bright young thing ( graphic / violent content )

[kroan]

[ 1 - surviving the plague ]

stormwind city. what an amusing, and contradictory place that was. the 'last great bastion of human strength', nothing more then the same corruption that seems to manifest everywhere else, swathed in a facade of light. while technically a member of the alliance, she was not the combative sort_ preferring to pass her time in the company of books. and of course, there was that lovely lady night elf, and their taboo indulgences. such an intriguing and playful race, those elves. these past-times delighted her to an unspeakable degree, although they are quite irrelevant when considered in the over-all theme of things, this worldwide war between eight races of people.

it was when kroan decided to venture past the outskirts of stormwind and explore elwynn forest that the simple life was disrupted, and changed forever. it was through the most innocent of events_ sitting in a grassy meadow and on the verge of sleep, when small teeth closed on the flesh of her ankle. the thing fled as she jumped; startled, a rodent of some sort. the injury itself was not even severe, and she did nothing but wrap some gauze around it. however, the damage had been done. upon waking the next morning, the skin had taken a purple hue around the bite, with red lines beginning to form, trailing up to her knees. she did not require a medical education to recognize what was beginning to happen. for, especially among the humans, the plague is a topic that is always on the tip of the tongue. since the fall of lordaeron, there had been an increased paranoia. the fleshrot brings death, and death brings the forsaken. so, in the nature of war - anyone who caught the disease would be 'put down'. executed, in other words. for nothing seems to work as a cure, be it the night elves natural healing ointments, or the gnomish technology.

stormwind was no longer the place to be_ the disease works very quickly, and while she could obscure much of it with relative ease, never having been one to wear especially revealing attire_ she was a realist, and fully aware that before long the places where the skin is unblemished would be few, and far between. and what can one do to guise the smell of decaying flesh, anyway? so upon her realization, she had gathered what few possessions she had and fled the city, opting to travel towards westfall. it seemed the best choice in a situation that in truth, was hopeless. a number of days passed by, as she had no horse to carry her, nor the longevity of breath required for an all out run, sporadically broken up by times of hiding when other alliance members were spotted traveling these roads, and rest periods.

it was on these days and nights of systematic bodily degeneration that kroan developed an increase in character, coping with her continually worsening disfigurations and finding it within herself to keep trudging along the paths. she knew that death was eminent, and did not find joy in the possibility of reanimation as a walking corpse. why did she continue to move on? well, as the virus consumed her living flesh and ran rampart through her body, eventually reaching the grey matter in her head and beginning to satiate it's hunger there, this rather simple minded girl developed what is possibly the most powerful of emotions, in her growing insanity. spite. hatred. there was no justice in her exile. there were many times when she found herself unable to keep moving, but somehow she dug up the willpower to continue after these periods of deathlike stillness in the dirt_ crawling when her legs were to wobbly to support her. always attempting to be near to the edge of the forests so as to hide when a threat came near, not daring to cut into them for the shortcuts_ defenseless as she was against the starving wolves. how long can you live when your organs stop working and everything inside you is turning to mush? well, that depends on how badly you want to survive. and for whatever reasons.

foot by foot, the dying and disfigured girl crept upon all fours_ losing more of herself with every hour that passes. she leaves a gory trail of blood and sc#@!&d flesh in her wake, which inevitably diseases more animals that come into contact with it, spreading her putrefied legacy on to more innocents, surely. westfall comes nearer in time, as the lush forests begin to be replaced by dying weeds and untended fields. the traveling became more difficult, and she found herself forced to finally cut into the woods and advance there in something of a shortcut, due to so many soldiers moving up and down the path. it was by mere luck that she managed to evade them as long as she did, as every time they would stop and attempt to follow the bloody trail. however, the ones who had come at this point were rather hurried, and did not pursue it far enough.

in her decrepit state she would have been no match for the starving wolves and bears, however they appeared to be uninterested in her infected blood. thank the 'earth mother' for small favors, eh? at one point, the pain becomes less vibrant - speaking of small favors, apparently the carnivorous parasites had moved on to some part of her nervous system. this did give her a second wind of sorts, her grueling crawl increasing in it's pace for a few hours. however, even the loss of pain cannot keep a body that is rapidly falling apart actively moving, and she became dreadfully lethargic, finally coming to rest but a few strides away from the creek that flows between westfall and elwynn. at this point, even her considerable will fails_ and everything turns black. delirium sets in, and for a timeless period her life becomes a coma of vivid dreams. and finally_ (un)death.

