World of Warcraft®

Glancing every which way for signs of forsaken, Azheira peeked out her bedroom door before hurrying down the hallway, stopping at the top of the wide, circular staircase, her hand lightly touching the balustrade. She hesitated. The garden had made her think of her mother and home and now she was reminded of something she used to do as a young girl. Leaning slightly, she peered over the railing to the floor far below. This particular spiral staircase was much higher than the one back home in Dustwallow Marsh. Lips pressing together in a bit of a frown, she chided herself for vacillating.

“Silly girl. You’re a captive in the home of a Horde Inquisitor. Sliding down a staircase railing can’t be any more dangerous than that,” she murmured as she carefully slid her hips onto the bannister and pushed off before a second thought could form. The silk of her robe – no, his robe, part of the closet full of clothing he had given her, glided more smoothly than she would have thought and her ride down was very fast indeed. Not sure how to stop, she used her hands to push off at the last possible moment. She stumbled into a roll and collided with the opposite wall, but came up smiling. Several Guttersnipes poked their heads out of various rooms at the commotion. She imagined they thought her childish, but Azheira didn’t let that diminish her sudden and unexplained joy. In fact, she even waved and offered a saucy grin to the nearest one before heading out to the garden.

The smooth, paved stone pathway was cold under her bare feet, but not unbearably so. In her hurry to reach the garden, she had not stopped to put on shoes. Nor had she considered how thin the robe was. Shrugging, Azheira decided she had survived the harsh, inclement weather for more than a week, she could certainly endure a chill while strolling through the Inquisitor’s shrubberies. Besides, the slide down the balustrade had her heart racing with excitement and that put her in a very good mood. Why, she was feeling so well, she may even grant his request to attend dinner with him.

Her fingers trailed along the soft leaves of the garden’s plants as she meandered and pondered the recent week. His people had been exceptionally nice to her. Even though she often responded churlishly. Of course, had her escorts been blood elves, tauren or even trolls she might not have been so contemptuous. She supposed she was lucky she had not yet seen any orcs. But these forsaken! Part of her suspected there were only a handful of them, just popping up everywhere. Since they all looked the same to her, with their rotting flesh and missing parts, Azheira would never be able to tell the difference between five, let alone two hundred five.

They had shown her the house and grounds, at least, a good portion of it. Even though she would never admit it, she actually liked certain rooms. Her bedroom was quite comfortable, almost as if he had known what would please her. The colors were soft, the sheets smooth and supple against her bare skin. A cozy reading chair was perfectly placed to catch the afternoon’s rays streaming in from the balcony. While she had found her bedroom to be pleasant, her favorite room in the mansion was his library. It was huge. The number of books were too many for her to count and it would take more than her lifetime to read them all, she had surmised. The atmosphere in there was intoxicating. It smelled of leather and parchment and ink. But if you sat long enough, the fragrance changed. After a while a true connoisseur would begin to smell the blood of battle, the sweat of an adventure, or the perfume of romance.

There was a chaise lounge set near a wall of picture windows that overlooked the vast landscape of his grounds. She had lain there for many hours, devouring page after page. Last night, she had stayed so long, she had fallen asleep. Hours later, she had awoken to find herself enshrouded in darkness. Someone, perhaps Falchion, had come in and tucked a pillow under her head and covered her with a blanket. The long walk to her room had seemed silly in the dark, so she had tugged the covers up to her chin and dreamed of a grand escapade.

Thinking about his magnificent library, momentarily caused her to not pay attention to where she was going and Azheira stubbed her right pinky toe on a root. “OW!”

“Are you all right, miss?”

The unexpected voice startled her enough that she managed to stub the same toe in the same spot a second time. “Gods DAMN it!” She blasted in the vicinity of the other voice while hopping on her left foot to a nearby bench.

“I am rightly sorry, miss. Is there anything I can do? I’d be happy to assist you back to your room.”

Azheira waved him off. “No. I have no desire to be carried by a—“She stopped short when she looked up and realized he was not forsaken. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Are you a captive too?”

The short, rotund -human- male replied with a rosy smile, “Name’s Riley. Theodore Riley, but most folks just say Riley. I’m here in the Dread Lord’s service and…,” with a shake of his head he continued, “I’m not a captive.”

Azheira scoffed, her disbelief obvious.

“It’s true, miss. He’s a good employer, although, I don’t know that is what he has in mind to be to you. But, whatever it is, he will treat you well enough. You have had sufficient food and comfort in your stay thus far, have you not?”

She eyed Riley questionably as she rubbed her sore toe. Begrudgingly she answered, “More than sufficient.”

His red jowls quivered with delight. “Of course, of course! You will see how good it can be here.”

“Is that why you are here? Because of how good it is?”

“In part. The Dread Lord offered to help me in a time of need. I decided to repay him by entering his service.”

“I see,” was her dubious response as she clearly did not see.

Riley just smiled. “Not yet, but you will.” They sat in silence for a few minutes before Riley broached a question, “Miss, would you mind telling me where you learned orcish? I didn’t learn it until I came here, but you speak it quite fluently – everyone says so.”

Dumbfounded, Azheira stared at him. “I don’t speak orcish.”

“Uh…miss? You’re speaking it right now.”

“Am no—“Breaking off her retort, Azheira suddenly realized he was right. She let go of her right foot, setting it gently on the ground. “I don’t…know.” Anguish covered her face. There were a lot of things she didn’t know. Things she could not remember and it frustrated her tremendously. She scowled as she gripped the edge of the bench with both hands, digging her fingers into the stone. “I have no idea!”

Not knowing how to respond to that, Riley changed the subject. He told her a silly story of his childhood and then another and even a third, until he sensed she was calmer. Finally, Azheira smiled at him.

“Thank you, Riley. You took my thoughts away from my broken mind for a bit. I appreciate that.”

“You’re not broken, miss. You just got some things that are out of place.”

His kindness was reminiscent of her old teacher, Brother Karman. So many memories of home today, she thought longingly. She wished she could go back. A wistful sigh was soon followed by a regretful smile.

“Don’t be sad, miss. The Dread Lord will help you, I’m sure.”

“Do you think he would let me go home? Even just for a little while?”

“Where’s home, miss?”

“Theramore.”

An unnatural stillness settled over Riley’s features. He clenched his hands tightly in his lap and for the first time since their conversation began, he averted his gaze from her eyes. “No, miss, I don’t believe he will let you go back there. He cannot, you see.”

“Why not?”

“Theramore is gone. Destroyed, utterly.”

It was Azheira’s turn to become immobile. “Wh-what?”

“I don’t think anyone realized how far back your memory loss went,” he muttered mostly to himself. Louder, but in a soft and sympathetic tone, he filled her in. “It was a mana bomb, miss. Warchief Garrosh Hellscream killed everyone in Theramore with it. There were no survivors except for Lady Jaina and a few others.”

Her eyes glazed over with a tempest of fury and sorrow. Azheira’s grip on the bench tightened painfully. Standing sharply, she nearly shoved the seat over with Riley still on it. He too, rose and then backed away as sparks of Light shot out from her fingertips.

“A few others, you said? My parents, my sist— …what of them?”

“I am very sorry to tell you this, miss, but no one by the name of Lautrec was mentioned.”

“No.” The soft blue of her eyes darkened to the grey of a sky just before a thunderstorm.

“NO.” Violent tremors shook her body. The robe slipped down off of one shoulder as she twisted her head back and forth in denial. Several Guttersnipes came outside to see if they could offer assistance.

“NO! NO! NO!” The sparks of Light grew into full force streams emanating from her fingers, hitting the stone, creating an area of consecrated ground underneath Azheira.

“Stay! AWAY! All of you!” The power of the Light within her grew stronger until she was completely surrounded by a protective shield. Wildly, she looked around for an escape route. Realizing that even if she knew how to get out, she had nowhere to go, Azheira ran to one place she had felt content in the Inquisitor’s mansion. She threw herself onto the settee under the tall windows and soaked the pillow with her tears.

