A Meeting Gone Awry (RP)

[Georges-cenarion-circle]

Although he was often billed as a top notch fighter in the arena in Dalaran, George Stanton knew he was only mediocre. He relied heavily on his partner, an ogron he had tamed to fight beside him. The creature itself was not very bright, being predictably grumpy most of the time, considering the Orcs were trying to harness him and beat him into submission. All it had taken on Goerge’s part was to offer some kindness and a bit of revenge against the ogron’s former tormentors. In time, they became a fearsome team, with Stinky’s brawn and George’s magic.

This arranged fight should have been easy, but George was not prepared for the viciousness of the death knight’s attack. The Ogron, nicknamed Stinky, was controlled now by means of bracers on his wrists. The Ringmaster had not believed an ogron capable of befriending anyone. The bracers were only nominally effective, giving George the ability to issue commands telepathically.

When Keelath destroyed one of the bracers, it stunned the ogron temporarily and caused it to wander aimlessly for a space of time. Long enough for Keelath to attack George. The next thing George knew, he was fighting for his life with an ax buried in his shoulder, almost cutting his head off.

The death knight pulling his life force out was exceedingly painful. So much so that George screamed until he passed out.

That was not the worst part, as his life was rapidly draining away, he awoke to find Stinky carrying him over his shoulder. When he tried to voice a protest, the ogron merely patted his back. The mind link was still there, but now it was the ogron who blithely assured the wizard that all was not lost.

George lost consciousness again and did not regain his mind until many hours later. When he awoke then it was to the odd sensation of confusion. He felt no pain, and as he raised a hand to touch the wound on his shoulder, the sudden truth hit him. He was now undead. Not resurrected, but given life by the unholy means of necromancy!

The worgen had been thorough, George realized he did not breathe, nor did he smell, taste or feel much of anything. Oddly enough, he found it curiously refreshing. Still, a bit of confusion would be very much expected. He questioned the worgen and found out he was now a servant of the one who had raised him. The nakedness did not bother him so much, but the thought of being a slave did not sit well.

Rather than be ungrateful, George acceded to the tasks given him and resolved to find out as much as he could about this worgen, who called himself Malcotin Baen. There would be time enough for questions later. For now he did as he was told.

[Malcotin-cenarion-circle]

There was a time in his life when Malcotin Baen was just a common man. Living in Gilnaes and working as a young lad for the local undertaker. He had often thought of taking up the healing arts, and his very basic education pointed to that. He was intelligent and compassionate.

He grew intrigued by the undertakers work, and soon apprenticed himself to the old man. Learning how to carefully prepare a body for a funeral, from draining fluids to sewing up scars and dressing a corpse in finery. The lessons he learned then were his career moving forward.

That all changed when the Bloodfang and the Forsaken attacked his beloved city. The nightmare had only begun. He was not used to fighting. Never having picked up a weapon, and working only as an apprentice in the funeral home, he was woefully unprepared.

The fighting was intense and Malcotin fled from one village to the next in an effort to escape being bitten. He had no clue what the worgen were or why they were attacking. But it was an inevitable consequence of being Gilnaen. Very few escaped the infection. When it happened to him, Malcotin begged the doctors for a cure, but they were helpless to do anything.

Malcotin was one of the unfortunate ones to be taken captive by the Forsaken. They took him to the Undercity, where his transformation into a raging worgen was carefully monitored. They tried to feed him tainted meat, but it did not affect him. Frustrated after many months of trying, the apothecaries finally gave up and sold him to a Sindorei warlock, looking for an unusual pet. It was while under her ‘care’ he learned to fight with more than his teeth and claws.

[Georges-cenarion-circle]

Reading the tomes in Malcotin’s library, George found himself wondering just exactly who the death knight was before he was turned. While Malcotin was gone, George spent his time exploring the lab. What he found would have chilled him to his soul if he was not already dead.

Remnants of fur and bone were dumped rather unceremoniously into a pit deep in the far reaches of the cavern. Charred bits of clothing and other debris was also in the pit. He found what might have been a symbol of the Light that was blackened and half melted, dangling from a chain that was also black. It became clear to George that Malcotin was using cadavers or even live victims to further his research.

