Advertisement Posted in Most Horde and Neutral Cities

[Villinger]

An expensive looking piece of parchment hangs near all banks across the Horde range of Azeroth. This includes the major cities, Booty Bay, Ratchet, Gadgetzan, and Winterspring. It's an inked drawing of a seriously concerned undead priest standing behind a chair like the ones seen in most taverns. In the chair is a slack-jawed old orc, her frayed braid hangs down and drops of what might be drool or blood (only it's not coloured) is dripping from her chin onto her chest. She is cross-eyed. At her feet is a money bag spilling out onto the ground. There are only two colours painted onto the drawing, the yellow of the coins to signify gold and the blue of the priest's vestments.

Written in strongly stroked Orcish underneath the spilled coin:

"Did you know that every moron, imbecile, psychotic, or mental deficient costs the Horde 60,000 gold per annum in wasted funds for healing and item repair? Protect the Horde and its future by turning in the guilty to Doctor Villinger c/o the Asylum."

Tacked to the bottom is a red strip of leather with the following written on it in scribbly Orcish:

REWARD! 10 GOLD FOR PERSON WHO CAN RETRIEVE THE GOOD DOCTOR'S COMMUNICATOR FROM UNDEAD PRIEST WHO CALLS HERSELF 'THRALL' DEAD OR ALIVE! DOES NOT MATTER, JUST BRING BACK THE COMMUNICATOR.

[Ellsbeth]

Ellsbeth quickly scans the posts and sees the one by the 'Good Doctor.' She rolls her eyes and doesn't comment, but just walks away.

[Shadowspeak]

The priest quickly eyed the note. It was most interesting to him now, especially since he had been riding all day with not a single quarry worth his time. At first he eyed the note as any passerby would until he reached-

"Doctor Villinger c/o the Asylum"

The priest quickly snatched the note in abvious intrest. he scanned the rest of the note, reading the last bit with a chuckle.

"I'm suprised he didn't want his ears back either."

The priest then pocketed the parchment, quickly looking over his shoulder to make sure none had read it, or seen him take it.

"I'll get his help later..."

he stroked the nearby spider, taking much precesion in his movements as he did not want to disturb her young clinging to her back. He smiled saying-

"Soon dear Plaguefang. We'll get this doctor soon enough."

[Villinger]

((Shadowspeak Send me an in-game tell if you see I'm on and we'll meet up. I have heard from Holdeng you are looking for us.))

[Vilmah]

Vilmah caught site of a note, pinned to a wall in Orgrimmar. She hopped off of Edmund's back, and read the words carefully.



"Did you know that every moron, imbecile, psychotic, or mental deficient costs the Horde 60,000 gold per annum in wasted funds for healing and item repair? Protect the Horde and its future by turning in the guilty to Doctor Villinger c/o the Asylum."



"Wait a sec," she said quietly. "Thats the guy who put the collar on Niethan!"

She then remembered the advice she'd been given, not to stir up trouble with these people. Not being the type of orc to pick a fight, Vilmah calmed her nerves and instead tore down the note. In the back of her head, a voice shouted;

What are you doing?? You should be pissed off beyond reason! How dare these bastards do this to Niethan?! It's a travesty! Do something!

Vilmah grit her teeth, but couldn't find it within her to be angry. Instead, she sighed and muttered, "Keep quiet. If someone finds out about you, I just might meet them the hard way..."

[Vironyal]

At Ratchet...

Vironyal read the letter, paying most attention to this paragraph:




"Did you know that every moron, imbecile, psychotic, or mental deficient costs the Horde 60,000 gold per annum in wasted funds for healing and item repair? Protect the Horde and its future by turning in the guilty to Doctor Villinger c/o the Asylum."

He frowned slightly. "Guilty"? Though one could hardly expect a better attitude from a doctor of the Forsaken, the state of Horde pychiatry clearly had room for improvement. Still, Vironyal was a stranger to this land, and needed to begin building a network of colleagues. He resolved to contact Doctor Villinger and The Asylum.

[Verash]

The old troll peered at the bill posted in Orgrimmar, then motioned to the young tauren girl nearby.

"Eh. Haokah? Can you read this bit at the bottom?"

The tauren bounded up to the bill and read:

"Reward: 10 gold for who can get the doctor's com... commuuuun.. communicator! from undead priest 'Thrall'... Mister Versh? The big orc? He's sorta-dead?"

The old troll started chuckling. "Not at all, dear. Different person. I'm surprised you haven't met her. And if she's got it..."

Verash walked away, laughing uproariously. The young girl followed close behind.

"What's funny, Mister Versh? Comeonnnnnnn! Tell me!"

[Niethan]

Niethan did not often come to Booty Bay, but by chance or fate he had forgotten a rather important item ("Niethan. we're fighting a demon, here. What do you mean you 'forgot' your demonslaying dagger?) in the goblins' care when last he had passed through and he needed it five minutes ago, so off across the winding platforms and decks he went.

When the dagger was safely ensconced in his pack he took off across the planks again, then skidding to a halt a a familiar face. He padded closer to the advertisment, scowling at the Good Doctor's visage. Out of habit one hand crept to the metal band encirling his neck, then fell away and before his brain had caught up to the rest of him, Niethan was stalking away from the billboard, casually tossing an explosive trap over his shoulder.

He grinned at the sound of the detonation and the confused panic that ensued. Then he started running, because those guards have awfully good eyesight for goblins.

[Krivoklat]

The soft crush of new fallen snow beneath leathery saber-paws is barely audible above the panting exhales of a frost-saber's breath as a white-haired night elf dismounts and enters the goblin bank.

An annoying "Hey, howyadoin" is added to the din of the evening bustle about the town of Winterspring as light snowflakes float in through the open door on the breeze of the elf's entrance, melting into small droplets on the warm stone floor.

"Krivoklat" is all the elf says in a thick Dolonarian accent. The goblin nods as he turns and pulls a box from behind the counter. The elf drops a lightly laden pack next to his heel, pulling out two fistfulls of Icecap and places them into a small duffel inside the box, then pushes it back at the goblin who remmoves it from the counter and back into the incorporeal space crammed with so many other boxes.

The elf turns to depart when an odd paper catches his eye...

It is an expensive looking piece of parchment hanging near the door... an inked drawing of a forsaken stands behind a tavern chair. In the chair is a slack-jawed, cross-eyed old orc, drool drips from its chin onto its chest. At its feet is a money bag spilling out onto the ground. There are only two colors painted onto the drawing, yellow on the coins and blue on the forsaken's vestments.

The elf's eyes take in the drawn image, slowly panning down to strongly stroked scratching below the image of the coins... He looks at the drawing again... closer. The old orc's braid... the crossed eyes seem to portray this weak beast barely conscious in it's tavern-chair... the greedy look in the forsaken's eyes, the odd blue of its crude and tattered vestments... the drool from the orc's chin... obviously this pathetic creature has been beaten senseless by the forsaken... just by the satisfied look on the forsaken's face it seems to be about to claim its prize from the orc... a large pile of coins.

Looking down at the scratching below the image of the coins he tries to make sense of the odd, chaotic shapes. "mmmmm... these savages steal even from each other..." The elf shakes his head and recalls an old story of how the forsaken fell in league with the rest of the horde... how it servered the purpose of their queen... how they would exploit any and every opportunity that suited their dark plans for revenge. The elf pondered for a moment the collective memories of ages passed. The shadows and blured shapes of the first orcs who appeared on Kalimdor swirled in his head... it seemed as if it were just a few seasons ago the red portal had appeared, bringing the first orcs out from under their rocks instead of so many life-ages of men.

With his gloved hand he pulls the parchment down examining it with waning interest. A breath and a snort passes his nostrils as he detects the stench of rot so commonly wafted on the breazes of Tristfal... an all too familiar wrinkle appears on the bridge of his nose as he tacks the paper back up. A small piece of red leather falls to the floor of the bank, landing in a fist-sized clump of half-melted snow.

"...Let the scum have their gloating warnings to the rest of the honorless horde... when they betray each other at least they will have been warned."

With that, the elf waves his hand, muttering the ancient words granting him he the elemental resistances and strengths of the wild. His leg slides across the saddle of the Frost-saber who's misty breath in the cold night air is doubled for a moment as it calmly carries its rider across the narrow paths to the exit of Winterspring, the soft *crush* *crush* *crush* of its paws across the newfallen snow turn into a full run as the elf disapears into the winter-mists of the snowey night.

[Villinger]

Villinger sent his minion out to replace the advertisements as in the last month he'd lost one of his best subjects to The House of Kai. They seemed to shelter such imbeciles and perhaps their leader, Zustekai would learn his lesson.

Of course, the Good Doctor himself did not have the time to replace the torn ads himself. No no. There were important things to do and missions to run for powerful members of the Horde. Pride welled within him as he pulled into Razor Hill and spoke with his private banker there. Yes. Things were going well and would soon go better. Soon.

It was nice to be appreciated.