habenda ratio valetudinis [1/2]
The Royal Apothecary Society operates under a very strict three-part system. Starting with research and development, all the most potent poisons and plagues find their way into the world through Grand Apothecary Putress’s hands -- once these are perfected, they’re delivered to their targets via vial, syringe, catapult, spreader, whatever latest
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[Perhaps he didn't succeed, for as he sweeps to his feet and approaches the seated Putress, arms are wide open and his features virtually transformed by a welcoming smile as one might expect to see in response to the presence of a dear friend or beloved relative.]
Lytalia, it is has been a long road. [He says in cheerful-sounding Thalassian to Putress, the notable echo in so many of his kind's voices oddly absent for a lighter, living tone.] And you are as beautiful as ever, of course.
[He laughs and attempts to unabashedly gather the Apothecary into his arms in a way any good brotherly figure might. Speaking of...]
Which only means my brother suffers for nothing in the face of your own well-being. Where has he gone off to, hm? You will both have to suffer through lunch at my expense, of course!
[Close inspection will determine there are signs of the initial symptoms and it is indeed true he has been infected.
...But he's ever always been a consummate actor.]
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[As the apothecary mused quietly on the possible applications of his latest experiment, the light, cheerful tones of some Thalassian-speaker drifted towards him from somewhere off to his side. His broken grasp on the wishy-washy language made the speaker simply sound as if he were talking gibberish ***...
[Which, would not be altogether unusual here. So Putress thought nothing of it, deep in thought, until the noise was suddenly very close and at his ear. He looked up into saronite plate, and the laughing blood elf who owned it.]
Death Knight. [This was good, yes! A death knight could be used as a parallel for the effects on the Lich King himself, assuming similar characteristics between the two. Putress quickly flipped to a fresh page on his notes, but before he could touch quill to paper, his arms were crushed to his sides by a bone-breaking metal embrace.]
... [He had no words. The apothecary intently watched his notes fall from his hands to the inn floor, and he spoke very slowly, and very calmly.]
...Release me, elf, and maybe I won't reduce you to a puddle of rot.
*** Lytalia big distance immediately! And be beautiful, is to be correct.
It simply means what, my offspring suffers the thing the himself because what before the person of your prosperity. Morning it outside went away? And the two that pass as dinner naturally in my bosom, you should they endure!
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But his grip holds his 'sister' far, far too tightly to be considered painless. The advantage of surprise seems to be there for a split second and he aims to use it.]
A pleasant way to greet someone who is happy to see you. But...
[Common. Common now, and it might have bee a hint.]
[Only one of Krenyn's arms lifted away as though at the Apothecary's request. But no, it was lifted and he sought to grab the beak of the mask in hopes of ripping it away. And to be honest, he didn't seem to really care about being gentle here, either.]
We are not about forgiveness either.[The echo is back, the mirth has faded, gone, dead and the smile is twisted as he echoes those fateful words spoken at the Wrathgate.
His voice is almost conversational as he concludes.]
You caused my brother a great deal of guilt by your manipulations. And I won't forget.
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That wasn't a request. [As he tried to shift himself, he winced involuntarily, suddenly aware of exactly how tight the grip was. This wasn't a friendly embrace, like the elf's manner supposedly communicated. Unsettled, Putress jerked his head to look warily at the death knight, who had started speaking again...But in a much more familiar tongue. The painful grip loosened somewhat, but he was too focused on the words -- very familiar words indeed -- and the arm reaching for his face, to notice.] What do you think you're...-- !
[It took a split second for him to finally realise what was going on, but that was enough time for the apothecary to rip himself free of the death knight's, now one-handed, grasp. He fell heavily to the floor, little more than collapsing out of his chair, and his hand swiftly flew to his mask. Dishevelled, but hopefully unbroken, he thought, carefully adjusting it. The last thing he needed was to be contaminated himself, all because of this blundering elf!]
You...You know me, it seems? [He rose. His tone, much like the death knight's, was now soft and dangerous, betraying little of his current rage. Inside, the apothecary seethed with anger, though he was well aware that there would be some sort of attempt on his life here. Several, perhaps. And yet, he still hadn't suspected a thing.] You know very well of me, at least, to speak that way to me.
Tell me then, how is it that you were able to resist my plague's effects? I'm most interested. It's a mistake I won't want to repeat in the future.
[While he was taken by surprise before, Putress was now on his guard. He tensed, ready to defend himself at the drop of a Death and Decay.]
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I see it surprises you that someone knows. Then you have not seen Angrathar in your time... or didn't think there would be any survivors.
[That answer seemed to be given on purpose, with an undercurrent of cold malice suggesting that he's perfectly content in reminding Putress the all-consuming plague did not achieve its goal.
Krenyn's gaze flickered in a dispassionate study of the Grand Apothecary. Whether the mask was broken in his grip or attempt remains to be seen if indeed there was any of the plague still airborne in the first place. He wasn't sure how angry the Forsaken is, but he suspects enough of a setback to show some morbid pleasure.
And this time the silence is what seems to be on purpose as he turns away to confront Chromie. He has not dropped his guard against Putress. But he will not help him. He will not attempt to kill him, not yet. Krenyn will just let him stew in the lack of knowledge.]
How long will you let them all suffer this time, dragon?
[He must be bitter, right? But one couldn't tell by the tone that the death knight is any more than mildly amused and interested by the whole circumstance. Watch as he pretends to care less about anything other than what Putress might have done to manipulate his brother. Even if it was by proxy.
Marvel as he steps away from Chromie and approaches the nearest, the orc who is still spitting insults at the roast pig.
Feel horror, or fascination or nothing at all as he draws the carving knife from the table, reaching almost gently, like some well-coreographed manuever in a play, for the green-skinned woman.
