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Time only passes for the living
#1
Slipping through the brush and under the cover of the trees, Saezhur made his way to the clearing. From the roof of a small hovel, only minutes before, had he seen the figure standing so far south. The clouded night had betrayed nothing more than the shape of some figure standing in the clearing, but something had held Saezhur's gaze. The figure had not moved and seemed to be facing his direction, a lone watchman in the night.

If not for his detailed knowledge of the area, he might have dismissed the figure as a scarecrow in a farmer's field. Harvest would soon come and many of the farms in the distance had erected similar devices. The field before him, though, was rocky and the ground uneven. An unsuitable place to toil for minimal gain, and local rumours held a belief that the land was cursed from blood-drenched battles that had happened on the very soil. A lone figure standing isolate was indeed strange for the location and once more Saezhur poured over his thoughts about the land.

His remembrance was clear, his return to his hideaway had proven no changes in the lands surrounding. Yet, some one or thing now stood watch upon his hideaway and Saezhur would find out who. He scrambled up a tree, the noise of squirrels more appropriate a sound than that of a forsaken followed in the wake. From the high ground, Saezhur could spy the field and he nearly collapsed from the sight.

"What the... you cannot be?" The words hung in the air as the figure stared back at Saezhur and then disappeared.
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#2
Keeping an eye on this to see what happens next.

Well done Saezhur...though you are not in Ironsong we welcome you and your rp anytime.

All my love and power

-=((D))=-
Sing True Ironsong!
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#3
Unceremonious. The word lingered as Saezhur lay on the ground.

He pulled dirt out of his empty sockets, not that it was necessary for his sight, but keeping up appearances was required to maintain the right illusions. But no illusion had appeared before him. He had seen it with his own preternatural vision. The figure standing in the clearing had been...

The thought faded as quickly as it came. He strained within his mind, seeing the vestigial remains of what he wanted to remember. The more he forced his mind to focus, the more the memory slid into oblivion, until he sat idly in the dirt cursing under his breath. A familiar voice spoke in his mind, interrupting his struggle.

Saezhur sugar, the sweet sachet you seek to seal such a songstress as this can still sense the sourness of said soul's solicitude.

Letting out a sigh, Saezhur lifts himself out of the dirt, the thought gone from his mind. "You timing is nothing short of astonishing, Morgan."

Morgan metes out a mouthful of mindful meanderings mostly measured and manifest as meant.

"And to that end, your timely tether of told text will twice-fold be taxed. I take you back to the house and leave you for others to speak with." Saezhur shook his head for a moment, Morgan's verse had a habit of lingering in his mind and affecting his own speech. Such distractions he needed to rid himself in order to figure out what he could not remember.

After depositing Morgan in the home, he set upon the road and travelled. The long road ended and he sat atop his horse overlooking Darrowshire.

"It always comes back to this, doesn't it?" He said to the wind. Deep in his mind, he knew that it was here he would find answers. His past, present and future revolved around the place he once called home so long ago.

As he peered upon the empty spirit forsaken lands of Darrowshire, Saezhur became aware of other visitors. The movements and voices were known to him, members of the tribe had come here this night. One in particular caught his eye, but he could not say what lay in his chest with so much emotion tied to this place. He waited and watched and heard tell of the return of the Lich King -- a name he knew and one he had once served, but in this place it held no sway over him.

The talk of whispered voices and return of a plague and treachery most vile filled the landscape. Saezhur retreated to shadows. He knew his place in such affairs and until such time as help was needed, he would not jump to the fore. A dread malfeasance gripped the land as actions and deeds took on a tone of darkness. Saezhur deepened his stride and closed the gap, coming around from the higher hills to see if aid was required. The timing, however, proved untowards and the proceedings diminished before he could learn more.

The ground around the gravestones was equally scorched and frozen. A seething battle of wills had occurred and seemingly a stalement had prevented the battle from raging longer. Saezhur walked stiffly towards an unmarked region of the graveyard, unblemished by magical assault, and knelt before a small patch of land.

