tampered | (no subject)

(no subject)

When; January 4th, evening
Rating; R for zombieness
Characters; Asshole rogue (

forourqueen) and lady in distress (

misterblackbird)
Summary; Gabriel has had enough of the ticking. His solution? Kidnap some company.
Log;

Tick-tock. Tick-tock..

Gabriel had always praised himself in taking the Forsaken motto into his shriveled old heart, but after a week of increasingly louder ticking, 'patience' was wearing thin and 'discipline' was going the same way. This was rather shameful for someone used to a rather sinister amount of terrible things in his everyday existence. Adding to that, he was used to remaining still for weeks in one place and tolerating the endless sobbing and crying from the text subjects of the Apothecaries. But ticking? That apparently got to him.

That was why he had spent a couple of days watching the general population, hidden in the shadows and moving in stealth from place to place while taking a few mental notes about the people living in this 'City'. Not all of them were human, and many of them were beings he had never seen before. The variations were staggering, so he had to make up a list of what he desired in a companion.

They had to be male. Gabriel couldn't stand women crying and whining, and there was just something about them that made him angry. They also had to be human, or at least elven. Gabriel didn't trust any of these other creatures, and he knew the anatomy of elves and humans well enough to know how to knock them out... and get rid of them later.

He was ticking off possible targets on his mental list, following a couple of men around for a while to learn their habits and possible abilities - no need to rush head first into friends or a spell, after all. Soon, he had narrowed it down to just one. A fairly inconspicuous fellow that seemed about average in most ways. He was also traveling alone most of the time, which was why he seemed like a perfect target.

So here Gabriel was, waiting in a quiet and empty area. Shifted into the shadows and invisible for the naked eye, the undead man rolled his daggers between his bony fingers while waiting for his target to pass by. He knew that this man took the way home, so it was only a matter of time.

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Another day--no curse to speak of, fortunately, but Cain was still obliged to see to his duties at his inherited cafe (no other way to think of it, really, if he wasn't to think of it as his own), which meant that much less time to follow any rumours or whispers he might hear of his missing servant.

That really was getting tedious. He checked the Hall of the Missing at least once a day, on the off chance or on the strange hope that perhaps this time he'd see Riff's face there (again--how many times was this?) amongst those who had departed from the City. But still, no. For good or ill, he was yet in the City, somewhere.

Of course, Cain knew where he was--or at least who had him. The detail of precisely where they were was another matter. He would much rather try and follow any trail that might lead him to that place than deal with the tedium and ordinary details of the cafe. But it was his duty, in a way (perhaps it that sense of duty came out of Uncle Neil's reminders of how the Earl of Hargreaves and head of the Hargreaves House ought to act). So he endured it.

It didn't mean that he walked directly home after, though. He still found time enough to ask what he hoped were the right questions of the right people in the right places. He knew his father well enough to surmise some of what he might be doing. And where he might have been.

Still, there was only so much that one could do in a day. He was tired. If things were as they should have been, Riff would be waiting for him at the opera house, ready to take his coat and bring him a cup of tea. But things were not as they should have been. He ought to be more wary, he ought to think more carefully. He settled his hat a little more surely on his head and kept his cane in hand--a strange sort of comfort there. The opera house wasn't far now and he knew this part of his way home well. He hurried, of course, but not so quickly...

Target acquired. Looking a bit tired and walking home. Perfect; if the man was distracted from a long day, it would be easy to grab him.

Watching Cain stroll by, Gabriel sneaks in behind the other man and quickly looks over Cain, mentally checking for any weapons or other things that could sabotage the plan. The cane didn't bother him too much; it didn't seem to be anything like a mage staff or a wand. No, this man was easy pickings.

Turning one of his daggers around, he grins. Time to stop the ticking.

Slamming the pommel of a dagger into someone's head should not be this satisfying, but to a dried-up corpse like Gabriel, it was delicious. Cain's hat might not survive it, but at least the Forsaken man knew how much force would knock someone out... rather than split their skull.

Even if his hat won't survive, so long as Cain himself survives, he should probably count himself fortunate. He's endured more than a few attacks--both in his own world and in the City, and one does have to wonder when one's good fortune might at last run out.

Not yet, it seems.

But he is dimly aware of a foreboding, of a stirring in the air immediately behind him, of someone unseen now far too close.

He starts at that sense and half turns and would mean to swing the silver knob of his walking stick against whoever his attacker (if it is an attacker at all) might be--it's certainly worked before. The question, of course, is whether it is enough and whether it is soon enough.

