The Model Employee.

[Yva]

Jak was finishing business in the necropolis. She wasn't sure what it entailed, but there was a set to his shoulders that suggested he'd be far better on his own than saddled with the likes of her. Seeing that general had probably inspired him; it was what the presence of generals was wont to do, after all, and Yva was loathe to interfere between generals and their soldiers.

Left to her own devices for a few hours, Yva chattered with Jhoryla, she filed her nails, she soaked her feet in warm sea water to get rid of her damnable callous. When Jak still wasn't home and bed didn't seem all that appealing without the comfort of his weight beside her, she went for a walk. Cattania slid from the shadows behind her, her ever present shadow. Yva attempted to remain aloof, keeping conversations measured and formal, something she realized she had to do if she had any hope of keeping control over her errant succubus.

The distancing technique didn't go unnoticed.

“Misstressssss, you are angry with me?” The half-woman said with her forked tongue.

“Somewhat, yes,” Yva admitted.

“But why?”

“Because you are apparently obsessive, and the closet antics . . . those are because of Jak, aren't they?”

Cattania's tail flitted around her legs. “I liked it before, when it was just usssss. We were happy, then, when Misstressss played with us more. Now he is here.”

Yva sighed and stepped through the portals of Dalaran, her feet touching down in Stormwind. For all that Jak didn't like the city, she had a fondness for it she couldn't quite explain. Perhaps it was the fading memories of her mother's stories. Saramia had been from Stormwind, after all, and had moved north to be with her Northern Man, as she'd called Evan. There were circumstances behind their courtship, Yva knew, but her mind wouldn't allow her the luxury of recollection. Death had taken more from her than she ever cared to admit.

The cobblestone streets offered a small, but precious, comfort.

“Miss Jhoryla would play with us,” Cattania said on a huff. “She understands us. Jak only likes the dog. But she'd . . . ”

“Excuse me!” Yva snapped, spinning on her heel to jab the demon in the chest. “The dog wouldn't take the first opportunity to slide into bed with him. He doesn't have a voice to lie and manipulate. He doesn't ACT like a bloody demon.”

“I would never, Mistress, NEVER touch that man. He isssss not you, and I serve only you.” Cattania's fingers reached for Yva's face, her eyes going heavy lidded and inviting. Yva snarled, her hand jerking out, fingers clenching around the succubus's neck. The demon shrieked as heavy black shackles began to crush her. Magic picked her up off of the ground. Her leathery wings flapped, her hooves kicked as panic set in. “MISSTRESSSSS.”

There was a snap of magic and the succubus was thrust away to collapse against a street lamp. Yva's hand, oozing with ice and shadows, lingered above her face. “Kneel.”

“Misstresss, please.”

“KNEEL TO ME OR I WILL SHRED YOU.”

The succubus whimpered as she rolled to her knees, touching her chin to the ground in complete supplication. Her eyes closed, her arms spread wide like a twisted sort of sacrifice. “I kneel, Lady. I kneel. Please . . . ”

Yva stepped over her, placing the heel of her shoe on the back of her neck. She dug it in until there was a wet squish of something being damaged. “Listen well, Nether thing. We are not equals, we are not friends. You serve me, and you will NEVER take liberties without permission again. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Mistresssss. Yes, of course. My apologies.”

“Excellent” Yva walked down her back, ignoring the demon's pained grunts as she snapped her cloak around her shoulders. Anger invited the trill of a song, and then she was humming, walking through the streets of Stormwind with fury boiling beneath the surface. Sometimes, it thrummed so strong inside of her she thought it would burst her apart.

Why am I so angry, right now?

Cattania's misstep was small and so very typical. It shouldn't warrant this type of reaction.

You're still angry over it . . .all of it. You are tied, as Jhoryla says, unable to act through devotion to Jakob and this asinine dedication to doing the right thing. You never got to see it set right, you never equalled the wrongs done, and now . . . now someone has to bleed for it, to sate the fury that eats you, isn't that right Ice Witch?

The smile that spread across her red mouth was not kind, it was not inviting. It was cold, and there was something wicked in the twist of her lips.

“Cattania, we go to Wintergrasp,” she said to the darkness behind her.

“Walk and I follow, Mistressssss. Always.”

[Yva]

The destruction wasn't satisfying. It was like having a slice of fruit and a piece of chocolate cake before you and picking the fruit. The fruit's good for you, and it sates a basic need, but the cake would have been so much richer. You would have been sustained by the decadence of the cake because that feeds the mind whereas the fruit just feeds the body.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

She deathcoiled another orc, watching him run away screaming.

Cattania filed her nails and shrugged. “It's not her, Mistresssssss. She's your beloved victim, isn't she?”

Her. Yes, HER. How many ways have you killed her in your mind? How many ways have you bled her and fed her to something netherbound with many teeth and claws? How many times have you watched your ice . . .

The ideas made her lick her lips.

“Fire and wind,” she murmured. She pulled her hearthstone from her packs, intent to go home. It was late, Jak would be back soonish, she figured, and she could distract herself from the unsavory thoughts with the taste of his skin.

“Lady, there. Over there.” Cattania's breath was hot against her ear.

Her head spun, her eyes narrowing to slits as another batch of venom threatened to drip from her tongue, but the hue of that hair . . .

Red, good spun ruby red, with a shimmer of gold.

“Bloody . . . no. It couldn't be.”

And it wasn't, but it was so close. The blood elf was the same height, slightly smaller in build, but that hair. That damned hair. And the blackened plate armor . . .

Yva put the stone away.

“Go, get her for me. I want her whole. If you fail, hide in the nether until you forget my name.”

“As you wish, Mistress.”

Yva called her dreadsteed and she rode hard for the closest hovel, not caring who or what was there. It was her hovel now, and she had business to attend to: business with a blood elf deathknight that was, if she was hearing correctly, screaming in agony not fifty feet away.

[Yva]

The amazing thing about succubi was their ability to completely crush an enemy without ever spilling a drop of blood.

And so it was with Cattania and the deathknight.

Yva couldn't be sure what the screaming was about, but when the succubus returned to her a few minutes later - the red haired blood elf in tow - neither of them looked worse for the wear. In fact, the death knight looked positively docile, caught in the web that was the succubi's spell.

"She's yourssss, Mistresssss."

Yva nodded and pulled the broken woman's sword from her sheath, grunting under the weight of the thing as it clanged against the floor. She stood it on tiptoe and murmured an incantation, watching a block of ice form around it until no part was accessible. If the death knight wanted her sharp toy back, she'd have to get very clever very fast.

Yva put herself between her new playmate and the door.

"Release her," she ordered, and the demon nodded. As the trappings of the spell disintegrated, the glaze in the blood elf's eye faded away, and she blinked, growling quietly. Her words were swift and harsh, a smattering of her own tongue Yva couldn't understand.

"I haven't the faintest clue what that was about. If you're going to jabber, at least do it in orcish." She'd switched her own language to make her point.

"Why do you know the language of the green skins?" The blood elf skimmed her from head to toe, and it took just a moment for her to sense the death magic that animated the small brunette before her. "Ah, Sylvanas's brood. What do you want here, Friend?"

The sarcasm was thick enough to choke on.

"I'm not your bloody FRIEND." Yva stomped her foot and a wave of ice tore across the floor, slicking over the knight's plate boots and climbing up her ankles. "And I'm not the Bitch Queen's call girl." Her fingers twitched, thickening the ice, forming heavy, immovable shackles that rose to the girl's knees and then mid thigh. The Death Knight lifted her hand, launching a shadowy chain at her adversary, and Yva felt herself pulled across the room. She was now close enough to smell the girl's breath, their noses nearly touching.

"Cattania!"

"Yes, Mistressss." There was the crack of a whip. A barbed lash wound its way around the woman's throat, jerking her head back. Cattania's purr was an unnerving trill that drew the blood knight's gaze, and that was all it took for the seduction spell to do be laid. The death knight's will flitted away, her gauntlets growing slack in Yva's robe.

A glove of icicles formed on Yva's hand, shards glinting like diamonds in the dull light of the hovel. "Release her again," she said, and once more the confusion eeked from the knight's gaze. The change from befuddled sheep to snarling, angry warrior woman was almost comical.

"Games, warlocks and their games," she hissed.