Jolon Wildrunner blinked once. Twice. Even a third time. This girl – this human girl was in his stable giving him a verbal take down. It was unheard of. Usually, the stables were quiet this time of morning. The Inquisitor’s vast array of mounts had been fed and most were out being exercised. Jolon used this time when the Guttersnipes were cleaning the stalls to get some paperwork done. He hated paperwork, but the quiet was nice.

Today, however, she had knocked on his door. Now here she was, hands firmly planted on her slim hips, chin jutting out slightly as she gave him what for. At least she was dressed appropriately for a stable, he thought, as he eyed her determined posture. She even had shoes on. He almost chuckled at that. Jolon and all the rest of the Inquisitor’s staff had observed and found her penchant for scampering about the estate sans footwear to be highly amusing.

Silly girl.

“Well?” the silly girl demanded, causing Jolon to snap out of his perusal of her attire.

“Miss Azheira,” he began, doing his best to sound patient. “There is nothing to be done for it. It is the way of things.”

“THE WAY—“her eyes closed briefly as she took a deep, palliative breath. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, her gaze less combative. “Mr. Wildrunner, I just don’t understand how this could have happened.”

Jolon did chortle at that. “Well, Miss Azheira, you see, when a male animal is attracted to a female he generally makes every attempt to—“

Azheira lifted one hand off her hip to wave him off, interrupting him. “I know all about the birds and the bees, Mr. Wildrunner!”

“I thought we were talking about your panther, not of feathers and buzzing insects.”

Her soft lips suddenly pressed into a hard frown and she muttered to herself, “And the Old Man says I am the literal one.” Giving Jolon a polite smile, she calmly spoke aloud, “Yes, sir, we are talking about my panther and the fact that you let one of the randy males in your stable get to her.”

Jolon watched her change of attitude and had to give the girl credit. Her first month or so here had been painful. For everyone. Including her. Most of them understood. She had been ill and losing more than a few years of memories would probably freak anyone out. Belligerent and rude were the nicer words people had used to describe her behavior.

But about a fortnight ago, the staff started noticing a change. Azheira was actually trying to get along with them. She still jumped a little and occasionally lashed out if one of the Guttersnipes caught her unawares – she still seemed a bit nervous around them – but she usually apologized for yelling. No one had any idea what had affected this sudden change in her demeanor. Alazlam, the librarian, did mention to one of the more gossipy Snipes that she and the Inquisitor had a quiet conversation in the library one evening and it was after that, that the transformation had occurred. No one really cared why, they were just glad she seemed happier.

Even while she had been berating him for allowing the animals to do what came naturally, Azheira had done so without rancor. Jolon was grateful. While he certainly did not care to have some slip of a girl telling him how to run his stables, he was mostly charmed that she even tried.

“Miss Azheira, I am certain your panther will be fine. When the time comes, she will give birth and you will have several baby kittens to care for.”

The girl in front of him paled. In fact, she almost seemed scared. “I don’t know how to take care of babies,” she whispered. Even more softly she added, “They scare me.”

The stable master did his best to hide his amusement. “I would be happy to help you learn.” A slight pause and then, “If you would like.”

The light blue of her gaze suddenly light up. “Oh! Would you? My friend, Sanlazuril has also offered to help as well. Perhaps between the two of you, I won’t be so inept.”

Jolon didn’t know who Sanlazuril was, but he declined to ask. “Of course, Miss.”

“You know, this offer of yours still doesn’t negate your lack of supervision over Sasha and whichever male got her pregnant.” Her tone was snarky, but the light was still in her eyes, telling him that she wasn’t really angry. Jolon gave her an exaggerated sigh, immediately followed by a wink. They both laughed.

“Also, Mr. Wildrunner, this means I cannot ride Sasha for a while. I will need a new mount."

“Yes, of course. Which one did the Inquisitor state you could use in the interim?”

Her eyes twinkled as she spun on one booted heel. As she headed to the stalls, where the mounts were now back from their exercise, she saucily called out, “He didn’t! I’ll just have to pick the one I like best.”

“Oh.”

“My.”

“Sunwell.”

“That is definitely the one. Honey, you look positively delectable! Your date will not be able to keep his eyes,” the saleswoman paused to give Azheira a salacious wink, “Or his hands off you.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Azheira instead stared at her image in the full length mirror. Gazing back at her was an attractive Sin’dorei with not much to distinguish herself from the rest of the customers in Sefailine’s Frocks. Except for her eyes. She had the typical green hue of most blood elves, but at the outer edges were hints of blue. Not too many people noticed this, including Sefailine. Of course, the store owner was too busy trying to sell dresses for the Armistice Ball and couldn’t be bothered with one customer’s odd eye color.

The bell above the shop door tinkled, drawing Sefailine’s attention away. “You just stand there and preen all you like, honey. I’ll be right back after I take care of these other customers.”

“I do not preen,” Azheira muttered. She did, however, continue to observe herself. People look at me and see someone like themselves. They see something that is not real. Hands resting lightly at her waist, she traced the lines of her new curves. My own family and friends wouldn’t recognize me. Lifting her chin, she tilted her head back and forth. Not a good idea to dwell on people who are dead or don’t care enough to come looking for me. A perfectly manicured hand reached up to trace the line of one long ear. How odd. These don’t seem all that foreign to me anymore. Perhaps I have been spending too much time in this illusion and not enough time as I really am. With a sigh, Azheira closed the curtain, blocking anyone’s view. I wonder… The Inquisitor had shown her how to control the illusion, but she had yet to actually do it herself. Lashes fluttered down, closing off the blue tinged eyes as her focus shifted inward, to her soul and how it was perceived by others. The pale skin of her blood elf illusion began to shimmer and her image in the mirror blurred.

“Honey, are you all right in there? If you don’t like that one, I have a fantabulous little blue thing, and I really do mean little, out here that will go beautifully with your skin tone.”

Sefailine’s interruption broke Azheira’s concentration. “Uh, yes. I’m fine. I’ll take the one I have on now. I’ll be right out to pay after I change.” With a murmur of triumph, Sefailine hurried away to find some accessories to compliment the dress.

Azheira bit her lip. That was close. I probably shouldn’t have tried that here anyway. Quickly swapping the dress for her own clothes, she exited the changing room and walked up to the counter where two other customers were gossiping about the ball.

“Did you hear who Ithlaen Silverfall is taking?”

A derisive snort. “Yes! And it’s quite the scandal, isn’t it? I can’t believe he would stoop so low as to invite his housekeeper’s daughter. I mean, really, can you imagine? Ithlaen and Talelle took that girl in as their ward. They even put her through school!”

“She must have been keeping him company in bed the past six months since his wife died. Otherwise, there is -no way- he would be taking that tramp.”

Mocking laughter. “Really, Laehlin, do think she only started warming his sheets -after- his wife died? You know everyone says she started coming on to him as soon as Talelle Silverfall got sick.”

The gossipmongers prattled on while Sefailine showed Azheira a pair of six inch heels to go with her dress. Azheira grinned at the thought of shoes and shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll just take the dress.”

Not bothering to hide her disappointment, Sefailine tried to make a joke of it. “Well, since you are buying one of my more expensive items, I guess it doesn’t matter.” Azheira merely blinked at the woman. The store owner modestly cleared her throat. “Well. And how will you be paying for this?”

Azheira slid a card across the counter. Sefailine did a bit of a double take at the name. “Inquisitor Liore Bloodwing? Are you a relation?” Smirking, Azheira shook her head as the woman completed the transaction and folded the dress carefully into a bag. Suddenly, Laehlin and her friend stopped talking and gaped at Azheira.

Laehlin spoke up, “Inquisitor Bloodwing doesn’t have any kids.” Her tone contemptuous and her expression disdainful. “At least, not as far as -I- know. And I know a lot.”

“I am not the Old Man’s child.” Keeping a well-mannered mien, Azheira lied through her affable smile. “I’m his ward.”

Theodore Riley harrumphed. “Spending more of the Old Ma—the Inquisitor’s money I see.”

“Of course. It’s not as if I have any of my own. Well, perhaps I do, but I don’t know how to access it. And even if I did it would mean a trip into Alliance territory and how can I do that with Falchion or you following me everywhere?”

“Now, Miss Azheira, we do not follow, we are just keeping an eye out so to speak.”