[kroan]

[ 2 - the hostage ]

when kroan's eyelids rose up again, everything had changed. a coldness had replaced the living warmth that seems to be within all organic life forms (though few take the time to appreciate it), and all physical feeling had been altered, almost reversing itself. she had been kissed by the ghost, and consumed it's essence. the first thing she took notice to was an almost unbearable, ticklish sensation which seemed to resound from every wound. the once infected bile (as parasites can only live for so long on dead flesh) congealed in her throat now had the taste of the sweetest honey. lying face-first in the mud, curled in a fetal position_ this is when she realized that she was no longer alone, which cut her explorations of this new state of being short.

there was a cold, dank wetness over her that was unlike that of shed blood. along with this, an immediately recognizable fragrance. fuel oil, the same kind used by the dwarves to power the strange motorized tanks she had seen passing by the gates of stormwind once or twice before. the conversing of about three people were heard around her, humans - from the sound of it. or mayhaps one is dwarven, as there is something of a 'scottish' accent there, however she remains still, feigning dormancy_ even resisting the urge when the flickering sound of a lighter catches her ears. it is by instinct that she realizes what is happening, they wish to ignite her and sterilize the ground she lies on_ and with this the hatred begins to fester within. is any of this really their fault? perhaps not - but understandably enough, she has a biased viewpoint on this.

resisting the urge to twitch as the footsteps come near, the heat of the torch now an impending reality, she finally hears something that allows her to form a quick, and desperate plan. it is a horse, giving itself away with a snort. yes_ escape is possible. her plan is put into play immediately_ palms coming to the ground and pushing herself up, blindly lunging towards the one with the torch. as it turns out, it is a dwarf_ and her surprise attack enables her to snatch the flaming stick from his hands in one motion, immediately taking a pirouette and skipping away from him, wrapping her left arm around the throat of a young human bearing the insignias of a paladin, whose back was turned to them. once securing the grip, she would bring the flame dangerously close to her own fuel soaked flesh_ speaking through her tattered throat and clenched teeth with a hiss.

' be still... '

her choice was wise, as the paladin likely would not have been held back by the morality that the other two do_ the human obviously being a warrior, the dwarf perhaps a hunter, due to the gun slung over his right shoulder. they take a few steps back, caught up in indecision. as for the paladin, he remains deathly still now that his own life is at stake, as while he surely has encountered death before, pain is an unpleasant thing. nothing more then a coward at heart, guised in a facade of honor and glory. at least in this case, luckily for her! she has the three of them in a stranglehold now, despite the fact that she is physically far too weak at this point to be able to hold her own against either in straightforward combat.

' you are a long way from deathknell, hordling. don't do this. you have a choice.. '

her catatonic stare rests upon the warrior who speaks; a blink to occur, eyelids sc#@!@!@ her translucent orbs. things are beginning to come together now, and she realizes that through no choice of her own, she has become one of the enemy. horde - the phantom nemesis that she has never seen firsthand, but only heard of. the orcs, the trolls, who commit acts of senseless violence and torture to the innocents. the tauren, who are able to be reasoned with, but serve out of a sense of loyalty. the bitter forsaken, mindlessly ravaging human beings out of a cannibalistic hunger. how did she come to play into this at all?

' throw the torch aside, and die well. it is your time. '

her lips pulled back into a snarl as she realizes that this soldier is in fact, not attempting to convince her that there is a hope, but only trying to sweet talk her into suicide. this is kroan's first glimpse at political corruption_ having always blindly assumed the troops were righteous men and women putting their lives at stake to protect the innocent. she is very confused right now; such complex events are coming to play all at once, and kroan was never much of a thinker at heart. however, she is certain of one thing. she did not endure the parasitic torture only to die by her own accord at the end. perhaps there is something worthwhile to come of this gruesome rebirth. maybe a way to turn these negative emotions into weapons? mayhaps.

