Wildfire Riders

"Go over it with me one more time, m'lord. If you would."

Lord Stevan Thrinebare stood in the middle of the common room amidst a host of Stormwind guards. They milled about smartly, securing and re-securing the perimeter, generally attempting to justify their presence with an effort to make it seem they were needed. In truth, they were not- the event had already transpired, leaving his entire house a ravaged mess. After a moment of surveying the damage, he shakily answered the guard.
"Y-yes. There... there were a few of them, but I don't know how many. At least two or three. I don't know how they got in."
The guard nodded, scribbling something on a small pad of paper. "What happened when they were inside?"
"They just started wrecking everything," he said, waving a trembling hand all around him, "They must have knocked out my guards, but I didn't hear anything. I came downstairs to do some writing, and I noticed them slumped up together on the floor. When I went to go outside to call for help, that's when they hit me! And then I wake up, and everything is... l-like this!" He waved his hand again, and this time, the guard's eyes followed its path. The bookshelf had been completely knocked over, its contents poured out across the floor and up to the fireplace. It had been a miracle some errant ember hadn't popped and touched them off. The furniture had been broken; the writing desk Thrinebare had referred to was overturned, its once-contained papers and parchments strewn about the rest of the lower level of the house, torn roughly and indiscriminately. The rug on which they stood, once a beautiful Alterac weave of deep blues and purples, had been vandalized as if ripped by teeth. But there was no immediate sign of entry; no windows shattered, no locks broken- and, from initial questioning of neighbors, no witnesses.

The guard nodded, scribbling more. "Have you or any of your household been injured?"
Thrinebare shook his head, relieved but still shaking. "Thank the Light, no. Not seriously, anyway. Two of my boys," he jerked his head over at his guards, who were being tended to reluctantly by white-robed apothecaries, "Broken arm and a broken rib, but nothing that some rest won't heal up for them."
The guard scratched his head -an odd thing, since he was wearing his helmet still- and looked around the room as if searching for his next question. "Was anything stolen?"
Thrinebare shook his head again after some consideration. "Nothing of worth seems to be missing, no. My safe was untouched. They ripped some documents in my desk, but... nothing that can't be replaced. I have duplicates of everything important, of course."
"Of course," came the armored response. The guard fidgeted again some, then said, "And the paint?"

Lord Stevan Thrinebare cocked his head. "Paint?"
Audibly inhaling through gritted teeth, and, glancing around himself, found a piece of a shattered wall mirror by his feet. He stooped, picking up the largest shard he could find, and held it so the nobleman could see. He cringed a little under his helmet as he did, and was glad he had the plate bucket to hide his expression as the nobleman turned a pale white.

He hadn't even noticed it, at first, though in his reflection, he questioned how this could have been. All over his body, brilliant lines of red paint had been tracked here and there: some short, some long; some broad, and some fine. But whatever their length or breadth, each one of them had been drawn over something vital- as he blinked, he saw lines on one eyelid. A great semicircle around his neck, two down the length of his forearms, one where his biceps met his armpit- all important organs, veins, or arteries.
"...Do you have any enemies that might have something to gain from intimidating you, m'lord?" The guard asked, shaking his head at the sight. Stevan Thrinebare said nothing; he sat down hard into the one chair that had not been overturned or broken, his hand lightly touching the drying paint lining his neck.

Watching all of this transpire was a man who had remained near the main door. The guards didn't bother with him and went about their own business, almost as if they didn't take notice of his existence. The man watched this scene for another moment, nodding slightly as he tapped his chin. Without a word he turned, his cloak twirling out as he spun on his boot, his SI:7 insignia visible only for a moment as he took his leave of the house.

Lord Stevan Thrinebare had contributed a grand sum of 58,950 gold crowns to the coffers of SI:7 in the previous year, and had made a great statement of planning to increase that amount by 30% in the coming year and a half.

The scene was a simple one, comparatively speaking. There was no break-in to investigate, no stolen goods or beaten guardsmen, no security systems bypassed somehow. And yet, for a scene so straightforward, volumes had been spoken.

Lord Jacob Arabest, reported break-in at 8:45pm, Azerothian Standard Time on Thursday the 15th; assumed time of the break-in was 6:30. Three guards wounded. Further reports indicate red paint marks along many of Lord Arabest's vital organs. Total property damage initially adjusted to be 8,540 crowns. Total contribution to SI:7 in the past year, 38,000 crowns.

It was no question who had been pulling these stunts. There hadn't apparently been an effort on the part of the perpetrators to hide that information, and now, it seemed they were advertising it outright.

Lady Rebecca DeMarco, reported break-in at 9:38p, AST on Thursday the 15th; assumed time of the break-in was 7:15. Two guards and three kitchen staff wounded. Further reports indicate red paint marks along many of Lady DeMarco's vital organs. Total property damage initially adjusted to 6,670 crowns. Total contribution to SI:7 in the past year, 46,890 crowns.

The reports shuffled through his head as he surveyed this latest strike, lips pursed as the Stormwind Guard "set up a perimeter". He was going to have to be the one to report this to his superiors- they already knew, he had no doubt, but making the face to face report about an incident such as this was what had to be done. It was protocol; he had been assigned to investigate the rash of odd break-ins when there was still some question as to who was committing them, but the lightning-fast string of further break-ins made it clear that he had not only failed to deduce the perpetrator's identity in time, but that he had failed to protect Service assets properly once he had.

Lords Lexington, Havesham and Vellasing, reported break-ins at 11:15, 11:50pm and 12:30am AST, respectively, on Thursday the 15th and 16th. Grand total of twelve personal guards wounded. Reports indicate red paint marks along many of their vital organs--
Those three had been different, though. Something had changed. While the reports had come later, investigation revealed that the actual crimes had been committed closer to Lady DeMarco's break-in; the guardsmen and nobles involved had simply been more heavily wounded and had taken longer to wake up. When they had, they noticed not only their Lords' bodies covered in red paint, but a series of black-paint boot marks left intentionally. They typically started from the greatrooms or the front doors, and made a very deliberate path up through their houses and to the rooms of the Lords' wives and children, upon whose doors was painted a thick black X.