World of Warcraft®

Behold the Morning Sun,
Through all the nations run
His endless golden rays.
Lo! How it shapes our days,
Held within the gold wrought
Embrace; and yet hard fought
Night looms, bitter for blood
filled trenches of cold mud.
Lo! No black water spilt
Here, rich kingdom of gilt.
Turned away, we stand tall,
Ne'er shall our city fall.

Anonymous, A celebration upon reconstruction

The Royal Library presents an evening of art and literature on the theme of Giving Form to Light. Join us for a discussion on the classic poem 'A celebration upon reconstruction' and the artifact that gives us our only clue regarding its authorship. There will be a special performance by a surprise guest.

Behold the Morning Sun: Giving Form to Light
5pm, Sunday, August 18th
The Shepherd's Gate, Silvermoon

Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is business casual. For more information, please contact Archivist Benoite Dawnsong.

"Business... casual?"

Jaques-Markhal Cutter, slanted as he was against the Inquisitor's file cabinets, flicked the little invitation with a sneer.

"I'd pay to see that. You, in a tie and jacket."

Liore glanced up from his desk. It was littered with blank pages that he should have filled days ago. The circles of night beneath his eyes were beginning to deepen.

"Uhm."

The inquisitor came armed with a whole arsenal of such potent verbal retorts.

Cutter inspected the invitation closer. The perfect cut of the cursive, the glimmer of the gold-leaf parchment. The cerulean flecked wax of the seal. Not for him, the cultivated beauty of the Archivist's salons.

"Nor for you, I thought."

"Uhm?"

"When we signed on, all we heard of was the hubris and emptiness of your old society. Hell. Its taken three years to get you in a damn suit. So suddenly you're in again? So suddenly you're attending these, these poetry readings and flapjack conventions?"

Silence.

"The hell are you playing at, Lio. You don't really think you can just slip on a tie and -bam- you BELONG again."

"That would be mad," Liore agreed.

Jaques-Markhal let the implication hang in the air, like the smoke of their cigarettes. He'd expected a lecture, or at least a decent skinning. Something was up. Something was eroding the boss' nerves. And he was going to find out what.

"Well. I hope you get something good out of it. Just- don't wear a dress this time, hey?"

"No," Bloodwing stated, his hand drifting to his vest's pocket. "I've got a new hat, just for the occasion."

Eying the paper with a stone-like expression, The death knight sighed with indecision. Naturally, he had received an invite, despite the fact it was technically his job to provide a degree of safety to these events.

The base of operations for his Security company had been quiet as of late, his employees off gaining strength in their own regard, or fighting over the rare odd job that would float through the office. On this particular occasion, though, his newest recruit, an undead hunter by the name of Aelerath was nearby.

Hearing a knock on the door, Fastice lifted his gaze to see Aelerath at the doorway. "You goin' boss man?" The death knight nodded. "Of course I am, brother, it's bound by contract. Though my outburst last week was...less than cordial, it would be improper of me not to protect Lady Dawnsong and the patrons of the event from any...prying eyes."

The hunter took a few steps in to his office, his glowing green tiger following close behind. "I can go, iff'n ya like. They never seen me before, so they won't be thinkin' of any sorta outburst. It's more 'r less a sermon with some fancy talk, right?"

He laughed. He couldn't help it, times had been dark lately, and this new recruit certainly seemed to brighten a dull room. Or, should he say, make it less dull. "It's not just that, of course, Aelerath. And while I appreciate the offer, I must decline. Not attending would be worse than going, of course. To be viewed as a coward bodes ill for any kind of leader. Even one that some people like to view as a mercenary."

The forsaken nodded. "Jus' thought I'd ask, boss. By the way, got any work my way?" The death knight nods solemnly, sliding a piece of paper across his desk. "It's not much. Murlocs are encroaching from their island in Silverpine forest towards the Undercity. More than enough for the Kor'Kron to handle in the city itself, but they are of course ignoring a few outlying alchemist labs. Twenty gold from a local alchemist to rid him of his infestation. Sorry I haven't got more for you, brother."

With that, the hunter took the piece of paper, gave a bow and whispered a solemn "Good luck." To the death knight before taking his leave. Ice pored over the paper for a bit longer before sliding it in to the drawer he had kept the past invitations. "Best if I go, then."

