Post by Melancholia on Nov 17, 2010 18:48:53 GMT -5
((Melancholia's description could never be complete without seeing how she is, how she acts. The format I am using for her description is perhaps not quite standard but I hope it captures the feel of her.))
The tavern itself is like many others you might have visited. The interior is not as bright or as warm as you were expecting but it is still a welcomed change from the cold darkness of the night outside. Certainly it is the most comfortable looking one you have yet seen in the land of the Forsaken. Without hesitation you pick a table near the fire and wave to the skeletal barman. The fellow walks over, that strange typical gait of the undead making the mug of dark ale on his platter sway back and forth. He places the drink on the table, holds out skeletal fingers for the price of the ale and returns to his bar.
You are just about to settle in for a relaxing, if not quiet evening when you notice another patron sitting not far from you at the table to your right. Curious and trying not to show it, you peer at her over the rim of your mug of ale.
Unlike the majority of the Forsaken you have seen so far her eyes do not glow, only dark pits remain. For a brief moment you wonder if she can see anything at all when she turns her head toward you. Even with the lack of eyes there is no doubt in your mind that she is staring right back. Her gaze is a bit unsettling, like looking at a painting and imagining the eyes of the person depicted looking at you no matter where you turn.
You sheepishly avert your gaze but not before you managed to get a better look at her features. Yellowed skin, not unlike aged parchment covers most of her face. The skin of her lower jaw is missing, greyish bone and dirty white teeth exposed. Most of the flesh from her lower cheeks is missing as well. Tendons and dried muscles clearly showing. The rest of her face however, despite the state of her skin, clearly belongs to someone who had been beautiful once. Shoulder length hair frames her face. Although obviously brushed, the strands are thin and dry. Once it was undoubtedly a vibrant brown but now it is simply drab and pale. You estimate she was in her late thirties or early forties when she died.
You wonder if there is anything good to eat when you hear the sound of a wooden chair being dragged across the floor. Turning your head you see the undead woman walking toward you. She places her chair next to yours and promptly sits down without asking for permission.
''I was alive once, you know'' She says. Her voice is raspy and quiet. Surprised you stammer out a reply, something that confirms that indeed you knew she had been alive once.
''No, I mean really alive. I had dreams, goals. I had a future. Not like some of those peasants you might see begging for scraps in the market district of Stormwind. Have you visited there recently?'' She asks, her missing eyes staring at you. It is rather a strange question to ask since very few citizens of the Horde have ever been bold or bored enough to sneak in to take a look. You are about to reply when she continues. ''It is really getting worst these days, I simply must make an appeal to the King.'' She places one skeletal hand atop the other on the table and seems to, as far as you can tell, stare out the nearest window.
In the glow of the firelight you notice that without the tears and rent, without the dirt stains and spots of mold it must have been of high quality. The cut is similar to what many of the rich human nobles would wear. Through the many rips in the robe you notice yellowed bones and brittle skin. Deciding that you do not want to be caught staring again you avert your gaze and turn your attention to your table-mate.
Politely you introduce yourself. She turns her head toward you and for a moment you notice that her head is slightly raised not unlike how a patrician would look at a servant. She quickly lowers her head to a more normal pose and smiles at you. Or at least the upper half of her mouth does. Her cracked and dry upper lip curling in what must surely be a welcoming smile.
''I am Melara Coldbrook, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.'' She tilts her head to the side, her slender eyebrows curling down slightly as she seems to examine you. ''You seem familiar, did you train at the academy as well?''
You reply that no, you are not and inquire of what academy she is speaking about.
She seems to frown, her smile falters. ''What academy? Are you trying to mock me? Perhaps you believe I do not know I am dead?'' She suddenly calms herself and her smile returns. ''Please, forgive me. I find it difficult to get used to this new... life. I am often very lonely. Please, tell me about yourself.''
You take a sip from your drink and indulge her by telling her a few tidbits of your life. Sometimes she nods or asks a question, seeking clarification, obviously wanting to know more. But once in a while she'll say something that seems out of place, to all appearances flashes from her previous life. If questioned about it she always denies her words and seems not to understand what you are talking about. Clearly she was not ready to give up her life when she died and some part of her refuses to let go. Over all, while her demeanor is friendly, you suspect that hidden underneath is a sadness that threatens to overwhelm her. A battle against melancholia that she is constantly trying to win.