"Shut up." The longest, sharpest icicle trailed along the girl's neck, caressing her, and she shivered, her eyes beginning to blaze a deep blue. Power, that same power Mara had used, sizzled around them, and Yva's breath hitched, momentary panic forcing the air from her gut. Beneath her feet, the ground began to stir. The first bony arm shot through the dirt, and she knew her time was short - an army of the things would be crawling on her in a matter of seconds, and then who knew what would happen: last time she'd been forced to turn her magic on herself. Last time she'd nearly destroyed herself. Her chest suddenly throbbed, where the worst two holes had been. Psychosomatic, certainly, but it didn't make it any less uncomfortable.

"Well then, Glory to the Alliance and all that," she murmured. Her free hand wound in the woman's hair, and the icicles turned into her throat. She felt the first of the ghouls wrapping their fingers around her shoe as she forced her magic through the girl's face, cackling like mad at the wet squish.

The ensuing spray was beautiful.

*****

Sated, exhausted, and swathed in a red viscous sheath, Yva returned to the inn, almost relieved that Jak was still working. There'd be no need for explanations, no half truths to keep his curiosity at bay.

Her eyelashes had dried in clumps, feeling awkward and heavy, and her hair was matted to her skull. The thick woolen cloak was the only thing keeping her from being noticed by the other patrons. At least her cold had frozen the blood - she no longer dripped when she walked.

She ascended the stairs and ran herself a bath. Cattania was good enough to burn her clothes, and she slid into the warm water with a moan. It felt wonderful, she felt wonderful. The soap cleaned her skin, the water turned a dark shade of pink, and though she still wasn't through being angry with Mara Balthasar, she felt better about things.

It would be fine. For the time being.

[Yva]

Killing the blood elf had been liberating.

She couldn’t kill Mara Balthasar, so instead she’d taken Varian’s war and made it her own, brutalizing the sin’dorei until that thrum inside of her died to a pathetic whimper. It wasn’t gone – she knew it wouldn’t be gone until she felt the wrong done to her had been righted – but it was ignorable for the time being.

Her eyes flickered over to a stack of papers. Bittertongue had given her assignments, four of them, and in exchange for her cooperation she’d receive a royally sanctioned pardon. The pardon had meant more when she thought Jak might want to rejoin the ranks of the living. It hadn't occurred to her that he'd despise the city. That didn't mean she didn't CARE about the pardon any longer – of course she did, life was infinitely easier without a warrant hanging over your head – but it had made it a little less necessary.

Which meant . . . she'd taken her time, waiting for the right opportunity to chase after Bittertongue's prey. And here it was. Fresh off a good kill, the events of the past month fueling her to do something, anything with her energy, she'd kill these men and present proof of their demises.

“But what token shall we bring,” she murmured, eyes skimming the first paper.

Hands this time. Bring their souls and their hands.

“Perfect.”

His name was Alexi Hobart. The details on his sheet were less than savory: arrested for beating his wife, he'd been an unpleasant prisoner thanks to a mouth that would run, and run, and run. This wasn't just some drunken farmer slapping a woman around, though. No, the Westfall man was Defias linked, Defias owned. He wanted power in the organization. He wanted it so much he'd have gone after Van Cleef himself if he'd been given the chance.

The big thing, though, even bigger than his abject hatred for the Stormwind and Varian himself, was the accusation of poisoned produce. He'd sold bad vegetables to other Westfall citizens, and the poor sods had gone to their graves with aching bellies and the taste of vomit in their mouths. Competing farmers, Defias hunters, anyone that could and would stand in Hobart's way was a target of the 'food epidemic' that could never formally be pinned on the would-be kingpin.

All signs pointed to him, of course, but the legal system had its protocols. Suspicion was not enough, and proof was hard to find.

“Boring,” Yva muttered, rolling the scroll up with a red ribbon. “Predictable, boring, and ignorant to get caught.”

But that didn't stop her from retrieving her white cloak off of the wall. It didn't stop her from summoning Flaadhun to her side, scratching beneath his whiskered chin much to his delight.

It didn't stop her from going to Westfall on the next flight out.

*****

It was night, and the crickets chirped in the tall yellow grasses around her. The further east she traveled, the louder the sound became, and she grinned as her dreadsteed's hoofbeats were drowned out by the evening chimes of the peepers.

He was easier to find than she'd anticipated. His home was right on the cliffs, overlooking the shoreline and the Westfall lighthouse. Fields of corn surrounded the property, with a long, curving drive leading right to his front door. She could hear music coming from inside. It sounded slightly tinny, and Yva had a sneaking suspicion it was broadcast through a buzzbox.

The front part of the two story farmhouse was dim, but the back of it was lit, and she could see a few shapes moving about through the windows. She clicked her tongue and the dog was at her heels. The dreadsteed waited by a tree, tossing its fiery head as she walked away.

“Soon, love. Back soon,” she murmured. Her fingers sprouted a new layer of ice, and she rubbed them against one another, shivering at the sound of glass hitting glass.

Three steps led up the back porch

An enormous, lazy hound dog lifted its head at her arrival. There was a soft growl, and she glared as its hackle went up. Her finger flitted with a spell. There was a pathetic whelp as the dog ran away, off into one of the corn fields with its tail between its legs, screeching all the while.

“You hear that, Al?”

“Hear what?”

“Sounds like Gus's found a snake again.”

“Then he gets bit. Ain't much I'm planning on doing about it.”

“But . . . “

“If you're so damned worried about him, go look for yourself. Damned lazy bitch. I'm trying to listen to the radio.”

“Calm down. I'll . . . I'll do it. Just . . . I'm going.”

There was shuffling from the inside, and then footsteps. Yva could make out a female shape – short and slightly plump – approaching from the hall. She stepped to the side, into one of the poorly lit sections of porch, and waited for the woman. One of the floorboards creaked as the door closed behind Misses Hobart.

She peered in the direction of the yelping dog, a frown tightening her mouth.

Her profile was strong, with a pointed nose and a too-pointed chin, but there was a prettiness about her that was only undone by the prominent black eye and split lip. Her shoulders sagged, too, in a way that suggested she had been defeated by life a long time ago. She seemed a phantom, standing on that porch. Yva had to wonder why she stayed in a miserable situation like this one, where one misery just bled into the next, and then the next.

I wonder if this beating was for the jailtime he spent for the last.

“Terribly sorry,” Yva said quietly.

The woman's face jerked in her direction just as the polymorph spell took root. She was only allowed the tiniest glimpse of Yva Darrows before she was robbed of consciousness. The human shape shrunk until it was only thigh height. What had been human was now sheep, and Yva petted it as she slipped inside. There were things it was better the imminent widow didn't see, and killing her now – just to eliminate a witness - seemed too cruel.

After all, Misses Hobart was about to be liberated. There would be hope for her.

“You see anything?” the male voice called out. Yva followed it through two rooms, to a back bedroom. She peered at the man through the crack between the door and the frame.

Alexi was a tall man, a solid man with broad shoulders that suggested a lifetime of hard work. He had a clean shaven chin and a scar on his left cheek. A well kept mustache covered his upper lip. His chestnut hair was slicked back from his face, wet from a bath and a combing. The only thing he had on was his denim pants and a pair of old slippers.

“I'm talking at you. When I ask you something, you will gods damned answer me, woman.”

Yva watched him remove his belt from the back of the rocking chair.

Anger bubbled up inside of her, and the dog snuffed the air, growling at her distress.

“LUCY,” he shouted. “Where's Gus at?!”

She'd had enough. She pushed the door open. The hinges squealed dramatically. In the door frame, covered by just he white cloak, she looked tiny and unassuming. The wall kept the felhound hidden from his sight.

Hobart stopped short, now only five feet away. He lifted the belt but seemed too surprised by her presence to do anything with it.

“Who the hell are you?”

Yva pulled the hood back, letting her dark hair spill forth. He blinked again, even more surprised by her beauty. His hand wavered and then dropped to his side. Someone who didn't know him may have called his ensuing smile engaging, friendly even. There was something deceptively earnest about it, like he was the most forthright, charming gent in all of Westfall.

Alexi was an accomplished liar.

“Where's Lucy?” He was looking past her now, in the direction of the porch. When he didn't see anything, he returned his attention to the stranger before him. The smile remained.

“Outside, looking for your dog.”

“Right, I was just about to . . . “

“To what?” She asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Go help her.”

She nodded at the belt. “Help her hold her pants up?”

He laughed, and the warmth of it made her uncomfortable. If he'd lived, Alexi Hobart may have gotten his chance at the Defias mantle. He was that good at being that oily.

“It's my belt. My pants. Alexi Hobart, Miss. And you are?”

“Your death.”

He had started to offer her his hand, but at her words, he stopped short. “Excuse me?”

