Rebirth?
((Viewer discretion may be advised, potentially disturbing/dark content.))
“Sometimes all one needs is a small spark. A sight or a thought that kicks one little gear into motion, the machinations clicking into progress once more. One just has to listen, hear the crickets chirp, and take note of the silence. That beautiful silence, every night across the plains of Westfall, you hear that silence.
Well, most nights at least. Westfall is still recovering from past events, it still remains a hole for Defias, human trafficking, elicit trading, and all forms of undesirables. Perhaps that is exactly what drives a man to such a place? Me and my brother once had a calling. We killed monsters for others.
In the twisted coils of life, one never thinks they will become exactly what they used to prepare to slaughter every morning. No, they think life will play out well for them, by some means or another. But... It always ends for some reason. That joy, that light of hope and salvation that one single thing might grant you, it dissipates, like a small light in the twisting voids.
So, what is one to do with the skills of killing monsters? Exactly that. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted the joy, the song, the thrill. A thrill like this can never be replicated or replaced. I proved that fact. Sure, it can be subjugated; caged like a beast hungry for meat and eyeing a defenseless babe, but no. It can NEVER be replaced.
Perhaps it’s why these monsters I hunt do what they do? Their own twisted thrills and joys? The, pardon the Dwarven, “shits and giggles”? I find myself asking and yet, not caring.”
The quill finishes scratching over the papyrus of his journal. A leather-bound tool for which to log his random machinations. Nothing more, nothing less.
The thoughts continue to swim through his head, a Thresher darting through the sea. He doesn’t know why this night is so different, why he seems to be so thoughtful, but, then again he’ll never understand himself. Not fully.
A quick tune flies from between pursed lips, air catching across the moistness of his lips in a delicate whistle. Each tone is meticulously planned as he walks forwards. As he places the journal down to a shattered wooden table, the moonlight would vaguely shine from each mark of ink, bouncing straight to his dull eyes.
With a yawn he’d walk to the other side of the building, for he was within a barn. One of the many abandoned and destroyed buildings of the Westfall plains, aching for use and repair. Throwing his arms to either side of his head, the window hatches before him fling open, smacking against the decaying wood of the walls. A single pivot comes undone, causing one of the hatches to dangle, not unlike a broken ankle held aloft.
A beautiful night such as this needs music. The rustling and muffle groans behind him would fill that desperate void, the crickets joined by a myriad of worrisome men. Three of them, one decked out in the classic thug outfit with black leather tunic and leggings, a red mask to signify some bullshit allegiance, and a knife strapped to his belt.
The next appeared to be some form of transient, lacking a shoe, wearing torn fabrics and smelling like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. Finally, the third. The third was the odd one out, a nobleman it would seem. He had an embroidered cloak draped over his lavish robes. Each bearing a dark crimson of color, contrasting the silver-white circlet upon his forehead.
Each of them wriggled, tied to a somewhat repaired wooden table, and gagged with disgusting rags. The torn shirt of the transient seemed to show where such cloth came from, and the taste must not be any better than the smell.
As the moonlight shines into the barn, each is illuminated just enough, as are the tools laying out before them. Strewn across the ground is a leather roll filled with metal instruments. Hooks, scalpels, blades, pins, even a small gun; not a single one lacked the moon’s shine across it’s stainless steel.
The man standing before them was rather prepared. He wore brown gloves that covered to his wrists and tucked beneath woolen sleeves. He wore a lumberman’s shirt, topped with a butcher’s apron and thick padded leggings. Atop his head was a brown mask, not unlike the mask a Defias would wear, only, it was paired with a matching hood and cloak. His attire covered every inch of him, leaving nothing visible but his cold stare.
As he neared, he held his hands up, lifting three fingers on his right hand. His left hand soon raised to press one after the other down as he spoke, “One, two, three, I count some fun for me.” The tone he carried was cryptic, as if to simply mock the bound men. After bending at the knee, he decided to pick a single scalpel, before then reaching to one of the many pouches adorning his belt.
Pulling free two vials, he showcases them to the men. “One of these-” The green viscous substance in vial one swirls as he shakes it, “-is a toxin developed from a sea adder to the north. Deadly stuff, so much that it will kill you from one scratch. But, it’ll be a rather painless death, albeit slow. Now the other-” This time a small compilation of what appear to be plant’s needles jumble about while he showcases the second, “-is my personal favorite. Adder’s Tongue. It’s a fun little herb that’ll cause irritation and pain to skin, or nasty blistering to the wounds I’ll inflict. It’ll be painful, but I’ll make it fast.”
Shifting both vials to one hand, the figure walks closer to the first man, the thug. He pulls the gag free from his mouth and opens his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by the once gagged prisoner, “You piece of shit, I’ll make sure my buddies find out about thi-” Sadly, he is cut off as our warden for the evening grasps his tongue with one hand. Holding it tightly, he pulls slowly from the man’s mouth, eliciting a rather loud whimper before scream as the muscles stretch through his throat and mouth.
