Wildfire Riders

Braxton watched the ship glide into the Stormwind Harbor, riding on the ghost of a western wind that fluttered through his thick mane of almost entirely gray hair. It was a kal'dorei ship, all sleek angles and low decks; it floated and danced delicately over waves, instead of plowing through them with the strong-headed dominance of human engineering. The busy deckhands were primarily women, tall and wiry with plum or berry skin weathered by their work. They darted around the ship with gliding footsteps and swaying bodies, moving with the same easy looking grace as their craft; Braxton, however, didn't care to pause and admire their forms. He kept his eyes alert, scouring the ship for his target.

The captain, one of the few kal'dorei to look her age - and that age had to have been old - barked something that sounded, to Braxton's ears, like a crow shrieking archaic poetry. Jumping to the order, two of the deckhands carefully extended the ship's ramp. With a gentle clunk, the ramp hit the boards of the dock. A passenger was immediately off the deck and onto the ramp, rushing towards solid land. Braxton smiled to himself as he caught sight of her.

Even without her speedy escape from the gently bobbing elvin craft, his target was highly noticeable; a head shorter than the other kal'dorei women that surrounded her, and dressed not in feathers, furs, and leaves, but in a nearly human fashion. Her smartly laced tunic, closely tailored breeches and boots that had to have been intended for a horse rider (and not of the type of rider she once associated with) set her apart from the various other elvin folk exiting the ship behind her. Braxton was already sighing to himself at the state of her; her hair was a tangled mess, she hadn't bothered hiding the two wickedly curved blades sheathed on her also dangerously curved hips, and the way she tilted her chin back to display both the eye-patch rakishly set over her right eye and the sigil tattooed across her throat, that of a staring eye, was entirely too obvious. The girl was clearly pleased to be back to Stormwind at first blush of The City's charm, and possibly even more pleased at the way the crowds were already smelling the danger of this particular set of identifiers, and moving wisely away from her.

Braxton Sullivan, however, was fain to work on (and with) far more dangerous ventures than this elf-girl, on a very regular basis. He was, in a word, unimpressed.

He dropped into the crowd, pacing himself to a simple stroll; a middle-aged businessman with hair graying before was strictly naturally necessary, just out to enjoy the sights and sounds of the bustling Harbor. His target didn't make it difficult to be shadowed, the thatch of her green hair was bright amidst the populace, and a mixture of her demeanor and her blades kept the crowd from pressing as close to her as it pressed to Braxton's own far more unassuming person. She began to mount the steep steps leading up to The City proper and Braxton followed slowly behind, taking the stairs with laborious precision. This was, he was loathe to admit, only partially an act; though his continued service to his city and Kingdom kept him healthy enough shape, he felt the twinges of age through his knees first and foremost. These pains were the legacy of too many hard falls during brawls and struggles, too many nights of surveillance spent kneeling in narrow, unobtrusive locations, too many years of being an always consummate Professional.

His target crested the steep stairs and came out at street level, pausing for a long moment to simply look at the cobbled road and the canal quietly flowing, and to listen to the clop of hooves and chime of church bells announcing dinner-time. Braxton's stomach grumbled in sympathy for the time, but he ignored it; this would not be the first time he'd missed a meal with his family for the sake of his profession. He didn't allow himself to stop and watch his target - many young professionals gave themselves away by matching their movements too closely to that of their targets. Braxton instead continued on, towards the young elf, prepared to pass her, if need be. By the time they were nearly shoulder to shoulder, she began walking again, cutting north towards the Cathedral District.