Yva reached into her cloak and pulled the scroll from her pocket. She tossed it by his slippered foot. He peered at it, then her, and it was clear he was unsure if he should pick it up or not.

“I've been hired to murder you.”

“You must have me mistaken, Ma'am. I'm just a simple farmer. Folks don't put contracts out on people like me.”

“Stormwind traitor, wife beater, Defias informer, and an accomplished murderer. Yes, people do.”

He eyed her, she eyed him back. Soon, the spell on the wife would wear off. Time was running short for all of them. With a soft click of her tongue the felhound came around the corner. Seeing the demon, Hobart began to retreat until the backs of his legs struck a hope chest.

“We can work something out, you know. How much are they paying you? I'll double it. I'm a rich man, you know.“

“Shut up or I'll cut your tongue out and feed it to the dog.”

Yva lifted her hand. Magic swarmed, the icicles now dripping a lethal, shadowy venom of their own.

“But my wife . . . “

“Will be better without you.”

“But you can't.”

“Yes, I can.”

And she did.

[Yva]

The apartment Jak and Yva leased was on the top tier of the Ledgermain Lodge. Standard rooms were rented on the first and second floor, but more permanent amenities were available on the third and fourth, and Yva'd wasted little time guaranteeing residence for the year. She'd put her money down twelve months in advance and signed on the line, undaunted by the obscene amount of gold they were charging.

Being everyone's hired ne'er-do-well may have corroded her soul, but at least it paid well, and she considered this money well spent.

The Ledgermain Suites were some of Dalaran's premier real estate. They were wonderfully spacious: private bathrooms equipped with a tub big enough to drown a bear, a seating area complete with a fireplace and loaded bookshelves, an enormous bed canopied with fine dwarven lace, a side office with a large cherry desk. The décor was Stormwind Elegance meets Darnassian Posh with its thick hand knotted carpets, near ancient wall tapestries, and velvet smothered chairs. And though all of it was beautiful, it wasn't those amenities that had made Yva insist upon staying there.

It was the terrace.

She'd been fortunate enough to get the sole private terrace in the whole building. The other apartments had terraces, of course, but theirs faced east to catch the sunrise. Not room four twelve, though. It faced west and got a prime view of sunset, and she loved sitting on her wrought iron chair, a book in hand, watching the horizon go from a cornflower blue to gold and then to black as the stars wreaked havoc on the skies.

And that is how she was on this evening, like so many others. She sipped her tea and toasted the moonrise, humming contentedly as she contemplated her next murder.

“Darrin Kotter,” she said, rolling the r's in Darrin. “Darrrrrrrin.”

*****

Booty Bay was lovely at night.

Yva stepped off the boat, basking in the warmth on the air. The cold of Northrend didn't really bother her, but that didn't mean she couldn't appreciate tropic heat after a month of blizzard infested hell. She'd left the cloaks, the demons, and the ice laden fingers at home for this. Mister Kotter, it seemed, was a renowned ladies man, and instead of arming herself with the usual tricks of her trade, she'd opted for simpler tools.

A sundress, a floppy hat, and strappy sandals .

The dress was blue and white, covered in flowers, and flitted around her knees when she walked. She found a smile in the simple sound of her shoes clicking on the pier. Perhaps it said something about her lifestyle that this scene seemed so bloody novel to her - perhaps she needed to do this when work wasn't on the agenda, to remind herself that she might be extraordinary in a lot of ways, but the ordinary pleasures had their own magic.

Philosophy before murder is a horrible way to get things done.

Her smile wavered a bit, but she pushed through the doors of Buried Treasures anyway, making a beeline for the bar. It was an upscale place, catering more to tourists and the monied gambler than the seadog looking for a pinch and a grab. According to Bittertongue's notes, this was Kotter's preferred watering hole.

“What can I get for you, Lovely?” The barkeep said, watching Yva deposit her purse on the mahogany stool beside her. He wore a bow tie and jaunty suspenders, with a curled mustache that matched his smile.

“Gin and tonic, please.” She pulled the hat off of her head, running her fingers through her black hair to keep it away from her face. She scanned the room. There were well dressed people from all over, here: sin'dorei in scanty silken clothes, humans in tailored suits, even goblins in glittering finery. A band played in the corner, keeping the songs light and festive. The card tables were filled, with men and women of all races working as dealers. They wore red suits with name tags to distinguish them from everyone else.

The barkeep put a coaster on the bar and then placed her drink.

“Can I ask you something,” she said, watching him run a towel over a shot glass.

“Of course you can.”

“I'm looking for someone. Maybe you know him? Darrin Kotter?”

“Oh! Mister Kotter.” He peered at her for a minute, then nodded approvingly. “He's at the back right table. The man in the brown suit.”

“Thanks . . . “

“Earl. Name's Earl.”

“Thanks then, Earl.”

She grabbed her belongings and swayed around the tables. Darrin wasn't hard to find. He was tall and thin, with chocolate colored hair and matching eyes. It blended with his suit coat beautifully. His cheekbones were high, his nose was long and aquiline, reminding her of a well bred Stormwind noble. There was a grace to the way he handled himself, his cards, his brandy snifter. Everything seemed fluid, one motion rolling into the next.

Bittertongue didn't mention he was so bloody handsome.

There was a small crowd around his table, either because the stakes were that high, or because . . . well, he was pretty. Very pretty. It seemed to be a predominantly female gaggle. Yva separated herself from them, moving towards the wall so she could lean, her drink hiding her mouth.

“Sheila, lass? I think I need ye to tap my card. For luck, ye know.” He winked at the blond beside him, and she leaned over, cramming her ample bust in his face as she graced his card with her lacquered fingernail.

“Anything else I can do for you?” Her smile was supposed to be inviting, but Yva thought the flash of white teeth was shark-like, almost inhuman. She instantly disliked her.

“Pull your bloody dress up,” Yva murmured.

The woman turned towards her, skimming her from head to toe. The blazing smile dimmed somewhat. Either she'd heard her comment, or she sensed competition, because a cold glean flashed in her gray eyes.

“I'm sorry?”

“No, you're not.”

Yva looked past her, at Kotter. He was staring at her, taking her measure too, but this was different, less hostile. His blossoming smile could have melted butter. Yva wondered how a man so beautiful could be so bloody evil.

This Bloke Darrin Kotter's a smuggler. He works fer a shitebird o'a gobbo o'course, but it ain't the smugglin' that's the problem. A few o'us smugglers did fine, decent work - it's the fucker's goods. These Skullsplitter got odd habits, old habits, an' they don't give two tugs o'a dead dogs cock o'er the condition their meat comes. Yeh savvy? Beggers, the elderly, the touched, stray kids . . . these poor sods don't stand a fuckin' chance. See lass, Darrin' gets paid by the fuckin' pound, just like a fuckin' cattle driver.

“Mister Kotter?”

“Mmmm?”

“When you have a moment, I have some business I'd like to discuss with you.”

“Really now. I think I'm a lucky man.”

The men to the left and right of him tipped their glasses, snickering, but Yva ignored them, keeping her focus on her quarry. “I think you might be very, very lucky if you play those cards right.” She smiled then, keeping it flirtatious, and turned around, feeling at least four sets of female eyes burning through the back of her dress. She sidled up to the bar with her drink, draining the last of it and ordering another.

Earl slid her the gin, leaning across the counter with a conspirator’s whisper. “Incoming Sheila, Lovely. Careful. She's a bit of a beast.”

She said nothing but gave a small nod.

The blond – Sheila - picked Yva's purse up and shoved it at her before sitting on the stool beside her. “Look, I have no idea who you are . . . “

“You don't want to know.”

“Right, I hear that a lot. I'm not impressed. You don't just march in here and . . . “

“And what?” Yva placed her glass down with a sideways glare. “He dropped you for a business deal. I'd find something better to do tonight, and maybe tomorrow if he's that willing to walk away every time.”

Especially since he'll be dead tomorrow.

The thought was so wicked that she couldn't stop the smile.

“You think this is funny?”

“Yes, actually.” A brown blur appeared in her peripheral vision, and her grin grew. Instead of saying anything else, she winked at Sheila and waited for the inevitable fireworks.

“Listen here, you tramp, you don't want to mess with me.“

“Excuse me?” This from Darrin, over Sheila's shoulder. He wore a somber expression, so genuine, so upset that Yva would have to suffer this crass woman's onslaught. Yva visibly shriveled, just wilted before him like a small, delicate flower who'd been trampled by Sheila's black, spiky heel.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

He extended his arm. “Please, lass. Why don't we go to the meeting room in the back? We can discuss your business without any further rudeness.”

