Wildfire Riders

((So! For those hunting down our resident non-Rider Death Knight; Pauric is preparing to kill a list of people who have some unwholesome nightly activities. The killings will be clean and efficient, unlike the work he has done prior with Bellesta. People whose characters are good with investigation will be able to connect the nightly deaths that occur in a seedy city like Stormwind with the targets on Paurics list, as well as potential motives behind each killing. Suffice to say, that people that die by his hands are very bad people, with very horrible and illegal tastes.

It will be possible to catch him, either in the act, immediately after, or as he moves about and tries to stay off the radar. Drop me a line if you're interested in the plot, and this post will be edited with more information as I have a bit more time.))

The delicious, fiery sensation of life stolen from another faded, as the struggles stopped. The figure under his knee gurgled one final time, and went still. After a few more moments, he carefully unwrapped the garrote, the thin silk cord glistening where it had cut into the corpulent flesh. His small blades lay where he had left them, in the throats of the man's bodyguards. Compared to the warehouse, these deaths had been bought simply, cleanly. Compared to the warehouse, these deaths were earned by deeds far darker than the trade of drug or blade. Unnatural vices made easy by the rules of the city, the parasites protected by their wealth and station. For their victims, living or dead, he could not give peace... but this man would never again use the tools of his trade to fulfill his unnatural appetites.

Pauric knelt before the body, closing his eyes, palms open to the air in supplication. "Lord of the Ravens, God of Death, I deliver these souls to you for judgement..."

Stormwind Gazette, May 13

Prominent Guildsman found murdered!

The artisans of the Ropemakers Guild don the black today, as news of the murder of Thomas Herg, senior Guildsman and prominent businessman, rocks the city. City Watch cordoned off a small alley outside of the Cathedral district, isolating the scene from the public, but the Gazette has learned that the victim and two escorts appear to have been the target of a mugging gone wrong.
"These things turn foul all the time, sadly." reported a member of the investigation team. "You get a lot of desperate people, from the Docks or Old Town, looking for a quick way to feed their vices. It's why the good citizens should stick to the streets. Going into the back streets and alleys, where there's no light and few people to hear any cries for help, it's just not safe at night."
Funerary details will be announced at the discretion of the Ropemakers Guild and the victims families.

The woman had screeched at him for over half an hour now.
"...and that's what's wrong with the children in the city these days, you know? Spending far too much time fishing and hanging around that newfangled harbour when they could be making themselves useful! Just because 'ol Emma has to drag her bony old legs around with those heavy buckets doesn't mean she needs help! No regard and no respect at all!"

Readjusting to the life of an average human citizen in Stormwind had been difficult for Narokor. With the exception of the evening watch, most people slept at night. The normal family would shelter themselves behind locked doors, and barred windows, when shadows fell for fear of the unsavoury sorts that prowled the alleyways. Sleep came rarely for him, and more often than not it was not required. Yet the need to keep up appearances for the sake of dodging awkward questions was growing. People talked too much in this city, he had found, and he had already guessed that the rumors would spread regarding this new dark stranger who kept to his alchemy set.

Perhaps it was his choice of a nicer loft near the Park district that was his error, he mused to himself. Were he located someplace in Old Town, people would assume the worst and leave him be. But the old aristocratic blood in his veins drove him for something tidy and more his style - something above the average citizen. But already he made an mess of things when the first neighbour came knocking at his door with a modest basket of cheese and spiced bread a week ago. The poor young woman was trembling at the sight of Narokor's bleary eyes and claw-like fingers grasping the doorframe impatiently, practically tossing the basket at his feet and fleeing from his doorstep. This was no slum in Orgrimmar, where his reputation as a soldier afforded him some privacy. For some unwritten reason, the average citizen in Stormwind was expected to be...nice?

"...nearly broke my hip, he did! That ruffian on his lumbering giant of a mule, or whatever those space-men call those creatures! I'd show them a thing or two if they'd come down to my level, I would!"

