The Forsaken Registry Society

[Graes]

In the Shadow Grave at Deathknell, the Forsaken Registry Society gathered, celebrating the birth of their project. They sat in an uneven circle on the floor, enjoying clam chowder and hot wolf ribs and other food Chavie had brought. Graes was a little nervous--the other three all knew each other; they were all part of the same sort of cult thing. Te Chil Ren. Marson and Grindelline didn't have to pause to decipher what Chavie was saying, and sometimes they answered her in kind. Graes searched the pockets of his robe for his pipe, and packed some peacebloom into it, watching his fellow society members interact and letting his mind drift.

How had these four people come together to organize this Book of the Dead? It was Chavie's idea, originally, and up until now her relationship with Graes had been financial. He had needed some armor crafted, but didn't have much money... It did not matter that he was one of the conceptual designers of the Undercity itself, that he was among the first freed by Sylvanas. He ran out of money, and the government saw no reason to help him out. So he turned to capitalism.

He saw things Chavie had made on the auction house, and decided he liked her work, but couldn't afford it. He contacted her to work out a deal... and she made him a set of armor, and gave him five gold with which to begin his disenchanting business. All he had to do was gather the linen necessary! They agreed that he would pay her back--with interest--and he did. Since then, she continued to make him armor and clothes, and he bought items from her to disenchant, at cheaper prices than he would find at the auction house.

They ran into each other in the Undercity a week or so ago. Chavie, in her strange lilting dialect, demanded to know why he wasn't wearing the grey woolen robe she'd made him, and then encouraged him to become seasoned enough to be able to benefit from it. Uncomfortable at the barrage of wor sa fa chal, he had seized a pause in her tirade to ask how she was doing. She mentioned the idea of the Forsaken Registry, and he thought it was a great idea, and said if she needed his help...

And now he was sitting in a musky, mildewy tomb with his seamstress-patron and two of her followers. One of which--Grindelline, a mage like himself--had not left the tomb since she rose into undeath. She was terrified to go out into the world. The other--Marson, a warlock with a crippled jaw and a blond ponytail--seemed to suffer from the same sort of laziness that kept Graes from furthering himself for years. Marson lived in Orgrimmar and spent his time, he claimed, wooing women. (Unlike Graes, who spent his time in secluded artistry... and drug-induced deliriums when he could afford it.) Of them all, only Chavie was involved in the community, and had done amazing deeds Graes could hardly comprehend.

I need to get out more, he thought, lighting his pipe carefully. The tomb might smell of mildew, but at least the stagnant air posed no threat to the flame of his pipe. The damn thing was hard enough to light...

"Wa tis da?"

Graes looked up. Chavie was looking at him, and the others did as well. His mind scrambled for a translation--waters die? Why tease the... What tease the... What is the! Or that. "This?" he asked, tilting his pipe slightly, and shaking the match out with his other hand.

"Is da ta pis pap?"

"Does he look like a Tauren, sister?" Marson asked, arching a perfectly kept eyebrow. Not for the first time did Graes notice the polished look of Marson's exposed bones.

"Yes," Chavie answered automatically, then laughed. "No. Is na hor ni i naf." She put her fists against her head, forefingers pointing up, like horns. Marson chuckled and Grindelline smiled nervously. Chavie repeated her question, eyeing Graes' pipe curiously. "Is da ta pis pap?"

"Peacepipe?" Graes asked, tentatively. Chavie nodded, grinning. "No, it's just... a pipe" He demonstrated by inhaling and then exhaling, the sour-sweet smoke curling in the air in front of him. Already he was beginning to feel more relaxed. "It does have peacebloom in it. I guess you could call it a peacepipe." He chuckled, or he meant to, but it had a funny tittering quality to it that sounded more like a giggle.

"Yu no wer te pis pap kum fra?" Chavie asked, leaning her elbows on her knees and grinning. "Der was dis ko do, hu was ri li a ta ren, a min a don no wat shi was but shi was pri ti, an der wer dis tu bo ta ren hu sa her..." With the calming influence of the peacebloom, Chavie's dialect was beautiful to listen to, even if the meaning of her words eluded him.

