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Three copies of the letter were undistinct, save for the names to which they were addressed: Kezrin Kanzerly, Trenatir Moradinel, Benoite Dawnsong. There were other places where the letter appeared, as though expecting someone to see it: nailed to a post outside the Rogue's Quarter in Undercity, trampled at the bottom of a zeppelin tower in Orgrimmar, on the bulletin board outside the Ratchet inn.

The text itself was plain, surrounded on one side by an intricate black pattern. The text itself was written in a dark brown ink with a faint metallic odor to it.

The poet has little time. Whether it ends by infection, or by a blade across his throat remains to be seen. Seek me out, and I shall deny any involvement. Prove to me that someone cares about this pathetic elf, and he may be dispatched faster than expected.

Sufficiently cryptic. Adeptly pointing fingers at so many, but no one would know who should be pointed at. It was almost too perfect. Almost.

Trenetir read the letter, then read it again, "Dellis, who sent it?" He snapped at the servant. Dellis trembled in fear, knowing that Death was but a wrong answer away.

"I...I don't know sir. I was on my way back in to the estate....and it was there."

"Go" Trenetir commanded, the other elf did not need to be told twice.

With a swift movement he cleared his desk, stray parchment, coins and pens now littered the floor. He flattened the letter, reading it again, the possibilities endless, "Lumeus?" He narrowed his gaze at the pattern on the side of the page, "I don't think so." He muttered to himself, squinting at the ink.

He held the page up to the light, "Brown?" He almost sounded disgusted by the color choice of the ink. His hand traced the pattern on the side, almost as if he expected it to ripple, to come alive and bare him the answers that he sought.

The bossgnome had finally relented and allowed Kezrin back to work. The strange letter was one of the few addressed directly to her and she opened it curiously.

It was oddly decorated, perhaps some form of ornate stationary, though not very practical for how much space the design took up. Perhaps the sender didn't care, as the message was short.

She frowned. Short, and completely baffling. Poet? What poet? She had certainly met a few since attending the Royal Library's salons. Arjah. Irilin. Morgana. But why someone would send... a death threat? ransom?.... to her she didn't understand. Perhaps she was supposed to deliver it to someone?

She examined the letter again to see if she'd missed some instruction or another name.

"I hate riddles," she grumbled. There was no clue she could discern, just the decoration and the message. A rather violent, cruel message. Written with ink that oddly reminded her of-

Her fingers reacted first, dropping the letter before the thought could even completely form in her head. The letter drifted down to the top of the desk, and Kezrin stared at it with wide eyes.

"Deeeeeerrscha!"

The knock on her door came in the middle of a half-formed rhyme. Arjah closed her eyes, tried to remember where she had been going with the words, and, as the lines escaped her memory for good, picked up an empty water glass and hurled it at the wall.

It shattered very satisfyingly.

Having fulfilled, to her mind, the demands of an "artistic temperament," the troll padded to the door, ignoring the shard of glass beneath her bare feet. Disheveled, unbathed, and covered in smears of ink, with eyes reddened from late nights and candles, she cracked the door and looked fiercely down at the Library's messenger. He quailed beneath her stare, or perhaps beneath her bosom -- it was hard to tell with elves, lurking down there below her neckline. So small and fragile!

Stammering something incoherent, the messenger thrust a copy of the note at her. Arjah, scanning it, half-listened to his babbled concern for the Library's various poets. Her lip curled slightly, and she raised a pitying glance.

"Do ah look like ah've been kidnapped?" she asked. "Or like a he?"

She slapped the note back against the hapless messenger's chest and turned on her heel, leaving a small smear of blood on the floor -- one of the glass shards had apparently pricked her on the walk to the door. "Ah am workin' in here," the troll snapped. "If someone wants proof dat ah care 'bout Irillin, ah shall write him a sonnet some time!"

Slamming the door, she threw herself back into her chair and glowered at the dozens of unfinished drafts littering her desk (and her floor). Kidnapping and murder within the Horde -- it was all so tedious. She'd had enough of that with the Modas. Hadn't she?

Still, it did sound like a good mystery. And he was a nice enough boy, even if his sonnets did need clearer thematic divisions between the quatrains.

Arjah sat and fumed for a moment longer. Then she rose with a sigh and went to the closet, looking for something clean and a little more suited to delicate inquiries, with room in the skirts to run and fight if needed.

"Libraries are supposed t'be boring," she complained to no one in particular. "Dis is what ya get for lettin' elves run one!"

With that, the poet padded out to join the hunt, leaving a small trail of bloodied footprints behind to mar the floor -- and, no doubt, to alarm whatever unfortunate librarian found them leading away from the Writer-in-Residence's rooms.

