A forgotten journal...

[Marchelute Bloodbane]

A small notebook sits unattended in the dark corner, its black cover marred and worn, its pages tattered and stained. It has fallen from a shelf, and lays open on the desk before you. It carries a chilling, yet familiar aura. The paper is damaged from years of abuse, and in places the writing is faded, blurred or obscured by inkblots and stains. Pages of the journal are missing. But still, the jagged scribbles of text seem to call out to you, taunting you to read the secrets and thoughts they hold. You know you shouldn’t; many of the journal’s pages are stained with blood. But morbid curiosity almost always wins out in the long run.
You flip through some pages, and begin to read...


Undercity is a dark and filthy place, alive with the dead and thick with the smell of decay.
I like it here. It suits me well. Far better than Silvermoon City, too bright, too clean.
None of that for me, no. I adore the darkness, I bask in it, absorb it, become one with it.
That is why they shun me back home.
Home.

Nay, ‘home’ is too strong a word for that spotless, bright and empty place. I hate it there, where too many still believe Kael’thas will save them. Such blind faith is foolish and pointless. They will only be disappointed. But why bother trying to lecture them? They wont listen.
They fear me, they hate me. I know they do. I can smell it on them. Citizens and knights and magi, all of them. Everyone. They fear me, fear my kinship with the dark and the cold, fear the blood on my hands, and the blood on the fangs of my slaves. They fear me, my methods, my will, my dark desires, my lust for death...
Wretched, they called me. Mad, they called me.
Mad, wretched, insane, psychotic...
And maybe I am. Maybe I am all of those things.
Maybe I am not. Maybe I am more...

But they call me no such thing here, in Undercity. The Forsaken give me strange looks from time to time, as though I do not belong in the dark corridors, but it means nothing to me. This place is my home now, among the walking dead. They are allies of the Sin’dorei anyway, why shouldn’t I feel at home here?
Here, in the darkness, where I can avoid the burning stares of the Blood Knights, and the Farstriders, and all the rest of those wretched people.
I much prefer the company of the dead.
In this place, when they hear my captives screaming, they don’t call me a murderer or psychopath. I can be left in peace to experiment and study at my leisure. And they have no qualms with my choice of company, so my sweet succubus Brylia is free to move about – assuming I keep her on a relatively short leash. But she tends not to wander far, no sense in worrying. She can take care of herself, and if not, I need only find and subjugate a new demon.

My only regret for leaving Silvermoon City is that my fair Kaianna does not frequent this dark place. But this dark, ugly city is not fitting for her beauty. For her, I still frequent my former home. For her, I leave my shadowy hole and venture back into the daylight. I feel a heaviness in my chest when I think of her. This feeling is new and strange, as though my heart will burst if I do not see her. The beauty of her eyes, the smell of her skin, the way her hair dances with the wind...
I’m going to her home again today.
I must see her; it’s been too long.


~ Marchelute Bloodbane

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((a minor OOC note: The character Kaianna, played by a close friend of mine, is not a member of the guild. However, because we RP together frequently and have formed a relationship between our characters, expect her name to be frequently mentioned in furture journal postings. ))

[Marchelute Bloodbane]

Another dreary day in a long history of dreary days. My work must wait, as I have been waylaid by a rainstorm and must wait for the weather to clear. The leaky roof of this inn here in Tarren Mill does little to ward off the downpour, but shelter is shelter, and it is warmer here than outside.

The Forsaken here treat me with a sort of detached interest. They know me by name now, since I frequent this region in search of material components for my work. I have even helped them cull the numbers of humans in this region by killing the farmers and miners in the foothills. That alone earns me a twisted smile or two from the undead. But I don’t do it just for them. I do it for me. I enjoy it, spreading pain and death, making them suffer. Seeing the horrified faces of the farmers’ children as their parents die… I need practice for my spells, of course, and what better target than a live one? The apothecary here seems to share my sentiment, and we have been getting along quite well of late. We help each other. I further my research by listening to him, I get to kill indiscriminately to gather materials for him, and then we play with our newly created concoctions by testing them on humans or animals held captive here. He’s even agreed to let me bring one back to Undercity with me for further testing, though we need to get permission first. The letter was sent two days ago. We should have a response by now, but no doubt the rainy weather has slowed down the mail too.

