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  1. 2 points
    “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. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “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. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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.
  2. 1 point
    Mardalius' reports are done in shorthand Thalassian, more notes on his actions than a proper journal. His hand is elegant and practiced, with no smears or blots. Each page is stamped with the seal of House Anterius, a stylized "A" emblazoned on a shield, and Mardalius' personal seal, a crossed sword and staff. Julilee, I will be using logbooks like this one to file my reports. The reports start at the beginning of the day you informed me I was to submit them. As instructed, I will only be reporting things that directly pertain to the mission against the Legion. Week One, Day One: Visited several shops in Dalaran seeking a tome on exceptionally long range portal theory. Found one lead. Will investigate tomorrow. Ordered 3 (three) spare battle raiments from my tailor, Dobraine. Should be finished this week. Weight training with Alinah, sparred with T'suro. Ended in draw due to inability to use magic safely in basement. Recommend outdoor sparring area for magic-based fighters Week One, Day Two: Followed lead on aforementioned tome. Purchased tome from Ethereal in Shattrath, teleported back to Dalaran. Will review tome later. Purchased rations and new staff for excursion to Argus. Remainder of day spent awaiting orders to leave. Week One, Day Three: Studied portal tome. Spoke to mages who maintain portal to the Vindicaar. Should be able to replicate portal, if needed. Will require great deal of magical energy. Will plan extra rationing. Week One, Day Four: Attended a wedding in Suramar, per your orders, to stop an assassination plot by Karthok. Took on an illusion of a guardsman, rescued Cmdr. Sorel Crescentsong from himself, and assisted with stopping the assassins. Returned to guildhouse and received treatment for wounds received. If more information is needed, will provide in person. Week One, Day Five: Tested ability to open portals from Argus to Azeroth. Test successful, but very draining. Spent remainder of day recovering strength. Week One, Day Six: Still recovering from portal test. Slept late, ate plentifully. Picked up spare battle raiments from Dobraine, packed in rucksack with rations. Week One, Day Seven: Final preparations for Argus. Received orders to gather and leave with warband. Performed final inventory.
  3. 1 point
    Week Three, Day One: Returned to field. Ninety-eight demons slain. Week Three, Day Two: Provided portal services to mobilize the Army of the Light to regions needing reinforcements. Week Three, Day Three: Rest day, recovering from maintaining portals. Week Three, Day Four: Patrolled Krokun region. Seventy-four demons slain. Week Three, Day Five: Day spent retrieving herbs native to Argus. Evening spent studying herbs and effect of long term fel exposure. Week Three, Day Six: Assisted with opening portals to Dalaran to bring fresh troops and supplies to Argus. Week Three, Day Seven: Tested several new alchemical mixtures with Argus and Azerothian herbs. Results inconclusive.
  4. 1 point
    Now I have a decision to make. An opportunity arises. I don't remember the discussion well. Khorvis and Syreena, Lupinum, I think, commiserating about how Sanctuary gets away with great injustices and no punishment, how everyone seems to have forgotten what they did. I wasn't even there for whatever it is they did. Torture, I gather. Which is beyond hilarious. They always had such pretense for heroics. But yes, torture is fine. Torture away. Provide me with hours of laughter. But I knew from the first I heard of them that the violet and gold were a ridiculous farce, so bringing them to their knees was always somewhere on the to-do list. Unfortunately, that list was always full of other things, still is, and they were never important enough to be far from the bottom. Perhaps most of us have forgotten, or were not there to experience their sins, as I was not. Perhaps my comrades are correct. No one is going to do anything. No one is even considering doing anything. Except, curiously, me. I interject with my situation, my considerations, that I came to entirely without any prodding from the Mandate. Someone presents the idea of turning the child to my side, as if that weren't my intention from the moment I learned he'd somehow managed to survive this long. Well, other than the initial intention to have him blow himself up by teaching him magic he couldn't control. That didn't work. But turning someone to your side is not something that can be done overnight or through sheer force of will. You cannot simply force someone to agree with something that has been taught to them as fundamentally against their nature, at least not in a way that cannot be easily broken. Turning someone to my side is not something I ever do. Murder is so much simpler. I have, on occasion, reached out to those who have not yet chosen a side and made my case. But to try to take someone from the light into the darkness? That is so much effort for so little reward. It requires cajoling and convincing. It involves drawn out plots and schemes that cannot be accomplished