Listening to the air for many minutes, he forced a smile to his lips and felt a sadness that tears were beyond his ability. "It is good that you rest. You carried so much for so long."

He lowered his hand to the ground and patted the grass with fingertips and then said a small prayer of mourning. Moving his hand further to the right he began another prayer and then stopped. The grass had given way to fresh upturned soil. Saezhur turned his attention to the dirt and sifted it through his fingers. "A new grave, or an old one undone?"

He lowered himself upon the dirt and laid himself in repose. The ground around him engulfed him in slow waves until only his toes poked through the soil. And in the soil, Saezhur listened to the creatures of the dark stained soil. Worms, maggots, centipedes and the like whispered their tales in movements and wriggles and Saezhur listened.
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#4
(( Thank you Dispaya!
I have always enjoyed sharing stories with those in Ironsong and I have always found great interest in reading the exploits of the Tribe. Much of what is written here is what is not said in-game, so certain lapses will occur. I will try to keep some sense to it for those who cannot partake of the RP I wield in the lands of Azeroth.

Tonight is a bonus, as I had the pleasure of being a shadow in the continuing story that took place in Darrowshire. I may even intertwine my story into this as the timing appears similar -- though, it depends on circumstance and may turn out to be inconvenient.

Regardless, I have enjoyed the RP that is and that will be with Ironsong and all those others I have found.

~Saezhur
))

Dispaya Wrote:Keeping an eye on this to see what happens next.

Well done Saezhur...though you are not in Ironsong we welcome you and your rp anytime.

All my love and power

-=((D))=-

((
Soon. Very soon.

I'm going to resurrect a post which I put up on Silver Hand forums back in 2005. However, I can neither access that file on the forum or find the copy of it in my possession Sad . Fortunately, I have a fair memory of all the details. Many of the characteristics will change as the original post dealt with the concept of PvP in Tarren Mill -- anyone remember the insanity that was Tarren Mill?

Anyways, it'll be soon enough. Now I just have to figure out how I can pull this off and still keep myself in the Sorrow storyline.

~Saezhur
))
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#5
The graveyard -- Darrowshire

Fingers snake up through the soil pulling the body slowly from the grave.

The cool air of the autumn storms fill the breeze with foreboding. A whispered threat upon the wind. I step over brambles and head to the brush. Out of sight from the road and from those who travel in the open spaces my skeletal steed stands idly, awaiting my return. Passing a copse of trees my horse stands nowhere. The loose tether from it's bridal hangs in the winds, frayed remains left as a note. My hand brushes the tangled remains and a quick rush of air sweeps in at my back. Darkness.

Fingers snake up through the soil pulling the body slowly from the grave.

Mist hangs heavy in the air. Rain will fall soon, but the ravages of the storm still occupy the land. I make my way to a small hovel to clear my thoughts and wait out the night. Once, this place could be have been called home, but the frail timbers had settled and the foundation had collapsed in many corners. The wooden step squeals under foot and I tense at the sound. Crossing the threshold, I walk through the unhinged door. A monotone whisper warns me that I am not alone in the room. Darkness.

Fingers snake up through the soil pulling the body slowly from the grave.

The sound of thunder emanates along the ground. A portent of the brewing storm. The first drops spatter against my face and I look to the sky. Creaking bones speak volumes of their tension and I find myself dragging my feet towards a mausoleum. Within the confines of a musty tomb, bones with less toil would serve. Fingers reach the door and notice it slightly askew. I reconsider the action and recoil, but in leaving I see what is to some. Darkness.

Fingers snake up through the soil pulling the body slowly from the grave.

The heavy rain washes dirt from the empty sockets and I step slowly towards the gate. The ringing sound of beetles still inside my skull slows my movements, torpor still clinging to the mind. A small root binds a foot, exposed and tanlged in a small muddy pool. I reach down to cut the stem from my leg. My heavy head rises in slow deliberation and stops at the sight of feet that are not mine. Darkness.

Fingers snake up through the soil pulling the body slowly from the grave.