Narokor had reluctantly forced himself outside for an afternoon stroll along the canals that day. He had chosen a simple, white linen shirt and faded leather leggings, deciding against the heavier coat. He strapped on a pair of boots, concealing a blade in the left heel as he always did, scolding himself as he pondered why he would need it. "Who would dare assault you in this city in broad daylight? Children?" The sunlight was beating rudely upon his eyes and skin from between the clouds, making him uncomfortable. The sleeves of the shirt stayed rolled down over his arms, despite the heat begging at him to relieve the fabric just a little. His boots clunked against the stones as he tried to slow himself down, trying to at least make it appear that he was enjoying the walk.

It was at this time that he spotted an elderly woman struggling with heavy buckets of well water, grunting and complaining to no-one in particular. Narokor frowned, wondering if this would be what a normal human citizen might do. Aiding the elderly? It was worth a try. "...Madam, let me..." he cleared his throat. “Let me help you with that. Please." Emma turned her head with a start, her eyes squinting and straining at him. "Eh? Say what? You want to help me, stranger? Well, get over here and stop gawking! About time someone listened to me!"

Nearly an hour later, Narokor was seated in the old woman's home, cradling a dingy, tea-stained mug in his hands that had long gone cold while he endured Emma's storytelling. Maybe it was because the old bat was lonely, or that she wished to thank the tall, silver-haired stranger with the piercing blue eyes. Whichever reason it was, Narokor was itching to escape her clutches; but the call of politeness held him firmly in place. So far all the time had been spent listening to what was wrong with the children, or that the night elves were far too tall, or that the price of wax had doubled in the past decade.

"...and the noise from the Cathedral! Those Light-blinded bells, Light forgive me, ringing at all hours of the night!" Narokor opened his mouth to retort, but was quickly stifled again. "The characters I see strolling by here, too! There’s that greasy Thomas Herg and his cronies, walking around in the dead of night like he owns the city!"

His weary eyes slowly opened in recognition. "Thomas Herg?" he spat out hastily. "...the rope maker? I had heard he was murdered."

Emma looked to him, her fingers rapping on her own empty teacup, her voice shrill and biting like a crow’s. "Don't interrupt! I'm glad someone got to that filthy man. Here I was, minding my own, trying to think over the clamour of the bells when I heard some shufflin', some noises from the alley over the way. Least I think it was from over there." Narokor leaned forwards slowly, the rickety wooden chair creaking in protest from his weight, lowering his voice to just over a whisper. "What did you hear, Emma?"

The grey-haired woman leaned back in her rocking chair, hand pressed to her green shirt in exasperation. "Sounded like a fight, it did! I heard some shoutin', and then there was this wet kinda noise. You ever take a carving knife to an overripe apple? How it kinda slips in, splashes the juices on your hands? Just like that. Then another one! Say, did you care for some apple pies, stranger? I should make one next time you..." Narokor cut her off, his teeth grinding in his head. "Yes, yes...I understand, woman!" he stopped himself, collecting his excitement and calming his voice. He folded his fingers around the porcelain mug. "...my apologies. Emma."

Emma nodded, hardly noticing his slip. "You can call me Emma, you know! I don't mind that one bit, from a polite stranger like yourself. Anyways, then there was this gurgling noise. You could just make it out between the bells when they were soundin'. Like how you try and talk over music. Four bells, there was. I couldn't sleep for all the noise! I keep gettin’ older, but these old ears work just fine!” she took in a gulp of cold tea, her hand waving dismissively. “Oh, it was probably some drunk, drowning for all the booze in his throat! I get them around here sometimes, you know. Trying to make their way to the Cathedral to try and pray themselves sober!"

Another hour passed before Narokor managed to remove himself from the old woman's modest little home overlooking the canal. He walked with purpose, his mind running over what he had learned as he stalked through the archways leading to the Park, taking himself home. "A few chemicals...a few incantations...yes...yes, no such thing as a perfect crime, then..." His aging mind hummed with life for the first time in what seemed like years, while a pleasant and thoughtful smile spread across his lips.

…
Emma stood alone on her doorstep while Narokor left, sighing to herself, nodding firmly. “That's what this city is missing, I reckon. Decent human beings like that one!”

((More stuff soonish.))

