Last Call - A Hallow's End TreatFollow

A belch blasted across the hot shadowy room, anchoring everyone in place. From the kitchen portico, a torched gnome screamed and Smitts spun, backhanding him while keeping his stein fairly balanced.

“I swear, you do that once more I’ll pitch you into the commons and take my chances on the distraction,” he spat, finishing off his beer and parking its coach on the bar. “What be the casualties, Trelayne my dear?”

The Scarlet Raven’s innkeeper barely heard him. The daggers she brandished kept her nails from driving home. She assessed the damage strewn about the tavern more to slow her heart rate than to appease the drunken tavernkeep.

“Including the tradesman Thornbush upstairs and Daris,” she gulped, “who’s mostly upstairs, that’s six dead in, uh, ten minutes.” The always courteous Mabel Solaj nodded in agreement. Her face was bluish-white, eyes rabbity and she walked the tightrope between shock and madness. Heavy kegs barricaded the staircase as blood gelled around their bases, pooling the flow that once belonged to the men above.

Three fatalities were patrons and they lie heaped like surgical laundry across the threshold leading to the courtyard along with a hastily-thrown oaken table. And then there was Grual. The Raven’s cook bought it first… the lucky *******.

Two drunken dwarves, now deceased, had extinguished both fire grates in a most revolting manner. Grual blackened one eye of each tank as compensation, proceeded to lighting candles and pumpkins, then stomped off to check the dual lanterns out front. Seconds later, his head ricocheted back into the main foyer. It was glazed over in smoldering wine-red blood and by the time it finished spinning about the dirty floor it looked like a big delicious candied apple. Instantly, weapons were drawn and defensive spells turned the tavern into a kaleidoscope of color. A slaughter commenced.

The dwarves, one worgen druid and a pasty gnome charged simultaneously, bottlenecking the slim hallway entrance. A reverberating thwhack sent a shudder through the foundation and a chorus of screams was cut short. The wailing gnome staggered back into view with black smoke curling off the top of his head. Only Trelayne and the barkeep Hann kept their composure; arming themselves and blocking off the entry. No sooner did they take up weapons when a window upstairs exploded. Nobody saw what happened up there, but a swift investigation by a then sober Smitts persuaded him to grab his mug off the wall and fill it… repeatedly.

Engulfed in the cloud of glass, Thornbush had been nearly liquefied; the smell of bleach and stewed nightcrawlers instantly polluting the second story. Daris’ fate was a touch more gruesome. He’d been boiled in his own juices, lumbering to the top of the stairs before he popped, littering the steps with organs and fluid.

The shaky few downstairs drew their second wind. Hann moved doggedly to one of the solid fogged windows shouldering the doused central hearth.

“I’m going to give this pane a good smack,” the barkeep announced, holding a double barrel tarnished in old beer, “and if that thing out there is still springy it should bite. If it does, you lot make for the town hall and find out what the hell Commander Ebonlocke and our elected officials are doing with our taxes this evening.”

“Not you,” he added, grabbing the charred mage as he tried to join the others, “Fire or frost?” Pouring sweat, the gnome simply shook his head.

“What, arcane? Oh, that’s lovely. So if we’re trapped here for eight weeks you can keep us fed, well done. Look… just have some explosions ready after I give the window a blow. If that thing goes down hard and fast, THEN you can join the others.” As he finished, a coughing growl sounded along Hann’s wall from outside.

“Ready?” he snarled over his shoulder. At that moment, an icy squeal went off from the commons, drawing everyone’s hackles and attention. Only Hann barely heard a thick windowpane crack… inward. A silhouette had cleverly nudged its way in during the diversion. Hann involuntarily emptied both chambers; unfortunately the butt-end of his shotgun was still facing his intruder. At the other end, Smitts mug vaporized in his hand and he was dead before slamming off the far wall. A child watching cold potato soup pour into his candy bag couldn’t have had a more disappointed look on his face.

As the others stared, mouths hanging, another pair of gaping jaws was full of gnome. Only the mage’s head jutted out from the dark creature’s maw. He took a massive breath for one grand shriek before it swallowed him whole and backed out through the wrecked frame.

“What was that thing?!” screamed Trelayne.

Hann, thumbing fresh shells into the smoking gun, gawked at what he had just done; wasted his boss, who was now marinating in a puddle of warm beer and blood. Amidst the confusion, a tall vague figure quietly appeared, stepping over the barricade table.

Solaj laughed wildly, head cocked at the stranger. Jigging, she appeared as a marionette whose puppeteer was being electrocuted. Trelayne and Hann felt the building pull in on itself as a pulse of vile green light sucked the oxygen from their lungs and turned the young blonde vendor into a burst of cinders. The stench of burnt cornbread and flesh gagged the senses.

An impossibly long arm reached out and snagged Trelayne by the throat. She fought viciously, swinging the daggers for any kind of purchase. The shadow handled her like a priceless but extremely lethal pet.

Hann reacted instinctively, lunging at them with the cocked shotgun, trying to get a bead on his mark without clipping the woman in its grasp. The assailant dropped the innkeeper whirling like a child’s spinning top and vanished.

“Easy, Trey! I got you, just stop--- “ was all the barkeep managed before he heard himself gargling. Something smelt wrong and coppery and as he raised his head to identify it, a fine red mist jetted from below his chin. The final curtain dropped as he clamped trembling hands over his throat.

Sitting on the edge of his chair in the town square, Bill Quiverspike was sweating anxiously. His Hammer Theatre was more exhausting than it used to be: Traveling, financing and such were all obstacles, but the reviews wore most on him… what with the younger crowds expecting stage effects to be “over-the-top”, as they say. Despite all this, the weeks spent working the Firelands were far worse and the guild had seen it in his hollow eyes… time for a break. Obligingly, he put his raid gear in the closet and crossed the Eastern Kingdoms to write and manage his first amateur production in years. They were so much more rewarding than bothersome professionals. Today’s rehearsal was industrious, but the finale was still deplorably incomplete.

Encouragingly, he was spared rotten veggies and dead cats by the sparse audience and when the player “Trelayne” exited the stage grinning, the public actually cheered. Bill applauded all the cast, but took his lead aside and spoke sincerely.

“Thank you so much, both to you and your colleagues for your patience and effort,” he said and the woman graciously curtsied before him.

With that, the Forsaken warlock sighed then called to his felhunter. The beast galloped to his side, fangs slavering pink with gore and saliva. The people of Darkshire took an involuntary step back as the two started north, several of them stumbling over the corpses of the Night Watch.

The ancient caster was too preoccupied to bid the crowd adieu. He would have a climactic scene resolved by the time he reached Goldshire. Finally, a command performance for the royalty of Stormwind would probably incinerate the last of his reason, but the stage at his feet would become a bed of roses, wouldn’t it?

As he hobbled away, Trelayne’s fingers, now free of their burden, buried themselves deep. She had peeked through the keyhole into nothing and a smile grew until blood ran from the corners of her mouth.