Post by Monday
((
Storybook))
Markoth worried as he returned to Jonathon’s house on King’s Square. The attack had gone well, but he still had a feeling that something wasn’t right. Bane had confided that he had felt anger and despair in the air of Market Row when he was on the way to #27, on the very brink of violence, and that those infected by the taint of the cult were among them. Markoth had felt it as well, but it had amounted to nothing.
Did he lie to me? Markoth wondered, pondering what would make Bane lie to him.
He brushed it off as he entered the house. He had stayed to observe the house a little more, so Bane had left without him. Now as he entered, he wondered if that was wise. Bane seemed a little too pleased with the morning’s turnout, more so than any of the others.
A faint aura of gloom permeated the house. Frowning, he entered the main room to see Jonathon, Khazran, Gordon and Bane all seated, speaking in whispers. Khazran held a large mug and drank steadily, while the others had lunch. Bane had touched nothing.
Markoth strode over to the others and sat down. “What happened?” he asked, without preamble. Jonathon looked up. “Several men and women, dressed the same as the ones we battled today and yesterday, were caught in the forest just south of here performing some foul ritual. Several buildings of unknown origin had sprung up overnight. Large pyramidal structures they say, and the mage that went to investigate said that huge amounts of power were being run through them. More were reported in Andorhol.”
“Nexuses?” Markoth asked uneasily.
Jonathon nodded. “Aye. And the worst part?” He glanced to either side, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “The Knights sent to investigate were attacked by what they described as ‘shambling creatures, reeking and filthy, with decomposing flesh.’” He gave that a moment to sink in. “Markoth, they were attacked by zombies.”
“This is madness!” said Markoth, standing up and pacing agitatedly. “Are you saying that these death cults are really
undeath cults?”
“No, the witnesses say they are,” Jonathon growled. “Either way, it doesn’t change anything, except make our plans a little more urgent. We already planned on exterminating them, after the attack we received, why change our plans?”
Markoth stopped, and turned to face the other inquisitor. “We need information now. Why would a large string of necromantic cults spring up out of nowhere? There has to be a driving force, a reason for this to happen.”
“Perhaps a guiding mind?” Jonathon suggested. “A lunatic who needs reinforcements? One would hardly need top notch material for something like this.”
Markoth twisted his mouth thoughtfully, rocking back on one foot and leaning against the wall. “Now that you mention it, there was a wizard who was exiled for practicing necromancy. What… Kel’Thuzad!”
“Kel’Thuzad?” Bane asked, suddenly interested. “Necromancy?”
Markoth nodded, eyeing Bane uneasily. “Yes, why?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bane replied, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Just a thought.”
“Care to expound?” Markoth asked, exasperated.
“No.”
“Anyways!” Jonathon said, interrupting the argument before it could become heated, “I say we strike soon. Very soon.”
“I can live with that,” Khazran said, sitting up and pulling out his warhammer.
Markoth shrugged. “If you think that’s best.”
Ten minutes later they were on the way to Crusader Square.
“I don’t like this,” Markoth said, not quite looking at Bane as he surveyed the quiet house. “It seems too easy. I didn’t think about it at the time, but we tracked him pretty easily.”
Bane shrugged. “I think it would work just fine.”
Jonathon inclined his head towards Bane. “Indeed. We just killed his three comrades? How rational can you be?”
“Very well,” Markoth grunted. “On three. One, two, three!” Khazran shoulder slammed the door, which shattered inward. They all stormed into the house, while Gordon covered the entrance behind.
The house was empty.
Markoth frowned, looking all around. There was no staircase that he could see, and nobody sat on the chairs or stood anywhere. “Where. Are. They,” he grunted, looking around angrily. “No, this ruins everything! We have no leads, nothing!”
Bane strode over to the doorframe and knelt down, picking something up. “This looks rather like a Scythe,” he mentioned offhandedly, holding up an iron icon.
A thought struck Markoth. “Wait a moment, did you say Scythe?” Bane nodded confusedly. “Scythe, forest…” Standing up, Markoth paced quickly around the room, then stopped. “Wait a moment, you said these cults have been springing in Lordaeron?” Jonathon nodded.
Markoth went pale. “These cults are infiltrating Andorhol, are using a Scythe as their icon… what if they’re doing something to the grain?”
Jonathon opened his mouth as the realization dawned on him, when something dropped from the ceiling and struck him from behind. The inquisitor dropped soundlessly. Behind him rose a tall, gangly shape, which opened a mouth altogether too wide, and screamed at them.
Khazran cried out and fell to the floor. Markoth shuddered and followed. Bane twisted his head and yelled back in reply.
The thing grabbed Khazran and hurled him out a window, then turned on Markoth. It reached a hand forward, which was promptly severed at the wrist as Gordon sprang into the room. He backhanded the monstrosity, which hit a nearby wall. It turned on the Knight, and had a hand, glowing with Light, thrust into its face.
Smoke rose from the wound, and a handprint was burned into the thing’s face. It shuddered and collapsed to the floor. Gordon lifted his sword and decapitated it. Lifting the head, he frowned.
“This is an elf’s head…”