They had every shutter thrown wide, praying for a breath off the harbor. There wasn't enough breeze to stir a cobweb. The tender mopped his brow and rumbled. He spun the soaked rag into the stained mouth of an unclean mug. The place was silent. Full, but still as an oven. The sweltering air of the Bay was as apathetic and languid as the day promised to make most men.

Jim Mercy tapped at his mouth, drew from the deck and discarded a five.

"I'm tellin you, it was a butterknife," Cray insisted. He slouched across the round table, folded crossbows hanging from his sleeveless harness like sleeping bats. He took up the five and spread a run on the table, tossing away a deuce. One eye wandered in meaningless circles, while the other crawled deviously over the table. The Forsaken was known to cheat at every possible opportunity.

Fingers pulled her hand closer to her bosom with a disapproving frown; Flint and Tinder murmured over their shared cards, holding court over what to keep, what to throw.

Mercy couldn't be bothered to remember how many hands had been dealt. He liked the lull in excitement, the chance to kick back and reflect. Catch a breath, remember what was worth unliving for. The Guttersnipes were on the job, but that often meant hours upon hours of listless waiting.

Hours upon hours of cards and swapping tired old lies about battles won and lost. Mercy leaned his chair back on its hind legs, resting his cards on his chest.

"Boss wouldn't get hit by no butterknife," Flint concluded with a girlish squeak, drawing from the deck and handing the card to Tinder.

"Boss wouldn't get hit by -nothing-," observed Tinder. He immediately discarded the queen from his twin; stalling.

"Beaned him right on the noodle. HQ seenit."

"HQ doesn't have eyes." Mercy chewed his lip and stared at the discarded queen like it was his one true love and had just promised to do something significant. Never very good at cards, James Mercy. Too honest.

Fingers pinched it anyway, laid down a four of a kind and slapped her last card face down. Someone mustered a groan. She stuck out her tongue and dragged over more subjects for her growing fiefdom of spare coins. Cray made to deal.

"Don't need eyes to see," he insisted, insufferable. "If ol' Cray was there, let me tell you. Woulda been a whole nother story to tell."

"Would it."

"Chyeah. Lady comes at me with a knife, I knows better. I pulls out some bread and roast beef, her woman-instincts kicks in, and she instinctively knows to start makin me a samwich."

A violent thud rattled the table. Cray sank and clutched his leg with a savage oath. Fingers settled a leer on him that would burn off Arthas' nose hairs. She kicked again.

"The hell did you just say, you f-"

There was a big fuss at the door. A forsaken man blew in, whistled once and turned to bolt back out.

“Got our man.” Jim Mercy gathered up his hardware while Fingers gathered up her winnings. Cray mouthed off a bit more. Flint adjusted Tinder's cloak, one of a two piece set. She pulled the hood of the second piece low over her eyes.

They rattled out the door and into Booty Bay with the unrushed, purposeful swagger of professional soldiers. Loaded to bear, Inquisitorial seals bared. That was the point. Get seen. The boss was insistent; this would be a public execution.

Another whistle guided them to the docks proper, lazy waves lapping against creaky plankwork. A schooner with red-striped sails bobbed indifferently, lonesome in the bay; deckhands scurried half-speed to unload crates and barrels. The scout had vanished, of course. That's what they do. Mercy didn't need sharp eyes to pick Jerrah Ironhoof out of the herd deboarding the ship.

The Tauren captain stood head and shoulders over even the saltiest of his crew, a fortress of a bull. Dark trousers and crisscrossing belts strained to contain his meaty bulk, a scarlet and gold captain's overcoat clinging to nude, brutish shoulders. A three-cornered hat perched almost comically atop a ghastly pair of horns. Ironhoof carried himself down the plank and across the dock with an imperious, self-important air.

Jim and the four stepped up to bar entry to Booty Bay. The captain ground to a halt, snorted twin streamers of steam.

“Step to, rotter,” he growled. Mercy stepped closer, unfazed. Ironhoof stared down at him like something he'd just stepped in. “You're impeding my business.”

Mercy, a half-rotted corpse of a man, chin barely meeting the tauren's belt, slanted his hips, played it cool. “Jerrah Ironhoof? Are you?”

“Captain. Pleasure. Now step to!”

“-Captain- Jerrah Ironhoof, pardon. I'm Interrogator Mercy, Horde Inquisition. I'm here to inspect your wares. If you could produce your ship's manifest, we can be done with this swiftly and without incident.”

Ironhoof, to his credit, hardly batted a lash. “Bull!@#$. We've already paid the inspection tithe before entering the harbor. You will find my reciepts in order. And under what authority do you-”

“Got it, Lieutenant.”