She marks off her days with a cross, the silver nib of her pen drifting over her upcoming appointments. A dab here. An underline there. The circling of a name she needs to remember. Then, the Archivist’s arrow lingers on the coming Sunday.

How time creeps--like tendrils of wisteria over a bankrupt estate. Already so far into the month of stern emperor kings.

She carries on, dabbling in the affairs of armored men, bloodying lace-trimmed handkerchief after handkerchief. She carries on, standing between blades and spilling her apologies, ticking her dance card with yes, no, maybe, and--always.

And yet, as that date nears, the small voice that is at the core of every earthly being grows more and more pressing. What does this amount to--it asks of her--what will anything you do lead you to, anyway, aside from where she lies?

Cold and alone. Dust to dust.

This Sunday is the anniversary of her mother’s death.

Birdboned Benoite will fly south. The ocean will do her weeping for her as she sends flower petals adrift into its endless salt waters--I forgive you, I forgive you not, I forgive you.

On that day, and perhaps each day, the girl who grew up much too fast has to forgive her beautiful mother, her once hallowed then hollowed shell mother, for leaving her like this. For never coming back.

It will have to do, the sunlit seaside and the flowers. She will not go to that unmarked grave guarded still by sentries.

She will not tell a soul.

“I’m afraid,” Benoite Dawnsong says with her prettiest of smiles, “I’ll be traveling this Sunday.” She carries on, you see.

Dear Miss Fizzlesprocket,

I can’t thank you enough for taking over the event on the 25th. You had such success with a fundraiser last time; I’m sure this one will be even better. I leave our guests in your capable hands.

Fondly,
Benoite

Gezelda sat in her kitchen, letting the day's soup boil. She sighed and looked around, finally noticed the scroll sitting on one of the many cluttered tables. It had Ms Dawnsongs seal on it, which meant it was probably important, or she found out about the fondue incident. With a cringe Gezelda opened the scroll and read it over. She frowned and sighed "I guess it's time for me to take the bull by the horse and drive this horse, right into the sun!" She said, confident that that was the correct old saying.

She sat back and huffed, trying to think of a good theme or idea for the funraiser. "It's gotta be FUN! I mean, it's right there in the name! Hmmmm....Thinking." She mused aloud. As she thought her gaze drifted over to an old calendar hanging on the wall, it must have been put up there by on of the Snippiessnipes. It features a picture of Northrends frozen wasteland and what appeared to be a huge, bloody battle being fought. A gangly Forsaken was waving at the camera with a caption written over that read: Wish you were here. Suddenly a thought popped into her mind. Gezelda grabbed her recipe book and began to flip through it Smiling and giggling as she did so "Perfect! Oh I am a genius! I need to get ta work right away! This FUNraiser's gonna be the best!"

[ So sorry for vanishing last night! Silly power outage. ]

To Miss Benoite Dawnsong,
Archivist, Royal Library,
Silvermoon

From Arjah,
Port of Ratchet,
Durotar

Miss Dawnsong,

I hope you will not be too offended by my reluctance last night, when you raised your unexpected offer.

It flatters me immensely, and in truth there is little I should like better than to make myself a home among other students of the written word. I think you give my work too much of praise, and worry that I would not produce the quality of new pieces that your Writer in Residence should, but it is not the challenge that alarms me.

Rather, and bluntly, I do not wish to hinder what appears to be the successful development of an organization that the Horde badly needs. I have been something of a scandal in my time, and a headache to those that commanded me; the Homeland itself was largely begun because my co-founders and I realized that we had all been fired from every organization we ever served in!

I do not want to disturb the balance of your nascent academe. And for the short term, duty takes me away from the Horde altogether -- I must see my children safely settled with relatives in the Stranglethorn jungle before I return to join the Darkspear campaign in earnest.

But if, when I return, you have still not found a suitable Writer in Residence, and if you think the Library could stand to weather a bit of gossip about a trollish poet who is no better than she ought to be...then I will let your kindness and your persuasion overrule my good judgement, and do my best to help spread the Library's influence.

Let us both think on it, a bit, as I cross the seas to my ancestral homeland, and speak again when I return. If you think better of your offer by the time I return, I shall not be offended!