“Whatever!” She dropped the dress bag on the bar and came around the back to pour herself a glass of water, but had to stop and slap Riley’s hand. “Ah, ah, ah! No peeking at the dress. You can see it on Saturday.” Before he could get curious again, she grabbed the bag. “Where is the Old Man, by the way?”

“He’s out of town, Miss.”

“Then I guess it’s just you and me tonight. Shall we continue our game of chess?”

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Azheira.”

“Brilliant. Welp, I’m off to bathe. Something about being in Silvermoon City made me feel dirty today.”

“Oh, Miss Azheira, the weather has turned and the river will be too frigid to bathe in.”

“Hm. Then perhaps it is time to take the Old Man up on his offer.”

***

The door skimmed the rug as it opened without a sound. Her blond head leaned into the aperture, eyes darting around cautiously. The Old Man wasn’t there, of course. Nevertheless, a feeling of apprehension skidded up her spine when she shut the door behind her.

Azheira stuck out her lower lip, nervously puffing out a quick breath. Don’t be silly. He said I could use it and besides, he isn’t even here. Shaking her head, she headed to the washroom the Old Man’s private quarters. A huge grin spread across her face at the size of his shower.

“Why that is positively decadent.”

The thought of warm water sluicing over her body reduced her jumpiness to nothing. She moved to stand in front of the pristine glass enclosure. For the second time that day, she attempted to do what only the Old Man had done before. The glass itself seemed to sparkle as her image changed. It took several minutes longer than when he did it, but eventually, Azheira was able to alter her appearance back into its original human state.

Mimicking the motions she had made in the dress shop, she traced her curves, touched her ear and tilted her face to observe it from all angles. So very different and yet, it’s still me. With a tug at the belt, her bathrobe fell to the floor. She slipped it over her head.

The hem puddled around her feet instead of grazing them. Across her hips, the fit was too tight and it hung off her shoulders awkwardly. Less sure of herself than she had been a few minutes ago, her teeth worried her lips. This version is more me than the Sin’dorei illusion. The dress should fit me better, not worse. Disappointed, she removed the dress, shoving it back into the bag. In the past month, three different men have wanted to kiss me. I wonder if they would even be interested if they knew what I really look like. A huff and pout. Well, that’s not entirely true. The one who gave me the illusion knows. Pale blue eyes without a hint of green stared back at her from the clear glass. Still, he and the other two probably wouldn’t even consider it if they saw me in this form.

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she considered the amusing notion of the priest, the paladin and the rogue kissing each other instead of her. You silly girl. When have you ever cared what other people think of you or been concerned with how you look? Get over yourself. Determination slowly crept across her features. It doesn’t matter what those men or anyone else thinks. Are you content? A nod. Then get in there and enjoy that wanton shower before the Old Man comes home and catches you.

Cheered after her little pep talk, Azheira turned on the multiple showerheads and stepped into the spray. The scent of her shampoo permeated the air and the sound of her voice wafted with the steam as she sang a bawdy sailor’s song she used to hear on the docks of Theramore.

“Any old storm, any old port
Life is long, love is short
Better get a woman, get a woman if you can
If you can't get a woman, get a clean old man.

Do they hang too low, do they swing to and fro
Can you tie 'em in a knot, can you tie 'em in a bow
Can you swing 'em round your shoulder like a Azerothan soldier
Do they hang too low in the mornin'?”

The office of Imperon Showdah looked exactly as its owner wanted it to look. Its walls were decorated both by expensive tapestries and weapons of war, many of them magical in some fashion. Enchanted suits of armor were spaced around the edges of the room serving as both decoration and an additional line of defense. For that matter, the weapons were a line of defense as well.

The floor was solid stone, no dressed stone was in evidence. The same was true of the walls and ceiling. Runes were carved into the stone at varying intervals, granting Imperon more power and suppressing any hostile magics he might encounter.

A dozen Ocheliad guarded each of the two entrances to his office. Only the balcony behind his desk was unguarded. Imperon was nothing if not paranoid. One of the doors, the one that lead towards the Ocheliad-only parts of the tower opened and a gnome clad in a somber Ocheliad uniform entered.

Coblyn was the only name he used these days and the warlock had joined Imperon's Ocheliad almost as soon as that wizard had begun recruiting. He'd risen to the rank of Commander and had lead the Ocheliad's intelligence division for over a decade. He knew Imperon as well as anyone outside the wizard's familiar or mistress did and yet he still paused hesitantly when he saw his boss.

Imperon was brooding. He was hunched over his desk, fingers tented in front of his face and his jaw clenched. His hat was pulled down low over his face, giving his face an ominous look. Coblyn was glad, however, that his boss' eyes were fixed at some point straight ahead and not on himself. The wizard was angry, but not at Coblyn.

"Boss?" Coblyn walked up the step ladder set beside on chair in front of the boss' desk. Seating himself he regarded the wizard closely. "Boss?" There was no response. Coblyn grabbed the nearest convenient object on Imperon's desk - an empty mug - and hurled it squarely at Imperon's head.

"Ow!" Imperon clapped a hand to his forehead and glared at the gnome. "Coblyn! I was busy!"

"I saw boss. There isn't time for me to sit here and wait for you to quit being busy. I have a hot date tonight."

"So you hit me in the head? You'd better have some good news on the search!"

"Conclusive news, but it's not the best boss. She's not being held anywhere friendly, that's for sure. I've had the Arfod question every kidnapper, slaver, blackmailer, pirate and mercenary who might have been involved in this. She's in hostile territory, somewhere. Or dead. Dead's a possibility." Hostile territory was how Coblyn referred to any land controlled by the Horde.

"She's not dead. Whoever has her took the time to search her well enough to find her Ocheliad eye and then remove it. It could be months before it returns strongly enough for me make sure she's alive, but no one takes the time to find and remove a subtle bit of magic like that unless they want their captive alive. Azheira's not dead, but a certain long ears might be soon..."

"Speaking of long ears, isn't Wayward supposed to..." Coblyn was cut off when the office door slammed open. In stomped a blood elf, eyes blazing green, with a scowl on his heavily lined face. He didn't bother to close the door as he stomped his way towards Imperon's desk. One of the guards outside stepped in, grabbed the door and swiftly closed it. The elf sat down and blinked once. His eyes turned blue and he quit scowling, replacing that expression with a relatively friendly frown.

"Hi long ears, the boss was just talking about you," quipped Coblyn.

"No I wasn't. I spoke with a sin'dorei at the Armistice Ball last night."

"Liore somethingorother." Coblyn frowned briefly, though his expression was one of thoughtfullness, not hostility. His knowledge of who Imperon had spoken too wasn't surprising given his duties within the Ocheliad. "He has some power within hostile lands. A decent following. Why were you talking to him? Slumming or something?"

"If you'd shut up, he might tell us," Wayward snarled at Coblyn. The gnome just smiled.

"Knock it off, both of you. He introduced me to a lady friend of his...named Azh."

Both Wayward and Coblyn sat up straighter. The gnome said "Azh? Azheira? It couldn't have been her, could it? No, of course not. If it was, you'd have brought her home."

"I couldn't make a scene there, unless I'd been positive, but I don't think it was. He was playing with me...parading some elf around who's using Azheira's nickname. Liore must have heard that one of my Ocheliad is missing. I tried to initiate physical contact with her, subtly, but was rebuffed."

Wayward's frown momentarily became a smirk, then lapsed. "That must have been hard for you, boss. How long has it been since some pretty young thing told you no?"

(continued)

"Long enough that it stung, Wayward. She even had some of Azheira's mannerisms. Small things. Liore's done his research. He has some talent, too. Magic. He only did one thing, but it felt strange, unfamiliar. I hate facing an opponent with powers I don't understand."

"Wow, boss...you got shut down by a woman and stymied by an elf in the same day. However will you sleep tonight?"

"I'll sacrifice a gnome to the powers that be. That should do it." Coblyn rolled his eyes as Wayward barked a short laugh. "Wayward, how's the search coming from your end?"

Wayward shrugged. "I wish it was going better. Whoever's got her isn't trying to sell her and doesn't appear to be moving her around much. We've found a number of captive human women, such people aren't uncommon, but none were Azheira. If this Liore knows something..."

