Fynne

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(There was really only 2 of us. We just kind of ran into Per and Geno. Either way I was like, "Oohh <stops in mid sprint> Fynne!??!?!?! *pweasepweasepwease* It would have added to the rp nicely.)

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((hah heroes are supposed to always be willing to fight Fynne! come on! Spider-man doesnt wait for the hulk to show up before fighting the mob of villians :P Getting your ass kicked is part of being a hero!))

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((haha! I must be a Paragon of heroism then after having Fynne and company chasing me across Ogri'la...thunderlord..that place...and evergrove! AND then the next day finding me in Elemental Plateau and doing it all over again :D.

I still say Fynne and friends should send me money ^_-! :D))

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(See, you're just asking all wrong, Malk. =P You've got to corner Fynne when he gets bold and tells the rest of his party that he's got the situation under control, then rez as a huge bloody mass and give him a great big hug! I'm sure he'll be more than willing to part with his gold! Or, you know, get the hell out and call in 10x reinforcements. That coin toss could go either way. =P)

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Nymare eyed the empty parchment before her dubiously. Visions of tentacles and a hammer still filled her mind, the screaming of the Naaru shattering her sanity with each blast of Light that had been sent through her. Her skin prickled with rage.

He left me to that squid. Cannot do the job himself? Afraid of my blood?

A few quick jabs left crimson beads sprouting from her fingertips. One droplet and then another hit the page before she let the rest start to smear as she began to write, the graceful flow of jagged script broken into a wild and hurried mess.

Tears will be a nice touch. Do I have any left?

One awkward moment later, she gave up. The message was short and simple.

__________

I tried to stop myself but

the dust does not work

He made me

HE MADE ME ----

help me

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The letter is very formal and neatly written.

_____________

Dear Nymare,

The meeting is set to take place on Saturday around five o' clock. If you are still

willing to take part in and recieve our assitance with your problem then you can meet us by the dam within Loch Modan. We must insist that you come by yourself, it is Alliance territory and we are violating many rules for allowing you that far. I ask that you avoid the dwarves as much as possible seeing how it is their land and they will try to protect it. We are looking forward to seeing you and helping with your troubles.

Sincerely,

Jilliane Starre

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Fynne shook his head over and over at the bloodied wrist offered to him. By the time Sare’s milky white wrist bobbed just in front of his eyes, he had fallen to his knees, murmuring in a tone suggesting his resistance had completely crumbled, “Why won’t you just give it to me…?”

He reached out for it, again, but the warlock drew her wrist away again, mocking him. Her voice echoed as if far away, despite the barest of distance between them, “Give it to you? But I like to see you squirm…”

The rogue’s annoyance grew into a seething rage; he spat out at her, anger clearing a path through the haze that had grown so thick in his mind, “You’re being risky, again! What if some other warlock comes along, and just offers it, without all these games?”

“You’d leave me? And here I thought she was the tart. Maybe it’s you I should be worried about?...” Sare teased. She had such a distracting way of waving her arms about when she talked, especially when she had bloodied wrists. Fynne’s concentration waned as his gaze followed a droplet to the floor, and his breathing slowed to match the hypnotic, rhythmic drip.

When he looked up again, it was no longer Sare berating him, but Jilliane, instead. She had taken his page; he thought she was going to return it, but she never did. Whatever she kept murmuring, he wasn’t really paying attention – he just kept his attention rapt on her belt where she’d tucked the page away. She asked something about writing Nymare back; he murmured some dull agreement.

Fynne!” She beckoned him, snapping her fingers to get his attention. Her fingers were bloody, like Sare’s – a thin but effective gash coerced a heady stream of blood to flow down over her hand. The rogue glanced up into her eyes, but there was something lustful about the gaze Jilliane returned. Was all the blood in the room affecting him? He could smell it, still, and the scent made his mind reel. Why? Jilliane was no warlock. Somewhere along the way, though, she had changed.

He knew it was dangerous to look her in the eye; where was his blindfold when he needed it? But it wasn’t Alyiane that stared back at him this time, teasing and taunting and beckoning. These eyes were fel green, and as he melted into their piercing gaze, Fynne startled himself with the sudden rune-driven need that overtook him.