Weariness assaults my legs and refuse to find purchase. The rain covers the land and lightning brightens the sky. Past the gate, a flash of light paints the image of a being with a large club in hand. In the muddy water of a fresh grave I pull myself under.

Darkness
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#6
A nondescript house

He stared once again at the closed door. Should he walk away. Leave the light of her smile and the soft touch of her hand and seek out the coming dark as he had planned. He lingered for more moments and found himself staring in through one of the windows. She studied her books and scrolls with intensity. The moments earlier seemingly forgotten, yet one hand appeared extended, possibly awaiting the comfort of another in a casual grasp. The pause lengthened and he watched her head slip. She was tired. At this late hour and with so many duties how could she not. Fate tempted him with the chance to return and cover her in the warmth of a blanket, but the night wind whispered ill omens and Saezhur's head turned back to the open fields.

The long shadows of trees cut swaths through the landscape, darkening the field in broken stripes. The autumn winds pushed leaves and dust to a swirling litter that danced between the patches of scattered moonlight. Saezhur walked over the soft moist ground, footsteps barely visible trailing in his wake. He cinched a bag around his waist and moved his belt so that his blades hung loosely enough to fall into his hands.

He passed a portion of field that had been left to rot. The pooled water spoke to the patch's lower elevation and so those crops would be wasted. Another harvest as many before, each coming back smaller and smaller. The rains would come and drown the seed or drought would choke the earth. This was a reality that Saezhur could not forget and yet, it had held a special place in his heart when he had lived. In the fields where he had toiled for years he knew that he would find that which he sought. The menace of past. An anger unabated by time. Here he would find his son.

Looming on a rolling hill, Saezhur looked up at the gaunt skeletal remains of his first and only born. From the vantage, the child appeared taller than he remembered, but then Saezhur had to admit to himself that he had only kept the young memories of his child at heart. The years later when drought, flood and the pestilence of soldiers had taken toll on his land and his crops had strained relations and soured the kinship with his blood. Their words had been short and the tension strong. Though, only once had violence occurred between them. Saezhur took cold comfort in the fact that he did not harm his son during life. A cold comfort indeed that had brought them to this moment.

His son stepped forward into a patch of moonlight, revealing his gruesome demeanor. A patchwork of torn clothes covered dirt encrusted bones. The flesh nearly withered away except in small dried patches that looked like overly dried leather. His skull was covered in dirt and showed more leathery skin, loose strands of hair caught in those patches lingering only by chance. Had he pulled his hair out in madness. A savage grin testified to a depravity that gripped the soul of his son. His empty sockets glowed sickly vermilion, blazing with hate and rage.

And still, Saezhur saw only his son. The young man with unkempt brown hair and a beaming smile even while toiling in the harsh sun. Saezhur looked on and envisioned the heavy cotton shirt and leather britches that his son would wear when hauling water to their home. His son then evolved as he stared. The space of time condensed on his vision and he saw the child become the sullen teen who would fight with him over things he would not ever come to understand. The youth could not abide the life of serfdom, so filled with a sense of urgency and matter that befits one who had not yet learned of consequences. The harsh words and stomping feet created a rift between them and Saezhur winced at the sullen jealousy that he felt. The child had the zeal of youth and saw the world as something to conquer, but his place had been with the family. Crops to be tended and animals to herd. He would never see the world for the land needed him more than anything else. His son had railed against the confines of such a life and so the two of them had drifted apart. Saezhur grimaced and looked away. How quickly it had all occurred. From boy to young man, the wink of an eye for the breadth of time that had passed since.

When he brought his head to bear upon his son he saw the grim visage, the savage anger and the seething shadowy ichor that forced his will. The dark ooze dripped through the empty sockets and trickled down the arms and legs of his son and Saezhur then understood the reason to use the word Sorrow for such an affliction. The question of how escaped Saezhur, only the reality that it merely was so held his thoughts. Yet, his son had still not moved. He seethed with splayed arms and wickedly sharp fingers ready to rip apart the form of his father, but he still did not move. Time had stopped between them.