Fingers had somehow materialized by one of the barrels the crew hustled to stack. She had driven one of her fingertips clean through the wood, now inspecting the fine black ink coating the talon tipped digit. She licked a drop as it dribbled over her knuckles. Gave it a sniff.

“Its the stuff,” she confirmed with a siren's smile.

The crewmen rumbled uneasily, watching their captain. Jerrah Ironhoof fought down his panic and gave a fractional shake of his head. He didn't need smoke from the Inquisition, not with three loads of bloodthistle stowed aboard. Not with the more sentient cargo chained in the brig.

The rotters were sharing looks and grins. What was with that ink?

Jim Mercy looked beyond the massive captain, waggling his eyebrows at Fingers. “You're positive? We don't get another shot at this.”

The rogue woman gave him a look. “Its the stuff,” she repeated.

“I don't know what you're after, Mister Inquisition, but I will not toler-”

James Mercy, living up to his name, reached up and twisted the tauren's neck with one abrupt jerk. A sudden, merciful death.

The docks were silent, but for the rolling waves and the thunderous whump of Jerrah Ironhoofs mass falling limp. Rings of impact shivered through the water, the planks stirring underfoot. Crewmen, passersby, workers all stopped and stared.

Flint and Tinder scuttled over to Fingers, helped snatch up a couple barrels of the ink. Cray somehow produced a pair of his jagged hand crossbows to discourage the crewmen emerging from their shock.

“Quickly. Quickly, now!” Mercy smashed through one of the barrels with a fist. They set to pouring the thick, staining black stuff all over Ironhoof's corpse. The scent of fine metal wafted into the air. The body was absolutely soaked, ink dripping soundlessly through the cracks in the planks.

Fingers produced a rolled sheet, squinted at the contents and raised her voice:

“The words upon this wrinkled page are all
I have to reach the outside world. And yet,
My words, my power, often seem to fall
Upon the eyes of those who do not let
Their orbs observe. The wealth of that which stays
Behind the dam which stems my tide of sound
May never come to light. At least, in ways
In which some recognition might be found.
The long endeavors that I try to share
With those around sit mostly catching red,
Unloving dust. For most find nothing there
To catch their dull imagination. Lead
To think that no one wants to hear, I find
Myself more mute, and hide within my mind.”

Tinder produced a match, flicked it to life against Flint's cheek. She snatched it from her twin and thumbed it at the drenched tauren.

The blaze was prodigious.

“Told you ink burned.” Cray smarmed, as the Guttersnipes heeled and toed it away from pursuing bruisers. “Everything burns.”

The deed got them in deep with the powers that be. Not even the Inquisition can just set a guy on fire. There would be ramifications. A political war contained in a court of lashing fingers and furious ambassadors would spill into the social streets.

But the point was made. And now the waiting began in earnest.

The rows had been hoed; now the seeds were to be sown. Since the public notices had garnered almost no attention, it was best to focus on those who could be contacted directly. Three short letters, each different, to the same recipients as before. Each just as cryptic, only slightly less so.

To Kezrin Kanzerly:

Neither you nor your organization shall turn him against me, like you have so many others. If I cannot have him, no one will. Had you minded your own business, a poet might be safe today.

To Trenetir Moradinel:

Did you think I would let you corrupt him? Did you think I would stand by as you brought him down at the height of his career? If this is the only way to keep him from the taint you spread to all near you, so be it.

The note to Benoite Dawnsong was the most interesting. It would have seemed gibberish, had someone not noticed that it was written in Common. After a few moments with one of the Library's translators, the words were comprehensible, though no clearer:

He meddles in affairs not of his own people. By the Light, we will not allow this.

Sow the seeds of chaos, let the vines grow until they choke out everyone. All will suffer, before he succumbs to the ultimate suffering...

His irritation at the second letter's appearance was nothing compared to the implications that it brought. Corrupt him? He has saved me and now it is he that needs saving. Trenetir was a selfish man both by nature and necessity and that was about to change. With haste he penned the following letter.

Secrets and lies are naught to be abided. If these are your concerns, both that none care for him and that I might corrupt him, ruin him, allow me to offer a solution: I will make myself available to you in his stead. Allow me to suffer and grant him his life. If this means that my life will end then so be it.

Trenetir Moradinel

He read and re-read the notice, running a hand through his hair. "What the fel has this come to?" He did not like the answer that came to his mind, knowing what he knew. "Dellis!" He called for his servant who appeared from the other side of the door.

"Sir?"

"See that this is copied and posted throughout the city."

Dellis read the letter, "But sir this says..."

"I know what it says. Some sacrifices are worth it."

