The Burning

Chapter Fifteen

It hadn't taken all that long to reach Pyrewood Village, but the purple-robed stranger and Ramon Malden had waited until morning to make their move. They had come upon the village, and seen an odd humanoid standing outside the village's entrance, an opening in a long wall of sharpened wooden logs, planted vertically in the ground. The humanoid had the body structure of a man, but had white fur growing on most of their upper body, particularly on the arms, and shoulders, but the legs were likewise coated in the thick, snowy hair. Hands and feet both bore claws, and were more animal than human, which was fitting as the creature's head was that of a wolf, though with black holes where the eyes should be, as though it was only a mask, despite the obvious fact it was real. A quick scout-job by Ramon had resulted in their decision to wait awhile and observe, when they saw that the entire village was full of these creatures, out on patrol. Their decision had apparently been a smart one.

When morning came, the wolf-creatures had all strangely transformed into human beings, as previously unseen metal bands about their wrists glowed with magic energy, and the fur retreated into them until no signs of the wolf-creature's features remained. "Well," Ramon began after witnessing this, as he sat down on the slope leading down to the village below. "He sure knows how to pick 'em."
"I wonder how that works," the child-voice muttered distractedly. Ramon just shrugged, and ran a hand over the green spikes of hair that composed the mohawk on his otherwise bald head. Magic wasn't his area of expertise. All he knew was that he would much prefer to fight a human adversary than some kind of weird wolf-man-thing. Ramon paused at that thought, and then chuckled. The robed-figure turned its hooded head in the Undead Warrior's direction, breaking its observation of the village as it stood on a tree stump to gain a better view. "You find something amusing?" Ramon looked up at the stranger at the question.
"Nothing much. Just thinking about how at least Art won't have any problems fitting in here." He gestured in the direction of the village with one black-gloved hand.
"Unh," the stranger said non-commitally, and then hopped down from the tree stump. "Come on," the stranger said as it began heading down the slope towards the village. "It is time we paid the Second a visit." Ramon was quickly on his feet, as he caught up with the short figure in just a few strides of his much longer legs, and then moved ahead of it. One of the two was much more fragile than the other, after all.
"So how are we getting in there?" Ramon asked. "I can dispatch that guard there outside the entrance easy enough, and if we move fast we can search the town, find Art, get out of there, and hopefully leave plenty of corpses to mark our passing." Ramon grinned at the thought, exposing his black gums and half-dozen sharp teeth. He reached for his sword at his side, and discovered only the broadsword he had stolen off that Southshore guard. His grin immediately reversed, turning into a scowl. "Or I could do that if I had MY sword. With this dinky little dagger it may take a bit longer than usual."
"We are most certainly NOT going to simply charge in like complete idiots, hacking and slashing at anything that gets in our way, and wind up dead and deader." The stranger responded.
"Bah," Ramon responded unhappily. "Well, what are we doing then?"
"We will use Plan D."
"D for Death?" The Warrior asked hopefully.
"No, D for Diplomacy," the child-voice answered.
"Bah," Ramon repeated.

