Wildfire Riders

((For realz this time.))


Despite the priests’ prattling on to the contrary, patience was not a virtue. Silence was. Since the Northern War had begun, silence was a commodity no longer in favor; it mattered not to the Undead whether one could hear the boats coming and going. It mattered not if the forges could be heard day and night, or the bellows of the muster yards could be gleaned by a listening ear. Silence was lost in the din of the war effort, and the war effort had no time for those who made silence their business; if you could lift a blade, you were in the fight. Unless, of course, you could lift a hammer, thread a needle, or swing a pick.

Or steer boats full of questionable cargo to uncertain destinations.

War was good for the smuggling business. Four words could make a dockmaster look the other way, and it was much cheaper to do than to beg him off with coin. Since the war had begun, the Brotherhood of Shipwrights and Longshoremen had turned from a small shipping guild into the cornerstone firm of the Harbor District. Now that the war was over, the profits were made hand over fist by charging premium fees for hauling passengers to the homelands and for ferrying the hauls of the Northern bounty. Anything else they ferried was strictly Guild Business.

Guild Business did not mean it was kept from the ears of folk, though - not from those who knew what to listen for, and where to listen for it. Street rats and copper-nabbers were of the type, that sniveling shifty pack of folk who never amounted to much and never made it further than two streets from where they were born. From them for the right price, information was bought and sold faster than a loaf of bread. For someone with the right mindset and the right ambition, it was a buyers’ market.

And that is what led an unremarkable fellow to be folded up in an alleyway like a thrown-out drunk, lying in a heap of rags and smelling like two weeks of chamber pots and rotten food. Here, between the taverns and bawdy houses that kept the working sailors drunk and satisfied for the ships they serviced, one couldn’t pick out the moans of the injured from the caterwauling of the uninjured. If Deke and Strom noticed, they didn’t care; big men, with tattoos of loose women and fine ships decorating their bare torsos, they moved from the lightening throng of the Harbor District streets into the alleyway without concern. These were Brotherhood, doing the work that the Guild had paid them for.

“Light Deke, but I’ll be glad when we’s got this job done,” Strom muttered, shifting the shared weight of a strongbox between them. “Oi haven’t had a good drink all day, an’ I’ll be damned if I sleep another night in this town without a worn out skirt beside me.”

“You said it,” Deke huffed, lifted a bracered arm up to wipe his sopping, stinking brow. “Wot you figger Jivs’ got ‘at’s so impor’ant, annawey? We’s been hauling tha Northman’s Fury back an’ forth ta Light-Damned Northrend for three full-oan weeks, an’ if I hear one more o’those blood-be-damned Kalamari--”

“It’s Kel’dorei,” Strom corrected.

“Oh fuck’s sake, Strom, why’s you gotta be correctin’ me?”

“’Cause if ‘ey here you call ‘em ‘Kalamari’ they’re gonna go invitin’ ya ta bed ta slit yer pecker six ways down tha middle, ‘at’s why.”

“Ah fuck ‘em, annahway.”

The pair were halfway down the alley, passing behind the Dancing Sirra’s with their cargo when the backdoor to the whorehouse opened. Deke and Strom expected it to be the eunuch who was usually on guard there, checking the back for who the hell was making all the ruckus. What they didn’t expect was one of Dancing Sirra’s finest skirts to be peeking her tits out the door at them.

“Who’s makin’ the ruckus, for fuck’s sake?” the redhead demanded, not even bothering to lace her corset back up from its half-undone state. Red hair spilling down around neck was enough to make her jaw-droppingly distracting.
“We is!” Strom replied all too proudly, sticking out his own considerable chest and dropping his end of the strongbox. Deke yelped as the weight on his end doubled, and the strongbox hit the cobblestones with a clattering thump.

The skirt eyed him up and down with hands on her well-shaped hips. “Who’re you, Wrynn’s cabin boy? Me girls’re tryin’ ta work in here an’ can’t get ah good fuckin’ oan with you makin’ all ‘is racket!”

“Well, I can think o’one way to shut me up,” Strom said, struttin’ his strapping self up to the woman.