Dellis left Trenetir to his silence. Trenetir retreated from the office, confiding himself in the Cell that was his room, it was here that he let out his frustrations, screaming, yelling...at ghosts, at ideas, at anything that would hear him.

They had left one another wounded. Her farewell had been cowardly: a short note and a spider trapped in a jar. Still, he traversed the snowy peaks of Kun-Lai to reach out when she expected him least, bearing warm smiles and news from their golden city.

He was flawed, to be sure, but at his core, Fastice Blackblade could be counted on for his unfaltering kindness and loyalty. They worked their way through a pot of jasmine tea. As their talk died down with the embers of the fireplace before them, the knight produced a stack of letters from his pack.

Benoite Dawnsong tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, laughing softly.

"You've even brought me my mail, -Guardian- Blackblade." Her eyes were bright with the gentle teasing.

Fastice swept an imaginary hat from his head and held it to his chest with flourish.

"As is my duty, Lady Dawnsong."

Benoite waited to tend to the missives until she saw her guest to bed. All the orphanage had to spare was a bedroll and a well-loved quilt. The knight, who was surely used to finer things, made no complaints. She lingered by his side as she bid him good night. She would be sorry to see him go in the morning.

It strained her eyes to read by a single candle's flame, but most of what was addressed to her through the Library were work matters that could wait until her eventual return. She skimmed through these and lingered only on two flimsy scrolls.

The script was unfamiliar to her and the content even more puzzling. The poet? Had something happened to the Greatmother? The Huntress, perhaps? She read the notes again and again, untangling the near nonsense. He. The poet was a he. A male poet. It wasn't much to work off of, considering the Library's vast network of writers.

Still, she couldn't ignore such ominous tidings. She tip-toed her way to where Fastice slept and knelt by him. "Mister Fastice," she whispered. "Mister Fastice, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's something you should see... I fear I must return to Silvermoon urgently."

On her route out of the city Koudo took pause, glancing over the many posting on the weathered billboard. She sighed, seeing as nothing new had transpired in the few days since she last checked. She was about to turn when her eyes caught site of a new post. The name is what caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed as she read the script. A dark cloud overshadowed her as her hand casually lifted, tearing it away. She let out a long breath turning away. Her hand crumpled the parchment as she walked to the city gates, dispensing the wadded parchment into the city sewer.

She was not touching the letter.

The foul tidings lay on top of the in box, no other letter daring to set itself on top it. Kezrin sat in her chair, shoved in the farthest corner away from it while her recently re-instated body guard frowned in puzzlement by the desk.

"A letter?" Landon Furrows asked, scratching his head. "Who sent it? What's it for? I don't think it's some ordinary letter or else you wouldn't care so much. Do you think I should open it? Or maybe we should get a mage. Unless burning would-"

"I don't care what ya do, but I'm not doing it," Kezrin interrupted before the human could go on one of his long musings. "That thing is bad news and I'm not even the real manager. I ain't dealin' with it!"

Landon simply shrugged and picked up the letter; Kezrin flinched, but he grinned at her. "Someone had to deliver it here without getting hurt, didn't they?" he pointed out. He opened the letter and skimmed over it.

"What's it say?" Kezrin asked curiously.

"Don't know. It's, uh, not in common." A sheepish look. He walked over a few steps and held it up so she could read it without touching the paper. She obligingly translated for him.

"Who's it talking about?" he asked.

"Dunno. Figured maybe that Irilin guy, but I can't recall turnin' him 'gainst anyone. Though he did ask me once 'bout... oh." Kezrin's eyes grew wide.

"Asked about what?"

"Asked me 'bout that awful elf. Not that I said much, 'cept I wasn't goin' ta be welcomin' him with open arms. And I wouldn't put kidnappin' beyond him. Ya better find Koudo."

Landon nodded. "Um... why?" The Shield Bearer seemed vaguely offended by the request.

"First, just ta make sure she's safe. Then, 'cause if this is somethin' ta do with Moradinel, she ought ta know 'bout it. And maybe she knows somethin.'"

Her chat with Trenetir had gone, more interesting than most, she admitted to herself. The letter she had found once in Silvermoon on the floor of Murder Row, and then again in Brill in a corner of the Inn, had been about his dear love. How sickening; the murderer in love with a poet; it was like a romance novel - one she wanted to burn.

The last part of the conversation was most interesting to Reagan - who had once assumed Trenetir as mostly a psychopath; now she was not too sure on that part. Though now she found him less interesting.

"Tell me, if they gave you a choice. You can take your fiance and leave, never seek them out, or you could kill them, but he would die as well, which would you choose?"

