Naiara's Been Kidnapped: The Event on 3/23

[Bricu]

Roulette's Fic!
As the night wore on, Stormwind grew cold. Roullette Stairali coughed roughly from her post, outside the front door of the family of Threnn and Bricu Bittertongue, making sure not a passerby stepped past with more than a cursory glance and a sudden jump in their step.

It had rained in Westfall at the end of the day's search, and Roullette had been soaked. Now standing outside in the fresh cold of a spring that refused to thaw, she knew that she would be coming down with something in the coming days. But that wasn't what was on her mind.

She had personally seen most of the events of the day. The announcement of Padraig's beating in the Pig. Arriving at Padraig's doorstep. Finding, and escorting the dead Giorgi, Tarquin's kin, back to the Pig. Then finally, the frantic search for Threnn's mother and daughter.

Roullette had never seen a dead body before. The most had been a Defias she had wounded when she was younger, but actually seeing the dead old man in the canal chilled her to the bone. She hadn't expected to be so affected by the sight, and though it made her shake, she still pushed on. It was hard, but she would only remember the fright when she stood alone and bored in the middle of the night. The body got to her. She hoped Tarquin wouldn't take offense to it, somehow.

In the end, they had only found more bodies. These feminine forms were burnt and hastily buried, instead of waterlogged like Giorgi. The trail left several dead ends, but one could easily see that they all led to Icecrown Citadel... or at least, so they had told Roullette. She didn't know any better, as she had never been involved in this war until the last few months. She was relieved of her post in Grizzly Hills quickly, and had not spent a single day with the Ashen Verdict.

In short, she had felt worthless, until that night. And though that same feeling persisted, it was pushed away by an intense love for the grieving family. Despite only meeting each of them a few times at a pub, she felt closer to them than even the Lewis', with whom she lived. She owed these people something.

So, the next day, Roullette was relieved of her post early in the day. Heading only a few doors down to the Lewis home, she climbed the stairs to the attic, and crawled through the small space she called home, eventually scrounging together all she had in coin. It wasn't more than a few crowns, but it was all she could afford. With that, Roullette bought several bottles of milk, loaves of bread, and slabs of meat, to deliver to the Bittertongues before the end of the day. Once again, she offered them her help for anything she could provide, before leaving once more, with a vow to return that evening for another post outside their door.

However, one question ate at her, as she continued through her day... who were the three that were buried? If they were cultists, were their families still alive? Was that their child? Was there anyone that didn't know where their family member was, and could use the solace of knowing their fate?

She decided, that she would try to find out. After all, if someone could throw them on a wild chicken chase through Westfall... they had to know the area, right?

[Bricu]

3/29

In the pre-dawn light, Bricu lights incense through the family's house in the Grizzly Hills, saying prayers of thanks to whatever spirit was listening. Before leaving for Stormwind, he left an offering for fox: A small, cooked piece of Shoveltusk flank.

By mid morning, on the plot of land Bricu and Threnn own, Bricu can be seen tilling soil and planting seeds. This lasts well into the afternoon.


Later that day, he can be found in the Pig and Whistle: holding court and cooking for patrons.

[Threnn]

((A quick reminder! If there's anything your characters have been doing to help in the search for Naiara, and you haven't let Bricu or I know, postify something here, drop either of us a PM or an in-game mail, or send us an email?

If it's possible to do it before RP night tomorrow (3/30), that would be awesome.

<3!))

[Windstar]

Star has been rather confused by missing out on important details (and is slightly distracted by other personal stuff), but she has been keeping an ear on her buzzbox, and is ready to come help (or just be a Comfort Kitty) if anyone needs her.

[Duugvilder]

(Note: This takes place just after the events of last Tuesday, when we Pitchblack et al discovered the bodies...)

Duugvilder Demonbane – surnamed in honor of the very Friends he is attempting to assist – sits at a long desk within the Mage Tower in Stormwind City. He has the recovered leaded vial, numerous sheets of parchment, quill and ink, and virtually every tool one would need to examine, analyze, and potentially reverse-engineer the contents of the vial. He is attempting to break down the liquid into its base components, but Duugvilder is having difficulty keeping his mind on his work. He is distracted, and that is leading to a near crippling frustration.