Not enough, and not fast enough either. The slam of the dagger's skull-shaped pommel is too quick, as Gabriel calmly watches his victim's eyes roll back and crash to the ground. Gripping the collar of Cain's shirt, he hauls the unconscious man over a bony shoulder and picks up any dropped things, such as the smashed hat and the cane. Not leaving any traces was an important part of kidnapping people, and if anything, Gabriel had a little too much experience with this.

It hadn't even taken five minutes, and now he was already on his way back to the abandoned and somewhat water-damaged cellar he now used as a base. The ticking was already less annoying, and Gabriel quickly starts the second 'phase' of his plan. Shoving Cain into the nearest corner, he grabs ropes and a nearby chair, as well as a blindfold. It would have been easier to just stick the man's eyes out, but he preferred to not risk the human dying from shock or infection.

...plus the crying. It would be just as annoying as the ticking.

If he could only know the kind of hell that blinding Cain or destroying his eyes might unleash... How fortunate to avoid that. Not that Cain knows yet how fortunate (or unfortunate) he is.

It takes him a long while to come around again. He jumps, tenses when he does, but finds he can't move. He can't see--darkness, blindness, or blindfold? Darkness, yes, there is that, but a blindfold perhaps. His eyes, he can tell, are still in his head. He keeps still. He dares not move too much (better to try and seem to still be unconscious, especially while trying to determine what's happened). He is restrained, and it feels like ropes, perhaps, or something similar. But he isn't lying down--that's very likely a good sign. Restrained and lying down--that would point the way straight to that mad doctor. Perhaps not him, then.

But what other enemies has he? So many of the ones he had in the City have since gone again. There's only one enemy for him in the City now: his father and all those who follow his father. It must be them. But why now? Was he too close to finding Riff? If only that was the reason. What reason could they have? So often they struck not at him but at those around him. Why snatch at him now? This was unlike them. This was utterly unlike them. There was something else to be learned in this ordeal. Something had changed with them, at least. But what had changed, what the reason might be, that he did not yet know.

The headache isn't really helping matters either.

Very well, then.

He dares a small sigh, a small sound, to see if there's any response.

It worked. His risky plan had really worked, and the ticking was gone. If this was the only curse this damn place wanted to put on him, Gabriel figured he'd have no problem staying where he was until he managed to go back to Azeroth and see if the broken old world still existed. With the way things seemed to go, Deathwing might have obliterated the whole thing by now. Strangely enough, the undead man really didn't care where things headed. His queen wanted to make the Forsaken stronger by collecting dead bodies and reanimating them, and if the Hour of Twilight came, she would have as much of that she wanted. No, letting some oversized dragon take away all the fun of destroying the living was the issue. Deathwing couldn't hate half as well as the Forsaken.

Looking over the network in the strange buzzbox he'd been given, Gabriel carefully makes notes of anybody looking for his new companion. Reading a few posts, the zombie then notices a small movement from the tied-up guest - and then a small sigh. Not a gasp or panicked sobbing; both good and a bit disappointing at the same time. He did like to hear his victims suffer. When appropriate.

"Keep your mouth shut." Gabriel mutters, his voice sounding just as lovely like one that had too much whiskey in their lifestime and enjoys eating gravel while gurgling shards of glass. Considering how long he'd been dead, it was... pleasant. "You'll live as long as you're useful."

It was not a voice with which Cain was familiar. Not immediately, at least. But, of course, there was no reason why his father wouldn't hire on someone new for a task like this. Especially if it was someone with some sort of unusual skill--that was his father's tendency.

And that voice meant that there was someone else here. He was not alone--wherever he was.

But he couldn't deny that a voice like that sent more than a few crawling chills up his spine.

He pulled against the ropes with more force now. A useless sort of thing to do, but the sort of thing done almost out of habit. He pulled--to no avail.

"I doubt they'll be very pleased with you if you kill me. You probably won't even be paid."

I doubt they'll be very pleased with you if you kill me. You probably won't even be paid.

Now this was interesting. This human thought he was kidnapped on someone's orders, awaiting a ransom? Gabriel taps a bony finger against his chin, a bit thoughtful. Perhaps he should have done a more thorough background check... but money didn't really interest him, as he was used to stealing what he needed and financing anything bigger with the money he got from his 'work' back home. (Though so far, the City didn't seem to have a need for torturers and assassins.)

