World of Warcraft®

Malthaes missed the attack.

Dreejin had warned him that he needed to support the Modas in their endeavors. This much was true, and Malthaes had every intention of joining both Dreejin and Grymm in their assault on the Alliance territory. But an opportunity arose - one that would suit their purposes just fine.

He looked down at the cloth in his hands, turning it over. It was finely made, as Alliance wares go, and it carried a certain...nobility. Of course, it held no meaning to him. Nobility...honor...empty vassals, nothing more.

A muffled moan came from behind him. He turned, the candlelight dancing off of the stone walls of the dungeon. His guest struggled against her bindings, but he knew she would not escape. He enchanted them with fel runes, crafted with care so that even a single expression of the Light would cause her immeasurable harm. Malthaes sneered. The Light...

A fool's source of power, and a reckless weapon invoked by zealots and warmongers. Malthaes had no reservations about wielding any power that would suit his goals, but the utter hypocrisy of those wielding the Light provoked a revulsion in the elf that was beyond measure. They bemoaned the Shadow, distrusted the Fel, held the arcane in contempt. But the Light, their precious Light...was it not in pursuit of the Light's Vengeance that dealt Arthas straight into the welcoming arms of the Lich King? Did the Light not completely fool the Scarlet knaves into becoming a destructive, chaotic force? No other source of power came with such a price of arrogance and hypocrisy. The Fel was primal, dangerous, seductive, but it was honest - for all the power one attained with it, a price must be paid.

Not that he would have to pay it. He smirked, glancing down at his guest. Or perhaps she was a trophy. Not that it mattered - by the time he, or Dreejin, or Grymm were done with her, she'd be a shell of her former self. But that was the point, wasn't it?

He would have to answer to Dreejin, but his answer would be a good one. He traced his fingers on the cloth, feeling how soft it was on his skin. He smiled. He left the cloth on the desk, the girl's tabard illuminated by the desk candle.

It was a tabard of the Pia Presidium.

She stood, shaky and weak, but she stood. The weeks of the ceremonies had come to this hour. Inscriptions, fel materials, drawing of dark magics and ritual. Grymm watched as she took her first steps. Each one became stronger then the last. She stopped and stood with defiance. Sulir came up beside her and looked to Grymm.

" In hours she will regain her willful spirit. We shall start tomorrow to test her." Sulir said.

" Good. The bloom for the winter-crystal should be fully ready then. The rogue reports that the holy guard is focused elsewhere." Grymm said. He walked around the female, evaluating he figure. " Pain, you shall be called pain."

Sulir bowed before Grymm and lead Pain to a nearby chamber of the Ziggurat. Grymm turned and went to the chamber where the objects from the Scarlet Hold and the Eye of Azor sat. Scrolls laid out for reading, a librium of fel arcane, all being used for any information in this project Grymm had begun. Moving closer to the eye Grymm did not reach out to touch the artifact. It had a cloth covering it, to keep it blind. This chamber contained the elements this game would need.

Cyrus had made it clear, Grymm and the Black Hand where being watched. Grymm was known, though they did not know what exactly he was doing within the Ziggurat. Pain had been warlock summonsed so as not to alert the watchers. Tomorrow would be the bringing together the next phase. In days Vusin should see the affects on the Holy Guard. Soon they would come to know Pain.

"Tower of Azora," Norallian shouted over the hearthstone.

"Do you have someone with you?" Gentyl responded.

"No, Sepha, I'm by myself."

"Then hold until I get there. It could be Dreejin trying to bait someone out."

The stone grew quiet, but Gentyl heard the alarm bells in both Goldshire and Azora now. Splitting the forces was a tried and true tactic Modas and the Grims had used for years. She nudged the gryphon lower over Goldshire, but didn't see any horde. The gryphon squalled in the particularly unappealing way she had when she smelled horde, though. Someone was there and they weren't troll. Snow had a particular hatred for trolls and the sound was distinctly different.