He listens to the death knight, Pauric, work on raising shades from the two adult corpses they discovered in Westfall, bodies left to lead the Bittertongues into believing that the kidnapped mother-in-law and caretaker are deceased. Bodies meant to bring Bricu and Threnn (now is not the time to linger on appellations) to the conclusion that Naiara, and, with her, all hope, is lost. Bodies that Duugvilder's heart, and hope, tell him are fakes. He hears the chants and uses tone and rhythm to focus his mind on the task at hand. But it is hard...

“What are you? What damned ingredients were used by cursed hand to birth you?”

It is a difficult task because Duugvilder is all too aware of a new emotion that he is feeling. It is the polar opposite of the joy he felt when the Gnome, Annimae, accept his offer to spend time together. This feeling is a burning pressure in his chest, threatening to explode and consume. It is a throbbing pain behind his eyes and a redness in his vision. It is the coppery taste of a bitten tongue or yanked tooth. It is horrible and Duugvilder isn't sure he wants to know the name of the feeling that he is sure guides the thoughts and deeds of the Lich King himself.

“You are reminiscent of a frostfire bolt and were originally seen in Icecrown Citadel, so your origins could be both magical and native to that region. I will know you, potion...”

Breakthroughs come slowly, as if the potion itself is resisting Duugvilder, and each setback causes the horrible emotion to grow. Time is of the essence, and if Duugvilder fails, his incompetence would mean the death of the Lady Thenia, her assistant, and the child Naiara.

Naiara...

The very thought of the beautiful daughter of his dear Friends strikes at the emotion that has been slowing Duugvilder's hand, as if the very name was a ward against it. Duugvilder remembers her on her father's knee, giggling and playing a game with Pauric, the rules of which only she knows. He wills himself to think of her look of sleepy joy when he finally gave the Bittertongues her Winter Veil gift – a sandbox spectral tiger. Within moments, Naiara has vanquished the horrible feeling in Duugvilder heart and mind and he is making remarkable progress in his work. Naiara has granted Duugvilder his second wind, and he will make use of it. He will repay the child with success...

* * * * *

Duugvilder is exhausted. His work, analyzing the potion's contents and origins, have taken their toll on him. The throbbing behind his eyes and tightness in his back whispers of the unnoticed hours he has spent at the desk. He half walks, half stumbles, into the room where Pauric is still preparing for the ritual to come. Although Duugvilder tries to be quiet and show respect for the intricacies of what is to come, Pauric hears him before he has stepped to far into the chamber.

“Gnome Duugvilder, I assume you have finished your work.”

Duugvilder nods, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I have, Pauric.”

“And are you satisfied with your findings?”

Duugvilder almost shakes his head while still rubbing his dry and heavy lids, but catches this childish act. “While I was not able to discover all of the ingredients, I have discovered information that will prove valuable to the Bittertongues and the rest of the Riders.”

Pauric does not ask the obvious question, and Duugvilder does not provide the answer. Instead he nods towards Pauric's work. “Would you like some assistance? I'm sure a second pair of hands will expedite your work...”

Pauric nods. “I appreciate and accept your offer, Duugvilder. I was about to lay down the runes when you entered. But I would like to ask you a question...”

Ah, here it comes, Duugvilder thinks. Pauric will ask, “What were your finding?” And I'll tell him, and then we will rush into battle and valor and strike down our foes, as we should have done in the first place. He prepares his best informative expression. “Ask away, Pauric.”

Pauric is expressionless as he points to Duugvilder's face. He voice denotes less of a question and more a statement of fact. “You are obviously feeling the effects of your work, Duugvilder. Your body language suggests weakness in your back, as well as head pain. But there is something else. Something more than the effects of time spent laboring over a desk. Something is troubling you. Are you well, Gnome Duugvilder?”

