My Fight Club experience fizzled due to a lack of time/interest in finishing my Protectorate.  (If you’re looking for some cheap PoM stuff, look here!)  I had someone write in asking whatever happened to Lazarus Fugue and so here’s some closure on his latest escapade.

<< Fight Club: A Wraith’s Reverie

Crusaders clashed with Ironclads in the desert, gears grinding in the heat and sand.  Fire and electricity filled the air drowning out the screams and agony of battle.  But through all the death and chaos a single figure glided across the dunes.  He was clothed in a simple Cygnaran half-coat with a wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes.  As he walked the battlefield the sands did not seem to give way under his feet.  He gave the fight only the most casual of glances as he passed unnoticed behind the Cygnaran lines.  The dust swirled around him and he simply disappeared.

And then after some time, Lazarus Fugue appeared once again in the Cryxian isles.  It was only right to meet with Revanov face to face to deliver the final report.  The lich wouldn’t expect such a sudden end to Lazarus’ assignment, but the wraith never felt much need to fulfill the expectations of a dragon’s lackey.  He was too tired of traveling the world, inventing reasons to keep going.  He just wanted his old life back in Corvis.  Even his days of thievery and drink were paradise compared to this.

A knock echoed through the dank laboratory where Revanov performed his horrific experiments.  The skarlock Memphon scuttled to the door and opened it slightly to expose a frail human courier.

“Yesh…?” Memphon slurred.  “What ish it you want?”

“I… I have a message for your… the…,” the man stuttered in fear.  He wouldn’t live long in Skell as a courier, the skarlock thought.  He might make a good thrall, however.

Memphon waved the man in and eyed him for parts.  His skull would fit nicely on a mechanithrall, if nothing else.  Revanov silently entered the room and what little light there was seemed to dim in his presence.

The courier strained to speak.  “I have a mess… message for you,” he said as the letter was handed over.  Revanov took the parchment in one hand and slit the man’s throat with an iron claw in one unnatural motion.  Memphon gathered the corpse and gingerly placed it on a pile in the corner.

Revanov began to read the report and his rigid, skeletal face strained into a look of incredulity.  His jaw slightly opened as he began to curse the name Fugue.

And then a shot rang out, exploding his skull into fine powder.  Gears creaked as Revanov’s unlifeless body collapsed to the cold floor.  Memphon whirled around to see Lazarus Fugue’s image flickering in the low light.  The skarlock peered at the wraith and slobbered to himself as Lazarus faded away completely.  Memphon skittered to the parchment and cackled at what he read.

There was a time when Lazarus Fugue knew little of wraiths, souls, and the dangers beyond home.  So home is where he went, to Corvis and the church of Morrow where his life had taken a turn so long ago.  He materialized on the roof just above the steps where a priest had given him a second chance and thought about what once was.

A dwarf, stout and proud, nearly killed in the fight with the young witch.

A Khadoran woman, almost as deadly with her words as she was with a rifle.

And a priest of Morrow.  Saved from death by a gunmage-turned-wraith.

Their names were faint, but that was often the way with the past.  Lazarus hung his head low and hid his eyes with a ghostly hand.