Wildfire Riders

The estate stood three stories tall within the Mage District, with wrought-iron gates bounding its expansive eighth-acre lawn, which was always meticulously cared for and trimmed. Lady Augusta Derrinal had been able to afford such a property through profits made on shipping and cargo insurance, primarily in the trade lanes between Stormwind and Southshore, between the Second and Third wars- military-grade equipment for private ventures, basic goods for the army, that sort of thing. Business was so good, in fact, that even though she and her family had been forced to relocate from their native Alterac when it had been overrun, she had managed to reestablish her name in no more than five years. She was an older woman now, the lines around her eyes and on her brow complimenting the streaks of gray through her once jet-black hair; but she had not lost one speck of business acumen. Thus, she could afford some of the finer things in life, especially now that most of her children were grown and handled the day-to-day of her business. Every drape or curtain in her four-thousand square foot home was Netherweave and embroidered with gold and silver thread, every pillow or cushion was filled with the down of Thalassian geese, and her collection of Southsea Pearls was truly a thing of wonder, even for the untrained eye.

Equally wondrous was the Lady's paranoia. Perhaps it had been the root of her continued success in the cutthroat (sometimes literally) world of high-stakes insurance adjusting, but it had lead her to create a house which was equal measure a fortress. The wrought-iron fence, for example, was not just for show; it rose ten feet into the air, with six inch thick bars too close together to stick your feet between. The foundation of the fence went three feet deep and ended in hard granite sinkers to prevent the work from being torn up in a riot, and its length was patrolled at all times by a squadron of heavily armed guards.
The rest of her house was equally impressive; her doors were thick and reinforced with thorium plating, and the stones that made up her walls had been enchanted to resist blasting-type spells and impacts. The interior of her house was also guarded by swords-for-hire, some of whom were trained in close-quarters use of crossbows. Various hallways had dropdown walls to trap intruders between, and there were a collection of safe rooms hidden throughout. In the years since she had lived there, Lady Derrinal prided herself on never being robbed of a single copper, whether through business or thievery.

One final note she prided herself on was her contribution to the Lion of Stormwind. In her drive to set her children up to be even higher-ranking nobles than she had been, she had become a major contributor to SI:7's coffers. In fact, in the past fiscal year, she had donated no fewer than 78,450 gold crowns to the Service's accounts. Pervious years had seen similar donations, and for her dedication she had been granted an alteration to a low-ranking Agent's patrol route; a few nights a week, one of the newer recruits would keep an eye on her estate from some undisclosed location and make sure no na'er-do-wells attempted to violate the premises. She had never seen the Agents assigned to this duty personally, but she had woken some mornings to find a cadre of thugs tied together and unconscious just outside her gate, with a ribbon tied to one of their heads and a card that invariably read, Master Shaw sends his regards. Whoever the Agent was, he or she had a sense of humor, and she appreciated that.

Ulthanon relaxed more into the nook of his tree branch, casually sizing up the impressive structure. Lady Augusta Derrinal and her Seven would make the perfect statement.

Bellesta bristled with anticipation, dark silvery fur standing on end while claws held tight to the branches of the tree. Her tail thrashed, eyes fixed on an open window with lush curtains blowing in the evening breeze. Her rough tongue licked her chops, yellowed fangs glinting eagerly, coated with saliva. She could smell the interior of the house now, the perfumes and people who moved about. She could taste the air of rich Stormwind nobility.

It was disgusting.

She wanted to paint this place in blood, drag this 'D'altero' woman by her hair across the coals. By all accounts, she judged this woman weak of stature. Anyone who required such lush guard and land to feel fulfilled was nothing but a worthless waste of flesh, unfit for consumption.

She'd been leashed for this job, much as she loathed to admit it. Bricu's fit earlier in the week had silenced her, and now Ulthanon was the one to hold the blasted chain that kept her in place. Tonight was supposed to be the 'fun' evening. Do something 'weird' Ulthanon had told her. Oh, as if she were not weird enough on her own. No... she had tonight planned out. Keen ears flicked towards a pen near the back of the house, where twenty-some hounds snarled and chewed down their dinner. Guard Dogs, Bellesta knew. Dogs more feral than not, living in a pack and thrown raw meat scraps a few times a day. They smelled like piss and blood, mixed with the clear musk of pecking order. The wild creatures would serve to be her amusement tonight, to be set free to play with the woman's fine goose-down pillows and well stocked kitchen.

There was a rattling, and the dogs began to howl and bark, running up to the edge of their iron-clad pen. They jumped and yelped eagerly, salivating mouths trying desperately to get to the man on the other side. He was running a stick along the bars, laughing and taunting the animals. As he reached the corner of the pen, the noise became a cacophony of madness. Someone from inside yelled for the dogs to quiet down.

Her head swung over, gaze fixing on Ulth, muscles coiled. She waited.

