Four Precepts of the Unseelie Code

[Niethan]

Change Is Good

It was cool and slightly damp in the cellar, but Niethan felt none of it. He was propped up on his knees, feet and hands tied together behind him, and his head bowed so low his tusks scraped at his chest. He'd long since lost track of time, and even longer since stopped caring to know. It hurt to sit still for so long, but at this point he couldn't have gotten up if he wanted to, much less had the restraints allowed it.

He shifted uncomfortably, and for the thousandth time wondered how it had come to this.

And like every time before, his thoughts turned only to a dream of green.

* * *

Sulajin was cutting his palms.

A couple of circles, one within the other, and a triangle bordered by runes inside it. He copied the design on his own, and Niethan had just enough time to request a prayer when Sulajin forced their marked palms together. The burning started. Pure arcane never meant for a Hunter flooded his viens, spiking up his spine and into the folds of his brain.

What do you want?
"I..I-I..."
Arcane dug its fingers into his skull, sifting through thoughts, memories, looking for desire.
Vitu was lounging in her hammock, reading with that eternally serene expression of boredom.
Gorthok was slapping him on the back, roaring with laughter as he gained a new recruit.
Sulajin was making ice sculptures. He froze a tiny ice tiger and handed it to him, calling it Sigrun.
Sigrun, untamed lady of Darkshore, was clawing through his legs and chest.
He was in the Barrens, tired but restless. He hadn't slept in four days.

Arcane started searching faster, moving from the Barrens to anything connected to it. It found a fragment of conversation:

"See mon, dat be de t'ing. I don' sleep no more. I haven't slept in a couple of months."

Sulajin gave a low whistle, then moved his lips in a reply Niethan could no longer remember. "Ya, I know. But, even though I don' sleep, I do dream."

Arcane found the dream. All green like nothing ever seen in the waking world, with the murmurring voices and the sunlight melting under his eyelashes like cool cream.

Is this what you want?
YES
Then take it!

* * *

It had been so close. So fucking close. Niethan sighed angrilly. And he still couldn't find it. He'd had it, right there in the tavern, and he still couldn't find where it was. It was just too far.

He tried to roll his shoulders, only to find that, yes, the restraints were still there. Needing something to glare at, he turned his gaze to the large shadow on the stairs, beonging to the tauren guard set to watch him. In hindsight, attacking the Cenarion Circle really hadn't been that bright of an idea. Particularly attacking them at their biggest stronghold in the Moonglade, which most certainly did not appreciate visitors of any sort. It had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time, though. He'd been so certain that they could tell him what the green was. He'd even retained some hope that this time they'd accept him for training. Ugh. Niethan grimaced at the memory. His first trip to the Moonglade with Vitu had been no less unpleasant, if a bit less damaging. Or a lot less damaging. Niethan turned his thoughts away again, not particularly wanting to recall.

Trying to think of nothing only led him to remember the pain. He wasn't in the best of shape; the manacles bit into his wrists and ankles, the marks Sulajin had carved on his palm still tingled (Niethan strongly suspected that they would scar), and he was covered in a myriad of bruises and cuts from tumbling about in the rocks and trees. The wounds from the fight itself were thankfully few, with just a few grazed arrows, the bullet shot to the thigh that had finally crippled him, and the catclaw swipes on his back courtesy of the druid that had caught him. Those swipes itched like mad too, and the flesh around it felt hot and sick. Niethan began to worry that the claws had held venom.

He was trying to find a way to bend backwards far enough to let his hands scratch the marks when there came a feeling like cotton threads winding through his skull, softening and obscuring his thoughts and making it impossible to concentrate. His vision blurred, then failed as dreams decided to overtake him.

Green settled on his chest like a stone, and filled up his lungs like water. Niethan bowed his head and let himself drown.

[Niethan]

Glamour Is Free

It was raining.

