Burning the Midnight Oil

[Threnn]

Rain sluiced down over Stormwind, drenching the Brewfest revelers. Some of them sought shelter beneath awnings. The slightly drunk crawled under tables, their arses getting wet while their heads stayed relatively dry. The just-plain-drunks danced merry jigs in the downpour.

One of the very drunk grabbed Aumery Fane's arm as he passed, dragging him into a whirl.

She was a pretty thing, plump and only a little grimy, probably one of the workers from the Dwarven District. She gave him a crooked-toothed smile as she spun him around.

The rain made his bones ache - not just his burns anymore, but the places the paladin had broken them, healed them, and broken them again. The places where the Light had sliced into him, making him scream. The bruises that had never manifested. The worthless, cowardly little cur had surprised him, inflicted wounds that would have had a lesser man gibbering, then taken the injuries away but left the pain.

When the paladin was gone, Fane had crawled to the portal. Crawled! He'd been so wracked with pain it had taken him three days before he could stand without hunching over.

And now this wench's inebriated flailing made his shoulder twinge in protest as a break-that-never-was began to sing.

He slammed a fist into her face to make her let go. She sat down, hard, on the cobblestones, blood pouring down her chin from where he'd smashed in a few of those crooked teeth. The rain made the blood turn pink. By the time her nerves registered the pain through her drunkenness and she started to scream, Fane was halfway down the block, feeling much better.

---

"My Lord?"

"Ah, Aumery, there you are. Come in and sit." Lord Danyll Fairfax sat by the fire, sipping at a glass of wine and enjoying a brief respite from the festivities taking place downstairs.

Below, House Fairfax' Stormwind home was aflutter with Brewfest activity. It had been Elisabeth's idea, buying up stores of ale and handing them out to visitors to garner goodwill from their associates.

Of course, the ale was only available to the right kind of people - well-to-do merchants and minor nobles were granted passage, but first they had to pass by the two burly guards from House Mortimer. The men stood their posts at the door, turning away beggars and commoners who'd heard whispers of free drinks. They'd almost barred Fane from entry; his appearance was so haggard, so close to that of the wrong kind of people, that if it hadn't been for the crest on his cloak, they'd have tossed him back into the rain.

Which would have made things go very poorly for them both, later on.

Fane lowered himself into the chair opposite his employer, aware of the rainwater dripping off of him, puddling on the newly waxed floor and seeping into the fine upholstery. Decorum, however, kept Danyll from calling attention to his servant's saturation.

"Would you like a drink before you make your report?" Danyll held up the wine bottle.

Fane waved it off. "I brought my own." He produced his flask from the folds of his cloak and took a long swig. "There have been... developments."

His master didn't answer, simply swirling the wine in his glass and waiting.

"It seems the whore has befriended a blood elf. I had the chance to meet him in Cutthroat Alley, on his way to visit her." He clenched his teeth at the memory of how the encounter had ended. Echoes of the thugs' laughter when he stopped fleeing in terror still rang in his ears. "At first, I thought it was the paladin, but..."

Danyll shook his head. "I've seen Edour, speaking to the clerks in City Hall." A sly grin stole across his lips. "He's human as they come. Northern blood, by the look of him, but certainly not Sin'dorei."

"Mmm. I realized my mistake later. And the paladin wasn't afraid to use his fists. I don't think this slick ear could have landed a blow." His jaw still ached from the beating the hooded paladin had administered. His nose should have been crooked from the repeated breaks, but every time he smashed it, the bastard had healed it cleanly. "But that just makes it more interesting. Either she's fucking the blood elf on the sly, or she has some other dealing with him. Why else would he be skulking around in Stormwind? If the guards had caught him, he'd be hanged as a spy."

"What business could she possibly have with a blood elf?"

Fane shrugged. "You've seen her book. She could be selling him poisons."

"It seems a long way to go to acquire poisons. It's not as though she's renowned for them." He rubbed at his chin, considering. "It could simply have been a representative of the Shattered Sun. You told me yourself she'd been spending time there." They were silent for a few moments, each mulling over possibilities. Finally Danyll shook his head. "Leave it, for now. If you see him again, get a name, or an insignia, something to identify him. What else?"

"I wonder if one of the physicians might be sent to look in on Stennis."

"He's ill?" The man wasn't a permanent employee of House Fairfax, but on occasions when extra body guards were needed, Stennis was one of Fane's first picks. Elisabeth disapproved of hiring from the rabble, but even she had to admit that not one of those caravans had ever been robbed.

"I sent him to have a chat with Bricu Bittertongue. It didn't go quite as planned." Another long pull from the flask and a grimace to go with it. "We found him pinned to the wall with a pair of daggers through his wrists. The wounds were closed. We had to... to reopen them to take him down." He paused, remembering how Stennis' screams had reverberated through the empty building. "He was covered in rat bites, too. Those, plus the blood loss and the damp -- he's in a bad way."

"Hnh."

"All he's said for two days is 'first the dog, then the master.' Seems it was Bittertongue's message to me."

Danyll blinked, startled.

"I'm sure he referred to Stennis and myself, my Lord. He wouldn't dare come for you."

But the seed of fear had been planted, anyway.

Fane hid his smile with another sip. It was simple enough to guess what had happened. Stennis was a thorough man -- he'd spent time learning what he could about Bittertongue before approaching him for the first time. It meant following the paladin, of course, learning his routes and patterns. But it also meant learning what to say to catch him off-guard, should the tables turn in the victim's favor.

If Bricu had the upper-hand, Stennis must have invoked his wife's name. How hard had Stennis pushed to incite that particular punishment? Let's hope he recovers enough to tell us. It would be wise to know the Northman's limits.

It followed, then, that if he'd been so brutal with Fane's hireling, then of course Bittertongue had meant Fane and Fairfax -- He'd want the one holding my leash. Any smart man would. But his employer didn't need to be truly apprised of that just yet. "Either way, you've no reason to worry. I'll be ready."

"Ready for what?" came a warm female voice from the door. Lady Elisabeth Fairfax stood watching them. Her dress displayed the colors of both her houses - the red and gold of Fairfax entwined with the green and black of Mortimer. A lesser tailor's needle would have made the dress a disaster, but Oreweave had an eye for subtletly. Poor imitations would certainly crop up by Winter Veil.

"For the next shipment, darling," said Danyll, shaking his head imperceptibly at Fane.

Both men stood as she swept into the room. Fane dropped a deep bow, uncomfortably cognizant of how well the fire had dried his front and how very damp the rest of him still was. Cold water slid along his neck.

"Please, gentlemen, at your ease. I only came to tell my husband that Lord Randwick is downstairs, quite in his cups. It seems he's stopped at every keg between his home and ours. Perhaps you'd care to share a drink with him and discuss a bit of business before he moves on?"

"Of course! Aumery, if you go and see my secretary, he'll take care of your requests." He set his wine glass down and shrugged into his waistcoat. "Now, will you excuse me?"

"Certainly, my Lord." He bowed again. As Danyll crossed the room to offer his arm to his wife, Fane glanced up and caught Lady Fairfax' eye.

She smiled at him. One hand came up and touched her earlobe, as though she were checking to be sure her earrings were still there.

She'd left him a message.

Once Lord and Lady Fairfax had left the room, Fane gathered up his cloak and went downstairs via the servants' stairway. He set Danyll's secretary to arranging for a physician to see to Stennis, then made his way to the stables. After his accident, he'd found it hard to control the fine stallion he'd once called his own; the animal had its own ideas of who was in charge, and a crippled man who spent most of his first months recovering inside a bottle certainly did not commandeer respect.

Lady Elisabeth, new to the household and something of an accomplished rider, had become its mistress in Fane's absence.

As he entered the stall, the horse whickered at him. It didn't care to share its space with anyone, not even its former master. "Easy," he said. "I'm not here to saddle you." One of the slats on the wall was loose; Fane counted his way across until he found it and slid a thin envelope out from behind it.

Inside there was a picture, barely the size of his thumbnail, that had once filled a locket. A pretty, dark-haired young woman smiled from it, her face wide and round. The painter had even managed to catch the greens and browns in the girl's expressive eyes. A portraitist possessing that much skill couldn't have come cheap.

A stiff piece of vellum remained in the envelope as well. A short paragraph flowed over it in a feminine hand. As he read the first line Fane grinned, his lips peeling back to show his teeth: Celine Walton, née Celine Edour. Stromgarde.

[Fingold]

Arthas take you, old hag. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Fallows.” With a courteous bow, Fingold left a small silken pouch on top of a letter at the clerk's desk and made his way out. It had been the fourth visit to City Hall; following up on his application for membership from the Stormwind Merchants' Guild. He had grown accustomed to the smell of old ink and burnt wax. Enough in bribes to feed a family till spring comes, and for what?