"Dreejin!" Norallian shouted as she neared. Snow went into a deep dive at the troll that Gentyl couldn't pull up. She kicked off the gryphon and ducked to avoid the claws aimed straight at Dreejin. The troll hadn't lived this long by being slow, however, and he dodged both the gryphon and the paladins.

A gnome lay gutted near the entrance to the tower. Something had torn him to pieces. Blood, guts and bits of uniform were scattered everywhere...as was the gnome. Blood had a strangely metallic, almost mechanical, smell which contrasted wildly with the earth, flowers and nearby water. The perfume of death almost always had sharp urine undertones. Bladders almost always emptied when life was fleeing. The scents hung heavy in the air. There was most certainly more than one dead gnome around and they had to make sure the psychopathic troll and his partners did not add to the number.

Dreejin's demon snapped at her heals until she drove fear deep into his mind, causing him to flee long enough for her to get to Norallian. Another fighter she didn't recognize had arrived and Dree was fighting desperately against the three, but she didn't underestimate him. He had more trick than a huckster at the faire.

His necklace with all its grisly trophies jerked to the side as he dodged another blow. She was sure the shriveled ear on it was hers. Tery had hunted Dree for months to get back the earring attached to the ear. He had tossed the ear on the ground after he knocked Dreejin out, not thinking the troll would find it again, but he had and there it was with the rest of his trinkets. Gentyl grimaced and swung high, trying to take Dreejin's head, but he tossed a handful of something in her face and ducked away.

She growled in anger and her old arms master's words came back. "Anger is a poor judge in battle." Focus.

There he was. Dree was partnered with an orc death knight. They fought well, but fell back and then a voice whispered in her mind. "You're too late, paladin. We have the eye."

Gentyl watched them flee into the forest and disappear. "The tower," she shouted to Norallian.

Norallian stood in disbelief inside the tower. The guards, attendants and mages had been massacred. Not merely killed, but torn to shreds. Blood sprayed up the walls and dripped from the stairs. She looked up and blinked as a blood drop plopped onto her face. Her fingers came away brushed in scarlet.

They moved up the stairs slowly incase Dreejin had left a trap for them.

There was no trap. No life. No eye of Azora. Dreejin and his partner had what they came after. She examined the bodies to see if any hearts had been harvested. How many hearts did Dreejin need to complete what she assumed was some kind of blood sacrifice? Even one more put him one step closer to completion.

"We have to stop him," she said.

"Aye, Sepha. Put him down like a rabid dog."

The shadow above Brackenwall village finally descended. Hael had been circling the decently sized target for almost an hour. Haelifur bellowed overhead as he finally plunged downward upon Haelolin's command, swooping in on no particular target. Haelifur would decide which one looked the most appealing. With a vicious 'snap' the drake's teeth anchored into the flesh of what seemed to be the center of attention within the village. An orc sporting the brutish armor and markings of an overlord.

Hael pulled upwards on the reins of her drake, urging him back to the sky before a torrent of arrows and spears sailed through the evening fog of Dustwallow Marsh. "I don't think they want to buy me a round!" Hael shouted to her drake as the orc dangled and cursed her with gutteral growling between Haelifur's blood-caked maw.

The beating of wings faded from the village as Haelifur flocked towards the rain-thirsty barrens. "We're just getting started!" She promised the still struggling orc as she heeled her drake against his scaly, yet sensitive sides. Haelifur's mouth swung agape, dropping the orc into one of the shallow, murky pools below.

Pulling sharply to the left, she circled her drake back in the direction of the village, ready to make another attempt at her amusing harassment of the area. "I always hate letting go.." She uttered her insincere words in reference to the demise of the orc below, uncaring if it lived or died through the fall. She was ready for a second attempt. Though she was bent on sending a message from the captain, this sort of sadistic fun was right up her alley, and she enjoyed every moment of it.

Cyrus stepped from the shades of nearby trees where Haelifur had dropped his still-live toy. The Draenei was covered from neck to hoof with a black cloak that easily concealed any Ocheliad markings. Anyone who didn't already know who he was wouldn't know where he was from or who's commands he was following. With a sly smirk, he pulled a glove over his left hand.