He bolted upright, gasping. Jilliane was still asleep beside him. Somewhere in the fog in his head, he realized it must’ve been a dream, but why, then, hadn’t the desperation left him? Why did he still burn utterly to find a warlock to sate him with the blissful euphoria of their fel-tainted blood? He tore as quietly as he could through Jilliane’s things, an anxious panic growing with each moment he couldn’t find Nymare’s page. He turned to look at her lying peaceful and beautiful and perfect, and so completely not at all what he needed.

He could go to Sare… she would love it, Fynne knew, having him so wanton and needing. He scowled, imagining the smug look on her face as she made him beg. He probably would, too. He didn’t want to give Sare the satisfaction.

He could do just the opposite, though – he could wipe that look right off! Gritting his teeth, he tried to force himself to focus through the fog that had set on his mind. Focus! Hadn’t he told Jilliane, earlier that evening, to write Nymare a letter instead of him, or had she been the one to suggest it? When was their meeting supposed to take place, tomorrow, again? Five? An hour should be more than enough time to get what he needed…

__________

Dear Nymare,

If it is convenient for you, there is a small matter of revenge I
need
your help with. If you can meet me an hour or so before the others arrive in Loch Modan, we can discuss it. I know you’ve scolded me about getting revenge before, but I promise this has nothing to do with Southshore or, I dare say, the Horde at all. In fact, it is my hope that it would do a great deal to persuade you to mention that the person it concerns is Sare.

Your friend,

Sir Henri Fynne

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They had been calling taunts at each other; Nymare with Qabian at her side, and Fynne from the shadows surrounding the small, secret place he had tracked her to. At Fynne’s insistence that he would burn this sacred place of hers to please her flame-obsessed Master, the mage had departed her side, darting to everywhere he could set his magics upon.

Fynne urged her, quieter now, from the shadows, “Nymare, snap out of it! …please?”

But all she uttered were defeated words, “He's done your work for you. Let them come. This place is not mine anymore.”

“You’re pathetic,” he spat at her, hoping to rile the elf free of the mage’s magic, “At least I tried to stand up to Alyiane.”

For a long moment, Nymare said nothing, and then finally, she sank to her knees and whispered, “Fynne…” while she drew a small dagger from her armor. He watched her curiously. She wouldn’t, would she? The elf dragged the blade across her palm, making sure a sizeable amount of blood flowed free of the wound. His mind reeled as she held out her hand.

“Take it…”

Who was he to question that?

“For trying.”

For trying? For trying what? To kill her? To save her? Did it matter? He slinked out from the shadows and knelt before her, bringing his gaze from her bright green eyes to the blood pooling in her palm.

“Take it,” she urged again. The whisper echoed through his mind. This was the stuff of dreams, wasn’t it? His dreams, anyway.

He stared longingly at her palm, drawing a slow, deep breath of its enchanted, heady scent. Qabian approached from behind – his were not the silent steps of a rogue, but nor were they the charging pattering of another assault. Would it have mattered? He was already so deep under Nymare’s spell...

She reached out, clenching her fist, letting the blood run freely, and he sank deeper, staring with glazed eyes at the beckoning pool. He barely heard her words, “I want to show you something.”

Qabian was beside them, now, and he bled himself, too. In the fog, a thousand things came to Fynne’s mind – would Nymare lose herself to his magic, too? Would this become some strange, euphoric, Blood Elf orgy that he had heard ridiculed so many times? Somewhere, in the back of his thoughts, a quiet voice was urging him that something was wrong – none of this was happening; Nymare was very much in control, and not only of herself.

“Take it, Fynne, all of it... for all you couldn't spill yourself,” her words came quietly. He dipped his face into her palm, letting the bliss wash over him.

“Take it. And feel pathetic,” she continued. If her tone had changed, Fynne hadn’t noticed. He was pathetic; she’d said so.

Nymare smeared her hand across Fynne’s face, standing up with a glare, “And die knowing I’m a liar.”

And die… knowing I’m a liar… Qabian’s spells rained down against Fynne while Aeacus tore Fynne’s armor to shreds and Nymare’s arrows sank into his chest. He lay very nearly dead, the pain barely came to him; all of his senses felt dull and faraway. Qabian spit down on him, weaving a portal into existence, and Nymare knelt beside his body. Thoughts of Azure Watch came slowly back to him, but somehow, he was certain she wasn’t concerned with his safety. No-one knew about this place. No-one would come for him. He would die here.