What happened next Saezhur could not have guessed.
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#7
Saezhur looked up at his son and saw the the reaper like fingers flex and coil. The stance was more of an animal waiting to pounce than that of someone with rational thought. Stepping back, Saezhur swiveled his own stance, presenting only half of his body to his son and bringing his hand to rest on his dagger. His son slowly lowered himself, body leaning forward with arms spread wide. He would attack soon. Saezhur unclasped his dagger and lifted it with fingers.

As if in tense expectation, the winds kicked up new dust and leaves as the moon became dimmed by heavy clouds. One storm building as a portent to another. The crash of lightning signaled the attack and Saezhur's son leapt into the sky, arms arched forward with fingers extended meaning to fall on top of his father. In turn, Saezhur pulled his dagger free of his scabbard and twirled bringing the blade up to a killing blow that would strike deep in his son's chest. From the edge of his vision, as he spun in the tight circle to deliver the killing blow, he realized that his son had over-extended his jump and would would miss completely, but would catch the full brunt of the dagger into the chest. Anguish gripped Saezhur's arms and he twisted the blade from striking and instead hit his son with pommel and arms, knocking the youth prone before Saezhur's feet.

The boy, although Saezhur could hardly call him that for fourteen years had passed in his son's life before it had ended, lay on the ground, arms gripping the soil as he stared up at his father with gleaming green hatred in his empty sockets. His son reached up and clasped the ruddy remains of his shirt and ripped it open to bare his chest. He arched his back and held his arms wide. Saezhur paused. Such hatred seethed from the glow in his son's eyes, yet presented himself for a killing blow. Saezhur slowly raised his weapon but could not bring himself to strike.

The eyes turned to pleading and tears of ooze fell from them. His son slumped to the ground and fell into repose. One hand reached out and pulled on Saezhur's leg, the other closed into a fist and tapped on his chest. Saezhur nodded slowly as realization came to him, his son did not want this unlife and begged to be released from the thrall that held him. Saezhur knelt next to his son and placed a hand upon his son's chest.

Saezhur's voice was soft as he spoke, "You could be healed of Sorrow, Thedrick, allowed to be your own being."

At the mention of his name, Thedrick grimly smiled and then shook his head slowly. This was not his world, not his unlife, and not how he wanted to unllive. Too much time had passed since death and the world was likely too different to understand, Saezhur surmised; for he too felt that way from time to time.

Lifting his dagger high above him, Saezhur looked down at his son. In turn, Thedrick moved his fist from covering his chest and gripped his father's hand upon his chest. His son looked peaceful, still, nearly asleep in such calm repose.

The memory came from deep within Saezhur's mind as the blade began to arc toward his son's chest. A night much like this, but in a bedroom protected from the first drops of rain that had begun to fall. The young man lay still upon the bed, a long day of work tiring him, for he worked to support a family where the father had gone missing nearly a year before. Still too young to be a man, but still required to bring in the harvest, his body nearly broken by sweat and toil that he was too tired to clean from his skin before falling into exhaustion.

The scene played out in eerie duality. Time collapsed on itself and Saezhur stared at his son lying in bed. He had placed his hand upon the boy's chest to hold him down -- to comfort. The boy looked upon him and clenched the hand in fear -- in quiet resolution. The blade rushed down to strike, the cold depths of death and the dark arts fueling anger and resentment to kill his family in hatred and disgust -- compassion and love. The blade plunging into the heart -- falling to the ground.

Saezhur stared at his son, the two images imposed upon each other and he wished he could weep. To kill his son a second time, not for the life or unlife of him could he do it. He fell back away from his son and could only stare at his hands.

Thedrick rolled onto his forearms and stared at his father in disbelief. He rose to his feet and lifted his face to the sky, arms shaking in anger. The winds howled for the boy and thunder erupted to add depth to the anger he felt. Looking down at his father, the boy seethed further, the ooze congealed at his lips and snuffed out the green light in his left eye. He turned and fled into the night as his father watched in quiet horror.

