Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not Pay

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Illithias
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Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not Pay

Postby Illithias » Thu Nov 10, 2011 8:34 am

She was being followed.

That wasn't true.

Yes it was. There they were again. She could smell them. Smelt like human. But it was definitely the same olfactory note which alerted her to the fact that she was smelling the same person a dozen minutes down the street.

Or not. She was being too paranoid.

Or not. There they were again. There was no such thing as "too paranoid". Illithias was a living testament to this. A lifetime of bloodshed and, well, still a lifetime left to live. There was no such thing as too careful. And after last night, there were more than enough reasons to be careful. Dead men demand no vengeance, but their friends often did.

Ooops, down the alleyway. Let's see if they come down this way.

Not so much. But, as Illi reflected, there was but one exit to this alleyway, and many paths to catch up to it. It was not such the vanishing disappearance she wished, but it'd do enough to give her some breathing room.

Vanishing. Like Bittertongue. Or Shadowind. Or Swiftblade's Seven contact. Elune damnit. She wasn't concerned of her own safety - the time's she'd felt truly afraid in that sense she could count on one hand - but it made dangerous precedence. She didn't want to disappear on her fam- her allies.

Cooper street. Wide, for the carts it serviced. Gaslights hanging in their sconces every so often gave enough light to make one's way down the avenue. This'd give her more indication as to whether she was being followed or not.

Well. She was. Just how good they were.

She flexed her fingers and felt the knuckles crack. She thought as to how ready she was; she was uninjured. Sober. She had knuckle-aides in a pocket. Two short (six inch) knives on her belt. Her nails her long enough again to take a throat. Her teeth too. Wearing traveling leathers; she'd only need to watch her shoulders and (half, she thought) of her face. She could handle a tail. Or two of them. Or a dozen, really, if it came to it. A score if they came at her right.

And there it was again. Same smell. Could be coincidence, could not be. Someone had just told her coincidences did not exist, and right now, she was inclined to believe him.

There was smokeweed smell in the air. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. It also lost her the trace on her tail. It wasn't that much of a concern. She was almost to Landen Thoroughfare, and with that Old Town sloped down to the canals, and where Illithias kept her home. There were only a few shopfronts and alleyways until she was in a double-wide stretch of cobble and Elune-light all the way home.

"Let's see them track that."
Last edited by Illithias on Sat Nov 26, 2011 5:32 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Tarq
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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Tarq » Thu Nov 10, 2011 8:32 pm

The fact was, you couldn't sneak around an elf who knew what they were doing. It had taken Stormwind's finest more than a few years to accept that, and in those few years a lot of misfortune had rained down on the heads of those too ignorant, stubborn, or cocky to make that admission. They tended towards a physical condition that outpaced most humans with ease. They were adapted to the dark. They saw sharper, heard louder, smelled deeper, and generally took in the world with a lucidity that only the finest human specimens could match.

Take now. He'd smoked his last cigarette an hour ago, worn soft boots, and was accomplished as blending into the backdrop as any six-three bloke could be. But Half-Face knew he was there, had spent the night knowing it. It was lucky for him that she wasn't much for disguising that she knew. Even from the narrow, creaking juts of Stringer's Alley where she'd first spotted, or heard, or smelled him, it had been obvious that she was suddenly straining to do violence.

Well. More than usual, anyway.

Tymara might be able to duck the scarred elf's notice on her shift. Pitch probably could, though in his case the problem would be someone else taking note of a massive druid-cat prowling about Stormwind. Annalea had her own tricks. But right now, it was his turn, and while he was almost completely certain that he could cut short a confrontation before Illithias started breaking important pieces of him, he'd prefer to avoid any humiliating flights or tedious explanations. Annie was right - we're following you for your own good was only likely to provoke the young elf into starting trouble that didn't need to be started.

