The scrawny, little creature was letting out a vicious cackle at every step they took, which sounded all too alarming under the afternoon's golden rays, in an area of the elven lands which remained free of taint, though haunted by the Scourge's memory. It lay in ruins; structures that were once the pride of the elven world had long now crumbled, unattended, for they had been left alone to rot, surrendered to the cruel hand of time. The tenacity of the tender sunlight to bless those ruins was admirable, a cruel joke to the fates of those who had perished within.
The way the boney fingers of the demon were clinging on its mistress, holding onto the dark skirt of her dress, now tainted with motes of golden and silver sand from Eversong's shores, was somewhat bothersome, if only for it reminded Celysiel of another. Both creatures were born of the abyss, though the imp's immortal soul, its own mind, foolish and insignificant as it was in the designs of a greater world, did not deem the little being a fitting company. How much she longed this hunt to be done with another, the prey to belong to another. There was better synergy with her lost companion even if their excursions in the Ghostlands were few, better understanding.
Alone.
She could not afford to think of that other.
Old bodies of arcane guardians sat deactivated in the tall grass, or perhaps even in the middle of the paths which they once patrolled, their shoulders and head dropped. After a while of walking beneath the Dawning Lane, which for years had been promised to be the only way to cross the ruins of old Silvermoon with safety, the apprentice began to notice a pattern about the fallen sentinels. Their cores were missing. Had they been removed from daring scavangers who could recycle them and place them in the sentries of the city? Or had they been stolen from the Wretched who so desperately wished to taste yet another drop of magic?
Did any of the Wretched remain? Had they not been her advised prey?
It had not been long since the young elf had departed from Initiate Blazefury's appartment after a night of cleaning his house and sitting in a corner; neither of them had wished to exchange any words, their reasons being their own. Most of the time hidden from Telthion's sight, Celysiel had managed to suffer the consequences of the locket's loss alone that night, with practiced silence. It was impossible to tell how many times there was a strike, though three were the most clear and agonizing. Three had pushed her to the decision of waiting no more for the Nerubians she had been promised.
Other elves. They were elves no longer. That was something the girl kept reminding herself in order to bear the burden of the decision that had been made. They were more like felhunters. No law would protect them, no salvation existed for their withered minds. They had one final use, at least, they could still do their former people a service. Just as long as one of them could be found...
"We will burnses?" cackled Abakin from her side. To the imp, Celysiel gave but a mere glance, then a nod.
"Do you remember what you have to do?"
The little demon nodded eagerly. They were too deep in the ruins now, the annoying feeling of being watched had been there for a while. For all the apprentice knew, it could be her imagination. The phantoms of the dead. Her imagination for the prey she wanted to be there. Celysiel offered Abakin the leather bag, which the imp held with difficulty, but happily. His lips parted, an ugly, toothy smile spreaded on his lips until his mistress interrupted him.
"Remember. The shinies are not for you."
"Shinies!" Abakin protested, but Celysiel shook her head.
"Kneecaps." she reminded him and that seemed to actually balance everything out, as if the imp's murderous desire was greater than his greed.
With the leather container passed down to the little creature, Celysiel pulled herself to a dark corner, though there was doubt that, as long as she carried magic within her, she would be able to hide adaquately. The soft breeze brushed against her features, how ironic given the elf's purpose.
Carrying the bag entrusted to him with difficulty, Abakin did the opposite from his mistress. The mischievous imp, cackling and smirking at his every bouncy step, made its way to an area in front of buildings, from where he would be spotted easily. He turned the bag around, only to reveal the treasure it held within. Gems, several of them. Their sapphire colour was rich and beautiful, though nothing could be compared to the feast of power that the energies within promised. What elf could ever deny the sweetness of mana?
None. It was what Celysiel was depending on.
The screeches of the imp managed to eventually attracted the aimed crowd, or was it the gems that it was promising? A deep, weak howl was how the Wretched was welcomed in the scene. Emerging from the nearest building to push itself to the burning sun, there was no doubt that these creatures were no longer Sin'dorei. Even if the elven attributes remained, such as the elongated ears and the green eyes, this is where all similarity ended. That must have been a woman in her better days, though all that remained of her was the scraps that for so many years had adorned her. The dark hair had shed, now very few tufts remaining. The skin had been altered to resemble something ill and demon-like, as crystalized fel rested on top. And her expression spoke of hunger. Endless hunger, the desire to sate it, to undo her weakness.
Staring, it was something that the apprentice noticed from the dark corner where she had found refuge, something almost good enough to shake her resolve. Was this what she would become without her locket? Would she endlessly need to feed from wretches in order to maintain her power? In the darkest corner of her mind, Serethia's words rang like gentle bells, reminding her of the Warden's truth. Such was the way of the warlocks.
"Heart," Celysiel whispered, bringing her left hand to her chest. "or no Heart."
Her attentine eyes did not wither away from the scene. Abakin's laughter was echoing in an area that demanded silence, though curiously enough, he had not managed to attract for than one of the wretches. That was, of course, optimal. Foolish or brave, the imp would not step back as the withering excuse of an elf was drawing closer, dragging every step. His burning eyes were shining with greed as he was playing with the mana crystals at each hand.
"We has it!" he declared triumphantly, flailing his scrawny arms. "You doesn'ts, you doesn'ts!"
It was as if the Wretched could not understand what the imp meant, for the meal it held, the meal it perhaps was on its own, mattered far more. She held no weapon, but only her claws, longer and sharper through her mutation. Letting forth yet another howl, the being charged forth, trying to assault the imp as if she desired to claw its eyes out. Of course, Abakin's reflexes were superior to that of the pathetic elf. He dramatically screamed and dropped the crystals, but pulled to the side, chanting a very loud "No harms us! No harms us!"