' you ik math kun dor.. eh? '

judging from the looks on their faces, they do not understand the speech, although she is aware enough of what she has said; her words are already reverting from common to gutterspeak. she'd draw both legs up to his side, hitching a 'piggyback' ride if you will_ using the torch to point to the docile horse before returning it to it's threatening position near her flesh. understanding this bit of sign language, the man begins walking to the animal, and climbs upon it, supporting kroan's weight. he does not need translation for her obvious command; and drives his heels into the animal's flank. the protesting yells of the two men behind her are quickly lost by their quickened escape_ as kroan's hostage escort carries her on into the desolate isolation that westfall has to offer.

[kroan]

[ 3 - unlikely assistance ]


the black stallion charged onwards; mercilessly driven by the young paladin's spike wheeled spurs which continually assault the flank. crashing through fields of dried weeds and pumpkin gardens, evasive tactics taken appropriately when the buzzards and harvest reaping machines lunge at them. the travels into this land are in fact very fast, and they are in the heart of it somewhere near moonbrook before long. so far it is only by luck that kroan has not slipped up somehow and engulfed both herself and her captive human in flames. of course, she does not trust him_ although he did not attempt to fool her by riding into sentinel hill, the reason for his good behavior would almost certainly be due to the fact that he has a healthy sense of self preservation.

without warning, kroan used the flaming stick as a maul and bludgeoned the young paladin on the side of the head, immediately drawing blood and scalding the flesh_ the force of the blow sending him off of the horse_ which rears, suddenly out of control, sending kroan off as well. she does not sustain injuries of note, however_ although the same cannot be said for the unfortunate man. he has not been knocked completely unconscious, however he took a fine whopping, and has been reduced to moaning and writhing in the dirt. now would be the ideal time to properly apprehend him, thus reducing the level of threat. kroan realizes this, as she's turning out to be quite the little 'panic-thinker'_ and she draws at the bottom of the filthy, baggy shirt she had adorned upon leaving stormwind city - ripping a few strips off and kneeling down upon his back, pulling the arms back and securely binding the wrists together, keeping his face in the dirt. she is aware that at this point he would be able to overpower her if escape were possible, and she uses a couple, the leverage of this binding to her advantage.

' stop.. what are you doing.. '

turning her head to the side, her mouth hung open for a minute as she hacked out some thickened bile from her gullet in gasping coughs_ clearing out the windpipe, although she really has no need for it any longer. her vision scanning the horizon and detecting no apparent threats as of yet, she would then shuffle about in the weeds - eventually finding what she seeks. a long, jagged stone_ heavy enough that it necessitates that she use both hands to haul it up into the air. moving back to her captive, who is beginning to wake up a bit and struggle_ and this is when the screaming begins, as she drives the more pointy end of the rock upon his shoulder. he is wearing chainmail, which does protect him to some degree, although it's protection is more against sharp objects such as swords. the first time does not break the shoulder, however she is a persistent little thing. and there is no one within range to assist him_ as in these lands it is quite common to hear someone's deathcries. so few seem to care about anyone but themselves, and only assist others when it benefits them somehow. human nature, is the alliance's greatest weakness to the horde, and as she would come to realize over time - they use it well.

a sickening crack finally is heard as something fractures in the general area of her assault, this accompanied by an increase in his outraged complaints. and what is that other sound mixed into this symphony of pain? why, our dear little girl is giggling. this sadism may have always been inside of her, but if so, it was never evident until this very moment. is evil born, or is it made? does it exist at all, or is it just a glorified version of emotions that are already present in the human mind?

though we cannot overlook an obvious fact, that there is perfectly good reasoning for her actions. by ruining the use of his arms, he is much less likely to be able to apply brute strength to break free of the relatively fragile strips of cloth that hold his arms behind him. and if he were to break free, then what? this man was perfectly willing to execute her before, when she had done absolutely nothing at all to him. so what would he do after being made to look foolish in front of his comrades, should he get her at his mercy? she has no intention of finding out, and there is also the fact that it is now known that a 'horde' member is running rampart somewhere in alliance territory_ and even worse, they did see the direction they were heading. so, business will have to be tended to, and kroan needs to get well on her way, and out of alliance territory.