She wasn't far from Landen now, maybe fifty or sixty paces depending on your legs. You couldn't sneak around an elf, especially not on open streets in good light. But if you happened to know a few facts – say, for instance, that Condellier doglegged up through Sorefoot, and Sorefoot's greasy cobbles were overlooked by an old catwalk that nobody was willing to take credit for building, and that catwalk ran all the way to the old observatory on Landen and Cherry - then you didn't need to sneak around an elf. And that was much better.

He took Sorefoot at a run, hoisting himself up with a quick glance around, and flattened himself against the wooden pilings. He could see Illithias clearly from here as she paused at the corner, sniffing the air, and then turned onto Landen. He gave her a few paces before dashing along the catwalk as quickly as he could without risking accident, slowing only to listen at the observatory. There were some faint giggles and sighs coming from further up, but the lower quarters and their bastion of mildew were undisturbed. He slipped in through a window on the catwalk side and crossed the floor. Half-Face was still there, strolling down Landen with what seemed to be a disappointed air.

If she wasn't so fucking alert, Tarquin thought with heavy irony, I might actually start feeling shite about using her as bait. But there was no fear of that. It might be a long run from here, but he was confident it wouldn't take more than thirty, forty-five seconds, and there was nobody could take Illithias that quickly that wouldn't be seen coming. He settled himself into a more comfortable position in the corner of the room, where he had a clear view out the garret window, and watched Half-face head for home.
Now hang me by this golden noose
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Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow

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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Illithias » Fri Nov 11, 2011 7:41 am

She turned into Landen. She walked a few paces before moving to the side of the street and sniffing the air once again.

No, she'd lost it.

No, not quite. Whoever had been following her wasn't in range of scent. That meant a few things. It could be that they had given up, or had dropped further back. Most humans weren't aware just how aware a kal'dorei could be, so she wasn't entirely convinced they'd dropped back. They were either doubling back, or gone. It was only half a mile until her building. Illithias felt disappointed.

Her shoulders dropped. There'd be no excitement this evening. She began stepping her way down Landen towards the Canals.

Then she heard it. She hadn't heard it in years. Maybe even decades.

"Wh-" she turned to the alleyway which had drawn her attention.

The hairs on the back of her forearms raised. Too late.

Her ruined lip drew back in a snarl. Two eyes blossomed green in the darkness of the alleyway.

She spun on a heel and flung an arm back behind herself to the knives on her belt. Whoever this was, they'd be-

The air combusted in a backwards gasp as all air around Illithias got sucked away. Everything burst into flame. There was nothing to swear with as she arched her back and raised herself onto her toes.

Another pair of baleful eyes opened in the darkness, not even a foot of the ground. As the tongues of fel flame licked away, Illithias dropped back to the arches of her feet. A hand met a knife. A grating noise started in the back of her throat,

It was the sound of an explosion in reverse. The air again bled into green fire and wreathed Illithias.

She fell back onto her heels. This wasn't as controlled anymore. She had her hand on a knife hilt. What had it been; two seconds? Three?

She expected to be dead by now. Three seconds was just appalling.

Her legs spread out on the cobbles as her heels found purchase; dust danced in little clouds. Noise dropped away. If she could just-

The air cracked. The noise shook the air, blew all the dust up from the cobbles. Glass panes shattered and dropped from their framework. Bricks blistered white as the orb of balefire shot out from the alleyway at the kal'dorei trying to stand ready in the middle of the street.

"C'thunfuck..."

Everything splintered; the cobblestones, the windowpanes, the air of Landen Thoroughfare. A light, alien ash rained down onto the street. A slight purple tinge.

Illithias twitched. The figure paced out of the alleyway over to where Illi lay on the cobbles.
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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Tarq » Tue Nov 22, 2011 8:26 pm

From the old observatory, it was fifteen, maybe twenty seconds down to Landen, as long as the window didn't slow you up. Tarquin hadn't had to use this garret since the autumn of the plague, where he'd hunted Scourge through every dank alley and ramshackle ruin of his city; still, he remembered. It took him two breaths to get through the window when he saw the flash, a heart-stopping moment that smacked of eternity to plunge to the street below, and another breath to land and roll to his feet, ignoring the pain of impact. Five seconds, at most.