“I think I'd like that very much.”

Sheila snorted. “Oh you've got to be kidding me. Dar, please. I just . . . “

“I don’t think we have anything to discuss right now, Sheila.”

As soon as she slid her arm into his, he turned his back on the blond, dismissing her completely. From behind them, there was sputtering, a bit of swearing, and a shrill shriek followed by splintering glass, but Yva didn't turn around.

Because if she had, she'd have killed her on the spot.

*****

He closed the folding doors behind them.

“Are ye all right?” He crossed the room, standing so close he was completely violating personal space and propriety. She didn't move, though, even if her gut telegraphed ‘danger’. His hands went to her shoulders and squeezed encouragingly. “By the Light, you're freezing.”

“Yes, I'm chilly, but I'm fine, thank you. She was just being difficult.”

“Ah, yes. Sheila's, well, she's fond of me. Too fond, it seems, and she's embarrassed us both. I'm sorry.”

“Don't. It's understandable, Mister Kotter.”

He began to rub her upper arms, as if to warm her. The friction helped, and soon she almost felt human. “Well, hopefully ye’ll grow fond of me too. What was your name?”

“Mirandella. Mira DuPris.” The lie slid off her tongue and it tasted bitter. She immediately regretted the alibi, but it was too late to take it back. She'd used the poor girl's name, and now she was stuck with it until the facade was over.

I want to kill him now, but I can't. Too many people saw . . . too many people saw. Damn it. This is too obvious, too public. Think, Darrows. THINK.

“Well, Mira, most of my business associates aren't quite so beautiful. I'm happy to help ye any way I can. What brings ye to Booty Bay?”

Her eyes flicked nervously. “I . . . really would prefer not to say here.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head to the side, a mask of concern settling on his features. “Are ye in danger?”

“No, I don't think so. Not yet.” She moved close, leaning on tiptoe to whisper into his ear. “A mutual friend sent me, and it needs to be private, more private than this. Please.”

The fingers on her arms grew tighter. She moved back, and he was looking much like a man about to kiss a woman. His eyes were heavy lidded, his tongue slicked over his lower lip as he smiled.

No. No, no, no. I'll shove ice down your throat until you choke.

“We should go then.”

She nodded, taking it as her opportunity to step back, far back, to break the contact. She replaced the hat on her head and slung her purse over her shoulder, keeping her eyes downcast. She didn't trust him not to take any friendly overtures as an invitation to manhandle her. They walked from the back room, his hand on her shoulder, and Yva stopped to pay her bar tab, but Darrin shook his head, sliding his money out before she could stop him.

“On me, both of 'em.”

Sheila was on the end barstool, and seeing them making for the door, she simmered like an over-boiling teakettle. One of the other women from the poker table put her hand on her forearm. Yva stepped outside before another scene erupted, feeling better with fresh air in her lungs. Her mind raced. An entire room of people had seen her leave with him, they saw her face. She wasn't exactly forgettable.

How to do this? Of course. The blond. It's perfect.

She almost laughed aloud at the cleverness of the thing, but managed to refrain when Darrin looped an arm around her waist. They walked silently through town, passing hand holding couples, goblins with flower carts, and the occasional drunk sailor staggering to an alleyway.

No words were exchanged though his hand spilled to the small of her back and he rubbed small circles across it - another intimacy he hadn't earned.

He's touching you and he doesn't have the right. You should . . . ice and fire and wind, the rush of the river, the larks that sing.

They climbed the stairs of his inn, and she began to hum the song that sounded so sweet, but meant such dark things. It was death's precursor, the charming appetizer to the poisonous meal.

“I've heard that song before. A southern bard used to sing it here some time ago. It's very pretty.”

He wrote it for me. It's my song. I killed him, too, lucky boy, lucky boy.

“It's one of my favorites,” she rasped, watching him pull the key from his trousers. He slid it into the door and stepped aside, allowing her in. She took her hat off and placed it on the couch, trying to relax as the locks clicked into place behind them.

“So my business,” she said, hoping to cut him off before he took any more liberties. She had to do this fast, she had to keep this quiet. She had to find Sheila before the night was through.

He removed his jacket, carefully folding it across the back of a chair. “Whatever I can do for ye, of course.”

“It seems." Her words died. Steeling herself, she went to him, planting herself within arm's reach. His hands immediately returned to her arms, and once again those chocolate brown eyes peered into her face as if searching her soul for some lost secret.

How many women fell for this?

“Aye?”

“I . . . “ Her palm grew cold, and she pointed her fingers at the floor as the icicles formed, extending like clear talons. A cord of ice wrapped around her wrist. “You make me forget myself, Mister Kotter.”

“Do I now? I don't think that's a bad thing, Mira.”

“I don't either. You're beautiful, you know.”

There was that long moment that a man and a woman shared before their worlds collided. Their eyes locked, their bodies moved close, and as he dipped his head forward, she placed her left hand on the back of his neck as her right trailed up his side. A hair's breadth separated their lips when the claws shredded his side, pressing through the skin to puncture his kidney. He gasped and opened his mouth to scream, but her spell was fast, and ice flooded over his tongue, moving down his throat and up his nose. It spilled through his esophagus and into his lungs.

There would be no screams for him. Only blood.

She waited for him to collapse. Her fingers stole to his neck, his pulse, and there was nothing. He was gone. It was done and over with far too quickly. There was no art to it; there was no flash or flair, only the muted thud of a corpse striking floor. The sole indication of her deeds was the unsightly stain on her new dress. She grabbed his brown jacket, shouldering into it to hide the evidence. The sleeves hung past her hands, making her look ridiculous, but at least it hid the residual ice riddling her fingers.

His room key was procured, the door was relocked, and she was on her way back to Buried Treasure. Across the street, she pulled a soulshard from her purse and shattered it, blowing the dust into the soft bay breeze. Cattania emerged from the shadows a moment later. A dulcet purr rumbled in her throat.

“Misssstresssss.”

“There's a woman, a blond with a green dress and gray eyes in that building. I need her,” Yva said. The succubus nodded, fading from sight as she wrapped her invisibility around her like a mantle. She didn't need to be seen to carry out her assignment. It was better, in fact, if she wasn't.

Ten minutes later, an enchanted Sheila walked out of the bar, following her stealthy captor like a domesticated animal. Yva sat on the docks, filing her nails as Cattania presented her prize.

“You’ll take her to the room. Once there, wait for my instructions. Take this.” Yva attached a buzzbox to the Sheila’s skirt. “Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t, Misstressss.”

To Cattania's credit, she kept the woman under control the entire trip back, even managing to compel her to nod at the innkeeper and walk up the stairs without a fuss. Yva stayed away from the scene of her crime, allowing her sneaky, sneaky demon to do her dirty work.

“We’re here," Cattania said over the box. "Your kill is so lovely, Lady.”

“Shut up,” Yva snapped. “Keep her controlled, keep her tame. Find something sharp - a knife.”

Through the open buzzbox line, she could hear rummaging around. She could hear the clap of cabinets being opened, of drawers being shoved closed.

“Yes, I have it.”

“Use it, her wrists, her gut.“ Yva sighed, frowning with the utter disappointment of this entire assignment. “Make it look self inflicted. Near his body, though.”

There was another shiver-inspiring purr from the demoness. “With pleassssure.”

In those few minutes, waiting for her nether spawned minion to finish what she’d started, Yva stared at the water, at her reflection glimmering on the wave tops.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure she liked what she saw.

*****

It was just before midnight when she found their room.

Jak was reading by the fire, his feet propped on an ottoman. She’d dismissed her demon, knowing he didn’t like the humanoids. The felhound was the only one he could remotely stomach, and that was because Flaadhun was more dog than not, or at least put on a good show of pretending he was.

“Hello.”

He eyed the enormous brown coat hanging past her knees. “Is this a new look?”

She didn’t say anything, just tossed her purse and hat aside. The jacket followed, revealing the blood stained sun dress. He quirked a brow as she pulled it over her head. Standing around in her slip and sandals, she threw the wadded dress into the fire, ignoring the smoky emanations as it burned.

“A tub,” she murmured, kicking her shoes off and heading for the bathroom. Her fingers hovered above the thick porcelain, and there was suddenly ice filling it three quarters of the way. A flamestrick, a bit of hellfire, and the ice melted away. She kept her magic up until steam danced along the water top.

She was testing the temperature with her fingertip when Jak’s voice found her.

“Dear?”

“Mmm?”