"Keep the net wide, Wayward. Maybe he's just taunting me for my failure to locate my missing Ocheliad, and maybe he knows enough to be worth talking to. Find out everything you can about him and his people. Make it worth the time of anyone who wants to talk to you about him, his followers, or the 'Azh' he had on his arm at the Ball. Go, get started. I want the blueprints for his home, too! Find out about any improvements he's made to it."

"That'll get expensive, boss," Wayward said as he stood. "A man like him doesn't let his secrets loose any easier than you do."

"Pay what it takes, Wayward. We will find Azheira and bring her home if I have to decimate this world to do it. Just be subtle."

"Subtle he says," Wayward grumbled as he and Coblyn excused themselves. "He's talking about killing a tenth of the world's population and yet wants me to be subtle."

Imperon didn't hear the elf's comment. He was already back to brooding...and relishing the prospect of meeting a particular sin'dorei lady again.

Until a few months ago, Vel’thik thought he had finally found his peace. He knew he had no head for the cunning manipulations of his fellow mantid. Nor did he possess the inclination to fashion the terribly beautiful amber weapons his people prized. And he most certainly had never experienced the crazed blood lust that consumed the swarm. No, Vel’thik had found a serenity here in the Inquisitor’s manse. He was allowed to putter around, with his brushes and paints as much as he liked. In return, he chose to serve the man who had given him his freedom by helping out in the kitchen.

The shy mantid, who would have been better off if he had gone with his first instinct of the day, which was to begin a fresco of the waterfall on the far side of the estate, was flustered – and that was putting it mildly. It always happened to him when she came to breakfast. Poor Vel’thik had absolutely no clue how to act around her. He was, without a doubt, the most solemn of the Inquisitor’s staff. His somber mind was as thick and immovable as one of the stoutest trees in the arboretum of the Jade Forest.

The girl, however, was almost never serious – or so it seemed to Vel’thik. He could not understand her frequent smiles or why her laughter was commonly heard echoing through the halls. Didn’t she know there were terrible things going on in the world? She danced around, doing as she pleased. What was wrong with her? Long suffering sighs could often be heard from the Inquisitor while the staff regaled him with her antics. Nevertheless, Bloodwing indulged her and allowed her just as much freedom as anyone else on the estate, perplexing Vel’thik tremendously.

This particular morning, Azheira’s sudden and vivacious appearance at the breakfast table had caused more agitation than usual. She had slapped a newspaper down in front of the Inquisitor, causing his coffee cup to spill its contents onto the butter dish. The Inquisitor didn’t bat an eye. He simply returned his demitasse to an upright position and motioned for Vel’thik to refill it. The mantid was in the process of doing so when Azheira pushed at the paper again. The butter, which had been swimming in the black liquid, now slipped gracefully over the edge of the dish, glided smoothly across the table and onto the floor. Vel’thik just stood there, slack-jawed. His long, claw-like fingers clacking together fretfully as if they were itching to pick something up, but couldn’t quite recall what it was.

“Well?”

Liore Bloodwing slowly turned his head to peer at Azheira, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. “Well. And good morning to you too, Ash.” He still couldn’t pronounce her name correctly, but she didn’t seem to mind. “What has got you in a tizzy this morning? Did you fall on your head when you slid down the bannister earlier?” There might have been a bit of humor in his fathomless eyes, but Vel’thik couldn’t be sure.

Azheira giggled. Of course she did. Vel’thik had never heard such a sound prior to coming to the manse. The mantid did not laugh. But Azheira did. A lot. It was musical and happy and light and drew people in to her world. Even the Inquisitor’s Guttersnipe army warmed when her eyes sparkled with amusement. Vel’thik’s claws clicked nervously.

“No. I never fall off the railing. You should know that by now.” She pointed to an advertisement at the bottom of the front page. “I think this should be our next cultural outing.”

Liore’s inscrutable gaze brushed over her. “Do you now?” Picking up the paper, he scanned the section she had poked at. “What is a Whole Azeroth Festival?”

“It will be a very illuminating experience. There will be all sorts of edifying happenings to culturize us. Besides, it’s my turn to pick.”

“I was not aware we were taking turns at choosing our cultural activities.” Imperiously, Liore sniffed. “How will this event enlighten our minds and bring us to a higher elevation of sophisticated and discriminating taste?”

In answer, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Be ready at 9 bells. The ‘Hoopdance Happiness’ class starts at ten and I don’t want to miss it.” Rising, Azheira waved at Vel’thik and sashayed out. “Oh, and you should wear comfortable shoes as the festival is outside. Thanks for breakfast, Velly!”

Nonplussed, Vel’thik’s claws rattled in confused contemplation. The contradiction, he thought, of Miss Azheira telling the Inquisitor to wear shoes.

“What have you gotten me into, Ash?”

Azheira laughed as Liore bent over to pick up the hoop from where it had landed. She stood several feet away from him, her hips rocking smoothly from side to side as she turned in a slow circle, her hands twirling leisurely above her head. A hoop, identical to the one he held, weaved around her slim waist.

“You aren’t supposed to attack the hoop. Just let it glide around your body. The idea is to allow your body to be free, which in turn should make you happy. Watch me, Old Man. See how my hips move?”

Liore did watch, his gaze lingering at her hips for a while. “Culture does not mean contorting my body into anatomically impossible positions.” His eyes moved slowly back up to her face. “You, however, seem quite adept.”

Flushing, Azheira lowered her hands, ceasing the hoopdance. An attendant retrieved both circlets, handing them to a couple of draenei who promptly began spinning them around their tails. Immediately, the attendant snatched back the hoops with a scowl, muttering something about not being in Goldshire.

Azheira didn’t notice. She already had her eye on the next tent. Curling her small hand into Liore’s larger one, she tugged. “Come on.”

The placard outside read, Creating Sacred Spaces through Devotional Chanting. Just to the left of the entrance, stood a plainly dressed Tauren female, who was handing each participant a strand of prayer beads.

“Nechi ich towateke ki hale chi,” she spoke quietly as she placed the beads over Liore’s head, settling them around his neck. Azheira grinned at Liore’s lack of expression. She was quite certain he was considering a taking her to a boring lecture on the pros and cons of justices wearing wigs while on the dais for their next outing.

“I am Imela. Welcome.” The woman bowed and pulled back the tent covering, motioning for them to enter. Reluctantly, Liore followed Azheira into the tent. Around the perimeter were candles at even intervals. More than two dozen people were already inside, gathered around a tight grouping of surprisingly foul smelling candles at the center of the grassy floor. Azheira grimaced at the odor, but made no mention of it in case Liore hadn’t noticed.

The others were holding hands in a closed circle. As Liore and Azheira approached two of the attendees broke apart and made room for the newcomers. After only a few minutes, Azheira could feel Liore’s gaze and read his thought: there was no need to be here, they could sit in the dark at home and light a few candles if she wanted. The urge to giggle was nearly overwhelming.

Not a word was said for quite a while, then, one man at the far side of the group initiated a low, mournful song. It started slowly, rhythmically, a lament for something unnamed, yet of unfathomable power. A pulse of woe, a wretched longing emerged as more voices joined in with the first. The chant was like a bass drum, its very essence throbbing, making hearts pound and skin tingle. Louder and louder it swelled. Grassy ground underneath them rippled as if something was below, attempting to rise. Even the canvas tent swayed and the attendee’s bodies began to undulate as a prayer to whatever they were attempting to call forth.

Liore was entirely still except for the soft graze of his thumb tracing Azheira’s knuckles. Tension emanated from him, echoing the ripples inside the tent and yet visibly contradicting whatever it was the others were supplicating for. There was something off about the song. He felt it as much as she did, perhaps more so. Wanting to ease the tight strain they both felt, her core of Light prepared to infuse the chant with something less stressful. Beautiful light flowed from her lips. Azheira added her soft, calming expression to the distressing chant surging through the tent. Her wordless melody poured forth, bringing a lighter quality to the song.

The temper around the circle shifted. Now, it was the others’ turn to stir with unease. Most seemed confused at the chant’s modification. A few faltered, their jaws loose. The luster of Azheira’s song pushed at the shadows they had wrought. Suddenly, the first man’s voice boomed again. Those around him followed. Their voices rushed forward, attempting to retain the darkly reverent mood it had been a few moments before.

