StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Yeah, violent and stuff.

The room felt feral. It felt of compulsion, and madness, and loss of humanity. It stank of fear, and of blood. Perhaps it had been a storeroom, months before. There were stacks of threaded bags, some half torn, with the last of the harvest spilling out. There were the cold stone walls, now splattered with blood, red like the sky after a slaughter. There were the meat hooks, where lamb or beef might have been hung.

Now, torn bodies hung there. Their eye sockets lay empty, perhaps torn out for some delicacy, and maggots filled them, falling down their faces like corrupted tears. The long scratches on their faces were self inflicted, indicative that they had seen something no mortal could and stay sane. Their chests were bare, and decayed, with deep and horrific lashes from whips and claws opening their skin and tearing muscle, leaving bones shattered and half pulled from the chest. Their legs had been completely ripped off, and their entrails dragged along the stones in a horrible cadence.

Curled up in them, unclothed and unashamed, was a vile creature of the Pit, smelling of musk and bitter honey. Her eyes gleamed, and her teeth were spread in a pointed smile, as she licked along the draped intestines with a long serpentine tongue. Her purr was horrific, inhuman, and incredibly alluring. She stretched lazily, and blood fell on her face.

In the center of the room was a man, old in years, and perhaps long gone mad. No, to stay in this room, he must already been mad, a perversion of the mind and a deeper perversion of the soul. He stood over an elf child, chained to a table, and was calmly removing its organs with his bare hands. Its chest had already been opened from throat to groin, but some terrible magic kept the child alive, and aware. The Warlock Morghul was researching, and he had always found it best to test the living.

Perhaps he heard something; perhaps not. Nonetheless, he paused in his work, ear cocked to something that no one else could hear, and then smiled briefly. The smile was not one of happiness, but one of ambition long held down, and perhaps soon to be fulfilled. It promised death and the sacrifice of everything for the gain of anything, as long as it was his gain.

The daemon watched him from the floor, her little game with the remains done. She knew what approached; a squad of the Kings Men, investigating the strange vanishings in the town of Goldshire. Mostly children, all non-human, but the Alliance did not judge on race, and the Warlock did. He was above their weak and pedantic bleating of all rights for all people; it was meant to be rights for Humanity, and in particular, rights for Morghul.

She smiled then, too, because she knew what he would do, and she anticipated the pain to her body with equal parts glee and trepidation. The Warlock would cast Humanity aside for daemonic power, but he would cast his daemonic allies aside for his survival, and had done it many times before. She licked her teeth, her tongue slowly curling around the points, and imagined his death.

The door of the upstairs room was kicked open, and the glint of steel spread light into the storeroom, revealing the blood of a battlefield. Their boots brought dust down from the wooden ceiling, and leather and steel links shifted as they moved. Morghul glanced at his imprisoned demon, his face a bitter rage, and she leapt to her feet, already sprinting for the stairs. He had ways of making his displeasure known, even to her.

Suddenly, screams erupted from the room above, as whips and claws spread chaos among the squad of soldiers. They started to rally, but the windows to the street burst open, and children climbed in, regardless of the injury to their bodies, as arteries opened, spilling their lifeblood to the floor. They impaled themselves on the guards’ weapons, and she tore out their throats.

Downstairs, Morghul put his hand on the child’s face, whispering noises to calm it, then filled his hand with acid. It was best to leave little presents for the survivors, and they always seemed so shocked when they found the mutilated remains of the non-Humans. He gestured quickly, his staff leaping to his hands, and walked up the stairs, ignoring the succubus as she fought for her life, her guts falling out on the floor to ensure he lived.

It was the crossbow that surprised him. He had just turned the corner, walking faster then he might have, when he saw a familiar face. His muscles tensed, his entire body suddenly focused on the bolt that aimed at his chest, and his hands moved far too slowly as they began to weave defensive magics. He could see the individual flaws in the wood of the crossbow, and he could see the tension leave the firing mechanism. He heard the click of the trigger pull, and shuddered as the bolt slid into his chest, and then there was darkness.

<center>* * *</center>

He had made it as far as Moonbrook. No one in Goldshire had had a description of him, and one old man did not draw much attention. The rogue daemon in the town made a valid distraction, and the atmosphere after its death was on of shock. It had charmed dozens of children its attempt for survival, and many of them had received mortal wounds.

The Warlock had set up his home near an orphanage for that reason. One never knew when bodies were needed, and children were both easy to catch and hurt the morale of those who would harm him. It was unfortunate they were too weak to provide soul shards. Ah! Soul shards. The Warlock made no claim to being the first to discover their uses, but he was often overwhelmed by their practicality.