“Why’s there a human hand in our bedroom? I saw the box and thought it might be dinner. I was wrong.”

Oh bloody hell. Hobart.

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.”

“That’s one of those jobs I was telling you about. I needed proof of demise, which I . . . damn it.” She sighed, raking her fingers through her hair. “Which I didn’t get tonight. I am an idiot sometimes.”

He appeared in the doorway, his arms folded across his bare chest. He smiled at her, and she tried to smile back, but it felt hollow. It must have looked that way, too, because his next question was “Are you all right?”

Am I ever?

“No, I don’t think I am. Tonight’s job made me feel . . . I don't know. Unclean, maybe.”

He crooked a finger at her, and she walked into his open arms, laying her face against his warm chest. He kissed the top of her head, and she closed her eyes.

It’ll be fine. It has to be fine. The man is dead, with or without your token. You did your part, let it sort itself out, now.

*****

A CRIME OF PASSION, BOOTY BAY
As reported by Dorrinda Buzzlequirk

Jealousy is the motive of the day according to Stranglethorn officials who found businessman Darrin Kotter and cocktail waitress Sheila Rivers dead in their shared hotel room. Eye witnesses report seeing an enraged Miss Rivers following after Mister Kotter at just around ten o’clock. Mister Kotter had been in the company of another woman at the time.

“She was wild,” Earl Temple, senior bartender at Buried Treasure reports. “She saw another gal sniffing around her man and just lost it. I knew she was a loose cannon, but I never could have seen this. She loved that man. Too much, I guess. It’s a tragedy, really.”

At least a dozen people have stepped forward to collaborate on the story.

“It appears Miss Rivers stabbed Mister Kotter before taking her own life,” Lieutenant Emitt Blackbeard said during an official press release. “We have the murder weapon in hand. At this juncture, we are concerned about the safety of the mystery woman that had been at Mister Kotter’s side before the attacks. Any information on her identity can be reported to myself or Buzz Gobsfrock at Rebel Camp. We thank the community for any and all cooperation.”

[Yva]

She placed the enchanted stone beside the man's face. A small feed of arcane energy swirled into it, and a dull green glow began to thrum, pulsing every three seconds. The strange hue made Hullen's skin look sickly in the dim torchlight.

It was, she thought, oddly appropriate.

"Now then," she said, sweeping the back of her hand across his forehead. He writhed and bit down on his gag, clearly terrified, but the ties wouldn't allow for any give. The ropes at his feet, middle, wrists, and neck were so tight, they cut ugly red welts into his skin.

"I'm going to take the rag from your mouth." She crawled onto the table, dropping her legs to either side of his thighs. She held her fingers in front of his face, showing him the ice forming on her fingers. "And you're going to scream for me. Do you think you can do that?"

She ripped the cloth free. His first shriek turned guttural, more a growl than not, and she laughed, leaning forward to grace his temple with a kiss.

"Lovely. You're lovely," she whispered.

*****

Reading the file on Karl Hullen made her hum.

None of the men she was supposed to kill were good people. Bittertongue had chosen some of the vilest of the vile to receive her particular flavor of retribution. Hobart and Kotter hadn't angered her so much as disgusted her: they were just bad men who'd managed, through cleverly placed bribes and the enormous loopholes in the legal system, to avoid proper justice. Killing them had felt like work because she hadn't cared about what they'd done. It was bad, yes, but it hadn't been enough to warrant her fury.

Karl Hullen, though. She hated Karl Hullen already, and all she was doing was reading his profile.

Plague. Like Brill.

He'd been responsible for the spread during the invasion. Bad produce, rotten grain, infested livestock - he'd been one of the Cult of the Damned's boyos in Stormwind, delivering things to the Rose, to the Pig, to the orphanage. She wondered if he'd worn a mask and gloves when he'd handled the scourged blankets. She wondered if he'd ever been afraid of contracting it himself.

She wondered if he'd ever had to watch someone die as their stomachs erupted and plagueworms poured forth in a sickening wave.

Mama, I miss you.

She shuddered. The last of Bittertongue's notes were about Hullen's stay in the Stocks. He hadn't been arrested for anything overly terrible. No, it had been a petty theft he'd committed simply so he could catalogue the spread of the plague from the inside. Had he meant for plague to strike the inmates? Who knew. The only thing she knew was everything else was supposed to die.

Everything.

It hadn't worked that way.

He'd suffer for this.

*****

The Cult of the Damned was good at hiding. It took her a week to find someone who recognized Hullen's name, and even then they just glared at her and blessed themselves to ward off evil. The normal populous wouldn't know her new playmate, it seemed, which meant she had to dig deeper. To find a rat she would need another rat, and so she went below, to the prisons.

Jingling coin got her a meeting with the warden, a grizzled mammoth of a man well over six feet tall. The old soldier did a quick perusal of her and her succubus, but his face revealed nothing. She told him she wanted to meet with a cultist - any cultist - to find another suspected of treason, and much to her surprise he was more than willing to work with her. For a price. Too much gold later, he grinned, revealing a hole where his upper tooth should have been. She wanted to ask if it had rotted out or if a prisoner had knocked it from his skull, but she thought that might be rude.

"Welp, fish 'em all out, I says. Follow me. Warning you, though, this one's as soft as a boot full. "

She expected him to tell her to dismiss her pet, but he just led her through the halls with a jaunty whistle. He unlocked one of the back most cells and stepped aside.

"See you in an hour, Miss. He's cuffed to his chair, so don't worry yourself about him. Hollar if you need us." His eyes flickered to the demoness currently examining her fingernails. "Fairly sure you'll be fine though."

"Mmmm. Thank you." Yva went inside, staring at the tall, too-thin man sitting behind the table in the cell. The door closed behind her with a clang.

The inmate had dark beady eyes that flickered all around, like he couldn't focus on one thing too long. He seemed most intent on the shadows, and she wondered what he saw in them to make him so skittish. He kept licking his lips and twitching.

"I need Karl Hullen," she said quietly. Cattania sauntered over to the chair opposite him and settled down, her hooves propped on the table.

"No, I won't . . . " He stopped talking to giggle, and it was manic, crazed. The hairs on the back of Yva's neck stood on end as the laugh ricocheted through the room.

Is this how the cult recruits then? The ones who need to be in bedlam?

"I'm not sure you understand how much I need him."

Yva watched his face contort as he stared at the shadowy corner. He screamed, terrified by what he and only he could see there. She hadn't done a damned thing. She looked at the door to make sure the guards knew she wasn't abusing their prisoner, but oddly, there were no faces pressed against the grate. There was no one calling in their concerns.

What, do they want me to . . .

"Ice witch, ice bitch. Tricky witchling come a-calling. Are you going to freeze me? Sic your demons on me? They want you, always you. You're like us." Her eyes went wide as he began to tug at his bonds, snarling like a dog. "WHY DON'T THEY WANT ME LIKE THAT? WHY NOT ME?"

How he knew her name, she couldn't say. She hadn't given it to anyone out front. Something in his malignant shadows was feeding him information, and not knowing the thing's identity was disconcerting.

"You're mad."

"Smell your own, Little Dead Girl?"

Shadows burst from her palms, ice swarming up her wrists to wrap around her arms in thick, crystal cords. "Shut up. Shut your miserable mouth."

Cattania looked at her mistress, her tongue flicking forward like a serpent. "Misstressssss, may I? Before he'sss usssselesss to you."

"Do it."

The spell was subtle, fast, and . . . ineffective. Yva watched Cattania's shoulders set as she again tried to bend him to her will, attempting to shape his mind like a piece of clay, but there was something inherently wrong that wouldn't allow the seduction to take place. His insanity had made him immune to her charms.

"I can't, Misssstresss."

"Oh bloody hell."

"What will you do, Darrows Diva? Kill me?" His eyes were enormous black orbs now, and Yva had to wonder what dark thing had attached itself to his soul.

"No. Killing a Cultist is doing them a favor."

"Then whatever will you do?"

Yva watched him gaze at the shadows again, and she realized it wasn't fear she was seeing there. It was rapture. He was more intimate with this great unknown entity than anything else in his miserable life. He loved those shadows. He needed them as surely as he needed water and air.

Take them away. Take the shadows away and deny him his dark mistress.

A cancerous smile oozed across her mouth. She thrust her ice away and instead called heat, flame, and with it . . . light. Fire erupted around her and the dark things disappeared as everything basked in a bright, orange glow. Hell was ablaze, and in the middle of it, Yva Darrows's laughter was tinkling chimes and music.