Twisting his left hand so that her right was now resting on his wrist, Liore eased onto the balls of his feet, watching the circle of people very closely. Even in the dark, Azheira could feel his penetrating gaze as both of them felt the movement of his tattoo, a snake beneath velvet, as it slithered along his skin. Their eyes met and he told her without words, it was time to go. Swiftly, he rose to his full height, pulling her close as they made their way out of the tent.

“…Ashy.”

“I know.”

“You tried. But we both know what that wa—“

Wanting to take his mind off what had occurred in the tent, she interrupted him with food. Grabbing a fluffy green square off a passing cart, she stuffed it in his open mouth. His eyes drilled hers while he chewed.

“What was that?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think it might have been Forsaken Foie Gras. Did you like it?”

“No. Here.” He too, plucked a small edible item from the cart and poked it between her lips. He did not smile, but it was apparent he was pleased with himself.

She made sure to chew and swallow before responding. “And what was that?”

“A Gnomeragon Gnugget.”

“Huh. Tastes like chicken.” The blue edges of her eyes sparkled as she winked. Her hand slid from the tattoo on his wrist to fold around his palm again. His response was a gentle squeeze. A hint of a smile played at the corners of her lips. “Come on. We need to relieve some tension.”

“We can relax at home.”

Not ready to give up, Azheira flashed him a beguiling smile. “Indulge me.” She led him past the tents labeled Goblin and Gnome Sensitivity: How to be inclusive of our diminutive friends and Bringing peace to Azeroth: A new vision with some new (yet old) friends. The placard she finally paused in front of read Giant Massage Circle and Spiral Hug.

Liore balked. “Hells above! What is a spiral hug? Ashy…”

“You’ll see. It’s meant to release anxiety.”

As soon as they entered, a flighty blood elf with bright red hair verbally accosted them. “Come in! Come in! Alas, you just missed the circle massage! But, welcome to our spiral hug!” He glanced quickly at their clasped hands. “I see you are getting ready early, you sly devils. Most excellent to have new friends be so eager! Come along, you can see the others are already setting up.” Ginger hair bounced while he pointed at the others forming a line. Azheira pulled a less than enthusiastic Liore to their place. Several more people joined in as the carrot topped elf gave out instructions in a sing-song voice.

“All right, you wonderful, cozy, cuddly people! We are going to show our love for one another by giving each other a great big hug! It’s super easy! I’m going to stand in the middle and you will stay in your line while walking around me, not letting go of each other’s hands. In this way, we will wrap our arms around each other – hugging! We want to hug very closely! We want to smell each other’s perfume!” Prancing to the center, the excitable elf took hold of the first person’s hand, and motioned for the line to move. It took a few minutes, but eventually, they were all wrapped around each other in a spiral formation.

The hug was not as loving as the organizer might have liked. Grunts, oofs, and get off my toes were muttered by more than a few. For the second time that day, Azheira knew what Liore was thinking. And she was pretty sure it meant trouble for her.

Suddenly, the tent flap snapped open and several people burst in, shouting. People at the outer edge of the spiral hug began to peel off, wanting to be out if this was going to turn volatile. Azheira recognized the intruders. Their peaceful expressions from earlier were completely gone as their eyes scanned the huggers.

The man with the booming voice was there and identified her. “There she is! Get her.” The trespassers rushed over and began pulling people out of the spiral hug. Frightened, Azheira looked to Liore. He had already let go of the person next to him and indicated Azheira should do the same. He grasped both her hands.

“Don’t let go.”

She had barely nodded before the people around them faded from sight. They were standing on the grassy area where the tent had been. She could still see the impression from where the tent pegs used to be. Questioning what he had done didn’t even enter her mind.

“Fancy stuff, Old Man. We are in the same spot, but hours later.”

“Yes. Are you all right?” He shifted her small hands so they were both held in one of his. The other reached up to gently brush an errant strand of hair out of her face.

The evening breeze picked up a white scrap of wrinkled paper, tossing it along the ground. Suddenly, a gust lifted it waist high. Azheira tore her gaze away from Liore and snatched it. Her expression grave as she read.

“We should go.”

I bent the bow, really leaned into it, until my favored cello sang as mournful and deep as its growling strings would allow, but for the life of me I could not drown out the rain.

Its performance was percussive and insistent, swelling and pattering against the tall narrow windows of my sanctum. A thousand tiny fingertips tap tapping and clawing for purchase, begging my attention but I would not look. As embers from the fireplace cast dancing fingers of failing light over my bare form, I hunched into the instrument, pressed my eyes against its seasoned wooden finish. Until the low draw shook the bones of my cheeks and vibrated in the hollow of my chest. I would not look.

There was no rain. It hadn't rained in Winterspring for an age. The flurrying flakes of rain's silent, forlorn sister settled in a white blanket over hills and mountains alike, with no regard for thirst or warmth. The snow was endless, passage perilous, a perfectly forsaken corner of Kalimdor to erect a mansion.

It had served as a place of respite between feverish and extended periods of work; haunting foemen of the Horde and Alliance alike will drain any Inquisitor of his good sense if you keep at it hard enough. It was Amberley's idea to enforce regular vacations, on both myself and my staff. She always had the better sense, of us.

The bow bent, lancing through the air, dragging over thick, coiled strings and the cello cried out in a baritone bellow. The rain that was not rain pattered on.

The being that had inhabited my thoughts for months and months was now out of it, but echoes of his tenure remain. I studied these nightmares, divined from them the words of creation, of decreation. Ghastly little Choir composed me a grimoire, a foul book filled to the brim with my observations, passed on to her all-seeing eyes. She will approach me, in the fine hours, to pout with mute lips at this growing madness of mine.

She too, vanishes in an instant.

The rain is not the worst of it. I have found my memories to be unfaithful. Occurring time and again without provocation, and wrongly. As though something were eager to have me mis-remember, and commit to my sanity a chapter of life in which I did not partake. This dreariness would be upon me and then gone, before I can trace its passage.

A stroke, the press of fingertips. The quake of the cello, its slender head resting against the crook of my neck. I would wait out the storm, that was not a storm at all.

The only door to my bedroom glided open on silent hinges and I would not have noticed his entrance if Hammond's stature had not cast a wolfish shadow over me. He lurched, in his manner, arms folded neatly behind his back. All shoulders and snout, a wolfman in a tux and a most proper manner. His hair was perfect.

Old Hammond. I will not assign a name to what exactly he does, but for the moment it would suffice to address him as 'butler'.

“Stirring performance, Lord,” he growled when my final note had crashed at last against the tapestries of my walls. My moods were seldom predictable, as madness will often have it, but he always weathered me with an utmost professionalism. I suspect he was privately entertained.

“Is it the hour already?” I was shocked to hear the croak of my voice, ribbiting up out of a dry mouth. It occurred to me that I was very thirsty. Dinner would come with wine. As fine a prospect as any.

“Vel'thik has outdone himself, of course,” Hammond growled on, his golden eyes following the shiver of his shadow across the carpets. He may have been repulsed. As Worgen often are by the unnatural shapes they affect. “A rich kodo stew, thickened with Sen'jin spice, imported from the Isle. Savory, as my Lord prefers.”

“Very fine.” I was beyond satisfaction. I had come to inhabit a place where Sen'jin spices taste no different than the salt of tears. But my staff were attentive, running my home with efficiency and great care. I felt a duty to them, to at least seem the part of the Lord they toiled to provide for.

I rose from my little chair, dragged to the center of the room, and balanced the cello upon its spike. “Will Azheira be with us?”

“No, Lord. The young miss has departed for the evening, to Silvermoon.”

I felt the wince bloom beneath my eyebrows and die before it ever reached my unmoving face. Asimenois had forever stolen my smile, but my frowns as well. Hammond could see them, all the same.

“She is attended by two of your men, sire,” the wolfman purred, in a tone just demure enough to seem self-congratulatory. “As you have instructed.”