What had he done?
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#8
Darrowshire

Saezhur watched as she rode away and doubt crept into his mind as he wondered whether she would trust him come the next night. Of all the people he would speak untruths to, she was among the last to come to mind. But he had and there was nothing more he could say or do about it as she passed out of sight.

Her earnest demeanour stayed fresh in his mind as he trudged through the muddy field. What would she learn that I do not want her to know? Why am I more afraid of what she will think than what I am here to do? His thoughts muddled as he approached the dank remains of his home. There was no use in dwelling on what could no longer be changed.

The same however, could not be said of his home. The roof had collapsed since last he had returned, though much of it had been blown away by storms or carried away by scavengers. Scattered remnants littered the hills while worn trails showed the egress of materials heavy enough to withstand weather but not a determined mind. Many walls had suffered either a similar fate or had merely collapsed into the mud around the home. And yet, Saezhur entered through the open doorway, a courtesy of remembrance. He surveyed the floors and found himself rebuilding the walls and rooms within his mind's eye as he traced steps that he had once so often took. The visions fell away as he sat in a barren room, devoid of wall, ceiling, doorway and most of it's floor. His son's room.

From his satchel, he withdrew a small bag of dreamfoil seeds and set about making tea. He hummed as he made a small fire and boiled water, a light melody to pass the time as he crushed seeds and prepared the drink.

Saezhur toiled in this ritual and lost himself so deeply that he did not sense the presence of his son standing behind him. The gaunt skeletal remains of Thedrick stood over his father. The dark ichor of Sorrow congealed and pulsed on his slight frame as his arms rose...
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#9
Acanthos set a quick pace along the well-worn path. The Dreadsteed knew his Mistress eager to return to the solitude of Undercity Sanctum, sensed unease in her posture, a quickness of breath reserved for the rush to battle.

Droplets glistened on the sparse foliage of the plaguelands, a bounty that could not restore the devitalized land. Rain that had fallen heavily cleared as farewells were said: a curtain lifting to reveal truth in a shared glance, to reestablish the world that would move on regardless of incident, remind of their duties within it. They had stood over the grave site, oblivious to the water soaking through garments, through wasted skin, to the bones beneath. Eveline felt the cold now, hating every prickle for the evidence of how life had left her. Somewhere in these forests, stumbling ahead of the invasion through Winter that had touched the fields before they were harvest ready. The graveside vigil tonight brought on visions she indulged seldom, and now she blamed her self-reflection when a friend was facing something far more substantial. Worries for him did not distract to the degree she hoped: she called forth memories of the damnable cold, fingers turning from blue to black, a sun hanging motionless in white skies, the despairing prayer. She heard her mother's final whispered words, "I cannot see...there is only darkness ahead." Riding past withered trees Eveline counted the ways that had proven true.

Of the promises she had made, this one obscured her values with doubt. Could it be fair to permit the death of a child? All life deserved to be cherished: why should this one be exempt due to a father's judgment? Had not the Sorrow-tainted others been reclaimed to sanity? Among the Forsaken, the gift of a merciful death was valued highly; with her fellow Warlocks Eveline had occasion to bear witness to such. In their final moments of unlife those passing revealed such grace in their features that it caused her to wonder at what moved them so.

"It is not for me to pass sentence. The boy does not live, tragedy was his end, if another tragedy must be committed to resolve this..." her words cut short in a muttered oath. What right had she to consider other actions having already pledged support?

With the Bulwark in sight, her heart lifted some. It was night, she would wait for daybreak to speculate.
"Morning is wiser than evening," she smiled.

Tomorrow night they would meet, one who would keep faith and one who would ask for none.
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#10
A droplet of ooze fell to the floor, a soft plopping noise followed by a faint hiss as the foul essence scratched into the surface of the floor looking for life; exhausting itself in lifeless flooring. Saezhur continued with his melody, realizing that he had made the mistake of thinking it was she who had snuck up behind him and hoping that his song had not skipped as he heard the droplet just behind him.