Duugvilder feels as if his stomach has dropped to between his knees. He knew that part of Pauric's military knowledge would be the ability to analyze a foe and detect weakness, but he never thought that the death knight could use his preternatural insight to look into the soul of a man. For a moment, Duugvilder considers telling a partial untruth to his Friend, reminding him of the missing child and their duty to the Bittertongues. But he was taught never to lie, and he knows that Pauric will see through him, and call him on his lie by omission. His shoulders slump as he whispers, “I am experiencing an emotion that is unfamiliar to me, Friend Pauric. A dark feeling, one I'm sure guides our foes...one in which I imagine they revel. I do not know the name of it, but I am scared and ashamed of it.”

Pauric is silent, but he raises an eyebrow. Not in judgment, Duugvilder knows, but in curiosity. “Describe it, Duugvilder. If I can assist you, I will.”

And Duugvilder tells his Friend. About how he wishes he could find the people who stole Naiara, and how he wishes only to extract vengeance on them and their friends and families and allies. He tells Pauric of exactly what he wishes to do to every inhabitant of Icecrown Citadel, of the pain and torture and death he wishes to inflict. He reveals the fantasy he has entertained, of dragging the Lich King's barely conscious body to the highest point of Northrend and placing a light feather within the armor and tossing the body to the ground below and slow-falling beside Arthas and striking him with frostfire bolt after frostfire bolt so he can feel the closest approximation of the potion and whispering, “It's a long, slow fall, King of Nothing, and I have mana to spare.”

He confesses all to Pauric, who looks upon him with neither disgust or sadness or judgment. And Duugvilder's closed eyes sting with exhaustion and tears and he reveals his guilt and shame over these dark feeling and wishes. And finally, Duugvilder runs out of words. His shoulders seem to slump again as he catches his breath and finally opens his eyes. And it takes Duugvilder a moment to realize that he is looking directly into Pauric's eyes. The death knight is kneeling before him so they are face to face and has a hand resting on the Gnome's shoulder. And Duugvilder stares in awe at the expression of...sadness? Sympathy? Empathy??? on Pauric's face.

“That emotion is rage, Duugvilder,” he says simply. “And while it is not exclusive to members of the Scourge, it can be terrifying to one such as yourself, to whom the feeling is new.”

Duugvilder soundlessly mouths the word, as if saying it aloud would conjure something horrible. But he knows that he is temporarily free of the feeling by dint of knowing this emotion. In one simple statement, Pauric has helped him identify this new foe, vanquish it (at least, temporarily, he knows), and absolve him of the sins his heart has committed. He nods to his Friend and whispers, “Thank you, Friend Pauric...”

The death knight stands. “Now, tell me of your findings, Duugvilder. I suspect that they are far more important than you let on.”

And although he is still exhausted, Duugvilder feels like himself again. “The potion is, for want of a better description, a magical grenade. It is meant to cause great amounts of splash damage. More than a simple fire powder explosive. It simultaneously burns and freezes everything it touches, be it flesh, wood, stone, or steel. It is, to understate the obvious, a terrible weapon in hands such as the Scourge's But that's not the shocking part...”

Duugvilder does not wait for the question, choosing to rush into it. “While I do not know all of the elements that make up such a fearsome thing, I know enough to state with authority that such a potion is both remarkably complex and hideously unstable. Carrying it around for too long could result in its involuntary activation. Which leads to two dire conclusions. One, that I was partially wrong in my assessment that it was created in Icecrown Citadel. That may be where its origins lie, where I originally saw it, and it is certainly true that it could be created there. But the specific potion used in Westfall could not have been created in Northrend. It is too unstable to try and travel over long distances, and trusting it to remain inert through a teleportation or portal spell would be foolishness. Which leads to my second conclusion.”

“And what is your second conclusion, Duugvilder?”

Duugvilder cannot hide the shock he still feels. “Such a potion requires a large alchemical laboratory to create. One that is both large enough to stock all of the ingredients required to make it...and close enough to allow for its transport to Stormwind City and Westfall. And there is only one location that has such a laboratory in all the eastern Kingdoms that fits such a description...”

Pauric nods, and Duugvilder knows he must complete the thought. The question Pauric asks is mere formality.

“And where is this large, local alchemical laboratory, Duugvilder?”