Uncle Michel never had to go kissing rings of greedy powerless bureaucrats to establish his grain business back home. At least Fingold had no such memories. Fuckin' southrons, greedy little bastards. Then again; unlike Fingold's, uncle Michel's business was essential. A city can survive without necklaces and rings, but without grain, there's riots. Maybe I picked the wrong trade, he thought. Were I dealing in damned carrots and potatoes, I doubt they'd dare humiliate me so.

Jemcutting and jewelery had been in high demand. Still, one can only sell so much without proper establishment. Not to mention full entrance into the merchant social class. Ever since his second visit to bribe Miss Fallows, Fingold had been reconsidering asking the al'Cairs for more than their signature on his application. Bloody respectable I will look, only able to join the Guild through Anna's family. No, I do this on my own.

Walking back to his Old Town apartment took longer than usual. The streets had been overcrowded lately, merchant's wagons and Army regiments coming and going from the harbor added to the usual bustle of the city. There was little time to waste, in a few hours they would be riding with the caravan to Stromgarde.

A longer walk meant more time spent thinking, and he was tired of thinking. Lately there were problems everywhere. Bricu was getting in trouble on a daily basis. He'd traded blows with Ulthanon over the priestess one day and gotten himself thrown into jail for attacking a nosy city inspector at the Pig the next. Fells was in jail as well, for reasons still unknown to him. There were no news from Genise either. And Fane. There was always Fane to worry about at the end of the day.

He wasn't past the canals when he reached for his flask. He needed the soothing gentle burn of whiskey on his throat. All week, the days had felt many times longer than they were.

It felt wrong to leave his friends at this time, but there was no choice. Staying just invited more trouble. There was no need to make things easier for Fane. Spending as long as Anna would allow away from Stormwind would buy them precious time. Stromgarde was far north, well outside Stormwind's -and her Noblemen's- area of influence. Anna would be safe there.

Fingold had taken great care in traveling in as unassuming a manner as possible. They were to join a small dwarven caravan bringing goods to towns north, as far as Aerie Peak. Fingold had done business with them before. On the first week of every month, he would send a few crates filled with cheap rings, necklaces and gems to Céline. The dwarves had proven reliable, and he was offering more than enough coin for their discretion. It was far from the fastest way to get there, but it seemed the least conspicuous.

As soon as he turned the corner, the banging of hammers coming from the Shield shoppe was all he could hear. Don't forget to stop by and leave them enough money for two months' rent before leaving, he reminded himself. Going up the steps to his apartment the noise below subsided, and a familiar feminine voice coming from the other side of the door grabbed his attention.

“Shut already, you bloody old godsdamned useless thing! Aaah!” The sight of a sweating young blonde, sitting atop a chest, welcomed Fingold. She was pounding the cover, trying to get it to close. “By Elune, I will fucking blast you to pieces if you don't.” So focused she was, that she didn't notice there was now a man standing inches behind her.

“I'm afraid you'll have to leave some clothes behind.” Fingold put his arms around Anna's waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

She grinned, and turned her head towards him. “How long have you been standing there?” After a small welcoming kiss, she slid off the large chest. She took Fin's hands and guided them to her shoulders.

“I just got back, I swear.” He wasn't sure if her inquisitive expression was about him spying on her or about not offering help. “As I was saying, you'll have to leave some behind. Why don't you take off this blouse, you're all sweaty.” His hands went to the laces on her back. “Let's get you freshened up, and then we take some clean clothes from the chest. It should close then, aye.”

“Stop it! There's no time for that.” She pushed his arms away. “We have to be leaving within the hour, and this damned chest won't close.” She was pointing blaming fingers at that stubborn block of wood. Suddenly her eyes widened, and her face dropped. “Oh, bloody hell. I look like a mess don't I? And I'm going to look even worse after half a week of travel.” She started pacing around, her thoughts two sentences ahead of her tongue. “Your sister will think you're courting a beggar, oh sweet gods.”

“Anna!” Fingold grabbed her by the arm and stopped her. “I never said that. You look as lovely as ever, and you still will when we arrive at Stromgarde. How many more times do I have to remind you not to worry about Céline?” He was trying to make eye contact, but her gaze was fixed on the floor. He moved in closer, now he was the one guiding her arms to his waist. “And are you sure there's no time?” With a finger, he raised her chin.

She saw him grinning. He had been trying to be less formal lately, after all. “Fin! I am serious! It won't close. And I...” Her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

“Aye?”

“I've looked everywhere, I swear. That's why I didn't finish packing two hours ago.” She walked to the desk, and took two small teardrop shaped silver pendants, with tiny rubies encrusted. “There were a couple pendants that had fallen behind your desk, but they don't look like the one you described.” She gave them to Fin. “I'm so sorry, I know you wanted to wear it for this.”

He hadn't noticed that his work desk, drawers, even the bed was slightly off-place. He could picture Anna looking behind and underneath every single object in the room; fretting about it, thinking how Céline would certainly blame her for losing the locket she had given him years ago. The only picture he still had of her. “Don't say that.” He was trying hard not to laugh at the scene playing out in his head. “I must have misplaced it. It's probably in some bag with a bunch of necklaces. I've been working long hours lately. I barely keep track of my tools, for Light's sake. It will come up somewhere.” He tried to reassure her by kissing her forehead.

“I packed enough travel clothes in your leather backpack.” She pointed at the the bags near the door. “We need to hurry. We can't miss the two o' clock tram. I just need to get that stupid chest to close and then I'll change and I'll be ready.” She took a slow, deep breath.

“Come on,” he took her hand and led her back towards the chest. “I think the both of us can get it to close.”

“We're going to have to do a bit of jumping, trust me.” Anna pulled up her sleeves, standing on top of the bed next to Fingold, ready to jump. Her eyes squinting. Elven curses running through her mind. “Ready?”

The chest stood there quietly. Unrelenting. Taunting.

----

A chilly breeze woke Fingold up. It was an unmistakable sign that the caravan was now crossing the Thandol Span. Ah, sweet northern air. He stretched his arms, and nearly forgot to muffle his yawn with a hand. No need to wake Anna yet. The familiar creaks of the old bridge that once terrified him were now reassuring, calming. He knew these sounds were nothing but the North welcoming him back. We are safe here.

Three days on the road had taken its toll. Their backs ached no matter how they sat. Bloody hell, am I so old? He didn't remember feeling this tired, sleep helping so little, back when he would be leading his uncle's wagons at least once every other month. And the trips then were usually twice as long as this last one.

He broke his fast with an apple, a few bites of brie and a chunk of bread. Sitting on the back of the wagon, all he could see was the northernmost tip of the Wetlands. I'm finally North and yet I'm stuck looking back south. He couldn't help but hang his head and sigh.

Anna was still asleep, lying against a few sacks filled with travel clothes she had been using as makeshift pillows. Fingold liked to wake up before her. He would tell himself that it was the way things should be, but in truth he liked the way she looked asleep. Relaxed, with no worries. It brought a smile to his face, and what better way to start this day than smiling.

Before long, his thoughts shifted to the meeting that would take place before noon. Relax, it'll go just fine, aye. Anna had been worried for herself, that Céline would not think enough of her, or so Fingold thought. He had been worrying about what Anna would think of his sister. She was as good a soul as there was, he loved her dearly. She's not been south of Stromgarde, let alone to a city proper. Hardly been outside that bloody excuse of a town in years. Light forgive me, she makes even Drachmas look worldly. And Anna is a city girl, traveled the world over before she started working for the boss.

He reached for his flask, there was still a sip or two worth of whiskey in it. He drank it slowly, quietly, while keeping an eye on Anna. The morning sun was coming through a hole on the side of the wagon and shining brightly on her left cheek. Maybe she'll get freckles again. He smiled, memories of a holiday coming back to him. After two days of near endless rain, the sun had come out and the skies were clear. Now that they were at least a mile past the Thandol Span even the morning air was losing its chill. It'll be alright, aye.

He reached for a handful of peppermint leaves to chew, and slipped the empty flask back into the cloak's inner pocket. As he crawled to the back of the wagon, he felt his leg cramp. “Ah, fuck!” This is ridiculous! He continued crawling, grabbing his leg with a hand, until he reached the end. He stuck his head out and spat the leaves. I need to get back in shape before we leave for Northrend. I won't last a damn week like this. He shook his head, hoping to stop before he was deep in thought about what awaited them in Northrend. And Stormwind. So much for a nice morning. Merde.

“Still grumpy, I see,” said a familiar voice behind him.

He hadn't noticed when she awoke. “Oh, I'm sorry. I must have woken you up. I had a leg cramp. It seems I'm fast becoming a bloody old fart.”

Annalea rubbed an eye with a hand and covered a yawn with the other. “Oh no, I woke on my own. It seems the sun will only come out if it's to be right on my face.” She raised a hand next to her face to cover her eyes from the sun while she dragged herself away from the crack letting the sunshine in.

Just for an instant, it seemed as if a tiny bunch of reddish brown spots had appeared on her cheeks. He covered his mouth, trying to cover a smile. He found himself unable to stop from laughing. And we didn't bring any lemons. Pity.