The night was growing colder. The sky was clear and the moon hung high over Stormwind with the stars winking in an accompanying chorus. Loreli had completely lost track of time. She had no idea how late it had become until Zha’ane had come to find her. She’d been doing a lot of work with training dummies lately. After the first night she’d come here in anger and pushed herself too hard; she’d come back nightly. She felt the need to re-accustom weakened muscles to the rigors of combat. Thankfully, she didn’t feel she had far to go to reach the high standard that had been set for her as a child. One of the few things she’d tried to keep from that time. However, she did find her laxness to be a cause for concern. She wouldn’t allow another decline.

Despite her work-out, Loreli was not tired. Though she was sure it was late evening or early morning, instead of going home, she dragged Zha’ane to a small café that was open late near the harbor. The night chef made an amazing sweet custard with a crystallized sugar top.

They were headed back to the Mage district a few hours later when a human boy in his mid-teens fell into step beside Loreli. Zha’ane glanced over in askance, but said nothing. The boy was tall as far as humans went. He had a messy chin-length crop of strawberry blond hair. It appeared he’d cut it with a dagger. His eyes were blue and full of mirth.

Loreli raised an eyebrow, “Cards? What are you doing out at this time of night?” No one knew the boys real name. Everyone called him Cards for the high-stakes game he hosted once a month. He had a reputation for guaranteeing a fair game and all this combined gave him access to some rather big names in the underworld.

Cards grinned and Loreli swore she heard gold clink, “Collecting debts, Miss Lore.”

Loreli nodded and tossed him a gold to add to his collection. It caught the light of the lantern briefly and then disappeared. The boy turned his attention forward again as the trio walked.

“I hear tell yer on the lookout for information. Unusual ‘ccurances and the like?”

Loreli nodded again, “What’ve you heard?”

“Murder. Jus’ moments ago. Rabbit heard the scuffle. Says he didn’ seen nothin’. I believe ‘im.”

“Where at?”

“Over by the Cathedral. Could jus’ be a muggin’ gone violent, but none of the usual operators are boasting the kill.”

Loreli stopped and gave Cards a handful of gold this time. She leaned down, planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth where his grin turned up.

“Thank ye kindly, ma’am!” Cards winked at Zha’ane and ducked out of sight.

Zha’ane eyed Loreli, “Dare I ask how you know him?”

Loreli chuckled, “You shouldn’t have to.”

At the next intersection, she turned for the Cathedral District. “Cards hosted a game a while back. I wasn’t playing but a couple of the Lowborne were rumored to be in town, so I had to see for myself.”

“You never mentioned that.”

Loreli shrugged, “They were false rumors. Anyway, Cards never cheats, but he’s lucky. One of the players was losing and didn’t like it. He tried to blame Cards, wouldn’t let it go. I managed to calm him down and lure him away with the promise of a few drinks.”

“He gave up a bad card game for alcohol?”

Loreli kept her gaze straight ahead, “I may have promised somewhat else…”

Zha’ane raised an eyebrow at her, she could see his jaw starting to clench out of the corner of her eye. Loreli stopped and turned to Zha’ane, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Just a lure, nothing more. I got him so drunk he passed out. I hear he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. Figured he’d spent all his lost money on drink. Cards never forgot it and refused to call us even for a long time. So, he listens and passes on information when I ask. I just got him to start allowing me to tip him.”

Zha’ane forced a smile and relaxed, shaking his head. “Are we checking out this murder, then?”

Loreli nodded as they started walking again. Two armed and armored guards were standing at the alley mouth. They leveled their swords as the two rogues got close.

“Evenin’ gentleman.” Loreli smiled.

“Lore.” One of the guards replied.

“Gorin? S’at you under there?” She indicated the alley with an incline of her head, “How’s about letting us have a quick look, hrm?”

The guard on the left shook his head, “Nope. This is a crime scene. No one gets by except the Captain when he gets here.”

Loreli frowned, “Oh, come on, Gorin. I won’t disturb anything. I just wanna take a look. Make sure it’s nobody I know.”

Gorin shook his head more adamantly, “I’ve gotten in enough trouble for you during our acquaintance.”