Trenetir didn't answer, and Reagan felt amused. Once she felt the way he did; but no longer, and she refused to allow that feeling to take her over again.

"If I am able to retrieve your fiance, what would you pay?"
"Anything."
"Do not be so sure."

Her price would be high, higher than he would be willing to pay. Her demands would be something he would not enjoy.

"Another question: They would release Irillin if you broke off the engagement and refused to interact with him any further. You answer?"

Trenetir didn't answer, instead he rose to his feet. "It is not a man with everything that should be feared, but a man who has lost everything."

"And when you have nothing to lose, there is nothing to fear." Reagan replied, just as easily as his answer to her. It was true. There was nothing that kept Reagan from doing suicide missions, at least not anymore. She watched Trenetir leave the room, curtsying to him - more out of amusement than actual mannerisms. She took her leave in the opposite door, exiting out into Murder Row. She had things to do.

Reagan urged her spectral wolf through the Ghostlands, through the dead lands and into Deatholme, her sanctuary. Of course there were spirits and ghosts that haunted the area, but most left her be. She entered one of the old constructs on the east side, and pushed a few stones aside on a back wall to enter a small crawl space - large enough for a Blood Elf her size, but not much else.

It was clean, no cob webs, no dust - this area was often inhabited. She crawled straight forward - about 12 feet or so, before exiting into a decently sized room that held a few things she had crafted herself: a small cot and table and chair on one side and on the other, what most would describe as a laboratory. Shelves decorated the walls, all of them labeled: Peacebloom, Jasmine, Spider Venom, Basilisk Venom, etc, etc; the labels went on and she had a lot of everything.

The two letters she had found in Silvermoon and Brill sat on the table. She had been testing the ink out for hours before taking a respite in Silvermoon. It had aggravated her that she could not figure out the ink - considering it was one of her specialties. If she couldn't beat them, join them - she always said! Well not always, but it was a good rule of thumb.

She opened one of her shelves and took out an ink vial - it was a dark purple and smelt of jasmine - it was her calling card; though only some within certain circles would know.
She went to the table and sat in her chair, penning a letter on dark parchment. On the top of the corners were dark blue hawks drawn in a tribal type.
The bottom corners had a small and simple decoration.

The poet and the murderer,
A weakness, a moment in time
Never meant to be.
The sword comes down,
By the wielder of a poisoned blade.
A sheep in wolf's clothing seeks out
That who understands.
Assistance is offered,
For the star-crossed, it can not be.


A calling card indeed.

[ Having not actually written a decently sized post in almost forever, I apologize for anything that doesn't make sense - or is poorly written. ]

"Blood." Dellis said, the servant's voice cracking. He shuffled his feet back and forth, looking around for any excuse, any reason to leave the room but fearful to do so.

"Blood." Trenetir repeated, "You're certain?"

"There is no doubt," Dellis replied.

"Pack my things. We are heading to the Echo Isles." He did not wait for Dellis as he stormed from the room, leaving his servant standing there stupidly. The ink was blood. Brown. Metallic. Blood. Irilin's blood.

Dellis. Poor Dellis. He was a dutiful servant, one who knew the cost of his servitude. Someone had to look after Trenetir.

The trip to the Echo Isles was uneventful, the troll was gone. There was no hint, no clue to help him find the answers that he sought. "This was a waste of time." He hissed at Dellis as they stood on the zeppelin, returning to Silvermoon City by way of the Undercity.

"Close the shop. There will be no business until Irilin has returned." He insisted to Dellis.

Trenetir's ire was great, but his frustration was greater. He cursed out loud as his frustration grew. "I hope you had a good night's sleep Dellis, it may have been your last for some time." Trenetir left he house, Dellis in tow, "We shall see what my brother has to say about all this."

It was as good a place as any to start searching in earnest. The letters that were sent to Benoite did little but confuse Trenetir, "And any Alliance Light lovers we run across along the way...." He left the thought lingering in the air, a vile smirk upon his face.

An unforgiving storm was coming.

Pity. That was the look in Blackblade's eyes as he spoke to Trenetir. It was the look that affected many when he spoke to them and it's effect had taken its toll. Where had that piteous look first come from? A sharp inhalation of the night air brought the name to his lips, it was not Lumeus but instead "Bloodwing."

Dellis watched Trenetir with a mixture of caution and awe, he had become a man possessed, one whom Dellis thought might explode at any moment. Each moment that Dellis was allowed to live, allowed to serve was one that he was silently grateful for.

Trenetir started toward the translocation orbs in the north of of the city, Dellis struggling to keep up with his master's determined steps. The Undercity was one of his least favorite places. The sights, the stench, and the Forsaken. He cared not for any of these things. But this was where he would find the Inquisitor, the elf who had made it his mission to see Trenetir ruined.