One look at Fingold's expression and she rushed to take out a small mirror. “You're laughing at me! Making fun of a sleepy girl, huh? How very cruel.”

“Nothing of the sort!”

“Oh, blessed Elune. We are stopping at Refuge Point, right?” She didn't take her eyes of her reflection on the mirror, carefully inspecting what she saw. “I need to wash myself before we reach Stromgarde. I can't show up like this. Maybe a change of clothes. Yes.” Anna knelt in front of a small chest, and started taking out blouses and skirts.

“Aye, we are. Likely in matter of minutes” He tossed the apple core out, an excuse to face away. He hoped Anna was too busy looking at clothes to notice him shaking. After regaining his composure, he turned back. “You just missed the span, I'm afraid. Not that the view from here did it justice. Did you get any rest?”

Anna looked away from the clothes and turned to Fingold. “I slept just fine. You, on the other hand, look like you barely got any sleep. Again.” She put away the folded clothes she had decided to wear for Stromgarde. Frowning, she moved slowly towards him. Anna slid into his arms, adjusting until she found the right position. She leaned back, resting her head on his chin. “You need to let me take care of you.” She grabbed his hands and put them on her lap. “Stop trying to do everything on your own already, godsdamnit.”

Fingold smiled and gave Anna a kiss on her head. “We'll get decent sleep in Stromgarde. That's all I need. Promise.”

Anna breathed out slowly, shaking her head. “I'll hold you to that,” she said, right before elbowing him in the gut. Lovingly.

[Fingold]

It couldn't be a full hour away from noon when they finally made that familiar turn south from the road to Southshore. They couldn't see it, facing back, but they knew they would be passing the ruined gates any moment now. Annalea, mirror in hand, was giving her hair the last touches.

“Anna, you look beautiful.” He reached for her hand, lowering the mirror; and put his other hand on her cheek, turning her to face him. “Stop worrying already. Céline and her family will be fawning over you. You'll get sick of them asking you for stories, just wait and see.” He leaned in and kissed her. “Remember, we are here to relax. No worrying,” he whispered.

She smiled briefly, her eyes still closed. When she opened them, there was a smirk on her face. “I'm not the only one who's been worrying lately.” Her head tilted to her left.

Fingold laughed. “I'm not worried about this.”

“Liar. You've been look-” The sudden stop threw her towards him.

Fingold struggled to keep his balance while holding Anna. “Heh, seems like we've arrived.” He smiled. “Alright, let's start unloading.”

“Fin, don't avoid me.” She squeezed his arm forcefully.

“I promise you I'm not worried. Well, I'm worried that Céline is doing fine, but that's all.” He let go of Anna and grabbed the large wooden chest by its handle. “Come on, they'll be waiting. You don't want to disappoint her, aye?”

She hit him with an open hand on the shoulder and sighed. “I'm telling Céline about how good you are at keeping your booze. Particularly right outside the Pig. Twice so far, at least.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head at his attempts to keep a straight face. “Alright, let's not make them wait.” She grabbed two sacks, hung them over her shoulder and got out of the wagon.

Fingold had arranged for their belongings to be delivered to the Blacksmith's house. Dwarves weren't nearly as greedy as goblins, he'd thanked the Light. They grabbed a bundle each and walked towards the house where a meeting awaited. I wonder if I'll recognize little Gilles. “Sweet Light, how old is he now?” he mumbled.

“Three, he'll be four before year's end.” Anna grinned. They were now in front of the door, they could hear the all too familiar smithing noises coming from the shop next door. She ran her hand through a wrinkle on her skirt. She turned towards him, “Fin?”

Fingold squeezed her hand gently. “Beautiful. She'll love you.” He smiled at her, and knocked on the door loudly, three times.

Time stood still, Anna was holding her breath. Finally, a short middle-aged woman answered the door. She had long black hair and a round face. She wore a long loose woolen skirt underneath a dirty white apron. Her eyes opened wide as she recognized Fin. “Fingold, dear boy! Come in, you're sure exhausted from travelin'!” She looked at Anna, her eyes seemingly focusing on the wooden beads on her hair. “And you must be Annalea. Honored ta meet ya, I'm Emma Walton, Lucas' aunt.” She offered a welcoming smile to the couple.

“The honor is all mine, ma'am. Please call me Anna.” She bowed graciously.

“Eno' with th' pleasantries, come'n in! Lucas and Céline oughta be back in just a tick. Ee's working at the shop, and Céline's running errands.” She walked them to kitchen, where there were pots on the stove. Raptor and Potato stew, by the smell of it. “Lunch's near ready, you'll excuse. Please, sit.”

She was curious to hear news from Stormwind, unsurprisingly. There hadn't been many people visiting Stromgarde, other than traveling merchants on occasion. People here had gotten used to hearing about how it's only matter of months before Stormwind can dispatch a few units to come help take the city back. They exchanged news over tea for a while. “Bet ye din'a have Arathi Black down in Stormwind,” she boasted.

The front door opened and soon after closed loudly. Then a series of quick steps could be heard going up the steps. “I'll be down in just a minute, Emma! Lucas is coming as soon as he's done with some special order, he said to not wait for him.”

Fingold chuckled. “Still the same, aye?”

“Yer sis kin't stop runnin', no. We're all used ta it.” Emma laughed, she stopped adjusting the seasoning and turned to Fingold “Should I tell 'er?”

Fingold shook his head, grinning.

“Oh! And tell Fin I saw a buncha dwarves carrying some damn large chests this way. He's likely trying to surprise me.” Céline's voice grew louder, as did the sound from her steps.

“I would do no such thing!” Fingold stood up, and turned towards the arch leading to the hallway from where the voice was coming.

“The nether you wouldn't.” Céline walked into the kitchen, a wide smile on her face. She rushed to hug Fingold. “It's good to see you, Fin,” she gave her a loud kiss on the cheek. “Now, you weren't raised by wolves. Introduce me to Anna, like a proper man oughta.”

Fingold sighed. “If you'd only stop talking, sister.” He nodded at Anna and pulled her chair.

Annalea stood up, her hands behind her, and bowed. “It's lovely to finally meet you, Céline. Fingold talks about you all the time. I'm Annalea al'Cair, please call me Anna. My thanks for letting us stay on such a short notice.”

“Ah, bloody hell. I'm the one supposed to introduce you. You haven't met for half a minute, and the two of you are already ignoring me altogether.”

Céline waved her hands at Fingold, as if he were a bothersome mosquito. “Lovely to meet you too, Anna. Fin has mentioned you on every letter for the last, what? Half year?” She bowed. “Stop complaining, Fin. Please tell me he has the good sense to not complain this much to you, Anna.”

“Céline, can't you wait at least until after we've eaten before you start trying to annoy me?”

“Speaking of eating, will you please excuse me for just one moment? Céline, where could I find some water to wash myself? I'm afraid my hands are filthy from the wagon.”

“Come girl, I'll take ya.” Emma took the pot off the stove, wiped her hands on her apron and walked Anna upstairs. Leaving the siblings in the kitchen.

“So?” Fingold grinned at Céline. “Didn't I tell you?”

She grunted, “I can't believe she's with you. You better not mess it up, you idiot.” Her finger, pointing at him, accentuated the last sentence. “Now tell me the truth: is she really a bard? That was the lie, aye?”

“For the bloody last time, I told you no lies. Not that you'll ever listen. You saw she's pretty like I said, she sings as she will tell you if you ask her. And her family owns a large fabric business back in Stormwind, as I also told you.” It wasn't often that he got to be absolutely right about a discussion with her, beyond a trace of a doubt. He smiled, savoring his victory.

“You lucky bastard, hooking up with a pretty southern girl. I guess all that prayin' does work, then.” Céline let out a loud laugh. “I'm happy for you. She treats you right, aye?”

“'course she does. Now, please don't pester her with questions all damn day long about Darnassus and the elves, and about all the songs she knows. Please?”

“I would do no such thing.” She smiled.

The conversation had shifted to news about little Gilles when Anna walked in behind Emma. “Time ta eat, kids!” She brought the pot to the center of the table, while Céline went to the pantry for bread. Emma asked Anna for her plate first, and ladled a generous portion of raptor stew. “Hope 'ee like it, darlin'.” she asked Fingold next for his.

Céline then offered Anna a chunk of bread. “Say, Anna,” she turned to Fingold, grinning briefly, only to turn back to Anna half an instant later. “What's Darnasus like? Is it really one huge tree like people say? I mean, you can build treehouses but not whole cities on top a' trees, aye? Not even on top of the biggest tree in the world.”

Anna smiled nervously. “Oh, it's not any tree. The druids did a lot of work. I'm sure you'd love it, Céline. I'll make Fin promise to take you there.” Seeing Céline's excited expression set her at ease, at least for now.

Fingold quietly leaned forward, rested his brow on his hands. He closed his eyes, and exhaled.

