Murder

Fealydra is upon her drakes back tugging at the reins to guide the animal; the feeling of the wind hitting her face as the beast soared through the clouds was welcoming.  Fea’s long blonde locks whip behind her wildly in the breeze, she already felt uneasy being it was the dress or that fish she ate at the ball. More than likely the dress, this corset has been grabby in all the wrong places.

((cont'd from http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/jannike/interview))

Back in Booty Bay, Jannike looked out the window, watching the waters of the bay darken from blue to black in the fading evening light.  As if not looking at the damn, damn papers would make them go away.

Three documents.  She knew them by heart, but she flipped through them again anyway. 

There were always plans.

Small ones, big ones, Divine, mortal. Every day, every second, somewhere there was a plan. Usually just small ones, like where to take your lunch, when to head to market, or how much milk to put in your tea, but occasionally there were larger ones.

It was always the large ones that people lost sleep over.

((cont'd from http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/jannike/documents_case_part_1))

Despite having been dead for nearly a year, Jannike Engel had never felt like such a ghoul.  She was about to interview the sister of the dead troll woman from Booty Bay at her home in Razor Hill, having been magically gifted with a zeppelin ticket, a professional-looking suit, a translation device (she had nearly mastered the pidgen Lordaeronian that the Forsaken used among themselves, but her Orcish was still poor and her Troll nonexistent), and a cover story by her shadowy employers.  And she was having second thoughts.

Welden Papercog was not having a good day.

"Who the hell do ye think yeh are?!"

Not a good day at all.

Kavanar could have picked a different day for his visit — or better yet, he could have just left me alone —but since he didn’t intend to stop pestering me it was best just to get this out the way and see what the Eins’Soldats wanted from the great betrayer of the family name.

This didn’t mean I was going to be polite; I had a training yard full of recruits to review today. Young men and women who one day hoped to swear to Shryn they’d be willing to die for Pox — either that, or get paid a lot more.

Kavanar was brooding next to the stack of practice weapons I’d left him by after his formal greeting earlier this morning. I’ve ignored him for the past thirty minutes to assist my sergeants while they lined up the recruits in neat little rows for inspection.

"Let's move out!"

The small outfit of officers moved out followed by the lower ranking soldiers that were hauling the groups gear.  In the center, Larosa sat tall on her Saber, Dori, as a small horse danced to her left and a paladin charger stood patiently to her right.  The soft squeal of excitement from her left made the Night Elf's ears twitch before she put her helm on.

"Be prepared, Sarge.  The Highlands isn't a vacation spot,"  She growled softly to softly admonish the young page.

"Of course, Major."

Artessa was dead.

Her blood splattered about the room.

In her final moments she wailed and begged Druztok and me for mercy.  

She had what she wanted.

She’d leave us and Saviero in peace.

She’d be a good girl now.

We gave her the same mercy she showed to Imbrey and Koina’s unborn child.  

The fight wasn’t even truly close.  Artressa’s army of wretched minions was no match for Druztok and his demons.   She was no match for me as spell after spell failed to find its mark as my blades dug into her flesh.

But she had an ally.

Saviero's footsteps were loud in the empty chamber. He'd specifically requested that all Forsaken apprentices and caretakers leave while he visited her.

He didn't want to see her in a place like this.

There she lay, cold and colorless on the slab. He had no idea how badly she'd been treated because he hadn't had a chance to see her body before, but the evidence of whatever blow had killed her was gone from her corpse. She looked asleep, eyes closed and hands draped gently across her chest. There wasn't even any bruising.

He drew nearer cautiously. He'd been around corpses before, but this was different. It was personal. He could always blame the Lich King when his soldiers fell on the battleground around him. But this was his fault. A nightmare from his past come back to haunt him.

It used to be an old nursery rhyme, one my Mother would sing at my siblings and I to attempt to keep us from disobeying she and Father’s words. Being the youngest, it worked the best for me.