He'll draw back her head and slit her throat open if someone - whether the orc or another - doesn't stop him.
But he won't let them suffer, no.]
((OOC: FEEL FREE TO BLOCK DODGE WHATEVER GUISE, FOR SRS.}}
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Unfortunately, Nashrath doesn't have much experience with Death Knights, nor does she have time to really think about her reaction - if she did, perhaps she would have chosen something other than a Frost Shock.
She also attempts to smash the pommel of her mace into his gut - although the plate armor Krenyn wears may make this equally futile.]
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[Somehow, Putress managed to resist the urge to retaliate -- perhaps a splash of flesh-melting acid, or a haemorrhaging serum from the many vials he kept with him -- if only because he was sincerely interested in how the death knight managed to resist this batch of plague. At any rate, his assailant didn't seem too interested in continuing the attack, which was puzzling enough in itself. His gaze flickered from the death knight to Chromie, who had little hand in this matter so far. Surprisingly.
[The apothecary watched as the death knight made his way to the gibbering orc from before, as he drew a carving knife and placed it at her throat. He watched the ensuing scuffle. And although part of him still remained enraged that the elf dare meddle in his affairs, Putress couldn't help but laugh out loud, the deep tones of his voice resonating hollowly in his wooden mask.]
This is your idea of mercy, death knight? Your ideals aren't as saintly as you presume them to be. [He knelt down to pick up his notes and quill, and watched with renewed interest at how the scene would play out...]
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[The crash of the mace is a distant impact. Fortunately, he's more apt to wear armor dedicated to protecting the midsection. Not so fortunate for Nash, perhaps. The Frost Shock has a stronger effect.
But... what's pain to a Death Knight? There's deeper chills, stronger hurts. One thing to be sure of is hoping the creature would drop dead of attack before he's in range. And sometimes, that's asking a lot.]
I guess it is possible to assume I am doing this to end their suffering.
[He'll cut, now, if Nash doesn't break away. Cut and if the throat is sliced, discard the orc to the ground so that he can continue to his next victim, struggling through the moments more that the cold stiffened joints fight against movement.]
I may be doing this just to annoy you with the lack of observable results.
Don't touch the bodies or anything to do with them. [He adds as an aside and sounds nearly pleasant.] Or I will kill you.
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A death is a death, elf. I'm sure that you, of all people, understand that.
What I did was for a greater good. How is that any different than what you're trying to pull here? [The apothecary tossed his head irritably again.] And you mean to leave the Lich King plenty of fodder to raise afterwards, I see, by your act of mercy. Don't be a fool.
[There was a distinct air of disdain in Putress's voice -- how confident, this death knight was, in his abilities! But despite tales he'd been told of a certain encounter in the Undercity, describing otherwise (much to his disbelief and disgust), the Forsaken wouldn't die so easily. He was sure of that.]
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Her squirming gets her several cuts on the face and jaw, but she can't break free - the death knight is too strong. Powerful electrical jolts course across the saronite suddenly, along with another Frost Shock - she is getting desperate.
As a last-ditch attempt, and a slightly unconventional one at that, her hands start to glow blue-white and coalesce into the spell that will shift her form to that of an incorporeal Ghost Wolf - the question now becomes, of course, if she can finish the cast.]
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It is as the lady says, mages have good reason to fear their kind.
For as Nash begins to channel another spell, it seems he's had quite enough of her struggles. Shadowy chains seek to wrap around her throat and tighten, not to kill but to *silence* the spells for a few seconds and interrupt that which is already being cast.
Putress doesn't get an answer to his query about fodder for the Lich King. Krenyn has confidence and it's with reason. He also has a plan.
He probably won't share it until it's ready to come to fruition.]
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NO! GET OFF, N-
[But she is silenced nonetheless, scratching helplessly at the plate-clad arm around her, mouth soundlessly forming curses, cries, spells - who knows?
Bloodrage kicks in - her lips scream and she claws until she breaks a fingernail, kicking out, but only jarring the heavy wooden table. That damned pig is smirking. Bastard.
One of the floorboards begins to splinter above a rising totem - sparks flash in her hazed vision and the knife bites into her neck, efficiently slitting from ear to ear.
Black soaks the front of her armor. She crumples as she is released, hands desperately flying to cast a healing spell, any healing spell - WHY DIDN'T SHE EVER LEARN ANY GOOD HEALING SPELLS - ?]
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[But by the time the death knight's knife pierced its victim's throat, he'd simply observed the miniature drama taking place before him with a sincere curiosity. He spoke aloud to himself as he took the time to calmly and methodically scratch a few notes.]
Despite the hallucinogen, the orc female maintained her base survival instinct. Unfortunate, as that renders my initial ideas for practical application void... [The apothecary shrugged.] A failure, as far as I'm concerned. Nothing more than an arbitrarily amusing effect for a limited time.
[Putress looked up from his notes in time to see whether or not the shaman managed to save her own life. He tilted his head -- a watchful crow -- and observed with morbid interest as a dark, wet circle grew on the floor beneath her.]
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Still, he smiled, though blood dripped from the knife in his hand - which he placed on the nearest table in passing - and a pleasant thing it might seem to be.
Now, where did that human girl go~]
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I was wondering if you'd ever show up.
[Is Leileann still seeing stuff? Who knows? Why not find out?]
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But Krenyn is cautious. The shaman still managed to struggle despite the hallucination.]
Oh? [Sounds almost cheerful.] Stand up then, let me look at you.
[Underneath the jovial attitude is a deadly aura. He's still all too willing to kill. He's ready to strike, merely waiting for the opportunity.]
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