Final preparations.

"HEAR YE!" the king's crier announced through the Trade district. "His Majesty has added the following names to the rolls of the Knights of Morgraine, defectors to the cause of the Alliance from the evil of the Scourge! Ji the Gnome, Apathy the Night Elf, Fnord the Dwarf..."

"Can you believe those names?" I ask my banker, John Burnside, as we go over the records for the Order's vault together. "Think their mothers named them that, or they chose them, or it's some sick undead joke?"

"Seach me, Niall," he says. "Hand me back page three."

I shuffle the papers and hand him the one he wants. "There you go. Ah, at what price, immortality?"

"About 30 gold, but go check across the street," John suggests. "Get the price list from Chilton... you did mean a unit of Eternal Life, right?"

"Actually, I'm getting that supply met on friendly terms, and that was a horrible pun."

"If I could make good ones, I'd move to Shattrath and do stand-up for a living."

I groan. "Have you heard the guy they have there now? You'd be better."

"Maybe it's a good thing I live here then," John says, and looks up, stacking all the papers together. "Everything checks out, and we've accounted for it. Your Ghost Scions campaigning has essentially drained the guild's coffers, of course."

"Can't be helped," I say with a shrug. "The Lich King has to go down."

"You heard the rumor about it not being over then?"

SccrrrrraaaaapeTHUD, scrrraaaaaapeTHUD

HOW LONG CAN YOU HOLD OUT?

I shiver at the memory his question triggered, and snatch the papers away, tucking them in my own folder. "I say bullshit. You going to believe something said by a spirit trapped in Frostmourne? I don't care if it looks like Uther or anybody else, it's probably a damned trick. Besides, if the scourge does go crazy uncontrolled, at least it won't have the malign genius and power of the Lich King and Frostmourne behind it anymore."

"Eh. Good luck, Mr. Niall" John touches his forehead. He's retired army, that's why I like him. We do understand each other, a little.

I head out, towards the mage district to put the files back in Order headquarters. Kast's been pushing to reorganize the Scions into a tighter unit, so when I have a free moment (ha!) I've been trying to wrap up guild business so I can leave my post as councilor and chief of the Warders. I've dragged my feet, even though the paperwork isn't really that much, because I'm missing one little thing: someone to take over. My former seceretary still isn't responding to my queries. I wonder what I did to offend her. Make one too many sexist jokes? One too few? Hard to tell with that woman - she changes her opinions more often than the sun rises and sets.

As I crest the bridge to the mage district, I spot a heavy waiting for me. This is the kind of guy you know as Bruno, even if that's not his name. He's bald, chunky, and looks vaguely dangerous - but mostly vague, from my perspective. I give him a good hard eyeball, while he tries to return it. I wait for him to make the first move. He decides to talk, which is a point for me.

"Youse'a... you're Niall?"

"Or he's going to be pissed I'm wearing his shorts," I quip, rolling my eyes. I set the folder down on the bridge's railing, just in case Bruno rushes me.

He glowers at me. "Well, ain'chu the next Shat-rat comedy king."

"Just a hobby," I grumble, annoyed that a Bruno with a speech impediment came up with the same crack I did all by himself, and delivered it better too. "You want something, sunshine?"

"Mister Cross... uh yeah, he wants you to stay outta town. Says to stay up north, and you won't create yourself more problems 'round here."

I sigh, scratching my eyebrow. It sometimes itches. A reaction to stupid, I think. I pick up my folder and start forward. "Listen, cro-magnon. If I gave a shit, you'd smell it from there. Get out of my way, I'm busy."

"Mister... Crowsrat... uh, damn... hey!" He grabs for me as I walk past him. "You stop an' listen!"

"No. Take your hand off me."

He grips my shoulder tighter. "Not 'till you lissen!"

I subvocalize a word, and my armor appears under his grip. His fingers are sliced through by the blades on my shoulderplates, and he screams. I turn, and punch him into the canal. Another word of power makes my armor disappear again. I check the folder: no blood spots. Damn I'm good. And, as usual, the hired help in the criminal underworld isn't. Still, it troubles me. Since when does Arol Crosthwaite rate a "mister" even from a clown like that? That takes not only some serious cash (which I didn't think the little dink had saved up) but some respect (which he hadn't been earning from anybody I knew of). A niggling little voice in my mind wants to panic, but I push all that aside.

Whether it's what that little shit wants or not, I DO have to go north. The final logistics allocations are being made, the Ashen Verdict has formed up, and the Scions have been assigned a spot in the campaign. I can't miss it when we make our push. I can't worry about Arol right now. I'm certainly not going to worry about the rumors about consequences of taking the Lich King down. It's all horseshit.

I hope.

Another tiny voice does wonder... have we shot ourselves in the collective foot?

Before we knew we had a gun?

Or a foot?