“That hurts, Gorin. Here, how about this?” She produced a bag of coins from her pocket, “I’ll give you this to split with your buddy here and I won’t tell the Captain about your little exploit a few months back.”

Gorin was silent. Then suddenly he snatched the pouch from her hand and stepped aside. Finally, the other guard spoke up.

“Are you sure about this..?”

“Yeah, let her by. She’ll probably have a better chance and finding whoever did this than we will, anyway.”

Loreli smiled brightly, “Thank you.” She stepped past him, but the guard stopped Zha’ane.

“Her only.” Gorin said.

Zha’ane blinked, “But…”

“It’s alright, dear, I’ll only be a moment.” Loreli assured him.

Zha’ane grumbled and folded his arms. However, he remained next to the guards. All three men watched as Loreli made her way down the alley.

Two men were slumped against either wall. A third was face down further in. The first thing that stuck her was the lack of blood. There was blood, just not as much as she would have expected from a mugging gone murder. She kneeled before one of the dead men. Judging from his build and the fact that was armed, he was a hired body guard. They both were. The fact that neither had drawn weapons was a cause for concern. She was beginning to suspect this was no mere mugging.

The hands of the man before her were rough and calloused, the hilt of his weapon worn. He’d known how to use it and had done so often. There was no question what had killed the man. A blade had been run through his throat, encountering the wind-pipe first. She tilted the man’s head forward, carefully shifting his hair out of the way. She blinked in surprise. She had expected the wound from the back to reflect entry. Instead, it appeared to be the point of exit. The size of the wound said short sword or smaller blade. Judging from the position of the bodies, the assailant had been in the center with the guards coming at them from either side. An attack from behind in this case would have made perfect sense but from the front…

Frowning, she got up and went to the other body-guard. He’d been killed in the same fashion. Someone had gotten the drop on two seasoned fighters. Not one but both of them hadn’t even had a chance to draw steel. She knew a few people who could manage it; none of them were a comfort and none of them were muggers.

Loreli glanced back at Zha’ane, he was watching her, trying to gauge what he could from her reactions. She moved on to the third and final corpse. It was obviously male, he was laying face down, blood pooling underneath him. His clothes were finer than his guards' but his hands too, were calloused. He was a tradesman, good at whatever he did. Loreli moved around, kneeling by the dead man’s head. She reached out a hand lifting his shoulder. The other Stormwind guard stepped forward to protest, but Zha’ane and Gorin stopped him.

Immediately, the cause of death became obvious. The man had been garroted. Yet, whatever it had been made of, it wasn’t wire. The wound was too ragged, the cut not deep enough to account for someone who knew what they were doing with a wire garrote. Perhaps a fine fabric, such as silk. With the body unable to tell her much else, she checked the man’s pockets. He had no money on him, which came as no surprise. However, he still carried the badge of a senior guildsman, rope makers in fact, the sigil clearly cast in bronze. Rope maker. How… ironic. She thought.

Replacing the items in the man’s pockets, she inspected the ground around him. It was a long shot, but perhaps the assailant had dropped the garrote. Of course, as suspected, they were far too professional for such a mistake. The dust around the man’s feet was scuffed and showed signs of a struggle. However, they had strayed far from the spot where he’d been attacked. It appeared he hadn’t even tried to run, or hadn’t had a chance to.

With a shake of her head, she returned to where Zha’ane waited. “All yours boys.” She said to the guards. She gestured for Zha’ane to follow her.

“Hey, Lore!” Gorin called after her, “At least let us know what you find, eh?”

Loreli nodded, waving back at him, “Sure sure.” She called in reply.

They walked in silence a while. Finally Zha'ane spoke, "Anything to worry about?"

Loreli shook her head, "I'm not sure. It had to be a professional job. It was too quick, too clean. But his money was taken. So, it's either supposed to look like a mugging or it really was a mugging,"

"You think a professional killer like you say it is would stoop that low?"

"Men get desperate in times of war. Even the underworld is looking more towards the war in Northrend with the defeat of the bloody prince so close at hand." She ran a hand through her hair, "They're paying less attention to each other, as they all wait to see what'll happen when Icecrown falls and all those soldiers come home."