"You know, I always hated the really indirect approaches to conflict. It's like so much effort goes into setting up an enemy for failure, but it lacks... satisfaction? No... that's not it..." Cyrus mused aloud with the orc staring at him helplessly. Haelifur's teeth had likely done a lot more damage than was visible on the surface, but Cyrus couldn't help but notice this orc would do nicely.

A fully-uniformed orc officer. It's left side hadn't been damaged, and it tried to reach up to grab ahold of something as Cyrus knelt over it. The orc spoke in its typical grunted language as it reached up for Cyrus, "Ak'mograh Krr'magnosho..." As if he was far too weak to be a threat. Cyrus reached back for this one, slugging the helpless victim across the jaw with a plated gauntlet and separating its jaw with a wet 'pop'.

"Can't have you getting up...."

The orc was still awake, but its eyes were lazy. Blood loss and that much pain was likely going to make him pass out soon.

"Or falling asleep. Wake up," Cyrus growled, patting the orc's dislocated jaw and sending it into a whole new realm of hurt. Its wide eyes revealed how much pain the drake's teeth had caused. The jaw probably didn't help.

The large Draenei placed his other hand, the gloved one, against an ink pad he'd brought with him. After a moment, it was pressed against the side of the orc's face. Hard. The ink from the glove transferred to the orc's skin, but Cyrus was pushing out enough pressure with that arm that the orc's skull depressed until he was sure it was dead.

Cyrus removed his hand, the dead orc's head bearing an inked black hand symbol. With a sly grin, Cyrus turned the glove inside out, tucking it away. "Sometimes indirect conflict is needed to cause doubt..." Cyrus said so only his dead acquaintance could hear him.

As Cyrus turned to leave, he thought to himself, "The Black Hand and Modas are alike in that you can't fight them with brute force alone. Overpowering them just makes them come back with more followers. You need to hurt them from all sides, starting with the Horde. If they come to believe the Black Hand will be a threat to them, things will really start to get interesting..."



((This was more or less a way to maybe get people involved Horde-side that aren't actually *in* the Black Hand that wanna be part of the story. I do believe this is open to anyone who wishes to participate. Have fun!))

Written in neat, slightly slanted lettering on fine parchment, and sent to various guild leaders and government officials of the Horde.

Good day,


It has come to the attention of the Modas il Toralar that the corpses of Horde soldiers marked with the symbolic 'black hand' of the Black Hand Society are being discovered across Horde occupied territories. These heinous acts have been perpetrated without the sanction of the Modas il Toralar. It is certainly true that, in the past, there have existed miscommunications between the Horde and the Modas il Toralar, miscommunications in which members of the Horde have, unfortunately, expired. But that was then, and this is now. Under the management of our Order's new leader, the troll Dree'jin, we wish to emphasise that the Modas il Toralar and the Black Hand Society have nothing but the Horde's best interests at heart - namely the complete and utter annihilation of the Alliance.


Given the grotesque and highly public nature of the killings, it is the Modas il Toralar's opinion that our enemies are carrying out these killings in an attempt to ostracise the Black Hand from the Horde. Such methods of fear mongering suggest that the Alliance grows desperate. It is the Modas il Toralar's belief that the courage, honour, unity and strength of the Horde will make it immune to such devious tactics. However, be assured that the Black Hand Society will pursue this matter, and an investigation shall be launched with haste.


Finally, we would like to express our concern and sympathies for the deceased and their families at this horrendous time. We would also like to encourage all Horde guilds to aid our Horde soldiers at every opportunity, as it is these honourable men and women who are vital in securing our lands and offering safety and comfort to the Horde's citizens. The Modas il Toralar will certainly be doing its part in these troublesome times.


Wishing you the very best in all of your endeavours,
Signed,
Fernand Argustus
Department of Horde Relations
Modas il Toralar

A cloaked man bearing the blue eye of the Ocheliad stepped into the common room of the Tower, catching sight of Cyrus reading through what appeared to be an old tome. Seeing the human enter, Cyrus closed it, setting it on a nearby table.