“Goodnight,” she whispered, then the two of them stepped into the portal, and Fynne’s world vanished quickly into black.

He did die there.

- - -

Someone was licking him. Nymare’s cat, Aeacus? He knew it was ghostlike, but had it come to taunt him in the spirit world? Fynne… That was new. He had never heard it speak before. It was a distinctly female voice, too – wasn’t Aeacus male? Did ghost cats have sexes? More licking followed, then everything went numb again. Perhaps it had decided to leave him in peace.

His world exploded into light and pain and… emptiness. Felyse was standing over him, crushing a seed into rebirthing magic. The light was dim; the landscape was still lit by starlight – he couldn’t have been dead for more than a few minutes, at least. The pain was as numb as he had felt beneath the two Blood Elves, but the emptiness was overpowering.

“Are you satisfied, now?” the druid remarked haughtily down at him as she conjured more of nature’s magic to mend his wounds.

“She… I don’t believe – how could – ?” he stammered in disbelief, still in shock. He shook his head from side to side, staring down at the grass, “nothing happened when Qabian bled. She is one of them.”

“Good! That means we don’t have to spare her anymore, right?” the druid said cheerfully.

“I was never a soldier when the scourge came. I never had friends or family in Lordaeron,” Fynne frowned, “…but I guess that’s different. Having one of them betray you… they didn’t have a choice.”

Felyse nodded, understanding where the rogue was going with this, “No, but she does. She had a choice to do this.”

“She’s right,” he sighed, ripping some of the grass up, “I am pathetic.”

The druid walked to the shore and dipped her cloak into the lapping waves. Bouncing, as Night Elves did, she returned to Fynne and wiped the blood from his face with the wet cloth. She chuckled softly, shaking her head, “You tried to save a friend and prove her innocence! I wish I had a friend, such as you! When everyone told you how wrong it was… you still stuck by her side!”

“Pathetic,” Fynne repeated.

“Heroic! Noble! Kind!” retorted the druid.

“To what end?” the rogue asked, emptiness still choking his tone, “She wasn’t innocent. She wasn’t a friend. They weren’t wrong, they were right.”

“She used to be, Fynne, don’t you forget that,” Felyse smiled kindly. “Just because she turned down a dark path doesn’t mean you were suddenly in the wrong,” she added.

“What point, though? Punishing The Grim… for Nymare… it had a purpose. Now – she’s right. There’s more than I can ever possibly kill,” Fynne sighed, defeatedly.

“To let them know they are being hunted!” exclaimed the druid, “So long as they lay waste to our lands, we will not let them rest!”

“Why?” the rogue asked hopelessly, “It hasn’t stopped them yet. It hasn’t dissuaded them. Theramore, today? Menethil? As far as the Exodar? They don’t care if you hunt them.” He whispered quietly, standing, “I don’t care if you hunt them.”

The two of them stalked quietly over to the charred stone tower. Fynne drew his sword half-heartedly and began carving, but the druid wouldn’t let him have the last word, “That is your choice, Sir Henri Fynne. But you’ve taught me not to rest knowing that they have no resistance to their killing.”

The rogue turned silently away from the tower, conjuring his hearthstone to summon him back to Shattrath. Felyse stayed behind only long enough to read the stone.

’Let these ruins stand symbolic of a ruined friendship. May no-one make the mistake of trusting another in this place.’

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(I was going to create a new thread, but I thought that maybe it might be better to make this an ongoing cross-faction correspondence thread. So anyone else who sends letters, and doesn't mind them being public, feel free to hijack at will!)

__________

Sir Leoren Evershine,

Please forgive me if I’ve misspelled your name – it isn’t often that I’ve had the opportunity to use it. Whatwith all this chest thumping and angry beckoning in Shattrath, I thought it might be good for the endurance of your good looks to help calm you down. ‘An eye for an eye,’ I think, is a principle of a paladin who walks the path of retribution, so it shouldn’t be hard for you to understand the circumstances involved in me writing you.