Back in the lab proper, he began to look through the files that were stored in a cabinet against the wall. He only found one drawer that he could open, the rest were locked. It was enough to open his eyes to the truth. He was curiously unmoved by the revelations. He had no emotions or reactions to the deaths, only intrigue. What was it that Malcotin was researching? Methods of resurection? He was a death knight, why would he be so focused on this? All the information George could dig up only raised more questions.

[Malcotin-cenarion-circle]

The door to the lab swung open and Malcotin arrived with a decidedly frustrated look on his face. “I do years of research and all I can do is hit a wall with the same results.”

Walking to his cabinet, he glared at George. “Have you been snooping? A curious minion often finds themselves the subject of extreme experimentation.” he warned.

The former mage would have paled in fear if he felt any emotion, but he shrugged. “You do know I have a ton of knowledge in my brain still, even after you have gone to so much trouble to suppress it. Let me in on what you are doing. Perhaps I can help you in your research. What could it hurt? I am not going anywhere. From what little I have seen, you are stuck on the same problem with no sign of a solution.”

Malcotin gave the man a contemplative look before nodding. “Very well, I will increase your levels of comprehension and you can recover your former brain power. I will warn you, it might be painful.”

He stepped over to a locked door and opened it with a key he kept around his neck. “Come inside, I have to perform a ritual on you to remove the barriers. If you prove helpful to my research, you will benefit greatly. And to tell the truth, I am glad you are willing. This goes far in giving me reason to trust you.”

Stepping inside the room, he pointed to a table in the center of it. “Lie down there, I will prepare the ritual.” After rummaging in a drawer and retrieving a syringe and a bottle of dark colored liquid, Malcotin proceeded in filling the syringe with it.

George came into the room without hesitation and laid down on the table. “What is that you are using?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Remove your robe, and relax. This will only take a few moments to work, then we can proceed. The shot will enhance your ability to feel. This can be a double edged sword.” He waited until George complied.

The table was built of sturdy wood and there were leather straps for arms and legs. Before Malcotin gave the shot, he strapped George to the table. His voice neutral as he did so. “Remember you volunteered for this.”

George frowned, but nodded. “So be it. I am eager to help and learn.” He was not prepared for the onslaught of pain that followed the injection. Screaming with all he was worth as the liquid burned through his veins.

Malcotin watched as the man squirmed and yelled, “Very good, you are reacting with what I expected. Rage and pain are often used by death knights as fuel for their most volatile abilities. Now you will learn to control them.”

He spent the next few hours using various spell components and scrolls as well as the rod he had equipped with a sapphire gem that pulsed with energy. When he had finished, George lay complacent on the table, with his face set in a mask of fortitude and determination.

“You have opened my mind and my eyes to what you are, Malcotin. I can see a lot of potential here. I am still very willing to help you. Allow me to read through all your research, and I will formulate a new strategy for us.” George was eager, and it showed.

Malcotin released the straps and stood back. He was prepared for George to retaliate, and was encouraged by the lack of it. “You are one of the few to actually fare well with this ritual. Yes, I do think I am making some progress.”

George stood to his full height and then dropped to his knees. “I am yours, Malcotin. On this day I swear loyalty to you. I will guard you and protect you as well as help with your research.”

[Georges-cenarion-circle]

The ritual had nearly killed him, or so he thought. The awakened pain and flood of information into his brain stunned him for only a short while. This Malcotin was not what he appeared to be. Whatever he was, it boded ill for anyone who got in his way. George found himself released only after he promised to aid the worgen in whatever he was doing.

As his senses awakened and filled him with all the sensory input, George realized something had changed. Something very significant. Not only did he have all the skills and magic he once possessed as a mage, he now had the added power of a death knight. He had not been a very cautious man in life, and now he felt invigorated and eager to test these new skills.

“What would you have of me, Master Malcotin? I am ready to kill, or do research. Whatever you desire.” He stood flexing his arms. If the new strength was any indication, he would be a formidable bodyguard. George wondered what else Malcotin would ask of him?

The brooding worgen accepted George’s fealty with a grunt and a wave. “You will be helping me to conduct my experiments. I have need of a strong set of arms to hold my subjects steady while I inject them with various things, and conduct rituals similar to what I did to you. Come with me, I am ready to begin.” He led George along a side tunnel and unlocked the door he had hidden behind an illusion of rock.