In that time, the air went hot and blinding, and Illithias was hammered to the cobblestones.

Tarquin was running on the momentum of his roll, breath hissing in his ears, boots pounding pavement. His eyes smarted, the afterimage of fel-fire whirling in his vision. He could see the figure of Illithas's attacker coming out of the alley, small and indistinct, swathed and cowled, and standing over the elf. As the shattering concussion died away, his boots pounding Landen Street were the only sound. The assassin's hood shifted; he could see dim human features, a jut of chin, a wet glint of eye. One hand went to his belt and he crouched as he sprinted, gritting his teeth for what he knew was coming. Just get through. Just get close, the fucker can't-

And then the wavering of desert air, the smell of brimstone and emptiness. Tarquin skidded to a halt, his eyes going the rooftops. If there's more, I'm fucked. This was stupid, and worse than stupid, unprofessional. He should have Tymara, Chryssy, anyone. Beltar Forgebreaker at a window with Black Death. Tirith Elohn in the alley - no, Tirith was gone, or dead. And another one... He crossed to the closest building, its windows shattered and shutters hanging bent, put his back to the wall, and waited. The whole thing, from flash of light to smoking disappearance, had taken twelve seconds.

There was no more. After some time, he moved back to where Illithias lay unmoving. Breathing, but barely, a tangled heap of wet char and reddened skin. The force of her fall might have broken bones. Landen's a good street. People give a fuck what happens here. The Watch'll come, and before that, the folk here'll stop huddling and come out to the street. He didn't have much time, and that wasn't even considering that the warlock might come back.

It was eight blocks to Half-Face’s house on Landen; too damned far to be exposed, let alone carry the elf’s carcass. But what choice did – Landen and Cherry. Aye, that’s right. It was a hard thing to do to a man who wasn’t in the game, but between a stiff inconvenience and the dangers of trying to haul Illithias all the way home, well, so it was. He looked at the rooftops again, knelt down; with a gentle precision that might be surprising to those who'd never seen the Oathbreaker with his people's children, he arranged Illithias's unmoving limbs and hoisted.

"Yir lighter'n I thought," Tarquin grunted once he had her on his shoulders, and then immediately regretting expending the breath. She was lighter than he'd thought. He'd thought he might break his back. It was six blocks down Cherry. He looked up at the rooftops one more time, said a quick prayer to whoever might be listening, and started walking.

He had to rest three times on the way there, and on the third, he saw a pale face looking through a second-story window at him, and resolved not to stop again. Illithias, thank all fuck, never woke - though that might not be such a good thing, but he'd worry on that later. By the time he got to the house at Cherry and Scarrow, his back was shrieking at him as loud as the wary animal center of his soul. Getting old, went the litany, getting old, getting old; too slow, too sore, too stupid, too old. "Hauld yir fuckin' tongue," he grunted, and then hammered awkwardly on the door. “Bell!” he shouted, loud as he dared. “Bell! It’s Tarquin!”

He heard footsteps from within, and soon enough, Robert Bell cracked the door. He was shirtless, tousled, smelling of beer. “What the fuck?” he asked, predictably. Tarquin just stumbled forward, and thank the gods, Bell caught him and his burden. The three of them somehow managed to make their way into the house, Bell supporting Illithias out of pure instinct, his face baffled.

There was a table to the left, a fine oak thing of obvious family manufacture, and that was where Tarquin stumbled. Bell followed, and together they managed to deposit Illithas on the table. The candlelight flowing across the shapeless configuration of her limbs, splayed on the table, allowed him no illusions. This was fucked.

He heard a gasp and looked up. There was a woman standing in the doorway of what, well, just had to be Robbie Bell’s bedroom, a blanket wrapped around her below the shoulders, her eyes wide with horror. Bell cleared his throat as he shuffled over into Tarquin’s sight. “So, ah, this is a pretty fucking bad time. Chief.”