A wry smile crossed the mistress’ mouth. “Well, maybe we can bargain--” she began, leaning forward as he came close to stroke a long red nail under his chin temptingly. Unfortunately, as she did so, the coin purse tucked professionally into her corset chose that moment to go popping right out into the street, spilling its contents.

“Oh Light, now you done it,” the woman sighed. Strom wasn’t stupid - he got to picking the coins up right away, in an effort to score a discount…and to palm a few for himself. Deke, on the other hand, was gawking at the mistress’ chest, hoping to see something else pop out for free.

“Now now, help the lady with her coins,” a voice hissed in Deke’s ear; a hiss followed by a wet thump of cold metal right behind his ear. Deke’s knees hit the cobblestones like a sack of bricks, and his thick gut heaved him over the strongbox like a protective shield of lard.

“Tha he--” Strom began, turning enough to catch the cold but of a dagger’s pommel right above the ear. It was enough to stun him a moment, making one eye roll up in a creepy manner and the side of his face to go slack, but he was still turning and stumbling towards the direction his attacker had come from.

“Oh for Light’s sake--” the voice hissed, and in a flash of shadow was behind the strong man and yanking back, as if pulling out hair. Strom choked and gasped, clawing at his neck, but in short order his vision blurred and he was unconscious.

Not a scream was heard, or a foul word uttered. Not even a slamming of a door. The man that belonged to the voice stayed out of the shaft of light that came through the opened doorway, where the pale-skinned redhead now carefully clambered down the short steps to retrieve her gold.

“Well, ‘at was a show,” she said quietly.

“Figured I would return it in kind for that which you have given on occasion.” She giggled quietly, and it was like the sound of a merry brook bubbling along.

“Wot you gonna do with these Dock Boys now?” she asked as the shadow heaved Deke off of the strongbox and onto his back. The shadow stopped, shifting his attention back and forth between the two briefly before crouching and fiddling with the strongbox. “First things first,” he said, half as if to himself. In moments there was a click and a creak, and the strongbox was opened, its contents removed with deft fingers. “Now, the show.” With a self-satisfied chuckle, he set to work hauling the lumbering bodies just-so with deceptive upper body strength.

Marta had known the man for a few years off and on, and she had long since discovered he was full of surprises. She never knew his name - he always gave her a different one - but she knew what he did, and she knew it was best to keep in his good graces. She’d seen him do worse, Light save her.

Tonight appeared to be a bloodless night, though she wouldn’t thank the Light for it. There were thumps and clinks, and the wet, meaty slap of heavy flesh on heavy flesh. By the time she had filched all the coin to be had from the two strongarms’ own coin purses, the shadow had moved them to the edge of the alleyway and just barely into the moonlight - enough that what could be gleaned from the scene could be gleaned and make the gleaner want to heave his own stomach into the deep briny sea. He rubbed something into their gums with thick gloved fingers, then turned to divvy up the tale with Marta.

“Oh, Light man, haven’t ya any decency fer upright folk? An’ how d’ya expect ta be getting’ away wit’ ‘at? They’ll kill ya fer sure without even thinkin’ about tha box!” she whispered fierce.

The man looked back at his handywork - all three hundred pounds of naked abandon poised provacatively on top of each other in the pale moonlight. It was art, to be sure, though not art anyone could be made to buy. “Lass, by the time they wake, there’ll be a wee Gnome busybody flashin’ pictures and writin’ up tales for the Bugle. You can trust me on tha’.”

She shook her head disbelievingly, but in the back of her mind she knew he was right. That was the trouble with him - he most usually was. “So was it worth it?” she asked smokily as he hovered just out of the light, but near enough that she could feel his breath.

“As alweys,” he whispered low, and sent a shiver up her spine.

“Ya know, for half a what you paid, ya coulda tupped me ‘till Lothar came home,” she said teasingly.

“I’ll remember ‘at for when next we bargain,” he replied knowingly. Damn the man! With a deft hand he slipped a Lordaeron Crown as cold as Icecrown into the opening in her corset. “I’ll be back fer tha’,” he said, and in a breath of night vanished from beside her.

Marta let out a wistful sigh as she slunk back into the doorway. There was work to be done, after all.