By that point the two had come to the bottom of the slope, and were close enough for the watchman outside the entrance to spot them. The man was large, muscular, carried a sword, and had thick, black, smooth hair that trailed down the back of his neck. He also had a bushy moustache. The man's moustache appeared to start twitching like a living thing when his blue eyes alighted upon the Undead man and short stranger, though it was actually his upper lip that was spasming. The glint of white teeth was revealed when his lips curled apart, and each tooth was sharp, either through filing or some other reason. The man's breathing quickened, his shoulders rising and falling, as his dark-tan skin darkened further, blood rushing into his face.
"Good day, sir," the stranger began. "We are looking for an acquaintance of ours who has taken up residence in your village, he goes by the name of--" The child-voice was interrupted as the watchman let out a cry of pure rage and charged at the two unwelcome visitors, sword raised in preparation to strike. Before he was even half-way there, Ramon had intercepted him, having moved to meet the attacker the moment he lifted his blade. One of Ramon's fists shot out, slamming into the man's stomach, pulling back, shooting out again, this time at an angle, and hitting the man in the face, before pulling back as the Undead man brought his other arm around with the broadsword in his hand, in a backwards slash that cut open the guard's throat so quickly and so cleanly it looked like the skin had just decided to split apart. Ramon had been a bit surprised when he punched his attacker. His fist had not landed on armor, or the stomach fat so many human men seemed to have these days, even some soldiers, but instead on densely packed muscle, so hard and firm that Ramon felt not as though he was punching flesh but rather stone. And with similar results, since the man had barely noticed the blow to his abdomen. That was why Ramon had reacted quickly, trying to hit someplace more vulnerable, and struck the man's face. He had felt the metal studs on his glove strike the watchman right on target, and felt the cheekbone crack a bit from the force, but the man showed little sign of pain, and Ramon began to consider the possibility that this wolf-man-person hadn't weakened at all when he changed from monster to human.

Ramon's sword had most definitely made his attacker take notice, however. The man had brought his freehand up to his gashed open throat, eyes bulging for a moment in shock, as great gouts of blood poured from the wound, but Ramon was surprised once again when the man's momentary amazement dissolved into rage again, and he began fighting Ramon. The Undead Warrior had managed to deflect or parry most of the slashes of the watchman's blade, but there was such force behind that sword arm that he had to struggle not to be forced back, in the direction of the robed-one he was protecting. The situation worsened when the man he was fighting seemed to realize his attempts to staunch the flow of blood from his throat with one hand were pointless, and allowed the crimson-soaked hand to leave the wound, and add its strength to his swings, even as he bled to death. Ramon couldn't go toe-to-toe with his opponent anymore, because the blade strokes were so strong, he knew that if even one hit him, it was liable to take his head off in one go. Thus he ducked under the next swing, predictably aimed at his neck, and from his crouching position he thrusted his sword upwards, underneath the man's ribcage, and into his vitals, cutting through one lung, and the heart, Ramon judged, from the feel of it. And yet the man still tried to fight, using both hands to invert his sword, and struggled to lift it over his head, in preparation to plunge it down into the Undead before him. Then Ramon shoved his broadsword in another few inches, and the watchman finally convulsed and went limp.

Ramon yanked the broadsword out of the dead man, and pushed him backwards to fall to the ground with a thump. Standing up, the leather-garbed Warrior thoughtfully said, "You know, I don't think these guys are fully human."
"Your powers of observation continue to astound me. However, we are not alone." The child-voice stated. Ramon looked up from the dead body of the watchman to find two more men with the same look about them standing in the village entrance, looking down at the corpse of their comrade. The two men slowly dragged their gaze up to meet the glowing blue lights in Ramon's eyes. Then their breathing quickened, their faces flushed, and they let out cries of rage, before charging, swords ready.
"Oh, hell." Ramon muttered, before moving to engage two of Pyrewood Village's defenders at once.

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Art sat a table in the village's inn, with three other men sitting in chairs around it as well. They all had cards fanned out between their fingers, looking intently at what they had been dealt, and occasionally darting glances at each other. By some unspoken agreement the four men slapped down their cards on the table, face up, showing what they had. Art grinned as he saw what everyone else had, and called out, "Ha! Beat that!" The other men looked at Art's hand, and groaned, releasing they had lost. However, the next game resulted in Art losing, and one of the others winning, and those who lost groaned in the same fashion. They weren't playing for anything other than fun. No one who lost had any bad feelings about it, and everything was taken good-naturedly. That's how things worked in this village. No one argued or fought with each other. Everyone helped out, worked to keep the village running, enjoyed the companionship of the other villagers, and killed anyone who came within spitting distance of the entrance. 'What an idyllic life-style I live!' Art thought to himself as he laughed with the other men, and drank a mix of beer and blood from a brown, ceramic mug he had made himself, with a puppy outlined on it.

