do I look like a frickin' horse, ya brat?!" he yells, than whistles loudly. His deathcharger gallops near, and Phyl smiles. "This is a horse, child. Get on."

Etaurseytu smiles. "Prey tell me why your assistance would not be desired? I am glad you are accompanying me, sir Netharius," he says, walking towards the zeppelin tower. "Our first order of business is to track down the prime source of the disease; we need to find out where it originated. How we are going to do such a thing is going to prove quite challenging."

[Vardyag'n]

She scrambles on the horse, rather quickly. "Hey, deadie, can I tell deadie-horsey to giddy up? Can I? Please?" She pokes him. "Please? Please? Can I?" Her bat decides to fly directly above her head, cirling when the horse is stopped, bearly able to keep up when it runs.

[Netharius]

"My assistance is not desired, but rather required, for the process to take little time." Following the doctor, Netharius checks to make sure his spellblade is still slung across his back, then continues. "Should this plague be anything other than organic in nature, I will be able to trace the whereabouts of the one who created it," Netharius smiles, "and I will be able to do it quickly."

[Fjordan]

Phylersias sighs. "Whatever. Go ahead," he says, walking up the zeppelin tower, eventually boarding the zeppelin to Grom'Gol.

Etaurseytu smiles. "Your assuring words certainly do give me a great deal of peace-at-mind, I will admit, but how sure are you? Don't get me wrong, I do believe you, but still, I cannot help but to be paranoid over this whole situation."

[Vardyag'n]

She tells, almost yelling, the horse to "Giddy up, deadie-horsie!"

[Netharius]

Netharius climbs the first few steps of the Zepplin tower, his hand gripping the rail tightly, and turns to face Etaurseytu. "I trained for decades as an Arcanist and later as a Warlock; in both instances I learned how to differentiate between different types of magic in the air."

"Now," he says, calmly motioning towards the bandages on his face, "with no visible surroundings, it has become easier than ever to detect magic, and even possible for me to follow and trace trails of residue left in the air."

"For this skill alone, I would be as invaluable as the best tracking expert. However, I also have contacts everywhere, and it would not be difficult for me to arrange for supplies, as well as even armed guards, to accompany us through Stranglethorn." As he says this, he turns back to the stairs and begins the somewhat dangerous climb to the Zepplin. Dangerous for an old blind elf, at least.

[Fjordan]

Phylersias reaches the zeppelin and immediately travels to the lower deck and sits in a corner, lowering his head and almost immediately falling fast asleep.

Etaurseytu nods to Netharius' words, acknowledging his abilities. "I did not know this about you, sir Netharius. A truly helpful gift you have, but at the price of your true vision? Well...it is true that a person's eyes are his / her own worst enemy, so in a sense, you are lucky. As for the armored troops you speak of, I do look foward to that, because if the source of this disease is as powerful as I anticipate, we will be fighting more than a mere individual," he says, boarding the zeppelin, making sure that all of his effects get set properly in a safe area. "But we will worry about all of that when the time occurs. As for now, I would like to address the fact that I am looking for an apprentice to teach in the studies of the Fel Surgeon. You would not happen to know any fellow guild members who would be interested, would you?" he asks, leaning on his staff.

[Vardyag'n]

Traedral leaps on Phylersais. "Deadie dead? Is deadie dead? Is he?" She pokes his face repeatedly.

[Fjordan]

((Sorry, folks...gotta take over for just this one post. Hope it doesn't cause any confusion. ^ ^;; Basically, Sabachthan sent me a private message, and it got this thread a nice jump start. in Grom'Gol. ))

As the zeppelin travels off into the skies, the travelers merely relax, lounge and loiter as the long, agonizing flight takes place across the places of the Eastern Kingdoms. Phylersias sleeps most of the way, and Etaurseytu and Netharius converse about miscellaneous conversations, from the Esoterikos, to personal lives of the sort. Traedral spends her time bouncing about, poking at the goblins, and occasionally falling on the deck and scrapping her knee from rambunctious playing. They arrive into Grom'Gol Base Camp, and upon arrival, a vile, viscous stench fills the air; the smell of rotting is horrid and obviously present. As the party exit from the tower, Sabachthan can be seen sitting on a pile of rotting carcasses, fiddling about. He spots the travelers, and smiles brightly and greets them all accordingly.