---

“I told you not to come any closer, boy!” Lucas waved Gilles away from the anvil, hammer in hand. “Play with your sword, you like that. Don't you want to fight that evil troll?” He pointed him towards his little wooden sword next to a set of stacked crates, the one at the top with a head and tusks drawn on.

“I dun wanna play. I want food!” Gilles defiantly crossed his arms and stomped his feet, pouting.

“Alright, alright. Daddy needs to finish just one thing,” Lucas spoke softly but firmly. “Then we go eat. Do you want to help daddy? I won't tell ma'.”

The little boy's eyes came alive as a grin barely fitting his chubby face formed.

“Grab your hammer, then.”

Gilles ran and pulled a small wooden hammer from behind the evil troll. He turned around and raced to his dad.

“What did I say about running in here?” He frowned at the suddenly contrite toddler and held him up with one arm. He started banging away at the blade with his little hammer, barely making a sound as it clashed. Lucas laughed and messed the kid's head with his free hand. “That's my boy!”

Gilles enjoyed watching his dad work, mesmerized with a new blade's shine and the clanking and grinding noises that came from the anvil. This blade seemed to catch his attention in particular. It was not the first blade of its kind he'd seen. And there was no hilt, just some strange shiny object next to it. One he hadn't seen before. He studied its new shape.

“Ah, you noticed daddy's makin' a special dagger. My boy's smart!” He smiled at Gilles, who was still fixed on the mount he was using for the blade. “See? This was a special custom order. Because there's no better smithy than yer dad.” He reached for the funny new object. “This goes on the fist, like a glove for when it's cold, see?” He curled his hand before slowly slipping it inside the steel mitt. “I'm attaching the blade to it. So that you can use it as a dagger. It's tricky to do it right. You need to balance the weight carefully. It's gonna take even your dad at least a few more days to get it right.”

Gilles had turned his right hand into a fist, following his dad's motions. He was now throwing punches into the air.

“Aye, just like that.” He grimaced as he slipped his hand out of the weapon's case. “This way, a man with a bum hand can still fight like the best of 'em. Like Old Man Renton's hand, remember him?” He bent down and put the kid back on his feet. “Let's go eat. I'm hungry. The dagger can wait”

Gilles nodded. “Die, monster!” he shouted. Cackling, he stabbed his dad's leg with his little fist.

Lucas laughed loudly. “Aye, this damn fine weapon your dad's making will sure kill more than one evil monster.”

[Threnn]

There was a man in the Dwarven District who paid good money for information on the goings-on at the docks. He liked to know who was coming, who was going, and what prizes might fill the bellies of the ships. He was curt but fair, and though he never told his people how he profited from their tidbits, he often tipped heavily when his labors bore fruit.

Corvin Willingham whistled as he strolled through the District towards Old Town, jingling his pockets, pleased by the sound his latest earnings made within. This would buy several nights' worth of drinks. Or one night's worth and a bit of peace, if he bought rounds for his companions. When his associates expressed doubt over his claims to well-off family in Darkshire, flashing coin usually shut them up a while longer. He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold.

The only thing that could make this night better, he thought, would be a good fuck. His pace picked up; he wasn't going to find any likely candidates around here - dwarven lasses weren't to his tastes. Aside from the obvious differences in height, they were too stocky, too solidly built. He liked his women delicate and fine-boned, liked the way their wrists felt in his grasp when they struggled.

He was sure to see several potentials on his way through Old Town, perhaps even this one coming towards him now.

The blonde woman hurried along the passageway between the Dwarven District and Old Town, hardly paying him any mind. She clutched a leather satchel to her chest. It was open at the top and she riffled through it, muttering under her breath in what sounded like Darnassian as she searched. Yes, it was indeed the longear tongue; for all the race's purported dignity, their sailors weren't above turning the air blue with cursewords. You picked those up quickly, working on the docks, and Corvin recognized several spilling off the woman's tongue.

As she drew even with him, he appraised her with the eye of a connoisseur. Pretty, certainly, but not for him. She was too sturdy, carrying herself with confidence and poise. This woman would be able to fight. And maybe win.

That would never do.

He inclined his head politely as they passed, not out of interest, but because that's what men of a certain breeding would simply do. She was too caught up in whatever documents she'd found to spare him a glance.

"Elune adore," she muttered, at least acknowledging his presence before she bustled on.

He'd already nearly dismissed her from his own thoughts when a sudden recollection made him whirl around and stare at her retreating back. Was that...? He skulked back along the passageway, peering around the corner in time to see her mount the steps to Judge Oläf's house. She paused beside a white-haired Kal'dorei before both of them moved further in and closed the door. Corvin recognized the elf even from the back. Oreweave's shop was on the way to the harbor; he'd often seen the elf through the windows as he passed by.

Word of the Drachmas trial had reached his ears, too. There were bets going on over when the Wildfire Riders would break the woman out of jail, how many noses would be broken in the process, how many arms, how many necks. So far, no one had been able to collect on any of them.

It all added up nicely. The tailor, Drachmas' judge's house, the woman's coarse use of the elven tongue. The blonde woman was Annalea al'Cair, just as Fane had described her to his associates. Corvin considered peering in the window, to see if the paladin was there as well -- Edour, the man whose name Fane sneered when he mentioned. He dismissed the thought, though, taking note of the dwarf standing just outside. It wouldn't do to be noticed.

Fane would be pleased enough to receive a report on the girl. Word had it that she spent much of her time these days in Valiance Keep. Even though it meant her sister was out of commission, there were far too many upstanding soldiers there to allow him to make a move. But if she were back in Stormwind for this trial, even for a few days...

Oh yes. Aumery Fane would be most interested to hear about this. Corvin didn't just whistle as he turned his steps back towards Old Town. He sang.

[Threnn]

Interlude: Yva's Quarry

Yva needed human blood.

It wasn’t that she needed to kill someone for the sport of it – that wasn’t at all satisfying anymore and she considered that a part of her past. Present murders served magical and scientific purposes, and this was no different. She needed a life for Mara’s ritual, and she had no idea where to get one from. Trying to fix her reputation with Stormwind had severely limited her capabilities. If someone found out that she’d plucked a random victim off the streets for her own schemes, they’d frown upon it and there would be needless annoyances later on.

Unless the person was so loathsome no one would miss them?

Of course. Perfect.

The problem with finding the reprehensible victim was that she was out of the loop. When she lived in Stormwind proper, it was easy to hear a name or a story about some ne’er-do-well or another, but she’d been in the Plaguelands and she’d heard no stories. She'd heard nothing but the scrape of Mara's chains on stone, Jak's pacing, and her own quiet hummings while she pondered the difficulties of their situation.

She needed help, then.

Bittertongue.

Only not Bittertongue, because he wasn’t answering his box and wasn't that just annoying. She needed him now, she needed a NAME now, not whenever he felt up for taking callers.

She growled in aggravation, summoning her dreadsteed to her and turning it towards the Pig and Whistle. There was only one other person she could think of to go to with this, and considering past relations, she wasn't sure he'd help her, but if Tarquin ap'Danwyrith didn't know the name of a man who needed to die, no one would. Unfortuately, he wasn't in his bar. In fact, he didn't seem to be anywhere even remotely useful to her, and she felt her ire rising, until – wonder of wonders – the blond man himself came walking around a corner, a black hat hiding his features from the late day sun.

He seemed to notice her just as she noticed him, and they stared at one another, their mouths adopting grim, tight smiles.

“I need a victim,” she said in greeting.

His expression turned to one of wariness and then curiosity as she told him everything she could without saying Mara's name, without calling her a deathknight. It took him just a minute to give her the name Corvin Willingham. A strange flicker behind his green eyes let her know what he thought of the man, and she knew she had her blood. It was just a matter of finding it.

“An, ah, do us a favor.”

She quirked a brow at the odd lilt in his voice.

“Leave a note. Gift fir Aumery Fane. Ay, you, em, ee, are, why – Eff, ay, en, ee. All thit's needed.”

“Consider it done,” she said.

They parted, and she could feel the weight of his stare on her back. He didn't trust her, didn't have any reason to trust her, but he wasn't so stupid he couldn't take advantage of an opportunity when it fell into his lap.

When it was all done, she'd try to tell him what she knew, but until then . . .

Until then she needed a dress.

-

The dress was white and small and as wispy as a snowflake. Staring at herself, her black hair falling freely around her face, her eyes huge in that too pale face, she felt like a sacrifice. She looked vulnerable, just as ap’Danwyrith had said she should. That’s what Willingham’s tastes dictated, anyway. Tonight, Yva Darrows played the part of the victim. Her small stature, delicate hands, and pale blue eyes had never served her better.

Idiot man is in for a surprise. I might enjoy this one a bit too much.

