Acts of Conviction

[Fells]

------------------------------------------------------------------Turning and turning in the widening gyre
------------------------------------------------------------------The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
------------------------------------------------------------------Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
------------------------------------------------------------------Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
------------------------------------------------------------------The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
------------------------------------------------------------------The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
------------------------------------------------------------------The best lack all conviction, while the worst
------------------------------------------------------------------Are full of passionate intensity.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- William Butler Yeats



The first of the month, precisely at noon.

The scraps of paper were delivered from rough hands whose fingertips were smudged with ink. The Right Honorable Olaf Stonecutter, sworn judge of the Ironforge judicial system, took them with no small amount of gravity. With a nod he dismissed his bailiff, and once the door was closed behind him each scrip was smoothed reverently on the rough wood of his desk. Now came the small amount of alchemy that this world permitted him: from ink and parchment, he would render justice. One by one he unfolded them, and one by one he sorted them into their places.

When the ritual was complete Olaf stared evenly at the short pile that had been created. Silently it sat where he'd laid it, offering no explanation for the spot left bare and lonely where dissenting verdicts normally ought to rest. By the time he stirred to action the sun had begun to set behind him, sending lines of red and orange streaming through his slotted shutters across his study. Olaf's hand was sure as stone when he reached for the appropriate forms, though less so when it returned to retrieve a gifted snifter of brandy and pour a generous shot. In heavy traditional runic he began, On the charges of poisoning and murdering Morgnir Hammerhead, alias Ron Grim, a King's Man and former member of the Guard

Olaf paused, gave the snifter a look, and then poured his shot onto the floorboards. For precaution's sake he'd have to draw these papers up sober. A damned shame, that.



The second, at no respectable hour of the night.

The table that separated Tarquin ap Danwryth and Olaf Stonecutter was nearly too high for the dwarf to see over. Olaf did not need to see him to know the careful, neutral mask the guildmaster wore. It came through his doors every day. Light be merciful, he was going to get himself fired and drawn up on charges of his own. "When all o'this is over and done with, laddie," Olaf continued in hushed tones, "ye and ye're kin are going tae be under close eye. Should anything happen tae tha' wee prosecutor, it willnae go well."

Ap Danwryith replied evenly, "I been under a close eye fir years now, Master Stonecutter."

"No' by Ironforge. Our eyes are lower, yeh see." Olaf held a hand out about yea tall to the side. "There's a difference."

For a moment, both men shared the light-quick silent process of thinking terrible things, weighing the situation, and deciding not to say them. "Well eno'. Aright, then. What's yir verdict?"

Olaf ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. Now came the part of the dance he was the least sure about. "Yeh ken I cannae give ou' information before tha hearing. I'm doing this as a courtesy lad. I've taken a shine tae ye're wee band." The judge leaned in, crossing his arms on the high table's edge. "And I have tae stress tha' yeh could onleh make things worse."

"An' I do 'preciate the courtesy." A stone settled deep in the pit of Olaf's stomach at the words. He would never want to go against this man at cards. It was entirely impossible to tell how genuine he was. "S'anly a bit, well, tense, ayeh? We all care fir wee Fells a great deal."

"Oh aye. Tha' much is clear enou'." And that would be the problem, when all was said and done. Too late, Olaf understood that coming to the Pig and Whistle had been a dire mistake.



The third, at an hour when only lawless men and sneaking children are awake.

Tarquin turned aside to blow a long trail of smoke into the Hinterlands air. Near on his left, Laurus Drachmas rested a hand on the bark of the tree. His forehead followed behind. His voice was tight. "Does anyone else know?"

"Yir the first I've tauld. I've no' seen Ceil yet, but she'll need ta kennit." Smoke trailed lazily into the air above him. "Here's the thing ay it, Laz. First degree murder, as yeh said. Means if we pull her, she stays pulled. An' if any ay this gets well out, well, she'll no' be the anly yin biddin' a fare-thee-well ta Stormwind fir a virra long time."

"Heh. She's going to hate it, but I doubt she has much choice. I had the chance to spring her earlier, you know." Tarquin gave him an intent, measuring stare. Laurus's mouth twitched with a hint of a smirk. "Back in Nethergarde. Searches on runes got lax. You know why she wanted to stay? Because she didn't want to run from her problems anymore." His voice dripped with the irony of it all. "Isn't that fucking sweet."

Tarquin looked away for a moment, fiddling with his cigarette. "Yeh ever killed a man, Laz?" Thinking better of it he amended, "Dumb question. How long ago?"

"I don't know, maybe a week ago? I haven't been out much."

With a glassy calm on his face, Tarquin forced patience in dealing with the distraught husband. "Yir first. How long ago did yeh first kill a man?"

"Oh. Well..." Laurus paused in thought. "Five, maybe six. Seven. Directly or indirectly?"

"Direct. Close eno' ta see the blood. Or smell the burn, howe'er yeh prefer. Puttin' a fuckin' knife in his throat, likesay. No' some orcish brigand, some cultist addled by derangement. A punter yeh ken."

"Yeah, maybe six." Laurus blinked. "Why?"

"Fells done aught ay the like afore?"

"I'm sorry, your gutterspeak is losing me. Ought ay the time like afore?"

"I mean t'ask if Fells has fuckin' well murdered a bloke afore."

"Yeah, several times." Tarquin lifted an eyebrow at the mage's back. His fingers tapped against the bark as Laurus listed, "Hammerhead. She cut off the ear of some mugger. Didn't kill him, so I guess that doesn't count. You were there for another one. And she killed one fucker that was trying to get me."

"Hn." Tarquin slouched back against the tree, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the grass. "Stick with her any?"

"...Does it matter?" Laurus lifted his hand off of the bark. "Really, does it matter?"

"Does t'her, mate. An' thit'll be the tricky bit. Makin' sure she wants ta get out."

"You're sounding as if you wanted her to feel sorry for what she did." Laurus paused a beat, mulling over the unfamiliar concept of sincere guilt. "Well, maybe she should have felt sorry for Hammerhead, but for my sake."

"Better fir her if she does, Laz. The sorrier yeh feel, the less likely yeh'll make it a habit." Tarquin looked over at Laurus frankly. "An' trust me, yeh dinna want her makin' a habit. Put it this way. What d'yeh expect it's like bein' married ta someyin like me?"

Unamused and swiftly losing patience, Laurus snapped, "I imagine I'd really like to stroke your hair. Are you going somewhere with this?"

Tarquin sighed, reached for another cigarette, and stopped himself. Instead he dug into one of his pockets. "It's shite. I kill punters like takin' a piss. I sleep three hours a night wi' a knife under my pillow an' the newspapers draw me up wi' daemon horns. They'll throw a parade when I go." After finding what he sought, he popped what appeared to be a couple almonds into his mouth with the air of a man who did not want to be eating almonds because they were not something one could smoke. "But I started off slittin' some doss cunt's throat in a fit ay temper an' fear, an' it sort ay slid from thir."

"Wait, wait. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"Alwis do."

"Are you saying Fells is a liability?"

"Ainly t'hirself, in this case. She's my fuckin' mate an' I dinnna want her endin' like all t'other mad bastards workin' fir me. If she's a killer thra, then I'll see what I kin make ay her. But we get her out ay this, she's a shot at makin' somethin else ay her life." Tarquin spit an almond husk out. "Yeh ever met Loche Shadowstalker, Laz?"



The fifth, far too close to the end of a stenographer's business day.

"LASS!" Olaf's booming voice heralded his approach. Jenn Oakenkeg did not jump from her work, and her print remained steady as she rushed to finish on time. Sure enough, he appeared in the doorway a moment later. "I've go' a letter tae go ou'."

Her eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Yeh've go' a lot o' letters tae go ou' sir."

"These are - yeh daft nit." A hand waved in front of her eyes obscuring the parchment she worked on, and she finally sat upright. Olaf met her cross gaze. "These are important. There arnae many. I need ye tae post them before yeh leave."

"I cannae!" Jenn's quill swept over her desk, piled neatly with stacks of papers, ledgers, envelopes. "I'll no' leave on time as I stand fir tha day now, with all o'ye're 'important letters' tha' ye hand me at a moment's note!"

Olaf sighed, tension whistling beneath his whiskers. "I'll buy yeh dinner."

"Why did ye no' say so," she said, suddenly pleasant. His stenographer retrieved a fresh inkwell. "Wha' am I sending?"

"Here's ye're address list," he said, passing over a sheet lined with familiar names. Jenn groaned immediately, but Olaf pushed on before she could protest. "Send these tha Closed Chambers notice, lassie. We're going tae have tae weather a storm on this one. Best tha' the thunderheads arenae invited tae roll in."

"Ye're taking me ou' someplace nice fir this, yer Honor."

Olaf stroked his beard gently as he paced back to his study. "Lass, I'll do well no' tae be taken ou' meself."

[Fells]

The sixth of the month, 5:29 pm.

The evening air in the Dwarven District hung heavy with smoke. Ash floated along on unseen drafts, creating brief swirls of dead snowflakes. It was by and large the perfect setting for a dramatic aquittal or omnious conviction, with feats of derring-do and heroics optional. On the steps of the Hall of Law people idled anxiously, eyeing the broad closed doors and the stout Ironforge guardsmen that blocked them. The only explanation they offered was a gruff, "Court's business."

In the crowd someone fished a crumpled envelope out of their pocket. Her eyes scanned the hammer and anvil seal and she ripped the corner off with her teeth, plucking the letter free and scanning it hastily. All eyes tutned to her when she quite loudly exclaimed, "The fuck do you mean, closed chambers?! It's not here?"

At the top of the stairs, a blunderbuss shifted steadily in the hands of a guard. From behind his helm he menacingly warned, "Court's business."



The same evening, 6:45 pm.

Most of Corporal John Harris's equipment was worn. Tired. Secondhand, or thirdhand even, in the case of his pitted scabbard. If it was sturdy and of use, the Guard had use for it. From somewhere in his belongings, a weak static struggled to be heard "...arris, Corproal Harris." He'd been almost into the freedom of the Stormwind evening.

He could have ignored it, but as a good soldier, he reached into his bag. "Yes, sir?"

Corporal Harris could always be trusted on. A good, stalwart soldier. If it was sturdy and of use... "I hope you didn't get too far. Grab a bit to eat and head back on the double."

With a sigh, he pivoted on his heel. The wall shield swivled through ther air around him as he paced dutifully back. "Is it going to be long, sir? I was scheduled off duty tonight." Not that he had plans, no. Plans generally required friends.

"On the double, Corporal." One of the three standardized lights on his archaic bit of tin flickered dim, and then dead with no explanation. Of course not. He was beyond expecting them, but he did reserve the right to be obnoxious when he didn't get them.

So it was with his most put-out look that he strode back into the prison and saluted half-heartedly. "Corporal John Harris, reporting for YET MORE DUTY, sir."

He was spared a glance, the sort that immediately communicated that he wasn't the only one in a foul mood. Indeed, those around him seemed just a bit stiff and jerky. A rookie nearby had his hand on the pommel of his standard-issue sword. Were his fingers not sheathed in steel, doubtless his knuckles would be white. "Report to post. Quickly." He turned to arrange yet more security before adding, "And for Light's sake man, put on our fething helm."

"Yes, sir, right away, sir." He turned and put the helm in its usual place, namely attached to his belt, before heading down the stairs toward solitary. There had to be someone really interesting in, to draw this kind of reaction. As he descended into the Stocakdes' boisterous din, it became more interesting by the moment. It was no surprise that most of his fellow guardsmen avoided his gaze, if only because he was known for being a mean sonofabitch. Tonight they were simply too busy to aknowledge him as they hurriedly snapped orders at belligerent prisoners, their threats backed up with shield and club brandished.

The short block of empty cells he'd been assigned to was just where he'd left it, and nearly just as he'd left it. At the far end a door hung wide on its massive hinges. Every trace of the prior occupant had been swept away in the time since he'd abandoned his post. The cell was ready and waiting, lacking only a prisoner and a guard. It'd be a long night, he assumed, and so he settled in. It was going to be hard to get used to not trusting his ward again, so he started off with practice. Stand a little straighter. Look a little meaner. Muster a bit more hate. Ideally he'd have a real mean bastard.

He had less than an hour to prepare before the traditional yell told him that they were coming. "Dead man walking!" could barely be heard, growing louder as it was echoed by the men at each post as the escort passed deeper into the corridors. Eventually the tromp of boots could be heard. That meant they were close. Oh goody. A death row inmate. He hadn't had one of those in -ages-. They were so much more fun to play with when death was creeping closer. He straightened without effort at last, and a slight, grim smirk found its way onto his face. At least it was going to be a night worth guarding for.

The small retinue tromped their way into the block. There were four of his compatriots flanking, two on each side, with one in the lead and one very nervously bringing up the rear. A tense minute passed when they had to file into the block singly, instead of walking abreast. The door to the block itself was closed, bolted, and locked before they parted to let the leadsman shove her into the cell. When he secured her door, his fingers worked more swiftly than he'd moved since the last riots. "Keep a close eye out," he warned as the others made their way back into the Stockades proper, filing through the narrow entry one at a time. "This won't go quietly."

The Corporal was left blinking. This was who he was guarding? This was the dead man walking? This was "Fells?" He really, truly couldn't believe it. For all that he hated O'Connaugh, he was fairly sure the bastard had done his job right.

The block door swung shut with a solid, oaken thud. John was left alone with a shaking, pale imitation of the girl he'd bid farewell to hours earlier. "They're gonna string me up, John," she whispered. "They're gonna put a noose t'me."


An hour prior, behind heavily guarded doors.

The Right Honorable Judge Olaf Stonehammer cleared his throat loudly. On cue, several pairs of eyes turned to him. The room was intimately small, thick carpet and bookshelf-paneled walls drinking in the noise the parties made. His gavel rested close at hand, wholly unnecessary. "Thank yeh all for coming. I ken tha' ye didna have much notice. I appreciate ye're cooperation in keeping things safe." The defendant smiled brightly, and at her side Norra O'Connaugh gave a nod of concession. Yes, they were terribly willing to traipse across the whole of Stormwind at no notice at all, of course, why they needed the exercise, could he please get on with it?

"I wan' yeh all tae ken tha' me hands are bound in this," the judge said. "It isnae a matter o' personal choice." He leaned forward, lacing his hands together. At his feat, his cub set up snoring fitfully. "An' I wan' tae know righ' now if any parteh feels tha' I've had a hand in swaying these proceedings in one way or tha other."