"I feared you would not make it today, Doctor," he addresses Etaurseytu. Etaur smiles and dismisses the rest of the party to go about their business as Etaurseytu approaches Sabachthan to talk with him personally. Sabachthan explains that the carcasses are those who are infected with the virus, but the corpses are in fairly bad condition, so further study would be quite difficult. He also mentions that he still wishes to offer hsi services unto Etaurseytu.

Etaur nods in acknowledgment to Sabachthan. "Your services are always welcomed, sir Sabachthan; we will definitely need your help. As far as these corpses go, I would like you to mark the places on where you found them on this," he says, presenting a thick scroll, tied with a thin rope. "A map of Stranglethorn. Our first objective is to find out what is the core of this virus is; what being caused it all, if the corpse is not already rotten. It does bring me a smile knowing you are here. Your absence in Brill made me fear the worst," he says, chuckling nervously as he sets his bags down to the side. "Oh, also; if you are in any need of protection while out on field work, our death knight associate, Phylersias, is happy to offer his 'services' as he sees fit," he says, smiling over to the goofy, decrepit death knight, who is conversing with a rather grungy looking troll, the both of them cackling loudly on occasion.

"As for now, I will be spending the day rallying troops from both the Cenarion Post and the Zandalarian Tribe to further scout the area to search for more corpses or creatures, the likes of which are infected with the virus. This will leave us to stay here in the Base Camp and plot out different scenarios and theories," he says, a goblin carrying his things to a nearby hut. "Do not hesitate to state or question anything that deals with the matter, eh?" he says, giving a smile. With that, he turns, and sighs. "I suppose I will need to further inspect these corpses," he says, putting on a pair of thick leather gloves. "Do tell me, when were these carcasses...er...'crafted'," he says, searching through the corpse of a raptor first.

[Sabachthan]

The smell of rotting animal assails the nostrils the moment the goblin zeppelin docks at Grom'Gol Tower. Rather than channel the salty freshness of sea air, the swift breeze blowing in from the gulf seems instead to magnify the stench, crashing wave upon malodorous wave upon the olfactory senses. Unbelievably, the fetid reek manages to increase in intensity in descent of the ramp, reaching its foul peak at the zeppelin tower's base. There opposite the door lies the source of the stink: a pile of carcasses putrefying in the thick tropical air. Flies buzz black about the edges of the mound, with an iridescent green flicking here and there as the hot afternoon sun warms the squirming issues of their coitus wriggling beneath skin and fur. At the top of this rotting heap sits a cowled figure, a corpse himself, the bony perturbations of fingers strumming with a repetitive regularity across the drawn flesh of his repaired jaw. A dim reflection of his eyes are barely perceptible from beneath his dark hood as he stares immovably at the exit of Grom'Gol Tower.

Sidelong glances of hushed conversations make it clear enough that the others inside the base camp are displeased by the mountain of carcasses at the base of the tower, but still the undead priest sits atop his trove of putrefaction. Occasionally an orc glowers menacingly, then begins to stomp resolutely toward the offensive mound; but shortly the guard's steps falter in regularity, then dissipate altogether, leaving the orc standing in befuddlement for a few moments before turning around and walking the other way.

At the arrival of the pallid fel surgeon, his rambunctious retinue, and the fel magic master Netharius, Sabachthan rises from his heap of decay. The sudden movement sends a cloud of flies scattering to the winds, their mass flight redoubling the drone to drown out even the beat of the nearby seashore, only to dull as the teeming black sheet alights once more upon their fetid mattress even before the edge of the priest's cloak clears the pile. Sabachthan raises his hands and smiles broadly in greeting the travelers.

