A Proportionate Response
Posted: Tue Sep 03, 2013 1:41 pm
(Collating a short chain of fic from Feathermap. This first one contains ingame dialogue from Fenneous and Lore!)
Three tall lean shapes come down out of the night, strolling ‘long the edge of a battlefield like they were off to the theater. That’s what you might see, were you paying attention in Andorhal on that particular happy Wednesday night. ‘Course, most anyone in Blue Andorhal with their eyes open of a night has something better to pay attention to, crouched upon their flank like a great stinking cloud waiting to burst with foul rain.
“Dinna mind my askin’, Master Bolfry,” Tarquin says as he picks his way down the south road, “Sounds like yeh’ve a pairsonal stake wi’ the deiders.” He’s the shortest of the three, a condition he is sadly used to since the elves came over and changed everything, but it’s a comfort that he’s also the best-dressed. He walks casual because this is a poor and lazy excuse for a warzone, or at least, ‘cause he’s got the reputation of a man who would think that sort of thing, and reputation is all.
“Something like that,” allows Fenneous Bolfry, gangling his way alongside. He’s a bit warier, either taking Andorhal a bit more serious or just exercising the common caution of a sensible man out for a night’s stroll with the Oathbreaker. Either’s good form. “After what the bloody rotters did to Gilneas, think I’m not exactly undue.”
A cold and chary watchman moves to block their path, but Lorelli slips up ahead and shows him her military commission. Or maybe it’s a coin, or for that matter, a knife. It gets him out of the way however. “Sure eno,’” Tarquin tells Bolfry. “Bein’ Lordaerii masel’, I ken the feelin’...an’ then ay course, Tymara can tell yeh we’d our share ay difficulties recent.” A beat. “Wi’ the rotties, that is.”
Lorelli huffs amusement through her crow-mask. She most surely doesn’t take this battlefield any kind of serious, but she’s working, so she at least tries. Fenneous glances at her before asking, “That so? What sort, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Pointy, lad,” Tarquin tells him, weighty and portentous. “Pointy.”
“Better’n plaguey, at least.”
Tymara breathes out a laugh again, and murmurs, “Point.” Tarquin’s got to agree, and either this Bolfry bloke is humoring him with the banter, or he truly is another one of the world’s blessed who can trade quips a stone’s throw from the stinking curtain of death. The mad, the bad, the dangerous to know – in other words, an adventurer.
Up near the edge of Blue Andorhal, Tarquin stops and digs out his cigarette case, gesturing widely like he’s selling a house. “Yeh can see live side’s doin’ awright. But that’s only half the house standin’. The other half, well…” Fenneous and Lorelli don’t really need to follow his pointing arm. They see where Red Andorhal lurks; a stupid name really, because it’s black as tar where it’s not dead sickly white. They’re probably fifty yards from some kind of fight.
In fact, there’s a couple rotties looking right at Tarq while he talks. Scourge, likely, right on the Breach where the lich still holds sway, because neither dead nor living got the stones to sort him out and leave themselves open to their neighbors. Tarq looks back at the dead things till they come creeping forward, and then starts walking towards them. “Tymara?”
Lorelli doesn’t really leave, in the sense that a punter sees her moving. She’s just one place and then, in the fullness of time, she is in another. That other place is on the leading rottie’s blind side, and she sticks a knife into its empty socket and cores its head like an apple. Then it’s on to the next one. Tarquin and Fenneous just keep walking, and it’s clearer’n ever that the Gilnean is just the sort of man for whom Good evening, I am a notorious criminal, you owe me a free and unquestioning spot of demolition, and it’s up in an undead warzone is a fair regular event.
Their destination’s looming over the edge of the Breach, just on the Blue side, new timbers raw as a wound even in the damp dark of night. Nobody’s working on it just right now; they wait a silent moment while Tymara “relieves” the lone guard with whatever incentive got the first bloke scampering. “Right, so,” says Tarq once they’re alone, “This’ll be a new watch-tower.”
“Seems like a thing they’d need, yeah.” Can’t just see Bolfry’s face in the dark, but he’s too deadpan not to be joking. Lorelli nestles herself in the unfinished timbers where she can see Andorhalians coming, Blue, Red and Thoroughly Dead alike.
Tarquin thumps the solid timbers over his head. “O’erlookin’ the break-point an’ all, right? I am far frae tactician masel’–” this is middling true, far as it goes – “But this looks ta be a sound point fir our lads in blue.” Fenneous nods, probably wondering when he’ll get to the point. He knows Tymara is. But he takes his time, because reputation aside, not like he really gets to do something like this all that often.