His only answers were Shael O'Connaugh's unsteady breathing and a gracious, eel-slick "No, your honor," from the prosecution. "A'igh', then." Olaf retrieved the document he'd penned, holding it for appearances' sake. Counsellor Krellaker watched him form each syllable. His eyebrow twitched. "Lady Drachmas. Ye're found guilty o'murder mos' foul, the victim being a good King's man and a citizen o'Ironforge." The prosecution's immediate silent gloating perfectly offset the defendant's frozen, shocked visage. On either side of her Fells's counsel moved in. Olaf gave them a moment before continuing. All of those verdicts... A glance at his own handwriting confirmed what he had to relay. "For these crimes, ye're peers have found yeh worthy o'tha punishment o'execution. May others who see this know tha gravity o'yer crime, and no' be tempted tae walk in ye're footsteps." His voice gentled. Fells swayed where she stood, quite held upright by the support on either side of her. "May tha Ligh' have mercy on ye, lassie."

The session took thirteen minutes.

[Chelody]

The sixth of the month, 5:50 pm.

She'd been led out first, flanked on all sides by men in plate. It wasn't until Fells was out of sight that the others were released to leave. Together Shael and Norra O'Connaugh stepped into the evening. Stormwind's City Hall cast a thin shadow in the waning winter light, a widow's veil across the Cathedral District that loomed above them. The entire world felt inverted. "I'll bury them so deep in paperwork they'll need to do the breast stroke just to be able to leave the office!" the tiny bristling woman hissed as she and the stout man with the grim expression found themselves once more thrown into the grinning maw of insanity.

"Shael. Norra." The petite, leather clad woman shifted nervously away from the wall, her smile tense as she greeted the pair. There was a brief pause, a fluttering of her heart before she managed to open her mouth to ask the question. "How did it go? Good?" Perhaps it was sheer politeness, optimism to mask that anyone could tell it wouldn't be good news. Not from the expression her companions wore.

Shael's jaw set in a scowl, and Norra bit her lip, almost unwilling to speak. "If ye count death as good." His voice sounded haggard, as if he'd been dragged down the street by horses and had only just gotten to his feet.

"Oh." Shaila let the single syllable hang on the air, her expression a combination of confusion and horror.

The prosecuting barrister stepped into the evening air as the image of purity. Nothing, he was quite convinced, could touch him at this point, so long as his fate was so closely interwoven with that of Mrs. Drachmas. He breezed past his peers with little more than a triumphant nod, but no sooner had he reached the sidestreet to the canals before he ground to a halt.

To anyone else, Chauvelin Aduro would have only been recognizable in the barest sense of the word. His slight frame still matched, as did his nervous, juvenile air, but the obstructing hood masked his normal pudgy, youthful visage. It was, of course, nothing but pure coincidence that he was waiting around the corner for his friend to arrive. They only had to exchange a glance. The outcome was written on the prosecution's face - and clearer, should Chauvelin look three yards behind him at the defense. "Congratulations, Mr. Krellaker," the young man said cordially, greeting the prosecutor with an air of formality.

"Thank you, lad. I'd say I scored a major victory today. No complications." His statement was full of even more self-congratulation than Chauvelin had granted him. A friendly wave dismissed a passerby, and Chauvelin turned to depart.

"Hold on." Two steps into his flight and Jordan accosted him with an assertive smile. "I said there were no complications. Why don't you join me for a little celebration instead? My treat."

The younger man stiffened like a surprised animal. "Well, I, um...I shouldn't really. What'd you have in mind?" His tone remained skeptical as he eyed Jordan.

"Shai, ye - " Shael trailed off before finishing his thought. He could vaguely hear it… That voice. He looked up, head turning to the side, eyes narrowed. That voice. He knew that voice. He'd heard it before.

Of course, it was the only the honorable prosecution and an aquaintance. And there they were in the distance: Jordan Krellaker, and the other part of the puzzle. Ignorant of Shael's attention, Jordan Krellaker pressed his advantage. "Come on. I've some friends at Helena's Parlour. You should meet them."

"That's nice, really Jordy, but I should go. I've got to get back to work." The young man fidgeted nervously at the notion, mostly oblivious to the world outside his shoes.

Norra turned to leave but stopped when the priest held up a hand. Shael dropped his voice. "Shai, Norra, don' leave yet. I think I'm formin' a new plan 'ere." He cast a conspiritory glance between the two women.

"Whatever you need Shael." Shaila responded under her breath. Norra merely pushed her glasses up, chancing a quick glance back at the pair.

"You'll have time for it! There's no better hour than now. Don't be coy with me, there's no harm in it," the charming prosecutor urged. Like a shark to a drop of blood in the water, Jordan sensed his friend's only token resistance and stepped in his path. In sharp contrast to his previous speech, Chauvelin uttered an authoritative, icy "No."

Jordan leaned in privately, undettered, with a smirk and a scoff. "Come on, what are you afraid of, Lin?" His opposite bristled at the name. They looked so innocent at a distance. Just a couple of friends talking on a street corner. Shael knew better.

"I'm not afraid of anything. It's just not proper." Chauvelin searched the street in several quick glances. to assure himself of their relative solitude.

"How close d'ye think ye kin git ta those two, Shai? 'thout bein' seen." Shael raised his eyes to Chauvlin and Krellaker, nodding in their direction.

"I can get to the top of the arch on the tunnel."

"Do it," Shael muttered, turning to his wife to engage in apparently innocent conversation. It was possible they were talking about the weather. If they noticed Shaila leave, neither looked it. Shaila rushed over to the tunnel entrance that began the street, light on her feet, and swiftly climbed up the side of the archway, kneeling down on the tips of her toes to listen.

The barrister flashed his trademark milk-and-honey smile. Chauvelin remained silent, but when Jordan moved to speak again he cut him off. "I'm more interested in relief than revelry. You're making this more complicated than it needs to be." He held up a hand to stop short another retort. "Alright. Just a little while."

"Thanks."

With that, the two men continued their walk toward the canals, Jordan in front and the younger trailing with hesitancy. Crouched close against the stone, Shaila looked to Shael, pointing away to indicate the pair were moving. Shael waited a beat, and turned to follow. As if on queue, his box lit up, and the frightened voice of a young girl came through. He cursed under his breath and turned to his wife. "Norra. Follow 'em," he hissed. "If tha's who I think it is, I'll have me mistrial. Take this hood, take Shai, I want ev'ry word. Ye un'erstan'?"

"Indubitably." Norra snatched the hood and ticked off a salute, turning on her heel to catch up with the shady pair. Shael motioned to Shaila to follow before setting to his box. If it wasn't one thing, it was fifteen others. He set towards the tram, sparing a beat to give his wife a gentle pat as they passed. She could handle it. She was a wicked lass.

Norra followed quick on the heels of the prosecutor and the friend her husband suspected. When she passed through the archway a shadow dropped down behind her, and fell into step beside the diminutive mage. "Do you know what Shael hopes to find here?" Shaila asked quietly.

"I believe I have an idea. Krellaker is one suspicious bastard, and we've been having a lot of difficulty regarding Jordan and his sources. I assume Shael suspects foul play." Norra muttered under her breath. For a while it seemed as if the two had some notion they were being watched - or at least took the most frustratingly long, meandering course to the Old Town, making sure to plow through crowds, abandoned allyways and dimly-lit forks.

"...they sure are taking the long way. Be on your guard." For a while it seemed as if the two had some notion they were being watched - or at least took the most frustratingly long, meandering course to the Old Town, making sure to plow through crowds, abandoned allyways and dimly-lit forks.

Keeping her hood down, Norra grunted softly in agreement. "We'll hang back a bit. Won't do to get too close." At last they came across little more than a dark hole in the street somewhere on the south side of Old Town; a simple mahogany door nestled between two closed shops. An enormous knot of muscle with a beetle brow stood watch at the door, and waved both by after the barrister flashed some sort of white card.

"Mmn...exclusive. That's not good." Shaila muttered, frowning at the entry and the sentry. "Hey Norra...can you do perky?"

"Perky? ...What the nether are you getting at Shaila?" Norra drew back, looking at Shaila as if she were covered in something distasteful.

"We don't have membership, we gotta rely on y'know...other things to get in. Are you in or not, decide! We don't know how much time we have here."

"Can you do dumb slut?" Norra rolled her eyes and took off her hood. There was a momentary jostling, and her glasses were off. Her hair was let down covering an eye. Her robe was adjusted to expose... not much. But the biggest change was to her expression. "Oh my gawd. We've... like.. we -gotta- get in there." She fixed Shaila with vapid smile.

Shaila snerked loudly, then bit her lip. "Good." She undid her ponytail, pulled down her shirt a bit, and put on her brightest smile. She then grabbed Norra by the arm and marched up to the door. "Hiya! Oh I am SO glad we found it I thought it would take FOREVER to find the directions were SO hard!" She continued walking along, intending to go right past him.

"'Ey." He held out a tree-truck of an arm to attempt blocking her path.

She stopped short, looking up at him with the most innocent, confused looking eyes she could manage. She did a very good job. "Huh?"

"I dun't remember you two." Huge, bushy eyebrows nettled together as he observed the two women.

"Well, doi! We're totally new here!" Shai giggled, making to move past him again.

Norra resisted the urge to give the mountainous man a fireball to the mommy-daddy buttons. "Yeah, Cindy told us to just drop by." Norra giggled breathily, running a finger up his giant hairy arm.

"C'mon, I still need cards. 'Less you're 'ere to do business?" he asked, most suspicion dissolving into seemingly more base thoughts.

Shai grinned at him. "What else would we be here for?" She winked ever so slyly.

"A'ight, 'cause I like you, little girly." He flashed a truly disgusting smile at Shaila. "But you gotta check in with the boss before you leave, 'kay?"

"Sure thing, stud." She strode past him, her hand running over the top hem of his pants as she did. Norra fought back a growl and silently followed Shaila brusquely. What, he didn't like her? Ugh, what the nether did a woman have to do to get attention? Men were such pigs.

The establishment was, at best, educated sleeze. Various skantily clad women were busy serving clearly achoholic drinks, and more than one was busy serving a customer in one barely legal way or another. The entire place reeked of something foul but unplaceable. The two marks had just enough time to seat themselves and relax. Well, one of them, anyway; Jordan seemed supremely at home, while the younger Chauvelin clasped his hands together under the table, fidgeting nervously. They were placed in a public booth somewhere in the center of the cesspit, talking under the dull hum. Shaila found a table suitably nearby, slipping into the seat and hoping there wouldn't be any followup from her claim to the doorman earlier.

"Two years, huh?" Chauvelin licked at his dry lips, eyes downcast. Jordan grinned. "Two years. Look at you, all grown up, enjoying a drink with me." It would be impossible for him to sound the least bit more patronizing.

"Spare me, Jordy."

The lawyer threw up his hands defensively. "Hey, I'm serious. What's gotten into you lately, anyway?"

Norra joined her, uttering some truly foul things under her breath. Of course they weren't nearly as foul as the things going on around her, but she wasn't as experienced as some. Norra looked to Shaila and leaned close, whispering softly. "We need to get everything they are saying," the tiny woman snarled. "My buzzbox is small, and it can record. You need to get in there."

"...you mean, with them? Won't Krellaker recognize me?"

"Aren't you SI:7? You're trained for this crap!" Norra frowned.

Shaila sighed. "...right. Um...do you have any makeup with you?"

Norra fixed her with a pointed look...and then slipped open a slim bag at her side and set down a few cotainers. Eyeshadow, blush, and something that probably was supposed to be a basic cure-all. "Look, you do not have to be there for long. Press the green button on the buzz box, hide it close, then get away. It will start directly sending if you get it in close enough."

Shai nodded. In such an establishment, applying the makeup's thin disguise passed for a common enough occurance to draw little attention other than base interest. She fluffed up her hair a bit, then palmed the small buzzbox and wandered over to the table. "Hi there, gentlemen! Well, you two are cute!" She slid easily in beside Chauvelin, not wanting to get too close to the prosecutor who had questioned her weeks before. "Fancy some company?" She wrapped an arm around Chauvelin, squeezing him a bit.

If Krellaker was going to have a chance to recognize her, the lack of eye contact he was displaying would hamper it some. Chauvelin fidgeted and fumbled hopelessly, stuttering over a few words while his friend watched with great amusement. "H-Hello."

"Hey, looks like you got a friend, Lin." Jordan grinned in a wolfish manner that took on an entirely different context out of court. "Pardon my friend here. He's still a boy."

Shai slipped a hand inside Chauvelin's pocket casually, depositing the mini buzzbox inside. She froze as Krellaker spoke. "...a boy? Oh jee, I'm sorry!" She quickly let go.

"H-He didn't mean th-"

Waving his hand with a lecherous cackle, Jordan interrupted. "No, no, that's why I brought him here. C'mon, Lin, give the nice lady a tip?" He flashed that winning courtroom smile as Chauvelin dropped a gold piece on the table, then returned to clenching his hands.

"Aw, thanks sweety!" Shai grabbed the gold piece and deposited it down the front of her shirt. Customers at the Feather always liked that, why not here? "Well, you seem really nervous now, so I'll leave ya alone. Name's Trisha if ya start feelin' a bit braver." She kissed him on the cheek and slipped away.

She left to the echoing sound of Jordan's laughter. Chauvelin remained stoic save a furious blush, much to the discontent of his opposite. Shaila returned to Norra, grinning. "Earned a gold piece! It comin' through?"

"Yes, quite, can you please move a little to the left." Engineering could really come in so handy. Whenever you needed something blown up properly, whenever you needed goggles to see outlandish things, whenever a husband needed a small bit of reconaissance done, who did they send? Why, the engineer, of course. There was the very faintest -click- from the cylindrical gadget hidden in Norra's cupped hands. "All right...good, perfect. I'm sorry, now." Norra packed the snapbox away with her cosmetics. "Did you say something?"

"I said, is it sending."

"Ooh, we should check that." Norra held up a hand, moving a twin buzzbox up to her ear. "Ssssh." The din of the establishment did little to help her make out the pair's conversation. She grumbled curses under her breath and nudged a dial with her pinky. She cut off suddenly with a hissed breath, holding up a finger to indicate "Yes, hold please, Shaila."

For the first time, Krellaker sounded serious. "Work's all you ever think about anymore. You've got to see that there are more important things in life." A green light winked to life against her skin. Norra smirked to herself as her little box began to record.

"You need to work with what you love," crackled the nearer, younger voice. There was a burst of static before the reply. "Oh, I do! Seventy solid worth of love to spend, and that's just the retainer." He cackled fiendishly, to which Chauvelin made no reply.