"Finally! I had begun to think you might not make it today. As you can see, I've been busying myself with some investigative work," he says, stepping sideways to indicate with a sweeping gesture the stinking mass behind him. "I collected three raptors, a troll, several goblins, six felines, and a couple gorillas this morning, all with symptoms of the disease our commendable fel surgeon has observed. I had to drag their carcasses into the camp to keep the beasts of the jungle away from them. I told the guards that the troll was a Bloodscalp." He forms a conspiratorial circle about his lower face with his hand, then announces in a exaggerated whisper: "That was a lie.

"But they were not keen on inspecting the fruits of my labors, he not being the first carcass I had dragged in here, so I continued thus far unmolested. Sadly, I have not been able to glean much from the bodies, as an unfortunate side effect to my manner of killing is the destruction of the brain tissue." He sighs melodramatically. "I'm afraid I will be worthless to the group in acquiring samples of the disease.

"Nor did I find any direction for further investigation. Still, if not too much of a burden, I hope to follow your expedition's progress and provide what help I may," he finishes with an inscrutable grin. The undead priest looks pleased -- almost smug -- as Etaurseytu welcomes him and hands him the large map. He walks the heavy scroll over to a pile of crates and spreads it across the top of one of the large boxes. Peering over the topography, Sabachthan tuts to himself in apparent self-reprobation, then glances over his shoulder to where the fel surgeon is rooting through the terribly rotted carcass of a raptor. A belt of flies are orbiting the white warlock in protest of his violation of their external womb.

"Do tell me, when were these carcasses...er...'crafted'," inquires the elf.

"As difficult as it may be to believe, I killed all of these only this morning," the undead priest replies. "I hypothesize that the incredibly rapid rate of decomposition after death is a trait of the disease, which must start breaking down the infected's tissues even as they live. As I mentioned earlier, the destruction of these subjects' brains leaves little other options for verifying infection, so based on the decay alone I think perhaps I was overzealous with the big tiger and one of the goblins: they may not have been diseased subjects at all." He grins and turns back toward the map.

"Equally deplorable, I did not notice any pattern in the localities where I found infected. But still, in the pursuit of a methodological study, I suppose I should indicate the sites on this map where I found these specimens." He pensively regards the parchment for a few moments before marking curled symbols seemingly at random upon its surface. Taking a deep breath that is apparently oblivious to the foul stench emanating from a couple feet behind, he exclaims, "But the afternoon is still bright and the air fresh with possibility, is it not? Maybe you or your companions will find success where I have not."

[Fjordan]

"Perhaps; I did plan on rallying around Phylersias and whoever was willing to travel outwards into the Vale to search for any patterns," he mumbles to himself, but the words that escape his mouth are still hear-able.

He whistles loudly, grabbing the parties attention. "Attention, everyone! I am sending out Phylersias, two Zandalarian Trolls and whoever wishes to go out into the Vale to search for anything in relation to the virus. Do we have any volunteers to do such a task?" he asks with a quirked brow.

[Vardyag'n]

Traedral, with all the energy in the world, yells to Etaur, while waving her raised hand. "Me, me, me, me, oooh! Oooh! Pick me, Etaur, PICK ME!!!" Her bat flies over to a corpse, thinking of eating it, but decies it is too decayed for even him to eat. "Can I go and make CUPCAKES?!?!?!" She runs up to Etaur, before he has had time to answer yet, and leaps onto him. "Puh-LEASE?!" she asks, whilst clutching him in the tighest hug she can muster.

[Netharius]

As the party set off on the zepplin, Netharius welcomed the Troll Lore Professor, Boz'wick Venomstrike, on board. Boz'wick grunted in response, setting down his heavy mace and pack in a corner. Netharius's only personal effects were the armor he wore and the bag-covered chain that hung from his back. As the zeppelin pulls away, headed from Grom'gol, Boz'wick pulls his helmet down over his eyes, attempting to get some rest, Netharius chatting idly with doctor Vaan'staz.