She pulled her white cloak around her and scampered through the canals, leaving her dreadsteed and her relics behind. They weren’t needed this time. A thick fog had descended on the Stormwind docks, and her gaze flitted from tavern sign to tavern sign, searching for the Salty Sailor. The small, dark bar was tucked in between an armorer and a swordmaster’s anvil, and she shouldered her way inside, her hood around her face. She kept her eyes downcast as she found a table, and when the bar matron sidled up beside her, she barely whispered her request for tea and bread.

Five minute for the first seadog to approach. She chatted him up, smiled and pulled her hood away, and he seemed to like what he saw. “Barnaby” settled down, turned his chair around, and tried to buy her a beer or four. She kept her voice quiet as she rejected his drink, eyes flicking among the other patrons. There were curious looks her way – she wasn't the type of girl this particular establishment got, or at least, they didn't think she was. A few times, when she met a man's eye, he'd wink and lift his mug at her.

It took an hour of idle Barnaby banter for a new patron to arrive.

Corvin Willingham was everything she'd expected – pale haired, watery eyed, with a handlebar mustache and a trim beard around his chin. He didn't notice her at first, and she had no idea who HE was until Barnaby moved in close and whispered “I'd be watchin' yer back 'round him, lass. He likes ladies yer type.” She quirked a brow and Barnaby took that as an invitation to lean in closer, his hot bourbon breath on her neck.

“Name's Willingham, an' he ain't good to his ladies. Better with ol' Barnaby here, aye?”

“I . . . “ Yva felt magic pulsing in her palms, ice threatening to cover her pale hands, but she fought it back by biting the side of her tongue. “Thank you, Barnaby. I . . . I really appreciate your concern.” He chuckled and she felt his warm, rubbery lips brush her neck as he pulled away.

I'll just kill the whole bar. Who would care? Scumbags and ne'er-do-wells and . . .NO. FOCUS. FOCUS. OH GODS HE'S SNIFFING YOU.

She began to hum her old familiar song, trying to keep her temper in check. Barnaby prattled on, twisting the whiskers on his chin as he regaled her with some sea venture or another, but her focus was on Corvin. He'd taken a chair in the corner, and had promptly pinched the fat waitress's bottom as she served him his drinks. She didn't seem to mind it, nor did she seem to mind when he shoved some silver down the front of her blouse.

Classy.

She sipped the last of her tea and finally Corvin noticed her. When their eyes met she immediately looked down, finding something interesting to examine in the bottom of her cup. She could feel his stare, though. It was like a weight pressing upon her. Just as Tarquin had predicted, the petite simpering miss was his type.

She waited just a while longer before looking up at Barnaby with a small, sad smile.

“Thank you very much for the company, Barnaby. I really should be going, though.”

“Lass! Yer breakin' me heart. Did ye want me to 'company ye home? Or if ye like, me rooms are just 'round the . . . “

“No, that's quite all right. My apartment is in the Mage District. It's not a long walk.” She raised her voice, making sure Corvin could hear her over the tavern's din. Once again she flicked him a glance, lowering her eyes when their looks met.

As she stood to go, Barnaby was there, still offering to take her home, still helping her into her cloak, and she was more emphatic now in her no. “It's not going to happen tonight, Barnaby.” He seemed taken aback by the slight shift in her voice, the way her true disposition began to eek out with just those few words, and he backed away, again pawing at his gray whiskers.

“Right lass, right. Be on yer way then. Be careful.”

“I will be,” she said, and she hustled to the door, keeping her head low.

As soon as her shoes touched Stormwind cobblestone, her walk turned to a near crawl. If she'd done well, Corvin would be leaving soon and would catch up with her by the time she reached the canals.

Come on then, do it right.

She was off by a quarter mile.

She'd just turned the corner, wasn't even OUT of the harbor area when she heard some jaunty whistling from behind. She hadn't heard the man's voice inside the tavern so she had no idea if it was him, but a quick glance over her shoulder, beneath one of Stormwind's massive gas lanterns, and she could make out the murky blond hues of his chin-length hair.

Her lips twisted into a smile.

She pulled a handkerchief from the inside of her cloak and dropped it, gasping loudly as it flitted down the street. Fortune was with her; a strong gust of wind blew it towards Corvin, making it dance around his feet. She chased it until they were a few feet apart, and then she fidgeted, twisting her hands like she'd seen the awkward young girls do around squires they fancied.

“Sir, would you mind?”

“Course I wouldn't, my dear. I don't think I've seen you around?” He swooped forward and retrieved the handkerchief, not truly offering it to her – more holding it hostage in his palm.

“Oh. I suppose you haven't.”

She stared at his hand, not making much of a move toward him.

“I'm new to town, you see”

“Lucky Stormwind then, to get such a beauty. Where's home?” He watched her lift her hand towards his, and he slowly extended the handkerchief. As her fingers neared him, he reached out with his thumb, sliding it over the back of her wrist.

She winced and pulled away.

He smiled.

“You're as cold as a winter's gale! You should be getting home.”

“I, yes. I'm a bit chilled. I was going home. But my handkerchief, Sir?”

“Right, right.” This time he offered it true, and she nabbed it, muttering a thank you and hurrying down the street. He kept his stride with hers, and she cast what she hoped looked like furtive glances to her right every few feet. She attempted to put some distance there, but he followed her, keeping his shoulder mashed against hers.

At the canals she stopped, whimpering quietly . “C-can I help you? I can find my way home.”

“I'd not be a gentleman if I didn't see you home safely, and Corvin Willingham of Darkshire proper is nothing if not a gentleman. Respected folks, the Willinghams, always looking out for the lovelies of this world.” His grin, which was meant to be charming, showed a piece of spinach lodged between his front two teeth.

“I . . . yes, thank you, but Mister Barnaby offered too, and I promise I'm fine. Thank you though..”

The smile faded. “No need to be ungrateful about it.”

“P-pardon?” Yva shivered, which wasn't as feigned as it should have been. The ugliness in his eyes was beginning to manifest, and revulsion swirled in her gut.

“I'm just trying to do you a good turn and you're just being difficult.”

“I am?”

He reached for her then, his hand snatching at hers, and she felt his warm fingers wrap around her wrist, manacling her. She jerked away, trying to play the distressed maiden, and his grip got tighter.

“SIR. I will scream, and . . . let me go. OFFICER POMEROY!” Her voice echoed into the night, but there was no one to hear her, not for miles.

“Scream, who will hear you, little bitch? There was an ugly grunt as he began to back into an alley between the wall and one of the business sides. Yva thrashed, keeping her ice and magics at bay, waiting . . . waiting. In her head the song reached a crescendo as her temper flared cold

Helpless girls, how many have you taken. How many will be saved. Good choice, Tarquin ap'Danwyrith. I owe you a boon

By the time he'd found the stack of crates, he was holding her off of the ground, her small feet kicking. One hand pinned her wrists behind her back, one hand was over her mouth, preventing her from screaming. She bit down on his palm and he roughly pushed her forward, onto her stomach, her face mashed against splinter ridden boards. When he pulled at her cloak, beginning to paw at her clothes with a long string of curses, she let the personae of the simpering miss go.

The air around her dropped by ten degrees, and then she began to laugh.

He stopped molesting her for just a moment, long enough to reach forward to smack the crown of her head. “You think this is funny? Getting fucked over a crate? Huh?”

“You won't be fucking me or anyone else tonight,” she said, turning her head over her shoulder to smile at him. Ice swam up her body, encasing her whole person in a protective block, and he was forced away from her, forced to stop touching her by the barrier of cold no man, beast, or magic could penetrate.

“You stupid whore.”

“Shut up.”

Beneath his feet the ground began to rumble, the cobblestones splintering apart as a pillar of smoke rose from the sweltering depths. The gray haze began to thrum, its shape solidifying second by awful second. First there were horns, then breasts, then a tail and two well shaped legs that ended in dainty hooves.

“Mmmmmmistressssssssss,” Cattania rasped, a reptilian hiss to her words. “I've been vaiting for your call.”

“Hold him, and hold him well.”

The succubus rolled her head towards her mark, a small pink tongue dashing out between her pointed fangs. There was a subtle shift of magic, a new warmth on the air, and Corvin Willingham felt his jaw go slack, he felt his hands unclench. His will was sucked away by the manufactured love shining bright in the succubus's eyes.

His trousers dropped to the ground with a jingle, the keys and coins from his pockets rolling off into the shadows.

“And so he was enthralled,” Yva said, dropping her ice magics. She ordered the succubus to tie the man with the leather cord of her whips When she was done, his feet were attached to his wrists, much like a sow ripe for the slaughter. He remained as docile as a pup under the demoness's seductions, though, never once complaining as she cut the circulation to his hands.

A dreadsteed was called, a portal was made, and the unlikely threesome found their way to a tower in the middle of the Plaguelands.

At arrival, Corvin was tied, feet up, and hanged from the rafters, the blood of his body rushing to his face and turning his ruddy skin purple.

“Now then,” Yva said, patting Cattania on the shoulder. “Do be a love and drop the enchantment. I want him conscious for what I'm going to do to him.”