Tiny rocks were cutting into his palms as he dragged himself up the slope, one leg useless from a well-aimed rifle shot from one of the Cenarion guards. Sigrun was helping, trying to drag him along by the edge of his tabard. It tore in her teeth, and both fugitives sank to the ground.

"Ugh. I'm sorry pretty lady, but I t'ink dis be de end o' dis little adventure." Sigrun snarled in dissent. "Don' argue! Dey can run a hell o' a lot faster den me now, an' I ain't gonna let dem catch you too!" He drew his hands up, willing what magic was given to him to banish her somewhere safe. Sigrun faded out of sight, still growling.

Niehtan sank back down to the ground, and reached into his bag for a bandage. He tied ti roughly around his wounded leg, staunching the bloodflow. At least the bullet hadn't been too hard to pry out. He finished the bandage as waring shouts began to echo up from the Moonglade's basin, signalling that the druids were moving up the side of the slope.

They'd find him, no doubt. Niethan sighed, and wondered what he should do with his last moments. Sigrun was gone, so there wasn't anybody in trouble but him. He glanced around, taking stock of his person. No real possessions to speak of, and no will anyway. He glanced at the bottom edge of his tabard; a good chunk of it was missing. Sigrun must have taken the piece she tore off when she vanished.

Wait.

The tabard! The guild!

If he was caught wearing this, the whole guild would come under suspicion if not attack. And that just wouldn't do. Niethan quickly stripped off the red cloth and grabbed his rank chevrons from his shoulders. One fire trap and a pang of loss later, and the evidence was destroyed. It only really occured to him after the fact that having a link to his friends might actually help him, but it was a bit late now. With no link to his past, he was alone. The shouts and feral growls grew closer.

It was at this point Niethan realized he was in two places at once. One him was on the ground, trying to force himself to his feet. The other him was standing a few feet away, watching in silence. Which could only mean that he was dreaming.

Witness-Niethan frowned, watching Moment-Niethan struggle. He didn't usually see memories in his dreams. On the few occasions he had, it had shown him something important that he'd missed the first time around. Witness narrowed his eyes and stepped closer, studying the scene in greater detail. He didn't remember much past this point, so the cat druid that caught him must be almost there. What was he missing? What did he need to see?

Witness studied Moment. He was a sorry sight- armor cracked and bloodied, sword lost (he seemed to recall getting it stuck in a tree), wounded and now crippled... Witness turned to himself. While Moment was broken and panicked, Witness looked fine. His armor was whole, his bow and sword both sheathed, and his tabard clean and fluttering in the wind and light rain. Tabard... bright red, with the cracked skull of Death Before Dishonor. He brushed it with one hand.

It crumbled to ash on his fingers. Niethan was still staring at it when the druid's catclaws slammed into his spine.

[Niethan]

Honor Is A Lie

Conciousness was a slurred and hazy thing, a blur of sick heat and a painful heartbeat throb. Someone was singing. The itching on his back had become a maddening howl some time ago, but by now everything felt disconnected, distant. He wasn't watching himself, as in his dreams, but everything felt so far away it may as well have not existed. There was just the catclaw fever, the song sliding around the room, and a few splintered memories interrupted by the sight of a tauren guard peeking down the stairs.

A giggle forced itself out of Niethan's throat, and the song guttered, then smoothed. This guard had been here for some time now, and was quite amusing to watch. He'd start out confident, barging in and ready for answers, then stumble and back off. Then he'd peek around the corner for a while, like he was now. Maybe he was spooked by something. Maybe the singer was a ghost and the tauren was afraid of it. Were tauren afraid of ghosts? Niethan didn't think so, but tried to look around the room for a ghost anyway.

His neck didn't want to look, apparently. Or all the bones had gone out of it and left him behind, because all he could do was swing his head back and forth, tusks to his chest, keeping time with the melody. Something was wrong, he realized. The tauren must know what it is, because he was moving forward with one arm outstretched, and his lips were making sounds that Niethan felt he should recognise, but couldn't. He tried to think of what it could be, but his head was stuffed with cotton and his chest was cracking in two, and there was something wet dripping off his face. He wondered if his eyes were melting. The guard left. Niethan was glad; he didn't want anyone to see him melt.