Tarquin looked at the two of them, a bitter smile crossing his face. “Aye. Yeh dinna say.” He sagged back into a chair, his back shrieking alarums at him. “Fact is, Robbie, we've a problem.”

Bell looked at him, then at Illithias, then at the woman in his doorway, and then at him again. “Yeah.” He crossed over to the woman, put an arm around her waist, and swallowed. “What...what do you want me to do?”
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow

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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Illithias » Sat Nov 26, 2011 4:29 am

"Hnghhhhhhh..."

The thought trailed off into oblivion for a few contextless seconds.

Then she swum back up into vague coherency. She was flat. There were people about her.

"Sweet Light, Tarq. What the Nether happened to her?"

"Some fuckin’ warlock. Come out an alley flingin’ hell, an’ had Ha’face down afore either us could do anything at it.”

"She looks like shit in any case. Right. Where are we bringing her?"

"Back ta the Pig, soon’s yeh say it safe. Lock her down while she heals up. She’ll be wantin’ ta hare after the bastard did this." Biting off his breaths, rage in his voice. “So do I.”

She waved her arm as much as she could. Her lips were so dry. She felt her arm move across... something. Slightly.

"Hnhhh. Gun skil... hrrghk."

Threnn and Tarquin turned to look at her.

"Shit."

Illithias sank back into blackness.
I am become Illithias, Destroyer of Worlds.

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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Illithias » Tue Nov 29, 2011 8:22 pm

"Hnhhhh..."

She blinked. Her eyes smarted. She was lying down; she was waking up. She tried to think back to the last thing she could remember...

She looked about; room, indoors. Lamplight. She was lying down on a cot of some kind. Her body sung in a low, encompassing ache. Her thoughts picked up speed. She blinked again.

So she was lying in a cot. Indoors. It was the Pig and Whistle, recollection coalesced into recognition. So she was at the Pig for some reason, she was still trying to work out how she got there... her whole body ached dully and her joints protested as she started to move. She smacked her lips and worked her tongue around a dry mouth as she...

She remembered night streets, a voice from an alleyway, green fire. She'd been ambushed. Realisation spurred her into attempting to bolt upright, despite the complaints of her body; this was arrested as her wrists jerked against the cloth restraining them to the bedframe. She looked down, and a face caught her eye.

Threnn was getting out of her chair and reaching for a pitcher on the table beside her as Illi began to pull at her bindings.

"The fucking-"

"Illi. Illithias!" Threnn's voice was calm but forceful; the measured tones of someone experienced with children. "Stop struggling."

She looked back up at Threnn from underneath a remaining eyebrow, face half formed into a scowl.

"Here. Drink." Threnn brought the pitcher to the elf's lips; she drank quickly. Threnn stepped back from the cot.

She moistened her lips with her tongue and let a little dribble of cold water run out the scarred corner of her mouth. She looked back up at Threnn.

"What in the name of Elune ha-"

Threnn was already putting the pitcher back on the table, the human turned to face her.

"You got attacked, by a warlock. Tarquin found you, you were in a bad state. We brought you back to the Pig to patch you up. This was a few nights back."

She looked back down to her wrists and indicated the bindings by a jerk of the head.

"Then why the Nether am I-"

"Look, Illi; you're still not fixed yet. You need another day or so, at least, before you're ready to be up and about." Threnn looked her up and down. "Whoever it was, they really pulled a number on you. Tarquin has Loreli and Yva hunting down whoever it was."

"Oh, fuck that." She spat dryly to her side. "I'm more than capable in hunting down some Elune-forsaken shadowmancer and-"

"No." The authoritative voice was back. "You're not going anywhere, Illi. Not for a day or two. That's final."

She grit her teeth as the chagrin built up in her stomach; she threw her head back against the pillow, arching her back and neck as she roared in frustration. She let herself drop back fully onto the mattress, pursing her lips in displeasure. Threnn watched as she glared at the ceiling for a minute or so, before picking the pitcher back up and exiting to the tavern's common areas.
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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Kyraine » Wed Dec 07, 2011 9:54 pm

For that whole timeline thing, it's a little out of order. Sorry about that. This takes place before and during the house burning and is split up in two posts because it's a little long.