Static filled the uncomfortable silence that ensued, and for a terrible moment Norra feared that she'd lost the connection. Jordan broke it with a much more gentle remark than he'd given all night. "Your father and I used to meet here sometimes. Figured you'd like knowing that."

That seemed to get some rise out of the youngest, and he squawked. "H-he did?"

"Mmm. There's a lot you don't know about him."

"Believe me, I understand that." A beat of static preceeded Chauvlein's urgent, "I need to see her again, before it's too late. We didn't get what we needed."

"I thought this was what you wanted. She's where you need her, right?"

Chauvelin immediately protested. "But he isn't. And I need to know what she knows."

"For Nether's sake, lad! What did I just say about putting play before work? I didn't come here to talk about the case. What, have you lost all faith in the system?"

Chauvelin didn't speak for a time, letting the pointed silence reign. "No, just the people in it." There was another three bursts of static as the young man walked to the exit. Shaila followed Chauvelin with her eyes as he exited, looking back to Norra once he was gone.

"It's a start. And certainly sounded suspicious. Lets get out of here, you can listen on the way." Norra nodded towards the exit.

Shai nodded in acknowledgement, listening to the recording as she headed for the exit with Norra. "...didn't get what when, now?"

"Nether if I know," Norra groused, tugging her glasses into place. "But I'm sure going to find out."

[Laurus]

The sixth of the month, 6:25 pm.

"Pair of Lunatics."

The dark little gnome laid his hand on the table with a high-pitched whoop and scraped up the pile of rainbow winnings. The other inhabitants of this tightly-packed section of the forlorn district proceeded to groan and jeer loudly, as was to be expected. This little world, or "safehouse" as was its affectionate misnomer, was the beating heart of Ironforge's underworld, mangy dogs on the top of their respective heap, fighting for scraps that fell from the table of other more prosperous quarters. The upper room was cramped, candlelit and filled with the smoke of twenty different pipes and goblin cigars. Weapons abounded, but there was never any fighting in Hulfdan's den, nor booze to entice it-some shred of honor among thieves.

Laurus was downstairs, and only heard the resulting din as a muffled echo. He barely even noticed, too intent on scowling upon the seated dwarf to his front. The lounge had been well-furnished at some point, but was now decked in dirty, broken equipment. The don was reclining on a patched green sofa, protected by at least six cutlasses, all standing save his own two. State of the art electric lights kept the whole dirty affair well-lit and inviting. Sitting not too far from Laurus and the dwarves, a young girl trembled. To say she was scared would have been an understatement. In fact, if there was a word for how frightened she was, Precosia had not yet learned it. The men were heavily armed, and there was something about them that made Stormwind's seedy underbelly look inviting. It was impossibly frightening to keep calm and let Laurus "handle things." Since Fells and the Missus O'Connaugh had left, he had barely been able to handle feeding himself. Precosia clutched the sides of her pants tightly, willing herself not to cry. No, Laurus was not screaming at heavily armed men. He was negotiating.

Slowly, over the course of the last few weeks, every unpleasant aspect of Laurus had surfaced and become more pronounced, starting at about the time Norra left. He'd stopped shaving almost entirely, save for a few public appearances, and his eyes started to take on a dark, red and sunken quality from lack of sleep. He was quick to anger and slower to forgive, and a permanent snarl etched his features around all save Precosia. At the moment, he was tensed to spring.


"It's no' th' I dunt want tae, Laurus," intoned Hulfdan with a tense voice not at all matching his relaxed pose. "But ye know how accommodating we've been with ye in th' past, and there's a limit to how much I'll risk me men. Far as I'm concerned, we're even."

"You never mentioned anything about us being even before, you fucking bastard. You think I haven't risked just as much for you in the past? Nether, I'm handing you a blank check here!"


Not too far but not far enough from the den, Shael O'Connaugh hesitated mere footsteps from the undersized entrance. If there was anywhere, anywhere at all in the world that he could have chosen not to be right then, it would have been right there, where he was. Outside the den of iniquity that was sure to become a den of storms shortly. And were it not for Precosia, he might indeed have skipped to sunny Icecrown instead. As it was, he slowly made his way into the main floor of the safehouse, keeping his head down. As he entered, many pairs of groping, scheming eyes watched with great interest. Such a wholesome looking figure was uncommon here, and it elicited more than a few quiet snickers.

To Shael they were hardly worth the trouble. "Seen a little girl?" he muttered to the closest pair of scoundrels, fully expecting to be lied to. An olive-brown dwarf with oily hair was the only one that gave anything close to a direct answer. "O ay, I seen lotsa little girls recen'ly." He grinned broadly, rising from his leaning chair and standing squarely in front of the priest, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height.

The priest regarded him tiredly. "One with a very angry mage." He was really too tired for a fight. At least, one that wasn't horrifically bloody. The dwarf eyed him appraisingly, their conversation entirely ignored by the rest of the rogues, who were at least pretending to have forgotten Shael existed. "I said, lad, I seen a lot o' little girls. Is hard tae keep track o' em all, ye ken? Yer a wee bit too far down th' raod far th' brothel iff'n that was yer intent." He shrugged and quirked a half-grin. "But a fine, rich, respec'ble lad like ye wouldn' wan' any part o' that, I'm shure."

Shael blinked slowly. "Ye know, there were once a time when scum knew how ta negotiate fer infermation, but I s'pose 's my own mistake fer assumin' I wasn' talkin' t'a fuckin' idiot, ain' it."

The shady little punter extended a completely earnest hand. "Ach, m'sorry, lad. Name's Mally. Wha's yers?"

"O'Connaugh." Much to his own surprise, he didn't eschew the handshake. He could practically hear Tiran's murmur of disapproval in the back of his mind. Mally withdrew and frowned down at his empty palm with dispproval. "An'm lookin' fer Drachmas."

"Ay? M'not shure this's a good time, O'Connaugh. Ye see, 'es havin' a wee chat downstairs, an' I'm no' sure i's worse it to bother 'im. 'Specially when yer--"

The dwarf's slick, greedy speech was cut off as a fully armored dwarf flew up the stairwell and slammed the top of his cranium into the leg of the card table, trailing smoke from his ghostly white jerkin. No one ever fought in Hulfdan's. A hundred nervous, tittering eyes turned to the descending steps. The yelling and cursing that followed from the ascending figure was unmistakable.

Shael sighed. "Actually, I think 's rather th' righ' time. Ye may wanna find cover. This's on'y gonna git worse." He should've come armored, he thought. At least armed. Ready to save is own life. As casually as he could, he made his way over to the source.

Mally, to his own credit, did exactly as he was told and dove behind the slight cover of a tattered bookcase forgotten somewhere in the north corner. Laurus had Precosia's hand in his as they left behind the don and his diminished extra blades. Stunned silence greeted them as they reached the pinnacle. Laurus's eyes were mad, and there was spittle in his goatee-definitely not worth whatever trouble befell the sot downstairs. He barely even spared a glance for Shael, attempting to shove past him instead. "Out of my way!"

"Ye're scarin' th' girl, Laurus," he intoned calmly. "Fells'd be righ' pissed, ye actin' like this."

Wide green eyes met Shael's as Precosia attempted to tug her sore hand away from Laurus. "Mister O'Connaugh!" The skinny little appendage came free, and the tiny girl practically climbed Shael when she reached him. "I was startin' to think you wouldn't find us!"

There wasn't even any victory in the "you see?" look that Shael gave him as he hugged the girl to his side. "What're ye after, Laur, throwin' dwarves up stairs?"

"Get out of my way, Shael." Laurus was seemingly oblivious to how little Precosia wanted that. "We've got work to do."

"He's tryin' to pay people to break in and get Fells." She gripped Shael's arm tightly, shaking her head. "But the Don said it was too dangerous for his men, and Laurus got pissed..."

"Precosia! I thought I told you about when to say things!" Laurus roared, shaking a fist up to the sky rather than toward anyone in particular.

Shael nodded. "Figured. Don' do this, Laur. There's still plenty ways won' git anyone killed, we kin git 'er out. Gonna need yer help, though, no' yer pissin' off criminals an' lawmen 'like." He figured could fill the doorway more effectively with Precosia, but he wasn't about to use her as a shield.

"O'Connaugh!" A bit more warm spit flew from Laurus's lips as he shouted, "You have three fucking seconds to get out of my way before I blow a hole in you for what you did to Fells!" His rage had evidently consumed his being.

Shael looked on frostily. "Fine." He stepped aside, and took Precosia with him. "Go, then."

"She's coming with me!" He snapped, moving beside them and offering his hand to the terminally frightened little girl.

"No, she ain'." He held the girl tighter. "Ye're an animal righ' now, Laurus, an' ye're gonna git someone killed. 'f ye won' let me save ye nor Fells, then'm exercisin' me power o' attorney. Ye're no' draggin' 'er down with ye."

"Power of attorney?!" Laurus descended into hysterical laughter, drowning out half-hearted threats and cries of protest from the den, who had begun to find their manhood. "Do you think your 'power' of attorney means anything to me right now?" The lunatic noble stepped closer, teeth gritted toward the shorter, former friend. "Do you think it ever meant anything? You're a failure! You're a fucking nothing! You always were, nothing but a pretentious, delusional, spineless ass! You didn't even have the guts to make a proper fucking legal argument. Come on! What, did you expect a sympathy vote? Self-defense?! No one even fucking saw her do it, and if it weren't for you she'd be -walking- right now! Instead, she may as well have been murdered!"

For Precosia, it was like balancing on the top of a fence with two angry bulls butting heads on either side. She gaped at Laurus, shrinking back behind Shael. The priest didn't so much as flinch. "I told 'er 'll see 'er live, an' 'm gonna follow through with tha'. 'm gonna see this girl safe too. Ye, ye're on yer own." He snarled. "But I suggest ye look in a mirror, ye pretentious, delusional, slobbering beast."

"No, you're not, sorry, because my faith in you has reached something of an all time low, you bastard! You -saw- this coming! You knew they were coming to arrest Fells, and you didn't so much as peep! Then you start insisting to represent her, start using your manipulative little bullshit as always, convince her that she needed to learn a lesson and she was wrong! And then you can't even come up with a proper bloody legal defense!" His shoulders bristled, fingers curling in on his palms.

There was nothing for anyone else to do but look on in horror. Two gnomes slipped off their stools and checked the pulse of the poor dwarf who'd taken the short trip up the stairs, whispering to themselves.

"I don' really care wha' ye think, Laurus. Granted, I never did. But 'm goin' ta git yer wife out. And if ye fuck with this, ye're on'y goin' ta make things worse."

"Pffft! Give me a break! You expect me to trust that you can get her out now, after you doomed her to die? You took my wife from me, O'Connaugh! You're not going to take Precosia too, and I have no further interest in dealing with your arrogant, Lightborne bullshit!" Laurus was obviously beginning to lose it. Green flames sprung up, licking at his boots and the hem of his robe. Being the slippery girl she was, Precosia found her way out from Shael's arms with little trouble. She wrapped herself around Laurus as best she could, shouting, "Stoppit! Just stoppit! All ya ever do is scream! No one is gonna help us if you just keep screaming!" The two men continued, unhindered.

"Ye're gonna git 'er back, an' sooner 'f ye calm down! Ye idiot, ye've people out after yer head, are ye gonna give 'em legal cause ta bring ye down? I can git her out, and I will if it kills me. 'f I weren' here defendin' th' innocent from yer fel stain," he motioned to the floor, "I'd be trackin' a mistrial right now!"

"I'm getting her back the right way, like what I should have insisted on from the very beginning, rather than relying on your dysfunctional legal loops. You think I give a damn about what they label me, what pathetic little tools they try to use to apprehend me? You think I can't run? Not like my wife isn't already trapped there, thanks to you! What have I got to lose, eh?" Laurus snapped his fingers, and his hand lit up with flame.

He was apparently deathly serious, and murderously insane. The tidal wave of anger prepared itself for a final crash against the shore.

"Yer children."

"We won't -have- any children if the law has its way! You're right about one thing, though. It is going to kill you if you keep going down this road."

"Ye'll lose th' one ye do 'ave if it don'."

Laurus's nostrils flared. He stood there, chest heaving long, raspy breaths, hands balled into fists so tightly they ached. His eyes turned to Precosia.

"Don' ruin this fer 'er, Laurus," Shael plead quietly.

Slowly, hesitantly, his hands fell. The green flame subsided to a soft murmur at his feet. Laurus didn't look at Shael at all, quivering voice meant only for the poor little girl.

"Come on, Precosia. Let's get out of here. And go home."

Shaking like the last leaf clinging to a willow in winter, Precosia looked up at Laurus. Her eyes were red and moist and she sniffed loudly, nodding."Thank y-you." She hugged him all the tighter. Shael didn't dare exhale, but the priest relaxed somewhat. Laurus kissed Precosia's forehead and scooped her into his arms, then turned cold fire up at Shael. "What was the verdict?"

If Shael didn't pale, it was only because he couldn't get any paler tonight. "Do ye mean ta tell me ye were plannin' this without e'en knowin'?"

"None of your bloody business." He straightened, unblinking. "What. Was. The. Verdict?"

"Guilty."

"And the sentence?"

"Death by hanging. Open to appeal."

He didn't flinch, but the flames surged upward again. For a long, cold, silent minute he said nothing at all, and it looked as if the world might end in ice. Precosia didn't say anything that could be constituted as a word. Her face crumpled however, and she began crying, turning to press her face into Laurus's shoulder. Shael was likewise quiet, along with the rest of the mesmerized den.

Then, without warning, Laurus reached a gentle hand for Precosia's and made for the door. "-Fuck- you, Shael."

The priest sighed. "Ye'll be sorry, Laur." He doubted he was heard.

Laurus said still nothing at all after they left the safehouse which he remembered so well, unlikely to ever return. Still nothing at all after the two left the shadows of the district behind and he opened up the portal home, flickering evening lights of Wildhammer Keep beckoning beyond. But as soon as they stepped through, Laurus broke into uncontrollable sobs.

[Fells]

The sixth, eleven twenty-two at night.

It was late by the time Shael shuffled back to Stormwind. It was too late, too far to go back to their new home across the world, portals be damned. It wasn't until he reached the trade district that he realized he'd not set up a place to meet with his wayward spies. Fortunately for the three, Shael's wife's ingenuity took a lot of the guesswork out. "We got it," the device in his pocket crackled.

Wife. Voice. Yes. Hello. He dug the box out and fumbled with it before he could reply. "Define 'it' fer me, an' then bring it ta th' Rose, 'f ye would." He didn't need a drink, but some tea, perhaps. Something to settle his stomach from the turbid churning Laurus's awful state had incurred upon it.