Duugvilder shakes his head. “We must finish the ritual. We must call upon these shades, if only to confirm what we already know. And we must do it soon. Because time is of the essence. If I'm right, and we have found Naiara's whereabouts as a result, we must get to the Bittertongues and tell them of our findings. Because Naiara must be freed from his grasp. We must save her from him, and we must do it yesterday...”

Duugvilder rushes into the room and attempts to lay down runes, but his hands are shaking. Pauric walks over to him and grabs him by his upper arms. “Duugvilder, I know you are concerned, but any mistakes could...”

“There's no time, Pauric!!! She may be with him!!! That child could be his prisoner!!!”

“Whose prisoner, Duugvilder?”

Duugvilder closes his eyes. “Ras Frostwhisper, Pauric. Whether your shades give us answers or don't, our next steps take us...to Scholomance.”

[Dravir]

Ritual was the beating heart of the Cult of the Damned. Ritual to raise the dead, ritual to create plague, ritual to communicate over distances and continue their vile mission. All such things required intricate steps of magic and prayer, disciplined focus and manipulation of energies. The binding of undead especially was a complicated matter. It could require years of study, and the necromantic energies that the summoner channeled could flay his soul, and corrupt his flesh. For the Lich King, the timeframe was inappropriate when concerning his new shock troops, and so his warlocks and necromancers had their minds shattered, so that each Death Knight could be imprinted with the knowledge of creating basic undead, the information branded into their minds.

So then did Pauric begin his work, aided by Gnome Duugvilder in the crafting of the necessary precautions. The horribly charred bodies of two women lay within his circle, the runes of power painted in a mixture of corpse dust and blood. The black pits of their burned out eyes glared accusingly at him as he prepared, drawing a larger circle beside them, labouriously painting the runes on the stone. Here the gnome worked in silence, liberally spreading the corpse dust in further patterns as directed. So much more complex, the processes involving shades. Creatures of wrath and rage, ghostly wisps, they were the spies and scouts of the Lich King's Scourge, requiring powerful magics to see or harm. For these things, a Death Knight was an inappropriate tool... but with Duugvilder to aid him, such creatures could be revealed. His hollow voice echoed in this quiet place, words from a dead language flowing from the knowledge scarred into his head. Rituals of binding, spells of summoning, hexes and curses that could inflict pain on the spirit as well as the body, all to be written into the structure, all to raise the chance of surviving the binding of the shades with a measure of sanity.

Kneeling before the bodies, he cleared his mind. In undeath, there was a connection still between the original creature, and the new being which emerged. In some, the link was strong, the new creature keeping its old body to inflict it's wrath with upon the living. For others, it was tenuous, a fragile string stretched tight. So it was with shades, and wraiths, and similar such incorporeal abominations. A Knight who followed the Unholy Path would be able to follow such a link with ease, engaging the masterless creature in a violent battle of wills before enslaving it, and summoning it to his side. Pauric, though, followed the Paths of Blood and Frost, and he knew no more of the necromantic arts than was burned into his mind at his own blasphemous rebirth. This would be a task, to travel down this line to the other end, while Duugvilder stood sentinel over his body, in case the ritual summoned something other than what they sought.

With the undead, lay the knowledge of their first life, their true names, and most importantly, what part they played in the disappearance of Bricu Bittertongue child. For this, he would test the limits of his ability, and send his mind down the way to bind these undead. "Remain cautious, Gnome Duugvilder. I begin." With a nod, the Duugvilder stepped away, apprehension in his eyes, as the death knight bowed his his head.

"The Way is open." Pauric intoned, as he spread his arms over the circle. "In Death, all things are revealed. In rebirth, all things made equal. The soul will wander, but there is only one flesh for it. I follow the path, from flesh to soul." His hand strayed to the athame by his side, bringing the curved blade of his bared arm. Without hesitation he slashed across the cool flesh, thick and cold blood oozing out to spatter the floor. The runes pulsed with unearthly light, the whispers of the dead scratching at his mind. Power crackled over the charred corpses, filling their eyes and mouths with emerald fire. He closed his eyes as his other senses awakened. There, before him, the tenuous link from husk to soul, a fragile line stretched over great distance. A shining thread, far to the north-northeast. Without pause, he grasped it in his mind, following down the path. Ethereal winds rushed by, a sense of motion and a lurching halt, before he was rewarded with the slow, methodical pulse, the beat of two sources of unholy energy. A rank smell of death suddenly pervaded the chamber, rot and embalming fluids over mouldering bone.