"I take it the disclaimer went out?" Cyrus asked in his typical low tone. The cloaked man only nodded in response, to which Cyrus grinned. "Then proceed." The agent of the Ocheliad turned on his heel, an envelope in his hand. This envelope carried a letter that when read by its intended Horde officials, disclosed a chilling warning....

Leaders of the Horde,

The attack on Horde officers and standing forces in Kalimdor was indeed not the work of the Black Hand Society. However, they are equally to share in the blame.

The Black Hand Society, along with Modas il Toralar have committed several acts of aggression against Hearthglen, Pia Presidium and other standing Alliance forces, while bravely concealing themselves and allowing the Horde to suffer the retaliations that follow. I myself do not see a need to punish an enemy who remains on his own land, however the Modas il Toralar have left me no choice.

If these acts of aggression continue toward any Alliance forces from either the Modas il Toralar or the Black Hand Society, these attacks will be only the beginning.

Fire will remain where Horde settlements once stood, a testament to the punishment of such foolishness. You will be reminded why you lock your doors at night, why you have reinforced your city and why it is that you... at one time... did not trust the Modas il Toralar. Modas and the Black Hand very well may not be behind these attacks, but they have seemingly no problem with allowing you to suffer in their stead.

Turn over the orc known as Grymmbror, as well as the troll known as Dreejin, and a terrible devastation to your lands will be prevented. If you fail to do so, the consequences will reflect the severity of your mistake.

Signed,
Cyrus Sagewind
Captain of the Black Guard
Lluchduu Ocheliad

(( seems I have become a wanted Orc. ))

Seated behind a large desk deep within the Modas il Toralar's Inner Sanctum, Fernand read through the various missives that arrived on a daily basis. One of these forced the undead man to purse his dry lips together, which was essentially one of the few ways in which he expressed any form of lingering human emotion. Fernand neatly folded the letter, and placed it in the corner of his desk; he adjusted the paper so that it formed a perfect right angle with the piece of furniture. 'Well, I suppose that I had best inform the Claviger that an investigation will no longer be necessary.' He murmured to himself. The Forsaken stood stiffly, readjusted his black silk tie, and left the office, which was more of a tomb, than anything else. 'That is an investigation into these attacks. An investigation into Mr Sagewind, however, may be more appropriate.'

He stood, motionless, watching the ripples the wind was making on the pond of his parents ruined property. His outward calm had nothing to do with the reality of his boiling rage inside him. Without warning, the water started rapidly freezing in a cone away from him. Snapped out of his thoughts by his lack of control, the display only served to fuel the anger.

"That worthless woman." Pacing on the shore. "Less than a peasant." Turns around to continue. "And that child! Should have snatched her eyes right at that moment! BAFFOONS! They have no idea!"

With that he stopped abruptly and just stared, deep in thought. Hmmm. Perhaps they are so used to dealing with amateurs that they are unaware of exactly what a professional is capable of. She was worried so terribly about her little, missing kitten that perhaps, I should give her something she can see slowly taken from her. What was the one wenches name that dared attack me on the isle? Mirna...no that wasn't it. Magra! No. Blast! Ahhhhh, Mira. Yes, Mira. So pretty. I'm sure I have something left that would be special, just for her. Ahhh, my dear, Gentyl. I hope you don't feel too badly about the pain your stammering and mismanagement is going to cause your friend. She will scream for me. She will scream and beg me for death.

A small smile started to appear that didn't ever touch the mage's eyes. Yes, pain by the bushels full for all of them. Feeling better, he started to walk back to the ruined farm he still called home after all these many years. Stopping abruptly, his eyes opening wide, he said aloud, "I almost forgot."

"And a foul mouthed, wretched child's eyes. Oh, Fox, to think I had almost forgotten your rudeness." A chuckle slips out. "Almost."