she would pound the stone against the injured shoulder a few more times for good measure; then switch on over to the other. the human body is not quite as frail as many would assume, and she does have to work awhile_ especially with the mail armor, as there really is no feasible way of removing it without freeing the prisoner. and he does thrash considerably, making her job that much harder_ although she does land a few hits to the head every now and then to make him behave. in truth, it takes her a good half an hour before the second shoulder is broken, and he is fully under her control. well.. maybe she didn't need quite so long, but truth be told - time flies when you are having fun.

' HORDE YOU (censored), WHERE ARE THEY! '

she demands to him in a voice thickened by death; it seems to her that her own newly acquainted friend, insanity, has taken him now. the moans that pour from his tortured little head are eerie in their sound, tone ranging erratically from high to low_ some long and drawn out, while the others are cut short.

' lak esh vul dormuh seen '

his response makes no sense to her, although she does realize that he was in fact attempting to converse, and days ago she may very well have understood what was said. indeed, communication is near impossible it would seem. kicking his side in contempt and inducing another oddly comforting groan, she clutches her head and stares down.

her weakness is increasing, the rock she clutches appearing to grow heavier and heavier by the minute. and the hunger.. she is now awhile past the adrenaline rush, and the feeling she has inside of her is almost, acidic. a spiritual craving, it is by instinct that she is drawn to the only thing that can appeal her. the raw, living red meat. like the young's first impulse is for the milk, in this rebirth she has acquired her natural desire for that which can sustain her.

her next act of violence occurs where she should have began in the first place, as the drawn out torture and sadism are nothing more then newly exposed traits of her (withering?) humanity. knees planted on his back, she would pull off the leather headgear he had equipped, and begin bashing his unprotected skull. this does not take nearly as long, unprotected and hollow as it is_ save for the squishy material within. one or two good strikes and the skull breaks, giving way to the messy stuff. it is at this point he falls completely still, and silent. is he dead, or simply mentally incapacitated? one cannot be too sure, but this indecision does not last long_ as her long fingers drive into the gray matter and pull it out in oozing, bloody strands_ greedily shoving the grotesque pudding into her chapped and sore ridden mouth, and sucking it down her gullet. the rejuvenation is felt immediately, her senses becoming more acute and the hunger deepening as her twisted new metabolism kicks into gear. ignorant to the mess on her chin, she uses her hands as makeshift spoons, ripping and scooping, devouring in repetition until the head is pretty much empty. you see, a forsaken can receive a great deal of pleasure with any of the raw meat, but the brain is the most powerful of it_ and she is not large in stature at all, so this portion was sufficient to swell her belly somewhat. and the intensity of it..

it is blinding_ somewhat like when a person who has a weak tolerance to alcohol chugs some hard liquor. her sense of hearing and smell increased greatly, suffocating and nearly deafening her at the same time. even the crickets and grasshoppers are creating a cacophony. just.. far too much. she vomits, expelling some of the contents in her engorged stomach in bloody chunks to the ground_ sprawled on all fours and panting, heaving. most of it is released, and after a few bleary minutes of stomach clutching and gasping breaths, the pain begins to gradually lessen. everything hazy and somewhat dizzy, she briefly glances at his relatively unmarred , although disgustingly hairy, skin. almost beginning to think of something, although not quite yet.

' hike! vul tien ma kim dor rek! '

it seems almost unfair that whenever poor kroan gets a chance to explore something truly special that happens to her as of late, it is interrupted with a life threatening situation. yes, she had finally been discovered it seems. there are a number of human warriors ( not a lot of elves at this point ) who are running towards her over the hill. their plate suites are much like those of the stormwind guards, although they do not seem to be quite as powerful. though_ kroan well knows that they are stout enough to dispose of her, and it will not take them long at all to do so if she is caught. instinct kicks in again_ snatching a glob of the regurgitated chunks and getting to her feet, taking off at a dead run towards moonbrook. pushing the messy meat back into her mouth and forcing herself to swallow, her speed increasing - along with the pain.