“Which.” The safety of my ward was a concern more and more valid as her time with me grew and grew. A human girl, long of leg and short of temper, fearless in her way but tempered by a fright she cannot recall. Amnesia brought her into my domain, a stroke of ill fortune that I am studiously trying to repaint as an opportunity.

More on that later. Bear with me.

Hammond refolded his wolf fingers behind his back, making a show of trying to recall the names of her guards. They all pretended for the sake of propriety to regard my army of undead miscreants and slackjaws as raucous and unbecoming, but they'll come around. The greatest treasures in life are often raucous and unbecoming.

“The gentlemen 'Skullmuncher' and 'Jaw', I do believe sire.”

“SkullMULCHer, Hammond.”

He smirked a wolfish smirk. “As you say, sire.”

It was just as well. Falchion and Riley, Azheira's usuals, were off on errands I had fabricated to divide them. It will be good for her to meet some of the others. Exchange of culture is an important milestone of self-discovery; while the Guttersnipes did not possess much culture to speak of, they make up for it with loudness and vulgarity.

My dear ward would be well-watched for. Jaw possessed no lower mandible at all, his tongue swaying as free and loose as... well nevermind. You do not need the burden of that particular metaphor. And 'Mulcher happened to be the lead vocalist of the brigade's band, which they had collectively named 'Skullmulcher and the Nun Munchers from Hell.' A self-proclaimed son of a !@#$%, he carried himself with a glower and a strut that would send the statues of sainted masters hiking their granite skirts and running across the street to avoid contact. When I asked whether they were equal to the task, Mulcher spat on my floor and grunted 'Ard as fock, me' and Jaw gurgled something equally unedifying.

The powers that be, eager to grab at Azheira and whisk her away from my gaze, would have better fortune accosting Prince Anduin than anyone my boys had an eye on.

I dismissed Hammond and stretched the ache out of my spine. I gazed across the room and at the single mirror slanted beside my wardrobe. I recall fumbling with a necktie, squinting in irritation at that mirror. Until feather soft hands would glide over me from behind, smooth out my knots, and tighten them elegantly, gently to my throat.

Now all that stared back was a too-lean, crooked, pale wretch with a thousand-yard stare and an impassive face. A centuries old consciousness regarding itself dispassionately through its tired, youthful doll. The rain tapped and pattered, and I turned away to dress.

“Shkully, you’re being a complete moron aaand you know it. Arthash Menethil was NEVER a member of the Tauren Chieftainsh.”

Hoots and cat-calls echoed from the other side of the table, where the rest of the Nun Munchers and Jaw leaned or lurched against the wall. Skullmulcher, the band’s lead vocalist, lyricist and publicist sat staring up at Azheira with the ugliest smirk she had ever seen. It phased her not, however. She stood firm, hands balled into tight fists and planted argumentatively on her hips.

“A moron, eh? You are th’one who doesn’t know your Chieftain ‘istory. Or ya are just too drunk ta remember?”

Frustrated, Azheira threw her hands up in the air, dropping them back into a not-so-neat fold across her chest with an exasperated huff as she flopped into her seat. More hollers erupted from the band and Jaw gurgled something completely inappropriate.

“Probably the drunk as !@#$ bit, cause ya can’t even get my name right. S’not Skully.”

“Fine. Shkullmuncher, you are being a complete moron.” The peanut gallery erupted.

“Tha’s Skullmulcher, Missy.”

Azheira’s hand paused midway to her drink. “But the band name ish Nun Munchersh. I thought…”

“Nun Munchers from ‘ell, actually.”

“Oh.” Her fingers found the shot glass and brought it to her lips. Taking it in one gulp, she tried really hard to not cough, failed, and the Nun Munchers chortled raucously. “Yeah, yeah, drinking ish not my forte.”

“Doing fine, Miss Azheira,” Clearly smitten, Edgar smiled shyly, his beefy jowls a bass drum of vibration. Fretless and Capo, lead guitar and bassist respectively, both reached over and shoved him. Hard. The grotesque splat of decaying abomination flesh reverberated throughout the bar.

Her face contorting into a repulsed squish, Azheira flicked a lump of rotted goo off her shoulder. It hit the eye of an orc two tables over. This, of course, started a brawl.

Fists flew.

Literally.

Fretless removed his right hand and smashed it into the nose of the nearest orc. The orc retaliated with a knee to whatever was left of Fretless’ groin. Capo took out two orcs with one swing of a chair to their knees. Jaw stuck his extremely long tongue down the throat of one orc, choking him to death. Skullmulcher charged in smashing a few heads. When he reached the largest orc, he grinned wolfishly before picking up the green skin and sending him flying in Edgar’s direction. The abomination promptly rolled, smothering the orc. The fight was over almost before it started. Still, the Nun Munchers continued pounding the orcs for a bit. And each other. Just to work out the kinks.

Azheira sat quietly, sipping her whiskey, slowly this time. “Perhapsh we should have had that nish quiet dinner in Shilvermoon after all.”

“Well, ma chère, I do believe that might have been best for someone such as yourself, hm?”

Azheira turned slowly, her state of inebriation affecting her movement and manners. Bluntly, “Who. Are you?”

The woman now standing at Azheira’s side pouted. “Ah, yes, you have forgotten moi, have you not? As well as many other things.” With and affectionate smile, she reached up, gently touching the tip of Azheira’s elvish ear. “I am one who is…concerned for you.”

Blinking, Azheira tried to focus on the woman’s face. Too much drink had made her brain feel like cotton candy, fluffy nothing and sticking to everything it shouldn’t. But something seemed familiar about that voice.

“Concerned…for me? Why?”

“Ah, ma petite, I can help you remember those things you have forgotten, you see.”

Azheira shook her head in confusion. “The Old Man ish already helping me. Did he shend you?”

The woman eyed the Nun Munchers warily. “We will speak privately. Come, ma petite.” Her fingers snaked around Azheira’s upper arm, dragging her up and towards the door.

Skullmulcher slid a bloodied hand through his greasy mane and started to call out for another round of drinks when he spotted the woman next to Azheira. “Boys.” One word, spoken in a death growl and the band and jawless one had her surrounded.

In a panic, the woman tried to cast a demonic teleport, but Skullmulcher was too quick. With an efficient snick, her neck was broken, head flopping comically to one side.

“%^-*. Th’Dread Lord is gonna kick our collective asses fer not taking her ta Silvermoon like we said we was.”

I arrived at the evening meal late, which I suppose was early enough; a lord is always on time in his own manse. I had affected a black tailored suit, a scarlet vest and tie, and a loose throat ruffle, according to the style of the Silvermoon courts. The staff indulged me with welcoming smiles and curt, professional nods. I gestured to them in muted gratitude. It is easy to forget how they toil over my comforts.
My heels clicked across dark marble, veins of teal and silver pulsing with each long step. The artful stone had been buffed to a mirror sheen, reflecting the vast dining table and its inhabitants like blurry ethereal gangers bent in mockery of our respite. Teal curtains hung over stained-glass windows, the furtive and romantic whims of the artist who’d crafted them stretching high to the vaulted ceiling. Twin Chandeliers hung silently overhead, a hundred tiny candle-flames shivering in uncomplaining observation.
Wooden chairs groaned as a dozen figures moved to rise, but I stilled them with a lowly word and took my place at the head with as little fuss and circumstance as allowable. Hammond hovered over my right shoulder, wordlessly pouring frothed wine into a tilted glass. With a cursory glance, I took stock of my guests.
"Lord."
"M’ser."
"Dread Lord."
A pair of Guttersnipes surveyed me with barely restrained enthusiasm, separated by the unimpressed, slouched figure of Commander Jacques’Markhal Cutter. The Commander, all lean angles and clever lines, regarded me with a private smarm, attending his nails with one of those everpresent knives of his. Every night, at dinner, I asked that he bring a different pair of his soldiers to the table. The better to acquaint myself with the people who would be laying their un-lives down for the sake of my cause. And every night Cutter tried to outdo the evening before by making me regret the charity. Guttersnipes are not known well for their temperance, or table manner.
I regret the loss of my most favored kerchief dearly.
Fortunately, neither of the boys with him seemed the type to projectile gorge on command, but Cutter’s air of victory made me wary all the same.
"Gentlemen," I greeted in my low timbre, and sampled my wine.
Others filled the long row of chairs, faces both familiar and not. Names bubbled up from the pit of my memory only to sink tauntingly before my tongue could hook them. Behind a tankard squatted an ambassador from distant Ironforge, a thoughtful dwarf inquiring about ownership of the ore-rich caverns dotting my land. And across from him a slow-speaking Kal’dorei, a sword-master apprentice come to train under the instruction of the house master-at-arms. And beside them a rosy cheeked goblin blinked sheepishly at the lavender-skinned elf from behind massive bifocals. She had claimed to have come to study time-lost lore of the Raven Priest cult, but I suspect in truth she had come only to peruse my libraries. She met my questing gaze very briefly, swallowed once and found sudden insight in her napkin.