"Some interesting tidbits, that much is for sure. It seems your little hunch could very well be correct. But you can shower me with praise and adoration when we get there."

"Well," Shael greeted as enthusiastically as he was able when they walked into the common, "Le's see wha' ye--No, wait, first 'm keen ta hear why ye look like ye're fresh back from tryin' out fer a romance novel cover."

Shai smirked a little. "Your wife had to go undercover in a very seedy bar."

The priest eyed her. "Ye don' look like ye waited outside."

"Of course not. I know exactly how to handle places like this." Shai adjusted her shirt, so that not as much of her cleavage was showing.

"Good. I've killed ye 'f ye had." He was also thankful for the adjustment, though it may not have directly shown. "Well, so, what'd they do? What've ye got?"

Shaila pointed to his romance-novel-cover'd wife, then set to the task of removing her hasty makeup job."Your wife's got a recording." She grinned.

Norra smiled and withdrew the modified buzzbox from her bag. "Of course I do. What did you expect, Shaila to stand back and take dictation?" She rolled her eyes and held out the device. "I might even have photographic evidence, if given time. It isn't perfect mind you. They didn't talk as much as I would have wished. But it is enough to at the very least sound suspicious."

For the first time in ages, Shael grinned. "I expected vague rec'llections, maybe a few quotes. But this, this I kin use in -court-." He took the device and began to listen. The grin was short lived, and did not return after the comment regarding his rival's pay. "Ye're righ'. No' enough," he grimaced. "Dinnae e'en say a name." With a sigh, he flopped into a chair, replaying the recording into his ear. "Hard ta e'en recognize 'is voice. Either o' ye git close 'nough ta see who th' other was fer sure?"

Shaila nodded. "I got very close to Krellaker's friend. Didn't recognize him, but...I could give a description."

Norra paced, turning the vague conversation over in her mind. She chewed on her lower lip. "They did speak of needing more from someone..."

"Fells," he interrupted. "'s jus' as I couldn' prove a' th' beginnin'. I kin fill in th' gaps, but 's no' enough ta convince th' law fer certain." He paused, pondering. "Migh' well be enough fer a delay, though. Time ta git enough ta solidify th' case...kinnae hurt ta try." He rose from the chair to pace opposite his wife, and chewed on a newly produced toothpick. "Gonna need ye two ta testify as ye saw. Gonna be hard ta solidify th' boy's 'dentity...but Shai, ye could describe 'im. When's this photo comin'?"

"I'll need to develop it, should only take a day or so. Sadly the lighting was not fantastic, and using a flash would have raised suspicions." The small mage shrugged helplessly.

Shael nodded and waved away any concerns. "Ev'ry wee bit helps. Think ye kin 'ave it fer goin' ta see th' righ' hon'rable judge Stonecutter t'morrow?"

"Quite easily. I'll also see about working on the quality of that recording." They needed something decent to present to Stonecutter. How little it all seemed when laid out properly.

Shael tapped on his lip, and nearly impaled a finger on the toothpick. "I need ta talk ta Tarquin." There was Tiran's voice again. Dark path, dark path. No avoiding it now. "We'll keep a' arm's length. But I asked 'im an' comp'ny ta look inta Krellaker's affairs regardin' Chauvelin Aduro. Think 'e ad th' wee--" 'wee' still being above his own head, as he motioned, "--al'Cair lass on it."

"I'll let you have words with Ap'dawryth." The magus politely offered, gathering her things. "I think I have my hands full enough here."

Shael grunted, then remembered something. "Oh." His arms slipped around his wife's shoulders, and he rested his lips behind her ear. "Ye're amazin', fantastic, won'erful, brilliant." At their side, Shaila blinked at the sudden show of appreciation.

"Bloody right I am." She turned and afforded Shael a tiny, patient smile full of message that Shaila would not understand. A quick kiss was planted on his lips before she shoved him. "Now get on with it you oaf."

"Yes'm." He stumbled out into the night once more. No rest for the wicked, or in this case, the wicked's defense.


Either far too late on the sixth or far too early on the seventh.

"So, aright. Line it up fir me." It wasn't the first time that Shael found himself in this situation, a single Rose in a bed of thorns. These thorns wore black tabards with red flames licking at the cloth. Tarquin an Danwyrith, headsman of the Wildfires and therefore unwittingly Fells's overseer, sat appropriately at the head of the table. The bridge of his nose was firmly pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Rengault wis the mage-hunter, Jordan Krellaker wis his pet prosecutor. An' Chauvelin, or Aduro, or wha'have yeh..."

At his right, Annalea lal'Cair suddenly doubled to the side, disappearing from view. She dug deep in her satchel. "Spell it," she prompted as she fished for the records she'd won with honeyed words, liberal drinks, coins passed under the table.

Shael's eyes lifted to the Pig and Whistle's ceiling. "See aych aae you vee ehl aye en...I think. Ye go' somethin'?"

She nodded, yanking away the twine that bound her findings together. "I think I might, at that." Annalea pulled a faded, stiff page from the stack seemingly at random. "I came up blank in Dalaran." It was handed across to the defense, who squinted at the age-worn lines. "Most of Rengault's records from his days there are gone. But this was here, in Stormwind. Shael. Rengault Haneaux." She leaned across the table to point. "It's right here. He adopted Chauvelin Aduro at ten months old."

Shael eyed the proof with a grin. Finally, something concrete. "Ne'er did find th' 'fficial o' this. Thought it were jus' 'pprenticeship." Without comment, Bricu Bittertongue dropped his cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out with his boot. "Tha's a first step. Still need ta -- do we know how close Ren worked with Jordan?"

"Krellaker put away just about every wizard Rengault brought in. At least a dozen after he left Dalaran, loads more before."

Shael added, "An' Chauvelin must've tagged along with 'Dad,' aye?"

"I don't know his's connection to Krellaker, but think on it." Annalea carefully tucked the writ of adoption away, musing aloud more to organize her thoughts than anything. "Rengault hunted rogue wizards. Two years ago, he's found dead in Mirror Lake. Unsolved case." Her eyes lifted to the man seated across from her. "Did you see the suspect list?"

"No. But I do know whose pardon our Mister Aduro saw shortly afore 'e were fired from th' Sanctum. An' I do know Rengault's last quarry." Under his breath Shael grudgingly muttered, "Better'n I'd like."

"Laz." Tarquin blinked up at them. "Laz. Fuckin' Laz."

Annalea nodded silently. Shael tapped the tabletop lightly. "'Course, Rengault were stabbed."

He didn't need the confirmation, but looked to Annalea for it regardless. She deftly pulled a folder from the satchel. "Yeah, here..." It only took her a moment to find the report. "Stabbed, had his ear taken...had his throat slit to boot. Then whoever did it tossed him in the lake." She frowned when she looked away from the page. "Not exactly how I'd imagine Laz doing it."

Bricu grunted agreement. "He could've just incinerated the tosser."

"Exac'y. Less body ta fin'."

"Thit s'well. So...." Tarquin swirled the thick liquid slowly in its tumbler. "The adoptive da' of the fellow partnered wi' the prosecutor...wis murdered tryin' ta track down Laz. Murdered by knifework, na less. How long ago?"

"Two years."

In several heads, gears turned at varying rates of speed. Bricu broke the silence. "How long have Fells an' Laz been tagether now?"

Across the table, violet eyes caught jade. Nothing needed to be said. "...fuck me." Tarquin reached, grabbed his bourbon, and downed the remainder.

"What?"

Shael licked his lips. "Le's no' say it out loud, shall we?"

"Say what out loud." Tarquin snorted and shoved the empty glass away.

Annalea's blue eyes widened incredulously. "You don't think..."

"No," Tarquin said with no small amount of finality, "an' neither do yeh."

At his left Shael gave her a somber shake of his head, every inch the priest. He only lacked robes and Benediction. Such a tragedy, such a waste... "We 'ave no idea who coulda done sich an awful thing. But it weren' Laurus."

"Ta be sure." With a wave Tarquin beckoned Elly Langston over, and as though by magic, another bourbon appeared. "So. Aright. ...question is, how d'yeh get yir mistrial out ay thit?"

"'m gonna git it," Shael vowed. "'m s'damn close." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then nodded to his lovely, snooping assistant. "How are ye on trackin' travel records?"

Annalea set to packing her things away. "Let's find out. What am I looking for?"

"Th' past few months worth." There was no hesitation in implying his fellow Rose's involvement: "Aduro's been out a lot. And Tiran Shard's been around with 'im, I think."

She nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good, do. Meanwhile, 'm gonna ask fer a stay o' execution. Think've go' enough jus' on suspicion. An' mistrial's better'n appeal, frankly. Gives us an extra chance, more time. 'f I go' righ' t'appeal, tha' mucks things up." As though perhaps things hadn't been mucked up enough already.

"Right." Bricu's voice was gruff. "Yeh handle that aspect then."

"Whate'er yeh do. Yeh'll need time." Tarquin flicked ash off of his cigarette, and then snubbed the vice out. "How long we go'?"

Annalea hoisted the sheaf of notes and documents she'd accumulated. "Depends, how much red tape can we throw at it? Make them wade through paperwork and slow it down even more."

"With this, should be a good bit..." Shael gathered his things. He paused just long enough to jerk a thumb at the straw-haired guildmaster between them. "Anna. When ye're lookin' on travel records? See if ye kin find any record o' muscle along with." After a moment's thought he added, "...Other'n Shard. I'd like ta know who 'm dealin' with."

"It comes ta thit, well." For the first time in the conversation, he grinned. "I dearly hope it comes ta thit." Shael swallowed a snicker. "We've trusted the law ay the Alliance thus far. So we'll trust it long's we kin. Give it a wee bit ay a push here an' there."

Shael's chair scraped across the floor when he pushed back from the table. "I oughta git along afore Shard shows up ta warn me 'bout treadin' a dark path again."

"Oh he's alwis welcome here." Tarquin raised a glass. His smile did not touch his eyes. "Pour the lad a drink an' all."

"'m half tempted ta strangle 'im meself, so I don' dare 'magine how ye feel." He struggled not to sway with exhaustion. Shael maaged a weary wave. "Evenin', all." He stumbled out into Old Town, trusting his feet to carry him back to the Gilded Rose and his wife. Now to report to...bed. Yes. Bed needed a thorough interrogation.

[Laurus]

The tenth, 3:44 PM

Laurus Drachmas reckoned it was roughly mid-afternoon. He could tell by the number of heavily tattooed dwarves passing to and fro across the main courtyard, and he could tell by the angle of the sun overhead on this cloudless, temperate Hinterlands day. The small, blinking yellow numerals on his buzzbox said the same, as if they needed to tell him.

Laurus scowled wearily down at the device in his hands, switched on the speaker, and found Bricu Bittertongue's channel. "Hey, Fancylad." His tone was friendly but utterly demanding. "Need to have a word with you."

There was scarcely time to blink before the little red light flickered on and Bricu's accented voice bubbled forth. "Alright then mate. Where to?" The agreement came quicker than anticipated.

"Where can you get to in ten minutes? I assure you, I can be anywhere!" The mage meandered to the base of the rise atop which the Wildhammers kept their gryphons. Not because they had anything to do with it; the Keep was less crowded here, and there was less noise to drown out his guildmate.

"I'm on the bombardment."

Laurus snorted impatiently. "Damn it, Bricu. Except there." A hand stroked at bloodshot eyes for a thoughtful beat. "And except Dalaran. In fact, forget Northrend entirely."

"Och, then say where!"

Bricu's reply teetered on annoyance, but Laurus expected as much. He decided on the simplest option, for him at any rate. "Fine! The Hinterlands."

There was a brief crackle of static as the paladin on the other end processed this. "Right, I'm enroute. Grab a fishin' pole then," he remarked casually.

"A fishing--" Laurus sputtered indignantly. "I don't fish!"

"Learn then. It calms the nerves.'"

"Fells tried to teach me, and I had to gut the fish afterward. It was bloody disgusting." The pompous noble felt his stomach churn at the memory; fish entrails and shit all over his soft palms. "I don't gut things with my hands! I could just summon the food!"

"....How fat do yeh wanna get, eatin' mana rolls?"

"They aren't even fattening! Not really..."

"Then how come I see a fuckton o'fat magi?"

Laurus threw up a hand, drawing circles in the air, although of course no one could see him. "Because they spend more time indoors reading than out practicing."

"An' eatin' their mana rolls."

"Besides, since when did you fish out on the front?! Don't you types have dried pork for that?"

"Yeh know how bland dried pork is?"

"Very bland, I expect. Should have been a mage."

======================================================

It wasn't more than fifteen minutes later when Bricu Bittertongue was descending the winding cobblestone trail that led to the main square of the Keep. At the base of the path, Laurus was already waiting, swathed in robes with a skull-tipped staff and a constant grimace. Bricu leaned down and scratched Pengu behind the ears. Laurus's eyes followed, and he grunted with disapproval. "What is that?"

Bricu smiled with pride and pointed down at his tiny chirping companion. "A pengu. Laz, Sasha, Sasha, Laz."

"Not the animal thing!" Laurus's brows furrowed angrily, then he waved dismissively and pointed squarely at Bricu's tabard. It was a light lavender, trimmed with yellow and emblazoned with a watchful golden eye. It stood in contrast to the soft browns and silver upon Bricu's person.

"Oh, Oh!" Bricu heedlessly tore the bit of fabric away, leaving only dull metal. Laurus issued a nod of thanks. "I was doin' a job for 'em."

"I was about to say. There are no Kirin Tor in this Keep!" The mage's mouth curled upward a fleeting moment, snickering, and then he dissolved into a hacking cough. "If you wanted to fish, let's go to the river. But I'm not gutting anything."

'The River' was more a habitual comment than truth. There were many lakes peppered throughout the Hinterlands, but only one body of flowing water far to the north. Both red-haired northmen decided instead upon a secluded elven lodge nestled in the hills to the west. Bricu slid off the back of his horse with a clamor of clinking armor, and his companion dismissed the translucent loa that bore him with a snap of his fingers. They then proceeded to pass the tall wooden gateway along the path, giving only cursory glances to the patrolling Quel'dorei, and Bricu irreverently withdrew and cast a composite fishing pole. Laurus tugged idly on his gloves. "Safe as place as any to talk. Don't suppose you have any idea what this is about, eh?"

"I play -- " There was a pull on the long white length and Bricu whipped it back, throwing a tiny red fry out of the lake. "Close ta the chest."

The dark-robed noble heaved a tired shrug. "Well, hold on to your shining clanking legplates. I want to sell you my house." He grinned. Bricu turned about with jarred surprise. "What. "Yer house?"

"I don't mean "sell", sell!"

