Belmilia's blog

“Sail ho! Six points to port!” The lookout cried.

The captain swung his spyglass and frowned. “Carrack, damn the luck.” He said. “She’s a pirate hunter or I’m a lubber.”

“Can we outrun her?” Belle asked, frowning at the distant speck on the horizon.

“No.” The captain frowned. “She carries more sail, she’ll catch us in a straight chase.”

“The island?”

Night lay over the town like a cloak of black velvet, hot and stifling save where a cool sea breeze cut the cloying heat of the tropical night. The howls of monkeys and the shrieks of night birds lent a discordant background to the sounds of roistering that rose from the taverns and brothels that crowded the harbor-front. It was a town of ramshackle buildings and narrow, twisting alleyways, of thatched huts that leaned against the fortified stone houses of pirate chiefs, where slave markets, ship chandlers, brothels, and low taverns serviced villains of all descriptions. There was no order, save where some pirate chief had imposed it to gratify his whims. It was a place where men walked with one hand on their swords and a wary eye to their surroundings.

One of our agents at the Slaughtered Lamb sent this in. Apparently a "welcome" speech for a new bunch of warlocks. Why do we put up with these nutjobs?

- Burns

Why are you here? Perhaps it is because you thirst for knowledge and power. Perhaps hatred burns within you and you seek revenge. Perhaps you reject the boundaries society has set. It does not matter. What you have is desire, passion, and an unshakable belief in yourself. You know society for the miserable fraud that it is. You know its rules are lies, its pieties shams, its limits set by the blind and fearful.

You will know fear, you will feel pain, and you will die - most of you, anyway. Some few of you might be strong enough. Strong enough to master your fear, strong enough to endure the pain, and with an unshakable will, strong enough not to die.

For now.

Belmilia looked around the sparsely furnished apartment and repressed a sigh. The room was plain, almost aggressive in its anonymity. She had a number of such boltholes scattered around the city, prepared for the inevitable day when the political winds would blow against her. Tucked away at the back of a middle-class block of flats, the owner of record was an anonymous investment company controlled through cutouts in distant cities. She’d stashed most of her money away in the same manner. She chuckled, imaging the look on her sister’s face when she discovered just how little of the Howell fortune she’d be able to access. The amusement subsided and she sighed despite herself.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents -- except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London Stormwind that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. The author sat back, a satisfied expression gracing his countenance, pleased that he had managed to so neatly plagiarize his opening sentence, before continuing.

Belmilia, excuse me, Lady Belmilia Carrington-Howell awoke with a splitting headache and in a most uncomfortable position. She was, it appeared, tied securely to a metal chair somewhere in her own basement. Before her, a robed and hooded figure loomed in the doorway.

Lady Howell frowned, not for the first time, and considered the letter that lay on her desk.  She reflected how interesting it was that a simple piece of paper and such a seemingly innocuous request could hold such peril.  The Fallowtide woman had written her some days earlier requesting; politely, oh so politely, access to the late Countess Cheraville's books.  Such a simple request, and one that raised the most interesting questions.

How had she known of the bequest?  It was generally assumed that the Countess' library had been destroyed in the fire which had consumed her estate following her death.  The books had been conveyed to her some months later through a chain of intermediaries.

Nervous pacing was not one of Lady Howell's usual habits.  She'd expected Countess Cheraville to make herself known at some point, the woman's monstrous vanity would permit no less.  But why now? She stopped and picked up the letter from her desk. 

"My dear pet," Belmilia wrinkled her nose in distaste at the Countess' phrasing.  The letter had been long, florid, and annoyingly ... self indulgent.  It was a pity she had not retained Miss Blanchard's writing style, even legalese was preferable to this.

Belmilia Carrington-Howell sighed and leaned back in her chair.  "Is that the last of it, Waxford?"

"Yes, my lady."  The estate steward gathered up the stack of papers; manorial accounts, court rolls, custumals, all the information necessary to run the estates and manors that made up the Howell lordship.  "I should have the final accounts ready by this evening."

In every lie, there is a kernel of truth.

The ravings of madmen contain seeds of wisdom.

Hints and whispers are signposts to lost secrets.

What has been hidden, I shall find;

What has been buried, I shall uncover;

What has been lost, I shall reveal;

And what lurks in the shadows, I shall master.

"Vrakazh silkarzhen, hren ka hren.  Vrakazh hren mukhesh ngashta!"  The air in the room grew close and heavy, the candles flickering in the still air as Belmilia chanted, her fingers moving in a complex series of gestures.  "Sul vrizhat gurithros hren, gul vremi, gul vremi, gul vremi!"

She had changed her fashionable dress for robe of black and dark red, minutely embroidered with arcane symbols.  With her gloves neatly placed on a side table, her pale face and hands seemed to float in the thickening shadows as her voice rose and fell. 

"Vaha nglui, golzhu ftaghn.  Gar shay gultos, vrizhat hren.  Tur ngvalathros!"

The air of the Stockades was foul, even the above ground parts were permeated by the stench that crept up from the dungeons below to mix with the odor of sewage from the canals.  Belmilia Carrington-Howell sniffed as she waited.  The smell was decidedly vile, she thought, but oddly comforting in a way.  So very ... human.  Certainly more so than some of the things she had smelt recently.

The tramp of heavy boots signaled the arrival of the parcel she had come to retrieve.  A parcel in the shape of a rather battered red haired Sin'dorei, paid for in bribes and minor threats.  Cheap, really.  Given the miserable wages Stormwind paid its jailers, it was perhaps surprising that more prisoners did not escape.  Or perhaps it was not surprising that the prisoners seemed to control the prison.

Whomever had observed that knowledge was power, Belmilia Carrington-Howell mused, was only half right.  It was the application of the knowledge that brought power.  She permitted herself a smile as she leaned back and surveyed the library - her library now.  A love of books had been the one and only thing she had shared with her late husband.  It had, in fact, been the lever she had used to convince him to marry her.

The figures all matched up.  There were no irregularities in the reports.  Miss Blanchard was a well-known barrister of good repute.

And yet ...

Doubt lingered.  Forty-five thousand pieces of gold was a large amount of money, raising it would strain her finances severely and losing the money would set back her plans for years.

((Written in an elegant, flowing hand on good quality paper))

Miss Sowelu Danae,
Stormwind

My dear Miss Danae,

It was so very nice to meet you at the Keep recently. Please accept my invitation for tea, I'm sure that we have many things to discuss that would be to our mutual benefit.

Sincerely,

Words like poisoned honey,

The praise of my instructors.

Would you like some more tea?

I suppose I ought to thank you.

Once I merely dabbled in the Fel arts;