The Poisons That Lurk in the Muck: Active Voice.
It is said that there are two paths to power: direct and indirect. One may either excercise one's own force, or direct the force of another. Both and their pros and cons, I suppose. In Icecrown, however, there is little room in which to be passive.
One does not so much as speak in a manner that suggests one wishes to be acted upon.
I point this out as preface to and explanation for the methods by which I insinuated myself into the Cultists' cell. I was new. Naturally, those who were comfortable in their places within the hierarchy sought to ensure that my arrival did not lessen their stature.
Physically, I am not a powerful man. While it's true I can more or less pull a bow all day without my arms falling off, let's face it, I'm kind of...a twig, compared to so many of these broad, stumpy humans that comprise the majority of the Cult. They assumed that my relative slightness would make Tarethayel easy to subdue, bully, or dominate.
Oh they were wrong.
Before I set out for Icecrown I was warn, Don't draw attention to yourself, and perhaps I didn't heed that warning very well. The first time one of them got the notion in his head to physically accost me, I set his face on fire. His companion who rushed in to follow it up found himself on the floor, writhing, frothing at the mouth and unable to so much as scream. I showed them pain. I showed them strength.
It drew attention.
Cultists are...not like us. They don't think as normal living persons do - they can't, the serums they drink ensure that. In all honesty I'm grateful that they so thoroughly disdain their own flesh the way civilised people disdain cannibalism; never in those two years was I in danger of becoming the target of another's frustrated lust. Not that the possibility hadn't crossed my mind on several occasions.
I was supposed to keep my head down, assimilate quietly. Instead I found myself developing...not so much new curses as refinements on the basics, as means to dissuade would-be attackers. A curse of weakness directed at the lungs to prevent them from properly inflating; one of agony tailored to simultate flayed skin or shattered bones so accurately that the body reacts as if to real injury; felfires ignited within the stomach or throat. Such easy things to do. I would be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy hurting them .
Better to act than to be acted upon. That is the first conclusion that enabled my survival.
The first three months or so were hardest. My mind strayed constantly to the love I left behind and the home we hoped to build...to my brother, alive after all these years...to my compatriots and friends...but mostly Khaavren. His warmth, his touch, the glisten of his braid swinging like a banner when he went to battle, the way his eyes softened when we made love.
Tarethayel could not afford such thoughts. I feared I might die inside without them.
Imagine my surprise when the cell sympathised with what little I allowed them to see of my difficulty in adjusting. Their solution, of course, was to load my down with studies into the nature and state of undeath, and to attend every dark sermon given by the cell's leader. Oh yes, Tarethayel was an eager student, so very receptive to any and all knowledge they would give him, blasphemies falling readily from his lips.
The secrets of the Scourge, carefully etched into my memory.
This knowledge makes me feel so old.
Next: The care and feeding of Cultists.
the poisons that lurk in the muck
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