Story Contest Entry
Shiryou mulled over the day's events as he robe back through the Marsh on Strathis, occasionally pulling on the reins to keep the fiery horse in check.
This Francis was an odd one. Shiryou had long boasted - quite truthfully - that becoming undead had made him fearless; helped by the fact that sooner or later after being pounded into the dust, his undead body would eventually claw itself back up again. It was as if death now was little more than getting his soul displaced for a few moments and naturally this inability to die had only bolstered his already considerable ego.
But ever since laying his eyes on Francis...yes. He had feared the strange priest. There was something about him, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. The sudden shifts from Light to Shadow unnerved him; and the difference on what he said...
It had been just after Takumi had left, after their successful attack upon the tough trolls of Zul'Farrak. The priest had transformed again, partially into shadow, already putting Shiryou on edge, when the rogue lady appeared - a human. In a second the priest sprang into life, his dark spells flying left, right and centre. Despite the torturous pain it must have caused the girl shook her head, refusing to fight against one who would so easily rip her apart. Horrified, Shiryou screeched at Francis to stop, but the hunger had taken hold and he could do nothing as the undead slew her - and ate her.
Shiryou knew that the Forsaken could do it. This was the second time he had ever seen it happen. He had never been able to bring himself to do it himself since reawakening and his stomach gave a sickening lurch. Thinking about it as he rode back to Dustwallow almost made him dismount and retch. That...and it was another reminder of his weakness.
The Council had long reprimanded him for continuing to cling to his human side. Chezadhul, one of the wisest of the Council but long given in to his state of undeath, had often lectured Shiryou on the glory of the hungry dead. He had long sensed the elder's growing impatience with him as, on his first sighting of the dead of Lordaeron, he could not slay them, pitiful mindless things that they were; and then could not eat the corpse of a recently felled Alliance. If anything, Shiryou was almost glad to escape to the Praetoria for a few short weeks, to get away from the disapproving glares of the elders.
The nausea subsided as he turned his thoughts to the Praetoria, the plan that needed to be set in motion. A chance meeting yesterday had given him the seed of an idea...one that, if executed perfectly, would gain him exactly what he wanted.
No. Shiryou was not weak.
OOC: If it's all right, I'm going to use this thread for continuing Shiryou's thoughts Better that than cluttering up a forum with a million posts So for voting only take note of the first post as that's the only one in the contest.
I may also link to Blizzard forums if certain posts have significance enough to be reposted there
The messenger was curt and abrupt, but then Shiryou was quite expecting thus from one of the Praetoria. He expected it even more when he realised whom the message was from - the damned druid. The Forsaken practically snatched the note to see what bile it might contain.
His eyebrows raised, however, on reading the contents; then settled back into a scowl far darker and more malevolent than the one he normally wore. He clutched the parchment in his hands so tightly the twisted claws punctured it, his eye mere slits of gold light and his whole body shaking with rage.
If there was one thing - one thing - that Shiryou hated the most - more than PI, more than the Horde, more than himself - it was the foul, twisted, mindless creatures that were the Scourge, and the fat, bloated masters that controlled and directed them. Gods but how he remembered those months under their command, the voice that hissed and tore and dominated his mind, forcing his shambling body to carry out their every command...
"Tell Varuul that I will be there." The words were forced, almost spat from his throat; the paper shredded in his talons. "Tell him."