"What are you going to do?" Zha'ane asked, almost dreading her answer.

"For now? Wait. It may be nothing. If it is, business as usual. If it's not, the game begins."

Zha'ane sighed, "Yeah. I was afraid you'd say that."

This particular instance was troubling. Something about it disturbed things long buried in the depths of his soul, made it seem wrong somehow. Equally troubling was his inability to identify the root of this disturbance.

It had not been the noise, though there had been more than was acceptable. Three guards was more difficult than two, and one had managed a panicked gurgle as he died. The target had had time for half a scream before his mailed hand clamped over her jaw, and the sounds of her struggle had surely been heard from the street. As this was Old Town though, such things were not uncommon. He still had time to flee before any citizens braved calling for the much unloved City Watch. Would that all his targets seek places so far from the influence of the Stormwind City's guardians.

It was not the mess either. The bodies awkwardly splayed, their wounds ugly, blood sprayed and spattered across the room. The target lay like a broken doll, corpulent and pale, the nude flesh contrasted with the bright sheen of blood. She was the victim of her own implements, which had been the only things readily at hand. Poorly crafted things of iron and stone, primitive and dull, but entirely servicable for what the task required. Death itself did not disturb Pauric, no matter how gruesome the cause. There was the usual pleasure in the taking of life, though he had not fed this time. He could not become reliant on taking life to replenish his own in this manner, no matter how enjoyable the sensation was.

The haste with which he had acted? Necessary, perhaps, to remain unpredictable and free to pursue this endeavor. No patterns to be recognized, no connections between order of targets. To sight this one by chance in the street, on her way to a nights pleasures, was a gift from the heavens, not to be passed by. As unplanned as the first had been carefully calculated, far more dangerous in the enclosed enviroment of the abandoned home. A brief thrill coursed through him as the carelessness of this action impacted. Danger was an addictive drug to his kind, something that some of Pauric's brethren fed upon until a Second Death claimed them, ever seeking greater sensation in hopes of connecting to their lost lives. Pauric resolved would not fall prey to such debased needs.

He thought hard as he walked away, into the maze of alleys and streets, slipping away across the canals. The mists that fogged his mind were dense this night, the connection to his past indistinct.For an instant though, they parted, and his mind reeled with the image of eyes, dead and blank, boring into him accusingly. Too late, they said, too late this time. They reflected the pain they had known in life, body shattered and torn, the large wounds that had stilled it more akin to the frenzied work of an animal than the precise and meticulous incisions that ornamented the rest of the flesh.

A chill deeper than the waters of the canals pierced Pauric, remaining lodged within him until the first rays of the sun scattered the night, and he fled into the dark earth to await the twilight hours. A nights work done, but flawed. Next time, he would do better.

Stormwind Gazette, May 23

Red Hot Passions Turn Bloody in Old Town

City Watch cordoned off an abandoned building in Old Town this morning as the remains of what appeared to be a brutal crime of passion were inspected and removed. According to official reports, Madame Zania Orlteger, widower of
Lord Grice Orlteger, was found dead in the premises, along with the body of a young man and three escorts. Both Madame Orlteger and what is believed to be her paramour suffered identical wounds, the nature of which the Gazette is unable to publish. City Watch again cautions citizens as to their conduct and location during the hours of the night, less than a week after the terrible mugging and murder of a prominent guildsman.
"In any city, there are places where, despite our best efforts, are less safe to be than others." says Constable Virens. "Instead of choosing an inn or tavern for their tryst, these two victims chose an abandoned home far off the beaten path. If you stray far from where the Watch walks, if you try to go about in secrecy and concealment, you're inviting trouble onto yourself."

Madame Orlteger, famous for social contribution, and infamous for the revels held at her estate, is believed to have been slain by a former lover, reveals an inside source. City Watch have no suspects or warrants issued yet, but have begun questioning the staff of the Madame's estate. "The Lady was well known for having a small court of suitors and hangers on, in the years since her husbands demise." Reported our source. "Rest assured that the Watch will be investigating each and every one of them. We'll not rest until this murderer is put before the courts, and likely put under the noose."

