Blightius Blightius
"Not enough bones to go around? Is that why we were cherry-picking through corpses while trying to avoid the Argent patrols all day?" The pale-skinned, hooded acolyte grumbles frustratedly to his comrade, sitting across from him in the plain, wooden-rowboat. The other shifts his feet around their treasure-trove: four corpses, wrapped loosely in linen, the material soaked in the residue of filth exuded from their rotten cargo.
"We need more than bones. The students grow ignorant on the workings of flesh, you fool. We can't keep them on skeletons forever," the other retorts, his fingers massaging his forehead slowly, firmly. "Now stop complaining, we're nearly at the dock," he scolds his companion with a sigh. The other just lets out a simple, "Hmph," turning his head away, resting it upon his hand, perched up from his knee. Before the two knew it, their little row-boat found its way, with their combined efforts in paddling, to the humble little dock of the stretch of land, with the cult-infested, broken down facade of Scholomance.
Each cultist wraps their torso around one of the thinly, linen-draped corpses, each man grunting just as much as the other to drag the stiffened husks from the boat. "We should've brought some Skeletons to do this," the man who had complained in the first place, complains again. "Don't be ridiculous," the other chimes in with a huff, the two almost synonymously pulling their loot from the boat at the same time, flopping them down onto the wooden planks with a sickening thud. "Far too noticeable. You think a rickety, broken down pile of bones is capable of sneaking itself anywhere like we had to, today?" he asks, with a smug look curling up, hidden beneath his hood.
"You need to expand your mind-set a little, beyond the books, if you want to survive," the very same, smug cultist scolds his partner, before shuffling back over to the boat. "Spare me, don't scold me simply because my academics a-" the man issuing the retort is given pause, the hum-drum of exchange between them shattered by the 'street-wise' cultist crying out gutterally. "What happened?!" the cultist calls out, turning his gaze upon the sight of his comrade slowly sinking down into the boat. Jumping a skip over to the row-boat, the cultist shakes his head in a panic-stricken fashion, hooking his fingers around the man's shoulders and beginning to peel him up and away, groaning as he begins to turn him over.
His face contorts into a surprised expression, laced with terror, as the faint cricking of bones delivers the sudden, sharp, flaring sensation into his chest. Gasping, the cultist's bloated, jittering gaze allows him only the sight of a decayed, skeletal arm hoisting the dagger now lodged within his chest, before fading into nothingness. Much like his partner before him, the cultist sinks down slowly onto the torn-up linen package that had delivered a swift death to each of them. It doesn't take long for the same arm to dislodge the dagger, opening up the cultist's chest by doing so, his insides slowly departing his body. The cultist is thrust aside, the linen torn asunder.
Freeing himself from his clothy-confines, Blightius slowly straightens his form, his bones creaking like a rusted machine, much in need of a tune-up. Sporting nothing but the rags of a common farmer, the Forsaken's pale, flesh-torn form leaks through the saggy garments like a dirty secret. With one foot meticulously after the other, the Forsaken abandons the row-boat which had delivered him to his destination, carefully pressing his unsheathed dagger back into its sheathe - the pocket of flesh still remaining on this thigh. Wiggling the blade around, he tears once more into the gray flesh of his thigh, ensuring most of the menacing looking weapon to be hidden by his own body.
With sluggish, rickety steps, the Forsaken shuffles his way up the abandoned dirt-road, his meticulated foot-steps, gradually picking up in pace, carrying him up to the decadent facade of the School-of-Necromancy. His claw-like fingers study the gate, tugging at the handle lightly. The heavy, gated door gives way, the Forsaken squeezing through it as it swings open. Trudging down the steps, his skeletal feet poking out through the remnants of what used to be leather work-boots, carry him in a slow, focused pace. His body, a cacophony of cricks, cracks and crickles, are met in turn by a similar sound from the entrance hallway. The crimson gaze of a figure matching his own skeletal form settles upon the intruder, its bony fingers curling tightly around the handle of its simple, spiked mace through its gold-tinted plate gauntlets.
The thing rapidly skips over to the Forsaken, like its armoured kind were known to do, propping its mace arm back for a wide, powerful downward swing in the process. Slowly parting his feet, Blightius crouches his form down the slightest bit, a hand already draped around the exposed hilt of his dagger, poking out from the flesh of his thigh. Waiting just a split second, and through all the cracking his bones exude from the sudden movement and lack of maintenance, he rushes forward, diving into the Skeletal Guardian, tucking himself under the reach of that spiked mace as it slides down. As the Skeleton swings its weapon, the Forsaken stiffens a leg across the Skeleton's own, charging ones, causing it to crash into the floor with the momentum of its swing.