~

Netharius smiled as he stepped off the zepplin, but frowned once he located the smell. He hadn't realised the full extent of how many the plague had infected already. For the Stranglethorn area, one of Azeroth's cradles of life, this was dire news indeed. Boz'wick was close behind the Dean, coming off the zepplin with his mace and bags slung over one shoulder. The Troll spoke with the goblins, ensuring that his mount hadn't caused too much havoc on the journey to the outpost.

[Fjordan]

"Traedral, it would be best if you stayed here. I've decided to send out Sir Boz'Wick, Phylersias, Netharius, Sabachthan (if he so pleases), and myself to act as the main search party. The Zandalarian Trolls will search through Zul'Gurub for anything out of the ordinary, the Cenarian Circle druids will scout the roads and search for any others who are infected, and we will be researching any patterns or trails of the disease to see where it leads us," Etaurseytu says, giving a semi-speech to everyone. "Does anyone have any questions, concerns or comments?"

[Sabachthan]

Sabachthan shrugs. He lays the rolled parchment map on his shoulder like a day laborer would his tools and casually walks over where the search party is forming.

[Vardyag'n]

"But Etaur," she whines "I wannna GO! I don't wanna be bored, Etaur!" In a sickly sweet voice, she asks "Pwease?" She tries to act as cute and innocent as possible, but with how much of a crazy imp as she is, it does not seem very sincere.

[Fjordan]

"Traedral, this is grown-up stuff. You could get seriously hurt or really sick. I'm sure you can find a friendly troll around here to make a friend with, eh?" he says as he kneels down to her eye-level. He pats her head as a large smile grows on his face, and he pats her shoulder, "Go play now," he says, standing back up to the group.

"Sabachthan," he exclaims, taking the scrolled map and unrolling it on a nearby table. He takes out a small wooden box of threading needles. "Pin-point an estimate as to where you found the corpses in the worst shape. We will track these sights down first, because if my logic is correct, I do believe that we can skip a huge gap in the pattern / trail of the illness by going straight to the beginning...or, well...close to it, anyway," he says, nodding as he talks to himself in his head. "Right...and if we do find a trail of some sort, I do believe Netharius' sight talent will come in handy to see if any magic was used at the killing sight, because from the assortment of corpses brought in, they were mainly animals, the likes of which unable to control any school of magic. It's a long-shot, but I do believe it could work. Oh, please do keep in mind that I am open to any and all suggestions. This party by no means has any leaders; we act as a democracy, and everyone has a say in everything," he states as he observes the map closely.

[Sabachthan]

From the other side of the map as Etaur, Sabachthan lays the blade of his hand running southwest to northeast across the image of a coliseum. "I'd say the most sickly specimens were east and south of this line, around Gurubashi arena. Maybe the source is in the mountains here." He glances at Netharius curiously. "Am I to understand you have the capability to track magical residue as a woodsman might a trail?"

[Vardyag'n]

"I don't have any say," she pouts. Now, very loud, so that she is sure everyone hears. "I'm genna go find a troll friend, just like you told me to, Etaur!"
She walks off behind a building, and, shortly afterward, sneaks off into the woods, to try to find the source on her own.

[Fjordan]

"The mountains. A swell idea. I do know that around that area, many ruins lay to waste and are open to those who so desire to reside...save from a zombie or two. We should also search in the areas hidden from us, such as the Nek'Mani Wellspring, the Crystalvein Mine, Zul'Gurub and the Jaguero Isle if at all possible. I have not scavenged these places, so it would be wise to check there," he says, pondering to himself as he pinpoints the areas on the map.

(( http://wow.gamepressure.com/map.asp?ID=13 ))

Phylersias tugs Traedral by her shirt as she walks off, and shakes his head. "Ya shouldn't be out here, girly. Whatcha doin' out here in these parts?" he asks in a grim voice, looking around for anything that could be a threat.

