Tales of mort1

Every noble adventurer has a history. Some turn of events that has shaped their existence and helped mold who they are and why they adventure, generally involving feats of bravery and self sacrifice. These tales inspire the reader to perhaps follow in the footsteps of such great heroes, perhaps bettering their lives and the lives of those around them.
If you’re looking for such stories push off, you won’t find them here. These are the stories of a complete bastard. 
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Not far East of Lorderan once lay the town of Stratholme. The buildings of Stratholme may still stand, but the town itself is long dead, as are the majority of its former inhabitants. The lucky ones are dead anyway. For many the sweet sleep of death has been denied. This is a short history of one of those unfortunates cursed with Undeath. And he couldn't be happier.
On the outskirts of Stratholme was a small, pastoral farming village populated by the kind of people one would expect to find during that period in the Eastern Kingdom's history. Swarthy, leather faced farmers and their plump, equally leather faced wives usually with 4 or 5 boisterous children either helping out on the farm or making a nuisance of themselves (as young children are want to do). Of course, at the time of this tale they're all pretty much doomed.
In the Northern corner of the village was a small, well kept cottage with an immaculate, thriving garden surrounding the house. Flowers and herbs predominated and passers-by would often stop to appreciate such effort and be greeted by the elderly resident and his charming, wrinkled smile. This was the much beloved Town Healer, skilled in
curing or treating injuries of all kinds, from debilitating illness to broken bones or child's skinned knee. He had long, pristine white hair and eyes that seemed to sparkle in the noon day sun. His name was Frank, and Mortimer couldn't stand him. 
"Empty headed pillock!" Mort spat as he strode purposefully past. "Oooh, Town Healer! Ewww, ain't we the Great Towne Healer!" he said, rolling the R and somehow managing to convey capital letters along with his extreme disgust.
Mort (or, as the townsfolk called him, “That cranky old bastard”) hated Frank and everyone else. Every last leather faced man and fat little wife, every child and their snot filled noses. Whereas Frank was the one people went to when a loved one needed healing, folks came from far and wide to see Old Mort when there was a less than loved one who needed “taking care of.” Visitors would sometimes leave Mort’s house with small, plain brown paper wrapped packages containing bottles of foul smelling liquid which, if shaken or dropped, usually resulted in the visitor’s untimely (and often messy) demise. Anything Mort gave you was to be treated very, very carefully.
Mort’s house, on the Western fringe of the town, was the visual opposite of Frank’s and it fit Mort to a T. It was run down, mangy, and very, very old. Both had been part of the town landscape for as long as anyone could remember, and there was talk as to how each had survived as long: Dark magic for the house, sheer bloodyheadedness for Mort.
From time to time a “do-gooder” (usually a Paladin in training) would visit the town, hear about Old Mort, and try to bring him back to the Light. Or High Elf maidens, glowing with Octarine and Arcane powers, out on quests for the Mage’s Dalaran, would take it upon themselves to offer comfort to the poor, lonely old man. Most were never seen again, and in the case of those who were it was generally only bits of them found floating in a river or strapped to a tree.
Then… The Scourge. 
Word reached the village of horrible things happening in other villages such as Brill. Entire households dropping dead, only to rise again as mindless zombies, killing anything and anyone in their path. Robed strangers performing dark rituals in graveyards summoning foul creatures, made from the decayed parts of multiple corpses. If it wasn’t for the fact that Mort hadn’t left town in decades, many would have thought he was behind this. 
It was heard that Prince Arthas, son of the King and prize student of Uther Lightbringer himself was working to put an end to this blight and a cheer went up throughout town. “Arthas! Three cheers for Arthas!” they all said over pints in the local pub.
“Bollix to Arthas.” Mort said from outside. “And bollix t’aller yew as well. Yer all dead, and yer tew daft ter know”
There are many things that can be said about Mort. Quite a few unpleasant adjectives would work nicely, as a matter of fact. But stupid? Not one of them. He saw clear as day what was happening and what WOULD happen. Ever the pessimist, but Mortimer was rarely wrong. 
On this night, while Frank sipped a pint with the other townsfolk in the pub, Mort made his way out of town, pushing a wheelbarrow of his belongings as fast as his scrawny legs could move him. He didn’t know for sure what it was that was causing the dead to rise, but one thing he did know: in each town people began dying shortly after shipments of grain arrived, and he’d seen wagons rolling into town just today. He FELT the death in them. When you’d poisoned so many people in your day, you got a sixth sense about such things. Someone had once tried to poison Mort… And parts of that person still remain in Mort’s house as decoration.
He’d bade goodbye to his home, his sanctuary for the last 130 years (yes, he really was quite old), packed up what he could fit in his rusted wheelbarrow, and high tailed it. Mort didn’t bother trying to warn anyone. It wasn’t just because he knew no one would listen to him, it was because he rather liked the idea that every man, woman and child would soon be worse off than being dead. 
Mort hummed a happy little tune as he walked. He smiled. He hadn’t smiled this much since that young child had wandered into his garden searching for a lost ball. It had walked in on one side, cute and curious, and slithered out the other as a horrible monstrosity. 
As he thought more and more about what was to become of the town and Stratholme, Frank, and all who lived in the area, Mort actually giggled.
Some days later, in another town, Mort heard about what befell Stratholme, how Arthas himself had put every living soul to the sword and set fire to nearly every home, building and farmhouse.
“Ah, good lad. Per’aps Arthas ain’t s’bad after all” Mort said to himself.
Category:Stories
Category:UncleMort