Braxton was readily prepared for her to move in such an unlikely direction - anyone who spent much time in Stormwind knew it was almost always a better idea to cut through districts and quarters than to try and navigate the canals; walking through broad avenues and twisting alleys didn't come with the risk of getting shoved into water of questionable cleanliness with every passing merchant's cart or noble's grand steed. He wasn't sure, though, why his target meandered onto a narrow neighborhood lane that ran along one of the sides of the Cathedral, a lane he was thought was mostly occupied by dedicated priests, paladins and those who greatly valued their peace and quiet. Braxton was fairly certain those type of folk weren't the type his target often socialized with, but after so many years in The Service, he was prepared for many a surprise. Braxton noticed the turn of her head as she examined a specific townhouse with lingering glance that was deeper than a cursory assessment. He looked over the unassuming building more subtly, using peripheral vision honed sharp after many long years of trying not to get caught staring, but the home didn't even seem occupied. There was a stack of mail tied up in twine near the front door and no light shone from windows that seemed dusty even from the distance of the street.

The elf-girl didn't stop walking, so neither did Braxton. He was going at a slower pace than his target, however, and she picked up her pace once she passed the empty townhouse. Her boots made soft sounds on the well-groomed cobblestones as she walked along the curve of the lane, a curve that lead behind the Cathedral itself. As distance opened between the two of them again, his target moved pass the curve and out of sight faster than Braxton's pace, and he sighed inwardly. Always inwardly, because even when one assumes the game is given up, admitting it out-loud is like holding out your neck for the blade's bite. Braxton wasn't one to make assumptions.

He stepped past the curve. The lane narrowed into something that was practically an alley, probably just a shortcut for those needing to get in and out of the Cathedral quickly. The Cathedral's stately old wall braced one edge of the alley, while the other was one of Stormwind's defensive walls, one of the towering displays of artifice and stubborn determination to keep the jewel in the Wrynns' crown intact, this time, even at the expense of the masons who sweated and bled for their craft and Stormwind's security. Lining the defensive wall were crates and cartons, stacks of detritus and supplies in ramshackle chaos. His target was nowhere to be seen, but Braxton was prepared for this turn of events, as well.

There was silence in the alley while he reached calmly under his waistcoat and rifled for something. As he searched, no sound broke this silence, but Braxton knew what was coming by virtue of pure experience; no matter how good his target was, Braxton had learned that experience trumped brash skill over and over and over, so long as one never became set in their ways. And Braxton had very specific insurance against becoming set in his ways.

He had the black leather wallet out and hanging open above his shoulder, reversed so the signet mounted inside could be seen, long before his target appeared at his back to shove the knife in her hand between his shoulders, long before she even had the sharp blade close enough to touch the finely tailored wool of his waistcoat. They stood without words as he waited very patiently for her single eye to scour the signet. The only sound Braxton noticed was his own breathing, in and out, nice and calm, but very audible compared to the elf-girl's utter lack of sound.

The signet was a fairly simple thing, but rarely seen in Stormwind or any other city; the insignia of SI:7 was not often carried upon an agent's person and for good reason. The fact he felt confident enough to carry around the city told the elf-girl something, and the fact he knew he had to carry it to convince her told them both something else entirely. Braxton's arm remained steady, the wallet hanging open without motion, just before her face. After a moment as long as she'd taken to look over Stormwind, Braxton could feel his target step back from his person. When he turned to look at her, she stood with her hands empty at her sides, as if there'd never been a knife intended for his beating heart.

Ceil Nightfury met his eyes with what he read with as a struggle, curiously. They looked at each other for a moment, before Braxton gave a smile - warm, sincere, and welcoming enough. She didn't return it, though it made her quirk an eyebrow.

"Well played, Mistress Nightfury," Braxton said in a jovial tone, letting himself sound clearly amused and certainly not irritated, but also not sarcastic or mocking. He knew that very often in their line of work these were fine lines to play. His target gave what would usually be considered a smirk, but on her it looked more like a lazy grin that didn't exactly reach her eye.