"No. NO!" The man screamed. Not a lick of fire touched his tender skin, but he thrashed like she'd burned him to the bone. He gazed at the corner, the veins in his neck cording with strain. "MASTER! DO NOT FORSAKE ME NOW!"

Yva placed fire laden hands on the tabletop in front of him, warding the wood so she wouldn't burn the Stocks to the ground. "I can make it bright forever, you know. I can charm a single thing in this room to light even the darkest shadow, and your master will never return. EVER. Is that what you want?"

"MASTER, NO! FUCK YOU, YOU DEAD BITCH."

Yva reached out and slapped him with one of her brightly glowing hands. "IS THAT WHAT YOU BLOODY WANT? TO NEVER SEE YOUR LORD AGAIN?!"

"NO! GODS, NO!"

"Then tell me . . . " She dragged a torrent of air into her lungs before she began to hum. "Tell me where the bloody fuck Karl Hullen is."

*****

Three hours later she was on her way to Darkshire. Cattania had been sent away in favor of something bigger and more apt to strong arm a wayward adversary. She tapped her foot on the ground and watched the earth crumble to bits beneath her shoe. A large blue paw of a hand appeared, and then a second, as the void dragged itself out of the nether in haze of dark smoke.

"Lady Darrows. A pleasure."

The oily butler was what Jak called him, and Yva could understand it. There was a mocking lilt to every cultured word the thing uttered. Jhoryla insisted voids were mindless creatures that only existed to serve, but Zangdok didn't fit the bill. He sounded like an old Lordaeron lordling, which made him infinitely more dangerous than he ought to be.

"What are we after this evening?"

"Cult of the Damned, and don't speak unless spoken to or I'll rip you apart."

"Your propensity for violence is still in tact, I see. Spending too much time with Cattania lately?"

"Oh stuff it."

He laughed, and the two of them were off, heading south of town to a small shack the prisoner had said "was ready to splinter apart with a good wind." It wasn't difficult to find; it was just east of the road, beside a small winding stream and a dead apple grove. The madman hadn't been exaggerating with his description - the building was as frail as an old woman's bones. The front door sagged off its hinge, squealing piteously with every breeze.

"Lovely place."

Yva slid from her saddle, dismissing the dreadsteed with a flick of her wrist. "Mmmm. Just needs some paint and drapes."

"Ahhh, domesticity. Perhaps you and Jak can play house here too? Summon the dog, play fetch and the like."

"I'm warning you, Nether Thing. I don't have the patience right now." She jabbed him in the chest with an icy talon.

"Noted."

The building appeared abandoned. She stood on tiptoe to peer through one of the cracked windows, seeing nothing but toppled furniture and cobwebs. The fireplace hadn't been used in some time by the looks of it.

If the lunatic lied to me . . .

Yva moved towards the front door and stepped inside, but the moment her foot made contact with a floorboard, there was a groan. One of two things would happen if she progressed: one, she'd fall through the floor and find herself in a basement, or two, she'd telegraph her presence, which she didn't want to do. There couldn't be any opportunities for Hullen's escape considering how damned difficult it had been to find him.

If he's here, that is. If.

She beckoned the void over, eyeing the empty space beneath him where - on a normal person - feet would have been.

"Go look," she whispered, motioning him inside. He breezed past her, soundless as he drifted through the rooms like an over-sized phantom. It took him almost no time to spot the rug. It was four by six, and as old and decrepit as everything else in the house. There was nothing extraordinary about it, but when he peeled it back, he revealed a three by three door and a rusted hinge.

Zangdok grinned, his fangs stark white against his face. "Shall we?"

She moved inside, thankful not to be plummeting through the floor. Each of her steps was echoed by the pained groan of rotting wood. He opened the trapdoor, and before she could climb down the ladder, the void shoved past her, shaking his head with a soft 'tsk'.

"Allow me. I'd hate for you to get hurt."

"How considerate," she whispered, shoving on his shoulders to force him down.

It was dark and damp beneath the house. The cellar smelled of decay. Yva squinted, her eyes attempting to adjust to the black, but it was a near impossible feat. There were no windows or torches here. The void moved effortlessly, though, as smoothly as he would in broad daylight. At one point he reached an enormous hand back to her, guiding her through the room. Rooms. There were two adjoining ones separated by an entryway.

Her head tilted to the side as she heard something new. It was breathing. Someone was nearby, and they were asleep.

Perfect.

The command was wordless. She squeezed the void's fingers and he left her alone in the black. There was a thunk and a thud, and then a muffled scream. Yva's palm opened and fire erupted over her fingers, lighting the dark places. The cellar was as ugly as she anticipated, with mud packed walls and a dirt floor. There was a rectangular table stacked with dirty dishes to her left. A simple cot was in the opposite corner. On it, a voidwalker wrestled with a short, fat man who looked like he could do with a washing.

He fit Bittertongue's description perfectly.

"Hello, Mister Hullen."

He'd have answered, tried to answer in fact, but Zandok's hand was over his mouth. Distressed groans and mewls were the only thing he could manage thanks to the void's crushing arms.

Yva spied a coil of rope near a dilapidated dresser, and a beautiful idea bloomed. She swept the dishes off of the table with the back of her arm, stepping over the mess she'd made on the floor. She snatched the rope into her cold hands, winding it around her forearm with the trill of a hum tickling her throat.

"Bring him here. Hold him and bind him."

"Yes, Mistress."

It was the start of a lovely evening.

*****

In the end, all Cultists courted death. Their gods made promises of a greater ever after, of powers and mysteries that transcended the mortal coil. Yva allowed Karl Hullen his end, but it hadn't been pretty. When Zangdok had secured him to the table, she dismissed him and summoned Flaadhun. She then set about cutting her victim, cutting things off of him, delighting as Flaadhun devoured each piece like a succulent steak. Hullen had to watch as his fingers, toes, hands . . and even chunks of his stomach fat were consumed by a snarling, slobbering demon.

If she was going to send the man to his dark masters, she'd do it in pieces. He'd be so mangled he'd be no use to them when they came courting. It was the least she could do for a plaguebearer.

When he finally died, and it had taken all night for his body to give out - cauterizing wounds was an amazingly efficient way to keep someone alive - she burned the shack. It had gone up like a pile of kindling. She watched the last of it collapse, singing her song with a cheery skip in her step.

The green stone burned in her palm, and she giggled, knowing his screams would stay with her for a very long time.

Three down, one to go. Nearly done, Witchling. Nearly there.

[Yva]

Jolstraer was a dead man walking.

Yva was no healer. She had no desire to touch the light, and she was fairly sure the light had no desire to touch her, but she knew a thing or two about death, about necromancy, and in this particular instance, about the scourge.

Damn you, Mara.

Her teeth ground together as she rifled through her papers. She couldn't say how she knew the crotchety paladin had been touched by Arthas's cold hand. It wasn't like she saw it, or smelled it, or really had any inkling outside of the stiffness of his gait that something was horribly wrong, but there was a knowing, something niggling at the back of her brain that suggested he was far worse off than he looked. The only way she could describe her intuition was the flavor of his injury: perhaps the taint of it called out to the same wrongness lingering dormant inside of her.

"What's really wrong with you," she'd said to him in Grizzly Hills. She'd expected him to lie about it, to try and convince her it was far less serious than it was, but he'd not bothered. He just came out and told her, and she wondered if it was because of who she was – no, what she was – that warranted such brutal honesty.

Her mind raced. Icecrown. A hit to the side from a rotter. Festering.

Festering wasn't the correct word, not really. The infection was trying to spread through his system. It was trying to take over, eking through his veins in a slow drive, aiming for his heart, and then his mind, and last but not least, his soul. By her estimation he had months, perhaps weeks, if this went unattended. He'd tried the light and it had reacted violently to it, so paladin healing (likely even priest healing) was out. She'd wanted time to think on things, to mull over the options, and so she'd suggested he visit a druid to see if there was a curse laid upon him, but even as the words spilled from her tongue, she knew it was a waste of time.

No druid can decurse Arthas from a man.

Necromancy then, like it had been in the Plagues a few months ago.

"Damn it," she murmured, dropping her head into her hands. The debacle with Mara had gone so horribly awry, she wasn't even sure she should consider attempting to help him, but if not her, then who? The Wildfire Riders weren't exactly holding Cult of the Damned members to their breast, and who could blame them? A cultist would amplify the damned thing, not attempt to minimize its damage. They'd hand the paladin over to their Death Gods with pomp.

So if not you, then no one. Right.