efficiently or they fall apart simply by virtue of moving too quickly. One piece at a time. Slowly. Birds, small animals, larger animals, lesser beings, obvious villains, then the apparently innocent, until eventually, someday, everything becomes the target it should be. This drawing out is not in my nature. At all. I tried to skip steps, but this is a process that cannot be forced if there is any hope of success. I can easily cajole and convince those who are weak to certain wants and needs, money, murder, things that seem desperately out of reach but can in fact be acquired easily. But what do I have that a child wants? Apparently, knowledge. So I share that. Already, I've had more success than I ever expected. The boy is my apprentice, after all, not that I ever wanted an apprentice, ever, but his parents are... somehow accepting of this? I have not pressed them regarding why that is and I will not. I assume he simply has them more obedient to his desires than he is to theirs, as is the way of children who become too precious. I should know. He has already begun to break their rules at my request. It is a process that takes time, I tell the others. How do I get anyone who follows people like that to instead follow someone like me? And any time I spend engaging in that endeavor risks them trying to play the game in reverse against me. However entirely certain I am that such a thing is a losing proposition for them, even the idea of fair play is unpleasant. I present the situation. My companions give up easily. Just kill him. Just kill the kid. Why don't you just kill it? Well, yes, that's an option. It would not hurt Sanctuary, though. It would hurt only his mother. I'm not sure his father even has emotions. The pain would be brief and restricted. The rest of Sanctuary would comfort her in her mourning. I would become the villain I already am. Too easy. Insufficient reward. There were other plots, other people who needed to die in pain, other reasons to try to manipulate the child to manipulate his parents to manipulate their friends, but it has almost all fallen to the decay of complexity. The longer this debacle draws out, the more appealing the easiest option looks. However, through pure chance, through an unexpected occasion for honesty, I am also closer to gaining the child's trust than I have been thus far. If I continue to bide my time, to act in gentle ways they do not expect, occasionally, when it is natural to do so and not suspicious, perhaps the future will hold the key to using him to dismantle them entirely. The child has also given me an unexpected gift. Most of my memory has been mangled, but the moment his mother assaulted me, a brief point in time from before bronze interference, now stands out with a clarity I had believed impossible to achieve. Simply being able to see that moment so clearly has given me valuable insight into the self that was very nearly devoured by dragons. There are other memories crystallizing. The statues of Azshara. The blood I spilled before them in my search for answers. The endless horizon line. Are there ways to reveal other memories like this? Is that even something I want? No, it isn't. It is no gift. It is a curse. And yet, there's something brilliant in that particular memory, my hands at her throat, the anger in her song, the words we shouted at each other, such rage, such vitriol, the pain I suffered that day, the pain I caused that day. Its clarity is a gem once entirely lost, now found again. She was pregnant with him. I nearly killed him then, before he was even born. Amusing. Disappointing. There is something else that is concerning. I have a weakness. It arises so rarely that it is just as rarely a problem, but the boy has touched on it. When someone is genuinely interested in me and my words, and are not themselves entirely repugnant, I am easily convinced to share my thoughts, even to overshare to the point of considerable risk. That never ends well for me. Apparently simply knowing a weakness exists is not enough to prevent it. I should take more care. So here I am at this crossroads. I can kill him, or rather, have him kill himself, because he wants power so badly, he'll no doubt choose the most dangerous targets in range. Even better, I may have the chance to make it look like whatever accident befalls him is his mother's fault. Does no damage at all to their organization, but it would certainly be satisfying for me personally. Or I can take the gamble on another opportunity to do something far, far worse, far more entertaining, perhaps even far more useful down the road. If he does live through this venture, they will all have no choice but to trust me more than they do now. As I consider this crossroads, I cannot help but wonder how much time can you bide before you realize that you have spent all of it only working against yourself, that your scheme will never truly conclude? When is it time to stop scheming and simply drop the blade? Usually, my schemes have the blade worked in. Its fall is inevitable and it does not wait for long. Not this time. This plan has been different from the start. I don't convince people. I kill them, or I offer them the blade with which to kill themselves. This is not the first time I've considered ending this whole charade. I have a decision to make. This is not my style. It is making me extremely uncomfortable.