Yours in Friendship,

Arjah

Gezelda strolled through the streets of Silvermoon city, an armful of papers in one hand and some glue in the other. She went about plastering notices on any surface she could find. The papers appears to be crudely made posters, written in rough graphite with cartoonish, barely decipherable pictures. They read:

Hideeho peoples! The Royalest library presents a FUNraiser! That's right! It's like a party to raise fun and maybe some gold for the library! This time it's going to feature frosty treats in celebration of the deLich...ifieing...ostomy of the Lich King! There's going to be a selection of frozen delicacies and of course, booze. Can't wait to see you there and make a WHOLE bunch of new friends.

Frosty treat in celebration of that lichdude.
5pm, Sunday, August 25th
Rogue's Quarter, Undercity

Admission is free (But hey, give us a little love!) and dress is casual (Sexy is preferred!)

He leaned upon his cane and scratched thoughtfully at his scruff. Jacques-Markhal had kept walking and chatting, but turned to stand beside the Inquisitor and join in his efforts to decipher the meaning of the colorful poster glued at an unprofessional angle against a mailbox.

"Huh."

"Uhm?"

"They're bringing sexy back."

"Are they."

Cutter nodded. "Hey- Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"Nnh."

Liore stalked off, announced by the step step click of his high-knee boots and his onyx walking cane. He squinted at the boulevard signs as they drifted cloud-speed overhead.

"So lace or velvet?"

"You are insufferable."

"I figure you for velvet. Dark. Something that settles on the curves, rounds them."

The Inquisitor swatted with is cane, but Cutter raised his hands and slithered nimbly out of the way. A warning leer discouraged him from further comment, as the two marched into a seamstress' boutique.

The Royal Library presents an evening on the myths of the Old Gods. A first edition of Everian Skycaller's Yogg'Saron will be on display. Renowned mineralogist Dr. Belil Haleshorn will be demonstrating the unique properties of saronite.

Metal, Blood, and Man: Myths of the Old Gods
5pm, Sunday, September 1st
Farstriders Square, Silvermoon

Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is casual. For more information, please contact Archivist Benoite Dawnsong.

Morgana rolled her shoulders as she sat at her desk, reading the official notice on the next Salon. She frowned, not sure of how she felt about such a subject. She didn't like the idea of the old gods. Massive machines of corruption and madness. She leaned back in her chair looking up at the ceiling, after a few seconds she grunted and shrugged. Who was she to second guess the archivist?

Kezrin glanced through the notices shoved into her hands as she returned to the offices, stifling a small yawn. Bills, bills, a report on an express delivery, and - oh. One of Dawnsong's invites to the Library Salons.

Old Gods? The demonstration sounded as wise as asking for a goblin to demonstrate his latest "safe" invention. Only instead of fun explosions, they were risking mind-melting madness. No, thank you.

She set the invite aside, looking at the next special delivery notice sent up to management, a transfer request from the Alliance Branch. One order of eighty- oh dear.

Kezrin re-read the request. And again. Then a third time for good measure.

She eyed the salon invite and repeated a mantra that had long become familiar.

"Why did I join the AAMS again?"

Looking at the notice, Jana Shadowstar blinked and read it again. Saronite? Old Gods? Were they mad as Hatters over at the Royal Library?

Still, it piqued her interest. She had never been to one of these salons. It did sound rather interesting. Casual she had as well as armor that protected one. Tapping her chin she contemplated attending this thing. Maybe she would find some new friends?

He sat at his desk going through his mail, taking a short respite from his research. This one, another salon invitation, he held it but gazed through it.

He'd seen many interesting salon topics over the past months, but he was deep into his research and could not be bothered to attend. These were busy days.

This topic though . . . the Old Gods, especially Yogg'Saron, and saronite. He tapped his finger on his desk.

Sweating lightly in the humid Stranglethorn air, Arjah fanned herself with the archivist's invitation.

Mail did not make it as far as her mother's people -- they lived too deep in the jungle, and too closely mingled with other troll tribes that viewed both Horde and Alliance a somewhere between dangerous animals and tasty snacks -- but Booty Bay was an easy day's travel from the small village where Arjah had left her children, at least for a mage with power to spare.

And Booty Bay meant the AAMS, and the AAMS meant invitations, news, and all the other things Arjah had been missing during her travels.

She wrinkled her nose ever so delicately. "Metallurgy?" the troll asked, mildly disbelieving, to no one in particular. "Ah am glad it will be a few days yet afore ah rejoin...polite society." She shook her head firmly. "Gods be good an' send de archivist a nice piece a'poetry for Sunday a week, or an old folio play..."