In essence, soul shards were concentrated agony. The daemons, for some perverse reason, were deeply attracted to them, and it was with them the powerful could be summoned. It was a death sentence to be caught with them; each one was evidence of a murder of a sentient being, by means of torture. The Warlock savoured creating them, as well as the power they represented, but he could not carry any while on the run. The risk of capture was too great.

Not every person could create a soul shard with their dying. It was a matter of will, and the more powerful the daemon, the more powerful the soul shard to be. Hence, the utility of children for summoning anything was practically nonexistent. No, he needed stronger individuals, and they had to die in agony. He smiled nostalgically, remembering

He liked to introduce the pain with a slow burn, having fat crackle and spit, the skin melting away, little flames on the hairs. He liked rains of acid upon them, their bones bursting and disintegrating, and he liked to stroke their very soul with the Twisting Nether. From time to time, he would strike them with lances of it, and they screamed that it was so very cold, even as they burned and died.

He was unable to find anyone compliant for the sorcery, and he felt it better to pretend innocence then remove all doubt. He had summoned a homunculus, wrapping it around his leg in an obscene embrace, and it fed on him. In the event of a battle, it would enhance his magic and his survival, but for now, he fed it slow, his blood being drained from him like a parasite.

He had also fed himself on his journey, devouring the occasional animal raw. He and his succubus had made a habit of interrupting the experiments to have a quick snack of them, and many of the bodies found in the basement had bite marks both human and abyssal. The warlock had found his taste from necessity, some of his spells requiring it, but he maintained the habit by preference.

When the Warlock had approached Moonbrook, seeing it from a few miles away, he had awoken the other daemon. Years before, he had accepted partial possession; a creature that would ride in his body and see through his senses, enjoying a taste of mortal pleasures, and it would protect him. He woke it now, and strange faces rose through his skin and faded away, memories of old sins and misdeeds.

He had not anticipated much trouble, believing he had outran any news of him, particularly any description, but something felt wrong, so he had sped up his pace. He had just turned the corner, walking faster then he might have, when he saw a familiar face. His muscles tensed, his entire body suddenly focused on the bolt that aimed at his chest, and his hands moved far too slowly as they began to weave defensive magics. He could see the individual flaws in the wood of the crossbow, and he could see the tension leave the firing mechanism. He heard the click of the trigger pull, and shuddered as the bolt slid into his chest, and then there was darkness.
When he awoke, the Warlock grimaced, noting that he felt numb, unable to reach the hellfire magic that filled him. The bolt had been removed, and he remembered it had been a shallow sort of arrowhead, designed to poison but not kill. Now his hands were behind him, tied, and his homunculus was on the table in front of him, breathing harshly as it felt the need for sustenance. Crossbow heads, the barbed kind, were touching his neck, and the man who had shot him was standing in front of him. His face was curled in disgust, and his voice was harsh and bitter. Someone had cut his throat years ago, and it didn’t take.

“Warlock Morghul. We had made a deal. You don’t make any more waves, and we don’t have you tortured to death for daemonology. Was that too much? That Lescovar operation you did was the only reason we didn’t kill you the last time; don’t think us ungrateful.”

Morghul smiled briefly; he didn’t know who this man worked for, but Mathais Shaw had made excellent use of him from time to time. It had been nice to kill on orders, particularly when the reward was so sweet, but ceasing his research had been impossible. His knowledge had expanded to levels this man couldn’t even comprehend, and the powers he possessed were otherworldly. It was unfortunate other humans couldn’t understand their place; under his boot.

“Shaw, a pleasure as always. Do you have another mission for me, or is this visit just for old times sake?”

Shaw glared at him. “There is no mission. What you did in Goldshire was obscene, and you should be drawn and quartered. You noticed the horses outside? They might be for you.”

Morghul shook as head as best he could, the barbs cutting into his skin. “Should be drawn and quartered? Meaning I won’t be? Tell me what you want, Shaw, and I’ll be on my way. I don’t mind your hobbies, why should you mind mine?”

Shaw opened his mouth, then glanced down at the table. The homunculi had captured a small rat, and had torn off its head. It was now drinking its blood from the neck, holding the body up and spilling blood all over the demon’s body. Shaw looked at Morghul, his face ugly. “You disgust me. Your ‘pets’ disgust me. You study things that corrupted the Horde, and think it won’t cost you anything. You are to leave Azeroth, immediately. Don’t write us, we’ll write you.”

The crossbow bolts pushed against his neck, making him bleed more, apparently to show him how close he was to death. Morghul waited to be untied, grabbed the homunculi and put it on his leg, then bowed. “I shall see you gentlemen soon. You needn’t write.”