You didn’t mean to bump into the man–an older fellow, only managing to keep from toppling over thanks to his well-planted cane. He scuffled along at a faster pace, obscenities most likely what was muttered under his breath as he passed you by. While you may have been at least somewhat sorry for burdening the elderly man’s day, you were far too focused on the journey ahead. Candlelight Cove, the main port town of the Westmoore Province. You had heard tales, from strange to downright cautionary, of Westmoore and its surrounding locales. While Candlelight seemed to be the most tame, it carried most of the warnings–don’t go. It was the first stop for many who venture to Westmoore–and therefore, it was the first mistake. Stay away from Westmoore. Turn back. L̻͖̮͈ͅe̳̬̤̙̫̹a̡͕v̶͈e̸̤͉̥͓̣.͈̺̝̭͔̭̘.
It was an accident–the sudden lurch of the boat tugging against its anchor as it docked caused your hand to catch at some loosened wood on the deck’s railing. A long, albeit shallow scrape now stung at your palm–but ignoring the light throb of freshly broken skin, you stepped foot onto the dock. It was just as dreary as the stories said. A light, gentle patter of sprinkling rain kept the stone roads slick and shiny enough to reflect the grey, cloudy overcast. As you and the fresh arrivals stepped into town, others hurried to leave–plenty seeming far too eager to return to Stormwind. Casting your doubts aside, you gave the small town a quick glance–and true to its name, ever-burning candles decorated anywhere the rain couldn’t reach. Windowsills, lamp posts, the crooks of sheltered alleyways. It was ominous, in an eerie sort of way.
It was an accident–you must have spaced out while you were fixated upon the fountain of liquid pearl. How was that possible? Could pearls even be perfectly liquefied like this? It was a smooth, everflowing cascade of pearlescence–rainbows shimmering within the milky whites and silvers as the flowing substance caught the flickering candlelights. It didn’t even seem like water. It was dense and viscous, like some sort of runny syrup–and for some reason, images of blood beginning to coagulate and clot were filling your mind as you studied the fluid. Your fingers were so close to dipping within the fountain’s waterfall, but the sudden hand on your shoulder startled you away. A few splatters of your blood speckled against the liquid pearl, quickly mingling into the pool below as the falls continued. “Welcome to Westmoore.” Chimed a rather tall man. He was dressed in a finely pressed suit–but although it was clean and wrinkle free, he seemed to have clothed himself in a hurry. The buttons were loose, his inner shirt askew. The collar was half out, and his tie was loose and lopsided. Chestnut brown hair was swept back in messy curls, while golden eyes stared into your own. They were empty, vacant, as if staring straight through you to the ground below–accompanied by an equally emotionless smile, as if his lips were simply plastered that way. “I’m Rodarin Calrise, the Mayor of Westmoore Village. Come–let’s get you settled in.”
It was an accident–before you knew it, you were already leaving the faint glow of Candlelight Cove in the horizon, coming upon a signpost that waited at the T-shaped ending of the road. To the left, Westmoore. The right, Devil’s Edge. And right you turned, following the self-proclaimed Mayor the opposite direction of your intended destination. "We.. aren’t going to Westmoore?” You finally managed to ask, fighting the sudden wave of nausea that tried to prevent the question from being asked. “Oh no, no–we need to get you settled in first.” Rodarin replied–his stare and smile as glazed and absent as ever, as if in a haze. A haze you soon felt buzzing over the back of your mind as the road descended towards the thick treeline of the woods by the side of the road. Everything became.. calm. Numb, even. All you could focus on was the smell of moist bark and the crunch of the stone road you absently followed.
It was an accident–at least, you think it was. When did you arrive in the woods? You think back, brows physically straining as they knitted together in struggled contemplation. You.. couldn’t remember anything. All you could recall was walking on the road–Rodarin saying ‘you needed to get settled in first’. You can’t remember how you got here, when you got here, how much time had passed, where Rodarin was, where you were–nothing. The canopy of pine made it impossible to tell if it was day or night within these woo–wait.. canopy? You recall the woods by the road–their branches were barren. This.. wasn’t right. None of this was right. And the more you thought on your situation, the stronger your stomach knotted and shakier your hands became. The air was somehow chilled, yet humid at the same time–and it was taking its toll quickly. You could already feel your skin prickling in defense against the cold, your teeth quietly chattering to prevent from locking. But a shimmer of hope soon sent you running towards it–the gentle glow of light flickering against the trunks.
It was an accident–surely, this had to be an accident. A mistake. A prank–anything to explain what you were seeing. It was you, slumped against the trunk of a pine on the cold, damp ground. Motionless. Pale. The left side of your skull was caved in, while a large gaping hole was missing from the right side of your torso–a few pieces of meat still clinging desperately to the blood-stained tips of what ribs remained. A single lit candle was held in your hand, your knuckles whitened and blood dripping from the base as if you had held onto it for dear life. The light danced upon a white creature crouched by your corpse. It held no features, its figure resembling the basic shape of a humanoid structure–like a cheap doll that sat in the children’s stores in Stormwind. Stumpy arms and legs, and a large rounded head–where blood stained and dripped over the area a mouth should be. Your blood, no doubt. Its ‘skin’ was constantly rippling, like waves upon a disturbed lake–ending in thick streams and globules of its white composition to fall and spill over the ground. The scent of a charred candlewick filled your lungs–and that’s what it was. It was wax. A golem, perhaps? Some sort of animated waxen puppet?
Your guesswork was interrupted at it seemed to look back towards you–it was hard to tell with the absence of eyes. Rodarin appeared from behind the tree your body rest against, his vacant smile now replaced by a grin of absolute pleasure–his teeth all sharpened into fine points. “Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won’t you?” he said before bursting out into laughter of pure malice. And then, pain. Your hands clawed at your chest, desperate to remove whatever white-hot dagger was digging itself into your heart–only to claw at your own flesh. You gasped for air, falling to the ground and curling involuntarily in defense against the crippling pain–its intensity so powerful it caused you to gag. Your eyelids fluttered as your eyes rolled back, staining your mind with the last image they saw. Your corpse, staring back at you–grinning so widely and gleefully that the corners of its lips were beginning to tear and bleed. And then, the world went dark.
I̡̹̼̳̞̭t̞̬̗̱͚͙̩ ̯͈̻̗̾̋ͫ͐̑̽w̭̤͖ͯͣa̡̹̞̥̬͑̑ͨs̤̗͔͗̆̿̽̅ͯ̀ͅn̷̖̖̙̼̰̱'͏ṭ̶̓ ̸̦͐͐̐̎̅ͅȃ̠̥͗̐n͖͍̞̥͚̋͊̌ͅ ̶̘͎͍̤̤a̵̞͖ͨͭ̾͌̚c̳ͯ̐͂c̀̋̄ͮi͛̽ͣ̑̃d̼̐͆̚͠e̝͚̼̮̟͈̙͊̀̑͑ͧ̚n̪̪̯t̲̞͟ͅ.ͬ̀
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