she has no idea exactly what she is doing, so maybe it is the dark lady herself_ reaching into the depths of (to her) hell and protecting one of her children. this renegade undead lunges tirelessly to moonbrook, and into it's streets_ the sentinel hill militants still gaining and coming closer. it is here that she encounters the defias who have taken over this village. humans, as we all know_ all rogues it would seem, their faces obscured by bandannas and armed with weapons. perhaps if she were alone, they would have annihilated her, however it is the charging alliance troops who catch their attention_ kroan weaseling past them unhindered as the militia follows in hot pursuit. forces clash behind her, and she hears this however does not turn to look back, now forgotten as the hated factions resume their ageless civil war.

she would take a quick turn amidst the confusion, grabbing ahold of a cellar door and drawing it on up_ slipping inside as inconspicuously as possible, allowing it to close overtop of her as she descends into the blackness; edging further into it's comforting blanket, with nothing to do now but brood and await the time to move again.

[Mortica]

((nice. welcome to TNG!))

[kroan]

[ 4 - masochist ]

once the door has closed above her; she would carefully scan the innards of this cellar. with undeath, she discovers that her vision has become quite adept for nocturnal settings, and she can see within the pitch blackness in lightened tones of gray. it is a bit small and claustrophobic, and mostly empty save for a few rusting farmers' tools that are suspended from the ceiling. she would trail her fingertips across the blade of an old scythe, terribly rusted with holes eaten through the metal. however, out of the collection, this is the only one that appears to still be usable. so she would tug it on down from the ceiling and lay it in the center of the floor, and move to the furthest wall back_ where a shelf stretches across it's length, littered with shattered glass of old bottles.

she sifts through these shards, selecting a few which are pointed with something of a hook to them. and she retreats back over to the center of the room, carefully laying these articles on the ground by the scythe, and using one to tear some more strips of cloth from her cloak. it was fortunate that she chose such a large article of clothing to wear when she fled the city days ago (although it seems to be years by now), as she has found herself needing to use it for quite a few things as of late.

as she wraps the cloth around the squared ends of these shards, creating some makeshift razors, the sounds of this impromptu battle are heard. steel clashing together, flesh ripping and screams - both of triumph and defeat, although it is relatively hard to tell who is getting the upper hand from her position. whatever is occurring, it does not last very long at all_ and apparently one legion greatly overmatches the other. the sound of retreating footsteps and frightened exclamations soon replacing the howls of anger and the nostril clogging stink of adrenaline. she really is not concerned with knowing; although the answer will be evident to her soon enough, as she has an intuition that she has been forgotten and that her aggressors have given up the search for now. in fact, things are growing quieter by the minute, although the occasional patrol's footsteps are picked up while passing the cellar door.

meanwhile, she has come to the conclusion as to what she intends to do next, and preparations must be made. fingertips shakily fumbled with the twine that holds her tattered and bloody cloak closed around her body, untying the knot and spreading it open to reveal her legs. the flesh is a tapestry of blue streaks and gaping strawberry gashes, the crimson meat revealed by numerous scrapes having taken an infected greenish hue_ her vibrant mortality devoured now by putrefied imperfections. the kneecaps are where the most damage had been sustained - these knobs now crushed a bit, partially scabbed yet oozing with milky yellow liquids, bits of skin flayed nastily at the edges, like tulips spread open and violated. it is hard to believe that these few days which have passed could put her body in such vile turmoil, and that her organic flesh has been reduced to a decay which would be more fitting after about a month in the grave.

she would then slide her boots off, peeling away the stockings to reveal more ruination. clutching one of the makeshift shanks' fabric covered end, she would lower the razored glass edge so that it rests against the first blemish above her big toe, and begin peeling away the infected flesh, immediately gritting her teeth together, the muscles in her jaw escaping as a tremor begins, a constrained squeal (pleasure or torture?) barely audible in the darkness. peeling away the sore like a strip of bacon, two layers are cut - until only the untarnished meat is visible. canting her head back and exhaling, her chapped lips trembling_ although her eyes are no longer capable of spilling tears. moving on now, and she would begin to carve deep trenches in her knees, and then her legs_ pausing every now and then, and taking it a step at the time. her tiny squeals becoming hushed sobs, unable to remain glacial even with her tolerance so built, and a steadily developing masochism.