[Sabachthan]

"Mistvale," says Sabachthan. "Don't forget Mistvale." As a few eyes turn curiously towards him, he points at a large gorilla limb poking from underneath the pile of death nearby.

[Vardyag'n]

"Deadie, I'm lookin' for the flu. If I figure it out, I'll be a hero! I'll be the best Goddess ever!"

[Fjordan]

Etaurseytu nods to Sabachthan. "Right, of course. We will certainly have to check there as well. Where should our first search take place? Any ideas?" Etaur asks, looking at the party members.

Phylersias cackles. "Ya can help me, kid. I got some stuff that needs help with, and I'll consider ya a hero if ya do it."

[Vardyag'n]

"Yay yay yay yay! What do I gotta do, deadie? What? What?!" She is even more energetic than normal.

[Netharius]

"Indeed. I cannot truely 'see' anything, but I've found that I can picture all of my surroundings in my mind, and place the magical taint I can sense in the air." Turning to Boz'wick, who is leaning against the Zepplin tower, he motions for him to join the group.

As he faces the doctor again, Netharius speaks. "Doctor; it may be in our best interests to visit the island first. It is unlikely that any infections on the island were spread through the local wildlife, and thus we can trace it more easily. Unless, that is, the infection began on the island. In either case, the island would be a logical site to visit first." As Boz'wick joins the group, Netharius adds "And the Professor here can provide us with a walkway over the water; we won't even need to get wet."

[Fjordan]

Phylersias smiles. "I need you to come with me back to Grom'Gol and help me with a little errand. It's a bit of a surprise, if you will," he says, picking up the child and putting her on his shoulders.

Etaurseytu nods in acknowledgment, rubbing his chin. "Jaguero Isle, is it?" he asks, pointing to the island on the southern end of the map. "I see no reason not to. Who knows, if ther island is barren enough, we could possibly even make it a station / base camp of our own; a hidden base strictly for our quest...assuming that it is unoccupied. A splendid idea, and from there, we will search the coast due east, head north and travel to the Nek'Mani Wellspring, which lies due northwest of Booty Bay, backtrack and travel to the ruins and end up at the Gurubashi Arena. Any questions, comments, concerns or oppositions?" Etaurseytu asks, looking at the party.

[Vardyag'n]

"Ooooooooooooooh Ooooh! I love suprises, deadie! I can't wait!" She ssays, all while bouncing on his shoulders. Dretalra seems to not trust Phylersias, and keeps an ever vigilant eye on them.

On the back of her many hawkstriders, this one the black, Vyvas rides up. "Etaur, hello!" She looks around while dismounting, sending the hawkstrider off. "What is this gathering for?" Her felhunter minion, Nheedym, accompanies her.

((http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?t=16432))

[Sabachthan]

Sabachthan waves his hand in dismissive acceptance of the plan. He glances up when the new red-headed Elf greets Etaurseytu, snorts, and then putters over to lean against a side wall until the group moves out, mumbling, "...surrounded by felling elven whorelocks."

[Fjordan]

Phylersias sits down in the zeppelin tower, and takes out a large hunk of wood. "I need you to help me make something out of this. It's crucial that we make it," he says, tossing the piece of wood to-and-fro.

Etaurseytu turns about to see Vyvas, and smiles. "Good afternoon, madam. We are discussing this matters of the virus that is killing the wildlife here in Stranglethorn Vale. Pray tell me what you might be doing here? These parts are not safe, you know," he says, turning to Sabachthan. "Did you say something?.." he asks, not sure whether he heard him speak or not.

[Vardyag'n]

"What are we genna make? A horsie? Oooh! A kittie?! CUPCAKES?!?!? I've never had wooden cupcakes before! What'll they taste like? What's wood taste like? Will we have to bake them? Oooh! Let's make them with chocolate frosting."

"Could I help? Oh, and I like to travel sometimes, I do not always dwell with death, you know."