Gabriel moves a bit closer to Cain, the scent of mold, earth and rotten corpse growing stronger around the prisoner as he did. Aside from the sound of the boots against the cellar floor, there were no other sounds from the undead man; no breathing and no heartbeat. For someone without sight, it would be difficult to pinpoint where he was - which was just what Gabriel liked. Watching the human struggle against the ropes, the rogue grins and puts a hand on Cain's shoulder.

"Heh. So you're some bigshot, then?" He says, breath a bit too close for comfort. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you're not worth anything to me. If anything, you're just keeping me company until you croak." Gabriel's bone-tipped fingers dig in just a bit, not hard enough to break the skin. "Or until I decide to eat you."

Cain knows that smell of mold and earth and rot and grave better than he perhaps would like. But he cannot quite reason out why he should smell it now nor why it should suddenly have grown so strong. It chokes him a little and he tries not to cough.

But when that sudden and unexpected hand (it must be a hand; surely it wouldn't feel so much like a hand to not be a hand) falls on his shoulder from out of nowhere, from out of the darkness his blindfold leaves him in, he tenses--still pulling against the ropes, he holds still as he can. Even when those fingers dig into his skin, he keeps still without being calm.

But at those raw, gravely words--You're not worth anything to me. You're just keeping me company until you croak. Or until I decide to eat you.--realization begins to dawn across his mind. If he were being held by someone, even a stranger or a newcomer, in the pay of DELILAH, there wouldn't be that kind of a threat. That wasn't their way. Even when he'd been caught before, even when he'd been caught in the City, he had been turned over to his father or his father's followers. Only that mad doctor would dare try something so unexpected, and this was not he.

Strangely, it was now that the real fear began to set in, now that he did not know who had caught him. As little as he knew about his father's occult organisation, they were still something known to him, something almost familiar. He knew more of their workings now, he knew their ranks, he knew their ways. And this was not of them. Now he had reason to fear. Indeed, now he could be facing death.

After a long moment, he dares speak again:

"Who are you?"

"None of your business." Gabriel snaps, letting go of Cain's shoulder and roughly shoving the chair back towards the cement wall, not caring if the man cracked his head open again. He expected that question, but how stupid were these useless humans? No names and blindfolded... if he stayed that way, he might have a chance to be let go alive. No face and no name to tell others. Well, at least a chance if he was held by another human. The Forsaken was used to using their prisoners as test subjects and then pieces to make abominations with. Gabriel couldn't remember the last time he had left a target alive.

Putting his hands on each side of Cain's head, he leans in once more. "Now shut up. For every sound I hear from you, I'm taking a finger." To really dig in the point, he snaps his teeth shut just an inch from the other man's nose. "Remember. As long as you are useful..."

Letting go and walking away from the tied-up man, the rogue takes a seat on the old couch he had dragged down in the abandoned cellar. Taking out the communicator again, he quickly looks over the network before drawing both of his daggers. Since he didn't need to eat, sleep or use the bathroom, Gabriel spent his time making sure his equipment was in perfect shape. Soon, the only sound from Cain's captor is a shrill metallic pitch against a sharpening stone.

[ooc: Feel free to post that entry when you think it's appropriate.]

Very well, then. His head had missed the wall, fortunately, though he didn't know how close he'd come to it (it was best not to know). He would ask no more questions nor say anything more if he could help it. And any threats against his fingers would, indeed, be carefully observed. He held his tongue. He would be useful, such as he could be, and spend what time he had considering other ways to escape. He would keep silent.

But there had been nothing said about movement. He would try to keep as still as possible--no need to bring on any more threats--but it had since become clear to him that he had not been well checked before he'd been set down and tied up. And, as it happened, his Network device was still in his pocket.

The sound of knives being whetted and sharpened was hardly a pleasant one in such a situation, but perhaps, if his captor was distracted, he could still reach the Network--or, if not now, then soon--and at least make it somehow known what had happened to him. He would have to keep his device safe, as best he could, even with bound hands and a blindfold.

He checked his wry smile before it broke on his face, but the thought still amused him: what would his father think to find that someone else had captured him? What a wretched knot to tie in his plans.

He found his device in his hands now and set to work as carefully as he could sending some kind of message...

Contrary to what his prisoner thought, Gabriel had checked through his pockets quite thoroughly. But he never really cared about taking the network device away from Cain since he didn't think that the man would be able to use it while tied up and blindfolded like that. A dire mistake, it seemed. Keeping busy with his daggers, polishing the cursed and tainted metal made of an Old God's blood, he didn't notice his captive fiddling around with the contraption until it was too late.