((Reserved.))

Storm clouds rumbled and battled amongst themselves in the skies above Stormwind City. The day had been dismal and grey for most citizens, drenching hopes for a sunny afternoon and a sunset over the majestic harbour. Locked away inside, the old warlock was comfortable and hard at work, barely noticing the flashes of light outside of the old glass windows of the second floor. A pair of spectacles rested on his haggard face as he leafed through the old tome in his hands, his eyes darting back and forth as he searched for the proper set of instructions amongst familiar passages and his own spidery lines of personal notes. Before him, just out of the corner of his eye, the black and red muscled monstrosity thudded across the carpeted floor impatiently. An inhuman maw curled into an impatient sneer as its voice boomed into the warlock's ears with a texture of crumbling leather. "Why do you waste time with your research? You and I both already know the outcome of this experiment." the creature growled, and after a second added a bitter "...Master Narokor."

Narokor looked up from his books across the wooden desk to his felguard companion. He frowned at the mud that the creature had tracked into the room from the hallway, but there was little sense in scolding the beast that towered over him. Narokor cleared his throat, not even trying to hide the smugness in his response. "My dear Shaatom, there is nothing flawed in my logic. I believe in the idea that practice makes my art perfect, and this is the perfect opportunity to practice." he frowned, the flash of a smile evaporating. "You just hush and make yourself useful when you are needed." The demon snorted loudly, stomping over to a nearby armchair and slumping down into it, breaking two of the feeble wooden legs beneath the leather, bringing the poor chair to the floor with a sharp 'crack'. Narokor didn't bother to look up as the felguard grunted in annoyance. "...and right now, you can get out of my sight and bring me some tea, you oaf. Goldthorn with sugar."

. . .

The herbs were not difficult to obtain from the markets in the city. A modest pile of blindweed sat beside a sharpened paring knife; the scent of the plant wafting throughout the small room. The unused gromsblood leaves were fading to a mottled brown, while the pewter bowls held tiny flakes of the crushed herb. The grave moss cost nothing, it being a welcome donation from a quiet graveyard in nearby Westfall, which had been mixed with a weaker acid to create the sickly green liquid that boiled in the little cauldron. Narokor nodded to himself, dusting his thinning hands free of the flakes of gromsblood over the cauldron and turning back to the open book where he had sketched his diagrams.

A pair of eyes stared back at the alchemist from inside of the jar, lazily floating in the solvent bath, bubbles seeping out from the severed veins that had only recently carried blood into their owner's head. Narokor tapped a finger upon the sketching of the human eyeball on the paper. "I remember now." he mused. "But we will need to up the amount of moss if we hope to reclaim eyes that are nearly three weeks old." He made a hasty note of this idea on the page, his free hand scooping up the long pair of tongs from the table. Carefully gathering a single eyeball with the tongs, he made sure not to squeeze too tightly to stretch or damage the iris and pupil, dipping the fleshy orb under the bubbling concoction. Green liquid took to the eye, coating the object like a blanket and seeping into every open vein. This took only a moment as he withdrew the eye, holding the sopping object over an empty vial, gathering the steaming goo that was falling off of it. Mindful of his limited time, Narokor created two full vials of the green eye-goo; one from each of the eyes, setting the steaming containers onto a nearby wooden rack.

Heavy footsteps rattled the walls and glasswork as the lumbering felguard returned, carrying a fine white teacup and a modest teapot gingerly in a pair of hands that were meant for handling a battleaxe. "Just set them down, Shaatom. I'm ready to begin." The demon obeyed, glad to be rid of the fancy human-crafted items, and went to stand beside his master. Narokor flexed his fingers, letting out tiny cricks and snapping noises from the joints. He muttered under his breath, extending his forefingers above the open vials of goo. Instantly, streams of silky vapors flowed forth from his fingers, reaching and groping their way into the vials to splash down into the green liquid, turning the colour to a purple. Once both vials had settled and cooled, Narokor withdrew his hand, dismissing the dark vapor. His felguard growled in contempt. "You're expecting me to drink that dross?" Narokor smirked, handing the felguard one of the two vials before bringing the second to his own lips.
"This is the only way you will learn, Shaatom." The aging man and the ancient demon gave each other a brief, grudging glance before the two vials were upturned; purple liquids racing down their throats. Within moments, the haze overcame them, and the room began to spin and strain, giving way to the vision presented by someone else's eyes...