“So.” He looks up at the timbers, and gives the half-a-watchtower a quick and silent funeral prayer and internment in the crypts of his head. “I’d like yeh ta blow it up.”
Bolfry stares at him, gobsmacked for once tonight. “A not even half-complete tower?”
“Specifically,” Tymara muses from her perch on the woodwork above them, “Our not even half-complete tower.” Again, while Tarq could have filled her in, this is about a hundred times more fun, and she’s got the pieces to figure it out.
“Aye, yeh maun want an’ leave this’n oafay the auld advertisement.”
“I realized that.” Fenneous looks away into the night, grimace on his scarred face. “Kickin’ myself for specifying the whole ‘No questions asked’ thing right now. Need to learn to watch my damned mouth.” That last more or less to himself, with the air of a man repeating an oft-studied lesson.
“It happens, mate,” Tarquin says with a nod of sympathy. “I ended up givin’ Sister Tee me job fir a week.” Tymara sighs heavily from where she’s sat; she’d probably prefer and forget about that.
Fenneous doesn’t pursue it. “You got a timeframe in mind?”
“Yir the professional.” Tarq means it. “How long’ll it take yeh ta rig it, an’ d’yeh need a couple assistants?” Engineering’s not what it used to be in the Black and Red, since most of their best died – probably but not definitely a coincidence – but he’s got a couple Riders know their way around a seaforium charge.
“Depends. How spectacular you want the boom to be?” The Gilnean’s studying the tower now, with the eyes of a working man; Tarquin mentally slams the coffin lid on the poor young watchtower, never to grow old.
“Let’s say...theatrickal.”
“Sort of thing you can hear orchestra playing behind, then.”
“Aye right!” It’s starting to drizzle a little, but there’s no need to hurry through this. A good Northern rainfall might whip up Bolfry’s patriotism, if he’s the poetical sort. And a little moral softener might help too. “But think yeh theater, Master Bolfry. The less real damage yeh do, the better.”
“Of course. Means I’ll need to be a little more delicate with some placement. Probably be a job of a few hours.” Tarq can feel Lorelli’s eyes on him, wondering what in the howling fuck her boss is doing with this nonsense; Bolfry’s either given up on trying to figure it out or just wants to do work first. He continues, “Then it’s just a matter of not being seen.”
Lorelli pipes up. “You need someone to watch your back, I can free up my schedule. Also, I’ve a little experience with explosives.” A woman of many parts, Lorelli Tymara; if Arrens Caltrains ever gets a grave, Tarquin’s going to leave flowers on it just as thanks for dropping her into his lap.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Let’s call it Sunday, then. If tha’ suits yeh, Tymara.” She responds in the affirmative and slips down from her perch, and she and Bolfry size each other up more closely. The elf’s taller, ‘course; the human’s got a bit more weight, even skinny as he is, and of course if it comes to cases he’s got fur and claws and fangs waiting in his back pocket. Tarq’d put his coin on Lorelli, but he doesn’t know Bolfry well enough to put a lot of it.
‘Course, if they end up fighting this whole thing’s gone pear-shaped to a degree usually left to the Varley Browns of the world. “So,” Fenneous says, “One ‘theatrical’ demolition. Standard Alliance military construction, from the looks of it. Definitely a few hours if I’m minimizing collateral damage – and I’d much appreciate the cover, thanks.”
“‘Course,” says Tymara, and ducks back a little to get out of the steady rain.
Bolfry just stares at nothing for a moment or two, lips moving slightly, eyes fixed on some distant horizon full of explosions. “Alright, it’s as good as done.” To his credit, he doesn’t look too bothered by that.
“Yir a professional, Master Bolfry,” Tarquin says expansively, hoping the man gets just what a compliment that is. “This goes well, ought’n ha’ some paid work heided yir wey. After all–” he smiles wide ‘til the white of his teeth glints in the dark night – “Canna’ have any punters wond’rin’ wha’ became ay thon contract yeh bid, right?”
“...of course.” Bolfry’s wary again, or showing how wary he’s always been. “That’s, uh, very generous of you.”
“I’m se'en-fifty the richer without liftin’ a finger this past week. Ought an’ put that money back ta work, should I no’?” Tymara grumbles something in Darnassian under her breath, the particulars of which he can’t hear but can imagine.
“Suppose so,” Fenneous says with an uneasy grin. “Awful lot of money to just leave sittin’ round.”
“Money wants ta move, Master Bolfry. That’s how come we alwis wake up one mairnin’ an’ wonder where at all it went.”