But the Wretched had no care for the imp's begging. The demon had yet to display its true power, thus the mutated elf was fooled into believing it to be an easy prey. Trying to straighten her body, the addicted woman tried to reach for the imp yet again. This time, Abakin made a quick leap for his opponent's ankle. Anchored on the flesh though his claws, he sheathed his pointy fangs into the woman's ankle. She screamed and fell, given how little could keep her weak form standing. The evasive demon was nowhere to be seen, nor could its prey do a lot more than wail. There was no mercy. Abakin was not merely content with tasting blood. Chunks of flesh were spat out, as clots of blood from the leg revealed something white. And then a crack made awfully clear how easy it was for the little fiend to shatter the frail bone.
The scrawny woman's eyes were wide with terror now, but since she was unable to turn and shoo her attacker, since the nerves of her leg had been numbed from pain, the poor creature was crawling now, eyes wide on the mana gems that were fallen and forgotten on old blood and fractured stone, so close. The Wretched rose her hand, knowing too well that once the hunger had been, even for a moment, sated, power would return. The apprentice knew that too.
The words of the curse of corruption came to the girl as a second nature after having practiced them on various targets for so long, the shadow which bound the curse more eager to respond to the calling than felfire, given how Celysiel had been for so long bereft of twisted life energies. It was easy for the affliction to be linked with the weak target, seeping within, festering. The Wretched's hand fell next to the crystal, unable to draw it any more. All she could so was scream as blisters appeared on her skin. Tortured by Abakin and his mistress alike, there could be several minutes until death came to claim her.
Celysiel, however, had no patience for that. Now stepping out of the shade, brushing the bushy overgrowth which had been concealing her form to the side, she stepped closer to her crying prey and the overly pleased demon. His bite of the broken ankle was no more, for he was bouncing to the right and then the left, clapping his tiny hands.
"We burns it alive and watches it scream?" he asked, hopeful.
"No." whispered the girl in reply as she came to stand above the Wretched. Never before had she seen them from such distance, though none of the emotions that she had expected to feel had emerged. What had she hoped for? Pity? Empathy? To perhaps remember that they were both tormented elves? Only one needed to live. Had those emotions been there when she faced the Broodfather? It was impossible to remember anymore. Nor did it matter.
"You can have the shinies." the apprentice told the imp, whose ears twitched with euphoria. There was something eerie in her voice, a tender sweetness, a deep darkness, the lack of guilt and regret. "Until next time."
That pleased the little fiend who scurried to the side in order to collect the trophy of his deeds and hide it back into the leather back. It only gave Celysiel the chance to lower herself on her knees down by the writhing Wretched. The wounds that the curse had created were bleeding now, the fluid oozing from within having a sickly brown colour. Howling, the dying woman tried to reach out for Celysiel's face with a clawed hand, but the apprentice, quicker, caught the wrist of the other in her gloved palm and twisted it. It was surprisingly easy; the young elf found herself rather fond of it. The other was weaker. And from that weakness, the apprentice would emerge stronger.
"It will end now." uttered the pale girl lowly as if making a promise. "It will end now, forever."
Her left hand came just over the Wretched's chest; it was fitting that it would be the one claiming the prize, since it could no longer hold the locket. It was almost surprising how easy it was to find the soul within, when only a couple of months ago the unfortunate apprentice was struggling with even comprehending how to do so would be possible. It was likely easier after having held a piece of her own so many times. Nothing stood in the way of finding the fire that signaled the soul of another. The mental grasp was strong, leaving the prey shiver, unable to stop its captor. Without further delay, the claiming commenced.
It was cruel, but there was a satisfaction in the way that the soul was detached from the body as its owner's mentality was subconsciously struggling to hold it back. Like a liquid, the amethyst mass was collected between the apprentice's curled digits, paired with the victim's wailing. Why was it not dreadful? Why would she not quit and step back? It was a part of the path she had chosen. No warlock's privilege was mercy to the weak. We wield the suffering of others.
The more the essence of the soul was slipping away from the Wretched, the more the cries were fading, life slipping away. It was a moment shared between the sufferer and the predator alike, their eyes connected at the moment of the kill. Tormented for one, relentless for the other. As one's features were withering even further, sinking and thinning, the other's were becoming healthier. Gone now was the sickly yellow colour that had been sitting on Celysiel's skin for a month now, allowing the snow-white to return. A link of understanding was being created, the acknowledgement of the roles each of them hand. Until in the end, hollow sockets were looking up at Celysiel, the flow of energy coming to an end. The soul that had been claimed had been converted, destroyed. Damned to oblivion.
Calmly, the young elf rose, drawing a deep breath. It was not sympathy and guilt which led us to averting her gaze from the empty husk that lay before her now, but merely lack of interest. The surroundings remained quite pleasant, save for the fact that the chosen location remained the ruined part of Silvermoon, a dark page in the Kingdom's history. The sunlight was dancing on the warm marble, giving it a peachy colour. In order to protect her sensitive eyes from its radiance, Celysiel raised her cloak and pulled it over her features, casting a shadow. There was nothing to betray the fact that killing had taken place. The killing of vermin at best.
Abakin reached for her side, holding his precious leather bag against his chest. He looked up at his mistress with wide eyes, waiting for a moment, until the survey of the surroundings had come to an end, before he would be blessed with her attention.
"You can hold my skirt if you like." she told him gently.
It was the best favour the imp had been granted in all the months of being in her service. Eagerly, his free hand reached to hold the dark layer of black falling on the red, holding onto the dress as they began to walk, like a child. The two made their way towards civilization again eagerly, where Abakin would hide. Little did they know that pairs of fearful eyes were watching from the buildings surrounding them, little did they know that the corpse they were leaving behind would soon be no more. Even if they did know, however, little would they care.
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