"Ceil. There's never been a Mistress Nightfury, and I'd rather not start now. And 'twasn't well played in the least, 'twas an amateur's trick. I'll wager you know that, though, Agent...?" She quirked her other eyebrow, letting her eye move from his to look him over in a close and obvious fashion. Such an intimately intense look over from his target may have thrown other men off their game, but Braxton wasn't swayed, not even when her eye meandered back to meet his own. He simply kept his smile, which was now inoffensively bland.

"Sullivan."

Her reaction tickled him, though he didn't let it show. Her quirked eyebrows skyrocketed and she looked him over again, sharply and quickly, then looked over the shadows and crates and detritus around him, instinctively. She was controlled enough not to place her hands directly onto the hilts of her sheathed blades, but he did notice the minute twitch of her fingers.

"Funny, that," she replied smoothly, recovering seamlessly from her surprise. "I know an Agent Sullivan, and unless the Service's budget for disguises has grown over the last quarter year, and unless he's slapped that ever present grin from his silly face, you're not him."

"Ah, that's right," Braxton offered uselessly, nodding. "You, of course, are assigned to be working under my son, James. I'm Braxton Sullivan, Miss Ceil."

"And it's such a pleasure," she muttered, clearly disliking this form of address but not bothering to waste the time to attempt to correct him again. Braxton decided on the spot to never call her anything else, despite the scores of names, titles and aliases lining the notes of her file in the Service's archive. "I...hadn't expected to be met at the docks, and certainly not followed within my first afternoon back to the City," she finally said, voice a mixture of displeasure and slight offense.

"Though, Miss Ceil, you have a contract and are an official and legal--" he stressed this term just slightly, to test its effect, and was rewarded. Her displeasure grew, evidenced by the smirk fading from her plush lips. A frown turned them thin. "--agent of SI:7, you certainly can't be expected to be aware of all of our policies and operations standards. After all, it takes most of our agents a few years of training to learn those, and you've been working ever so hard in Kalimdor for the past three months."

Ceil stared at Braxton a moment, then sighed, letting her displeasure flow away. Braxton noted she let it go too easily, and it was obvious to him, after a moment's reflection, that the elf-girl's unhappiness hadn't reached her eye, either. Her eye remained austere above her very mobile, very expressive features, the only flaw in a very well rehearsed and finely acted piece of theatre.

"You really are Sullivan's father, aren't you? Fine, then, I'll remember that it's a standard to waste time and shadow one of your own when you could be doing something far more useful with your time," she replied with little to no actual rancor or hostility. Braxton could tell she was only going through the motions, her ire banished and her banter mostly habit. He strengthened the warmth of his smile and saw her relax a trifle. It wasn't anything that would have been at all noticeable to most folk, but Braxton, as always, had experience on his side. Spending so many years around the oft-threatened and the oft-threatening had given him a special and particular sense of mood.

"Shadowing you is fairly useful to my time, particularly since welcoming agents back to the City is something of my only job. I'm semi-retired, you see, and James has told me so much about you," he said with a hint of an avuncular, sympathetic chuckle in his voice, letting the implication fall bare in a charming, self-referential manner. It was always best to lay these things out, especially to a girl (woman, really, but it was hard for Braxton to think of her as a woman grown, with such tangled hair and such a rebellious attitude) who obviously had no hesitation about confronting the awkward or uncomfortable, if for no other reason than to gain the upper-hand in any situation at all.

While it wasn't much of a gambit, it still paid off. There was a smile as ghostly as the wind her ship rode in on. "One day when you're very drunk, and I'm very drunk, you'll have to tell me what he's said," she sniffed without any sincere malice. "Unless there's something more to this shakedown, you can tell me more about policy on the way back to Old Town. I haven't any reason to stay in this dreary district any longer."

Ceil started off without hesitation, though she walked past Braxton at a slow enough pace he could easily match her gait, her long strides shortened to match his own. For this, he was pleased, for all of the walking over cobblestone and wooden dock had started to make his legs ache, from old ankles to old knees. He walked with her, trying not to dwell on the pain, and instead noticing how though she was obviously fighting it, Ceil looked over her shoulder. She was staring, despite the curve of the lane that hid it, toward the direction of that empty home. She looked not like she wanted to, but like it was a compulsion; the geas written across her face, reaching even into her single, steady eye.