A ragged sigh, a small, irritated string of song, and she lifted her head.

To stare at Jak's runeblade.

It was its own language, Jak said, and they'd discussed the workings of the runes before. Each symbol was an incantation stripped of all its frills. Simple, single word spells allowed for rudimentary channeling of magic. There was a beauty to the simplicity of the thing. She'd seen work like it throughout the halls of the Nexus, too, where Malygos had used his runes to direct the flow of the magic pouring up through the ley line.

The flow, the direction of the spell, just like Jak's blade. It's the same principle, simply different runes, a different language.

Her lips pursed thoughtfully.

Scourge is really just another type of magic, as is necromancy, perhaps I could – with Jak's help . . .

Yes, she could. She and Jak could.

She simply didn't want to.

But they were going to.

"Oh bloody rotting hell."

[Yva]

“Too much to bloody DO,” she murmured, digging her heels into her mount’s sides. She knew the travel through Grizzly Hills would be hellish, and so she’d opted for the dead horse she’d left in the Undercity years ago. Enigma – the biggest, stupidest deathcharger in all of Azeroth - needed no food, he needed no rest. He also looked bloody bizarre in the world of the living. The strange glances she was getting in Stormwind were reason enough to have him back.

The horse pawed the ground and charged for a cliff. For absolutely no reason. It was four hundred feet above the beach, and a fall like that . . . well, Yva was resilient, but she didn’t want to test the limits of her indestructibility. She yanked on his mane and spun him around, wondering what it must be like to have cobwebs for brains.

The fourth bounty. She wanted this done and over with. This quarry was a servant of Uthas, or so the notes said – a dedicated follower of a man long loathed. It was that dedication that would be his end, and she supposed in another world, that was somewhat sad. It was hard to believe in anyone in these days. Persecution because of those beliefs was harder still.

Next time, don’t hang your hat on the blood plaguefather and you’ll live longer. Idiot.

She headed east, urging Enigma on with a soft click of her tongue. Jak was home tonight, stewing over mistakes made in Draktharon Keep. She’d tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault – how could anyone have known the troll was Arthas’s foot stool? – but her words had fallen on deaf ears. He felt like an oathbreaker, he’d said, and the self loathing was a bit too strong to overcome.

And so, after the monk died, Jolstraer was fixed, and Jhoryla’s hungers were sated . . .

Is that all, Darrows? Anything else you’d like to involve yourself in? Perhaps planning a tea party for Varian, or maybe waging a one woman war on Sylvanas? You’re overtaxing yourself.

“Oh shut up.”

Is it a bad sign when you’re chiding your own internal monologue?

. . . and so after all that, they’d go to Zul’Drak, find the bloody troll, and cut him into so many pieces no one would recognize him. It was the least they could do, to make amends for assisting the heartless bastard in the first place.

She was fairly sure the next troll they met asking for a favor was in for an unpleasant surprise, though.

Night gave way to a beautiful morning, with dew glittering on the leaves of the foliage. Another night of searching had yielded nothing, and she was getting tired enough to want her bed. She began to move back towards Amberpine, a resigned sag to her shoulders.

And then she heard the humming.

It was a cheery song she hadn’t heard before, something about spring maids and waterfalls and budding blooms. She couldn’t see the stranger thanks to a thick cluster of trees. Not wanting to disturb him – not wanting to telegraph her presence - she slid from Enigma’s side, tying his reins to a low hanging branch. He dipped his head forward to nibble on the tall tufts of grass, and she smirked as wads of green goo fell from the side of his jaw as he tried to swallow.

Stupid animal.

She hiked her skirts to tiptoe around the trees, following the man’s rich baritone. It took a few minutes of weaving through the pines to find him. He was stooped over a small garden, his robes a patched, faded brown. A cottage with a straw roof was to his right, and to his left was a small stone well.

“And Maire’s face was e’er bonny, her smile filled with light. She was brighter than the stars above, she lit me darkest night!”

He stood up from his tomato plants, eyeing some pathetic looking cabbages with a frown. Bricu’d said he was painfully thin, and seeing the deep hollows beneath this man’s cheekbones, she was fairly certain she’d found Brother Marcus Ginolus.

“My bonny, bonny lass, me Maire so pale and fair. With sky shaming eyes, and golden sun kissed hair.”

His spade slid into the ground. Dirt flew as he worked his way through the cabbages, then the corn, and finally the squash. The first song finished in a flourish of merry humming, and he wasted no time starting a second, something about the light’s salvation and the greater good.

That might qualify as irony.

She pulled a soulstone from her packs to crush, summoning her felguard with a soft hiss. The creature, as silent as an abandoned church, appeared behind her, blanketing her in his shadow. Her nostrils flared at the fresh smell of brimstone. She raised her hand to order him forward, but the man’s voice interrupted her, and she found her fingers frozen.

“I know you’re there, Dear. Would you like some tea? I have a kettle boiling.”

She had to swallow her surprise before she could answer. “No, I don’t want tea.”

“Are you sure? I grew the leaves myself. The flavor is far better than anything in the cities.”

“I’m sure.”

“All right then.”

He retrieved his watering can, never once looking at her as he tended to his plants. “Did you know the song then? I learned it in Redridge some years back from a lovely girl. A farmer girl. She had a wasting sickness and I tended to her.”

“I . . . no. Are you Marcus Ginolus?”

“Brother Ginolus, yes.” He pulled his work gloves off and laid them upon a fence post, finally turning to address her. The top of his head was shaved bald. The hair near his ears was a chocolate brown with flecks of silver glinting in the sun. A symbol of the light hung around his neck.

“I’m Yva Darrows.”

His smile never wavered. “Of Everlook infamy?”

“Yes.”

“So I suppose you’re here to kill me.”

How blunt.

She managed a nod. Her hand twitched, ready to cast, but she hesitated. She thought about sending the demon at him, too, and that too didn’t see quite right either.

“All right. Well, would you mind if I had some tea before you do so? Consider it the last request of a dying man.”

“I . . . “ She just stared at him, frowning. “Tea? You want tea? Now?”

“You’re more than welcome to have a cup yourself, of course.”

“I don’t want your bloody tea,” she snapped.

He shrugged and turned back to his cottage. Her feet slid down the side of the hill as she followed him, the felguard lumbering behind her. She watched Marcus disappear into his house.

He could be calling for help in there. He could be in there plotting something, getting a bomb, getting a weapon. Send the felguard in now and end it and . .

He returned with a steaming teacup, settling down upon a stump with a soft sigh. “So may I ask who sent you?”

“No.”

“May I ask what I’ve done?”

She stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “Service to the Plaguefather, perhaps? You didn’t honestly think that was going to get swept aside, did you?” When he opened his mouth to reply, she cut him off. “No, you couldn’t have. You’re hiding in Grizzly Hills. You knew.”

His lips flattened into a line. “Perhaps I’m at peace here. With my decisions.” He regarded her over the rim of his teacup. “He taught peace, self control, willingness to make the difficult decisions, you know. Not all of his . . . “

“Stop, just stop. I don’t want a sermon now.” She lifted her fingers, readying her cast to finish this bloody job, but . . .

She didn’t want to. She shouldn’t do this because perhaps he wasn’t so deserving of this death.

Of course he is. He’s the Wordweaver’s man. What is wrong with you, Yva?

They stared at one another, until Yva began to hum her song. He joined in after a moment, a lovely harmony that wrapped around her tune like it always should have been there. She muttered, turning her face away to look at the well.

This shouldn’t be happening, she never second guessed. She didn’t know this man, trusted Bricu’s judgment on the proper course of action for him, so why then did she simply not want to kill him? Was this the first manifestation of a conscience? Or was something doing this TO her?

More likely. Much more likely.

She opened up her senses, searching for the magic. At first it seemed like there was nothing there, but then a foreign energy in her peripheral flickered. It was so soft, so subtle, and so masterfully woven she almost missed it. Shadows, but not shadows like hers. They were similar, but all together different, too.

Brother Marcus. A priest, they can . . . Renshank. You remember him. He could play in someone’s head until they were puppets.

She snarled and whipped her head around. “Get. Out. Of. My. Head.”

He just sipped his tea.

She lifted her hand, called her ice to her, and again there was that compulsion to simply let him be, to walk away and forget that he was here. It was so strong now that her gut clenched. She felt like she was trying to kill Jak, not some stranger.

“You really want a cup of tea, Yva.”