-

The succubus dropped her enchantment and Corvin Willingham dragged huge torrents of air into his lungs. He coughed, he sputtered, he glared and began to thrash.

“What the hell is this?!” He screamed then, swatting at Yva from across the room. She kept her back to him, humming as she pulled a jar out from underneath a stack of boxes. It was about hip height and the color of Stranglethorn clay.

“Cattania, move this beneath him.”

“Of course, Missstresssss.” The succubus stopped filing her nails long enough to do as she was told, purring in the thrashing man’s ear. “He is an angry vone, isn’t he?”

“Stop playing with your dinner.”

“Dinner? What does that mean? What are you planning on doing? I’m an important man. DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

Yva settled her hands on her hips with an exaggerated groan. “I don’t care who /you/ are. I think the more important question is do you know who I am?”

“No. I . . . look, lady. Let me down. I can pay.”

“The money of a would-be rapist, or satisfaction from conquering scourgedom. I’ll take . . . .” She pretended to mull it over. “The latter.”

He wriggled like a worm on a hook, and her smirk turned ugly. “I’ll kill you, you bitch!”

The succubus wrapped her tail around Corvin’s neck, drizzling her fingers down his middle. His shirt was waving near his face thanks to his position, and she dug sharp nails into the meat of his belly, chuckling darkly at his whimper. “No darling, that’s not how this vorks. Misssssstressss kills you.”

“Hush, Cattania.”

“Yes, Lady.”

“I . . . “ He screamed for help again and again, until his throat was raw and his words were ragged. No one would hear him here except Yva, her pet, and the woman chained in the basement, and Yva sincerely doubted Mara was going to bat an eye over someone else’s agony.

Yva grabbed her dagger from the bookshelf by the door, humming as she wiped it on her white skirt. “So Corvin Willingham of Darkshire, tell me why I get to send your body to Armury Fane.”

“F-Fane? He’s a mate of mine. Good chap. I . . . “

“Someone hated him – and you by extension – enough to hand you over to *me*. Tsk tsk.”

His eyes blinked owlishly from his near purple face. “Who are you? I just thought you were some girl . . . “

“Every woman is some girl at some point in her life. Earlier I was what you wanted me to be. Now? I’m back to being Yva Darrows.”

She watched his face scrunch as he tried to remember her, tried to make the connection that would identify that too familiar name. It was the same every time: first there was confusion, then there was recognition, and then . . . then there was horror.

“Aren’t you that woman that . . . “

“Yes.”

“Everlook.”

“Yes.”

“Good Light, you’re going to kill me.”

“Yes. I am.”

There was silence as she approached him, kissing her fingers and then brushing them across his forehead in the blessing of the light. She never flinched, not even when she pulled her dagger across his neck and bled him into the jar.

*****

It took a long time for the corpse to drain.

When it was done, Cattania moved the jar back into the corner, sealing the top of it with wax and a lid. It wouldn’t be used quite yet, the ritual wasn’t ready, and so it would be stored until its time to shine.

Yva sounded weary as she ordered Corvin’s body cut down. She’d changed out of her white dress, had found instead some old slacks and a shirt. Gloves covered her hands to her elbows. The saw was a solid weight in her palms.

Another box was procured, this time a fine lacquered chest appropriate for holding blankets and clothes. They lined it with blue linen cloth, careful to over pad the corners. It wouldn’t do for critters to find her gift.

The body was dismembered at the joints through hard labor and sheer force of will. Yva’s arms were tired, sweat stuck her clothes to her body, but she persisted until the feet were separated from the lower legs, the lower legs from the thighs. The groin, the chest, the arms and hands and head were all taken apart. She was meticulous in her deconstruction of the man who’d hurt so many.

For all that it was an arduous process, she never thought to stop. Once begun, the mission must be completed.

Each part was enchanted with a freezing spell to keep everything free of odor and the unpleasantness of decomposition. The skin was pale and almost perfect – no blood was left to mar it. Cattania whistled as she wrapped the pieces in brown butcher’s paper and twine. Everything was stacked in a neat pile, and then covered with an additional layer of linen.

The demoness was outright cheery as she penned the note. Yva was precise in her dictation. Tarquin’s message would be delivered and there would be no mistakes.

Yva eyed the now closed box, a smile playing about her mouth. By this time tomorrow, Mister Fane would have his present. He’d be opening the chest, he’d be removing the linen, and then he’d be forced to deal with the consequences of his actions. She almost wished she knew what the man had done to ire the boss of the Wildfire Riders.

She had to hope she'd get to do this again.

[Threnn]

"Oi. Fane. Get up. You have a package."

The door rattled in its frame as the man outside pounded. Aumery Fane groaned and rolled over on his cot. "Leave it there and go away."

"Can't. They gave me an extra gold piece to make sure you received it. I leave it here, unguarded, someone's like to come along an' steal it."

He groaned again. Last night's wine had been barely a step up from swill, but the oblivon it had offered lessened the pain in his hand to a dull roar. Now, though, the sour aftertaste of old grapes filled his throat, his head felt as though a troupe of dwarven dancers were stomping around inside of it, and his hand was back to a screaming pitch. It was the cold, the damnable cold, as though the mages in their tower had fucked up and left a portal to Northrend open, dragging the winds through to howl about the city.

Throwing the covers off, he climbed out of bed, cradling his head in his good hand as the world pitched and yawed. Still a bit drunk? Maybe it was a little better than swill.

Or perhaps it was just that early in the day. The whore had left, snivelling, at three-thirty. He remembered hearing the bells toll four before drifting off to sleep. A glance out the window as he pulled on a pair of pants confirmed that the sun had only been up an hour or two. As Fane shuffled across the floor, his foot sent a discarded bottle crashing into the wall. Khaz Modan whiskey. We drank that, too? No wonder. He vaguely remembered the whore swirling the amber liquid in her glass. What was her name? No matter, she'd annoyed him.

The pounding came again.

The courier backed up a step as Fane yanked the door open. Behind him was a chest, lacquered in plain black, about the size of the trunks travelers used when packing for a long journey.

Fane gave it a cursory glance, then turned his attention to the delivery boy, who couldn't be far beyond his sixteenth summer. He'd seen the ginger-haired youth before, hanging around the Lamb, always hovering on the edges of conversations like a hungry dog waiting for someone to reach beneath the table and hand him a bit of dinner. Fane himself had never seen any use for him -- the eager ones tended to be the biggest liabilities. Still, he was here, now. Useful at least for a few moments. "What's your name?"

"Neris!" He cringed as if recognizing how pathetic he sounded. "Harold Neris." That came out more evenly. "There's a note with it." He fumbled a sealed envelope out of his coat pocket and began handing it to Fane. Then he glanced at the older man's clawed right hand and pulled it back. "Here, sir, let me," he said, sliding his finger beneath the wax to break the seal and unfolding the note within.

Fane made a note to break the boy's nose next time he saw him. For now, he accepted the proffered note with a grunt.

To Aumery Fane. From an admirer.

Warning bells rang in his head. He had no admirers, and if Lady Mortimer wanted to send him something, she'd be worlds more subtle than this. His crippled hand flexed as he considered what to do. What if opening the lid triggered a nasty surprise within? He ought to order the boy to drag the trunk to the canals and throw it in. But opening it might clue him in to the sender's identity. Better to know an enemy than to wait for a knife in the dark.

It wasn't as though he didn't have his suspicions. The al'Cair whore's original murder attempt had been careful, quiet. Her new friends, however, could afford to be more ostentatious.

"Help me bring it inside," he said, taking one handle in his good hand.

Neris snapped to, hefting the other end. Together, they dragged the heavy chest into Fane's room. There was a chill around it, even deeper than the wintry air outside. Rather than scraping a bow and exiting, the boy hovered expectantly. Did he want a tip or had he never learned the price of curiosity?

Fane smiled. Maybe it was time the boy had a lesson. He fumbled with the clasps for a moment, cursing under his breath. At last he backed away, feigning exasperation. "I can't seem to work the foolish things," he said, and noticed how Neris' eyes flicked to his bad hand. "Would you mind...?"

"Oh! Yes, sir. My pleasure, sir." With deft fingers, the boy worked the clasps. He didn't wait for permission to open the lid, throwing it open and peering inside like a toddler tearing into a Winter Veil gift.

Fane did the opposite, leaning as far back as he could until he was certain the boy wasn't going to keel over dead.

Neris didn't seem to notice his host's reaction. He shifted a length of linen aside and frowned. "I don't know how it's staying cold, sir, but it looks like someone sent you enough meat to keep you fed for a month. All different cuts, too, wrapped up pretty as you please. Shall I open one? So you know if you're having steak or pork for dinner?"

No, he thought. No, I don't want to know what's in there at all. But that was what the boy was for, after all, wasn't it? Acting as a sort of unwitting poison tester? "Go on," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "Let's see what we have."