"Then spill it out."

"Alright. Will you 'take on' my house and stables for a while? You'll be the owner on paper. Price of one gold. More if legal fees get in the way, but the Nether do I know about Wildhammer law."

Bricu uttered a dismissive snort. "Wildhammers love me too. No worries' bout them."

His companion shot a quick, urging nod. "So. You'll do it? I need to make sure it isn't confiscated. Of course, you and Threnn can move in for the duration if it suits your fancy! Just don't break anything."

"Right, I'll do it--but whose confiscatin' yer land?"

"Take a wild guess, Fancylad," the mage drilled out angrily.

"Kirin Tor? The Wildhammers? Fuck all if I know what is goin' on mate. I know Fellsie's in jail."

"You know what the sentence is?"

"Aye. I also know that it ain' happenin'. No one is puttin' a noose 'round her neck." Bricu's voice was cool and reserved as he recast the line.

In sharp contrast, Laurus was teetering on the edge of incredulous rage. "The sentence is death, Bricu! That generally means they kill you!"

"She. An' yeh. Are Riders. No one gets ta put a Rider ta death. Not a single bloody soul. Not Wrynn on his Throne or Magni off in Storm Peaks." He paused and turned appraising eyes to Laurus, twine still slack upon the water. " Last I read in the papers,seems that there's a bit o'unrest in the streets." Laurus folded one arm over the other with a strained expression as Bricu spoke. "Fact is there are two routes. Rose or Riders."

Laurus finally lost patience and interrupted, "The first one's straight out. So give me the option that's -actually- liable to work, rather than the one that put her there in the first place."

The paladin remained stoic, words imparted slowly. "Shael's trying ta get his mistrial."

"Oh, come fucking on." Laurus snapped back and twirled to face the lake, arms gesturing widely in his anger.

"That man couldn't navigate a legal case to save his own life, never mind hers!"

"He can stall."

"If by "stall", you mean, 'fumble around uselessly and preach about the Light,' I'll agree with you. I'm not going to wait another six months on appeals that may not work."

"Now, its up ta yeh what yeh wanna see happen. What's yer idea mate."

"I'll tell you exactly what's going to happen." Laurus balled his hands into fists. "I'm going to start a riot, storm in there and get my wife back."

His companion froze, set down his line, then advanced three steps until they were within meager reach. "Then yer on the run for the rest o'yer life."

Visibly calming to some small measure, Laurus stared back hard. "Better than having her six feet underground. When that happens, they'll come looking for me and my possessions. Including the estate."

"Laz." Bricu returned the look evenly. "Yer not rabble rouser type. Yer a bloke who won't gut a fish. Why the fuck is someone who is never even gonna see twenty gold gonna riot for yeh?"

"The papers. That's part of it. The other part is that I've got a very reliable contact who can be the spark to this powderkeg: Loche. You know him, right?"

There was a long, knowing pause between the two. Laurus grinned with satisfaction when Bricu finally issued a grimacing reply. "Aye."

"He's going to be the one who pushes the legions of Delfias down there off the edge."

"Well. That's a prison riot. So...that's what? Say ten guards killed?" A cold wind passed between the Riders before Bricu continued. "That's another hundred o'so pints o'blood on yers--an hers--hands." Laurus heaved a shrug. "In addition ta the folk she's already killed for yeh. Got no problem with murder when they got it comin'. The guards? Doin' their job?"

"Bricu, this is the only way!" quipped the magus, hurried and emphatic.

"Actually Laz. It ain't."

"Don't you start on O'Connaugh with me. We just went over how much of a blithering idiot he is."

"Kill all the fuckin' Defias yeh want. But this? Strewth. Loche Shadowstalker is a fuckin' monster."

"I don't understand what your problem is. They're just guards. Holding my wife!" He felt his stomach knot and his head began to throb. "Going to -kill- her on a charge she damn well doesn't deserve it for!"

Evenly Bricu replied; "The difference mate? She did it. She don't deserve ta hang. But she killed folks for her family."

"Oh, give me a fucking break!" Snarling with frustration, Laurus threw up his hands. "Now you too!"

"No. Not me. I'll do what it takes. But if yeh think this is the only way? Well. Seems that Loche isn't the only monster we got in the Black an' Red."

Laurus eyed his opposite expectantly. "You'll back me, though?"

"Who the fuck do yeh think B is." Laurus smirked exhaustedly. His shoulders sagged with relief. "An' I'll buy yer house. Be nice if someone sapped the guards an' dragged them away 'for the riot. Or changed them inta turtles. An hid them." The northman's brogue indicated he was less than pleased nor calm.

Laurus reached over and clapped a hand on Bricu's shoulder, relaxing, but Bricu only returned a glare. "If that were realistic, maybe. But that's making things needlessly complicated."

"Don't be surprised that the cost is gonna be yer wife."

"They won't get her. We'll find her quickly."

"Ballacks. Yeh don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

Bittertongue let out a short sigh, his tone growing hotter by the word. "Each life yeh take, yeh damage yer soul. Yeh already like Loche, where it don't hurt no more? It wouldn't be that hard. Start a protest in the streets. Get teh watch stretched too thin. Then bust her out."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Here we go about the Light and souls again! 'To thee shall be done as thou doest to the world!" His voice was songsong, chiding and mocking. "Good luck with doing that on time. Good luck with doing it bloodlessly! You're just starting riots everywhere instead of the prison!"

Bricu listened to Laurus's churlishness without a word, but before he could go further something snapped. The paladin raised a plated boot to the mage's groin, roaring. "OI!" Laurus screeched in pain and keeled over, tossing and turning on the dry grass. "Now yeh listen here!"

"Fucking ow!"

"Professionals get the fuckin' job done!"

"Nether damn it!"

"It won't be bloodless but it need not be a fuckin' slaughter!" Still on the ground, Laurus writhed in agony, half hearing and half glaring upwards at the source of the voice through bleary eyes. "If yeh used yer fuckin' skull yeh'd figure that out by now. But yer too fuckin' daft ta see it. I got yer house. I'll back yeh up. But if too many folk die 'cause yer unprofessional." Bricu's rage subsided somewhat, and he inhaled deeply before continuing, the crimson in his ruddy cheeks growing pale. In the interim Laurus rose, hand clutched to that very sensitive area, still very much in pain. "Each bloke that dies 'cause yer unprofessional is gonna be worse than a kick ta the stones. Get yer head on straight."

"Please don't do that next time! Urg!" It took Laurus several shaky breaths to feel confident speaking without worrying that he might be ill. "I'm taking the most logical and expedient route!"

"No. Yer takin' Loche's way. 'cause yeh wanna spill blood."

"I want my wife back! I don't have time to wait six months for unrest on the streets! If it even happens!"

"Those guards don't need ta die. Yeh got the talent ta do it right."

"I don't have the time to do it the right way. I'm up to here -- " With "here" being either his loins or his chin, from where he was able to gesture. " -- with the excuse for legal procedure they put my wife through! Those Stormwind pigs have it all backwards!"

Both gasped with effort, an insurmountable fissure in the earth springing up between them. Finally Bricu spoke. "When's the execution date?"

"I haven't gotten a letter yet. The answer is "too soon"."

"Then yeh have at least two days. Yeh bugger this one up.... It's on yeh. Send the papers. I'll buy the house. I'll get the streets riled up. An'll take care o'the orphans yeh make." Laurus snorted angrily and moved to speak, but Bricu stopped him with a new glare. "Want another kick?" The mage muttered under his breath and a shimmering blue field sprung up around his body.

"Expect the papers in two days."

"Just be prepared ta reap what yeh've sowed."

"Oh, I'm very prepared! Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't have time for another sermon. I'm going to get my wife back." With a snap of his gloved fingers, Laurus winked out of existence. When he reappeared he stood, fuming, beneath the high elven arch penning the lake. The bright afternoon had given way to clouds of approaching rain.

[Fells]

The twentieth, just after "tipsy" and on the road to "smashed."


Two men sat silently at the Keg and Kitten's great common table. One was human, draped all in blacks and purples. The hat he wore was broad-brimmed, conical, and looked particularly absurd perched too importantly upon his head. It shadowed eyes that were set a hair too close together, and were likely prone to brooding. His felhunter lay feet away, lounging lazily and not at all a threat, surely.

The other man nursed a foamy tankard and prayed very dearly that Mister Dangerous Adventurer would let him have some peace and quiet to drink in. Thus far, dwarven luck had held solid. Olaf continued his drinks' rotation. The empty tankard slammed down to the table and was pushed to the left, the full tankard was drawn in front of him from the right, and very shortly a new one brimming with ale would take its place. Lather, rinse, and repeat, the bar had his routine down like clockwork. Olaf had been coming here for his drink for ages, and he wasn't about to let some upstart in a robe disturb his system. The demihuman that entered the tavern, though - he broke his reverie with three words, and Olaf couldn't even be cross with him for the interruption. "Evenin', Justice Stonecutter."

"Justice," the hooded man snorted derisively. It might have been meant for his own ears alone but for the direction of his snarl. "...There's no such thing."

"E'enin'," Olaf wearily replied, ignoring the gallery's commentary and giving his latest refill a wistful sigh. A quiet drink simply was not in his job description.

Shael O'Connaugh approached the table slowly. His wife and pretty rogue friend waited close at hand, flanking him like decorative finials while he dug about in his packs. Olaf only turned around at the quiet clink of glass against the back of his chair. "Don' think o' this as a bribe," Shael offered, holding out the bottle of Northrend wine.

"Ne'er do, lad." Suddenly, the prospect of this meeting wasn't so bad at all. Olaf pushed his tankard away before accepting the gift that was quite absolutely not a bribe.

"Yer honor," Shael began calmly, "We need t'ask fer a stay o' execution." He paused, chewing in his next words for a moment to decide whether they were bitter or sweet. "We've cause ta think there's been illegal doin's on th' part o' th' prosecution."

Olaf nodded, uncorking the Caroway Burnwine. Its acrid aroma brought tears to his eyes. "So then," he ruminated as he poured a finger or three into his flagon. The foam that resulted was glorious. "Yeh're accusin' me court o'bein' corrupt. Tha's a bold statement made a shade unboldleh."

"No, sir," the priest posited patiently. "Jus' th' prosecution."

With a disgusted sigh, Tall, Dark, and Creepy interrupted again, this time a bit more directly. "Okay, I give," he sneered, "what the hell is the problem?"

"Cour' business, lad." The judge had dealt with more than his fair share of snotty children masquerading as adults in the past. Usually they were called lawyers. "Go back tae crying abou' justice."

"...Okay, someone explain to be what short and hairy said, in Common."

Whether Shael bristled at the insult (which could have been directed at him just as easily) or at being pushed closer to the brink of violence was unclear, but his deadpan growl was a direct contrast to Olaf's mute, time-worn meditation. "He said it's none o' yer business."

"Isn't justice a public matter?" the warlock cackled. "Not that justice exists."

"Then there's nothing for you to worry about," Shaila snapped, finally bristling out of her patient vigilance. "Now, your honor--"

"Hah!" The hooded man apparently did not know when to stop. "Yes, your "honour," go on."

The foam in Olaf's mug sloshed dangerously when he slammed the metal vessel onto the table, but it did not spill. Anger was no cause for waste. "THA'S IT!" he bellowed standing and turning to his petitioners. "Ye're comin' with me!"

"Me?" asked the warlock.

"ANYONE BU' YEH!" Following his final roar, Judge Stonecutter quaffed the contents of his last mug in one great gulp and stomped heavily out of the tavern and down the street, warding away any further irritation or interruption. He did not speak again until the lot of them had landed in chairs in his business apartment where his pet bear was close at hand to beg adoration from the still-snickering assassin. "Now. This 'bout tha' Krellaker lad?" Of course it was about the Krellaker lad. "Le's hear it."

The spindly woman handed him a small buzzbox-like device. "A few nights ago, we had the displeasure of tracking the honorable Jordan Krellaker to a place called Helena's Parlor. He was with someone." She glanced to her silent husband, who nodded encouragement. "If you....might recall the charges we filed against a man called Chauvelin Aduro?"

"Aye, I...." The judge trailed off, finally looking up from the confusing contraption in his hands. "That's who tha barrister was wi'? And yeh followed 'em tae tha Parlor?" He was familiar with the joint--oh, not that he'd ever been there, mind, but he knew enough about it from common reference to know what kind of an establishment it was. And that Norra O'Connaugh was not the sort generally seen nor appreciated there. "How'd yeh git in?"

The color that rose in the mage's cheeks gave her an almost healthy complexion. "Shaila is very charming," she explained, motioning to her companion (who proceeded to demonstrate with a smile). "I followed her in." Clearly moving right along from that topic, she leaned over to tap the device in his hand. "This buzz box has a recording of the two conspiring together." When his skeptical eyebrow and inept fumbling with the box brought no satisfactory response, she sighed, snatched it from him, and pressed a blue button. With a crackle, it sprang to life and brought Jordan Krellaker's gleeful gloating into the air around them. The whole of the oblique conversation passed through the room before the little device fell silent again. "I will have a photo to back these claims up with soon as well," she announced in closing.

It was hard to deny there was definitely -something- to the discussion he'd heard, but Olaf wasn't quite sure what. It was just so vague... "So then," he pondered, "Yeh think they're cohorts."

The priest, who had been rocking slightly in apparent prayer, finally spoke up again. "I know's no' o'er clear, sir, but 'd like time ta build th' case."

Sighing through his nose, Olaf nodded slowly. Building a case was all well and good... "Wha' do yeh plan tae prove, lad?" he asked gently, if firmly. "Yeh're lass still killed tha man."

She didn't even need a look from her husband to pipe up. "Simply put, your Honor, Krellaker used illegal and subversive means to interrogate the defendant. Recall the charges we filed against Mr. Aduro. Impersonating an agent of Stormwind? Soliciting confession illegally?" The links began to come together in the justice's mind, sending his eyebrows sky-high. "If those two are together," Norra continued, "Then that links him to Aduro's actions."

"Yeh're bloodeh righ' i' does." And if it was true, he wasn't going to stand for it. He'd be damned before he let that idiot warlock be right. "Wee lassie, kin I hear tha' once more?" She did so, prodding the contraption to repeat exactly what he needed to hear. "We didn't get what we needed," the mageling insisted. "I need to know what she knows.

The room was dead quiet when the recorder stopped again. "Your honor," Norra posited softly but urgently, "If this is true, who knows how many more people he has done this to?" A valid question. But not the immediate concern. Olaf's eyes turned to the quiet holy man.

"All'm askin," he plead simply, "is time ta prove th' connection. I wan' a fair fight."