The war machine was a fixture in the dead Cathedral, as still and morose as the mutilated statues weeping along the desecrated walls. Adorned in full armor, a vision of Deathwing himself, resplendent in spines and madness. Forsaken slithered about the place, running their operations, casting fretful glances at their Dreadlord.

Armored talons steeped before his armored chin, he frowned savagely. An expression that did not ease when Trenetir Moradinel invaded his sanctum. Blades were bared, spells hissed. Liore shifted fractionally, to raise his horned helm and pin the Bloody Knight with a withering leer. Madness danced with inhumanity in the savage fires of his eyes, impossible to meet. "Dire straights indeed, Moradinel," he growled in metal and age. "For you to call at -my- door."

Dellis lingered outside, whether out of fear or an order was to be seen. Trenetir drank in the scene, it was quite fitting. His did little to hide his emotions, that shade of the volcano crept into his eyes, "You had to know that I would come. That it was only a matter of time."

Liore unfolds his fingers, to clench the solid arms of his ancient throne. Claws carve tiny rivulets, crisscrossing a score of their kind. Without comment, the Guttersnipes disappear, but one. Jacques-Markhal loiters against a door frame, cleaning a nail with a knife. "I had expected fanfare, or an eruption. Or some other such sign of the apocalypse." The Inquisitor raises at last, to descend and rattle step by step before his guest. The stare did not relent. "Speak."

Trenetir cast a quick look around at the sounds of retreating footsteps. He turns his gaze back to Liore as he descends the steps, a smirk settling upon his lips, "The hour is young and I will do my best not to leave you disappointed. " His hand was ever so close to his sword hilt, just a flick of the wrist away, "For who had so much to gain, by my suffering?" He tsked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his hand leaving it's place near the hilt to point openly at Liore.

Liore , if he can be bothered with Trenetir's blade or his outcast finger, does not show it. One was just as nonthreatening as the other. Still, he was miffed at the accusation, and if the poison of his eyes could not suffice to get that across, he utters a low, steamy hiss. "That would be easy for you, wouldn't it. Had I been the one to snatch up your- Well. The poet." A sniff. "I'd nearly mistaken you for a being capable of forming healthy relationships." The weight of hypocracy hung over him like a noose; it would be some time yet before he would ever admit to the uncomfortable parallel between himself and the man standing some yards away.

Trenetir 's sword was out of its scabbard, the distance between them easily halved. "You have the audacity to deny it? To deny that you had anything to do with it? You who tried to deter him? You who has so publicly and openly expressed your hatred of me? I am supposed to take your sickly word for it?"

Liore gave not the satisfaction of even a blink. Drawn upon in his own lair, the mad dog ought to have lept upon the paladin then and there. The Snipes, still as death in their shadows, roiled like an unliving wave, chomping at the bit. The Inquisitor's stare remained pinned to the noble, a withering leer of madness and pity. "Yes."

The lone word was a slap in the face. "Yes?" He could not fathom the insanity that he was party to. "You deny it but it is true. You who are always watching, always waiting for the opportunity to strike, like a snake in a grass." The blade in his hand twitched, aching to sink itself into his flesh.

Liore shifts only to place a coiled metal fist on his hip, running a talon casually over the tattered hem of his worn tabard. "And my grand opportunity is to be foiled, then. That is the culmination of my efforts? To pluck away your chew toy and scribble nonsense and threats?" A tilt of the head, and a stern shake of it. "Please. Where is your imagination?"

Trenetir barked at him, "Your -grand- opportunity, well placed, well timed. The money is gone, the estate is gone and so is Irilin." He was roiling, the eruption was there, it could be heard, the low rumble, the sulfuric smell was acrid in his nostrils, "Ruin me. This was your claim, your promise." He extended his left hand, a flash of light extending from it towards Liore, arcing ever so slightly, it would burn, seer, if it struck.

Liore issues a grunt, an impact, the sound of metal flaking away beneath a greater force. Such was Moradinel's fury, he was forced back a broad step, a ripple casting his tabard and cape. A streamer of smoke threads from the center of his chest, joined by thick blood. He does not blink, or wince. "I am not convinced." Talons rake over the light-seared wound, lofting that he might inspect his own blood shining upon them. "That you are ready for your end, Trenetir."

It was done. The indifference. The mocking tone. The lack of care. He did not bother containing it, not anymore. He advanced in full upon Liore, raising the sword with an upturn of his wrist in an attempt to slash out at Liore across the chest from the hip tot he shoulder. He was a man possessed with blind hate and longing, "It is you who should be concerned for his life, not I."