The butcher's paper crinkled as Neris undid the twine and peeled back the layers. He'd chosen one of the larger pieces, about a foot long, and about as thick around as a man's leg. As the paper fell away, Neris whistled. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this before," he mused, turning it over in his hands. "Maybe it's from one o'them things up North. I've heard there are all sorts of new--"

"Open the smaller one," snapped Fane. He'd seen something like it before, once. When your education came from the darkest parts of Cutthroat Alley, you tended not to forget those things.

Neris glanced up, startled. To his credit, he didn't argue. Setting the first package aside, he reached for one of the smaller ones tucked off to the side. Neither breathed as the boy untied the knot.

When Neris saw what lay swaddled in the brown paper, his scream was more womanly than last night's whore's. He staggered to his feet, holding onto the disturbing package for a heartbeat before the knowledge of not only what he held crashed into him like a second wave, but also the fact that the thing was in his hand. He shrieked again and dropped it.

Fane moved with eerie speed, catching it before it hit the ground. He straightened up, a sick feeling clenching his stomach as he stared at his "gift."

His twisted, ruined fingers were curled around a perfectly formed hand. The skin was pale, the fingernails slightly tinged with blue, but despite from the waves of cold it gave off, he half-expected it to start twitching in his grasp. A hand. Then I was right, the first was someone's thigh. But whose?

Neris had started inching towards the door.

"Boy!" Fane's voice cut across the room like a whipcrack; Neris flinched as though he felt the sting. "Come here."

Whining low in his throat, the boy joined the bigger man beside the chest.

"That one," said Fane, pointing to a roundish shape. "Open it."

"That... it..." Neris' lips worked soundlessly for a time, until, finally, he whispered, "I think that's the head, sir."

"Whoever it is, he's dead, you fucking gob. He's not going to care. Open it." Fane was glad, in that moment, that the boy didn't have the stones to turn around and suggest he open it for himself. He didn't know if he'd be able to do it. The weight of the dead man's hand -- still held in his own -- made his skin want to crawl right off his arm. It took every ounce of willpower to keep his grip on it. He wanted nothing more than to cast it across the room, as far from himself as he could, but he didn't want the boy telling stories of frightened, crippled Aumery Fane when the lad was in his cups.

No, even though the frozen flesh had begun to thaw a bit, stealing some of the heat from his own skin, he held on.

Neris gibbered while he fumbled at the package. His shaking fingers kept slipping off the knots until some part of his logical mind pushed the thought of using his knife to the forefront. It was a miracle he didn't slice off his thumb, but the twine snapped and fell away with no blood spilled. He pushed the paper aside and moaned. "That's Corvin Willingham, sir. Oh gods, I know him. He was at the Lamb three nights ago, and..."

The horror of what he was seeing caught up with him the rest of the way. Clamping a hand over his mouth, Neris broke for the door. He just barely made it outside before his knees gave out and he sat, sobbing and retching noisily in the street.

Fane ignored him for the moment, staring down at the face laying in a nest of its own flesh, taken apart and put back together in the wrong order, packed efficiently into the chest. Flecks of ice had gathered in the corners of his watery eyes; they gazed up at him through death, terrified, accusing.

To Aumery Fane. From an admirer.

He'd made enemies over the years, of course, but there were only a few with the connections to do something like this. Danyll Fairfax wouldn't have it in him to do something so cruel, not even if he'd found out his most loyal of servants hadn't been very loyal for years; nor had he done anything to anger Lady Mortimer.

Which left the al'Cair bitch and her associates.

Corvin's hand made a soft thwack as it fell from Fane's grip and hit the floor. He strode outside, grabbing a wicked looking weapon off the table on his way. His withered hand slipped into the steel mitt as he advanced on the boy, who was on his hands and knees, too busy sicking up his last several meals to scramble away. With his good hand, Fane hauled Neris up and turned him, slamming him against the wall. A few passers-by muttered in alarm, but continued on their way. This wasn't the part of town where you got involved or shouted for the Watch. A blade protruded from the back of the mitt, near the knuckles. The tip of it pressed into Neris' throat and drew a thin bead of blood.

"Who sent this? Who was it?"

Neris babbled nonsense, a line of spittle hanging from the corner of his mouth.

Fane shook him so hard his teeth rattled. "You said they paid you a gold to be sure I got it. WHO?"

"It was the post, sir!" Neris wailed. "I swear to you, it was the post! He knocked and knocked and you didn't wake, and he had more packages to deliver. So he saw me havin' a stroll and told me he'd give me a gold if I stayed and watched and so I did and now I wish I hadn't and--"

"Shut the fuck up." He pulled the blade away and let the boy fall to the ground, choking and blubbering. From his pocket he pulled a handful of coins -- some silver, a few coppers, one heavy gold piece -- and flung them at the prone figure. "Not a word of this, to anyone, you understand? Or I'll make sure you end up the same way Willingham did, only not nearly so recognizable."

Neris mewled his assent and scrabbled away, as though afraid Fane might follow up the coins with a kick.

Fane returned to his room, slamming the door behind him, the boy already forgotten as he eased his hand from the glove. His boot hit something solid, sent it skittering across the floor.

Corvin's hand.

The urge to go back outside and vomit up his guts like Neris had done was strong, but Fane resisted. He sat heavily on the bed, his eyes flicking from the open chest to the note, from the note to the spot where Corvin's hand had come to rest against a dresser, palm up, its fingers outstretched in supplication.

Was the dead man a warning or a promise? If this was the punishment for being his acquaintance -- an occasional business partner, a sometime accomplice -- what could they have in store for Aumery Fane himself?

Worse things. Far worse.

Fane sat there as the day brightened around him and the carved-up corpse began to thaw, imagining what those things might be.

[Beltar]

Beltar Forgebreaker slowly clomped upstairs into the Pig and Whistle's dining room and looked around. The front doors were open, and brilliant mid-morning sunlight diffused its way around the entrance. Even in winter, this far south, there was a bit of warmth in the air that filtered through the open front doors, along with the faint smell of Stormwind, a mixture of salt air, manure, and smoke.

"Well, you're up early," Reese Langston grinned sardonically at Beltar from behind the bar, as the dwarf eased down into a chair with a slight grimace of pain. "Thought you'd be sleepin' all the forenoon and half the after."

"Woulda been nice, lad," Beltar replied, rubbing his eyes. "But ap D don't spend much coin on 'em cots down 'ere. If I'd'a stayed flat much longer, y'd'a been haulin' me out wi' a block an' tackle. Say, think y'could git yer folks back in kitchen t'whip me up a coupla eggs an' sommat good Ironforge mornin'brew I know y'keep stashed?"

Reese snorted. "No ale? You're slippin', old man!"

"Good ale's wasted if y'go straight on drunk from sleepy, Reese," Beltar shot back. "Let 'at mornin'brew get m'eyes open, an' I'll put some gold in yer coffers t'night if'n I don't get called back up North." He winced again as he flexed his left leg.

Reese saw it. "How's that leg? Not good, by the looks of it."

Beltar shrugged. "Manageable. Cold an' damp up 'ere damn sure does it no favors, some spots worse'n'others, o'course. I come back down 'ere ever so offen fer a few days, seems t'gimme a week'r'two up North afore it really starts hurtin' 'gain. Slows me a bit, but ain't nothin' t'be done wi' it. If I cain't handle it after seven year, 's too late fer me t'be learnin' now, aye?"

"Reckon so, but still, maybe you should talk to a healer about it. Somebody at the Cathedral, maybe one of the al'Cairs. Threnody's a good healer, and Annalea's supposed to be handy with poultices."

"Been 'ere, done it, Reese. Healers looked at it more 'n' once, an' ain't nothin' else t'be done. When y'damn near get yer leg cut off wi' poisoned blade, an' those what do th'first stitchin' couldn't pass fer apprentice butchers, y'count yerself lucky t'still have th'leg at all. Little twinge now an' again ain't bad considerin' th'alternatives."

"Fair enough, then," Reese replied as he walked out from behind the bar and over to Beltar's table, carrying a plate with two eggs on it and a large steaming mug of morningbrew. "There you go. Two eggs fried, and one mug of morningbrew."

"Aaah, yer a good man, Reese, damn all wha'ever Kuo says about ya," Beltar grinned as he picked up his fork. "Much as I love snow, bein' who I am an' where I'm from, it feels damn good t'git away from it fer a few..."

"Mr. Langston?" A voice from the door interrupted him. A youth, no more than seventeen, gangly, freckle-faced, holding a drover's whip in one hand, stood silhouetted at the top of the three stairs down into the dining room. "I'm here with your produce. Can you come unload it please? The guard was giving me a time about it blocking the street."

Reese sighed. Beltar laughed and said, "No worries, lad, go git yer fruit 'r' whatever, an' I'll be here makin' sure nobody runs off wi' yer buildin' or Elly."

That got a chuckle out of Reese. "Fair enough," he said, and headed out the door behind the teenager.