Marson smiled at Graes, a careless gesture despite the right angle at which his jaw sat. He whispered, softly so as not to disturb Chavie's retelling of what sounded like a Tauren folktale, "Would you be so kind as to pass the 'peacepipe'?" Graes stood and walked behind Grindelline, whose scarred and broken face was staring intently at Chavie, to get to Marson. Marson continued, "There is a lack of wine, and a celebration is simply not a celebration without a proper mood-altering substance."

A man after Graes' own heart. He smiled and offered the pipe to Marson.

"Wan!" Chavie called out, so suddenly that Grindelline squealed in fright and crabbed backwards into Graes' legs. Graes stumbled but did not fall, and completed handing the pipe to Marson without dropping it. "A haf sum wan! A for got!" Chavie dug through her bags, which lay scattered all around her. A white rat ran out of one, and she shoved it back in. Finally she produced a bottle of junglevine wine, and passed it around. Graes returned to his seat, across from Marson and in between Chavie and Grindelline.

Marson and Chavie began bemoaning the lack of any registrees besides themselves so far, and discussed ways to get the word out more. Graes snuck a pinch of souldust and found his mind wandering again. The registry was a good idea, but the details of it were boring. He would be involved in the making of the final product, though--he was an artist, and would supply illustrations and embellishments. Until then, he would be doing grunt work--he would not be a part of the creative process.

He found his eyes drawn to Grindelline, who fiddled nervously with her staff. The staff--and her robe--were very much like the ones Graes had been issued, long ago. She looked so sad and frightened. She didn't even have any eyes--he wondered if she saw color anymore. He scooted across the floor to her, and tried to make some quiet conversation.

"Hello," he said softly, leaning heavily on his hand but being careful not to be too close in case she thought he was coming onto her. He was off-balance and starting to feel giddy.

Grindelline's mouth sort of twitched, enough to be called a smile. She combed at her long black hair with her fingers. "Yes?"

"I just thought I should get to know you," he said, leaning back to put all his weight on his rear. "We're both mages."

"Um. Yeah. We are." She almost-smiled again. "But I've never used a spell. Not since... dying." And a look of the profoundest sorrow-mized-with-resignation passed over her face. Graes found himself entranced by the purity of that complex emotion, and for a moment did not realize what she had said.

"You haven't... used any spells?"

She shook her head.

"But... watch this." Graes stood and grinned at her. She was going to like this, he knew. He closed his eyes to concentrate, then called forth a burst of icy energy. The temperature in the room lowered significantly as the spell cracked around them.

Chavie cheered at him, then turned back to Marson.

Grindelline exhaled, her breath visible. "What does that do?"

"It's very handy," Marson interjected, "if one is in Orgrimmar on a hot summer day. I knew a lady once who, while in my apartment--"

"Nan af te gils in yor a par men ar le dis, Bo Ter Mar Son!"

"Na na na, Cha Vi, du na be so condescending to the ladies I court--they are always of the finest taste, and I mean that in as many senses of the word one can concieve."

The two continued bantering.

"What does it do?" Grindelline asked, looking up at Graes.

"What does what...?"

"That spell you just did."

"Oh! Oh yeah." He sat cross-legged in front of her. "What it does is, it freezes anyone I think of as an enemy. And it hurts them. While it holds them in place, I run back, and get out my wand..." He took out his wand and made firing motions. "And hit them until they break free. Most of the time they're dead before they touch me again!" He giggled, and realized he hadn't gotten out his wand at all; he'd been making shooting motions with his pipe. Right now this was more funny than tragic, and he stifled his laughter long enough to clean up the mess he'd made.

Grindelline looked disgusted.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "It's made me a little uncoordinated."

"The spellcasting? Chavie has mentioned..." Her voice trailed off.

"No, the pipe... and the dust."

"How can you stand it?" Grindelline whispered.

Graes tried to think of an explanation. "It's really no more harmless than drinking..."

"No." Exasperated, Grindelline stood and walked away from the other two, toward a dark corner. "The killing people."

He followed her, feeling abashed. "It's not for everyone," he said. She stopped and leaned against a cobwebbed wall, arms folded across her chest. "Except that it is--for everyone." He struggled for the words. "The killing, it's not something everyone can do, but it's something done for everyone. It's about protection. These things want to erase me from the world, and they want to erase the things I love--that is worth fighting for." He raised his pipe to his lips and found his hand empty.