It was simple, it was sweet, and it was an easy enough ward against any who might accuse him of favoring the defense in this rocky case. Olaf nodded. "Yeh've go' ye're extension, lad. If he's going tae try tae subvert me cour', I'll see him thrown ou' of tha system." Physically, if necessary.

Shael nodded and stood, hope shining in his eyes. "Thankee, sir. Promise I won' waste it." The gears, the lists spinning in his head were visible on his face as he began to plan his merciful respite out to the minute.

"Yeh better no'." Sweeping his arms as though herding sheep, he shooed the delegation toward the door. "Take yeh're box, take yeh're suits, git ou' of me house and git tae work.

[Shad]

The twenty-fifth, as darkness fell.

It wasn't until an hour and a half after the close of the Rose meeting that Shael had time to go back to his papers. Therefore, it wasn't until an hour and a half after the close of the Rose meeting that Shael had time to realize that the details of the suit against Chauvelin Aduro were no longer in his bag. He mentally retraced his steps before doing so physically. The Dawn. Of course. He'd been in such a rush on his way out. The sheaf was probably still there on the table. Safe, to be sure, but he couldn't get much work done without it. So though sun was very near set, he struck out from the common of the Gilded Rose, muttering to himself on his way to the Cathedral District.

The Dawn headquarters were dark, no candle's light greeting him from across the street as he trudged toward it. Ordinarily it might have been a disappointment, but tonight, he wanted it uninhabited. Sweep in, sweep out, and get back to work. A perfect, simple plan. And one of these days, he might come to understand just how often a simple plan was nothing more than ominous foreshadowing.

When the door opened and the light of his lantern cut across the main meeting room, a gentleman's cry froze Shael's hand to the doorknob. If only it had served as warning instead of herald he might not have been trapped in his own inaction, staring at the scene before him in silent disbelief.

For once, Shael O'Connaugh lacked the mental wherewithal to comment snarkily, snarl grumpily, or even pray silently. His dignity, however, remained; with unearthly calm he retrieved his sheaf and exited the building at a walk before beginning to quake.

Oh holy Light, came the prayer at last.

------

The door of the Dawn opened again ten minutes later, and an ashen-faced Tiran Shard stepped out to greet him in the loosest sense of the word "greet." Not only did the wanderer not say a single word, he kept his eyes fixed forward, barely willing to even acknowledge Shael's presence.

The priest's eyes lifted slowly from staring at stone ramp, as though his gaze was weighted. He looked through Tiran a moment before he spoke, voice rough and cracked. "I b'lieve," he rasped, "I still owe ye a drink."

Tiran didn't smile. Only barely was he holding at bay the terrified trembling. His voice, by contrast, was cool and reserved. "Yes, although I believe that I offered to buy."

"Ye suggested th'...Recluse, I think," the shorter man mused, slowly turning and starting off in the general direction of the mage district. "And...also seemed ta think...'d been 'smirchin' yer honor 'hind yer back." There was no suggestion in the comment. A bit of wonder, perhaps. Were the situation not so sickening, the other man's former indignation would have been highly amusing. "Don' know...where ye heard tha'." His voice seemed to be loosening a bit, though he still spoke haltingly. "Been...angry, sure...but I b'lieve I...'ad sev'ral conversations with Chel where I said...ye were doin' wha' ye thought were right."

Conversation was a difficult thing to maintain all alone, and so it trailed off before they entered the Blue Recluse. It would have to be forced. Coerced. Dark deeds such as that were best performed in the shadows, and so it was a small table off to the side that Shael selected. Tiran joined him unwillingly, movements stiff as a toy soldier. The tension within and between them must have been quite apparent, as no wait staff paid them any mind. Better that way, really.

After blinking mindlessly at the documents he was almost surprised to find he was holding, Shael tucked them away in his bag and folded his hands patiently on the table. "So. What had ye...wan'ed ta discuss?"

At last, Tiran made eye contact. "I had wanted to discuss your accusation of perjury." Ah yes, there it was, the old fire, the ferocious self-righteousness in which the Rose's holiest sneakabout liked to clothe himself. A poor disguise now.

The priest nodded. "Ye said we don' harbor criminals." Fingers grasped at his lower lip, apparently wishing for a toothpick to play with. "But I think ye know tha's no' true."

"I clarified my statement." There was a bit of stern admonishment in Tiran's defense. "Active criminals. I hope you aren't seriously accusing our members of being such." He inhaled deeply.

There was no particular reason for the pause before Shael spoke again, other than listening to his heart palpitations. "D'ye recall when Chel were bein' blackmailed?"

"I do, and I understand the circumstances therein. I know what Wueten and Chelody and Kerias did. That does not make them active criminals. Surely you, of all people, one who is vouching for the release of a murderess, know what I am speaking of." The barb did not go unnoticed.

Another pause. Tiran talked too much for his own good. "Do ye recall how we dealt with th' blackmailers, Tir?" Shael asked softly. "D'ye remember why they're no' a problem anymore?"

"I just said I was familiar with the circumstances." Tiran folded his arms and shifted uncomfortably.

"So...blowin' them up...tha's no' a crime?" He looked at Tiran. "Killin' those who weren' a physical threat? Sound like...anyone else ye know?"

"A lot of us have done acts that are unsavory, or gruesome, or downright illegal. Light, it's practically impossible for us to get by in this lifestyle without doing something we regret. Would you call all of us criminals? Where would you draw the line of common sense? Do you truly believe that the two acts are the same?"

Shael stared at Tiran. "No. I don'. We killed four men, an' tortured one. She killed one. I'm...surprised ye don' find multiple murders ta make a criminal, whereas one does." Or at least I would have been, once, back when I thought you were trying to do the right thing.

"You and I have both killed many men." Tiran licked his lips and let out a long, shaking breath. "Lothar killed many beings. Would you decry Lothar a criminal?"

"Ye're stretchin' now more'n I was in court." Shael shook his head. "And wha's worse, I think ye really b'lieve it." I have to hope you do, anyway. The alternative hurts too much. Still shaking his head, he turned to dig through his bag.

"Come now, Shael. There's a keen difference between what Chelody did and what Fells did. One was necessary-and I do not say I condone it, or would have done the same-and the other was coldblooded, merciless murder. I know you don't truly believe that Chelody and Fells are the same caliber of person. I understand that no one's perfect-I hardly am. I never claimed to be. And this crude, contrived mortal justice is far from perfect. But it's better than the alternative. Landvaetir deserves justice." Cool brown eyes watched the priests's hands with apparent curiosity.

"I were ne'er talkin' o' Chelody in this, Tir. I were talkin' o' them as tortured, as planted th' bomb." A small buzzbox related accessory landed on the table. A photograph followed. "An' this's ne'er been 'bout Land's justice fer ye, Tiran, an' certain'y no' fer 'er lawyer, so don' ye try shittin' me inta thinkin' ye were doin' this fer 'er."

"In that you are at least partially incorrect." He almost sounded like himself again, scornfully looking down on the shameful little priest who was so clearly treading a dark path. "I hold no affinity for Morgnir. Nor the barrister. Yes, there is a personal need, but the only reason this proceeded the way it did in the first place is because she approached me and asked for my help." A brow quirked at the items being placed before him. He hadn't seen the picture yet. "As for the others, it's...it's more complicated than simply throwing them in too, and you damn well know it." He finished with a last accusatory flourish. It was possibly his worst mistake of the evening, and that was truly saying something.

"Shut up, you lying sack of garbage." It was hissed, well and thoroughly pronounced, and in the priest's actual native dialect. The photo was picked up and slammed on the table directly in front of Tiran. "This is Helena's Parlour. It's the Silver Feather's grubby little sibling, if Your Holiness is unfamiliar with the less savory establishments in town. This--" He pointed to the hooded figure. "--is your charming little friend, Aduro." The other figure didn't need to be named. If Tiran didn't recognize the face, he'd surely recognize the cackling voice that began to play from the recorder after a moment's static. "Oh, I do! Seventy solid worth of love to spend."

It clearly took Tiran off guard. His jaw dropped, his breathing sped, and he finally let loose his trembling. "Shael, I..."

"I need to see her again, before it's too late. We didn't get what we needed." The recorder continued, brazenly undaunted by the fury of the man who held it, near white-knuckled. "I thought this was what you wanted. She's where you need her, right?" "But -he- isn't. And I need to know what she knows." He let it finish, through the mageling's exit, before stopping and rewinding.

"When the trial ended, before he made his snide little remark to me," he spoke at last, "Krellaker tried to congratulate his client. And from the sounds of things, Aduro isn't the only one who's lost faith in those in the system." "Seventy solid worth of love to spend," the recorder cackled again. Shael smirked cruelly. "A pity, since I'm going to be bringing him in under it."

Tiran laid his hands on his knees, near hyperventilating. "How did you get this?" His voice cracked.

"I had Norra and Shaila follow them. Krellaker half dragged the boy there. Like a gift from above, some proof of the connection I've wanted for months." The suit, the very document he'd left behind, slammed on the table next. "Proof that that slimy lawyer was in with the man trying to solicit a confession from Fells under false pretense. It's not clear, of course. Not perfect. You know those voices, but the jury won't." Now he was accusing, advancing, brandishing verbal polearms where Tiran hid holy daggers. "So I'm digging, scraping, searching for the last link. The last hint. Because if I don't find one, then the tide of murder that my fucking honor is holding back, the one keeping you and Krellaker and fifty guards alive, that tide will turn. And there will be riots and death and there will be nothing I can do anymore. And that girl, the one you claimed probably shouldn't die, might still." For the rage on his face, he might as well have accused his guildmate of murder. Perhaps he was doing just that.

Guilt seemed to flood in accordingly. "Oh, Light. Oh, Light." Tiran's face sunk into both palms as he murmured helpless prayer.. "Shael, you know I never intended for this to happen."

"I'm not required to believe you've a single good intention in your head, Shard," Shael snapped back. "Let me lay out for you the situation." He drew another document from his bag. This one was fresh, and rolled into a tube. "This is blackmail, please make no mistake of it. You're free to kill me later, since you've no qualms about that, but for now, understand that I'm blackmailing you for the good of the city." He unrolled the document, thrusting it across the table with enough force to decapitate a lesser man. "You can cooperate with me, and I won't go and describe in precise detail what I observed in the Dawn this evening. I will not tell even a single soul. And I will not go to my son and explain that Mr. Shard is the reason his only living family is going to die. Instead, I will hand this to Chelody, I will fill in names, and we can end this peacefully."

As his head lifted from his palms, Tiran wavered and grabbed the edge of his chair for stability. The resulting thump was not as satisfying as seeing him splayed on the floor would have been, but at least he had the decency to collapse where he sat, avoiding Shael's blazing glare as one long hidden in a dark cave might avoid the sunlight. "They told me that. I, ah, thought." He reconsidered with a deep breath. "It was me all along. Look, I won't-I mean, I will. Yes."

Shael reached into his bag and withdrew a toothpick. "Ye wanna rephrase tha' in Common this time?" he asked, slipping the bit of wood between his lips.

The lost wanderer uttered something that was more a cough than a sob. "I'll do it. Light, promise me nothing. I was wrong. I'll testify, I'll tell you everything. I'll do it. I'll do it." The mantra seemed the only thing that held him together.

"Good." It was good. It really was. The admission was the most satisfying thing to grace Shael's ears in a very long time. Yet he didn't sound satisfied or smug; the sentiment echoed in his voice, hollowly victorious, and his hands shook as they collected his case and switched it for a simple notebook. Tiran would spill, and he would gather the bitter salve.

[Fells]

Februrary ninth, at the last and most unfortunate moment possible.



Evening had fallen across Stormwind city. It was the time of day too late for loitering but late enough for street lamps; light enough to see by the thin red tendrils that reached above the city rooftops but dark enough to shadow the alleys. Routine salutes heralded the approach of Officer Jaxon as he passed along the dim canals toward the Stockade. Dressed in full Stormwind outfit with two stainless swords and a full brown beard framing hard steel eyes, he was clearly the sort of man whose way you wouldn't want to impede. The look in their eyes as he passed was one of silent respect. No guard reached Officer without this quality. Oddly enough, Jaxon returned not even the faintest of gestures. No one would question his authority as he walked through the stone arches framing the exterior of the stocks, nor apprehend him to question why, until Warden Thelwater raised a stiff hand to his forehead and stepped up front.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked after Jaxon returned a clumsy salute. The mage swore to himself internally, silently, fumbling for an answer. Expert illusions were virtually indisguishable from reality. They could mimic appearance, touch, sound and smell. All six senses at best. Unfortunately, Laurus was not an expert illusionist, and could only decieve one or two senses at a time. In this diguise, sound was not one of them. Jaxon shifted uncomfortably, a motion that reflected itself in the Warden as no answer came. "This is unexpected, Officer. I, ah..."

Laurus cut him off with a glare and the most intimidating gesture he could muster. "Surprise inspection. Let me through." Jaxon rasped, then followed with a series of hoarse coughs.

"You don't sound so well, sir." The lesser rank averted his eyes from the imposing mailed figure. Jaxon leaned back and spit something vile on the ground near the Warden's feet, then wiped his mouth with a blue gloved hand. "I'll send an escort for you at once. You see, ah, everything's under control, but..." But the whole of the Stockades was on something of high alert. A Rider was waiting to hang; that was reason enough for them to be wary. But there had been some degree of warning from the priest: a tip from Bittertongue, he'd said, and he was hoping to get an exact day. Until then, they were to be on their toes.


Yet somehow, this did not stop Corporal Harris from being on his ass, in a cell with an un-manacled prisoner. "So you just...adopted her. Just...like that."

"Well 'course," replied the inmate sitting crosslegged with a prairie dog in her lap. "Don' gimme that look. I didn' say he had t'take her in too."

"It's kinda inherent in a marriage, or so I hear, that those type of ties are binding." He ran a hand through his hair. His helmet leaned against the outside of the door, five ugly spheres of fel iron and powder resting inside it. "Weren't you afraid he'd kill her or something?"

The little furred thing in Fells's lap chittered, and she tapped it on the nose. "Reckoned he might be...well, I..." Fells's shrug was helpless. "Reckon I didn' think onnit overmuch 'till it were too late. Kinda all happen't damn quick. I jest wanted t'git her where she'd have a home."

John chuckled and closed his eyes. He'd been doing both on the job far too much lately. "You're really good at not thinking."

"Y'can see where it gits me." She motioned a hand, free of chain and iron, at the cell.

"It gets you all this bonding time with me!" He smirked. "Keep up the good work."