The Shankill Butchers run tonight, you better shut your windows tight, they're sharpening their cleavers and their knives and taking all their whiskey by the pint.

((Once again, Wezil's poking at my brain and getting me to write things...So, Keth's response to the latest Rumor Launcher. Keth drops an F-bomb, so forewarned if you're sensitive to language.))

The day started as it usually did: with the clang and rattle of an alarm clock against the metal surface of an overhead shelf.  Grumbling and cursing under her breath, she lied back in her hammock, watching with half-opened eyes as the clock rattled itself off the ledge and clattered onto the floor, still clanging away as it convulsed into an aimless path across the floor.   She eventually reached down and killed the alarm, pressing in a button at the top before putting it back in its place up above.

It wasn’t so much that she wasn’t a morning person.  She just knew that mornings weren’t going to be getting any better.  That would be confirmed once she got the mail.

((Lots of graphics after the break, so a fair bit of load time for those with slow modems.))

Everything was going according to plan. Seven had arrived at the location in Netherstorm where some of the Kael'thas loyalists still gathered. They were not much of a threat anymore and the SIS had a few people working for them from the inside. They had found an old operative that had gone native among the Kael'thas loyalists and they wanted him brought back to answer for his crimes against the kingdom. It was low priority, but Seven treated it like it was the most important mission that anyone had ever been given. Richard and the perpetually grumpy Colonel Graft sat and watched what Seven was seeing through the scrying crystal they had attuned to her emerald eye.

[[Events in this tale overlap in time with those of Bohemond's last blog here :-)]]

The Desk Sergeant strolled placidly through the dank stone corridor, keys jingling with every loose-hipped swing of his stride.  He whistled a jaunty melody.  In his cheerful wake walked Ole and Magdalena, both composed but wary, the two of them occasionally exchanging a quick glance.  Every time their eyes met Ole couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to reassure the girl or himself – the Stockades had a way of making even the law-abiding edgy.

miss you. Have you written to

class that couldn’t possibly be more mund

were here, I wouldn’t have to feel so

me. Next semester? We should

ssed trials. After, maybe you could visit

    It had happened fast. Like accidents or disasters do, each moment tumbled into the next. Like an artist’s flip-book of pictures, only the images didn’t match up.

rewriting a chapter for thurs

vintage you like? I’ll pick up a bot

thinking of you. It was funny, the

Clump.

The door shut softly behind Micah, and he rested his shoulders against the solid oak, feeling the wood rasp under his bony hands as he surveyed the inside of Ryberg’s apartment. The tips of bony fingers scrabbled on the wood, precisely tugging at different threads of the arcane.

“The third property of Warding is the Key. It builds on the First and Second – the Shield and Sword – and gives a sort of reason to them. The Key is a matrix of components, itself, and by altering one, a Magus alters the rest. With detailed manipulation, the Key may be weakened, strengthened, or even changed.”

The Ranger Sergeant Ythariastion, known generally as Ari, had watched the events which followed the world's shattering with a kind of sick horror and stupefaction.

It was as if all the progress he'd seen on Quel'Danas was merely a fantasy.. a wistful daydream for children.

On the Isle where he'd been stationed as a former Scryer ranger who'd become a combatant for the Shattered Sun, he'd watched as Draenei and Sin'dorei had overcome their differences. He'd run after brave heroes of every breed and belief, and secured the courtyards they'd liberated from the horrors his poor mad Prince had called forth and created. He'd seen the Felblood, and he'd helped his comrades both from Draenor and from Quel'thelas to carry the surprisingly light corpses to great bonfires, where Anchorites had called forth the Holy Light to incinerate and purify those corrupt demons who had once been Sin'dorei.

((Thanks to the poor quality of my Blackberry, I cannot type correctly, nor could I make a new account for Lica.))

"Darling, I am assured that no more misfortunes will befall you this season," said the large-bodied woman sitting in a leather chair next to the fireplace.