He had come to the village a few years ago, shortly after the Scourge invaded Lordaeron, and he had been welcomed with open arms once he displayed his unique talents. Of all the people in the village, he was the only one who could change his form without the aid of the enchanted shackles that the wizard Arugal had placed on everyone else. Art had always viewed it as a curse, personally, but it had led to his acceptance here, and he had never been happier in his life. He never wanted this time to end. Just as he was looking over another winning hand he had been dealt, however, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up to find a friend of his, Joseph, standing over him. "Hey, there, Joseph! Want to pull up a seat and join us?" Art grinned. The other men at the table smiled as well, moving to make room for the new arrival, more than happy to have another player in the game. They weren't playing for any material wealth after all. However, Joseph shook his head, unhappy to have to decline, and Art realized there was a serious expression on his friend's face. He folded his cards together and put them face-down on the table, as a concerned expression moved onto his face. "What's wrong? They need me up at the Keep again?"
"No, it's not that. The village elder needs to see you about something." Joseph answered. Art blinked and looked around at the other men at the table, as though they could explain to him what he was missing. They looked as bewildered as him, though.
"Alright, no problem. Any idea what this is about?" Art asked, as he pushed his chair back on the wooden floor, and started to stand up.
"We had some intruders. They killed eight villagers before we stopped them." Joseph divulged unhappily. Grim expressions were on everyone's faces as they took this in.
"Where are their bodies?" Art growled out ferally.
"There aren't any. They're still alive." Joseph answered. Art let out a noise of dismay before shouting.
"The murderers are still at large in the village!? Why didn't you say so sooner!?" He turned his attention briefly to the other men at the table, and said, "Please excuse me, I have to go deal with these marauders. We'll continue our game later." But the other men also got up from their seats, prepared to come with him. No one faced problems alone in Pyrewood Village. Art didn't need to speak his gratitude for this gesture. They knew. They also knew he would do the same for them in a heartbeat. But then Joseph interrupted this moment of comraderie.
"They are not at large in the village. We have captured them." At this, Art whirled on Joseph, apalled at this news.
"Why in the name of Arugal are they not dead, then?"
"Because," Joseph said seriously. "They asked for you by name."

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The purple-robed stranger and the Undead Warrior waited in the elder's house, surrounded by very angry men with swords. They were tough bastards, Ramon had to admit. Though the stranger had joined the fight when they started getting swarmed, blasting away with its wand, and using some strange power on anyone who got too close, so that when it touched them they exploded into dust, eventually the child seemed to run out of whatever it used to make use of that ability, and it had to rely more and more on its wand, which didn't seem to be terribly effective against Pyrewood's defenders. Ramon had likewise put his best effort into fighting, but with only the stolen broadsword at his disposal, he couldn't fend off the superhuman warriors for too long, before both he and the stranger were overwhelmed. He didn't doubt that the only reason they were still in one piece right now had been the stranger yelling desperately that they were here to see Art, and were friends of his. For whatever reason, the berserkers hadn't cut them into tiny pieces, and had instead just dragged them through town, up a hill, and into the house atop it, and beaten them every which way they could in the process. The man they took to be the elder had ordered someone named Joseph to go get Art and bring him to the house, and then they had merely had to stand there in the room, in silence, while being glared at with murderous intent.