((I will not be back in-game until the middle of next week, sadly, but Arjah's in-character reservations notwithstanding I will be sorry to miss this one. Have fun and keep up the excellent events!))

In letter, he had called it an eclipse.

For as rarely as the planets aligned, so did their respective schedules. His bloody and savage wars, her social and intellectual bloodbaths. They were set aside for a night, at least. For one night he was not an Inquisitor, and she was not an Archivist. They were just Ben and Lio, out on the town.

The bistro was nearly packed. A chef had traveled from distant Pandaria, didn't speak a word of Thalassian, so you know he was good. They occupied a thick wooden table in the direct center of the fine, dim-lit restaurant, a single plump candle leaking rivulets of wax into a glass holder. The dark walls of the bistro leaned apathetically on crisscrossing rafters, an aspiring guitarist crooning out something mournful over the din of conversation.

In his handsome grey shirt and tight black vest, he seemed much younger. In her short grey and black dress, she turned all manner of heads. But that was nothing new, was it.

“-the whole lot of them. Right in front of the judge, right in front of the interrogator. I could -not- have been more embarrassed.”

She covered the corner of her cattish smirk with the back of her hand, as he leaned back and knit his hands behind his blonde head. They'd find other things to look at, as they spoke. Passersby, the heart-broken guitarist. Polished loafers, an unwholesomely black ring.

Dinner came, and they ate in the eased, companionable silence they had adopted. Him with his steaks and caffeine, her with her fruit and grain-cakes.

The evening strayed aimlessly on.

Wine and dessert. She insisted she was quite full, he insisted on the apple chutney. For a change, he prevailed.

The poison of his eyes shimmered in the dusk of the place, watching her tiny fork scoop a generously sugary bit of apple.

“You've decided upon a subject, for the coming salon?”

“Mm!” She touched her napkin to her lips, chewing quickly. “Myths of the Old Gods. We will be displaying Yogg'Saron and-”

Liore uttered a low whistle. “Will he fit?”

She cast him a withering leer. The urge to kick him neath the table sparkled in the intelligent sapphire of her eyes.

“The thesis, Skycaller's publication.”

“Ah.”

“Dr Haleshorn will be on hand.” She balanced another mound of the chutney on her fork, poised it before her lips. “A demonstration, of the conductive properties of saronite.”

She seemed quite excited. A brief un-smirk claimed his features, softened them.

“You expend so much of yourself, on salons, on the Library. On the Snipes. “ On me.

“A bee is never as busy at it seems; it just cannot buzz any slower.”

“And still you find the time to write a book.”

That got her. Benoite pouted at him, found sudden epiphany in the smooth wooden surface composing their table. “...uhm.”

“A Treatise on Gilliam Oryx's Deconstruction of Metaphor and Inquiry into Prohibited Gilnean Literature. Dear girl, the only way any one else could string -those- words together in -that- order would be by accident.”

“I almost sent you a copy, but I was afraid how that might be misconstrued...”

Liore sighed grandly. “I own a first edition.”

“How dependable! But have you read it.”

“Twice,” he confessed, thumbing the wide brim of his mug. “Your interpretation of Oryx's vicarious insertions, particularly his Psalms, is convincing and quite damning. I might not have termed him an 'passionate pacesetter', but you and I seem to maintain differing opinions of cultists.”

He did not bring up Saronite. Intentionally. It was a thread of thought he did not wish to pluck and trace back to the source. He had time to prepare himself, whatever. The Old God was dead, the whispers could not reach him anymore.

They had an hour to spare before the theatre began its production. As they stepped to the exit, the heavens themselves opened up and it rained and rained. He frowned from beneath the tile overhang, tilted his head a fraction.

“Ought to have packed an umbrella.”

“And I ought to have worn a hat.”

Green met blue.

They wordlessly decided upon risk, and made the theatre, just. Soaked.

His bath was drawn by Nibs. The water was scalding. Stew temperature. The boy was so proud. Daisy brewed his tea. She picked the first box she saw. Gilnean Black. So, Daisy steeped it until it was so--black and tasting of tar.

Had she been home, it would have been chamomile. A spoonful of honey. Bed.

And she had said she would be.

Home.

She had said many things that night. Grand statements that betrayed the youth of her, about the metal of man, how we of sterner stuff could overcome anything the gods, old and new, brought upon us.

To the Inquisitor, she had said, "I will be home shortly."