Bolfry’s smile loosens up a little. “Or worse, know exactly where it went.” Tarquin laughs at that, and looks over at Lorelli.
“Awright. Miss Tymara’ll meet yeh Sunday noon, by the birds in Stormwind, an’ gie yeh the timin’ oan it all.” Lorelli raises her eyebrows, probably wondering when she’ll get the timing on it all, but Sunday’s a few days off and she knows that by then she’ll be heartily sick of hearing all about her boss’s brilliant fucking plan.
“Hell, I can even let her flip the switch, if she likes.” Fenneous gives Tymara a smirk that might raise Prayce Thornwood’s hackles a little, but clear it’s all in fun. “Can’t help but wonder what this tower did to deserve it, but I suppose that’s not for me to know.”
Tarquin takes one last drag on his cigarette and drops its drained and savaged husk into the mud. “Let’s see it all shake out first, Master Bolfry.”
“Right. I’ll just do my job and hope for the best.”
“Funny,” Lorelli says, rolling her eyes. “S’what I tell myself every day.” They smirk at each other again, partners in being annoyed how they’ve ended up with naught better to do than end up in another half-head ap Danwyrith scheme.
“Tell yeh one thing, if it helps.” Tarquin leans down and picks his dog-end back up and drops it into a pocket. You can’t be too careful, after all. “Come the end ay this, thim rotties will be feelin’ a fine auld misfortune.”
Just for a second, when Fenneous Bolfry smiles, you can see the wolf bound in his gangly, awkward-looking frame. “Oh, it does.” The Glinean looks up at the tower. “Always glad to put them to some hurt.”
“Barry.” Tarquin tugs his coat around himself. “Well, it’s pissin’ now. I’m goin’ ta get me up ta Hearthglen. Walk wi’ me, Tymara?” She nods.
“I’ll have a bit of a look around, then head back and start drawing up plans.” It’s clear now that beyond his word – which does matter to the man, sucker’s bet or no – Fenneous has a project in mind, the particular madness of his trade, and that means it really is as good as done. Tarquin sticks out his hand for a firm shake.
“‘Preciate yir bein’ professional, Master Bolfry. I’ll see yeh ‘round the wey.” He tips his hat and turns to stroll off, his elven shadow fluid beside him, leaving Bolfry there to plot explosive treason.
For a good reason, of course. If he was to need one.
Three tall lean shapes come down out of the night, strolling ‘long the edge of a battlefield like they were off to the theater. That’s what you might see, were you paying attention in Andorhal on that particular happy Wednesday night. ‘Course, most anyone in Blue Andorhal with their eyes open of a night has something better to pay attention to, crouched upon their flank like a great stinking cloud waiting to burst with foul rain.
“Dinna mind my askin’, Master Bolfry,” Tarquin says as he picks his way down the south road, “Sounds like yeh’ve a pairsonal stake wi’ the deiders.” He’s the shortest of the three, a condition he is sadly used to since the elves came over and changed everything, but it’s a comfort that he’s also the best-dressed. He walks casual because this is a poor and lazy excuse for a warzone, or at least, ‘cause he’s got the reputation of a man who would think that sort of thing, and reputation is all.
“Something like that,” allows Fenneous Bolfry, gangling his way alongside. He’s a bit warier, either taking Andorhal a bit more serious or just exercising the common caution of a sensible man out for a night’s stroll with the Oathbreaker. Either’s good form. “After what the bloody rotters did to Gilneas, think I’m not exactly undue.”
A cold and chary watchman moves to block their path, but Lorelli slips up ahead and shows him her military commission. Or maybe it’s a coin, or for that matter, a knife. It gets him out of the way however. “Sure eno,’” Tarquin tells Bolfry. “Bein’ Lordaerii masel’, I ken the feelin’...an’ then ay course, Tymara can tell yeh we’d our share ay difficulties recent.” A beat. “Wi’ the rotties, that is.”
Lorelli huffs amusement through her crow-mask. She most surely doesn’t take this battlefield any kind of serious, but she’s working, so she at least tries. Fenneous glances at her before asking, “That so? What sort, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Pointy, lad,” Tarquin tells him, weighty and portentous. “Pointy.”
“Better’n plaguey, at least.”
Tymara breathes out a laugh again, and murmurs, “Point.” Tarquin’s got to agree, and either this Bolfry bloke is humoring him with the banter, or he truly is another one of the world’s blessed who can trade quips a stone’s throw from the stinking curtain of death. The mad, the bad, the dangerous to know – in other words, an adventurer.