The words crawled and skittered past Pauric's lips, sounds not meant for the natural world to hear, and something washed back down the connection, rage and hate and fear, building as crackles of energy danced through the empty circle. Weary as he was, Duugvilder stood ready, a arcane shroud drawing around him as the arcs of power grew brighter. A terrible screeching filled the chamber, as the death knight rose to his feet, taking up the rune blade from it's sheath at his hip. The final, horrible sounds were ripped from the humans throat, and he opened his eyes. "By bone, by flesh, by soul, I call and I bind you!" he screamed, slamming the blade into the floor to the hilt, and the world lit up with a terrible flash.

Gnome and human rubbed aching eyes, their sight recovering slowly, to look on at the vortex trapped within the circle. Two forms of mist raged within its boundaries, two sets of disembodied eyes flashing red and blue out to their captors. Pauric remained on one knee, his mind focused against the terrible assault of the creatures fighting the binding. "Ask your questions quickly, Gnome Duugvilder. I will not hold them long."

Duugvilder Demonbane squared his shoulders. For Naiara, for his Friends Bricu and Threnn, he would face these creatures without fear. Their eyes focused on him as he stepped to the edge of the circle. "What were your names in life, foul creatures?"

They hissed and spat, their misty forms boiling and storming. Their rage was palpable, the blind fury of helplessness. "We were Marisol Brilone and Tabetha McLaughlin, fool mortal!"

The names meant nothing to Duugvilder, save to cement the relief in his heart that these were indeed not the women that Bricu had feared, that his mother in law and her servant still lived... but that lead him to an equally important question. "What of the babe that was buried with you in Westfall?"

A terrible sound echoed in the chamber. Their laughter, like the wind that brought plague, or the gasping sigh of a dying man, sapped at the soul, driving daggers of ice into ones resolve. Duugvilder steeled himself, standing tall with his staff to support him. "Tell me! Who was the child buried with you!"

On his knees, Pauric spoke a word, and the runes blazed brighter still, the shades laughter changing to screeches of pain and rage. "Joseph Geralds! The infant was Joseph Geralds!"

As the runes dimmed, Pauric sagged, suddenly breathing hard. The undead's assault continued, and parts of the circle began to blacken, the wards disintegrating before their combined force. The gnome collected himself, and shouted as the sound of the boiling mist rose. "Who commanded you to do this?"

Laughter rolled forth again, as the circle burned out and went dark. The death knight slumped to the floor, the hilt of the rune blade in his hand smoking. Even as he called on his magics to defend himself, the mist surged forth, a black and silver wave to crash over him. In his head, the shades voices cackled. Mother did. Mother asked us to. And now you suffer, mortal, for interfering with her!


"Gnome Duugvilder. Do you yet live?" Pauric's quiet voice intruded on his pleasant rest. What a silly question. Why should he be concerned about his life? He was simply having a nap. And what was Pauric doing in his room? With a sigh, Duugvilder opened his eyes, and sat up. "Of course I live, Friend Pauric. Why should... oh."

While his eyes opened, the rest of his body refused to obey, limbs leaden, muscles frozen. The fleeting image of that terrible wave of mist returned to him, with the knowledge that the stone ceiling high above was, in fact, not the ceiling of his chambers. A note of concern entered his voice. 'Friend Pauric, what occured? Why can I not move my limbs?"

"I lost control of the Shades, Gnome Duugvilder. They appear to have fled, but not before assaulting us with a curse of weakness. I am also unable to move." The death knight sounded exasperated, somewhere off to the left. "Fortunately, such curses, if they have not killed us, are unlikely to last more than a day. We will be mobile again soon, after which we must find Bricu Bittertongue. The shades, we summoned, were indeed far to the north. From the brief impressions I received, Scholomance is indeed our target."