Entering his home and setting the wards against intruders, he headed to the lower levels. Picking up different vials of different colors. Setting them back down and looking at others. Finally, carrying back to the table one of green, one of a bluish tint, and one as dark as ink. "I am sorry for what is about to happen, Mira. You don't truly deserve this. Death, perhaps. Maiming at the least, but this? No. Gentyl needs an example. You just happened to have caught my eye."

Staring at the vials for long moments, finally, the mage shakes his head, as if to start a deed he has great distaste for, he begins his work.

"What happened to your loyalty to the Horde?" Grymmbror asked in the emptiness of the Ratchet tavern.

Cyrus' eyes opened slightly from his relaxed position in his chair, revealing those faintly glowing blue eyes. The large Draenei looked rather grim, but didn't humor the question with an answer initially.

Grymmbror had been given an anonymous tip that a Preisidum squire would be here on some sort of drinking binge, but the moment the undead orc had spotted Cyrus, he'd pieced together what was going on and exactly what he'd walked into. Cyrus could fault him for a lot of things, but losing his cool wasn't one of them. Again Grymm persisted with a question, "You once followed the eight-pointed star as all Modas do. Is the great Cyrus Sagewind too much of a mercenary to follow just one symbol? What happened?"

This revalation of his past allegiances made Cyrus grimace quietly. "Stars are overused as symbols."

And with that, the trap was sprung. A large feline that had been concealing herself in the rafters leapt down from her perch, morphing into the shape of a large bear moments before making contact with the orc's backside. Grymmbror stumbled forward, not knowing exactly from what direction Cyrus' reinforcements would attack. This movement had put Grymm at a disadvantage and separated him from his one route of escape, should he have needed it.

The druidess, Ciellia, leapt back, springing off the pillar behind her as she shifted into her feline form and raked a claw across Grymm's jaw. The orc was having trouble getting his bearings on the druid who was shapeshifting so rapidly while also trying to keep track of Cyrus, who was directly behind him.

Immediately after Ciellia's attack, Grymmbror had her exposed and in the open. With one hand, he sharply lifted his weapon above his head, fully intent on cleaving the druid in two.

Icy chains quickly wrapped around the offending orc's wrist, hauling him off his feet and onto his back. In the blink of an eye, he was staring straight up a sword into Cyrus' eyes.

"If you want to serve any purpose to Modas, you have to be alive. If I were you, I'd agree to be a prisoner, unless you prefer I use your remains as some overly dramatic way to send a message. Either is really fine with me."

Grymmbror merely glared at Cyrus for a moment, considering his options. He had the pride of any true orc, but he was no fool. He had to bank on getting a chance to escape, because fighting Cyrus alone would be tough. Fighting him with a skilled druidess would be impossible. The orc released his weapon, letting the hilt clank to the floor.

A sly grin came to Cyrus' face. They had their prisoner.

((This was a fun little scene to write. Thanks to Grymm for letting it happen!))

The mage puttered around his shop, business had been slow of late and he was spending his time on side projects he had left undone when business had been better. Then a female gnome came walking in with a box tucked under her arm. Gnomes are great clients, always cheerful, willing to pay extra. Gnomes also asked for the most insane of requests. Well things had been slow. The mage sat at his counter prepared to hear out what this gnome was bringing to him.

" Helloooo Mr Mage" She said as she reached the counter.

" Greetings Miss Gnome. How may I be of service to you on this fine day?" The Mage said.

" I have these to be magiced" She said and she set the box on the counter. A strange squishy sound came from the box as she placed it down.

The mage opened the box and found out why it squished, the box was full of eyes, murlock eyes from the looks of it. Maybe two dozen. The mage attempted to keep his face from skewing into a complete look of disgust, but for a brief few seconds it reacted to the box full of eyes. The female gnome beamed at the box opening, as if she had set before him a box of prized jewels.

" Uhm … what kind of magic did you … er … have in .. . mind?" The mage said. His voice wavered. This was the most unusual of circumstance. There was a factor of curiosity, and the mage turned his attention from the disgusting eyes to the beaming female gnome.