To the Guardian she had said, "I am fine."

To all of her guests, she had said, "All will be well."

Sometimes, Archivist Benoite Dawnsong told lies.

By the time the last of her guests had departed, the fumes from smelting saronite haunting them still, a messenger came to summon her with a blood red envelope and an imperious gold flecked seal. The Board of Directors was calling an emergency meeting.

Benoite had only the way there to compose her thoughts on the evening. The incident, as she called it. The Board came out in full force at the late hour, the directors of both branches holding court in Silvermoon. They numbered ten altogether, elected for their illustriousness and business sense.

The pleasantries were paltry. The wisp of a girl faced them alone, still in her salon dress, dipping her head to each accusation.

“Arcanist Wrathbane of the Undercity Branch had warned you, personally, about the risks of displaying Yogg’Saron, had he not?”

“We simply don’t understand, Archivist, how you let this happen!”

“Wrathbane has brought up several times to the Board his concerns regarding the lack of security in general at your little events, Archivist. Each time we brought these concerns to you, you reassured us with such confidence.”

She sang for them the only notes they would hear, “Directors, there are no excuses for my failings.”

“What I find especially hard to believe is that one of our own Guardians was in attendance. What was she doing when the book was being stolen from right under your noses?”

“I insisted that she come as a guest only, off duty and unarmed.”

“You did not think the extra security was worthwhile?”

“A grievous mistake on my part.”

“And the head of security--hired on your personal recommendation, Archivist--left--he left just after the robbery happened!”

“I was shortsighted to suggest to him that his presence was not needed.”

“You -asked- him to leave?”

“I can only beg pardon for my foolishness.”

“Your foolishness has cost the Library a priceless artifact, Archivist. There is no more to discuss. I move for the immediate termination of Archivist Benoite Dawnsong.” The cutting snarl belonged to Director Elarial Silversun, Silvermoon branch. It was a few decades ago, now, but his nose was crooked still from the Mad Dog’s fist.

The conference room filled with buzzing. Termination. A career killer for such a little young thing.

“May I remind you, gentlemen,” Director Randall Brodber cut in, his reedy voice floating above the din of the others, “That it was our own Director Dawnstrider who suggested that Yogg’Saron be displayed?” Randall Brodber, of the Undercity branch, had many friends in the Guttersnipe Brigade. “I must wonder if our Archivist was in a position to deny such a request.”

Graellius Dawnstrider sat up straighter in his seat as the gaze of his peers turned to him. The ancient Sin’dorei was too thick-skinned to blush. He cleared his throat and stared fixedly at the gleam of the mahogany table. “Expulsion is,” he drawled, “perhaps a step too far. Our Archivist is unseasoned, still. Her ambition has done the Library much good--even if the loss of Skycaller’s text is … threatens to outweigh the good she has done.”

Dawnstrider looked up at last at the perfect statue of Benoite Dawnsong. He did not make her privy to his burning guilt. He matched her poise with his own. “Let us give her a chance to redeem herself, in good faith, considering her previous successes. I believe suspension will be punishment enough.”

“I agree, Director Dawnstrider. I second the motion for the suspension of Archivist Benoite Dawnsong,” said Avelora Morningray. One by one, all of the directors of the Undercity branch chimed in their support.

“This cannot go by with a slap on the wrist, Directors. If she will not be terminated, I call for her demotion from the rank of Archivist to assistantship in addition to the suspension.” Elarial Silversun scowled at Benoite, noting the silver ring upon her index finger. “How fitting that you still wear the seal of one, Miss Dawnsong. Considering your recent promotion, I imagine the setback will not be too jarri--”

“We will consider your suggestion, Director Silversun,” Randall Brodber cut in, turning his hollow and singed eye sockets to the scowling Sin’dorei. “For now, suspension from her duties will be enough, I think, and we will reassess the situation when we are ready to reinstate her. Any fool can see that Archi--Miss Dawnsong is not solely to blame for this matter.”

“Ah, and on that note,” Avelora Morningray interjected, “Our contract with Blackblade Security will be nullifed. But, as it was you, Archivist, who instructed Ser Blackblade to abandon his duties, we will not be pressing charges on this matter.”

“I understand, Directors. I cannot apologize enough for my actions and the consequences. I thank you all for your time.” She had surely been still for epochs. At last she was free to move.