“Sir, I gave you a choice, I didn’t tell you to act so uncouth. Pick your /poison/ and then you can speak.” At the finish of his statement, the hooded figure slaps a hand to the thug’s mouth, allowing the tongue to fall back in. All the while, his other two wards were silent as can be, shocked and appalled by the sight before them.
Sheepishly, prisoner number one eyes the green toxin, nodding towards it. The man is happy to oblige, taking his scalpel of choice and removing the cork to the vial. The tip of the blade spins the substance about as he dips it in, soon dripping the mucous like liquid as he brings it towards the thug’s arm.
With screaming words of “I’ll kill you” and “Please don’t” the first prisoner winces as steel meets flesh. A delicate dance of soft skin against hard metal, blood mixing with the green of the toxin. A painting, a dance, it was an art. Each half-second of dragging that scalpel across his arm was such a thrill, and the cloaked figure smile all through it. Little pain accompanies, but, the toxin would soon be soaking into his blood and its streams.
“Now, sir, you may ask away.” After speaking, he brings the two vials to the second man, the transient that appears to be in his middle years. “Pick a vial while he speaks.” After watching the thug, prisoner number two looks to the red one and nods. To which the warden can only smirk, “What a brave man. If only you had been so brave in regards to the daughter you so willingly sold.” Freeing the first few needles, he’d lay them across the soon to be closed eyelids of the transient. “Don’t open those eyes, or it’ll sting even more.” Sure enough, the first contact was enough to garner whimpers of pain and discomfort, but it was just starting.
Finally, prisoner one would speak, through rather slowly. “Who are you? Why do this?”
“I’m but a monster. One that preys upon other monsters.” The warden decides to pluck a single hook from his plethora of tools, placing the tip to the back of the transient’s shoulder, his trapezius. With a firm but gentle push, the metal bites into his flesh. Blood would begin to seep from the puncture, and the hook is pushed through his shoulder and out the other side. A needle soon decorates the wound, causing the blood to fester before blistering around the entry point. Truly, a painful experience.
“Now, like I said, it would be painful. Yet, I said it would be quick.” Without wasting a moment, the masked man pulls a knife from the tools before lifting it high. Crushing weight lands onto the transient’s chest, knife piercing flesh, muscle, and heart. Blood would spurt from the new cavity, painting the torso and table around it, as well as reaching some parts of the wooden floor below. “Such a beautiful song... For you see, such a brave man to take the quick road to death, but such a coward to sell his daughter as he did.”
The masked figure then shifts his gaze to the now dead thug. He had remained alive long enough to hear an answer, and witness the death, but now all that remained was prisoner three. The nobleman.
With a quick rip, the gag was pulled free. This caused a gag before a large amount of mucous and spittle erupted from the nobleman’s throat. “If you think they were gonna have you killed, you don’t even understand who I am you FREAK!”
“Oh, but I do know. You’re the man who is responsible for a hefty amount of smuggling through Westfall and part of Stormwind City. You help bring in goods like Felweed and other... Items. So, you are as deserving as these two here.” The words are callous and spiteful, all the rage seemed directed to him alone. Both vials are placed back, closed. “See, since they got to suffer through those means, you get my special treatment. I’m a dentist, after all.”
Two hooks soon hold a jaw open, face tearing at the seams from metal clashing against the meat. Blood continues to pour from his face, cries and gurgles of pain and suffering escaping like whimpers from a shot dog. “For you, I give you such a special treat. You’ll know my name, but, I fear you may die by the end of it...”
Scalpels, knives, pins, each are used in due time to remove tooth after tooth in most gruesome fashions, decorating the tools with that deep crimson hue. “Sallus.” One tooth chopped free. “McKormick.” Another stabbed free from its roots. “Banith.” So it would continue, until either no more teeth remained, and the man had died. As he continued his name, he resorted instead to decorating the flesh with marks and cuts, finally ending by piercing the heart and speaking in a deathly whisper, “..-Kaloyanchev-Pasqualichio. The monster to kill monsters.”
With a flourish he’d look over his handiwork, admiring every deep cut, every scrape, and every use of herb and toxin. “I should thank that young lady for supplying me such a fun toxin...” Thus began the arduous task of disposing of the evidence, as well as the burning down of the barn after having gathered his things.
A familiar quill soon scratched across that papyrus, etching each word with a purpose.
“Such a small spark can light such a grand fire. A fire of inquisition, a fire of retribution. I await my own judgement, but until then, I will execute it across the entire kingdom. From Elwynn to Duskwood.
Perhaps, just maybe, there is a place for me in this world. Just as I am. It’ll be good to be back.”