" I have used Logicals to help with a very tricky situation. I think some mage, who I think is named Tryixx the terrible, or Tynrexx … but definitely terrible in there, who might be looking to take my eyes." She took a breadth. " So logicals came to me. If I send a box of shiny colorful eyes he wont want mine. However, I don't want him to use all of these shiny eyes to create a eye monster, the most dreadful creature to haunt anyone, so I need them magiced. First to keep all the pretty colors shiny for ever, and then to prevent them from being used to make a dreaded eye monster that could come back and haunt me dreadfully." She took another breadth and seemed to be finished.

With great effort the mage kept a straight face. Years had been spent developed to keep ones face from showing the outlandish but profoundly laughable requests such as the one now before him. He took a moment to make sure his voice would not hint at how much he wanted to outright laugh.

" I can do all that you require Miss Gnome. Give me two days to do this task. What name shall I place upon the bill?" He said, his voice calm and business like.

" Foxria. I knew you could help me. I shall return to pick them up two days hence." She said. Then she walked out of the shop with a spring in her step. No doubt proud of her logicals and the clever way she had overcome her problem.

Malthaes arrived late to the questioning. It was a nuisance, playing the political game, but he needed to, regardless. He offered an apologetic nod, sat down in the empty chair, and then turned his attention to Magistrate Androthan and his officers.

“Busy, Master Shadowbough?” Androthan asked, his eyebrow raised.

“My sincerest apologies,” Malthaes said, though they were anything but. “The market place was incredibly congested”

A lie, but a necessary one. That he spent his days and nights repeatedly draining an Alliance paladin, of the Pia Presidium no less, was information he was not prepared to share.

“Understood,” Androthan said in exaggerated sympathy. “As you know, tensions between the Horde and Alliance have reached a fevered pitch. This is natural, given the state of open warfare. However, the tone of violence has not been isolated to the warfronts. There have been accusations of violence against civilian encampments. A few officers of Horde have also been killed.”

“Unfortunate,” Malthaes offered.

“Quite,” Androthan said dryly. “Whispers of this Modas il Toralar have reached the leaders of the Horde. There is some debate that the Alliance strikes against our officers are retaliation for this organization’s actions. And it has come to my attention that you are part of this organization.”

“I am,” Malthaes said. He became aware of how many eyes were on him.

“So, we hope that this questioning can dispel some of the rumors about your organization and keep you free from any political damage.”

“Understood,” Malthaes said, offering a smile.

“Then you may begin.” Androthan said.

“I’m afraid you haven’t asked any questions,” Malthaes said.

“Perhaps I have not made myself clear,” Androthan said. “I wish to know all about the Modas.”

“The Modas is committed to the support of the Horde and its initiatives, and the annihilation of the Alliance as the Horde’s greatest threat.”

“Go on,” Androthan responded.

“That’s it,” Malthaes said. “That’s the sole reason for the group’s existence.”

“And its methods?” Androthan hissed.

“Effective against the Horde’s enemies, I assure you,” Malthaes said, widening his smile.

“So you have not attacked the Pia Presidium or their affiliates in Hearthglen?”

“I have never stepped foot in Hearthglen,” Malthaes responded.

“You have not answered the question.”

“I could not have attacked anyone in Hearthglen if I have never been in Hearthglen,” Malthaes offered.

“But has the Modas?”

“I could not say,” Malthaes said. “I am but a mere initiate. They do not share with me their intelligence. Though I can say that there have been a number of aggressive moves that have been falsely attributed to the Modas in an effort to divide the Horde and weaken its resolve. Perhaps these rumors are part of that effort.”

Androthan breathed through his nose, his impatience more than obvious.

“You must understand, Master Shadowbough, that your involvement in the Modas has put us in a difficult position. Silvermoon cannot assure you protection if you are part of wild and unsanctioned attacks against the Alliance.”

“And I have stated that I did not step foot in Alliance territory and attack any officers or citizens therein,” Malthaes responded. “Though I wonder what causes such discretion in regards to the Alliance’s safety.”