Alone in her office--no longer hers--Benoite denied the tears that welled. Before she began packing, she allowed herself a moment to sit at her desk. In her lap was Gideon, cold and still. Her mechanical companion was still broken, from another ... incident. Broken, but not beyond repair. They sat, for that moment, eyes closed, in silence.

Upon hearing the news, the death knight had gone into a complete frenzy. He had kept his composure near Lady Dawnsong, but upon leaving the library, his senses left him. He called his Deathcharger to him, and, pushing the poor steed harder than he ever had, he made his way to his command center in the Ghostlands.

The door flew off its' hinges at his arrival. No startled yelps or running investigations. He was alone. Not good.

With nobody around to calm him, the death knight removed a stack of papers from his desk. Upon shredding them to bits, he kicked the desk on to its' side, letting out a fanatical roar. Paintings were thrown, tables were chopped straight through, flames were doused and water was frozen solid.

After nearly an hour of destruction, he finally calmed himself down. The command center was in shambles. Doors laid destroyed on the ground, holes were present now in the ceiling that were certainly not there before. One last thing remained.

The death knight scoured through the remnants of his desk, looking for one file in particular. Upon discovering it, he laid it down on the mantle of his low fireplace, the one solid surface left in the entire building. He flipped through it until he found the page he was looking for. A bank voucher, guaranteeing that a refund of fabrics had gone directly to the workers that created the banner that was ordered from them. Workers that were under the employ of, who else?

Trenetir Moradinel. The false knight, as Ice had so taken to calling him. This was the final straw. He knew, -knew-, that it was Moradinel and his small army of hounds that had taken the tome that night. He hardly had proof, but nobody else there would have dared such a stunt. Still fuming with anger, Fastice stuffed the dossier in to his pack, and took off outside the door. He noticed it then, his deathcharger. It was lying on the ground, rasping for breath. His horseshoes were completely worn down, and were it not risen by the lich king as he was, it's hooves would surely be bleeding. He pushed the poor beast too hard.

With that, Ice carried the large animal, with no small measure of difficulty, to the stables. He crushed a large red ruin over the horse's head in an attempt to heal it. Opting to leave it there, he gave a loud whistle as his skeletal steed of the ebon blade beckoned to join him. He hopped on to the steed's back, and took off towards the Undercity. He would learn all he could about this false knight's past, and do all he could to return Lady Dawnsong to her position, lost because of his foolishness.

Even if it killed him.

Now this was more like a salon should be.
Although he was regretting bringing Lucy.

The last salon Gath’jin attended, the one with the poetic interpretation fountainside by a muddled elf ranger? If that awful elf hadn’t forced Gath’jin to attend, he’d have left before the waiter made his second circuit.

But this week. Ah!

Very exciting. Turned out the snowball delivery which Gath had assumed would be the hightlight (and something he had looked forward to for days) was NOT the most interesting part of the evening.

Even now, Gath wasn’t sure what exactly had happened.

He’d originally thought the book had been stolen but, when he mention that, someone corrected him, no, a guest, or maybe it was a speaker, had been kidnapped (although Gath didn’t notice anyone missing). Later in the evening, he overheard that the worked metal from the metallurgist’s demonstration, that cursed metal was gone.

There had been interrogations, accusations flying all over the place, the expulsion of the head of the security team – during all of which, the hostess had calmly circulated, apologizing to each and every guest for the disruptions and unpleasant questionings. Gath would have sent Lucy home (the poor bird was fretting, hopping from foot to foot or pulling feathers out) but was pretty certain she’d refuse.

The next day Gath stopped by the office and got no clearer answers. And when he looked around, none of the guildmates who attended the salon were in.

So back north he flew. Stopped by the Silvermoon City Inn for a drink and to listen to the gossip; he visited the Wayfarer’s Rest Tavern as well. And rumors were flying. Grant you, this WAS Silvermoon City.

The Lady had been expelled from the Library AND the City and she was holed up in the Undercity with friends. Blackblade Security had strung their captain up just outside the city gates (Gath had gone to check this one out; it wasn’t true.). That Awful Elf had posted a reward for the return of the missing jewelry (that was a new one for Gath; there weren’t any particulars in the rumor so he wasn’t sure what exactly was claimed to have gone missing or from whom).

None of this made any of last night’s confusion any clearer, so he’d just have to be sure to make it to the next salon. No matter HOW boring it was.