Ramon had tried to start up conversation a couple times, but was silenced each time when one or more people growled at him, exposing their sharp teeth. It was only a couple minutes after Joseph left that they heard a commotion outside the house, followed by the front door slamming open, and a familiar voice yelling and swearing violently downstairs. Ramon turned to face the doorway of the room they were in, and waited expectantly as the sound of stomping up the stairs echoed through the house, along with the voice of Art, becoming louder and louder as he detailed what he was going to do when he arrived. "--AND THAT'S ANOTHER THING! THEY KILLED EIGHT PEOPLE AND THEN THEY HAVE THE NERVE TO ASK FOR ME!? ME!? LIKE I WOULD WANT TO TALK TO THEM AFTER THEY MURDERED MY FRIENDS! WHEN I GET MY HANDS AROUND THEIR NECKS, I'M GONNA--" Art came around the corner and in through the doorway and stopped abruptly. He never finished saying what he was gonna'. Ramon looked over Art. The man was tall, to the point he had to duck to go through most doors. He had long gray hair that flowed down his back, with his bangs curled upwards in front, and lightly-tanned skin, heavily weathered, and rough looking. On his face were many scars, some faded, others still an ugly purple-red, long after they were gotten. Art had thick, muscular arms, bulging and rippling with power, and legs and chest to match. He was wearing his "normal" outfit, a leather jerkin, with baggy cloth pants, and work boots. He didn't carry any weapons, or ornamentation, and never had. He didn't need the former, and the latter wouldn't stay on him when he changed shape. Art's eyes were golden-brown, like a wolf's, and were currently wide and staring as he saw the Undead Warrior standing in the middle of the room. Ramon lifted a hand and waved.
"Hey, Art. Long time. I see you haven't changed much over the years." Art managed to find his tongue following this greeting, as a grin split his face.
"Ramon! What the hell are you doing here? I heard you got sealed in a coffee table!"
"An altar, but close enough." Ramon replied, smiling as well.
"You'll have to tell me all about it over some beer and a game of cards! Come on, I know these great guys, and--" Art was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. He looked around the room, but didn't see anyone who would make such a high-pitched throat-clearing noise. Ramon jerked his head to the side, and Art stared at him in confusion. Ramon jerked his head to the side twice more, and Art still stood there, bewildered. There was the throat-clearing again, and this time Ramon lifted a hand and pointed down. Art looked where Ramon was pointing, his gaze slowly moving down, down, down, until it landed upon the purple-robed stranger.
"Hello, Art." The child-voice said. Art gaped. "Please come with us. We have work to do."
"Oh, gods, not you again," Art moaned miserably as he puts his face in his hands.
"I really wish you people would stop saying that," the child-voice muttered.

There had been much argumentation, much discussion, and eventually the elder had agreed to let Art speak alone with the two intruders. Just outside the door, however, there were dozens of rightfully angry men, fully willing to rend the stranger and the Undead man to pieces at the first opportunity. Presently, Art was pacing back and forth across the room, his heavy boots making the sturdy wood creak and groan in protest. "Can't believe you did this," Art was muttering to himself. "Can't believe you came here, killed my friends, and then have the nerve to tell me to come with you." Art continued pacing, back and forth, back and forth.
"We have no choice. Your assistance is required for the task at hand," the child-voice stated calmly. Art whirled on the short person.
"Oh, is that so? And what might this task of yours be, exactly?" The towering man growled, baring his teeth.
"We are going to assault the Scarlet Monastery, in Tirisfal Glades."
"Oh, is that so?" Art asked again, looking like he wanted to step on the stranger.
"We're going to get my sword too!" Ramon spoke up, clearly pleased at the thought.
"You don't say?" Art opened and closed his hands, clenching them into fists, and then releasing them, over and over.
"I do say," the stranger said. "Now come along. We have spent enough time here already."
"And what," Art began, in a strained voice, as his golden-brown eyes narrowed at the purple-robed figure. "Makes you think for a moment that I would have any interest whatsoever in helping you attack some Monastery, or getting some sword, especially after what you have just done?" Art's patience snapped and he began yelling, "I have a home here! Friends! I am part of a community, and I am accepted by others for who and what I am, with no prejudice, and no suspicion! I'm HAPPY here! I don't want to leave!"
"But you know you must," the child-voice stated matter-of-factly.
"I DON'T KNOW NOTHING!" Art roared angrily.
"You have certainly done an excellent job of convincing me of that so far," the robed-figure replied. Art's completely confused expression just made it sigh. "Alright, I suppose we will just have to carry on without you. Goodbye, Art." Then the stranger abruptly began heading for the door. Ramon was puzzled by this sudden surrender, but followed after. Then the child-voice spoke up as one sleeve-covered hand reached for the door handle. "It is a pity. I went through all the trouble of looking into the membership of the Scarlet Crusade, so as to better prepare for conflict with them, and discovered that one of their highest ranking members is an Arcanist by the name of Doan." Behind the stranger, Art tensed up suddenly. As though sensing this, the child turned around and said, "Oh, yes, now I remember. You and Doan have a bit of history together, do you not?"