Needless to say, it pissed him off. Badly.

...and when a Forsaken raged, even the proudest of orcs stepped back to give them space.

"You dare..." He roars, dropping both the daggers on the couch and moving swiftly over to the bound man in the chair. Slapping away the communicator, he spits on the ground and kicks the offensive thing into a dark corner. Grabbing Cain by his shirt, he tips both him and the chair forward. "Three hours, and you already give me trouble. Perhaps I should drill a few holes in your skull so that your only remaining ability is to drool on this cursed floor!"

He has already been given warning enough to keep silent. Aside from the unintentional gasp that he gives as he and chair alike are so tipped, he says nothing. He does not move. He scarcely dares to breathe. If he trembles, he can't help it.

(But from the sound of his device as it was quite certainly destroyed, they are in a room with hard floors and hard walls, that much is clear. But where? The smell of graves and tombs and hard floors. Not inside a mausoleum, surely. The room sounded too large. So where?)

So he sets his jaw and still says nothing.

Said jaw is met by a fist, crashing into Cain's face with substantial rage behind it. His bony fingers threaten to make quite a bruise since Gabriel has little to no muscle or fat cushioning the blow. Pulling Cain back by the throat, the undead man snarls into the human's face and follows up by almost lifting him, angrily slamming down both the chair and Cain into the cement floor. Spitting something rather dry and foul-smelling near the battered man's face, Gabriel kicks his prisoner twice for good measure.

"Human filth!" He growls, eyes aflame and his jaw ripping in the seams from the way he grinds his teeth together to hold back his instinct to destroy this useless bastard. Now people knew that something was going on rather than just believing that he was missing. It gave the rogue so much more to do; making sure he covered his tracks, getting rid of witnesses and possibly even having to change his location.

Walking away from Cain, he rips out one of his daggers from the couch and then stalks back with stomping steps rather than the cat-like silence from before. Leaning down and gripping Cain by the hair, he lifts the dagger and presses it under the man's chin. "I said, you live as long as you're useful. How long to you think you get to live if you cause me trouble?!"

Edited 2012-01-06 23:06 (UTC)

Cain endures it as best he's able, but he can't help crying out at least once (twice? three times?) in surprise and pain as he's thrown around, knocked aside, kicked, and battered. He'll hold his tongue when he can, but when he's left dizzy and beaten and feeling as though he's falling through space itself, he can't help himself.

In the momentary stillness as Gabriel retrieves his daggers, he tries to keep still and quiet again--no sound but his ragged and slightly desperate breathing--

--which catches suddenly in his throat as the dagger is pressed there with its threat to stop that breathing permanently. He still says nothing. What is there to say? But he's shaking now, all that boldness well beaten out of him for the time being, and now bruises are beginning to bloom across his skin. No, he understands now: he can't be brash or careless. If he must be 'useful' for the duration, he will be useful. His mouth moves almost imperceptibly as though to speak, but it's a movement and not a sound. He dares a gasp for breath but nothing more.

There. That pale, naked fear was just what he needed to see. A sign that this bastard fully understood what was at stake here, and that he would not try something as stupid as that again. Gabriel didn't want any trouble, or rotten corpses bloating up in the cellar. The man would do as he said, now. No doubt about that.

Removing the dagger and sliding it into its sheathe again, the undead man leaves the chair on the floor together with Cain, after checking that the ropes were still tight. (Maybe a little too tight in places, but he didn't give a damn.) Standing up, he brushes off his armor a bit and then starts walking back to the couch.

There is something in this moment that feels very old to him, something that makes him think of times in his life long ago when everything, every action, every thought, even his very existence was potential for punishment. And in those times he endured as he could, suffering quietly as he could, believing that his punishment was deserved. He can be quiet, he can be still, he can be obedient.

Lying now on the floor of this place (which smells not of graves and burial but of commonplace dust and dank places in the City--or is he mistaken?) he will fall still and quiet again. He will obey--not out of a sense of obedience or devotion (that, in those former days, was reserved only for his father), but because, as he learned, it was a wise way to avoid more and worse.

He wills himself to stop trembling (much as that works) and permits himself to breathe. But nothing more. There can and will be nothing more.

Not yet, at least. He will stay still, but his mind will continue to move--considering ways to escape, to send out his call for help, to determine where he is, to discover who his captor is. His mind cannot be stopped--not even his father's whip could stop that.

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