Kyraine stared at her armor, stored neatly on the stand by the old, soot stained fireplace. Cracked walls and a chipped wooden mantle were the only things that stood out in the almost obsessively clean room. Even Blue’s pile of blankets was clean, laundered the day before. The wolfdog himself sprawled out by the hearth, gnawing on a bone.

“Fuck it,” she told Blue, resolving the debate over whether to go in full armor or not. “Appearances are everything, right? Can’t have this deader thinking I’m less than serious.”

Blue wagged his tail, ears pricking at the familiar rattle of armor. That usually meant something more interesting than a well chewed bone. He walked over to the door, waiting. Kyraine buckled on her sword and gave the small room one last glance to make sure everything was in its place. “Right mutt, let’s go.”

The door across the hall swung open, and her neighbor, a tallish woman on a leave of absence from the Westfall guard, stepped out. “Kyr, how long are you going to be gone this time?”

Kyraine turned, one hand on the stair bannister and the other on Blue’s ruff. “Shouldn’t be more ‘n a few days, Powell. Your da need anything from Dalaran?”

“Nah. Well, there was that old history of Alterac, that book I told you about before.” Jane Powell glanced down as something furry tried to push past her, shoving her own dog back inside before it could escape. Blue’s ears went up and a low growl echoed in the hall. “I think it’d do him good to have something to distract him.”

“I’ll see what I can do. You lot need any more of the dreamless sleep potions, tell me, aye?”

Jane nodded, looking at Kyraine with weary eyes. “He keeps denying it, but he’s getting worse. My husband’s off with Dad for lunch before he has to ship back out to the Highlands, it might be their last bit of time together… well, you know how it goes.”

“Same shite, different day, aye. He gets too bad off, and I’ll get my cousin out here. She’s been studying some, might be she can do sommat.” Or help him pass on, which was something neither of them needed to say aloud.

“I haven’t seen Kyllen around in a week or so.”

“Been busy doing sommat up at the Molten Front.” And staying away from the boarding house until things cooled off, but Powell had enough to worry about with a lack of coin and a sick da. She didn’t need other folk’s troubles on top of hers. “I’ll see you when I get back, aye?”

Jane nodded. “Watch your back, Kyr, if you get out with the Seventh again.”

“Always do,” Kyraine replied, with a grin that turned into a curse when the Cathedral clock sounded the noon bells. “Shite, I’m late. Got a mage with a portal waiting. Take care of your lot, Powell, I’ll see you when I get back.”

A few minutes and a stomach churning portal later, Kyraine walked out of the portal tower in Dalaran, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to let the last of the shakes disappear. The city itself was deserted, compared to how it had been during the worst days of the Northrend campaigns. She clipped Blue’s lead on, which earned her an annoyed growl.

“Shut it, Blue. You’re the one what tried to attack that ponce of a mage two years ago. You get a leash in town.” Kyraine ruffled the thick black fur on his ruff. Damn, it was nice to be moving around without the two guards who had been her shadows for the last couple of weeks. A small bit of freedom, even if they would be waiting for her the minute she arrived back in Stormwind.

Kyraine headed right for the sewers. No point in needing to hide where she was going here, there were only a few places mercenaries went in Dalaran. The smells hit her first, a mix of sewage, water, cooking smells from the tavern, and blood from the fighting rings. Her boots clattered down the rickety stairs that led to the Underbelly.

“Oi, Kyraine. Need a bed?”

“Aye, the usual. Be for a few days, then I’m moving on.”

“Third bunk on the left, and keep that damn wolf tied up. Rhett’s here, probably with that fucking demon dog of hers and I don’t want my place getting torn up.”

“She is? Tell her I’m here, would you?” Kyraine dropped Blue’s leash, stepped on it, and pulled out her coin pouch to pay for the bunk. “Haven’t seen her since Icecrown.”