Old Town spread out under Desario d'Archacon's window like a whore with wide open thighs.

He remembered the days when Old Town had been a young working girl, shy and blushing. Her knees were to be slowly spread by those paying good coin to have her. Back in those days, the boys of the Service had been her guardians, waiting in the shadows with clubs and shivs. They were so eager to make an example of any one who didn't treat their girl right.

The Second War, then the rebuilding, had been the lean times, the hard times; they'd been forced to lean on her, to push her, to work every copper out of her. They felt no malice as they took her for all she was worth, some of them (like Braxton, the sentimental fool) even regretted the abuse of her. But they had no choice - they were only the enforcers and they, like everyone who lived and worked and struggled in Old Town, worked on orders just the same. Criminal or serviceman, back then it made no difference. They knew their place, and so did she.

But now in both Old Town's and Desario's age, he felt her slowly growing surly with rebellion. Wasn't she old enough to be out from under their thumb? Hadn't she seen enough to run herself? Their girl was consulting with the wrong types, talking to bad influences. Unlike Brax, the soft heart, Desario had never loved Old Town, even in his silly romantic youth, but they'd had their good times together. Now she was muttering just outside his window, sending foul looks and evil gazes at him, his fellows and the pimp who sold her day in and day out. His lovely Old Town had gone from blushing youthful maiden to poxy old slag.

Desario's musing slid away from him as he saw two figures speaking with great animation stroll down the lane, a study in contrasts. He deliberated on the two figures, a smile touching his thin lips when he recognized them. Brax was always so easy for Des to spot - not at all an exceptionally tall man but quite an imposing one when he felt like it, with broad shoulders, firm waist and solid limbs. He'd grown a hint of a belly - too much ale, Desario diagnosed - but to any one who knew him well (thirty years and counting, for he and Des), there was muscle under it, and thick along his limbs as well. With his tailored waistcoat of black and gold, and his hair, growing in thick whiskers and flowing to his shoulders, Braxton never failed to remind Desario of a graying lion, no less fierce in his age than he'd been in his youth, only grown wily and cunning.

The elf-girl didn't look very different than all the reports, though it did make Desario smile to see the contrast of Braxton's gravity to her fluid, nearly twitching motion. Braxton walked like a stately, steam-powered vessel while the girl twitched and danced about in her walk like a skiff, blown to and fro at the wind's discretion. Braxton and the elf walked under Desario's window but just before they moved from his sight, Brax casually reached up and lightly patted at the oil slicking back his thick forelock. Desario smiled - it was always refreshing to see proven just how good Braxton's memories of the old days were. The hand-signal was a simple one, a very loose heads up, but from Brax to Des it was as good as a warm handshake, and had been since their first days together in the newly formed Service.

The knock on his office door came very shortly after, proceeded by the familiar heavy creak of Braxton's foot on the broad stairwell; the elf-girl made barely a sound in comparison.

"Come in, please," Desario called with only the faintest hint of his accent - his Alterac birth was more often given away by his fair coloring and the aristocratic cast to his features than by the accent, which had been trained away by so many years in these warm southern lands.

Braxton didn't bother replying and eased the door open to politely for the elf-girl. She stepped in and straight away stood out as unusual in the plush office. Desario carefully noted the way her single eye swung around: it first landed on him for swift evaluation (no noticeable weapons, shorter stature than her own, age approximately 'human-old'), then moved to check the corners of his elaborate office past the tasteful decorations (Alterac sculpture, Arathi oil painting, finely crafted Lordaeron carpentry, lovingly detailed Stormwind tapestries), and then momentarily out the window (that grumbling whore, Old Town, probably consorting right now with the elf-girl's past ilk) until she finally looked back to Desario. She met his benign smile with a smirk; showy, purposefully casual and very nearly patronizing. The smirk was the same smirk every new recruit gave at least once during their first short while with the Service, until one of their betters took the time to wipe it clean. Interesting.