Up near the edge of Blue Andorhal, Tarquin stops and digs out his cigarette case, gesturing widely like he’s selling a house. “Yeh can see live side’s doin’ awright. But that’s only half the house standin’. The other half, well…” Fenneous and Lorelli don’t really need to follow his pointing arm. They see where Red Andorhal lurks; a stupid name really, because it’s black as tar where it’s not dead sickly white. They’re probably fifty yards from some kind of fight.
In fact, there’s a couple rotties looking right at Tarq while he talks. Scourge, likely, right on the Breach where the lich still holds sway, because neither dead nor living got the stones to sort him out and leave themselves open to their neighbors. Tarq looks back at the dead things till they come creeping forward, and then starts walking towards them. “Tymara?”
Lorelli doesn’t really leave, in the sense that a punter sees her moving. She’s just one place and then, in the fullness of time, she is in another. That other place is on the leading rottie’s blind side, and she sticks a knife into its empty socket and cores its head like an apple. Then it’s on to the next one. Tarquin and Fenneous just keep walking, and it’s clearer’n ever that the Gilnean is just the sort of man for whom Good evening, I am a notorious criminal, you owe me a free and unquestioning spot of demolition, and it’s up in an undead warzone is a fair regular event.
Their destination’s looming over the edge of the Breach, just on the Blue side, new timbers raw as a wound even in the damp dark of night. Nobody’s working on it just right now; they wait a silent moment while Tymara “relieves” the lone guard with whatever incentive got the first bloke scampering. “Right, so,” says Tarq once they’re alone, “This’ll be a new watch-tower.”
“Seems like a thing they’d need, yeah.” Can’t just see Bolfry’s face in the dark, but he’s too deadpan not to be joking. Lorelli nestles herself in the unfinished timbers where she can see Andorhalians coming, Blue, Red and Thoroughly Dead alike.
Tarquin thumps the solid timbers over his head. “O’erlookin’ the break-point an’ all, right? I am far frae tactician masel’–” this is middling true, far as it goes – “But this looks ta be a sound point fir our lads in blue.” Fenneous nods, probably wondering when he’ll get to the point. He knows Tymara is. But he takes his time, because reputation aside, not like he really gets to do something like this all that often.
“So.” He looks up at the timbers, and gives the half-a-watchtower a quick and silent funeral prayer and internment in the crypts of his head. “I’d like yeh ta blow it up.”
Bolfry stares at him, gobsmacked for once tonight. “A not even half-complete tower?”
“Specifically,” Tymara muses from her perch on the woodwork above them, “Our not even half-complete tower.” Again, while Tarq could have filled her in, this is about a hundred times more fun, and she’s got the pieces to figure it out.
“Aye, yeh maun want an’ leave this’n oafay the auld advertisement.”
“I realized that.” Fenneous looks away into the night, grimace on his scarred face. “Kickin’ myself for specifying the whole ‘No questions asked’ thing right now. Need to learn to watch my damned mouth.” That last more or less to himself, with the air of a man repeating an oft-studied lesson.
“It happens, mate,” Tarquin says with a nod of sympathy. “I ended up givin’ Sister Tee me job fir a week.” Tymara sighs heavily from where she’s sat; she’d probably prefer and forget about that.
Fenneous doesn’t pursue it. “You got a timeframe in mind?”
“Yir the professional.” Tarq means it. “How long’ll it take yeh ta rig it, an’ d’yeh need a couple assistants?” Engineering’s not what it used to be in the Black and Red, since most of their best died – probably but not definitely a coincidence – but he’s got a couple Riders know their way around a seaforium charge.
“Depends. How spectacular you want the boom to be?” The Gilnean’s studying the tower now, with the eyes of a working man; Tarquin mentally slams the coffin lid on the poor young watchtower, never to grow old.
“Let’s say...theatrickal.”
“Sort of thing you can hear orchestra playing behind, then.”
“Aye right!” It’s starting to drizzle a little, but there’s no need to hurry through this. A good Northern rainfall might whip up Bolfry’s patriotism, if he’s the poetical sort. And a little moral softener might help too. “But think yeh theater, Master Bolfry. The less real damage yeh do, the better.”
“Of course. Means I’ll need to be a little more delicate with some placement. Probably be a job of a few hours.” Tarq can feel Lorelli’s eyes on him, wondering what in the howling fuck her boss is doing with this nonsense; Bolfry’s either given up on trying to figure it out or just wants to do work first. He continues, “Then it’s just a matter of not being seen.”
