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Angaroth

Diatribe

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*thousands of words*

Scattered corpses, heavily armoured, crushed and crumpled. Slumped figure, twisting and pulling on withered hands, scowling face, eyes rapidly darting back and forth, seeking escape.

*who/what*

That went well. Only half of them died. Curse this weakened flesh. I wear it like a costume, a dancing clown, heavy shoes, tripping over myself. She deserves my thanks for driving him out but she will get my curses for writing to the script to this farce. Power that flowed so smoothly when I was alive stutters and jerks, thoughts ooze through this corroded flesh. I have exchanged a non-existence for a crippled one. The one redeeming feature is that this lawless horde is free to delight in whatever they want. We shall see what we can make of that.

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*who/what*

I must say that I was very surprised. I thought that acting required some form of empathy, emotion. Apparently not. A flawless performance, there are tear stains on my robe. The satisfaction of knowing that the fool was suffering within must be balance with the certainty that she will devise a fitting torment. And there is no void to be filled. Certainly the fight against Leotheras proved that. She muttered something about proving herself more than capable of dealing with the matter. I held my tongue and did not mention that while she was dealing with her inner demons there was a battle being fought against the real foe. I grow more comfortable in this corpse and if I had a nose, the sweet smell of success would be growing ever so slightly stronger.

*thousands of words*

Blank gaze, ruined face, empty eyes staring up. Tears forced from corrupt glands streaming down a face, a small mouth rounded in perfect pleading. Thin arms, sharp claws, clasping for strength.

*thousands of words*

Tiny hands, razor talons craddling, rocking, stabbing, threatening.

*thousands of words*

Thin lips, sneering, a hint of disgust at the bile they had been spewing. Green flame dancing in the dark, trying to burn the memory of a means to an end.

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*thousands of words*

A memory. A figure, huddled, hulking, cowering, towering. A tall, well-muscled man, a dashing figure in flowing robes, tears and snot streaming down his handsome face. Crouched in a corner he peers through the glowing portal and watches as the brave magisters are cut down drained killed devoured. A small hook-fingered figure behind a looming horned one take steps towards him as the spell fails and winks out.

*who/what*

I know her. She was the one in the stairs. She hides her past. I doubt that there is room for blackmail, but knowledge is also power. This should be a lever to lift myself up. I should thank her. I learned more of myself that day than any other before or since. She would be pleased to know that because of that day I was given a week's rest. I traveled south in the heart of winter and killed the blacksmith. I dragged the body to the edge of town and heard in the spring that he had been killed by wolves. Phuukun was disgusted to hear that he was confused with a dog.

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*who/what*

It seems that rather than past and current evidence, what the magister will require before he vouches for me is some sort of dog and pony show. It is annoying and distracting and pointless but if it is what needs to be done to further my integration into this rabble then it will be done with a gap-toothed smile, such teeth as remain gleaming with pride and happiness. In truth no man rules alone for no man wields power beyond the reach of his fingers. What is needed are allies to act in my interest even when I am not present. Whether or not they act out of fear or greed or, gods-who-abandoned-us forbid, love is irrelevant, merely that they do act. And the wearing of the tabard is the next step in the upward trajectory.

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*who/what*

Done and done. My little diversion was unnecessary and taking too long to arrange anyway. It was practically a stroll to wander through Darnassus, killing the sentinels and then perusing the tome for quite some time before sliding it, rain spattered, beneath my shirt, and heading back to Shattrath. The magister has his token and I should have my tabard. It still stings that the demon Greebo was deemed fit to wear it but I who bested him at every turn had to debase myself as an errand boy. Do I want to let this resentment fester within, sprouting into full flower and days of agony when they are in my power? A decision to be made later, when the balance between instilling fear by example and making use of a valuable tool is more clear. Still, it will make for pleasant day dreams.

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