Sidoran

Despite all the lowlifes and hooligans that I work with at the Falconwing shanty, I’ve never really learned much about bloodthistle. How does one do the stuff? I’ve heard mention of smoking it. Dilettantes often mention with a nudging hush that they make a tea from it.  Even though it seems simple, I imagine I would find some way to do it incorrectly.

"Her legs thrashed against him in protest finding his body to be solid, immovable and not to be denied. A rough hand clasped her heat. Her flower, flush and moist, gave away her true intentions as she quieted. Pulling her hair taut, the Baron swooped upon her for a kiss..."

Ivor bit his lip, growing red with embarassment as he paused from reading the old musty novel aloud. He looked over to see if she was following along.

Adalynn glanced up at Ivor, waiting for him to continue, with genuine interest in the story. She'd been peering over his shoulder. "What happens next!?!"

Ivor scanned ahead, flipping the page. "Well clearly the Baron has his way with her."

Adalynn frowned admonishingly. "Ivor!"

He flipped a few more pages. "In... a lot of different ways it seems." He exlaimed, almost impressed.

Adalynn knit her brow, annoyed.

I told my father that It would eventually come to this. I warned him that there would come a day when the Blood Knights' idle fraternity would grow impatient enough for status to just make an outright claim to power in Quel'Thelas' capitol. Did he heed my warning? Did he even bother to investigate? Of course not. Wherever you lay your head tonight father, I hope you reflect on my caveat from so many months ago.

Talent is never easy to come by.

As I walk beneath gilded archways of crimson and gold, I am left to wonder if this city was left the better or the worse for being spared complete destruction. For all their vanity, there is little of merit to be found. Even those bards who draw crowds by the thousands resort to only glimpsing Silvermoon from a higher perch on a secure balcony. Unfortunately, rats do not have wings, and so I lingered among the common folk.

Common. This word suits the situation well. I scan the crowd and see nothing I have not seen before. The roll of my dice, as idle as I am, attracted no attention other than my own. All the better. The tea was never quite to my tastes anyway.

Following someone is never easy.  Following someone so they don't know they're being followed is even more difficult.  It can be done, for a Rogue, but it's not the easiest of assignments.

She was not looking forward to three days of Shadow Walking.  Not in the least.  The up side to it?  In the end, someone would owe her.  A troll by the name of Ryojin would owe her big!  That thought brought a small smile to her lips, so she waited patiently in the shadows outside the Murder Row Inn of Silvermoon for the target to pass by.

She didn't have to wait long.  His business in the city concluded, he headed straight for the Flightmaster.

Figures...

(A letter to the owners/managers of the Laughing Zhevra, written in concise orcish and sealed with the symbol of House Akh'Argar)

To the proprietors of the Laughing Zhevra,

Somewhere in Northern Icecrown....

She stood amongst the harsh winds in the mountains staring at the seas churn up the misty foam. Seagulls were few here amongst the craggy outcropping. She blew a forlorn horn amongst the howl of the sea's maelstrom, a fierce gargoyle construct seen amongst the outline of the high moon. Its wings flapping gracefully gusting up more snow drifts upon the land she stood with defiance. Its body sanguine as a frostwyrm, wings arched high in the sky as it dipped its head low to the Duchess.

"Good. Return this to Acherus to be fowarded to my attendant with all haste."

Handing it a satchel sealed with her personal crest of the Ebon Blade, several letters inside sealed to individuals.

The soft breathing and gentle smells of wood smoke weren’t enough to wake up the elf on the bed, but his eyes snapped open.  He sat up, shivering; his body relaxing as he looked at the female orc on the bed next to him.  He carefully climbed off the large bed, slipping on his light shirt and pants, tiptoeing over to a small table.  The furniture in the Orgrimmar apartment wasn’t very finely crafted, but it was sturdy.  He reached down to the bags that he usually kept hung from his motorcycle, softly undoing the buckles then pulling out a few sheets of paper, a small inkwell and a slim metal case.  The darkness in the apartment was deep, until a small flame ignited above a candlestick on the table.

*Within the enclave of Acherus, Irihapeti crafts a letter upo the finest parchment available to the living. Ink sits near her in a green vial, she rests upon a chair embedded in rusty spikes. Her armour is off, save for rugged linen undergarnments. She takes in the evening sun of Azeroth, over the clash of runeblades from novice Ebonites eager to prove themselves. She pens the following.*

Convocate - General Sidoran

I bid you long life and no more suffering that what a Sin'dorei ought to suffer. As you well know, my Order has been dispersed throughout the Horde and the insufferable Alliance. This has been for one purpose, to strengthen our people once more. However, another purpose has been set for the good of those very Ebonites dispatched to their faction.

The pen was mocking him; Tiradell was sure of it.  He sat there, looking between the pen and the paper.  This was always the hardest part of the week; thinking back to make his report.  Sometimes it was easy, merely informing General Sunlash of his observations and what had been done.  Other times, it was like composing a song, delicate and complicated.  Tiradell sighed, then placed the pen down against the paper, writing out what came to mind, his memory flashing back to the events of the week.

Quiet and stillness were their only companions in the room.  Drowsing on the cushions across the room, Tiradell looked over at Raeril, now in a natural sleep across the room.  He could feel his jaw tightening and his hands clenching as if seeking to grip his weapon.  It’d been a long night for everyone.  His memory wandered to the week’s events, thinking of everything that he’d need to report on.  It was almost time for that again.  Every week he made his report, he thought to himself, the General’s going to have my head for this one.  Every week seemed like some mad goings-on that he was ill-equipped to handle.

Sebastien recieved the last memo with a sigh. 

"No word from the others, eh?" he asked, looking to the apprentices around the room.  No one dared respond until one of the younger, bolder fire students spoke.

"They're calling it extended leave to attend to duties in the field, sir.  Convocate-General Firatril's tendered a formal resignation, same with Featherfax and Prideux.  No word whatsoever from LaMont."

Kerwin closed his eyes solemnly, taking a long, patient breath.  "Then the situation has become as we feared.  Gentlemen and ladies, inform your superiors.  Operation Al'ar is now in effect."

I stand barefoot on the small mound of earth, my boots in hand. The only thing to mark who was buried here is a small rock, hardly the grand memorial tradition requires. The name of the deceased hovers in glowing script above the meager headstone, but the magic infused in it is fading. A few more days, perhaps a week at most, and the name would be lost. Luckily I arrived before that.

(( semi-useful recap of yesterday's events, from Rhosy's perspective and knowledge. Brief! Very brief! Since I couldn't find the logs from all these conversations. Intended as a personal reference more than anything, since my attempts at narrating are woefully inadequate. -.- ))

She keeps offering me tea.

I keep telling her it’s poisoned.

Jim’s trying so hard to keep me calm, in between moments where his head is buried in a bucket, emptying the contents of his stomach. I think he knows it’s not working, and I think he knows that he can’t help in his state. I think he knows, but Light bless him, he keeps trying.

A separate peice of paper rests on top, in clear, neat handwriting: You'll find the first few pages are abridged. The candidate interviews are verbatim. For your files I have included my written statement of discretion, signed and dated.

-Rhosyn