Lorelli pipes up. “You need someone to watch your back, I can free up my schedule. Also, I’ve a little experience with explosives.” A woman of many parts, Lorelli Tymara; if Arrens Caltrains ever gets a grave, Tarquin’s going to leave flowers on it just as thanks for dropping her into his lap.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Let’s call it Sunday, then. If tha’ suits yeh, Tymara.” She responds in the affirmative and slips down from her perch, and she and Bolfry size each other up more closely. The elf’s taller, ‘course; the human’s got a bit more weight, even skinny as he is, and of course if it comes to cases he’s got fur and claws and fangs waiting in his back pocket. Tarq’d put his coin on Lorelli, but he doesn’t know Bolfry well enough to put a lot of it.
‘Course, if they end up fighting this whole thing’s gone pear-shaped to a degree usually left to the Varley Browns of the world. “So,” Fenneous says, “One ‘theatrical’ demolition. Standard Alliance military construction, from the looks of it. Definitely a few hours if I’m minimizing collateral damage – and I’d much appreciate the cover, thanks.”
“‘Course,” says Tymara, and ducks back a little to get out of the steady rain.
Bolfry just stares at nothing for a moment or two, lips moving slightly, eyes fixed on some distant horizon full of explosions. “Alright, it’s as good as done.” To his credit, he doesn’t look too bothered by that.
“Yir a professional, Master Bolfry,” Tarquin says expansively, hoping the man gets just what a compliment that is. “This goes well, ought’n ha’ some paid work heided yir wey. After all–” he smiles wide ‘til the white of his teeth glints in the dark night – “Canna’ have any punters wond’rin’ wha’ became ay thon contract yeh bid, right?”
“...of course.” Bolfry’s wary again, or showing how wary he’s always been. “That’s, uh, very generous of you.”
“I’m se'en-fifty the richer without liftin’ a finger this past week. Ought an’ put that money back ta work, should I no’?” Tymara grumbles something in Darnassian under her breath, the particulars of which he can’t hear but can imagine.
“Suppose so,” Fenneous says with an uneasy grin. “Awful lot of money to just leave sittin’ round.”
“Money wants ta move, Master Bolfry. That’s how come we alwis wake up one mairnin’ an’ wonder where at all it went.”
Bolfry’s smile loosens up a little. “Or worse, know exactly where it went.” Tarquin laughs at that, and looks over at Lorelli.
“Awright. Miss Tymara’ll meet yeh Sunday noon, by the birds in Stormwind, an’ gie yeh the timin’ oan it all.” Lorelli raises her eyebrows, probably wondering when she’ll get the timing on it all, but Sunday’s a few days off and she knows that by then she’ll be heartily sick of hearing all about her boss’s brilliant fucking plan.
“Hell, I can even let her flip the switch, if she likes.” Fenneous gives Tymara a smirk that might raise Prayce Thornwood’s hackles a little, but clear it’s all in fun. “Can’t help but wonder what this tower did to deserve it, but I suppose that’s not for me to know.”
Tarquin takes one last drag on his cigarette and drops its drained and savaged husk into the mud. “Let’s see it all shake out first, Master Bolfry.”
“Right. I’ll just do my job and hope for the best.”
“Funny,” Lorelli says, rolling her eyes. “S’what I tell myself every day.” They smirk at each other again, partners in being annoyed how they’ve ended up with naught better to do than end up in another half-head ap Danwyrith scheme.
“Tell yeh one thing, if it helps.” Tarquin leans down and picks his dog-end back up and drops it into a pocket. You can’t be too careful, after all. “Come the end ay this, thim rotties will be feelin’ a fine auld misfortune.”
Just for a second, when Fenneous Bolfry smiles, you can see the wolf bound in his gangly, awkward-looking frame. “Oh, it does.” The Glinean looks up at the tower. “Always glad to put them to some hurt.”
“Barry.” Tarquin tugs his coat around himself. “Well, it’s pissin’ now. I’m goin’ ta get me up ta Hearthglen. Walk wi’ me, Tymara?” She nods.
“I’ll have a bit of a look around, then head back and start drawing up plans.” It’s clear now that beyond his word – which does matter to the man, sucker’s bet or no – Fenneous has a project in mind, the particular madness of his trade, and that means it really is as good as done. Tarquin sticks out his hand for a firm shake.
“‘Preciate yir bein’ professional, Master Bolfry. I’ll see yeh ‘round the wey.” He tips his hat and turns to stroll off, his elven shadow fluid beside him, leaving Bolfry there to plot explosive treason.
For a good reason, of course. If he was to need one.