The plan was simple enough, on paper.
"Our good Lady is expecting a delivery from the Docks tomorrow at six in the evening," Ulth had said as the three crouched over a map, "An order of pillows and fine dinner chairs, or some other such bullshit, that will travel by cart right to her front gate. We'll all be waiting in the Blue Recluse to start, with Ghost outside- when the cart goes past him, he'll come into the bar and thats when we go. Won't you, boy?" Ghost gave a "Mrrrf." of agreement, and stomped lightly at the ground for a moment as the group returned their eyes to the map.

Ghost came trotting in, up to Ulthanon's chair, and gave him a not-so-light headbutt in the thigh. Wordlessly, Tiforis stood and walked out the door.

"Tif's our first man in. He's got some gadgetry that'll turn his ass invisible, so all he has to do is activate it before he comes into sight of the house, walk up alongside the cart, and into the back of it. From the time the cart approaches the gate, it won't be open long, but it looks pretty heavy so if you time your hitching a ride to the point at which the gate closes shut, the bang of the gate should be enough to mask your impact. And I've seen these cart men before; always the same bunch, and they know all the guards, so they leave their posts behind the cart to go and say hello."

"What business have you?" The guard called, voice monotone from boredom.
"Nothin' your dear ol' ma would disapprove of, Brimley," the lead cart-man called back, "Now open the damn gate and let us in, it's gettin' late and I'm tryin' to get home to see m' girlie."
"Ain't nothin' she ain't already seen from me," Brimley retorted, moving toward the gate.
"Short story!" the cart-man shot back, and the two grumbled a hello as the locks fell away with a loud ka-CHUNG. Even in the best of daylight had they been looking at him head-on, the most they would have seen of Tiforis Sevita is a shimmering gust like heat rising from hot cobblestones in the distance. The man fell into step as quietly as he could behind the cart as its attendants moved up to greet their friends on guard duty or moved to the sides to ensure the cart didn't bump into the gateposts. As it passed beyond the boundary, the guards moved to swing the gate back into place, and they locked together with an even louder CLANG than they had opened with. As it did, his light hop into the wooden bed of the cart went unnoticed. The cart rumbled around to the back of the estate.

"I've tweaked a few things about the cloaking device," Tiforis said, laying his engineering feat on the table with a thud, "It's costing a bit to run as hot as I'll have to but it should work until I really run into something. Or, until something runs into my fist."
The man wasn't really that heavy, but for a guard, he was woefully out of shape, so what weight he did have hung in odd places. Finding a suitable hiding place for the man to spend the next few hours was another challenge, as the basement of the house was ordered in such a way that didn't lend itself to nooks and crannies. Eventually, a large tarp draped over the unconscious guard had to do; by the time anyone found him, they were to be long gone, anyhow. Moving quickly, Tiforis strode to the back door and unlocked it, pulling out his buzzbox as he did. Again, he said nothing, but held down his transmitter in three two-second bursts, sending soft static to the waiting buzzboxes of one Ulthanon Kaidos and one Bellesta Tyrena. Each in their respective neighboring trees, they leapt down over the iron fence and into the yard, stealing quickly across the grass and into the basement.

"From there, we each have our own jobs. Once it's dark, Tiforis knocks some heads together if necessary and paints the kitchen. Bellesta, you get to play with the dogs. And I'm going to rearrange some of her couches." The three pondered the plan and, rolling the map back into its scroll-case, agreed.
"Piece of cake," Ulthanon said with a grin.

"After I give you the signal, I'll find a good spot and wait. Once I hear that Bell's got the dogs all riled up, I'll gas as many as I can and then I'll
paint them a very lovely picture to remind people of what they did to the Alliance."

It was hard not to whistle.

Nimble fingers ran over the cylinder, but very few would appreciate the work that went into it and it's siblings. Most people would never realize that a grenade could do so much more than kill someone. Tiforis sat against the railing and remembered that it was good to be the Technosoldier. The chatter from below was relaxed, guards unwinding from the truly strenuous task of guarding nobility in Stormwind. It was an interesting facade when one pretended that they were a real soldier working on the front, and the voices below behaved as such. False threats against the horrors of a beggar shambling onto the property in search of coin mixed with the latest gossip from the higher echelons of Stormwind's society.

Tiforis leaned back in his chair, blowing cigar smoke to the side. "Should do the trick nicely. If it's one thing the Sevens hate more than us, it's traitors, and I doubt they could let this one slide without investigation. "

Tif turned the grenade over in his hand, his finger reaching for the pin. Bellesta should have riled the d-aha, there it was. The frenzied cries of the
watchdogs drew an immediate reaction from below, some of them even drew swords.

It was time for a nap.

Three seconds after the pin slid out, the grenade was sailing over the railing, the faint sound of it's arrival enough to force attention from the noise outside.
Two seconds for the fuse to burn, releasing a cloud of smoke that replaced any potential cry with fits of coughing before wrestling consciousness away from those caught in it.
Ten seconds after the pin was pulled, Tiforis was on the floor next to the sleeping guards. It was then that he allowed himself to whistle, the tune an old song of Alterac.

Now, could he remember how to draw?