Further down brooded my colleague Inquisitor Crag Guiltenstern, his improbably massive orcish figure consuming nearly two chairs. Thick, corded muscles sprang from sleeveless robes, wrist-thick fingers steepled before his scowling, jowling green face. He was deep in debate with one of his retinue, a blue-skinned troll as lean and crafty as a barbed whip. The troll’s name escaped me. Crag had been awarded his own by a human viscount; the once slave had proven himself to be strong in mind, as in body, and became a favored laborer for the viscount’s librarians. It had not occurred to them that an orc could learn to read. Nor that an orc who could learn to read, could learn to MAGIC. For his temperamental heritage, Crag remains one of the most patient and gifted minds in the ranks of the Inquisition, an accolade especially distinguished amidst our illustrious peers.
His fathomless, knowing earth-brown eyes shifted under my scrutiny, and rolled with self-enduring humor.
The meal was served, and chatter resumed. I engaged Cutter’s boys gingerly, asking leading questions and imploring delicately about their interests. They were well- mannered and I suspect that was part of Cutter’s joke. Normal kids tonight, tomorrow someone prone to running up and down the table, hooting and clutching at his tinkle.
Vel’thik had outdone himself, his dishes prepared with the obsessive perfection only a mantid could achieve. The stew was thick and balanced with salt and spice, the sour breads crisp to the touch and fluffed at the core. Spinach and asparagus, a thick fig paste garnished with cinnamon and shreds of chilled boar. Flakey steak pies with a slash of gravy and a crown of whipped potatoes.
A mantid for a chef. What a world. Palatial delicacies masterfully wrought by the hands (claws?) of an insectoid with no taste buds. Served to the dead and dying, soldiers who fought to sustain life they no longer had, for love they no longer could feel.
But it isn’t about the ends, I’ve come to believe. Our purpose is noble, it is right. But even the purpose itself is meaningless without first the opportunity to pursue it. We perform feared works, hated perhaps, and necessary certainly. But too many have had the option stripped from them, the chance to direct the paths of their lives snuffed out without a word of choice. Give me your dead, and I will show you how deeply they value life.
Means before the ends. A year ago I stole an uncorrupted egg from a dying brood, half a world away, and the creature that stirred from its amber-encrusted shell now serves stew and pies. Vel’Thik made his choice, and I am grateful to have been able to provide the option.
Just so with Azheira.

With dinner finished, I touched a thick napkin to my lips and retreated with my wine to gaze out the western windows. My guests broke away or gathered closer, pausing for a brief word or two before going about their evenings. Cutter’s boys drew up beside the Night Elf, and Crag’s troll acolyte soon leaned over and all four got to swapping tired war stories and battlefield boasts. I pressed my elbow to the solid, warm marble of the wall, frowned out at the snow.
Old phantoms stirred in the base of my skull. They raced somewhere behind my eyes, and in the distance shadowy figures only I could behold lurched and howled at the sky. The snow became rain as I watched, until all I could hear were the patter-like fingernails against glass. I do not wish to know from where these visions have arisen. I do not wish to know which parts of me felt condemned to relive these moments, time and again.
Dinner was not settling. I had pecked and nibbled and made a good show of trying to enjoy my meal, but what little I did eat tightened uncomfortably into a weary knot. Another vision swept over me, before I could protest or guard myself for its invasion.

'Hoi! I -am- going to leave without you. I'll do it. I'm leaving right now. I'm not even here anymore.' Asimenios crossed his arms and puffed a strand of inky black out of his gaunt face, propping himself against one of the marble pillars by the dining hall's exit.
'Go on then!' blonde Liore clipped back, rushing across the hall, fumbling with his sword belt and pistol. 'You'll be lost before you make the stairs.'
'Psh. I can find Felwood just fine.'
The young lord guffawed a lordly guffaw, straightening his broad-shouldered coat. ‘Indeed. If you can tell me, right now, in which direction Felwood is, I will name my firstborn after you. Right now. Do it. Go.’
Asime shrugged, languid as a cat, and grinned as such. ‘Its obviously south.’
Fingers adjusting his shoulder rig, the Inquisitor gave a youthful laugh. ‘And here I thought you were going to say ‘down’.’
'Down's not a direction !@#$%^-, its where you go on a gir- Mornin Amber.'
She breezed by, pressing a brief kiss on the dark haired brawler’s cheek as she passed to her husband. Up to the tips of her toes, she greeted him the same, then threatened him with a pastry and the imperious look of a woman who would brook no argument.
Liore grunted intelligently, cramming half his breakfast in his mouth. ‘Bad news, my dear. We’ll have to make room in the will for ‘Nutbag Bloodwing’.’
Asimenios nearly collapsed, gripping his lean sides and roaring in silent laughter. Amberley wasn’t so amused, but bloomed in a sweet, tolerant smile that lit the entire hall. ‘Let us hope he does not inherit his father’s vulgarity.’ And she pressed his forgotten travel mug against the hard surface of his chest. ‘Nor his memory. Really, Bloodwing. What would you be without me?’
Nimble fingers stole the remaining half of his pastry, pursed lips stole a powdery kiss. ‘Malnourished, certainly.’

That little knot in my stomach churned insistently, a little bit of pain that infected the warmth spreading through my heart. I closed my eyes, and willed away the growing tide of grief.

'You were right, it seems,' Crag Guiltenstern said by way of greeting. I was aware of heavy feet padding over beside me, then the mountainous presence of the towering orc barricading me from the dim chatter across the hall. I turned my head to regard him, straightened from my stony lurch. Guiltenstern continued, taking my place against the marble wall.
'You are being looked into. And quietly. I wouldn't have noticed it myself, if you hadn't had me watching.' The gravelly baritone of his voice betrayed his interest in my life's intrigues, his amusement at the games our people found themselves playing.
'It will be the Crimsons that reveal me. Or the Rowers. Dependent on price.' I sipped my wine thoughtfully. The two lowliest gangs Silvermoon has to offer. They would sell anyone out, for the right price. Even an Inquisitor.
Which was the plan. Entrust them with one small breadcrumb of information. A secretive requisition order for a specific cargo ship, or the clandestine results of an auction of a particular digsite. Little pieces of a larger puzzle.
'Either or,' Crag grunted impatiently. He wanted to be let in on it. He wanted a hand in my game. 'I have no names, nor colors. Just that they were looking.'
'Mmmh.'
'Couldn't pick 'em out from a crowd, my agents said. Top end. Veterans,' Guiltenstern lead on.
'Yes.'
'But you were expecting that.'
'Quite. Ocheliad. I would not have known them. We would not have seen them coming.'
Inquisitor Guiltenstern shifted his massive frame, folding arms until muscle strained the chest of his robes. ‘Alliance. Convince me, Bloodwing, that you are not starting a war.’
I inspected my wine, choosing my words. ‘I have submitted my reports, of the Graven.’
At the mention of the word, someTHING hissed in the back of my skull, and scurried up and down my arm. I am grateful, in these moments, for the impassive mask of my unfeeling face.
Crag shrugged powerfully. ‘Deigned inconclusive and circumstantial by the heads of our organization. Lio you have furnished no proof that such creatures ever existed. Your report, as you called it, read like the doomsday song of some idiot prophet. They question your stability enough as is, they did not need THIS nonsense to convince them further.’
'You do not believe me.'
He sighed. ‘What -I- believe is no more valuable to the Lord Inquisitor or his council than your lack of evidence. They will not commit our resources away from the REAL threat of the Iron Horde to do battle with your shadows.’
I had expected as much. And was disappointed that I could not blame them. If I had not witnessed the savagery of the Graven for myself, or seen the horrors of the future to come with my own eyes, I would have scoffed also.
But I had.
And it scared me. It scared me to wits end.
I closed my fist, and when it opened the image of a man blossomed from a weaving sphere of shadows. The man took shape and proportion, standing imperiously in my palm with a sneer of debonair raffishness cast over his shoulder.