She tossed a bit of gravel that had crumbled from the stone and mortar walls at him. "I'll take bondin' time with ya outside, thanks."


"So you see, sir..." Guard Anthony Nadal had been virtually monologuing for the entire time he'd been leading Officer Jaxon nto the Stockades' depths. Why couldn't Thelwater have bothered to come do the explanations personally? Maybe he felt a similar sense of unease at this whole encounter. "Between the Defias rattling the bars of their cages and a Rider taking another visit, we've had to tighten security considerably." Nadal pounded on bars with the clang of metal on metal and shouted something incomprehensible at one of the defias who'd wandered too far forward in his cell. "Visitation rights are limited, and..."

Officer Jaxon cast an angry eye on the cell Anthony had singled out and advanced to its perimeter, staring directly at the convict held within. He was greeted with a snakelike grin. "Sir, if there's anything else? I don't mean no disrespect, sir, but..."

"Leave me here for now." The officer pointed whence they came. The leading guard and his three comrades shifted and moved to comply. It beat breaking fights, but this wasn't exactly an ideal assignment.

But this, in particular, there was something wrong, and they all felt it. Anthony hesitated, rooted where he stood, then leaned forward and gave the Officer a pat on his armored shoulder. "Right, call if you..." The hand passed straight through and landed on something soft.

"Shit. Oh, I said that aloud, didn't I."

Laurus thought fast. The plan was to shift invisible just as soon as they were out of sight. Why did everything always go wrong? They were, fortunately, quite isolated. He had planned to do this bloodlessly, but all four of them would immediately alert the Warden. Probably by yelling. Laurus weighed the distraction he'd create by running and allowing the prison to be alerted to his other options, and promptly came to a decision within the space of three tense seconds. There was a tremendous explosion that echoed throughout the Stocks, and Anthony Nadal died without a scream.


John was on his feet in a flash. "What the hell?" There hadn't even been a blast like that when they were breaking down the wall for the harbor.

Fells's head shot up from where she sat. "Didja feel that?"

"Yeah." Frowning, he stood and swiftly exited her cell before motioning for her. "If nothing else, they'll be down here to check things out. Sorry." He motioned for her wrists. "Out in no time, I promise."

"Natch." She rushed forward, straining to look over his shoulder at the closed door that led to her short little block of cells. "John d'ya think...?"

"I don't know." Yes. That was exactly what he thought. He tried not to show it as he clamped the bonds around her wrists again. Jailbreakers. Nothing he hadn't dealt with before. Just Riders. He closed the cell behind him, locked it, and reached for his helm. Pull the pin, count to two, throw. Or was it three? Less couldn't hurt. More, though - more could prove a problem.

Fells took to pacing behind her bars. Wherever she went, it seemed as though she might just have a better vantage point from over here...no, maybe not...maybe over... "Where're they? Mayhap it was 'other pris'ner?"

"I'm not psychic, Fells, I don't know yet." He opened the door to the solitary chambers and called down the hall. "Report!"

The guard had expected this; prepared for days, drilled and gone over procedures. Despite all this, the men and women were afraid and unsure of their place. The guards with stomachs for battle were up in Northrend; this was supposed to be R&R. The clamour of men running in mail echoed down the hallway. One of them shouted out as they ran past, "Hell if I know!"

"Fuck lot of good you are!" he called after them. "GET ME A REPORT!" The trouble was in the Stockades, that much was clear. He drew his sword and set to waiting.

"J...John." Fells stared at the chaos through the narrow doorway. "What? What issit?"

"Trouble," he grunted. "Just sit tight."

Standing tight would have to suffice. "'least lock the door," she urged. "One more shield twixt us an' 'ever the Nether's out there."

He nodded. "See. You'd make a just fine guard, if you weren't a criminal mastermind." Their short cell block was safe; he locked the door.


"Motherfucker!" The Defias leader stood agape, swearing in his bumpkin accent and wondered how he was still alive. He'd distributed orders and given his signal as the pigs approached; he hadn't expected this kind of response. The inferno had dropped Laurus's illusion, but at this point it hardly mattered. The mage stood trembling, frothing like a rabid animal in front of the cell, eyes red from lack of sleep and aflame from anger, mouth twisted into a murderous snarl. They'd stood in his way long enough. It was time for plan B.

Immediately after the blast rocked the foundations of the prison, he faded out of sight. There was a bulging pack on his shoulder, formerly disguised by the glamour. Contained within it were twenty saronite bombs. The kind of firepower you brought to a siege to knock reinforced thorium walls down; more than sufficient to blow a few heavy cell doors clean off their hinges. The problem would be how many prisoners survived.

Laurus had calculated that approximately seventy percent of them ought to, assuming they did as Eirne Kerraman (the whooping fellow behind the bars) had said he would and informed them of the proper procedure. Laurus quietly thanked the powers that be for gracing him with explosives and set about attaching the premade charges, crowned by little blinking red lights. When he'd silently, invisibly done so to all four doors in the cul de sac, he got clear down the hall, threw up a mana shield and fire ward, and waited. While invisible, Laurus couldn't see any living thing inside the prison. He could, however, still hear loud noises. Like the sound of the eager half-dozen guards from earlier rushing into the room he left, still very much afraid and unaware of the crimson eye in the center of the floor until it was too late. Laurus pressed the button in his hand and checked his bag. Fifteen left.


The resulting explosions thundered through the underground prison's wings. Stone walls did nothing but amplify the echoes back in on themselves. Fells shrieked and pressed herself back against the wall. "John?!"

"Shut up and stay back and down!" He smacked the bars with his sword, backing away from the door himself, and toward her cell door. "Under your cot, now!" Shield, shield, the damn - there, yes. He picked it up and brought it in front of his body, trying to position himself between the cot and the door. Fells scrambled beneath the linen and canvas thing. Another explosion shook the walls and she threw her hands over her head with a scream.

One, then two more roaring, shattering blows shook the Stockade. Banshee croons and terrified cries and shouts of fury were everywhere now. Above it all there was a single, horrified announcement. "Prison riot! Riot! Defias! Fall back to the east wing!" John crouched, fumbling to bring his helm in close. Five shots, that's all he'd get. It probably wouldn't be enough.

"John!" Fells shouted from him from where she hid, shrieking to be heard above the din.

He palmed a grenade in his shield hand. "What?"

"Please." Fells inched out from beneath her cot and fixed him with a pleading gaze. "Please don'. Don' hurt 'em."

He glared back at her, then thrust a fist at the door. "You hear that? You hear those screams? You know what that is?"

As the guards reconvened towards the fallen east wing, the sounds of revolt and bloodshed slowly dimmed further and further away. "I know! I do! But we jest stay put, they might could pass us up!"

"THEY'RE FUCKING KILLING MY PEOPLE, FELLS!" The grenade slipped from his gauntlet, squeezed too tightly, and he snatched it back up immediately. "If they get in range, they're fucking dead!"

"They ain't 'sposed t'be -down- here!" she yelled in vehement response. "Nothin' says y'gots ta give back what they's -- " She was at eye level with the floor. When the latch securing the door behind John Harris jiggled, only to slide free, she didn't see it. The door inching open, though. That she could see.

"I'll do my damn job, and you'll shut up, bitchling!" He jerked the shield around to slam the bars with it.

She retreated back under the cot on instinct, though her eyes did not leave the telltale door to the Stockades proper. She couldn't see the form she knew slipped inside and shut the door behind it. That didn't keep her from knowing that it was there. "John, please -- !" She didn't quite manage to get out "turn around" in time.

"I SAID, SHUT--" The shield clattered weakly off the bars of her cell. Not quite the effect he'd been going for. Nor had he intended for his helm to clatter to the floor, and his five precious chances to scatter across the stone. They weren't his chances anymore. As he slumped to the side, eyes giving one last roll back into his head, the knifeblade slipped from within his neck, bringing only a tiny bit of his brain tissue with it. A bit more would probably dribble out within the stream of blood that made its way to the newborn lake on the floor. At least, one could assume, he didn't feel much pain.

"JOHN!" Fells stared, horrified and disbelieving, at the ragdoll body that belonged to the only person who'd shown her any kindness in this desolate place. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe.

The figure that slipped from the shadows was grinning. "Thanks fow thuh distract, luv," he growled, snatching the corpse's keys and standing on his chest to open the cell door. "Come 'long, then. Oi heah yowah good wif a blade. See wot y'c'n do wif 'is, ah?" John's sword clattered across the stone toward her.

He wasn't standing on Corporal John Harris's corpse for long. The instant that the key clicked home in the lock Fells launched herself from the floor with a roar. She grabbed John Harris's sword on the path. When she slammed her shoulder into the door, two hands on the hilt used every bit of her momentum to bring the butt of the pommel against the murderer's stupid, smug smile through the bars' gap.

Teeth clattered aside the lost grenades in the path of the stumbling Defias. "The 'ell?!" he exclaimed once he hit the far wall. "Sat any way ter thank a bod fow lettin' yew loose?"

The tiny farmgirl largely ignored him and fell to her knees beside the guardsman's prone body. "John?!" she prompted tearfully. "John c'mon, git up, yer not...please, m'sorry, jest git up!" She shook his shoulders roughly. He shook with them, lifeless and limp. Slowly, Fells's attention turned towards the gap-toothed man with the bleeding mouth. Her eyes narrowed into slits.

He was watching her, fuddled from her strike and her sentiment. "'s jus' a gahd, luv, the 'ell ah yew..." Too late, he realized this might be dangerous. "Now, now, don' do anythin' fewlish..."

Fells stood. The tip of John's sword dragged along the stone when she took it with her. She bent, retrieved his helmet, and advanced on the bleeding rioter. "Git. The fuck. Out of m'cell."

"Aw roit, aw roit!" Sure, he'd been instructed to bring her out, but it wasn't worth this. Asshole could come get his own damn bitch. "'m goin', 'm goin'!" He scurried away as fast as he could. "Dinnit soin up fow this..."

Wisely, he fled away from the east wing. It was a massacre, nothing less. Half-naked bodies with red bandanas littered the floor where the tidal wave of convicts met the solid wall of Stormwind steel. The guards fought back to back, shields linked, plate all but impervious to the improvised shanks and bars and boards the Defias wielded, swords swiping low at everything that came near. Some of the bodies didn't have masks; they were normal prisoners at the wrong place at the wrong time, scared of staying where they were and being beaten and thus attempting a frenzied, terrified escape. They made the floor slick as they fell and their blood mingled with the rest, convicted and innocent, as well as the calculated thirty percent of the prisoners who were too damned close to their cell doors.

A scattered few of the corpses were guards; less than ten had been ambushed after the carnage in the cul de sac. That rapidly changed as their tight-knit shield wall became the target of a flamestrike. Rioters, they'd been trained for. No one expected the mage when he finally dropped his invisibility. Laurus pulled his gloves on tighter and cursed the damned red stains on his fine purple boots. With their perimeter broken, the prisoners spilled from the east wing, and the chaos was complete. Eirne was standing next to the noble, rallying his little viscious army. "Loche's deal's still on, ey mate? When ye gunna git us outta 'ere? Need a portal, can' keep this up long or they'll kill th' lot o' us."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to it. Still have to get what I came for. You wait here, and I'll be right back."

"Screw tha', ye ain' leavin' me!" Laurus whirled his palm around without sparing a glance and blew the filthy commoner's head off with a blast of fire. He didn't have time for any more games. He had to find Fells quickly. Laurus vanished and reappeared around the corner, then sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him for where he knew they were keeping the love of his life, and prayed to everything he held dear that she was safe.

"Safe" was a relative term. Sure, her wing held mostly the stragglers that were too injured or too cowardly to rush to the forefront. But Fells was rushing through the narrow corridors with live steel in one hand, and a helmet full of grenades in the other. To call her "safe" seemed a bit misleading. "THIS WAY! They'll be on us, doubletime, come on!" She nearly ran head-first into the squadron hurrying towards the chaos. They turned on her as one, shields and swords ready as a cacoughany of rioting voices filled the air.

They might not have heard her scream, "DUCK!" They all saw her yank the pin out of a mess of one of John's grenades and throw it over their heads. Things were a bit quieter in the wake of the explosion. She rushed to their sides.

"The fuck are you doing?!" A guardsman's eyes were narrowed in suspicion behind his helm.

Fells lifted the matching helmet that she carried. "Helpin'." They didn't have time to argue before the next wave was upon them. Echoing in the distance, Laurus's explosions suddenly had company.

He stopped dead in his tracks for a fear-stricken moment, pulse racing. What was that? It wasn't one of his bombs; if one of the remaining two in his bag went off, he wouldn't have heard much of anything, really. Dynamite wasn't standard issue guard equipment, was it? That would mean...maybe another mage? "Oh, damn, damn, Fells!" She was on death row. They would kill her first, so he told himself in wild panic.

She hadn't a shield; even John's sword was little help. She'd never been one for the long blades. They were too unwieldy, too awkward. And so, she had never practiced. She had stealth on her side though; stealth, and chain. When one of the ragged rioters broke the line of shields, she was behind them in a blink, and her manacles' chains around their throat. There was little chance to reflect as they fell, unconscious or gasping. If they didn't stay down, the pommel rectified the situation. Fells worked feverishly with them. The men whose backs she watched quickly found that calling for "BOMB!" got them precisely what they needed.

Bedlam was still very much in the making, but with Eirne's death and Laurus's departure the tide had turned very clearly against the Defias. Out of breath and legs crying for mercy, Laurus left wet footprints on the stone as his boots pounded against the ground. Even now, he had the element of surprise on his side. He was clearly neither guardsman nor prisoner, and as such, he earned precious moments of hesitation. Each patch of fighting he passed was still left wondering on whose side the man in robes was. None of them guessed that he wasn't on any side at all. Fells had been busy dropping yet another straggler when they cry went up: "BOMB READY!"

She rushed forward, stealing quick glances between the heads and shields of fighting guardsmen. "Where?!"

"There!" There, at the figure coming at them through the chaos.

"FELLS!"

She froze. No. Oh, oh no. John had been right. He'd been right all along. At her left, the man she flanked shot her A Look. "Don' kill him," she murmured. Then she lifted John's helm inches away from her mouth. To the approaching figure she yelled, "M'GONNA KILL YOU!"

There was dew on his brow and every muscle in his body stung; worse yet, his whole mind ached and throbbed with the effort of spell after spell. But he was so close to the finish line, so close, he couldn't stop - "What? Fells! They're going to MURDER YOU! Come ON! I'll cover you!"

It killed her to see him so. Fells choked on her words. Him. This was his work. And it was because of her. "Go the Nether HOME!" she screamed. "Git out! Go 'way!" Her thumb remained in the grenade's pin, pressed firmly against the metal.

