World of Warcraft®

Beads of perspiration were beginning to form on Gallus' brow. It could just be his nerves combined with his proper, but thick layered attire. He wore brown, wool dress pants, a matching, brown, wool vest over a cream colored, long sleeve dress shirt, dark brown, leather dress shoes, and a plum colored bow tie that fit snuggly under his shirt collar. His brown, wool suit jacket hung on a plainly carved wooden post by the wall next to the door.

Gallus looked down at the papers in his hands and compared them to the ones on his desk. He gulped involuntarily. He ever so wished that words on the pages were a trick of the light. It was, after all, well beyond the normal business hour. The sun had already passed beyond the horizon requiring that the candles be lit. They happily bobbed up and down in the corners of the room, floating at fixed heights, and tinting everything in flickering orange hues. The shadows were playing merry hob with his vision. That was all. He just needed a moment to carefully read everything through and this would all be just some unfortunate misunderstanding that wouldn't result in loss of someone's means of living. Especially not in the literal sense.

A languid yet undeniably dangerous voice broke his train of thought. "I am sure you can see my cause for concern. I mean, does it not strike you as odd that one document should so blatantly contradict the other when they are supposed be in agreement?"

Gallus flicked his gaze from the paper's to the person sitting on the opposite side of his desk. A lone drop of a sweat began trickling its way down the right side of Gallus' pale face. He cleared his throat before making a response.

"Yes, of course…" Gallus looked back down at the pages. The problem was obvious and simple. The documents Gallus had retrieved from the bank's records clearly awarded all the assets of the Sunwarden household including the estate, funds, investments, trusts, foreign holdings, and business shares to one Trenetir Moradinel, and these document's sister copies belonging to the account holder, which had just been handed to him by said account holder, awarded all of the assets to one Lumeus Sunwarden who now sat comfortably across from him, watching him like a dragonhawk watches a field mouse frantically search for a place to hide.

(1/2)

"Let me make the situation clear for you." Lumeus said lacing his fingers together in his lap. Gallus reluctantly met Mr. Sunwarden's intense gaze. "Either your documents are false, or my documents are false. The Sunwarden Estate belongs to either Trenetir Moradinel, or Lumeus Sunwarden. All of the assets of the Sunwarden household belong to either Trenetir Moradinel, or Lumeus Sunwarden. But common sense aside let us have a test. Take ink and quill and do your best to forge a copy of my documents, and I shall do the same with yours."

Without waiting for a response Lumeus reached across the desk and took one of bank records. He retrieved a blank piece of parchment from somewhere inside his robe and laid it on the desk next to the bank document. Gallus' eyes widened as ink began to appear on the blank page, as if seeping in from beneath, except instead of random blotches it took the form of beautifully scribbled lettering, and in a matter of roughly ten seconds a copy of the bank note lay beside it.

"And now to prove my point," Lumeus said as he moved his hand over the top of the copy. Taking a second look Gallus noticed that everywhere it had said "Trenetir Moradinel" it now read "Lumeus Sunwarden." Lumeus gestured toward his documents still laying in front of Gallus. "Now it is your turn. Copy my documents, but write in 'Trenetir Moradinel' where it says 'Lumeus Sunwarden.'"

He couldn't be certain, but it felt like the temperature of the room had steadily increased ever since Mr. Sunwarden's arrival. He ran a finger between his collar and neck as he gulped. "I am no mage, nor am I a forger, Mr. Sunwarden..." Gallus protested.

"You will soon discover that makes no matter," Lumeus assured. "Please begin."

With a slightly frustrated sigh, Gallus dipped his quill in the ink jar and began writing. Three sentences in Gallus found that he had to focus very intently on the lettering of Mr. Sunwarden's copy in order to read it, and by the fourth sentence the lettering was so blurry he could barely make out the words at all. