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Tirien

This Time with Feeling

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Tirien    19

“Snake-suckin’ son of a - “ Tirien whispers in a harsh tone as his lock-pick snaps.

A magnificent rug runs the length of the hallway and does little to muffle the plated footfalls approaching the corner.  His hands shake from the rising adrenaline as he pulls out another lock-pick.  One, two, ignore the third tumbler, half on the fourth and…

Click.

Tirien sweeps into the room as a duo of Silvermoon guards walk past the hallway, none the wiser to the Human who finds himself in the heart of the Sin'dorei capitol.

A soft metallic grind whines from the door handle as Tirien gently eases off the pressure.  It quietly locks shut and he takes what feels like his first breath in years.  He even has a moment to appreciate the fine quality of the door and the various avian engravings carved into ---

“You have five seconds to either leave or explain yourself before I adorn my door with your corpse.”  A Sin’dorei Magistrate, short and lithe and in comfortable robes as red as the sunset, announces in a shrill, commanding, and distinctly feminine voice.

Tirien turns, only to stare down the length of a sword wreathed in magical fire and then to the Sin'dorei holding it.  If the situation were any different, he has a mind to ask this fiery lady what her favorite drink is and what she’d like for breakfast.  Slowly, hands raising, Tirien burns the first three seconds of his allotted time in this fantasy and stands.

“Answerin’ yer newspaper add,” Tirien drawls, “about needin’ a Sneak.”  The lie is obvious and the Magistrate looks at him like he’s an idiot.  Why is she here, though?  He wonders this as the Magistrate's contempt tightens her face about as much as her hair in that bun.  Her schedule says she should be at ---

Time-zones.  Tirien forgot to calculate the timezone difference between Silvermoon and Dalaran and groans with a roll of his eyes.  If he could smack his forehead, he would, though the Magistrate and her blade seem happy to oblige his wish.

His meeting with the other Elf, Ardyan, replays in his mind as the flames licking the Magistrate's blade intensify.

 

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“Mister Forewell?”  Ardyan guesses as he approaches the back corner of the Legerdemain Lounge.  Seeing as no other Human appears to be here, the gentleman sitting near the bookshelf would then be his contact.

Human, born in Westfall, resides in Stormwind, dependable, reliable… All are things that summarize the man who now stands from his seat to offer a friendly hand to shake, as is custom for his kind.  Ardyan flicks his eyes up from the extended glove to Tirien’s face and notes the wide, friendly smile the dossier on him warns about.  Tirien is, as expected, armored in leathers of dark reds and golds with his identity completely hidden.  Excellent.  The color scheme in Silvermoon allows for nothing else if one wishes to sneak in.  The glint of a dagger’s pommel shines from under the cloak and is something Ardyan keeps note of as he shakes the man’s hand.

“Yep.  I’m assumin’ yer th’ Ardyan that Siane mentioned?”  Tirien looks the Elf up and down and appreciates his smooth and clean taste in clothes.  Others of his race tend to be more… flamboyant.  The Elf has a sturdy shake too, which gets a tiny nod of respect.  At this point, most folks would’ve given away a hint at what’s on their mind but with Ardyan, Tirien suspects the Elf knows this game well enough to hide it.  Siane, it seems, has friends in high places seeing as how it’s through Ardyan he’ll be able to perform as she asks and retrieve some files from Silvermoon.

“Indeed.”  Ardyan makes a lovely smile, Tirien thinks, and distracts him as the Elf retrieves an envelope from his robe.  “In here you will find Magistrate Flamewind’s schedule and office location.  This should suffice, as anything further would have too great a chance to implicate - “

“Yeah, yeah.  It’s more’n enough.”  Tirien snatches the envelope from Ardyan’s hand, interrupting the Elf.  It gives Tirien a glimpse at something that might get past the Elf’s supreme composure with how it made his eye twitch a little.  On any other Elf it would come off as snobbish, but Ardyan somehow makes it cute.

“Good.  Then our business is concluded.”  Ardyan makes a customary bow before departing from the Cafe.  Tirien takes a moment and appreciates the Elf’s other ‘assets’ as well as he watches him leave.

 

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Magistrate Flamewind’s incantation snaps his attention out of the reverie.  Tirien ducks the oncoming firebolt and rolls to take cover behind a lounge chair.  Another firebolt soars overhead, leaving scorch marks on the alabaster painted wall.  Flamewind makes a frustrated huff as she waits for Tirien to move.  The chair is, after all, her favorite furniture piece to nap on.

“Hey now, settle down.”  Tirien shuffles to the higher end of the lounge chair.  Like it, the room boasts the haughty supremity that is Sin’dorei decor.  The modest size of the office is hidden in swaths of red fabric, gaudy portraiture, and bookshelves filled with elegant tomes and scrolls.  Tirien awkwardly scoots the lounge chair with him, scratching the floor as he does.  The Magistrate enrages.

“Do NOT!”  She side steps his path, thrusting her hand out to trap Tirien’s feet in a spell of ice.  He rolls over the chair in time to dodge.

Tirien burns through his precious time as fast as she burns her office space.  Incanting another spell, her hand conjures a crystal.  It thrums with soft magic and lights up as she begins to speak into it.  The crystal hits the floor when a desperate knife, thrown on reflex, sinks into her forearm.  Tirien’s face pales seeing his aim for the crystal was off.  His record of a clean infiltration goes up in smoke.

All bets are off.  Terse shouting comes in through the open windows along the breeze.  The Magistrate regains her composure and conjures fire under his feet.  A column of it sends him up high to the ceiling and sets his cloak ablaze.  Perfect.

When the cloak lands, two more firebolts pierce the hide, though Tirien is nowhere to be seen.  She regains her composure, twisting her eyes to find the man.

“Sorry darlin’.”  Tirien cups her mouth with a chemical-laced cloth.  The Magistrate loses consciousness and slumps in his arms.  Using that is something he hates, even as a last resort, but at least she’ll wake up on her lounge chair.  Making sure she’s comfortable, Tirien looks to the desk.

Heavy footfalls pound closer to the door.  Scrambling, Tirien jumps up to get a hold onto a book case.  With a heave, he topples the thing in front of the door then gets back to the task at hand.  While the guards struggle with the lock, Tirien rummages through the top-most drawers.  Magistrate Flamewind, it seems, isn’t as orderly with her private affairs.  The drawers are an utter mess, as are the filing cabinets nearby.

“How th’ shit can she find anythin’?  Gotta be a system here…”  He paces around the desk, scanning it and this half of the office to get an idea for how she works.  Brinnea’s capture and movement is likely secret, so, keeping documents on that wouldn’t be kept in such an obvious...Wait.

Next to Magistrate Flamewind snoozing on the lounge chair is a petite end table with a small letter drawer on the underside.  Tirien dashes to it and finds that it’s locked.  Feeling under the table for the key, his search yields nothing.  As his mind races, he spares a glance to the Magistrate and her robes.  Aside her waist are pockets and suddenly his morals are placed in jeopardy.

He has to find that key.  Surely the Magistrate wouldn’t mind his hands carefully slipping into her pockets, he reasons.  “Damn, if Mema caught me doin’ this…Light rest ‘er soul,”  He mutters.

The outer one, like the table, yields nothing and as he reaches around to search the other, a guardsmen clears his throat at the door.  With only the upper half of the guard’s face showing over the fallen bookcase, Tirien remembers that the door swings out, not in.

The key falls into his hand as the bookcase crashes down.  It sends scrolls and journals scattering over the scarlet and gold rug and buys Tirien a few seconds to open the tiny drawer.  Within is a letter bearing the wax seal he’s looking for.  That letter has Brinnea’s location in it as well as Tirien’s paych -

“I’m doin’ this fer free…”  Tirien reminds himself as he draws in a breath.  All this trouble for a trusted friend.  When the guards close in, he pulls out a smoke bomb.  It’s amazing, to him, at how such a small thing will save his blundering ass.

The guards cough and sputter as they scour the room, though only a breeze and a groggy Magistrate remain after the wind filters out the smoke.

Edited by Tirien
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