[Ceil]

(This takes place directly after Naira's rescue, after all return to the Bittertongues' home safely.)


The deep forests of the Grizzly Hills weren't Hyjal, but they were close enough for Ceil's sake on this, of all nights. She paced in a thicket, her heavy boots cracking and snapping twigs underfoot in a way that would have made her father frown to hear it. There was an itch in her fingers for a cigarette, something strong and smooth to help the fury coursing through her ease away like so much smoke on the wind, but she didn't dare attempt to light one - her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold the unsheathed sword straight. The blade wavered and wobbled at her side as she paced amid gnarled, mutilated logs and young saplings with their branches already hacked off by the rune-blessed blade.

There was one voice running through her head, making her temples pound, the echoes of it driving her to whirl and attack the unfortunate saplings in a whirl of bladework.

"Uthas...yer welcome there."

Bricu's voice, strained with tears and emotions, swept with relief for the safe return of the babe.

"Yeh've lit the fires. Tha's all yeh kin do. Time ta go. Here's the part where yeh walk out glumly."

Bricu's voice again, telling her to get out. Telling her to leave Tarquin's bedside. Bricu's voice telling her she could do nothing more than light fires like a servant.

"A fucking servant. He's welcome here, and I'm no better then a servant," she hissed softly to herself; quite as she could stand to be. The Bittertongues' home was just barely in eye sight and ear shot, for though she was thrown out, she couldn't let herself go far at all. She'd threatened to sleep on the steps, but Bricu'd already treated her like a servant, she refused to act like his dog as well. However, she trusted no one to protect the house with the precious lives inside, so near eye sight and ear shot she stayed. Despite Bricu's ire for her, she had to try. Always, she had to try. That was the whole damned point and as the days since her return from the Northsea passed, she clung to it with growing desperation.

She cursed roundly - various languages twining about in a fine weave of obscenity that touched on Bricu Bittertongue, That man, Tarquin for getting himself so wounded, but focusing the most strongly on herself, for all the things she wished she'd said. Her jaw ached from how tightly it was still clenched, as all the things she wished she'd brought up threatened to burst forth in a torrent that no one would ever hear but the saplings bleeding green in the moonlight.

I held you, Bricu Bittertongue. I held you while you wept for them, for the child before she breathed, for Threnn while she slept. I held you when I had every right and every reason to walk away. I held you while you wept and while you feared, and never did I think you the worse for doing it.

I risked my life for Tarq, and he for I, so many damn times I don't even bother remembering them any longer. I proved myself time and time and time again, until there was nothing so silly as proving ourselves to each other. Back to back when all the chips were down and we bloody well returned from Northrend, that first time, together. Together. We had nothing when we came back, and we built something. We put everything we had into it. Into each other. I did it because I loved him. Because I love him. And he couldn't even be bothered to ask for my goddess-be-damned aid. Couldn't even be arsed to tell me you were going to go out and get yourself stabbed like an amateur, my dear heart?

I know all the things That Man did to countless many and I was a fool, desperate and childish, to aid him in any of it. But he hurt me just the same, with that same abominable love - I know the pain of what he did just as well as anybody. I understand it. How is that He is allowed redemption?

And yet.

And yet.

"Uthas...yer welcome there." Bricu's voice, laden with emotion.

"Here's the part where yeh walk out glumly." Tarquin pale, white skin on white sheets.

She flung the blade to the ground, let it fall amid the pine needles. As she stood and shook and seethed in a anger dark enough to mimic her family name, Ceil Nightfury realized something. That anger, that fury, that rage - she felt it. Felt it strong and true and deep and like wildfire burning uncontrollably through her veins.

She surged forward with mad swiftness and retrieved her sword from ground. Without pausing to wipe the sap and needles from the blade, she proceeded to let the course of her anger run out in the deep forests, destroying just as thoroughly as a wildfire.

The next morning, there was a very large and haphazardly stacked pile of logs and kindling left outside of the Bittertongue homestead, to light their hearths.