I saw my fair Kaianna today. She passed through as I was writing the above, I heard her melodious voice from my window. I would have followed her, but by the time I had gotten outside she was beyond my sight. I wonder if she even noticed me?

Blast it all. Between her and the rain, I am now finding myself thinking of Mother and the old days. How she would sing lullabies on rainy days like this.
Mother.
I miss you.

[Marchelute Bloodbane]

Day Twelve of Continued observation of subject Thirty-Six Alpha
Serum used: Test mixture Thirteen-B

Test subject Thirty-Six Alpha is no longer breathing as of this morning, assumed to have died in the night. Dissection of the corpse confirms an 85% corruption of the liver and kidneys. Subject apparently died of organ failure.
Third confirmed fatality linked to mixture Thirteen-B.

Success rate of serum Thirteen-B: 92%
Status: Highly Toxic
Approximate time until death: Six to Twelve days until complete organ failure resulting in fatality.



This work is tiring, and I have a need to gather more subjects. While animals are in ready supply, a decent humanoid subject is more difficult to come by, and annoyingly hard to catch. I should take a break from my concoctions, but that would only put me even farther behind. At times like these, I find myself wishing wistfully to be among the Forsaken. Imagining what I could accomplish without worry or need for food or slumber sends a chill down my spine.

Ah, but such are only dreams and wishful thinking.

Alas, my sweet Brylia convinced me to take leave of this work for a time. She claims I need fresh air away from the dust and vapor of my poisons and potions. Were she not a demon, I might think she was worried about me. But demons have no feelings, no more than the sword and shield of any knight.

Speaking of knights, I haven’t seen my dearest Kaianna today…
There is a strange pressure in my chest when I think of her, and it grows more prominent on days when I cannot look upon her face. I sent flowers to her home again, but I have not received a reply. I can only hope she will not throw them away this time.

Recently, I have heard whispers from my clients and contacts that interest me. A clan of sorts that stands in opposition of our not-so-dear prince Kael’thas. While the thought of joining any form of guild repulses me, I may look into this further. It may be of use to me; Certain goals cannot be obtained alone, isn’t that right?

[Marchelute Bloodbane]

The following page has been torn from the binding, and appears to have been shoved back into the journal at random, for the tone and handwriting seem far different than the previous pages. Old bloodstains obscure bits of text, and what can be read is still hardly legible at all, written in jagged, broken scribbles. It sends a chill down your spine, but you read anyway…


--eave me alone! I want to be alone! Why do you haunt me? Why wont you leave me alone?! I want to be alone! Go away!
I see you!! I see you there! Staring at me from the other side of the mirror!
I’M NOT YOU! You can’t control me anymore, YOU’RE DEAD!
I killed you! I killed you! I killed you! I killed you!
GO AWAY! Get out of my head! I HATE YOU! I -- (The rest of the paragraph is smeared with blood and impossible to read, so you skip ahead and read further...)

Can’t sleep, He’ll get me if I sleep.
He haunts me, wont leave me alone, wont go away.
He’s dead! He’s been dead! Why wont he leave me alone? He deserved to die! He deserved to burn! He killed Mother!
My Mother!
Our Mother!
Broke the mirror, broke it into a hundred pieces with my own hands. He can’t watch me anymore, he can’t see me anymore.
Except when I sleep. I see his eyes when I sleep. I hear him laugh, hear him yell. Can’t sleep, He’ll get me if I sleep.
No! You’re not real! You’re not real! You’re dead, so die! Die!
The walls, the walls are covered in blood!
You’re not real!
Mother!
I hear her screaming.
Don’t you touch her you bastard!
You’re not real! You’re dead!
Mother’s dead! Father’s dead! Brother's dead!
You’re all dead!
I wont give in! You wont take me!
You’re not real!
This isn’t real!
I'm no--

Whatever else was written on the page is either hidden behind ink and blood stains, or is simply too chaotic and illegible to decipher any more. Disturbed, you shove the page back into the journal, close the book, and back away, as if it's madness might leap off the paper and consume you.