  5. 1 point
    Fhenrir Phoenix is a tauren warrior that has served the Horde for over a decade. His staunch and unwavering commitment to fighting both the Alliance and the other threats from around the world has earned him the title of Lieutenant General. In the past, he struggled to find who he was beyond his duty. He has since settled into a (mostly) content personal life, with many close allies and a caring partner. He is generally ornery and humorless, but lets his guard down around those closest to him. But now... Fenny Cranksplat, in: "A Piece of Cake" One of my earlier memories is about a cake. It was at my birthday party. We were outside the house, sitting at a public bench in the park. Dad didn't invite anybody that wouldn't pay for their own food, so there were only Cranksplat family members watching when he brought out the cake. Crappy graying grass under the bench crunched with each of his steps, and he nearly slipped on an oil stain. But when the cake came down, I was thrilled to see it slathered in pink frosting and oozing some kind of chocolate sugary filling. Dad sliced a piece for me and set it on my plate. I must've had the biggest, fattest, happiest face an eight year old goblin could have. Then my older half-brother, Rigo, snatched my plate and started eating. I started bawling. "D-d-daaaad!" Dad slapped me in the back of the head. "Shaddap. I look like a cake dispensary?" I sniffed and watched my brother eating my chocolate oozing pink cake and was about to lose it again. "Pushovers don't eat," Dad said. Nearby in a pile of junk, I saw an old bent wrench. I wiped the snot off my nose, grabbed it, and beat my brother to a pulp. "Dat's my boy," I heard Dad say while I ate the rest of my reclaimed cake. After that, Rigo went to go live with Mom. Dad knew I was a fighter. When I was gettin' big enough to do proper work, he bought me my mech-mace. Well, he said bought, but it had an inscription on the handle that read "Love, Your Little Corkscrew." The spinning gears on the head looked kinda stupid, but they were supposed to make it 42% more Aerodynamic and 69% more Ouchy. "If you wanna keep eatin'," Dad told me, "ya better make dis a worthwhile investment." I worked my butt off every day with that thing, and by the time I was old enough to make myself useful, I went and got myself a job for the richest goblin I could find. Some jerk who counted coins at the bank needed some muscle to keep thugs out. "I... see. What makes you qualified to watch our gold, Mister... Fenny Cranksplat?" the banker asked as he read my resume. Well, it wasn't really a resume. It was a paper that I wrote "Hire Me" on, cause they said I needed a resume to apply. "I'm gonna level with you, buddy. Everybody in line out there bashes heads, probably about the same as I do. But," I dropped my mech-mace on his desk. "You don't have to pay to arm me. That's less risk on your end, cuz if I die or my stuff gets stolen, you didn't pay for a copper of it." The banker tilted his head and scratched his chin. The next day, I was working for the guy. I scratched my butt and leaned into anyone who looked funny for eight hours a day, and I was making more gold than Dad ever did. I had to crack a few skulls, but that was the way of things: either He probably resented me for it. Well, no, he definitely resented me for it. The old dope tried to rob me after I'd stashed up a couple months of pay under my pillow. I woke up one night face to face with him, his hand literally clutching my bag full of gold. "Hey," he said casually, sweat pouring down his forehead. I slept next to my mace, so I had it available to bash his head in. I woulda felt bad, but he kinda asked for it. By trying to steal my stuff. Nobody at the mortgage company really asked questions when I took over payments from my old man. They were still getting their gold, so they were happy. After a year or so working at the bank, I got approached by a guy in a shady outfit with a shady agenda. "Meet me in the alley down the block by the weird-smelling dumpster tonight. Got a job that'll triple yer pay." Didn't trust him for a second, but gold is gold, and my ladyfriend cancelled our plans for that night, so I went and checked it out. Flickering street lamp just outside the alley showed me the shadow of the guy waiting for me; the flabby, spidery shadow. Trade Prince Gallywix himself came out to meet me: maybe this really was something. He also had maybe a half dozen guards - that I could see, at least - surrounding him. "Hah, he actually came, boss!" one of them squeaked in an awful twang. "That he did," the Trade Prince said through his bouncing jowls. "So, your name is Fanny, right?" "Fenny." "All right, Fanny, here's the score. My boys say you got a night shift at the end of the week. You're gonna look the other way, for about two hours or so." "Why am I gonna do that?" "So ya don't have an affair with tha fishes tomorrow," another guard said in a leathery growl. I pulled the mech-mace off my back. "You wanna rumble?" "He's strapped!" the first guard shrieked. "No need for a rumble," the Trade Prince cut in. "It's bad for business. Tell you what: you do what you're supposed to, triple your pay." If I was loyal to one thing, it was to the coin. And a Trade Prince was worth way more than any random banker. His diet alone was probably worth more than my house; Gallywix had more chins than I had fingers. "Guess I won't see you later." The heist came and went, and I ignored it like I was supposed to. Once they were gone, I didn't even finish my shift: the bank was gonna know who to blame when their gold was missing tomorrow. Soon as the sun was up, I was at Gallywix's place. "Here to see the Trade Prince." "Shove off, no appointments for today." "He should be expecting me." "He ain't expecting you." "He ain't expecting a certain guy getting paid for a certain thing that wasn't observed last night?" The guards exchanged looks. "Be right back." One of them left, and I was left staring the other guard's ugly mug for just a bit too long. I was getting suspicious. Finally, the guard came back. "Go on in." So I get to the Trade Prince, hanging out in his spider tank thing. I had a sinking feeling when I realized just how much of an oily smell that thing put off, and how much noise it made when he moved around. Didn't notice either of those things in the alley. "You hinted at something out at the gate?" Gallywix said. "The job," I prompted him. "Ah, yes. Fenny Cranksplat, correct? The AWOL guard?" I was screwed. "Maybe. Listen, Trade Prince-" I didn't even get to finish my sentence. I woke up at the bottom of a trash chute. The only source of light was a square opening about three floors up. A goblin around my age poked his head through after he heard me shuffling around. "You awake? You must be the dumbest burglar on the whole island." "I didn't burgle anything." "Sure, sure. Hey, nice mech-mace, Little Corkscrew. Worth just enough to keep you out of cement shoes." They were gonna sell my mace. "I'll kill you!" I tried to climb up, but I couldn't get up the walls. They were coated in some kind of oil; or I hoped it was oil. "Clean up the whole place and we'll see about getting you a promotion!" "Screw yourself!" I shouted back. "Just think!" he called as he threw something into the chute that obscured the only source of light. "You could be "Lieutenant Garbage!"" The source of the shadow smacked into my face: A big piece of pink chocolate cake.