The noble let out an anguished cry. "Fells, what have they done to you?! WHAT DID THEY DO?!" There wasn't much time. Seconds, maybe. He had to do something, he had to...why, "WHY?!" No! He wouldn't let them take her from him!

She stared at him mutely for a moment. Then another man in a red bandana was behind her guards, and she was behind him. She called to Laurus from where she worked, chain tight across the flailing prisoner's throat. "Lookit what y'DONE! Git home t'Precosia, an' git 'way from here!"

"You're holding her hostage! You southron pigs! One of you is a priest! Maybe her mind -- " He first had to seperate them. Laurus raised a lone glowing hand into the air and called for a low-intensity blast wave with desperate words of arcane power. There was a flash of light and a hiss of steam errupted from Laurus's outstretched palm. Screaming in pain, he clutched the hand to his waist. Above him, an ugly bubble hovered. It appeared that the Guard had some new recruits. "Fuck!"

The man in her chains dropped. He was not unconscious, but she had to rush against the line that the shields held. Fells choked back a sob. "Git the Nether AWAY!" she shrieked. He was going to get hurt. Like he'd hurt so many others.

"Are you kidding me?! Did I come all this way to let them kill you?!" Laurus snarled, blinded by rage and lack of sleep and blood in his eyes and the burn on his hand. The other shot out and flickered bright purple, then dissolved into bright, harmless sparks. The mage fell to his knees. Still, he was ready to try in vain casting again before he realized the guards were advancing on him. Laurus pushed himself to his feet and ran. Elsewhere, the chaos would afford him a spare moment to port away.

She watched his retreat without blinking. Only when he was out of sight did she return to her duties assisting the others. By the time things were calm enough for her to be locked away again, her cell block was empty, save for the armored man assigned to guard her. She went into her cell with no resistance, and sank onto her cot when they locked the bars behind her. "Lookit what y'done," she repeated quietly, gaze fixed on the red stain on the floor. Fells wept. Her guard said nothing.

[Shad]

February ninth, the eleventh hour, wherein eleventh is a metaphor for 5:45PM


"A bar." The pivotal, crucial, final hearing of Ironforge v. Drachmas was to be held in the Blue Recluse. This trial was just one surprise after another. "A bar?"

"Dwarf, Shael," Hinote sighed in greeting. "We went over this, didn't we?" Indeed, Shael himself had told his wife that a drunk dwarf was a comfortable dwarf, so this was a good sign. And so far the delegation did look considerably more comfortable. Judge Stonecutter and Miss Goldenmead were in their cups, smiling as though this was merely a friendly gathering. Hinote, with no reason to be concerned about the outcome, appeared smugly curious. Tiran...well, not everyone looked comfortable. "Look on the bright side," she continued. "You can sit down here."

"Jus' makes me feel shorter," he grumbled, sitting anyway.

The mood remained surprisingly loose as they waited. For all Shael's complaining about Olaf moving the time earlier by fifteen minutes, he was the most fidgety as they awaited Norra's arrival. It had been a long, tense day, during which he'd put his shirt on backwards, cursed at his son, and misplaced his files so many times that Norra had insisted upon taking charge of them. And now, if she would just show up, it could all be over.

"What brings you here, Tiran?" the warlock's smooth voice inquired lightly, almost as though she weren't implicating a thing.

The wanderer's eyes flicked up from his hands. "I should say the same to you, Ms. Kirase."

"Me?" Feigning shock was not her forté. "I'm here to watch and, if necessary, make sure nobody here kills each other." She seemed almost disappointed no Riders had appeared. Perhaps there was hope Shael and Tiran would go for each other's throats. "What's your excuse?"

With his head held high, Tiran made his purpose sound very noble. "I've information relevant to the proceedings."

Justice Stonecutter, on the other hand, was a bit more direct. "He's here tae rat someone ou'."

The star witness was still frowning when Norra shuffled in, files in hand and apologies on her lips. "Righ' then," the judge sighed as he took silent mental roll call. "Are we readeh?" The gavel (it wasn't a trial without the gavel) slammed on the table a moment later, and the Blue Recluse abruptly became a court of dwarven law. "We're under session and order, tha righ' honorable me presiding. O'Connaugh, yeh have evidence yeh'd like tae presen' in tha verdic' o' ye're wee lass tha Lady Drachmas." A statement, not a question. This had better be good, clearly.

Swallowing a sudden flood of nervous bile, Shael began pulling documents from his file. "ve got, first, me suit 'gainst Chauvelin Aduro." ...do hereby accuse Chauvelin Aduro of impersonation of a Stormwind official and misrepresentation with malicious intent. The accused did attempt to solicit confession and information under false pretense and without warrant. This constitutes not only entrapment, but forgery... "Ye're familiar with tha', I assume?"

"Oh, aye," Olaf nodded dismissively. He'd been over that document too many times. "On tha unlawful interrogation. Nex'."

There was a moment's skipped heartbeat as Shael reached for the next evidence on his list. Not in the file. Right, Norra had been enhancing them... "Then there's th' evidence from th' night o' th' verdict, th' picture an' recordin'. Norra?"

The picture she produced was significantly clearer, enough to satisfy Hinote's curiosity from a distance and to raise the judge's eyebrows. "Gathered at Helena's Parlour the night of the verdict," she explained for good measure. "Shall I play the recording once more?" The button clicked into place when Olaf nodded, and the voices that spurted forth, spewing their same eternally shady conversation, were remarkably unmolested by static. Norra was a miracle worker. With devices, anyway.

"There's one other elemen' linkin' Mister Aduro ta Mister Krellaker." The volunteer barrister was loosening up a bit, getting into the rhythm of logic's train. "An' tha' link is Letherian Hurst." As he had a hundred times over the past weeks, he blessed Anna al'Cair's name when he pulled out the thick file she'd retrieved for him. Tiran's testimony was a neat, easy solution, but it was a cupcake to documentation's juicy steak. "This--" Thunk. "--is th' criminal record o' Mister Hurst. 's thicker after 'e got put 'way, apparen'y." In the case of Stormwind v. Hurst, the court finds the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree... "Weren' a model prisoner. An' yet, 'e managed t'obtain a pardon jus' a few months ago."

He slipped loose the pardon, and held it alongside the conviction, directing Olaf's eyes with his finger. "Th' name o' th' barrister as put 'im away..." Advocate for the people of Stormwind: Jordan Krellaker "..an' th' name o' th' barrister as got 'im th' pardon..." Vouching for the petitioner: Jordan Krellaker Shael withheld a smile as the judge's countenance darkened. "Is it often Mister Krellaker changes 'is mind on sich men?" he mused quietly.

More papers, more papers. Small wonder he'd gotten so mixed up. He really owed Annalea a nice dinner or something. "Mister Hurst's been travelin' since..." Where were--ah. "With Mister Aduro. An' Mister Shard." Tiran was a man quite capable of turning womens' heads, but the speed with which Landvaetir and Hinote looked at him was probably a bit unnerving. Shael vaguely regretted that he was busy presenting evidence. "Travel records. An' their names on this Ratchet stamped documen'...on th' retrieval o' th' Mollys' Chamber. And if ye'll look inta Mister Hurst's background, ye'll see 'e were previously employed by one Rengault Haneux..." He was rushing, he knew, but everything was falling into place so clearly, so nicely, that he didn't even need to explain much more. "...Adopt've father ta Mister Aduro, who also did a good business with Mister Krellaker." The last document slapped on the table. ...do hereby grant official guardianship of Chauvelin Aduro to Rengault Haneux.

No one spoke until the judge had finished looking over the sheets. "An' ye're man here kin testify as to..." Conspiracy was what it looked like, certainly.

"Ye're welcome ta ask any questions o' Mister Shard." The priest leaned back in his chair. It was almost like relaxing.

Any tension he might have lost was instantly transferred to Tiran by Olaf's deadly glare. "Righ' then. Yeh better swear tae tell tha truth or Ill see yeh in chains."

"I so solemnly swear." Tense, perhaps, but the truth was out now, and some of the veil of guilt lifted off the witness as he began to testify.

"A' any time in ye're travels, did yeh hear any plans abou' the wee lassie imprisoned fir the crime o' merdering Morgnir Hammerhead?"

"Plans, your honor?" They'd been his reason for being there. Bring the murderess in. "Well, I suppose that is a fitting term, yes. It was their intent to prosecute Fells in revenge upon her husband. They also intended to glean her for information."

"And did yeh come tae ken how they planned tae do tha'?"

"I was not privy to the specifics, your honor. I do know, however, that Chauvelin Aduro visited her in prison under false pretenses." He'd not, though, when Shael confronted him, forcing the first cracks in his carefully crafted certainty. It wasn't the righteousness of his cause that kept him upright now. Penance was a noble deed. "He confessed as much to me."

Most judges were lawyers first. Looking at the way Olaf's face settled, eyes boring into his target, Shael decided he must have been a damn good one. "A' any time, did yeh ken wha' information he was trying tae glean?"

Tiran let a beat pass before answering. His calm wasn't that easy to break. "He wanted information on a crime in which Laurus Drachmas was a suspect. He also wanted to exploit her for facts concerning Morgnir."

There was a pulsing forehead vein in the room, and for once it wasn't Shael's. "And why," the dwarf growled, "did yeh no' bring this tae tha cour's attention."

There it was: a bit of shame. But when Tiran looked back up from the table, he appeared near hopeful. "Do you mind a long explanation?" His answer came in the form of an uncomfortably intensified gaze, and he took this as a "Why no, go right ahead old chap."

"I had originally intended to work on this case independently, at the request of Miss Landvaetir Goldenmead beside me. I had strong suspicions that Fells Drachmas was guilty of murder, and I felt it was my duty to ensure she did not go unpunished, as if I did not act, no one else would." His eyes flicked to Shael. Shael, who'd known, and never acted. Now that the blindfold was off, he could see why. "I am not a solicitor or a barrister, and legal intricasies confound me. I am an enforcer, not a lawyer. I was...quite lost. Fumbling about in the dark for enough information to warrant her arrest."

"In the midst of this, a certain, ah-circle of people found me." Chauvelin had seemed so reasonable, so justified, and his offer... "They wanted to help put Fells away, and that's what I cared for." In legends, it was always so obvious when someone made a deal with a demon. Amazing how a valuable prize could blind one to horns.

"The truth is that they wanted quite a bit more than that, and were willing to use any means to accomplish their ends. I had invested myself heavily in their guidance. I felt I would be betraying the trust they confided in me if I came forward. And I was more than a bit worried on what they would do when they found out." Tiran sighed and slumped slightly. The question still preyed on his mind.

Tap. Tap. Tap. "Woul' yeh say, then," the judge drawled, "tha' ye're judgemen' in trusting them..."

"Was in error." The wanderer met Judgement's gaze adamantly. Yes. He was wrong.

Olaf nodded, satisfied, and turned to the prosecution. "Landvaetir Goldenmead. In tha' circumstance tha' the verdic' against ye're accused is nullified, do yeh intend tae bring charges agains' her again?"

"I do, your honour."

"And have yeh given any though' as tae how yeh'd like tae seem them resolved? I dinnae think tha' ye're eager tae si' through another trial." He glanced around the table. It was doubtful anyone did.

The dwarfess's chin rose. "I believe this public farce has opened her eyes to the reality of her situation. Without Krellaker to interfere, I still believe she would be found guilty. It is my hope that, with Mister O'Connaugh's help I can convince her to settle out of court." Her pronouncement finished, she smiled at the judge. "I intend to claim blood price, in accordance to our traditions. The details can be worked out later, but I will be asking for her to publicly admit her guilt."

A simple, basic request, assured the justice's nod. "Will tha defense be willing tae work through tha' with tha lass?"

"Aye." Shael's knuckles cracked. He hadn't asked Fells yet, largely because he hadn't had access to her. But, by the Light, she -would- negotiate.

Olaf beamed. The end, the true end was in sight. "Then with tha' all se--"

It was barely noticeable. Were they not in a bar, where uneven chairs rocked and mugs of ale quivered, the tremor might not have given them pause at all. "...Did yeh feel tha'?" Odd. He didn't recall Stormwind being a common place for earthquakes.

They didn't wait around long for aftershocks. There were papers to draw up, negotiations to be had, and most importantly, a prisoner to fetch. Once Tiran departed, relief flooded into the gathering and fostered a jovial mood. After discussion of a punching-Krellaker-in-the-face line was closed (the court forbade it, as well as the hand-smashing advocated by Landvaetir), Olaf set off for the Stockades. The sooner he had the prisoner there, the sooner he could get back to drinking. "Yeh migh' wan' tae le' her husban' know, too," he advised as he made his way out of the room.

Odd. Usually, Shael couldn't turn on the buzzbox without Laurus's voice assaulting him. But the Rider line was dead quiet when he asked if anyone had seen the mage. Precosia answered a direct buzz, but hadn't seen him either. Her delighted whoop when Shael broke the news sent him reeling back, and drew a glance and a smile from Norra. See, she seemed to say, and you were all worried for nothing.

Fifteen minutes after he left, Olaf stumbled back into what had become a downright friendly conversation. He leaned heavily on the railing, breathing as though he'd run a mile, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before looking at them with water-rimmed eyes. "...There's been a...a riot," he coughed. "We'll ge' her ou'. I promise."

Hinote snapped her fingers; she'd been in the wrong place. "I knew it couldn't be that easy."

A riot. For a minute, the word was a mystery to Shael. "A riot?" Riot. That thing, you recall, where a lot of men get together and are violent? Oh, yes. "'s it contained?" Wasn't someone talking about a riot lately? Where had he heard about a riot, riot, riot... "'s it--"

Oh no.

The realization hit him all at once, buckled his knees, and dropped him back into the chair. "Oh no..." That idiot man, he'd done it, he'd gone in and no, no, no "Oh no, no no no no, no..."

Around him, chaos erupted in shouts, demands, and saber rattles.


The silence of the Riders' public channel was broken with a soft *clack*

"If...any...in 'ere...feel like healin'..ah...they...we need ye. A' th' Stocks."

A quiet mewl.

"...Sky... Ye...Ye oughta come."

"... is ... Misses Fells all right?"

A choked sob. "We...th' hearin'...wen' well. ...She'll...be out in a few."

A jumble of voices. "I'm coming." "What?" "In the Stocks? What happened?"

"Riot."

A single, clear voice, lacking breath. A voice that so often assaulted. "Shael, back up. What?"

"There's...th' hearin', Laurus.She's gonna be set free."

"She's what?!

"I won, you son of a fuckin' bitch."