*Downwards. Ever downwards. Far beneath the barren red clay of the land called "Durotar" there was a network of chambers. These chambers wound interminably, with neither origin nor termination forseeable. But who called these chambers home? T'would be hubris incarnate to presume them owned by one! For, truth will out, that in the lands claimed by those congressing under the title of "horde" there were many factions, secret societies, and groupings to be found. Many of whom found solace knowing that their precious secrets, should the precious schemes fail would be lost beneath the surface, to be unearthed in a far distant future.
But these groups are not our concern. Our concern lies in a chamber, disjointed and connected to the groupings of chambers of those who seek to to overthrow the tyrrany of the tyrant Zietgiest. The tale must be told of one who reaches ever onwards, one who seeks the stars, and would shred the fabric of what will be and weave it into a gossimer gown of potential. The subject of our tail is the creature we shall call "Sulajin" for such a title is as good as any for those in his condition.
Sulajin Bloodbreaze. Yes, that was once your name. But what name do you call yourself now mage? It matters little, for should you choose to take a name at this point it would only be cast off as you progress through your training. But such matters are but a minor distraction.
Late into the night Sulajin works. He is practicing new and dangerous techniques, and trying out old and horrid ones to aid him. In one corner of the room a pile of corpses, quietly rotting. Subjects, awaiting the attentions of whatever fates await them. Next to the pile, a hole. Where does it lead? Peer over the edge, if you dare. What's in it? Black night. Along the sides tiny crystals can be seen glinting in the torchlight. Beyond the edge of shadow... nothing. Watch your step! Perhaps we shall come back. Maybe we'll come in time to hear what happens to that pebble you knocked in. A place to dispose of corpses too far gone for rising?
Directly opposite them; a monstrosity worked in stone. It's face contorted in agony, the mouth agape in a scream of eternity. Held forever until the mage would again work his will upon the stone. But what lurks beneath the wretched, tortured visage? A spirit, weak and pained, it's body wracked with arcane energies that were anathema to its existence. The wall behind it stretching forth as those that dwell in stone reach out to reclaim their trapped brother. But they are held back, barred by a crude mark carved into a section of tree trunk, hung against the striving wall. Framed in the spacious ribcage of an Orc.
Turn away from such unpleasent matters for a time. For look, in the remaining corners what do we find? Turn back the dressings, it matters not which corner we choose. Ahhh... what have we found? Why a hammock! Of all things... so simple. Comforting in its own way. A haven, respite from the madness surounding it.
Now is not the time for rest. We have one more corner to discover, not to mention... the rest of the room and it's inhabitants. One more curtain to brush aside, that and a veil of quiet. A wrought iron cage. Holy symbols, and Trollish sygils worked by a calm, patient, and loving hand into perfection. Beautiful, terrible, and alluring at once.
Now, breathe deep. Do you smell it too? Ah... this cage has been used recently. Turn, I beg of you, we've come to far for it to be otherwise. There, against the wall. Next to a gateway to hells beyond naming. A doorway into a side chamber. From it sounds can be heard, gibbering and pleading. Mutterings and curses. Perhaps we should take a peak? It sounds like our dear friend has a guest...*
The dwarven artisan was strapped down, held in place on a table. His shrill cries had long ago quieted down to gentle half-hearted pleadings. There would be no respite, but it passed the time. The Troll gazed down at the subject without remorse. His common was... broken at best, so only a handful of words could be distinquished from the Dwarven oaths, and general moanings. "Please... help... Light...rescue...freedom..." and the ever prevelant question "Why?"
Sulajin meets the Dwarf's madly rolling eyes. "Why not?" This said he reaches down to inspect the hand. He lifts the metal box, the one with the edges sharpened to blades. The one that he had slammed down, shearing the poor mason's wrist to the bone. He'd had to take a wedge and hammer the bones apart. He'd trapped the hand inside the box. The edges stick for a moment, but he pries it off the table and pears at it for a moment. Where the hell had he found this bizzare object? And why did he still have it? Oh well... it was proving useful in this. Maybe he'd throw it in the pit when he was done with it.
And deep within his mind, the smoke began to billow. <Ah... put down the box Sulajin. Look. Look at what has become of his hand.> The Troll complies wordlessly. His eyebrows raised he beholds what had caught T' Ihn's eye. Stone. A large fist captured perfectly in stone. Sulajin picks it up and turns it over in his hand. His stout friend eyeing it madly. Now what would happen if he put it back next to the wrist... which was also slightly calcified he noticed.
Sulajin laid the hand back down next to the arm which from whence it had once grown. It began to soften around the edges almost immediately and long tendrels of flesh began to try and reconnect the lost appendage. Sulajin's observation was interrupted by the howling shriek of his subject. Irrately he picked up the fist and smashed it into the offending mouth.
"Be quiet mon! I be needin ta-" The magi's tyrade is quickly interupted by a scream of his own as liquid fire courses through his veins. <No! It is you who will be silent. Look what you have done. He's lost teeth. Now clean out his mouth, before he chokes to death on tooth or blood.>
Sulajin climbs to his feet and roughly yanks the jaw open. He takes a small grasping tool and begins to probe the wretches mouth, looking for teeth. Satisfied that he won't choke on the enamel lumps he pulls out a small wand and lets off a small blast of flame in the bloodied orifice.
"That should cauterize the wounds." He murmers, "well... I best take him back to his cell..." As Sulajin stalks, off he does not raise his head to meet the gaze of the being of flame he bound to himself... and the baleful eyes of T' Ihn follow from every candle, torch and fireplace in the chamber.
*But now... now we must rest. And leave these two to their own devices. Back to the surface we must return. To light, love, happieness, and all the manifold dramas that spread their webs of influence around the world. The stories, characters, events, heroes, hero worshippers, and people that fuel the Twisting Nether.