“No, I don’t.” It was his mind rape versus her resilience. He pawed at her thoughts, tried to bend her to him, but there were some things the priest couldn’t count on. The first was the boiling rage at being Mara Balthasar’s puppet those months back, of being made to do things that hurt her, had hurt the man she loved. The second was the will of the forsaken - the will of a person who’d crawled from a grave to stand on their own two legs. The will of a person who’d ripped themselves away from the Lich King just to prove that they could.

“Rot in hell,” she snarled, and the ice flew from her fingers in a glinting arc. He looked shocked as the first shard impaled itself in his forehead, as the second struck him in the neck, as the third ripped through his shoulder to pin him to his chair. When he died, it was with a stunned expression on his face. His mouth hung open, his eyes bulged. His teacup fell from his hand and struck the ground, cracking in two near perfect halves.

Yva dropped her hand, ignoring the fact that she was shaking. Staring at his corpse, her lip curled. Her shriek could have shattered glass.

“Pick him up. Tie him to the bloody saddle and . . . “

She growled at the felguard and stalked back to her horse.

Today, she rode to Dragonblight.

[Yva]

Mokia had no idea what to do with the very short, very angry woman glaring up at him. Since allying with the human races he’d met some interesting characters, for sure, but this one seemed so much more intense than the others. She kept humming and pacing, a glint of something strange in her eye.

“I’m not sure I understand.” His eyes strayed to the lump draped over the back of the deathcharger. “What was it you were delivering?”

“Something he lost. It’s imperative I find him. If you don’t KNOW where he is, just say so and I’ll leave.”

There was thud as a pale, lifeless hand fell out of the blanket strapped to her saddle. She marched over and shoved it back inside, muttering about ‘the hired help’ and retying her straps.

“I will have to consult Elder Dindrath before I can say for certain. Please wait here.” The Tuskarr waddled towards a large, black boulder on the cliffside, and Yva watched him bow his respect. She wanted to scream; she was short on energy as it was, having been awake nearly forty hours, and the walrus man was wasting her time having a one sided conversation with a rock.

Somewhere, a god was laughing at her. She was sure of it.

It took Mokia fifteen minutes of rock-talk before he seemed satisfied with the discussion. He turned around, an odd smile on his rubbery lips. The bow he sketched when he returned was awkward and made his blubber quiver.

“Dindrath says if you are bringing Ur’these his dead back . . . “

“Ur’these?” She interjected, her brow furrowing. “I’m looking for Uthas. Don’t tell me you talked to your stone for fifteen minutes and you didn’t even get the name right.”

“Oh, ho, ho! Of course you would not know the name! The man you call Uthas earned a Tuskarr name for protecting Moaki harbor from vrykul some time ago. Ur’these means ‘alone on the ice.’”

Yva blinked at him. “That’s fascinating. Excellent. Where is he?”

The Tuskarr’s smile faded some. “Dindrath says Ur’these is meditating on his mountain, where the water flows clear and the air is crisp. The taint of the world is abandoned at the great stone altar.”

She stared at him, wondering if killing just ONE Tuskarr would ruin the peace between the Alliance and the tribes. Technically she wasn’t Varian’s charge yet – she hadn’t gotten her pardon– so no one could really be held accountable if she blasted Mokia into thirty million pieces of gelatinous fat. Well, maybe Sylvanas would be blamed, but who really cared about her anyway? She was a miserable bitch.

Yva’s eyes glazed over and she began to hum, a soft giggle bubbling in her throat.

“His shrine is found between Howling Fjord and Grizzly Hills, but the path to him is in the Fjord mountains,” Mokia said, almost like he could see the twisted spiral of her thoughts. He shuffled his impressive girth from one foot to the other. “Look to the north, Dindrath says.”

“Finally, a bloody answer.” Yva shook her head to clear the cobwebs, and the song faded to a memory. She strode back towards Enigma, snatching her reins in a gloved fist. “Thank you for your time today. And thank your . . . elder rock for me.”

"Of course. Good travels!" Mokia rocked on the balls of his feet. As soon as she was out of sight, his smile evaporated. He peered over at Dindrath with a heavy sigh.

I hope you have not sent death to Ur’these, Great One. We both know that is no ally she carries.

*****

“Oh for the love of . . . you stupid, stupid animal.”

Enigma tried to charge towards a cluster of shrubs, likely to grab another snack that would fall out of the side of his face, but Yva’s heels digging into his sides prevented him from darting off. He flicked his tail and turned back towards the mountain, once again trotting along, his hooves crunching in the snow.

It hadn’t been easy getting there. In fact, she’d looked for the path and failed for some time. It was almost eleven in the morning when she’d finally stopped and asked directions at the first camp she could find. The elf there was able to better describe the landscape for her, to better pinpoint the shrine’s location. Seeing Yva’s haggard face, she even dared to suggest that Yva ‘take some time at the pinnacle’s stone to confront her inner turmoil’. Yva wasn’t even sure what that meant, but she was fairly certain her inner turmoil would win if they ever battled, and so she’d just kept her mouth shut, biting back a not-so pleasant reply.

By the time she found the way of it, she was yawning and struggling to stay awake. It was likely why it took her twenty minutes to figure out she’d not only been spotted, she was being followed. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as a small rock cascaded down the Cliffside beside her, spooking both her and the horse. Her eyes shot up, above her head, but she saw nothing but a fleeting shadow, something moving far too fast to identify.

It could have been a mountain goat. She knew it wasn’t a mountain goat.

You’ve come too far now. Just drop it. You have a ritual later, you need sleep. Too much, Tricky Witchling. Too much.

She forced Enigma into a canter, and soon, she found herself at the crest. If she squinted she could see an odd outline on the horizon. That was her shrine then, or at least, she assumed it was. The path seemed to stop at that point, with no mountain left to wind around. It was just an open plateau of snow.

I don’t need a dialogue with Uthas himself on top of everything else. Just do this and go. Get home. Enough.

She reached back and let the straps loose, dumping Marcus’s body on the ground. She’d taken a small, bloodstained patch of his robe along with a soulstone as her proof that the last of the four was finally done.

It’s over. You’ve done it.

With a small salute to whoever was watching her, she slid from Enigma’s side and pulled a rune from her packs. She crumbled it to bits in her palm, smiling as a Dalaran portal opened up in front of her. She shook the rune dust out and watched it scatter across the snowtop.

“Ta,” she said aloud to her silent audience. “Hope you have a lovely bloody day.”

And then she was gone.

[Yva]

On the third day, there was light.

It stabbed her in the eye at dawn, and she groaned, rolling over onto her stomach. Beside her, Jak stirred but didn’t wake. She lifted her head, peering at him through a veil of black hair, wondering how he must be doing after the whole debacle.

What a nightmare.

And it had been. She’d been mostly incoherent since Tuesday, could only remember fits and starts of their fevered conversations. He’d been there through the whole of it, she knew, even if she couldn’t recall everything they’d talked about. He read to her and told her stories from his childhood. The details of said tales were hazy at best, and she hoped he’d try sharing them with her when she was better equipped to process the information.

“She pushes herself,” he’d said to Threnn in that dusty, old tower before scooping her up in his arms to carry her home.

Truer words had never been uttered.

The ritual had left her with no magic and near death – or as close to death as Yva got. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have done that to her, but she’d been exhausted from the very beginning. The last of the bounties had gone on in the Fjord just the day before, and she’d managed only five hours of rest before she’d had to begin her circles for Jolstraer’s tattooing. She idly wondered how the old paladin was doing, if he felt as poorly as she did. They’d both been in pain. His was physical, true, and hers . . . well, it was different. She’d damaged her mind.

What an all together unpleasant concept.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and winced as the pins and needles started in her toes. She hadn’t moved since their return, and her body was reminding her of the abuses she’d heaped upon it. Limping to the bathroom, she drew herself a bath. The comb shredded the tangles from her hair. Steam from the tub made the bathroom mirror turn foggy, and she wiped a circle free of condensation, staring at her reflection. Her eyes still had some dark circles, and her cheeks . . . was she a little gaunt looking?

Oh dear. I don’t lose weight. But I look like . .

She looked like she’d not eaten for a week. The magic hadn’t just left her, it’d drained her before it took its leave, which meant she had to replenish it. Usually she’d just wander out and drain some poor creature of its mana to restore herself, but this time she’d wait for Jak. This time she’d do the responsible thing and acknowledge her weakened state.

So errands then, around the city, but no magic, no demons. No nothing until he can be with you. When did you get so bloody reliant upon a man? You said you wouldn’t do that to yourself again. You said you'd never again . . .

Oh you, foolish foolish woman. You lied.