"Ah, Dutchess, Sheldon's death was a mere coincidence. A missfire. Tragedy. Nothing more," replied the other woman. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, and she wore a beautiful gown that fit her much better than the Dutchess's.
The Dutchess Holora was presumably the largest woman in Gilneas, and she often visited after the mysterious death of Lica's husband.

The Blackwald was a fairly dangerous place to go, but it was the only place Somina could get a reliable source of Worgen blood without the cooperation of the non-feral Worgen. She had traps laying around the forest from her last visit and she needed to check them all to make sure no Worgen remained in them too long. It was a risky way to go about collecting samples for her work, but the traps and tranquilizers were the only way she could extract any at all. Her heart raced, but she kept it in check with some medication as she crept through the dark forest with Ding alertly prowling at her side and sniffing the air.

“Excuse me, sir? Is there anything else I can get you?”

From under the deep cowl he wore, Micah could see the hips of the café waiter. The fellow had his pink hands clasped before him. The tone of his voice was pleasant, but carried a hidden message: I want to go home.

“No, no… thank you.” Micah resisted the urge to look up and make eye contact. The tilt of his head would reveal his features, and he never got used to the small looks of disgust he garnered from the living.

“Have a good night, then; thanks for coming by!”

Part 4: The First Favor
Murder is a delicate thing.

Oh sure, it one thing to think about it, or even talk about. But it is quite another thing to actually do it.

True, I'd killed someone before, but it was in a bar brawl. And it wasn't on purpose, it just sorta happened when I cracked that Gobbo's noggin with a bottle of lager.

Nobody minded, because the cuss had it comin! Besides, he owed people money. No Gobbo ever got upset with a deadbeat debter gettin his skull cracked!

But this was different, this was real murder, on purpose. And what's worse, I signed an oath, in me own blood that I would do it.
Cursedblood, (me new master), explained the details:

To Samuel Maxton, Northshire Abbey, from Acolyte Helewyn Southcliffe:

 Dear Max,
I write to you from Sentinel Hill in Westfall. Yes, Westfall! It's the furthest I've ever been from home, though this is where my mother and her family resided in her youth.
 

I didn't realize my earlier letters didn't reach you. My "adventures in Elwynn," as you call them, were anything but! They were a mix of tedium (bring this here, bring that there), terrifying (YOU NO TAKE CANDLE), and dangerously bloody (Mrrrgglgle!)
 

He could hear the dripping of his blood onto the cold, cracked stone floor of the prison, but he couldn't feel the pain. His body was numb from the beatings he'd received from his captors and so far, he didn't even have the mental capacity to pray for relief. He slowly curled his hand into a fist experimentally, there didn't seem to be any broken bones, but it hurt like fel to move. As the Half-Elf pushed himself up from the ground and patted himself down to see where his wounds were, he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock and the door opened. "Good afternoon Mr.Soth, I assume that you're enjoying your stay with the RAS?". The Half-Elf coughed, the expulsion of air racked his entire frame and he fell back down on one knee. "You'll be pleased to know that we've searched through your records -quite- thoroughly and we've found no evidence to support a charge of treason. So, if you're a bit..."Beat" as some people say and at a loss as to what this means. You're free to go.".

The "heroes" of Azeroth smashed through the thick wooden doorway in the Vyrkul keep. A Troll in chain mail was just finishing off a guard with his large staff as the armored Orc, Sin'dorei in battle robes, leather-clad Forsaken, and a Tauren in armor that resembled the Earthmother's gifts, glared at the four Vyrkul fodder, Prince Keleseth and Lathaire. Immediately the Vyrkul attempted to slay the so-called "heroes", of course they failed. The group of "heroes" took no second thought as they charged forward, aiming to slay the Prince. Lathaire stepped between the charging Orc and the Prince. The Orc gave a gasp of shock as Lathaire quickly avoided the heavy hammer, grabbing the handle with the warrior's hand. There was a shout of pain as the Orc's hand was crushed under the Death Knight's grip. In despairation the green-skinned "hero" swung his shield, bouncing it off the thick saronite plate.