  6. 1 point
    The wedding director, whom Shokkra had somehow identified, appeared to be fawning over a bard at the edge of the dance floor, an area where some additional mingling was happening. At least Aaren guessed the person the director was fawning over was a bard because of the heavy instrument case slung over her shoulder. Both were Nightborne, and exceptionally good-looking ones. If you liked that type. Aaren watched for awhile, until the two parted ways, and the director turned to look over the dance floor. The bride and the groom were taking their turn in a carefully choreographed piece with artfully romantic string music played by a host of other bards who were set up on the stage at the back of the room. The stage was almost unnoticeable, a small raised area about half-height to and directly across from the lofted banquet area, above the doorway everyone had come in through from the ceremony, but Aaren paid attention to such things. The director’s name was Laerye, or so Shokkra had told her. She had long hair arranged in three braids, looped elaborately. And she watched the bridal couple. Since Aaren was observing closely, she noticed that when the dance ended, the bride shot the director a strange glance before announcing she was going to go freshen up and departing for upstairs. It could mean anything, but it could also mean one thing. Aaren approached the director after that and offered one of the glasses of sparkling wine. “You’ve certainly outdone yourself. A beautiful union and ceremony. You are the director, yes? I am looking to begin planning my own wedding.” Laerye, the director, chuckled as she let her gaze drift lazily over the priestess. She took the offered glass and drank. “Shame to see one like you settling down,” she said. “Oh, I never settle, down or otherwise,” Aaren replied. “But there are reasons to get married besides that, no? I’m sure this bride and groom are similar in that way.” Laerye’s mouth twisted. “Of course,” she said. “Nobility.” She tossed back the rest of the glass then looked Aaren up and down again, this time with a more jaded, if still shameless, kind of eye, as she put her glass down on a nearby surface. “Would you care for a dance? The floor seems to have cleared up for a few more couples.” Aaren took a last sip of her glass and set it aside. She offered her hand with a smile. “That would be lovely, dear.” Laerye effortlessly took the lead as they stepped out onto the floor, joined by several others as the music began again. A waltz was a waltz in any culture and Aaren moved nimbly enough to more than keep up. Laerye’s lips curved in approval. “It’s good to see our distant cousins still know how to dance,” she says. “I’d go so far as to say we’d perfected it,” Aaren said, with disguising blandness meant to be seen right through, which Laerye did. The director grinned in approval. “So do you want help with your wedding? Or something before that?” Laerye said. Several minutes later, Laerye had gotten them past the guards and into a room on the upper level. Aaren paused inside the doorway as Laerye moved over to the mantle for a glass decanter. “Now what would Celene think of this?” Aaren said daringly. Laerye snorted. “You’ve heard of how she dumped me to marry Gaspard, then? She’d be in a tizzy if she heard about me sneaking up here with a blood elf in the middle of her wedding.” She smirked as she poured them two glasses. Aaren stepped inside, letting the door close behind her. “But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Laerye concluded, holding one of the glasses out. Aaren moved forward to take the glass, cupping it in both hands. It smelled of peat, like the stuff Juli drank. “What else doesn’t she know?” Aaren inquired. Laerye stepped up to Aaren, touching her glass to the other woman’s with a soft clink. “A lot of things,” she said, and drank. Aaren followed suit. The stuff was bitter, but she was used to it. “Since I’m just going to be a one-night stand, you should tell me, and I’ll tell you a secret,” Aaren said. Laerye looked at her speculatively. “Is there something I should tell you?” she says. “Or are you better off not knowing, too?” “I’m sure I could handle anything you’re capable of doing,” Aaren said, drinking some more from the glass. Laerye’s lips parted in a grin. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” The booze was starting to hit Aaren, and it was hitting hard. Too hard, actually. “Shit,” she muttered. “I like your style, beautiful, so I’ll leave you alive. But you can’t be allowed to interfere with tonight.” The glass dropped out of Aaren’s hand, hitting the carpet with a thunk, and she almost followed suit except that Laerye caught her. As darkness swallowed her, she heard Laerye say, “Such a shame, you seemed like such fun…”