The singing slowly quieted to a bare murmur. In its absence a bubble of conversation flaoted in through the doorway and down the stairs, bursting itself on one of Niethan's tusks.

Has the council decided?

No, not yet. Sister Sadrick has argued that he may be mad, and thus not fully accountable for his actions. She has gained a few supporters, but the majority seem to be in favor of execution.

I suppose that's for the best... though, if he was mad, what would they do?

If he proved too troublesome the result would be the same, but otherwise the council would keep him here and try to heal his mind. Why do you ask?

Well, it's just... no, nothing.

Out with it.

He's very strange. And who in their right mind would attack us, especially alone?

That is Sadrick's reasoning. I take it he has not confessed a motive?

No. He has been singing for the past hour or so... and before that, he was asleep, I think.

Why only think?

His eyes were still open.

How odd...

Niethan's hearing drifted away then, and he was left in a crystaline silence. His thoughts circled to a close, save one: I am going to die.

There was something important about that, he could feel it. Some kind of revelation. He just had to wait for it.

And in the silence of his mind, it came to him.

Six Minutes.

He smiled.

[Niethan]

Passion Before Duty

Hadrian Crushinghoof was cursing his ill luck on the drawing of a short straw for duty tonight. He and three others had drawn against the unpleasant business of burial detail; a rarity in the Moonglade, seeing as it was a nonviolent enclave full of long-lived individuals. But it was just Hadrian's luck, he supposed, that the one night an outsider dies and needs to be disposed of would be a night Hadrian was on duty. He grumbled and hefted the sheeted bundle on his shoulder. A troll, apparently. Lanky as hell and heavier than it looked. How absolutely wonderful. Hopefully he could get the corpse in the ground before it started to stink.

Hadrian tromped out through the glade to the far southeastern edge, where the sparse cemetary resided. He tossed the bundle on the ground, then grabbed a shovel and set to work. The ground was soft, at least, so it took very little time to dig a grave deep enough. When it was finished, Hadrian grunted in satisfaction, then tossed the shovel and reached into his jerkin for one of his throwing knives. The druids belived in burying the body of a non-druid with it's posessions, but Hadrian was just a guard, hired help. The troll was dead, what did he need stuff for? Hadrian slit the sheet and peeled it aside.

Hadrian had enough time to feel the ground beneath his feet seem to explode upward as the troll launched himself up, shoving his tusks into Hadrian's throat and killing him instantly. The troll's cold weight bore the surprised tauren to the ground, then roughly held the twitching body down as teeth ripped into bleeding tissue. Witness watched himself feed in silent horror. He remembered none of this; this was not the past. Moment was moving on without him.

Am I asleep?

The beast wearing Moment-Niethan had had it's fill. It snarled, pawing through the tauren's bloodsoaked jerkin and withdrawing a handful of throwing knives. It pocketed them, then turned and began a mad dash for the nearest cliff wall and started to climb. Witness stared after it, then shouted in the silence. There was no one to hear. He started running, trying to keep pace with the beast in his skin. It was moving quickly over the wet-slicked rocks, running and climbing on all fours with blood still dripping off its chin.

There was a tugging at Witness's chest, somewhere behind his ghostly ribs. The cord that bound him to his flesh was snapped, and the cord to his mind was stretching. He heard an alarm being raised behind him.

Am I asleep?

Witness didn't know where his body was going, or why he was separated now. He did know that he needed to keep with his flesh, even if it wasn't his. He shouted after his skin again, to no effect. Moment cleared the top of the verdant wall, then vanished into the cold mists. Witness hurried after it, bodiless and afraid.



End

[Rayeth]

((Amazing... May I ask if my writting style gave you some ideas? I notice similarities. Bravo niethan that was extremely well done.

May I post on this? It's nothing that would screw with any information provided here.))