The Forsaken pauses, inching in place, claw-like fingers curling into tight fists, exposed, bony toes doing the same. Much like a vehicle refusing to start, the dryness of his limbs catches up with him, the Forsaken pausing as the Skeleton crashes into the wooden floor with a surprisingly quiet thud, trying desperately to budge himself from his spot. "Mmmmmmm," he murmurs to himself in thought, the Skeleton beginning to push itself up from its crash. As it reaches its knees, the Forsaken's limbs suddenly re-activate with an ear-shattering screech, his dagger finding pin-point precision, penetrating the skull of his foe. Spasming in place, the Skeleton begins to turn, despite the blade lodged in its head. Noticing this, the decadent Deathstalker grips the shoulder-plate of his undead adversary, rapidly jamming the dagger into the thing's skull over and over, causing it to shatter from the sheer amount of holes opened up by the Forsaken's wide-edged dagger.
His adversaries' weapons clatter to the ground, the Skeleton's body crumbling like a house built from cards had just had a key building-block ripped from its foundation. Ignoring the crash for now, the Deathstalker churns his neck about, empty, yellow-glowing eyes scanning the area carefully. Turning his gaze back to study his defeated foe, the Forsaken lets out a light, thoughtful "Mmmmmm," before kneeling down. He carefully relieves the Skeleton of its plate armor, gutting the metal free of its bones. The Forsaken slowly enshrouds his form in the now naked, destroyed Skeleton's old armor, the plate covering up whatever flesh might give him away, from his arms, to his thighs - only one area remains suspect. Not hesitating the slightest bit, his claws climb up to his face, gripping the gray, fleeting flesh that sags from his skull. A light, dry tearing noise fills the empty hallway, as the Forsaken rids his skull of any flesh that might leave the denizens of Scholomance suspicious of his presence. The dried up clumps drop to the ground like old clay, leaving his visage in the manner of his any risen sentinel tasked to patrol the halls.
Crowning himself with the helmet of his former foe, the Forsaken's glowing, yellow eyes peek out around the iron ridge now decorating his entirely flesh ridden face. Daggers tucked away safely within his thighs, he leans down slowly, carefully, arming himself with the mace and shield the Guardian had wielded against him. Without much further ado, the Forsaken pushes open the iron gate, drawing not so much as the slightest gaze of acknowledgement from the Necromancers, the other walking dead, as his creaky, dry bones carry him through the halls as if on a patrol. A few necromancers grip their nose as he passes, irritated expressions crossing their faces. "Goodness, that one smells foul," he hears various, similar comments as he passes by a few of the living denizens. Luckily, his empty eyes lock onto a fairly young looking human, walking with purpose. The Forsaken lines his destination with the human's, following him with the same, purposeful gait appropriate to one of those skeletal sentries, ending up in the place's "Viewing Room".
Pale-skinned, make-up adorned students from a variety of races line the room, some tall, some small - but all alive. "I didn't know the dead could smell so awful," one of the students comments as he passes. A choking sound off to the distance, one of the students holding their stomach and fighting back a gutteral reaction to his presence. His gaze never falters, however, staying locked directly ahead, his posture matching that of his previously defeated foe - a mindless sentry. He walks in such a pattern that his gaze may settle on the various book-cases strewn through the room, the very surface of their contents revealed only by the vague titles etched on the rim of their form. The podium-area of the class is deserted, yet the gathering of students hints at the possible concession to follow. His 'patrol' takes him to the rear, iron gate, which yields to his touch much like the one before. An empty hall stands before him as the gates swing shut, a few book-cases with dusty old tomes lodged within. "Have to start looking, no choice," he murmurs to himself, his head cricking as his gaze wanders the hall. With not a soul or bone in the hallway but himself, he studies the tomes, with no signification on the outer rim as to what their contents might be, pulling them out one by one and rapidly flipping through them.
"Records. Records of things, good, good," he mumbles to himself, sorting through the book-case as fast he can, given the luck-discovered privacy of the hallway. "More, need more," the Forsaken drops his mock-posture and strides as quick as he can, limbs gradually increasing in pace like an engine, carrying him over to another case. "Not dusty - moved recently, perhaps moving," he notes to himself, the non-descript tomes pulled rapidly from their place, one by one. "Records, student records," he mumbles, sorting out the pages. "Where, where - student of Sharam," he questions himself in a ghost-like tone. Pointed, razor finger taps into the book a few times. "Here. It is here," he affirms to himself in whispers, settling on a page tucked away in the middle of the tome. Seconds pass, his eyes scanning the page, before ripping it and its accompanying pages free of the tome.
Removing the helmet he'd stolen from the Guardian, he tucks the pages, lining them within its confines. Pausing, the Deathstalker-in-disguise straightens his posture again, tightening his grip on the mace and shield he'd plundered. The pause ends as his steps resume the mimicry of his defeated foe, the mimicry he had used to slip by the students, the more seasoned Necromancers, and his fellow, animated corpses.
The same mimicry that would carry him out of the Scourge-hold without incident.