“He doesn’t hafta, and quit bitching about the demon dog, he got ate by a frostwyrm a month ago. Watch’er up to, Kyr?”

Kyraine turned, and barely got her feet braced before Rhett grabbed her in a bearhug. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“On my way back t’ Stormwind. My years’re up with the Seventh, and I’m not signing on for more.” Rhett pushed a lock of messy brown hair behind an ear. “Sergeant said you’d left the Legion to go somewhere.”

“Back home, aye. I never took oaths like you did.”

“No, you didn’t.” Rhett bent to scratch Blue’s ears. “And ‘m not askin’ questions. ‘M movin’ on with my life. Gonna buy you lunch, get that portal back to the city, find a new dog, and find a place to live. Life on the outside, it’ll be fucking grand.”

Kyraine lowered her voice as they claimed a table. “Going to find some of your old mates, is what you mean.”

“Oh, fucking shut it, I know better’n that.” Rhett laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “What brings you up here, anyway?”

“Looking for a deader what goes by the name of Liza Forsworn.”

Rhett sobered up fast. “She’s been in last two nights. Why? I mean, I heard her reputation and I’d not get w’in ten feet.”

“Can’t say. I just need to talk to her.”

“Mmph. I’m clearing out, Kyr. I’ll meet up w’ you in Stormwind, if’n you’re still alive after you talk to her.”

Kyraine leaned back in the chair, frowning, as Rhett made her way quickly towards the ramps that led to Dalaran proper. Yva had warned her about this Forsworn’s reputation, hadn’t she? Looks like she was right.
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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Kyraine » Wed Dec 07, 2011 10:12 pm

With hours to go before nightfall, Kyraine started making the rounds. There were only a handful of people that she knew who were in town, and none of them had heard of anyone hiring warlocks with the level of skill that Illi’s attacker possessed. At least not recently. An elf she had served with in Dragonblight knew of one warlock who could pull a job like that off, but he had taken a three year contract with some elite unit six months ago.

Which makes him not our warlock. Those contracts are so damn exclusive, he’d not have taken on another hire while he was on one, Kyraine thought. She glanced over her shoulder again and shook her head. Lore’s warnings about being followed still had her jumping at shadows. Almost self-consciously, she took a whiff. All she could smell was the usual mix of smells in the sewer- and a deader, standing at the ramp to the Underbelly, staring at her. She stared back, waiting, until the deader finally spoke.

“You’re looking for me. Why?”

“Yva suggested it. I need answers, and she said you were the one to ask.” Kyraine kept her hands away from her sword, as much as she wanted to reach for it. The forsaken woman hadn't moved a muscle, standing with the casual arrogance of someone who knew she could blow you out of your boots before you took two steps. Yva's warning, combined with long experience of reading enemies, told Kyraine that this was a fight she probably would not walk away from. Any rate, the sword's not going to do me much good and there’s no sense in giving a hint that I’d start a fight with this one.

“No, there isn’t.” Liza grinned wickedly at the look of surprise on Kyraine’s face. “I do like dealing with you soldier types, you’re so easy to read.”

“Aye, well. Can’t help it.”

“No, I don’t suppose that you can. Now, I don’t like to waste time. Tell me what you’re looking for, then we discuss the price, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Expensive warlocks,” Kyraine said bluntly. “Folk need magic sorts, they bloody well come here to hire them. I’m looking for one what pulled a job in Stormwind recently, used fire, no demons. I want to know if you heard of anyone hiring that kind of talent down here.”

“Felfire, I’m assuming.”

“Aye. Fast too, in and out in no time at all.” Kyraine studied her opponent. The deader looked smug, she decided. You know sommat, I can tell.

“Of course I do, dear. Why do you want to know?”

“I’m sure you could find out on your own. Or guess at it, since it’s not bloody hard to figure out that this warlock’s taken on the wrong job.”

“Something Yva’s concerned about then.”

" Well. It's sommat the Riders are concerned about, aye?" A gamble, but if Liza knew Yva, she knew the Riders, and at this point Kyraine was willing to use whatever weapon she could get her hands on.