Another second passed as Saezhur cursed his lack of focus -- why do you want her here when you knew that Thedrick would be here. In the moment that followed, he rolled forward as the rushing of sweeping arms sought to wrap around his torso. Coming up into a crouch with blades drawn, Saezhur looked upon the face of his son.

The Sorrow had worked quickly and had covered Thedrick's body, only a dim light in his right eye protested the complete surrender to the plague that ravaged his body. The slime moved nearly of it's own volition and tensed like exposed muscles to force the movement of Thedrick into a charge. Saezhur ducked under the outstretched arms and could hear the furious bestial roar behind him as his son overran his target and crashed into a remaining wall. Springing back towards his son, Saezhur drove his dagger through Thedrick's shoulder pinning it to the wood. Thedrick, in turn, threw an elbow at his father, knocking Saezhur to the floor.

Thedrick struggled against the blade and howled viciously. Saezhur stood and looked at the dagger in his other hand. "Tonight, we shall finish this Thedrick. Tonight, this shall end."
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#11
Eveline pressed her palms over her ears. Over her eyes. The runed diagrams before her disappeared and appeared, still blurry. She was crying. About her were scrolls, grimoires, unsealed letters: all signs of a day well spent. The Apothecarium had been generous in sharing what was known of the Sorrow, and she tore through the findings with urgency bourne of need only to find that comfort was not within.

The plaguebloom brew she favoured did nothing to deaden her senses today, but she called for more. A succubus arrived from the kitchens whirled its' tail with mischief and placed the fresh cup before her. It minced around for a better view, and shook its' horns, "now, Mistress, you do not deserve to be tormented so."
"I am fine. Thank you for the tea." Eveline pressed the cup to her lips, closed her eyes at the warmth.
The succubus smirked, "I know what you desire. I know how you wish to belong to another, and I know why you always fail!"
"You're wrong. I do not wish for more than I am capable of having."
"You do. A lesser Demon could smell it on you." The succubus waggled a talon in Eveline's face, "you aren't being very honest."
"This from you?" Eveline started from her reverie and laughed, the clear sound echoing about the room. "Please spare me your twisted sympathies. I've told no lies, that is enough."
The succubus pressed on, compelled by her nature to antagonize, "he doubts you. Will you still go? Open yourself up to abandonment like twice before? That's the only thing predestined between two people. Send me," she whined, "send me instead and he will be brought back here to show my Mistress proper devotion."

Eveline turned, the eyes of servant and served locking with routine understanding of command.
"You will never come close to any I care for, Domlia. Not in play, not in tourney, not for the centuries you are to be my charge. Never." Ropes spun of Shadow snaked about Domlia, the words of her Mistress forever binding.
The succubus writhed in pain and managed a giggle, "Don't try to tell me you've never thought of breaking a man!" She gasped as the Shadow-coils tightened, removing her to the familiar Nether.
"Not this one," Eveline whispered, "I have just now put him together."
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#12
Saezhur stalked closer to his son. It would be so easy. Pin the other shoulder and then reach into the body, ripping the essence that tied soul to form. Saezhur twitched and began giggling maniacally as he considered and flipped the dagger so blade had downward thrust. Another vision of the past erupted before his mind, time condensing on the present.

The voice stood in shadow behind him, a disinterestedly distant scholarly tone. Pain seared Saezhur's chest as the being spoke, railing against bonds that held him in place. "The undead construct is not unlike any other magickal object. It is infused with energy that is tied to a physical form. Remove the energy and the form no longer functions. It is a simple matter of finding the essential essence of that energy and drawing it out. As you can see, unlike that of a traditional object, the undead being is capable of reacting strongly to the removal of this essence, so one must exercise caution in such a process. Are there any questions? ..."

Saezhur's vision blinked and he realized that he had stepped quite close to his son, his hands hovering over Thedrick's back. Shaking his head, he looked away and was greeted with another elbow to the face. A sickening crunching noise rose in the air as Thedrick twisted his body, rending the bone as the ripped himself from confinement. Saezhur stumbled from the blow and found his face engulfed by the right hand of his son, a grip strong enough that crushed fragments of jaw. Grabbing his son's right arm, he swung the dagger upwards through the wrist. He then shoved with his forearm as he brought the blade down in another viscious arc, driving the blade through the right shoulder and pinning his son once again to the wall, only a half step next to the other dagger.