"Ceil Nightfury, this is Doctor Desario d'Archacon. Des, this is--" Braxton began the proper introductions, but the elf-girl interrupted him with a soft snort.

"Sounds like the name of a villain from one of Lovelace's books. 'The Despicable Doctor d'Archacon, doom-deliverer!'"

Braxton looked displeased at this breech of etiquette towards Desario (that soft touch, as ever) and about to say something, but was interrupted once more. This time, though, it was by Desario himself. He spoke smoothly, completely unruffled. The elf-girl's posturing was like the hissing of a kitten, no different at all than the growling of the rookie-puppies he was used to. "Why, yes, Miss Nightfury. James has told me quite a bit about you, of late."

Ceil wrinkled her nose, casting a glance between Braxton and Desario, suspicion so blatantly obvious it was meant to be offensive to professionals of their caliber. "What's he do, go about the barracks telling you lot about how he bedded the Weaversdaughter for his promotion, or some such?"

"Actually," Desario replied blandly, keeping well away from the proffered bait but deeply amused by her attempts. "I don't believe James has spoken to very many of our comrades about you. However, you see, I'll be working very close to you in the future. But beyond just that, James is my son."

The elf's reaction wasn't as amusing as some Desario had seen over the years, which he assumed was due to the differences in culture, but there was a notable moment of awkward and protracted silence as the elf-girl's eye jumped from himself to Braxton and back. Then again. Brax, always less amused than Des by the various reactions, gave a displeased rumble that broke the silence and seemed to remind the elf-girl it was her turn in the conversation.

"You must be so proud," she managed with an even tone, and didn't dwell. "So then - if 'tis Master Braxton's job to escort lonely lasses from the docks, what's your's, Doctor? Hair styling and uniform fitting?"

"I'm afraid nothing so stylish, Miss Nightfury, and far more complicated. As the doctor in charge of personnel, I'm very involved in the well being of every state in our agents' lives and health," Desario replied with the slightest cant to his head and raise of his eyebrow. The words she wanted to hear (something about fixing her, as if the mind were a garment to be mended so easily) were left unspoken, but Desario watched the subtle shift of the elf-girl's expression as she made the quick connection. It wasn't quite hope he saw spark in her blade-silver eye, but certainly a type of recognition. He had suddenly entered a new place in her regard, the place of some one who could help her. Or, he wagered, being very familiar with a professional's thought process, he was some one she could get something she desired very badly from.

Desario easily repressed his own eagerness from his benign smile. A cooperative night elf was a rare opportunity, a cooperative night elf with the very human problem Nightfury presented with was nearly unheard of. The mind behind that single calculating eye was ripe with discoveries for Desario to examine. He was quietly thrilled and had been every since his son had delivered the news of such a gift, despite all of Braxton's gruff misgivings about the girl. For all Nightfury wanted to get from SI:7, so much more could the Service reap from her, in so many ways.

"I'm fair concerned with my own health and well being just the same, so I think we've common ground," she replied with far less fractiousness in her tone, the compromise oh-so-easy when the facilitation to her goal was standing before her with a smile and blue eyes bright behind his thinly framed spectacles.

"Oh, I think that's certainly so," Desario replied with a warm tone slipping in. Braxton, standing just off to the side of the office, looked disdainful at the exchange. Brax's enthusiasms fell, especially in his semi-retirement, less towards work-related pursuits, and more towards documenting the history of his mistress, the beloved Stormwind, but Des had a mistress of his own - he practiced his profession with a passion bordering on obsessive. This elf-girl was a project he'd been looking forward to for nearly a year now, and he had no more patience for waiting to get to studying her. It mattered not to him how much Braxton disapproved of her recruitment in the Service of their king and country. Braxton didn't understand these things the way a doctor did: sometimes one needs must grow a pox to learn how to cure it.