[Netharius]

Netharius mutters something and snaps his fingers, summoning his dreadsteed from another plane. He nods to Boz'wick, who swings up onto his war bear's back, and they both take positions by the exit of Grom'gol; neither of them eager to remain in this foul-smelling outpost.

[Sabachthan]

Sabachthan, making use of the distraction presented by Vyvas, slips away from Etaur's question and positions himself atop his undead warhorse at the gate.

[Fjordan]

Phylersias smiles. "A musical instrument!" he says, taking out two small knives. "You're going to help me invent one!"

Etaurseytu summons his Dreadsteed and nods to Vyvas. "Hurry along, now! Time is of the essence," he says, kicking his steed in the thigh, it taking off at a fairly swift speed out of the outpost and into the jungle. He travels south of the Outpost , and then travels east, following the river that is due-south of the Outpost. "Keep an eye out for anything, and let us know to halt if anything out of the ordinary shows up!" he announces to the party following behind him.

[Vardyag'n]

She quickly grabs the knives, deftly carving into the wood. She is only taking off small bits at a time, so it may take a little bit of time.

Vyvas follows him on a blue hawkstrider, yawning.

[Fjordan]

((This might be hte last time I will post for a while. Summer school is getting challenging, and my time is consumed a good bit nowadays.))

The party rides through the ever-sunshiny jungles of Stranglethorn Vale, the wildlife seeming to be rather untouched by any disease they know of; no corpses to be found, no sickly looking animals, no wandering travelers who have fallen ill with the disease. Had the source caught on? Is all at a loss now? One can certainly hope not! They arrive the coast, and it seems...barren; no pirates seem to be within sight for now. Upon approaching the island east off the coast, the troll professor Boz'Wick casts path of frost under everyone's steed's feet, granting them fast access to said island. The island itself is barren as well, save from a critter here and a bug there. Etaurseytu takes it upon himself to find a nice spot just a few yards from the shore to pitch up a tent, big enough for about three people. He leaves the group to talk, contemplate, and discuss any matters they wish as he creates the tent and sets up all the objects necessary for their search to begin: a table near the middle with the map and other important documents spread about, a candle or two, samples of the disease and other things, et cetra.

[Sabachthan]

Sabachthan kept near enough and quiet as a shadow as the rag-tag team traveled through the wet jungle. He watched with an inscrutable bemusement at the set up of the camp upon the tideline. After a time of watching the pale elf arrange and tinker with his various implements of survival and investigation, Sabachthan finally breaks away from the camp and sets out alone along the shore.

A bend in the shoreline and a dune obscures the others. He mutters to himself as he walks. Eventually his conversation with himself becomes more animated, his voice raising to discernible inflections, lifted by his own earnestness.

"...useful! Any amount of annoyance or tedium in progression to the goal. Even I relished the killings this morning. Like rice and vegetables after a fast, yes. The charlatan provides his own intrigue, but what use is he? What use is any, but to provide a glimpse into a new angle of movement. Besides, the goal of the expedition..."

...his self-conversation grows dull and the waters drown its sound beneath their rolling waves. Several more paces and then the undead priest pauses, turning to face out over the water. But instead of casting his calculating gaze upon the brilliant blues, yellows, and greens of the coastal views, his eyes stare at the bony fingers of his hand.

His hand, which had once been that of a man. The sharpened claws of bone, which had once guided his brethren to slaughter countless foes. The undead may experience death, but still they cling to their bodies and their broken dreams and their anger. But what of the hand that is not a hand nor five hands but no hand and three hands?

Sabachthan stares for a time, an hour, a day, a night, it matters not. Many believe that death teaches patience, but actually it teaches only the reality of the moment. The waves roll in; the expedition moves forward when it moves forward. The source of the pestilence will be found when it is found. The bald priest smiles through his broken jaw. A shadow twinkles. Footprints in the sand make their way along the shoreline and then suddenly end, as if the walker vanished in mid-stride. Waves roll in; the water laps away the steps behind. Sabachthan will return when he returns.