An Evening in Brill

Author notes: I wrote this one day simply after a bit of a roleplaying session on a World of Warcraft group. A friend of mine referred me to this site and suggested I put up this writing. To be safe, i may have selected a few more warnings than neccesary on the subject. This is my first writing and I expect there to be many mistakes and weak points in my story.


Day by day passed and grew intolerably boring. The time he spent confined when the agents of Sylvanas cordoned him off for not paying his tithes normally lacked the sting to bother him. He possessed the resources to pay for his freedom but partially out of spite and mostly out of laziness he refused to do so. True, he was limited from traveling out of Brill, dealing with the vendors and most other privileges that everyone else enjoyed, but Kexor learned ways to keep his mind occupied. Should he ever decide that he tired of the constant familar surroundings of Brill, the Deathguards all had orders to keep him in Brill until he handed over the payments.

He liked Brill though. Perhaps it was simply the way he saw it, but it was much less depressing than all the other Forskaen bases he visited. Undercity was a massive glowing green cesspool and most other areas were little more than graveyards with a few ramshackle shacks for whatever reason they needed to be constructed. Brill was an actual town. A real serviceable inn, a townhouse and the local graveyard, though large, remained tidily seperate from the town. The pangs of memory were kept at bay by the ambience surrounding the town. It was not cheery or bright. No, it held the gloom of all the other locations he visited where the walking dead held sway. A dark and cloudy sky and sickly soil complete with twisted trees and unforgiving wildlife helped him settle mentally in the area. It reminded him much of himself, a hollow town, a dark version of what it once was without looking drastically different.

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"Now, let's test this one last time."

*Kexor hissed softly as he drew the needle and thread through and back again. Sewing has another thing that felt comfortably different now to him. His memory was hazy but he was quite sure his childhood friends teased him when he told them his mother was teaching him how to sew. He wondered briefly how he reacted beyond the initial anger and shame of being mocked. Unfortunatley such was one of his memeory gaps. His skill was adequate enough though that he guessed he practiced at least a bit despite whatever stimga it carried. Of course now, stitching was not simply for tailoring uses. He gritted his jaw and looked down attentively as he pulled on the thread and pulled his cadaverous right hand back to his stump of a wrist. He gave a few final tugs and tied off the thread. His right arm flexed and mooved, his wrist moving in slow circles. His hand however did not seem to respond. Growling slightly he went through the familiar motions, shaking his arm vigourously, the hand flopping like a dead fish at the end of his arm. Then he let his arm lay down limply at his side and flexed again. At last, his fingers curled slightly on his hand and he regained some feeling in the appendage. He nodded and reached into his pack. It had been sometime since he last bought meat and none of the vendors would trade with him due to the orders from the guards. Luckily, rotting meat worked just as well as fresh meat. His left hand searched the folds of his pack for a few moments before finding the slimy and soft feel of a bad haunch of beef. He lifted the meal out and eyed it with his dark sockets. He was sure it smelled horrendous to match the messy patches of dark brown and slightly green coloring it now bore. A slimy film layered unevenly on the rancid flesh and he noticed a small trail of it smearing out of his pack. Well, not like he was among people who cared to much. His mouth opened widely and his long tapered tongue lolled out and with a swift movment he slapped the meat into it. His mouth snapped shut and his fangs ripped viciously at the spoiled meal, ripping it in half with a twist of his neck. A mixture of slimy and rancid saliva dribbled from his lips as he chewed on the meal. His sense of taste was only slightly offended by the awful flavor. His unholy appetite for flesh far outweighted such a concern though. He chewed quickly and gulped down the meal, shoving the remainder of the meat into his gnashing teeth without a thought for a need of it later since it was his last portion of food. His brow furrowed into a grimace as he tore the meat apart in his mouth and felt invigorating energy flow through him. As quick as it filled him, Kexor felt empty once again, the feeling of vigor washing out of him. He grumbled and looked to his right hand. He flexed and wiggled his fingers expertly as if the hand suffered no damage at all. With a sneer he grabbed the thread and pulled as the length. A quiet snap and the thread slid quickly through the hole in his wrist, the flesh already knitted together once again. Kexor held up the thread, stained with black ichor, and then slipped it back
into a pocket in his pack.*


"I suppose I can't doubt the results. This happened about five times predictably."


*Twisting his hand to examine his palm and the back of his hand, Kexor finally stood up from the floorboards. He spent most of his time just sitting in a corner of the inn since the guard remained outside. Kexor wished not to get in any trobule with them but the sullen stares they gave him after recieving their orders always made him feel a blade would split his sternum for the smallest of offenses. He certainly felt he'd gotten a bit too close to causing a riot last time he came out in public.*

*Not his proudest moment, he thought back. He loathed what he was, true, but he contented himself with the silent loathing. But when someone sent a message for him to check his mail for a mistakenly sent package he decided it was a bit much. The whole thing exploded out of proportion with a Forsaken girl weeping due to his outrage and
a nosey orc and blood elf coming by and threatening him. He supposed it was good of them not to cut him to pieces. Perhaps they thought doing so might anger Sylvanas, though he was sure the Banshee Queen was indifferent to him at an unimaginable best. But what truly
bothered him was the end of encounter. He was content to feel miserable about his condition but the realization that he was inconveniencing another and not even with his intention of doing so made his bile rise.*

*By the time the thought came to him, he managed to carry himself out of the inn and turned his head to glare hatefully at the mail box. Just as always there was a guard standing in sight and he would need more than just a few moments to access it and send the bothersome package on it's way. He'd heard that the package would be rerouted
on it's own in 30 days no matter how he acted though. If his count was correct, half the time elapse already. He huffed and laid his arms across his chest and sat down crossed legged on the ground. Even though he denied to look, he could feel the baleful stare of the guard boring into him. Kexor wondered lazily just how Sylvanas selcted these corpses, the type of criteria she looked into. No doubt loyalty sat on the top of the list, quickly followed by lack of morals. A low hiss issued forth and the light sound of footsteps finally urged Kexor to turn his face upwards. The cowled guard sneered at him, standing only a foot or two away from him and standing at ease with sword and shield in his hands.*


"I suggest you go go back inside boy. Don't want to temptation of escape to make you do something foolish."


*The guard's face contorted into a grin, his yellow luminous eyes shining and telling Kexor that he actually was hoping the disrespectful whelp would try something. Kexor wasn't surprised since cruelty occured to him as another desirable trait in service to
Lady Sylvanas. He didn't move though, knowing that the orders they received were simply to detain him unless he actively resisted. Then again, the leeway they were afforded on how to detain him was considerable. No, he thought, I suppose I'll just do something else.*


"How much am I supposed to pay?"

...