Art heard the name Doan, and it seemed to echo in his ears, dredging up memories he had thought buried for good, along with the emotions and pain that came with them. Doan. Art remembered finding himself strapped down to a table, in a dark room. Doan. He never knew what exactly had been done to him, aside from something magical, but he knew that every inch of his body had felt nothing but pain for several weeks. Doan. Art had begged for mercy, and received none. Doan. He had screamed until his throat ceased to function, and he kept trying anyway, because pain was all he knew, and screaming was his only release. Doan! He didn't know when it had ended, only that at some point he found himself free, full of strength, and full of fury. Doan! Art had smelled the scent of humans. He had heard their whimpers of fear. And both had incensed him, enraged him, for no reason he could explain. DOAN! He had found them. Two humans. One was a woman, and one was very small, but he was not aware of this, only his anger. DOAN! The woman had screamed, and the sound threw him into a frenzy, as he attacked the filthy human, used his claws and his fangs on her until she stopped screaming, stopped moving, stopped living. DOAN! The small one had started making noises too, and that had made him even angrier. The human was too small to effectively assault, so he lowered his furry head, and began to eat. DOAN! That was the first time he tasted another human's blood. The first time he felt warm, slippery entrails in his mouth, filling him with joy as he gnashed his fangs together. The first time, but not the last time. DOAN! And then partway through his meal, as the small one finally stopped making noises, he felt himself weakening, changing, regaining his intelligence. And found himself a human again. Found himself with a mouth full of partially-chewed meat. Found his wife torn apart in one corner of the cell, and the half-devoured corpe of his own infant son inches away from his bloody mouth. DOOOOOAAAAAANNNN! And then the man who had done this to him. Who had destroyed his life. Who had made him a monster. That man stood there, shook his head in disapproval, and told him how he was a failure because his transformation was unstable. How he had been just an experiment. Not even an important one. Just something he had done on a whim. And as Art had begun to cry, and tried to scream with his non-functioning throat, Arcanist Doan had laughed at him.

Even as Art stood there, shoulders hunched, shaking with pain incomprehensible, tears running down his face, he thought he could hear that laughter he had hated with every fiber of his being. It sounded like an animal. A monkey. A fat, bald, monkey, hooting and hollering. He gritted his teeth together, opened his mouth to release a scream of rage, but bit it back, closing his mouth tightly, and trying to keep control of himself. Then the stranger spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "Well, I suppose your little reunion will have to wait, will it not? I wish you luck in your new home. We will say 'hello' to Arcanist Doan for you when next we see him." Then there was the sound of a hand on the doorhandle, and Art lifted his head.
"Wait," he commanded. There was no further sound from behind him. He turned around to face Ramon and the child. Then he growled, "I'm coming with you."
"Oh, good. Come on then, we have a schedule to keep."

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Later, out on the road, as the trio travelled north, Art tried to pull himself out of his brooding, and his thoughts of all the ways he was going to make Doan suffer, and turned his gaze on the Undead Warrior next to him. "So how did you get roped into this? I thought you were retired."
"So did I," Ramon replied glumly.
"Please stop lagging behind, you two," the stranger said, being a good dozen feet ahead of them. "We must reach our next destination and retrieve Ramon's sword as soon as possible." Art obediently sped up his pace, and Ramon ignored the request for awhile until it was repeated less politely. Together, the three made their way through Silverpine, prepared to meet their destinies. Two sought revenge. One had purposes unknown to all but itself.

--------------End Chapter Fifteen--------------