Beltar set to his fried eggs and morningbrew with typical dwarven gusto, but he'd only gotten a couple of bites in and was lifting the third to his mouth when a bellow from the open door interrupted his progress. "FORGEBREAKER! GET OUT HERE! Your damn pig is eating my food!"

"Oh, hell," Beltar swore as he quickly stood up and rushed outside. He pushed his way past the young wagoneer in the doorway with a curt "Move yer ass, boy," and stopped to take in the picture.

Squealer stood several feet away, beside the oxwagon, noisily eating apples off the pavement where they'd spilled after his tusks had torn open a crate and dashed it on the ground. Off to one side near the back of the wagon, Reese stood, face flushed red with anger. Seeing Beltar, he pointed at the pig, then at him. "So much for keeping him in the stables! You said he couldn't get out!"

"I didna think he could, Reese!", Beltar said plaintively. "I'll make it good, y'know 'at!"

"Damn right you will," he shouted. "I've no problem with you here, but I never want to see that mangy walking ham around my tavern ever again. You come back, you leave him somewhere else, the further the better!"

"Settle yerself down, lad," Beltar replied. "I'll git 'im." He moved forward toward the big black crag boar and laid a hand on his flank. "Squealer, y'dumb bastard, y'know better'n..."

It all happened in an eyeblink. Squealer spun around so fast that Beltar was knocked off balance. Call it luck, call it reflexes, call it divine intervention, but whatever the cause, the boar's sharp tusks missed the dwarf's chest by perhaps a fingerswidth as he pitched backward to land on the sidewalk. Beltar found himself sitting on his ass, looking up into a pair of familiar yet unfamiliar eyes. It was Squealer, all right, but his eyes were cloudy and maddened, opened insanely wide, with white showing around the dark in the center. His head was lowered, and barely two steps away from Beltar's face.

"Squealer! Th'fuck's gotten in't'ya, boy? Wha'..." This time, the only reason that Beltar wasn't gored in the head was that Reese Langston ducked down, grabbed his collar, and gave him a mighty heave to one side as Squealer lunged forward with a ragged, piercing squeal. The boar advanced two steps, then back one, still head down in an attack posture, swinging from side to side, shuffling somewhat unsteadily, now standing between Reese and Beltar and the door to the Pig.

"Forgebreaker, what in the Nether?", Reese panted.

"Damned if I know," Beltar said shakily. Then, facing the boar, "SQUEALER!", and a sharp whistle--his usual "come" command. But this time, Squealer seemed not even to hear it. He grunted, he squealed, he rocked side to side, then turned and slammed his tusks into another crate on the wagon, causing pumpkins to explode everywhere. The boar then began to eat.

The scene around the wagon was becoming confused. A few bystanders had stopped on either side of the Pig and were curiously watching. Beltar heard the clanking of armor behind him as two Stormwind guards rushed up. And Annalea al'Cair appeared in the doorway, looked over, and saw Beltar. "Beltar, what is..."

Beltar held up a hand, never taking his eyes off Squealer. "Lass, m'gun's at a table in 'ere. Th' shotgun. Fetch it, an' toss it t'me." Don't come out, just throw it t'me."

"But..."

"Jus' do it. Please."

Annalea disappeared back inside as a Stormwind city guard pushed in front of Beltar and Reese. "What's going on here?" Nobody had a chance to answer. Squealer looked up from his meal of smashed gourd and lunged at the guard, who never had a chance to move. A hundred and fifty pounds of boar met two hundred pounds of soldier and armor, and the boar won, sending the guard flying back into his partner, Beltar, and Reese, all of whom crashed to the ground. There were shouts and shocked murmurs from the crowd, which backed off. Squealer, meanwhile, went back to eating.

The guard stood up and drew his sword, only to be blocked by Beltar. "Don't do it, lad."

"Out of my way, dwarf, that animal is dangerous!"

"Oh, y'got no damn idea how dangerous he is, boy, he's mine. Touch 'im, y'll find out how dangerous I am too."

The guard stood shocked at the dwarf's impertinence for a second as Annalea yelled, "Beltar! Catch!" from the door. Beltar turned and caught the flying boomstick neatly in one hand, then turned back to the guardsmen. "'at's m'boar, aye. Been wi' me goin' four year now. Seen ever' bit'a Nether-spawned hell 'is an' ever' world's got t'offer, me an' him, t'gether. He turned back to Squealer and racked the shotgun. "Anyone's gonna have t'end 'im, it's gonna be me. None other." Then he faced the guard. "Now be a good lad an' keep 'em people back, aright? Make sure n'body gits hurt. Y'too, Reese. Gimme room."

He turned and faced Squealer again. This time he called the boar's name more softly. "Squealer."

Squealer snapped his head up and looked at--no, through Beltar, like he was having trouble focusing his eyes. He swayed side to side, shoulders hunched, head down, tusks swinging, making odd grunting sounds the likes of which Beltar had never heard him make before. Slowly, Beltar brought the boomstick up to his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the eyes of the animal that had been by his side through everything, good and bad, since they first met outside Kharanos four years earlier.

For several seconds, there was dead silence. No one moved or spoke. Then Squealer took a stagger-step to the right, then back to the left. His whole body hunched, and then he vomited, a huge stream of chewed and digested fruit cascading across the sidewalk and onto the street. He retched again, and again, while Beltar held his gun steadily pointed at his old companion.

One final heave, and Squealer, for the first time, raised his head and looked squarely on at his master. They locked eyes for one heartbeat, two, three. Then Squealer squealed, a single, high, shrill, loud note like high-pressure steam venting from some dwarven contraption, that went on for long seconds.

The squeal trailed off, the boar's eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed, legs rigid and hooves drumming on the pavement.

Beltar leapt over the puddle of vomit and was by the boar's side instantly, as was Annalea. "Lad, don' die on me," Beltar muttered as he checked Squealer over. "What the Nether happened?", Annalea asked.

"Dunno, lass," Beltar replied as he continued to check the boar over. "Reese started yellin' 'e was eatin' off th' produce wagon, I come out 'ere, he starts actin' all weird an' he tries t'take a chunk outta me..." Beltar and Annalea locked eyes.

Annalea stood up. Across the wagon, a street kid of eight or nine had snuck an apple off a crate on the other side and was getting ready to bite into it. "Grab him! Don't let him eat that!", she shouted, pointing right at him.

The Stormwind guards reacted instantly. Mad boars on the streets weren't something they were ready for...but street urchins stealing produce, now that, they had training on how to handle. In a flash they had grabbed the kid and relieved him of the uneaten apple. Annalea darted over, cloth coming out to cover her hand, and picked it up before the guards could.

"Lemme go!", the kid wailed. "I's hungry!"

"You wouldn't have been hungry much longer if you'd eaten this, is my guess," Annalea snapped at the boy. She turned to one of the guards and said, very quietly, "Please keep this quiet, but I think at least some of the food on this wagon has been poisoned. If you could get some more guardsmen here to keep people away, I can confirm that in a little while, I'm an alchemist and I have some things here. But please don't spread this around...Mr. Langston is a friend and we don't want people to think this was his fault."

Across the street, Reese came over to where Beltar was kneeling by Squealer, still alive and breathing hard but rigid and paralyzed. "Beltar," Reese said shakily. "What..."

"Tell ya later, dependin' on if Anna's right 'r' not. If she is, Squealer just saved yer ass, an' a lotta other folk too. Maybe some o'us." Beltar stood up, looking grimly down at the boar, then up at Reese, and Reese was shocked to see the old dwarf's eyes were moist. "Y'can tell 'im 'yer welcome,' if'n he lives. If not...y'can tell me an' I'll pass it on when I see 'im next. Meantime, gimme a hand carryin' 'im back t'stable, aye?"

Reese nodded, numbly--he was a smart enough man to have reached the same conclusion that Beltar and Annalea already had. "I don't see that drover around anywhere," he said as he bent down and gingerly picked up Squealer's hindparts.

"Kid's prolly halfway t'Darkshire b'now," Beltar grunted as they awkwardly carried Squealer around back. "Either scared stupid 'r' in on it. Anna'll figger out what's what."

"But who would..."

"I got an idea. Think y'might too."

"...Aumery Fane?"

"Would make th'most sense, aye? 'im, or whoever's pullin' 'is strings. Lay 'im down 'here, Reese." A final effort, and Squealer was in a stall, made as comfortable as possible.

"Light, if that boar hadn't..."

"Aye. Y'd be in a bigger world o'shit 'an y'are now an' have a lot more t'worry 'bout 'an a puddle'o'puke on yer doorstep." Beltar stood up from Squealer, and fixed Reese with a hard, cold look. "An' as fer Mister Fane, 'e's got a lot more t'worry 'bout now too." The dwarf casually unlimbered his boomstick from around his shoulder, and aimed it at a point in the sky over the Pig. "Boy's gonna learn. If y'only got one shot..." He pulled the gun down and looked at Squealer, then back at Reese.

"...y'd fuckin' well best not miss."