when both knees are freshly butchered, she would pause, spitting out a congealed mess from her throat and taking one of her soaked stockings. stuffing this into her mouth and pushing with fingers until the cloth is muffling her vocal sounds greatly, she would then resume her work. this greatly lessens the danger of being discovered, and she continues_ moving the reddened shiv onto her kneecap and begins to grind and cut_ her head thrusting back and forth, piteous howls cleverly guised and transformed into whimpering moans. determination and spite overcomes cowardice, and she travels upwards, mutilating the nasty spots. a pile of greasy, stinking pieces of bad skin developing at her sides. truth be told, it is a hellish repetition, and her ordeal would go on for well over two hours_ getting past the legs, into the more private areas, then the stomach, chest and back. the face is mayhaps the hardest, having to feel her way around.

moving on now to the point where her work is mostly done, kroan weighs considerably less then when she started - and there is a pretty decent pile of meat there, that not even a starving felhunter would eat. and things have fallen silent outside. leaving the cloak on the floor, she would draw herself painfully to a standing position, her equilibrium thrown off kilter a bit. wobbly, she staggered to the ascending stairway, pushing the cellar door up a few inches.

it takes but once glance to realize that the defias suffered a considerable loss tonight, the patrols in leather armor lain all across the ground, their blood painting it a dark crimson hue. there are a few of the sentinel hill militia scattered amidst them as well, but not very many at all. their armor plating apparently has given them the upper hand - and perhaps they were more seasoned as well. all is quiet here, and if any defias have survived they have retreated out of sight for the time being. she pushes the cellar door up some more, and wobbles on out into the ghostly aftermath of the battle. searching, with a keen eye upon the females with the fairest skin possible. there is one in particular, lain in the dirt like a smashed bird with her head fully removed_ however her flesh is of the softest alabaster. kroan would kneel beside this headless cadaver, her tongue extending to lick some of the red from her broken elbow before grabbing ahold of her arm_ rising from haunches as she drags the girl on over to the cellar door, drawing it up and roughly pushing her shell on into the blackness without care. yes, kroan has decided that she will be occupying this secluded cubbyhole for awhile, at least until some type of plan is formulated. it is obvious that this land is congested with threats, and she will need to work out a bit of mischief in order to escape. the main trails just will not do.

and so, kroan begins to move along the fallen soldiers and pilfer around through their belongings, in the hopes of finding something useful. there are a number of things which could possibly be sold, and in truth a great deal of it. unfortunately, kroan has not even begun to consider things from a financial point of view, and besides_ she has no way of carrying these things. although the pocket change is kept. firstly, she begins checking out the armor_ and she only needs to attempt and take it off to realize that the plate which is worn by the sentinel guards is something that she is not strong enough to bear. so, she has to make do with what the defias are equipped with, getting herself the thickest and most durable leather pants, gauntlets, boots, gloves and a cloak_ carrying these items individually to her hole in the ground and throwing them in. from a defias she also takes a rapier, finding it's light weight to be most suited for her. reaching into the marine's pouch, she finds a slick folded up piece of paper, along with some more coins. opening it curiously, her eyes widen a bit_ it is a map of the eastern continent, and while she cannot read the printed letters, she does manage to find the location of moonbrook_ following the abnormally large green symbol she assumes to mean 'capital city', and following along the trail with her finger towards westfall. every location is color coded, the green she assumes to be alliance territory - and red, the universal color of danger, to be horde. some territories are colored red, perhaps this means questionable? and even in these territories, the colors exist in small areas - such as a green one not far from where she is. so, she pockets this map_ intending to look it over a bit later on. finishing her sweep of the battlefield, she gathers all of the coins that she can find, and then retreats back into the cellar for the time being_ dragging the fleshy cadaver on over so that it is lying upon the cloak she had spread out earlier, and crawling upon it. there is more to be done, but kroan is very tired now_ and fight it as she does, realizing the danger - she falls unconscious.