If I may speak plainly, I’m much better at speaking my mind than having someone rewrite my words until they’re fit to be read by Sirs and Lords and Ladys. ‘Your goons beat down my girl. So I went and beat down your goons.’ Now, this may not sound as elegant as when a man clad in golden armor and wielding divine hammers metes out the justice, but the fundamentals are the same.

Now, before you crush this letter in your gauntlet (or, before you crush it again and AGAIN, until the ink is unreadable) – I
understand
your anger. Particularly for Anorah. This is the same anger I felt when Jilliane was assaulted and Anorah fled the Isle like a coward upon my arrival.
This
is an eye for an eye, Leoren.
I was denied my just revenge, and was forced to chase down her fleeing steed to mete it far, far later.

I have claimed it, now. I salute you again, as I have saluted The Raven Cross so many times before. Justice is done. We are equal. I ask you, will you not sacrifice some of your pride and salute me back?

Your brother in justice,

Sir Henri Fynne

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__________

Sir Henri Fynne,

I am no longer a Sir. My time as Silvermoon's Knight is over.

So accordingly, allow me to speak plainly as well. You can take your self righteous spiel and
choke on it
, for your words are as weak and flimsy as your delusions. It was your ‘girl’ who first aided in an attack of one of our bearers upon the Isle. Perhaps the Lady ‘
Virtuous
’ left that detail out? Like the rest involved in the attack, she was dealt with in a fashion suiting the nature of her transgression. One should not simply strike at our kinship without expecting the consequences that follow. An eye for an eye, as you put it. If there was ever a point this vendetta was ‘
equal
’, it would have been then.

I find little point in trying to reason with one whose perception of events and morality border upon insanity. How
dare
you insult Anorah's honor. You flatter yourself if you genuinely believe she ran from the likes of you. One cannot flee from an enemy who did not reveal himself from the safety of his own shadows. By the time Anorah had realised your intentions to ‘justice’, she afforded you the honour to meet her single combat. It was not she who was the coward afraid to stand and fight on equal terms. That was her only failure, assuming some nobility from a snake and offering it a chance to revenge in a fair fight. Though snakes do not strike alone, as you and your ambushers taught.
A lesson none of us will soon forget
.

Do not speak to me on matters of pride and sacrifice, for my anger stems for the blood you’ve spilled of my band. Rest assured, your further ambushes upon the unsuspecting of our banner did not go unnoticed, and without due admittance and penance, these insults shall fiercely remain unforgiven. It was you who struck against us in such an underhanded manner, furthermore against those who played no part in this farce. We will not be afraid to continue to return the sentiment in kind, as a number of yours have already learned. As you like,
Fynne
.

You can threaten with and hide behind your Legionnaires all you wish, but they and those close to you bleed just as much as we do. Mark my words, if it’s a war you want, it’s a bloody war you’ll get. We will not surrender while we still draw breath, and we will not stop until there are no eyes left to take. If you’ve a shred of the decency you’d purport to carry, and truly wish for this to end without a blood bath? Then we’d meet with you. The choice is yours.

Sincerely,

Leoren Evershine, Patriarch of the Raven Cross.

< There is a large spilling of red ink at the bottom of the page, within it etched a darkened symbol. >

Ebon-Cross.jpg

__________

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__________

Baron Skafloc,

You were correct about Netherstorm. Come prepared, if you have mind to come at all. I’ve heard some interesting rumors about you – perhaps I should have had Sare ask you that most-important question, to be certain you could not lie about the answer.

Regardless, between your consorting (or worse, I dare say) with The Grim, the nature of your damsel in distress, and the tensions with our history, I’m hesitant to put myself in a defenseless position with you and yours. Enclosed, you will find a small pouch of bone dust – when you are ready to embark, dusting your runes will numb them to you for a single day. If there is dishonesty or manipulation afoot, at the very least you will become aware of it. Whether you act with your immunity, I daresay, is up to your own character.

Returning to the matter at hand, Netherstorm holds a reservoir of fel energy unheard of, even for an overrun manaforge. If there are warlocks there, they are immensely powerful, and I cannot stress the importance of guarding weaknesses that they might otherwise exploit. The entrances are uninviting and guarded only well enough not to draw attention to them – I have no idea, other than the sickly stench of fel power, what waits inside. I hope your bag of tricks is as deep as mine.

Today, I have the pleasure to be -

Your comrade as Hunter,

Sir Henri Fynne

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