It had been some time in the making. Trenetir Moradinel had buried himself the second his palm connected with the fair cheek of Benoite Dawnsong. As surely as a signet pressed into the fine wax of a lover's letter. But this. This was premature. This was not what Bloodwing had slaved over, what he had orchestrated towards. This was a flat beer and a cheap !@#$. As that blade arced at him, he felt only robbed. An armored figure simply should not move so swiftly. He snapped an abrupt move; the sword deflected out and up, talons lashed out and spread for Trenetir's face. "Not like this. I have only begun with you, Moradinel. You will not fall like this. "

Trenetir uttered a guttural sound as the blade was deflected, his anticipation of the attack was lacking, so confident was he in his own swordsmanship that it caught him off guard, the talons raking across his face as his shield arm came up all too late. "Not like THIS?" He screamed at Liore. "How? After you have seen Irilin dead? After you have watched him breath his last breath?" Still, he could not accept the denial, their mutual hatred was too great.

Liore works slowly, calculation and method. Old patience, smoldering with barely restrained fury. The warrior did not draw any of his blades, content with sweeping at the paladin with strokes as agricultural as they were martial. Keep him engaged. Drain him of his fury. "What use have I for your lover's corpse? Were that the only qualification that begged my blades, my dungeons would be LITTERED. You discard your partners faster than I could ever plot to thieve them away." A sidestep, followed by a savage kick. Liore straightens. The wound in his chest had painted the stone of the cathedral floor in an inkblot of violence. "You know, Trenetir. You know I would not divide a man from his love. Not with hateful purpose."

Trenetir staggered back as the kick met his shield. He shifted his balance from one foot to another, the pyroclasts threatened all. They could not be contained, "You expect me to believe you? YOU who have attested to plotting my ruin. YOU who have almost nearly ruined my business? But you have limits?" He laughed. It was a hollow and merciless thing, filled with the roiling darkness of the volcano within. "No." He said sharply, fixing his bright gaze upon Liore. The bolt of Light that left his shield hand was less precise, weighed down by the shield as it were, but its fury was just as intense.

Liore in his arrogance steps into the thundering flash, contemptuous of its hallowed fury. His gauntlet snatched out at it, clawing it out of the air. Talons bent and burnt, metal sparked and peeled away. Flesh burned. He squeezed the bolt until it was no more, streamers of smoke and bubbled skin snaking into the air. "As surely as you have yours, Moradinel. Believe it or do not. But do not let that be your final thought, and these the last patient words you ever hear." That bloodied, steaming hand rose with dreadful intent, over a dragonplate shoulder, to close meaningfully over one of the hilts protruding therein.

Trenetir 's nostrils filled with the acrid smell, burnt cloth, metal and flesh mixed in the air, permeating all of it. The blood that drips down his face clouds his vision. He saw the conflict, it was coming, it was there, he ached for it, for that satisfaction. He closed the distance between them, bringing up his shield arm to press forth against Liore, attempting to slide his sword in that undefended space with a fury that would not be quenched save for with blood.

Liore studies the elf with equal measurements disdain and regret. Trenetir was being insistent. What was his aim? Suicide by Inquisitor? He could not sincerely believe Bloodwing responsible for Irilin's capture; the Inquisitor was pursuing the case as fervently as the next, if by his own methods. The noble was raving like a lunatic, blinded by volcanic, primal rage. But he had not come here to die.

Liore's burnt fingers moved quickly, attending one of the buckles strapped over his powerful chest. One instant, he was stretched with an exposed side, the other he was simply elsewhere, poised perfectly with the fluid grace of a master. The massive greatsword arced, and its sheath with it to dull the blow. It was angled to catch the knight straight on the back of his left shoulder, to bear him to the ground.

Trenetir tried to raise his shield but it was not quick enough, he fell to a knee, far to open and exposed than he would care to be. His fury turned inward at his perceived failure to avenge Irilin and to see Liore suffer for the prolonged wrongdoings against him. He held his sword tight in his hand looking up at Liore. "What are you waiting for?" He peered for an opening, any opening, even at this disadvantageous placing.

Liore rests the tip of his one massive sword in a crack in the stone, folding his hands atop it. The one still simmered painfully. The serpent stare of his betrayed only impatience. "We have not recovered a body," he states offhandedly, as if discussing the cost of wool. The steel cast to his tattered voice did not ring quite so harshly. "Until then, we maintain the hope that the victim is still alive." Splat. Split. Twin drops of bright blood dribbled from his tabard to the floor. "I am waiting, Ser, for you to have -nothing- left. By my assessment. Not your own."