“I am more concerned with the sovereignty of Silvermoon. I will not have the Horde come down on Silvermoon because a Blood Elf with a penchant for chaos joined with the likes of a troll to aggravate the Alliance into retaliatory strikes. We have a position to maintain.”

Malthaes did not let his smile falter.

“What a fascinating position to take.”

“And what about it is so fascinating?”

“Silvermoon lost all sovereignty when it allied with the Horde,” Malthaes said. “We may govern ourselves, but the Warchief is the end all, be all. It is our duty to support the Horde. And its main endeavor is to destroy the Alliance. We are bound to throw our full support into that effort.”

“As it has been stated many times, Silvermoon is in no position to rally the kind of military support that Garrosh –”

“Warchief Hellscream,” Malthaes said, standing. Androthan made to speak again, but Malthaes merely held up his hand. “It is no wonder our allies do not trust us. Listen to you, so quick to take that sniveling, weak attitude in order to extricate yourself from committing to the Horde. How long will you stand straddling the neutral ground like cowards? Until you decide which side would win?”

“This is not an open forum.”

“And it is also not an interrogation,” Malthaes said, standing. His action immediately shocked those around him, as if he had the audacity to stand in the presence of the magistrate without permission. “That you would allow the actions of Alliance to divide us as such merely shows once again your penchant for weakness.”

“Let me be clear to all of you at this table. The days of Silvermoon’s excuses are coming to an end. Our allies grow impatient with the constant explanations of how we are unable to commit standing forces and strength to the military cause. We have shirked our responsibilities towards the Horde all the while grabbing as much of their resources and protection as we can get our grubby little hands. I will not be accosted by some fake tribunal because I stand with an organization that supports the Warchief and his endeavors.”

Malthaes straightened to full height. His expression crackled with energy.

“Accepting the Sunwell’s restoration at the hands of a traitorous Alliance leader was folly. Refusing to send more than token support to assist in the war efforts in Northrend has not gone unnoticed. But do not worry - both will be rectified. In the meantime, if you have any legitimate charges to be levied against me, send them to the Warchief.”

Without another word, Malthaes swept from the room. So much for the political game. But now was not the time to reflect on how he had offended a group of impotent bureaucrats. He had an Alliance paladin to torture.

Gruzzexl paced the cavernous hall he made his home.

Another plot.... foiled! The Presidium were mighty, it seemed. And loyal to a fault -- to their allies as well as to each other. No wonder they needed to be destroyed or corrupted. Or wounded so that, like a rabid animal, they would strike whatever came closest to them without cause.

But more and more, pieces moved against them, even if they had triumphed against the foolish Maghar, Agar, dabbling with forces he could not comprehend.

The trouble was that all of these pieces were amongst the Horde. As the goblin's body belonged to the Bilgewater Cartel, it was all he truly all he had access to. Politics were a curse.

He'd need to find someone to do business with in the Alliance as well.

An idea struck him. Those AAMS couriers. He'd need to find one.

One who was very brave.

Her last encounter with Tyrexus had left her in contemplation of what appeared to be one of the bigger endeavours the AAMS will have to face this year. Or perhaps was it to become her own, after all. The tip of a quill resting between her lips and a few paper sheets laying about on her sturdy wooden desk, her gaze fled through the window of her now-minuscule office; her thoughts were focusing on facts and assumptions-- perhaps "hunches" would be more accurate to describe the ideas that struck her when she dealt with Tyrexus on Gentyl's behalf.

"Seriously... what was he thinking? This definitely sounds like everything was planted there for him... or for anyone to think in a certain direction. And even if he was right, that indeed the Pia had done it, it would still be a misunderstanding as it would be a rogue amongst their ranks; Gentyl wouldn't lie to me. Or to anyone, really."

She walked to close the distance between the window and herself, her gazing still directed to the evening sky; the sun was shining its last hour of red light on the landscape, as if an ill omen.

"... How short-sighted. I had pegged the Modasi's to think things through before making a move. Obviously... someone thought -his- first. -- I wonder just how much this ring of his represents... to jump blindly into the Modas' arms... what was he offered? What is he really after...?"