“Similar to what you did to me? I can see how you would need help if your subject is unwilling…” George trailed off as he followed Malcotin. When the door was open, he noted a dank and smelly dungeon, filled with cages. Some had occupants, others were empty. The inmates stared at the worgen and the human with hatred and fear. It was clear they knew they were doomed.

In the first cage a once robust Pandaren male sat in the corner and tried to meditate. He opened his eyes and glared at Malcotin. “You will not best me! I am a renowned warrior of my people! You think to weaken me with lack of food and drink, but I have reserves for months. We do not have this built in store of fat for nothing!” He was blustering, and running out of steam fast. The rolls of fat he claimed to sustain him were disappearing by the day. He was getting weaker, but still had enough strength to toss either Malcotin or George across the room if he wished.

George stared at the Pandaren with absolutely no sign of pity. Whatever Malcotin had planned for the Pandaren, he would need to starve for another week before it was safe to even open the cage. He turned to Malcotin, “What are you planned to do to him?”

A soft chuckle came from the worgen as he moved past the Pandaren and looked into the next cage. “Nothing, yet, let him bluster until he begs for food and water or ale. I have all the time in the world.”

There in a corner, huddled against the wall, a Vulperan shivered in fear. She was still confused about how she got here. The troll had drugged all of them in the caravan and taken them to some place very cold. Only a few survived the trip. Herself and one other, a young Vulperan male. He had managed to escape, and promised to help her when he could. That was several days ago, and she had seen no sign of him since then.

“This one intrigues me. She is tough, and even with the drugs and the cold, she survives. Her coat will not protect her long. This cold is deadly to one used to desert heat. We will start with her, as I am not sure the Pandaren has suffered enough.”

[Xilyra-cenarion-circle]

Hiding in a corner of a dungeon cell was impossible. Even in the relative darkness, anyone looking in through the bars would see her. Even so, Xilyra huddled in the corner and whimpered pathetically. She was cold, sore and deeply stressed out. Not even a blanket to mitigate the near freezing temperatures.

What cruel fate had done this to her? Xilyra wanted to blame the Horde. She wanted to rage at the troll who had lied to her and the only family she had, her brother Roron Swiftrunner.

How happy they had been to get away from the shifting dry desert sands. The relief they felt when the members of the Horde had saved them from the ravages of the cruel Sethrak was short lived, as they found themselves in the middle of a faction dispute between some Alliance and the Horde. Why were they always fighting? Who knew! But the Horde had invited them to visit Orgrimmar, and the chance to see the world was too good to pass up. Pledging to the Horde meant they could no longer count on Alliance for friendship. The price one pays for freedom and a chance to explore were always hidden in layers of small print.

All Xilyra wanted right now, was to survive. It was all she cared about. That, and seeing her brother safe and alive again. She hoped he was still alive…lucky little devil always was a sneaky one. Resourceful too. He would get help and rescue her, and she knew they would not leave the other prisoners behind. It was the Vulperan way. Help when you could, but survive!

Xilyra looked up when she heard voices. Shivering still she wondered if they were going to starve her as they had been the Pandaren? She licked dry lips. At least they had given her some water. Even as cold as it was, she managed to drink the melted snow offered to her by mindless ghouls.

Malcotin peered into the cell. “Still alive, little one? If you cooperate, I will feed you today. If you are really good, I will give you a blanket. Would you like that?”

Xilyra hissed at him. “Feed me and give me a blanket? For what? You want to torture me and skin me alive? What do you want!? You stink of wolf, and foul magic. Why should I trust you?”

The worgen chuckled. “Feisty little fox, aren’t you? The messenger told me he took away your weapons. Now all you have is your teeth and claws. No armor, no weapons and you dare to hiss at me?” He stared her down.

George stood next to the worgen and looked at the pitiful scrap of fur and bone. “That one is barely a mouthful, Master Malcotin. What use do you have for her?”

There was a slight sneer as Malcotin glared at his guardian. “I have use for every subject. The Vulperan are survivors. They are immune to some poisons, I have heard. I am going to test that theory now. I will open the cell, if you can subdue her and bring her to the lab. Once strapped to the table, I can proceed to draw some blood and test it for special properties. Can you handle that?”