'Imperon Showdah,' I explained to my colleague. 'Brilliant, proud. Lethal. It is he who commands the Ocheliad. Fiercely loyal to his people, brutal to his foes. It is rumored his arcane might is near-unrivaled amongst the Alliance. It is rumored still that he toys with the laws of reality as willfully and effortlessly as a king alters the laws of man.'
'He does not sound the sort of man you would wish as an enemy, Bloodwing.'
'No. He does not.'
Crag grit his tusked jowls and glanced out the window. He worked it out himself. And regarded me with a sudden scowl.
'You're mad.'
'Yes.'
'Do not tell me you are trying to-'
'Yes,' I repeated.
'But that would just-'
'Mm.'
'You're mad!'
'We've decided that, yes.'
Guiltenstern was not impressed. He flung his arms in the air. ‘You mean to tell me, your plan is to goad this… this reputed demi-god of a man into pursuing you, with the intention of directing him instead after these… Graven of yours, with the hopes that he will recognize THEM as the greater threat- and then what?!’
I drained the rest of my wine, peering down at the shadow-woven image of Imperon Showdah posing in my hand. ‘That is for him to decide, I’m afraid.’
'And what makes you so certain. That he will come for you.'
I regretted my answer before it spilled from my lips. ‘I’ve got one of his.’
Crag Guiltenstern, who prided himself upon the weight of his academic and intellectual achievements, let his jaw loosen and perform its best fish-out-of- water on the floor.
'That girl. Your ward. That little human girl is-'
'Yes.'
'….'
'I know. I'm mad.'
'YOURE BLOODY RIGHT YOU ARE.'
There was a long pause as silence filled the suddenly hushed hall, punctuated by a very awkward cough.
'The Inquisition will not support me, despite the urgency of this matter.' It sounded a more persuasive excuse in my head.
'So you resort to kidnapping!?'
I felt suddenly very cross then. ‘I have resorted to being a good host.’
'You are harboring a-'
I may have raised my voice. A clear, firm tone that usually sent the Guttersnipes scrambling. ‘I am harboring a gentle wisp of a girl, who can hardly remember her own friends.’
It is more complex than that, of course. The rumors surround us, as would any regarding a sweet girl and an older keeper, but pursuit of flesh is the game of a younger man. Azhiera has been with me for some months now, filling these cold halls with laughter, bracing herself day by day for the storms to come. She has survived some trauma I cannot yet understand, and has become a part of my daily life since. My duty to her is to offer her the opportunity to both remember, and reshape her destiny. To pursue her -own- goals. To pursue her -own- life. There is much she has reminded me of, that is good and precious in the world, and I will repay her that kindness with all I can give.
Do I love her? I would not know how. My capacity for love died with Amberley. I glimpse it in my peripheral, but when I turn my head, I’m in an empty room.
I should write her. She has taken to Draenor, as with Cachoregarde. I have yet too much work here on Azeroth. It is to -this- world that I owe my time.
'I cannot stand with you, Liore. Not now. Not in this.' Guiltenstern hid his regret well, beneath a muscle of bluster. Twice now, I was grateful I could not show the disappointment on my face. I dismissed the likeness of Master Showdah from my palm, and squeezed the orc's massive shoulder fondly, grateful for the small information he had shared. He was a good man. Orc. He was a good person. Dutiful. And clearly far wiser than myself, for disengaging.
But I’ve seen the end of the world, and there is no rock big enough for any of us to hide beneath.
We spoke on another matter, at length, then returned to the table for sweets. I found to my satisfaction that neither of Cutter’s attendees had disrobed. Completely.

Lack of a mandible has a few advantages. If one has an acute oral fixation, for example, having an unhindered tongue enables you to flick that mucus covered organ at anything that catches your fancy. It’s also useful for scaring Alliance children and gnomes of any age.

Absent said feature, the appropriately named Jaw, one of Bloodwing’s favored Guttersnipes, slouched over a barstool, licking his current fixation – a lollipop, while the Guttersnipe Brigade’s heavy metal band bickered around the table.

“That was the dumbest idea. Ever.” Fretless yanked a decayed tooth out of his own jaw, flinging it at Skullmulcher. It ricocheted off the lead singer’s shoulder and bounced on the table a few times coming to an abrupt halt against the salt shaker.

“T’weren’t my idea!” Not to be outdone in the game of dodge-tooth, Skullmulcher’s bony digits scooped it up along with the salt shaker and hurled them both at Edgar. Distraught beyond reason, the abomination didn’t even notice when they hit his abdomen, sinking in, folds of decomposing flesh consuming the enamel-covered dentin and seasoning.

“Gods damn it, Skully! That was my last good tooth.” His ulna protracted at an odd angle, Fretless stretched across the table, daring to reach into the odorous mass that was Edgar’s belly. Retrieving the tooth was a simple, yet messy affair. Globs of slime and worms fell to the floor as Fret pulled back, tooth, and a few maggots, in hand. Eyeing the bugs, he thanked the drummer. “Appreciate the snack, Ed. Thanks!”

For his part, Edgar seemed oblivious to the physical intrusion. “Wanted to send nice thing to Miss Azheira so she comes back again. She likes our music. Thought she’d like a CD.” A sick slap echoed through the kitchen as his backside sank against the cabinets behind him.

Sitting a bit further away so as to avoid tooth slinging, Capo smirked as he tuned his bass. “Don’t be a retard, Edgar. She’s only come back once and pretty much spent that entire week in the Dread Lord’s chambers. A gift from you isn’t going to turn her head unless she’s trying to get away from the stench.”

Edgar did an excellent impression of a pouting abomination.

Jaw, bored with the argument and having finished his lollipop loped off to find something else to fixate on. Thuds and thumps were soon heard in the pantry followed by clangs when he started poking around the liquor cabinet.

Skullmulcher laughed. “Ed, ya know we dun record our music. We play in da moment, cuz we live in da moment. Getting’ us all to a recordin’ studio twas a bad idea. Ya had ta be knowin’ we would fight wit’ da producer dude.”

Edgar’s jowls quivered, but his nod was acquiescent. He might have even sniffed. “Miss Azheira likes our music. I want her to come back and listen.”

Poking his head around the corner, Jaw’s tongue flickered around as if it were a tentacle testing and feeling the atmosphere for signs of harmony among the band. When it seemed an accord had been reached, he entered, carrying several bottles from among the Dread Lord’s stash. One of the disadvantages of lacking a mandible is the inability to speak. (Of course, in this case, some might consider that a benefit). Jaw made up for his deficiency with hand and tongue gestures.

Capo snagged a bottle of Bloodwing’s finest whiskey. “Don’t mind if I do. Thanks, Jaw.”

The tension broke and the band solidified their camaraderie with booze and inappropriate jokes - exactly the kind of thing Azheira would twist their ears for. The hard liquor was readily consumed, leaving only a bottle of fine wine on the table. They all stared at it, knowing it was way out of their league and Bloodwing was probably saving it for a special occasion, but almost being too drunk to care. After a minute, Jaw, his oral fixation flaring, shrugged and licked the stopper, causing Edgar to punch the back of his head.

“No. That one for Miss Azheira. I give her wine and flowers.”

Rolling his eyes, Capo played a chord or two from a new song he was working on. Jaw made what would have been a frown if he had the anatomy to complete the image. Instead, it ended up looking like his upper lip was trying to fly.

“I dunno. The Dread Lord’s cool wit’ us an all, but ‘e might not like you takin’ tha’ wine.” Skullmulcher whistled as he strode out the door. “Do wha’ ya like, Ed. But dun go blamin’ me when ‘e kicks ya from da band.”