Trenetir 's voice was low, "You deny it still and yet you have the gall to speak of him like that. " He stands slowly, cautiously, his gaze still obscured by the occasional blood drip. "If he is not alive. If he is not returned Bloodwing...it is your head. Your Head."

Liore does not grumble with some grand rebuttal, or smarm with some pompous jibe. He simply stares, peeling away the molten layers of the stubborn, broken-hearted man before him. He would not admit it. The parallels were pecking at what passed as his conscience these days. And, mad as he was, it glowed bare in the twisting serpents of his eyes. The massive weapon whirled in an overhead arc; he tied the buckle back over his chest, letting its weight hang over him. "Do not lose your own, in the meantime. Trenetir Moradinel."

Trenetir stood slowly, his gaze nothing short of destructive. The gash across his face was slowly cotting, leaving something to be wanting as it did. There would be no trust born from this altercation, no it would only reaffirm the distrust that already existed. "One slip up, and it will be your head that adorns my walls." He assured Liore, turning his back on Bloodwing as he started from the throne room.

Liore inhales, then exhales. A perfect sigh. Probably should have just killed him. But that wouldn't satisfy. Liore Bloodwing considered his ruined hand as Trenetir stalked away, roiling with molten hate. The Inquisitor, placid and mad, mustered a lungful of bleak laughter. It caught on the walls as though in a web; the Guttersnipes took up the call, the cathedral roaring with mocking, ghastly laughter.

The Inquisitor stalked heavily to his throne, depositing himself upon it with a stiff grunt. A corpse crawled from beneath a pew to lap at the blood-stained floor. Choir materialized from somewhere, hovered to the throne. She chewed her lip and placed a fingertip in the scorched hole dug in the Dreadlord's chest. Hundred of spiders poured forth from it, knitting flesh together with a hundred shadowy threads. She canted her head, swept her braid back over a shoulder. And blinked at him meaningfully. "No," Liore Bloodwing growled after a pause. "I do not hate him. I hate what we have made him become."

Dellis fell into step behind Trenetir as he exited the throne room. "Ser your face..." He started, struggling to keep up with Trenetir as he strode purposefully to the translocation orb. He could not be rid of the Undercity soon enough.

Irilin had long ago fallen into an uneasy unconsciousness. His body was now decorated with thin cuts from a knife, the absent-minded playful motions of someone who enjoyed watching him suffer. The red marks were random and numerous--while they wouldn't scar, they were frightening to look at while still red with the blood sitting just beneath their surface, having spilled enough earlier to write a few letters to the right people.

What threw Irilin into a sweaty, feverish, uneasy unconsciousness was the infectious ink that had been driven into his temple. It made its way through his veins, pulling with it the ink of his tattoo so that, soon after, one could watch the ink migrate from its carefully-laid pattern and follow the course of the infection. Already it has made its way through the veins in, on, and around his eyes, thickening to the point where his eyes would no longer open, and if they could, they would not see. It now made its way deeper into his body, leisurely floating through his blood. Eventually, it would hit his heart; if it works as it is intended, it will stop it.

If.

The news of small ripples of chaos poured in, deliciously destructive, but not nearly enough. His body would not last a waiting game which waited much longer, but there were still a few days to play. In the meantime, he would need to be moved somewhere more secure...

To say that Trenetir Moradinel was selfish, was to say that sun was a light. That is to say that yes it is light but it is so much more. It is warmth, radiance, heat, it is constant and reliable. Trenetir was none of these things. Dellis waited in the hall, it had been days since they had set off on their journey, attempting to locate Irilin. It had been one wrong place after another.

Dellis yawned and rubbed his eyes, doing his best to stay alert and awake in the dimly lit hallway. Behind the large wooden door loomed Trenetir. The volcano dormant, defeated. He ran his hand across his face, the wounds were deep and would leave a lasting scar.

He sat on the bed, one of two furnishings within the cell of a room, pulling out the journal he'd received but weeks ago from Irilin. As he turned the pages to the blank journal he was lost in thought. His mind wandered....it had to be about himself, didn't it?

But it wasn't. It wasn't Lumeus or Liore. His mouth fell agape as he turned the blank pages of the journal, seeing not the blank pages but the words of another journal read long ago. Her name would not fall from his lips, no, but it was etched within his minds eye, burned in blood.

Having a renowned mother for a warlock made finding a resting place for the miserable elf easy. But fair was fair. A letter was penned, though a courier had yet to be chosen.

What remains of your precious poet sits well protected in a place where you'll likely never find him. If the purple runes don't keep you out, the warlocks will. He hasn't long for this world, so you might want to get going if you wish to find him alive. Assuming his sitters haven't killed him already...