Gillam de Markos had a thought that was quite in agreement as he padded across the rooftops of Stormwind.

The clock tower in New Stormwind struck midnight as the unabashed thief padded his way across the rooftops. Many a carouser and guardsman were still out in the night, but Gillam had researched his path and coined a guardsman here or there to drink away his shift instead of maintaining an uprightly manner. His path was winding and doubled back on itself once or twice, only as precision and care demanded. He had not lived this long in his chosen profession for nothing. Besides, he had time in abundance at the moment. Light knew there would be hell to pay come dawn, but he was always late to reimburse his debtors.

It was the Palace District that was his destination, amongst well-guarded parapets and posh apartments that catered to the country lord and lady visiting the city from their estates. The best vipers’ den is always right underfoot, he had been told once. Thusfar, the advice had worked…on occasion.

Shimmying down from the sloping blue-tile to the slim balcony of wrought-iron, the casement was gently raised and in moments he had entered as if through the door. The dim confines were tidily kept and well furnished, with modest gilt and gilding, woods polished to a fine glow. It was not a habitual place of rest for him, but…the task at hand required a tool of finer precision than usual.

With deft hands and a modest prior knowledge of the place, flint and tinder were sparked to life and lit the fine oil lamp on the table. The accoutrements of the room were thus fully illuminated, revealing to him as had been done many times before the spoils of his profession. It was not an overly-gilded affair, nor dazzled with rare jewels and gaudy baubles. No, it was a simple yet spacious room with a newly-hung tapestry that depicted a re-written tale of battles still remembered in the minds of the common people. The Silvermoon-crafted table and chairs sat across from a massive Dun Algaz bed, its thick headboard carved from timbers surrounding the great Loch to the north. The bedsheets were fine woven silk, the lamps well-tended silver. He did not buy often, but when he did he paid handsomely for that which he desired. It was a life, of sorts.

The one oddity of the rooms was the plain wooden vanity that sat bulkily against one wall. It was constructed with hidden hinges and folding panels, so that it might pack up and travel great distances with great ease. Upon its folded-out and well-supported panels were jars of powders and creams, paints and rouges that might usually belong to those that performed for the balls and galas that filled high society life. Various wigs and implements of facial hair were carefully tacked to wooden spheres, varying across the spectrum of style and arrangement that was current fashion or belonged to the downtrodden. They came in quite handy in his line of work.

Looking around as he did every time he returned to his apartment after an evening’s work, Gillam sighed with a hint of regret. “Home sweet ‘ome,” he murmured to no-one.

“I had wondered if you did that when no one was looking,” no-one replied.

Gillam spun with a dagger flashing out of thin air to face the voice, and found a pitted but well-kept sword pointing right at his jugular. His first attention was on the broken-nosed brute who stood before him, one deft enough not to sound like a bull in a china cabinet when he moved. Briefly Gillam sized him up before averting his attention to the source of the statement that had thusfar landed him in quite a pickle.

She was a wiry woman, with raven black hair spilling gaudily down her back. Wings of grey touched her temples, giving her a beautifully understated air of grace and command. Her face was strong and proud, well defined as ‘handsome’ rather than pretty. She was not fully cognizant of it, but in the moonlight with her hazel eyes catching the stars through the window, she was the most beautiful woman Gillam had ever had the pleasure of bedding.

“Jezel,” Gillam smiled awkwardly. “Lilly-o’light, if I would have known you were in Stormwind, I would have sent a carriage,” he said, with promises of appeasement and enticement all but staining the fine Gilnean rug.

“Baroness de Wenholm,” she corrected coldly, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Don’t you dare try to weasel your way around me, boy.”
Gillam had to disagree with her assessment; granted, he was still her younger by a few years - enough to more thoroughly enjoy a rendezvous with one such as she - he was as yet no spring chicken himself.

“I swore that I would find you and make you pay for making such a fool of me,” she continued coolly, though he could tell from her words she was distracted by the sweet taste of vengeance to be had. “Long did I ponder on what would be better; to skin you alive myself, or to let you hang from the parapets like the lowly thief you are. But then I thought better of it; you are of some use in places where there is no audience.” A wry smile flashed across her face, but it was not one which Gillam wished to see at the present moment.