She paced back to her desk, grabbing her quill from its rest. Against all of what had been happening around her, she was in an unusual state of calm; not quite what one would expect from someone dealing with situations where someone's life is in the balance, even less when bloodbaths could occur at the fall of a hat. However, it was the kind of attitude required to deal with these situations, and there she was.

She penned.

"Dreejin

We've had very few occasions to speak together in the past, I do hope your warfleet fares well. It recently came to my attention that the Modas' activities have been perking up, unfortunately not to everyone's liking. This letter here is merely a reminder that our business relations will remain, as agreed in the past with Lord Aziel. Would you require the services of a translator or a courier, be ensured that you have priority in our trades.

Sincerely,

Sulailee Akiae Dawnveil,
AAMS"

Short, impersonal, casual business letter. This was a first move for the AAMS as a whole...

"And now... my first move. Where should I throw my first pebble...?"

The short flight from his properties to the Isle of Tol Barad, gave him just enough time to run the victorious scenario through his mind. He could count on the Pia Presidium being there, they were always trying to push forward in order to secure the bountiful resources that the Isle provided. Tyrexus believed the Horde were there solely for the purpose of being able to fight the Ally.

The crosswinds from the isle were notorious for hampering flight, so instead of fighting it, Tyrexus just landed at the beach closest to the Iron Clad Garrison and started walking inland. It wasn't far and perhaps his approach wouldn't be noticed. He met very little resistance along the way. Humans didn't want to meet that piercing, blue stare of death, and Horde members sensed he was not to be approached for aid.

As he came around the corner of the Garrison, there was quite a scramble going on. Perhaps twenty or so combatants were there. He was trying to make out faces and tabbards when a rogue appeared out of nowhere from behind and tried to stab him in what would have been his kidneys.

Tyrexus narrowed his eyes and turned around. The rogue was in shock that his move didn't affect the undead. Tyrexus raised his palm and blasted the rogue with a cold so intense that the little gnome just shattered into pieces. Tyrexus nodded and turned back around. He happened to finally catch sight of his prey. She had her back against the wall with four guild members in front of her in a circle of protection. Tyrexus was impressed, they were badly outnumbered but still held their own and then some.

Fingering the little ball of absurdly thin glass in his pocket, he dropped a Ring of Frost on the ground. It was so unexpected that it caught the entire guild in it's effect except for Mira. Horde members turned to look at Tyrexus and with a gesture from the mage, turned and went searching for other prey. Mira tried to cast, something, at him, but he silenced her with a small wave, causing her to choke.

"Forgive me for this, it is typically not my way. You may thank her for these actions tomorrow." He motioned his head at Gently, who was still frozen. He took the ball out of his pocket and raised his hand to smash the container onto her face. Just as he started to bring his arm forward, he took a heavy arrow in the back, fouling his aim. The ball crushed at the top of Mira's thighs instead of her head.

Roaring in anger, Tyrexus turned and let loose a volley of deadly Ice Lances, Frostfire bolts, and a blizzard. There was no one there. Narrowing his eyes, he turned around and found that his prey was being rapidly carried off by her guild mates.

"Well, perhaps it was enough. Now, to see about a set of eyes from a rude, little fox." He started to stroll back to his drake and when he rounded a bend, he saw a hunter squatting in the bushes looking the other direction. He also noticed she used black, heavy arrows, the type of which was still sticking out of the back of his shoulder. "Hmmm, today might turn out for the better, after all."

*Written in thick pink crayon, scrawled to the point of being barely legible*


Sul-ee-lee,

Ya offer be awful kind. Is good ta know we kin count on bus'ness wit' some Horde groups. A'course we be expectin' ya AAMS lot ta do good work, an' pay wha' we owe. I try ta do ma best ta keep Alliance AAMS outta any cross-fire...but mistakes 'appen, doncha know it.

Yer pal,
Dree

(( Hahahahah!!! In thick pink crayon... "Su-lee-lee" Love ya Dree, you made my day! =D ))