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A Doctrine of a Disorderly Mind (RP Backstory, Part 2)

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The pitter-patter of descending liquid reverberated throughout the granite room, its repetitive drone mimicking the tick-tock of a clock.




A new sound jars the successive rhythmic beat, creating a lapse that destroys the precious uniformity of the chamber.




Ashen digits coil around a slender section of flesh, robbing a young woman of her sustaining breath. Glimmering eyes slide open, biting through the darkness that enshrouds the two.



Cough, ..hack, …weeze.

A soft clapping reveals that the murderer is not alone, though another’s presence does not deter him from shaking the woman’s corpse angrily to ensure that the deed is finished. Satisfied with the result, a Forsaken covered in blood crouches down, peeling open the carcass’s rib-cage in time for the next slimy drop of fluid to dip into its innards.

“Not as planned. Receptive as a dagger’s edge - and apparently as wounding.”

“Silence! I will not have you chastise me in such a manner! I do not remember YOU providing the insight and study that I did when creating and cultivating the virus!”

“Correct, my choice is not governed by your flowered personality or boyish looks. Viruses, poisons, and plagues; these are your specialties. I push and shove, imbuing with ambition and strength of will. As you see now...”

Nonsensical jabber rises above the sickly splat of the thick, green ooze as the boney figure fumbles around the otherwise empty room. Spurting outbursts of laughter, followed immediately by a slow whine and soft hiss are just a few of the responses to be plucked from the fray. Yet, everything returns to silence as hastily as it appeared, the Forsaken turning slowly to face the body lying within the heart of the room.

“No, …no. This is one of the emissaries from Ogrimmar; an Orcish Alchemist interested in the studies of the Royal Apothecary Society! What have I done?”

“Stop your prattling; we are the Forsaken, governed by no one!”

Afraid, the undead creature whips about to see if anyone had noticed his presence within the side-chamber of the Apothecarium. Then, in complete contrast to his previous fear, the Forsaken releases a confident cackle.

“See! Did you doubt me, Calivan?! Now, stop your sniveling, we have much work to be done. They want results, lowered risk, a pawn of the Scourge. Well, we shall prove to them that our plague has NO negative aspects and should be put into use immediately. Let us show them the true power of malice!”

“W-What have I become?”

Apothecary Razakel Calivan huffed out a weary whimper as he crawled over to the northernmost wall of the hollow and reached up, smearing a bloody hand across the stone. Left in the wake of his palm was a translucent surface that reflected a vision of his visage, though it was not what was to be expected.

“W-Who am I?”


High Alchemist Thomas Calivan skittered about the cluttered room in search of a clean piece of cloth. An exasperated grunt pushed past his gritted teeth as he settled for the dirty shirt of a large Gnoll, which had only moments ago been one of three assassins sent to silence his spree of forthright writing. Each of the potential killers had been slain, by Thomas’ own hands, ...wait, truthfully it had been all due to the precise reflexes of his right hand in particular. As the warm, crimson blood was cleaned from his skin, the coagulated scarring of his right arm – it had continued spreading over the past fortnight – became apparent. Thomas gave his arm a helpless gaze, as if pleading to understand its reason for this continued existence.

“Go, now! We have little time left to dawdle, Calivan!”

Thomas reacted immediately when The Voice spoke to him, though it was not conjured from the ceased breaths of the fallen bruisers of Thermaplugg. Though High Alchemist Calivan did not know the origins of The Voice it had guided him safely through the tribulations since his separation from the A.A.S. and Thermaplugg’s tasks. And right now, that’s all the reassurance Thomas needed. He stood, scuttling about the room in search for items that The Voice commanded him to gather, piling one after the other in a corner of the small cabin. Amidst the chaos, a piece of parchment came beneath Thomas’ leather boot, though he paid it no mind. It was entitled, “Study on Primary Testing, Section 1: Test Subjects,” and read as follows:

I do not condone what my associates and I have done in order to achieve our eventual goals, yet it is not until now that I truly believe that what we did was evil. Our initial tests of the virus were applied to a variety of animals throughout Stranglethorn Vale. But, Mekgineer Thermaplugg believed that in order to truly discover the effects of the virus it had to be tested on humanoid subjects. I was abhorred to hear that he desired us to secretly contaminate and study a sample group chosen from Gnomish Workers in Gnomeregan. But, my ambition and desire for recognition outweighed my morality. Not everyone was as devoid of principle as I, but Thermaplugg ensured their accordance through one manner or another. We were whisked away to Gnomeregan, where Primary Testing began.

The paper grows hazy here, the recent activity having splotched the black ink, but further down it continues:

From the hundred chosen to act as the Sample Group, 75 percent appears to have entered into a docile-state. They grow increasingly lethargic, even natural functions of survival becoming increasing difficult for them to accomplish. This percentage seems to require a nudge or a push to stimulate them into activity. We’ve tried a few methods and electro-shock has been the most effective. One jolt and they rigidly adhere to the prodder’s orders.

But, the other percentile of the Sample Group – a daunting 25 percent – has had a much more aggressive response to the virus inserted into their food supply. After a period of 3-5 Seasons those that do not react submissively grow overtly temperamental. Angry outbursts, violent reactions, and self-mutilation and masochism are just a few of the results. We have already sustained many injuries, including one death, due to the handling of these Gnomish Subjects. I have requested that the project team separate from the Sample Group entirely and work on fixing this mistake in the virus’ coding. I will present our case to Mekgineer Thermaplugg tomorrow ‘eve in hopes that he will understand.

A twist of Thomas’ wrist and the tinder-twig exploded in flame; sizzling and crackling it was tossed into the collection of oil cans congregated in the corner of the room. Fire erupted across the expanse of Thomas’ study as he made a swift retreat for the door. But, before he was able to escape an object tangled his footing and made an attempt to topple him. Thomas stretched out his arms, searching for anything that might break his fall and in doing so was able to catch the edges of his bureau. He glared to the object, a radiant orb that was important enough to him that he spent a moment of his waning time to pluck it up and grasp it tightly in his right hand. As his decisive gaze shifted towards the door, yet another object was so brazen as to divert his attention. The mirror atop his bureau, splattered with blood, glared back at Thomas. But, it was not so much the mirror that attracted his attention, but the image displayed amongst the crimson gore. A grotesque figure, carved of bone and sinew, sneered at Thomas.

“Ah, it is finally good to see you, Thomas Calivan. I am Nether-Lord Razakel, …you.”


“NO!” shouted Calivan as he stumbled backwards, a hand cast in defense of his face as if the orc’s blood smeared on the wall before him would reach out and strike in a spell of revenge. Apothecary Calivan fell to the ground beside his victim, whose stomach was already overflowing with the green, liquid ooze of his creation: Ebolo. The plummet had released something from the unrelenting grasp of his purple vestments and Calivan’s glowing eyes widened in uneasiness as it bounced to the ground: a radiant orb; a seeing stone, perfect and lidless, stared back at him.

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