Thedrick snapped his skull forward and bit the hand of his father as his only recourse. As Saezhur pulled away, he looked at the fingers of his left hand and watched the sizzling ooze begin to seep into the wound. "There is little time left, Thedrick." He said as he watched the ooze double in size as it infected the hand.

Saezhur stepped back and scooped up the teapot and then turned to his son. "Would you like tea?"
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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#13
Thedrick snarled, the ember of green light in his right eye nearly extinguished by the ooze. Saezhur slapped his son across the face and yelled, "Thedrick! I am your father and you will listen to me!" The green light dimmed slightly and then magnified in intensity as the being attempted to reassert dominance over itself. A guttural groan emanated from deep within Thedrick's chest, a sign of struggle between the two entities as they fought for control of the host.

Saezhur watched as the his son's head shook violently, spittle and ichor spraying off of the body in either direction as the head rolled from right to left. Saezhur lifted his left hand to stop a globule of ooze from landing on his face and heard whispers from the expanding mass on his finger and wrist. Dark, foreboding tones promising untold delights and pleasures of the mind if one would merely succumb. An enticing song that Saezhur had once heard so long ago and found still nearly irresistible at this moment. He shuddered as the voice sang to him and he realized that something had grabbed his left shoulder. In woken reverie, Saezhur looked upon the strong green light of his son's eye staring at him, the pinned right arm grasping his shoulder and squeezing it pleadingly.

Saezhur smiled at his son and then felt the tearing of cloth and bone as his son's hand raked down Saezhur's arm, the struggle continued. Bringing the tea between them, Saezhur spoke softly, "Thedrick, my son, do you remember the smell of this tea. Dreamfoil tea. Your mother made it for you when you were sick, telling you that it held hopes, wishes and dreams for those who would drink and let it soothe their aches and pains. Can you smell it? The sweet scent of rain and taste of that dark liquid?"

In truth, Saezhur could not remember a time in his undead existence that he had tasted or smelled anything, but on rare ocassions where the words described something from his memory, he could sometimes hint at such and nearly sense it as it was his own. He hoped that it was true for his son.

The raking hand soon relaxed and fell limp and Saezhur watched as his son craned his neck, the remembrance of a time so long ago filling his mind. "Do you want to see her? Would you like to see your mother, Thedrick? Look upon her face and hug her once more?" The boy nodded slowly, a tear of ooze falling from his face.

Saezhur yanked the dagger out of his son's shoulder and the boy stumbled forward, eyes pleading. "No, I cannot go with you, son. You could stay with me, if that would be your wish?" Saezhur spoke softly, but his voice cracked as he thought of the possibility of having his son stay. Thedrick looked at the floor and shook his head slowly raising his fist to his heart, opening the palm as if dropping an apple. Saezhur nodded, "You are tired and your heart is not in it. I understand. Lay down, Thedrick. I shall put you to bed."

Thedrick laid himself on the floor and stared at his father, the gleaming green light streamed at the sides, sad tears at the moment of parting. Kneeling beside his son, Saezhur rested his left hand on the boy's chest. Streams of ooze coursed up onto his hand as Saezhur moved his fingers, searching for the sustaining energy of his son's spirit. A faint glimmer trickled through the ichor as the essence bubbled to the surface, so gently did Saezhur call forth the bound spirit energy.

Thedrick placed his hand upon his father's and helped pull the remaining essence and as Saezhur crushed the energy between his fingers, he watched the tears of green light dissipate with the whispered words thanks hanging in the air.

Saezhur knelt for seconds more and then violently cut off his own left arm, leaving the ooze to congeal on dead bone. As he turned to walk away, he muttered to himself as he sought out one who could help ensure that the infection would not catch him, "...to wish impossible things..."
If it ain't broke, then you really aren't using it are you?
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