Liza hesitated for the briefest of moments when she heard the name. Barely noticeable, but hesitation was something her opponent had been watching for the entire time. “Well then, I’ll be happy to tell you, in exchange for a favor owed later," she snapped, feeling a little better when Kyraine quit grinning at her.

“Aye, you know I need the information, but I’m not an idiot. I’ll not owe some favor to someone like you with no limits on it.”

“I told you, you’re wasting my time. That is an exceptionally bad idea.”

“I know your damn reputation well enough not to do that, aye?” Keep it civil, Kyr. “I also know better than to agree to a favor unless you get a little more specific on it.”

“You’ve got nothing to bargain with, except that. Someone like you doesn’t know much, mercenary. However, a favor owed will settle this debt.” Liza’s eyes narrowed as she looked over Kyraine’s shoulder. “What’s this? I see you brought your own bargaining chip after all. That makes you smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“My own-” Kyraine managed, barely, to resist the urge to turn around and look. "Aye, I did. Like I said, I'm not stupid."

“I’ll need some time, but I’ll send someone with what I find to Stormwind.” She raised her voice slightly, again looking slightly past Kyraine. “Consider it payment for a debt.”

Kyraine waited until Forsworn was out of sight before turning around. Nobody was there, but damned if she didn’t have the feeling that she was being watched again. Someone had changed Liza’s mind, and in a hurry too. Only a bloody fool questions some good luck getting tossed their way.

She looked around again to make sure nobody was in earshot, before talking to the empty air. “Fucking hells, whoever that was, thanks.”
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Tarq
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Joined: Wed Nov 12, 2008 2:12 am
Location: Wherever the trouble is.
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Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Tarq » Wed Dec 07, 2011 10:51 pm

Liza Forsworn wasn't what you'd call easy to find, but the truth was, she wasn't precisely hard, neither. She had a reputation, which meant she had to protect it, so let the world know that you were looking for her and out she'd come. Sure enough, Ky found her that way. It was simple and forthright, and all things considered, it's what Tarq would've done.

He perched on someone's rickety abandoned shopfront like a gargoyle, still as could be, hat pulled low over his face, while Kyraine and the rottie talked. It rattled him a little that Ky hadn't yet noticed him today, as he followed her through Dalaran - but then, it was always possible that he was still that good. Like to think so, so I shall. Besides, if he'd learned one thing in his year in the 'Belly - still busy, even after the war - it was that it was a great deal easier to hide than seek in the mages' city, top or bottom.

Ky asked, and Forsworn answered, and Tarquin sat and approved. Offer her nothing, lass. You wear the Black and Red. She ought to be falling over her bony arse to help you, if she's half a care for her health. But it'd been a long time since the war, and Liza Forsworn was proud as only a dead woman could be. She'd forgotten what her crew owed to the colors. Might be she could use a reminder. He snaked himself down the wooden pilings, unspooling all six foot three of himself lazy and slow; he stood where the rottie could see him, and raised his hat, and smiled like the wind of winter. And then - this was pure theater, but he thought it'd take - he whispered like Annie had taught him, and standing in one of the Underbelly's many shadows he slipped it on like a cloak and let a pack of flash powder slip from his sleeve.

From another vantage, fifteen paces away, he heard Forsworn's grudging agreement. Still got some weight. That's a beauty, innit? And Ky'd done well. All the same, he couldn't fucking wait to be home.
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow

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Tarq
Posts: 1021
Joined: Wed Nov 12, 2008 2:12 am
Location: Wherever the trouble is.
Contact:

Re: Aftermath; or- One Doesn't Murder a Score of Men and Not

Postby Tarq » Wed Dec 07, 2011 10:51 pm

Bug watched the street for two days. She knew it was two days because the sun rose and set and rose again and set again. She watched it go up and come down and when she was not watching that she was watching the street for the Mark. Tall, dark-haired, a soldier by her bearing. Soldiers had a way of walking that Bug knew, careful like they were stepping on hot rocks but all easy too. That was what bearing meant, or maybe it was the way they looked at you like you might do something awful to them. She couldn’t always keep it straight.

