If You Come to a Fork in the Soul... Take It

'''If You Come to a Fork in the Soul... Take It'''
 * - ''by Symphora

A Dinner Disturbed  Beneath the layers of cobwebs, on the dusty ground, among the piles of festering corpses, a sudden glow shone out from the empty sockets of one of the many skulls, disturbing the vermin from their evening meal. The rats fled into the many cracks in the walls. They were conditioned not to linger when the food began to move. The quickness of the rats contrasted sharply with the almost imperceptible movement of the newly reanimated skeleton.  Where am I?   Looking around, she noticed the many cadavers strewn across the floor and a single flight of steps across the room. Her frame was in complete disarray; joints were bent at unnatrual angles. One of the legs was twisted so badly that she quickly lost balance when she tried to rise. A cloud of dust rose into the air as she crumbled back to the ground. She examined her body, muttering incomprehensible imprecations at the awful state of it. Grimacing, she straightened her leg, but the pain never came. She marveled at this for a moment, then other needs came to mind.  I still need something to cover my sad bones.   At this thought, ancient words sidled into her mind and out her lips... the words to clothe herself in Demon Skin:  &quot;Derma Daimonon&quot;  ''How did I know to say that? ... Well, there certainly aren't any answers down here.''  With that thought, she ascended the stairs. Her body moved awkwardly at first, but became easier with each step, as it recalled its somatic memories. Reaching the top of the steps, she saw an old man fixing the wheel on a rickety old cart. <BR> <BR>''Heh. It'll be a rude surprise for him to see one of the bodies rising from the grave.'' <BR> <BR>The man sensed her presence and turned toward her, but the surprise was hers. In the flickering of a nearby torch, she saw the face barely clinging to his skull, the hands completely devoid of skin. At the sight of him, faint memories of a great plague flitted forward briefly, and receded into her subconscious just as fast. <BR> <BR> Suddenly, she realized the undead man was talking to her,  &quot;I am Mordo, the caretaker of the crypt of Deathknell. And you are the Lich King's slave no more. Speak with Shadow Priest Sarvis in the chapel at the base of the hill, he will tell you more of what you must know.&quot; <BR> <BR>''Lich King? That means something, ... but what? I had better see this Sarvis.'' <BR> <BR>Giving a curt nod to Mordo, she walked slowly down the hill. Tantalizing memories continued to dance at the edge her consciousness, retreating before she could bring them into focus.