“Get your man here to set aside his blade and I would be more than willing to attend such a performance, Madame,” he instead replied, his tone like that of a well-oiled blade sliding through skin.

She eyed him a long moment, almost considering. “Perhaps after. But first, we must…‘bargain’, no?”

The sitting room door opened fully, and meekly Marta stepped through, pointedly not looking at him. A pity, that; it’d be a shame to have to leave a pair like that lying sun-up in a gutter for the Dwarves to stumble over.

“Mistress Adenid has been very forthcoming about your…habits. Some of which I was already aware. Others of which are, shall we say, ill-befitting a man of Alterac? Oh, do not worry - your thieving bothers me little. But your…quest…to deceive the world into believing you are more than what you are can not be tolerated. That is why I won’t skin you.” the brute lowered his blade slowly, though rather disappointedly. Gillam was eager to break the man’s nose again. “No, I’ll hurt you far worse than that.” Opening a leather case on the table, she pulled out and unfolded a modest sheaf of ornately written documents, tossing them for him to catch.

Gillam began to thumb through them, then stopped in astonishment and began at the beginning, thumbing through them more meticulously. As he read, his face grew pale, and his jaw dropped ever wider.

“Yeh feckin’ cun’,” he breathed in his native tongue, looking up to stare at her hard.

“I know everything,” Jezel de Wenholm said with finality, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

Gillam didn’t realize he was sitting until his ass hit the chair seat hard. For years he had meticulously and carefully stolen only what he needed; be it documents, keys, identities, lives…each with a careful, methodical, well-analyzed approach. He had secreted away a half-dozen names and accounts with banking houses that had no pull in the world of high society, and some that did. Through that he had built a vast network of contacts and resources, all of which had not known his name. He had not done it for power, or to take over anything but his own life.

“Everyone you worked for. Everyone you worked over,” she began, taking slow and measured steps toward him. “Every writ, every lein, every claim of property, I have found and I have taken. If it could be bought, it was sold. If it could not be sold, it was taken. If it could not be taken, it was burnt to ashes.” She stopped right next to him, not looking at him but instead through the pains of glass that looked out over a sleeping Stormwind. “I have taken your name and spread it out for the rats and filth to gobble up hungrily.” She reached out and traced a well-cared for fingernail across his jawline teasingly. “There are two ways to escape this. You return to me, humbled. Or I let Vath tear out your heart.”

Gillam got up with a leaden feet, hands shaking. He looked around, seeming lost for a moment, then spotted the pitcher of water on the table next to the lamp. Unhurriedly, he stumbled for it. Vath, the Baroness and Marta all three watched him warily, but Jezel motioned Vath to stillness when Gillam picked up the pitcher and poured himself a glass of water.

He took a long drink, draining the glass and wishing it were poison. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said with strain in his voice making him hoarse. “A hard one indeed. I should have listened to the old saying. A woman scorned…” he began, and with a hand flashign out like lightning, the lamplight was dash and the flame snuffed out. There was a scream, a shout and a cry of alarm, followed by two wet thunks and a burbling sound.

Jezel remained perfectly still in front of the window, the moonlight glinting off a bared blade she knew very well how to use.

“…is a woman loved,” the whisper touched her ear, and then all she knew was darkness.

Gillam looked around quickly at the scene; if what she said was completely true and not a stack of well-tailored lies, then he had little time. She wouldn’t have brought just the three of them; there were undoubtedly well-paid-off guards waiting in the alleyway for the word. The light going out might have already given them alarm.

Moving quickly, Gillam found the sheaf of papers and stuffed them in the satchel, taking it up and looping them around his neck. He retrieved his throwing knives from the two corpses cooling in the doorway, making a point of flipping Marta onto her back and cutting her corset open. It wasn’t the Dwarven District, but it would do well enough.

Returning to the table, he dumped out the lamp’s oil across the well-polished wood, then took up the flint and tinder. Taking one last look around, he huffed and then struck the sparks. The table caught in moments, and in moments more the apartment was filled with billowing smoke.

As plated boots clattered up the stairway followed by shouts for the firebuckets, Gillam gritted his teeth and took a flying leap through the fine glass window.