. . .

In Westfall, the thief emerged from the bushes in a clumsy hurry, looking down to find his daggers and whipping them out from their flimsy leather sheaths. He was rushing toward the feeble-looking old man, crouched over a headstone in the graveyard. In a speed the thief thought impossible, the old man's head whipped to the side, and extended a weathered old hand, his lips moving in a chant. The thief halted his advance, the air looking thicker, red tendrils of blood creeping into his vision. It was becoming harder to see clearly. His vision swung to the left, watching helplessly as the red monster was bearing down on him in a full charge - the massive two-bladed axe coming down into his side in a wicked arc. Red flooded his eyes as dust sprinkled the air...the thief's head crashing down upon the ground, rolling just enough to see someone's headless form slumping down uselessly. The sight faded to black, bringing the observer back to Stormwind.

. . .

A few moments later, Narokor pulled himself off of the wooden floor in his workshop, grasping for that cup of tea. Shaatom was already leaning against the door frame, massive muscled hands curled across his chest, visibly irritated. The warlock greedily gulped down the cooling goldthorn tea, washing away the awful taste from the purple concoction, regaining his composure and rubbing his forehead to make the dull throbbing escape him. When the pain subsided, he remembered where he was and grinned knowingly at the felguard.

"So you see, the blood in his vision indicates that my curses clearly sealed his fate before you cleaved him. I won."

"BAH! You are slowing down, forsaken. You were only fortunate that the fool was screaming at you, else you wouldn't have heard him."

Narokor shook his head. The experiment was a success, and that was the true aim of this evening's activities. He looked back to his supplies, noting grimly the next chore that awaited him. "We will see what they see soon enough, Shaatom. We already know they will be screaming."

((Placeholder.))

It was early yet; the sky was still black, a glitter of stars and a sliver of moon visible through shifting clouds. An idyllic setting for the newfound scene of bloodshed that the Watch was quietly cleaning up. Just another nobody, killed in their home, nothing to be of note or concern, until the two men in hoods and with special, shiny badges arrived. Then it was away with the Watch, sent outside with polite recognition of rank and precedence, while the men from SI:7 examined the newly dead. The corpse was different than the others, the only sign of violence a puncture at the base of the neck, and the copious amounts of blood that had spilled from it. No other marks of violence on the body, no signs or evidence of any struggle. No windows broken, the door unmolested and unlocked. The face was serene in death, the very picture of acceptance. Therein, however, lay the problem confronting the two agents who stared at the corpse, while the Watch contained the scene and the press.

This man was not supposed to be dead.

The taller of the two men checked a small piece of parchment, the edges worn and worried. Sure enough, the name was on the list, fourth from the top. Why it was there was a mystery for people with a higher pay grade, but the agents knew that somewhere, sometime, whoever was responsible for this colossal fuckup was likely going to go for a swim in the canals with very heavy shoes.

Because while guilty of any number of things while in service to his kingdom, old Terrynth "Bloody Terry" Gerrau was as pure as fresh snow when compared to the trash on the rest of the damned list.


Half a city away, Pauric found respite in his shallow grave, the night's work playing over again and again through his mind. The victim had been unlike any other, indeed, unlike anyone he had slain before, in service to the Lich King or free as a Knight of the Ebon Blade. Calm, collected, the man had knelt before his executioner in his own home. Instead of suprise or fear, there was only guilt and acceptance, a wealth of burdens to be laid down hidden behind the eyes. Instead of pleas or offers material wealth, a request of time for a short prayer, before the blade fell.

No cry of pain or shriek of denial, merely a short sigh of release.

Perhaps it was for the best, that such a death did not sit well. If the killing was difficult, then something still remained of his humanity, and he was still a step above the beasts that he hunted. A matter he would contemplate, while he lay here in the earth, silent and dark.