Eventually you decide it is time to retire and say you farewells. As you leave you notice that she keeps her empty gaze on you, her parting words lingering in your mind ''I hope we will meet again soon.''
The tavern itself is like many others you might have visited. The interior is not as bright or as warm as you were expecting but it is still a welcomed change from the cold darkness of the night outside. Certainly it is the most comfortable looking one you have yet seen in the land of the Forsaken. Without hesitation you pick a table near the fire and wave to the skeletal barman. The fellow walks over, that strange typical gait of the undead making the mug of dark ale on his platter sway back and forth. He places the drink on the table, holds out skeletal fingers for the price of the ale and returns to his bar.
You are just about to settle in for a relaxing, if not quiet evening when you notice another patron sitting not far from you at the table to your right. Curious and trying not to show it, you peer at her over the rim of your mug of ale.
Unlike the majority of the Forsaken you have seen so far her eyes do not glow, only dark pits remain. For a brief moment you wonder if she can see anything at all when she turns her head toward you. Even with the lack of eyes there is no doubt in your mind that she is staring right back. Her gaze is a bit unsettling, like looking at a painting and imagining the eyes of the person depicted looking at you no matter where you turn.
You sheepishly avert your gaze but not before you managed to get a better look at her features. Yellowed skin, not unlike aged parchment covers most of her face. The skin of her lower jaw is missing, greyish bone and dirty white teeth exposed. Most of the flesh from her lower cheeks is missing as well. Tendons and dried muscles clearly showing. The rest of her face however, despite the state of her skin, clearly belongs to someone who had been beautiful once. Shoulder length hair frames her face. Although obviously brushed, the strands are thin and dry. Once it was undoubtedly a vibrant brown but now it is simply drab and pale. You estimate she was in her late thirties or early forties when she died.
You wonder if there is anything good to eat when you hear the sound of a wooden chair being dragged across the floor. Turning your head you see the undead woman walking toward you. She places her chair next to yours and promptly sits down without asking for permission.
''I was alive once, you know'' She says. Her voice is raspy and quiet. Surprised you stammer out a reply, something that confirms that indeed you knew she had been alive once.
''No, I mean really alive. I had dreams, goals. I had a future. Not like some of those peasants you might see begging for scraps in the market district of Stormwind. Have you visited there recently?'' She asks, her missing eyes staring at you. It is rather a strange question to ask since very few citizens of the Horde have ever been bold or bored enough to sneak in to take a look. You are about to reply when she continues. ''It is really getting worst these days, I simply must make an appeal to the King.'' She places one skeletal hand atop the other on the table and seems to, as far as you can tell, stare out the nearest window.
In the glow of the firelight you notice that without the tears and rent, without the dirt stains and spots of mold it must have been of high quality. The cut is similar to what many of the rich human nobles would wear. Through the many rips in the robe you notice yellowed bones and brittle skin. Deciding that you do not want to be caught staring again you avert your gaze and turn your attention to your table-mate.
Politely you introduce yourself. She turns her head toward you and for a moment you notice that her head is slightly raised not unlike how a patrician would look at a servant. She quickly lowers her head to a more normal pose and smiles at you. Or at least the upper half of her mouth does. Her cracked and dry upper lip curling in what must surely be a welcoming smile.
''I am Melara Coldbrook, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.'' She tilts her head to the side, her slender eyebrows curling down slightly as she seems to examine you. ''You seem familiar, did you train at the academy as well?''
You reply that no, you are not and inquire of what academy she is speaking about.
She seems to frown, her smile falters. ''What academy? Are you trying to mock me? Perhaps you believe I do not know I am dead?'' She suddenly calms herself and her smile returns. ''Please, forgive me. I find it difficult to get used to this new... life. I am often very lonely. Please, tell me about yourself.''
You take a sip from your drink and indulge her by telling her a few tidbits of your life. Sometimes she nods or asks a question, seeking clarification, obviously wanting to know more. But once in a while she'll say something that seems out of place, to all appearances flashes from her previous life. If questioned about it she always denies her words and seems not to understand what you are talking about. Clearly she was not ready to give up her life when she died and some part of her refuses to let go. Over all, while her demeanor is friendly, you suspect that hidden underneath is a sadness that threatens to overwhelm her. A battle against melancholia that she is constantly trying to win.
Eventually you decide it is time to retire and say you farewells. As you leave you notice that she keeps her empty gaze on you, her parting words lingering in your mind ''I hope we will meet again soon.''
Founded April 26, 2005