"A du na wan tu fat," she whispered.

"You're not fat," Graes said quickly. Even as he said it, his mind was going, That's not what she said, that's not what she said, she said fight not fat. He just couldn't get the message to his mouth in time. "I'm sorry, I know what you meant... my mouth got ahead of my translator." He imagined a little goblin in his brain, translating wor sa fa chal into proper Gutterspeak for him. "My translator drank too much wine." He smiled. Now the goblin was chugging a bottle of wine as big as he was. But the sensation in his skull was not pleasant, and he shook his head to clear the goblin out.

She was staring at him and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Her face was badly decayed.

"Is that why you haven't left here?" he asked her, realizing. "You don't want to hurt people?" She nodded slowly. "You don't have to hurt anyone... You can walk to the Undercity and stay there."

She sighed. "I've asked. I would be attacked on the road. Attacked! For just walking down a road!" She put her hand to her mouth and looked about to cry.

"You could get an escort," said Graes. His mind wandered for a few seconds, and he could not be sure where it went. Then he was back, and she was pacing. "How far have you gotten?" he asked her.

Understanding, she walked to the base of the stairs that led outside. He followed. She squared her shoulders and looked up the passageway. "This far... Exactly this far." She was not even on the first step. "I stay here... This is where they keep the bodies. The ones that might... rise." She turned and gestured toward the back of the room, where a doorway led to a small alcove. "I take care of the bodies, and when they wake I... sometimes greet them." She looked down. "Mostly I hide from them."

Graes was captivated by her lonely beauty, her standing in the shadows, looking down and away from the light and the world beyond-- "Let me paint you," he whispered. He held his hands in front of his face, closed except for his forefingers and thumbs, and framed her with them, closing one eye. "Right there..."

But she moved, and spoiled the painting. "Not now," she whispered back, glancing around furtively. "But... maybe later?" She almost-smiled.

He nodded, then remembered. "I was telling you about the Undercity."

"No, actually--"

Her protest did not register. "I helped build it, you know," he confided, stepping close.

She looked genuinely interested. "Really?"

"Not... not build it, exactly. My paintbrush was the tool I used most." He smiled at the memory. "The first of us, needing a place to stay... A city to be built... and an identity to made for us. As a nation." He opened his eyes. "I submitted some sketches, and they liked it, and asked for more... Just conceptual work, mostly, and they didn't use it all, but... I'm very thirsty." He looked around, puzzled, for his cup. Had he had a cup?

Grindelline offered him hers. He took it and drank--it was water, not wine. Let me show you, he thought. "Let me show you!" he said. He led her to the wall he'd laid his portfolio against. He crouched by the portfolio and sifted through it, pulling out paintings of the Undercity. She sat next to him, and accepted the paintings he handed her, looking at each with widened eye sockets.

She likes it, he thought, proudly. She's amazed by it.

"Amazing, isn't it?" he asked her.

"That's..." She gasped and stopped at one, a fierce stone face in an archway. "That's... That's horrible! Oh, what have you done to our city?"

Graes stammered wordlessly, unable to think of how he felt to her violent rejection of his art.

"Look at this!" She set the paintings down, carefully, shuddering, as if they might bite her. "What have we become? Dis is wa a du na go at der..." She put her hands against her cheeks, her face a mask of despair. "We've become digusting... horrible creatures... glorifying death and making it a fashion statement!"

"But..." He gathered his paintings, his children, and clumsily put them back in his portfolio. "We're dead. It's... It makes sense."

She burst into tears. Chavie and Marson stopped bickering and looked over at them. "That's what's wrong! We're dead! Lordaeron is dead! How can I go out into the world when this is all I'll see? Death and d-d-destruction?" She stood, wiping her eyes, and caught her finger in her eyelid, tearing it. She wailed, clutching her face, and Chavie healed her.

"Gin de lin..."

"Just tell me when it's over." Grindelline rushed away, sobbing, still clutching her face, toward the room where the un-undead bodies were kept. "Just tell me when it's all over!"

Marson frowned, his cup of wine frozen in the air. "Whatever did you say to her?"

"Nothing," Graes said helplessly. He stared at where Grindelline had disappeared to, and felt bitterness rising. He took out his pipe again and muttered, "Some people just don't understand art."