Everyone looked at Bug like she might do something awful to them, though, when she had her good dress on. When she didn’t have her good dress then nobody looked twice except maybe they wanted something Like That. If she let them, she’d have to fix it to stop the Angel from finding out. If she did that, then the Angel would find out about her fixing it and she’d be in trouble just the same. So it was easier to pretend nobody looked at her.

Tall, dark-haired, a soldier by her bearing. Stupid, stupid. She didn’t pay attention. She had to pay attention, maybe the Mark had come and gone! The Angel had sent two men with her, but they were even stupider than Bug and they were only there if she needed someone in the way while she fixed it. The Angel hadn’t said so, but she knew that was what he meant. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need any of them, except her. But he needed her because she was good at what she did for him. So she had to pay attention.

There were lots of women in these streets sometimes, and some of them were dark-haired, and some of them were tall, and some of them looked like soldiers. But she didn’t think they were right. There was something else. A dog. Billy had told her about a dog, and she liked Billy, even if they didn’t need him. She knew he looked at her Like That, but most men like him would have done something about it and she would have fixed them. He hadn’t. So when he told her things, she mostly listened.

A dog. The woman had a dog and it went everywhere with her. And that was important because there was a woman who had gone into the right house, with two men, and come out again, and then gone back in. One of the men was a soldier like her, and the other one was soft, and they had a dog. It wasn’t a very big dog but it wasn’t a very small dog either, and she just remembered Billy telling her it was big enough she’d notice it.

The Mark was in the house now, with her dog, and the two men. If that was the Mark. Bug thought about asking the two men, but she thought they were stupid, and if she thought they were stupid they had to be, well, you had to be pretty stupid for that. They didn’t know anything about dogs, or tall, dark-haired, a soldier by her bearing, or what the Angel wanted. And they were scared of her besides. They’d seen her in her good dress.

Bug smiled from her window. The woman in the house was plenty tall, even if you weren’t small like Bug, and she had dark hair, and she was surely a soldier, and she had a dog. And that was the house, Billy had told her yesterday they’d asked the right people and they were sure about it, that was the house where Kyraine stayed. Kyraine was the Mark’s name. Bug didn’t know why she knew that. It was stupid, anyway. The Mark didn’t need a name. Dead girls didn’t need names. Bug wasn’t dead, and Bug was the only name she needed.

She stepped back from the window and sang out, and one of the men came scurrying up the stairs. He was big and muscly but he scurried to her all the same, and looked at her nervously. Not even a little Like That. That was good. “It’s her,” she told him, playing with her hair just to see him sweat. “Get ready to go. I’m going to fix it.”

“Er - now, miss?” said the big man. “It’s broad daylight.”

“Day, night, what’s the difference?” She frowned at him when he looked ready to say something. “I know the difference! You don’t need to tell me the difference. It was...rhetorical.” Little Johann, who wasn’t little at all but was young, had used that word. He wasn’t stupid, and she liked to listen to him talk. Even if they didn’t need him. “She might leave again and I’m tired of waiting. You and the other one get ready. I’m fixing it.”

She looked at him until he ran back downstairs, and then she went to the corner to get her good dress on. Bug didn’t need her good dress to fix it. But she felt better when she had it on, and she didn’t want anyone to get a look at her. If they did, all they’d see was...fear. That was good. That was the other way people looked at her, and she liked it even more than when they looked at her Like That. Either way, it meant she got to fix someone.

Bug waited a few moments, getting everything ready. Then she went to the window and asked her friends for help, and told them what she wanted, and sent them to the house where tall, dark-haired, a soldier by her bearing waited, and kept telling them what to do while people screamed and ran and dived, until she decided she was done, and took off her good dress and left with the two stupid men the Angel had sent with her.

A lot of people got hurt, she decided later, and they weren’t the Mark. But they weren’t people she needed. So what was the problem?
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow


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