"I've got an assignment for you, as well," Braxton finally grumbled, the animation and friendly charm he'd showed towards the elf-girl earlier fading away with the reminder of Desario's pursuits. Des suppressed a sigh; Brax was usually such a fine actor. He must have truly been bothered, which meant this would take another long round of debate and discussion before his annoyances were temporarily assuaged.

"I suspected I'd be having one of those," the elf-girl mused as she leaned against the wall, barely managing to avoid crushing a tapestry that depicted an emissary of Quel'Thalas on bent knee to the Arathorian Empire's king, Thoradin, and pleading for aid against trollish incursion. She paid it as little mind as the wall it hung on. "Called back from Darnassus so quickly, and all."

"The war in Northrend grows--" Braxton began, only to get interrupted by a short laugh.

"I thought you had enough men to Northrend? The younger Sullivan gave me a pretty little speech on how badly I was needed in Kalimdor, doing such a duty to my people."

"Going to Northrend's a duty to all people," Braxton replied testily. Desario waved his hand at his companion, stepping in before Brax could get a good head of steam. The man did love a good rant, and Des had a sixth sense for when he was about to embark upon one.

"That's so. But more to the point; most other operations have been, or will be, suspended quite soon. The war against the Traitor Prince intensifies, and so we must gird ourselves for the end."

"Of the world?" The elf-girl didn't sound very impressed.

"Of the war, my dear. If the world ends along the way, we'll have certainly done a bad job of it, haven't we?" Desario asked with a chuckle.

Braxton, not one to take such talk of defeat lightly, grumbled like a dragon about to snort fire, "My boy's putting together an operation to clean out the citadel. You're in it." James was always 'my boy,' for these kinds of jobs. 'Our boy' when Brax was proud and showing off, and only ever 'your boy' on the worst days.

Nightfury fixed her mouth into a moue. "We're to thieve out from under the Bloody Prince's icicle encrusted nose?"

This did bring forth a chuckle from Braxton, but it wasn't touched with his usual cheer. "I suspect he'll be'll busy at the time. But there's not much more to say about that bit, right now. You're to start attending preparations."

"What type of preparations?" She looked vaguely mystified at the idea; Desario wagered preparing for a job may have very well been a new concept to her. It often was to the rookies and amateurs brought in off the streets, those with the potential for something more than petty larceny and back alley beatings. It was an interesting parallel, and he inwardly made a note to follow it further when he had the elf to himself to question and examine.

"Oh, getting familiar with the others you'll be working with, I'm sure," Desario speculated. "And perhaps a lecture or two about the types of objects they'll be wanting prioritized. Much like cake, we don't want our eyes to be larger than our stomachs, hmm?" He tossed Braxton a glance, eying his midsection with a raised eyebrow. This did little to lighten the other man's mood and it showed with storm clouds gathering on his brow. Brax truly was bothered; this was going to take more than a civilized debate. Des began making plans to break out the cigars as soon as they were alone. He glossed over the comment and continued, "But you've a few days to re-acclimate yourself to the City, and for us to begin working together."

The smile Nightfury gave was almost good enough to be real. "I'm looking forward to that, Doctor."

"Ah, please call me Desario, my dear. I have a feeling we'll be getting quite close."

Braxton sighed the sigh of a man surrendering to an internal battle; he probably already sensed the cigars waiting, fine tobacco calling his name. "In the mean time, Miss Ceil...welcome back to Stormwind."

Neither serviceman missed the way her eye stole past them to the office's window. Just over the broad roof of the Royal Barracks was Willum Avenue, busy this time of day, and at the edge of what could be glimpsed from Desario's lovely view of Old Town: the fork in the road that branched off to Abel Lane...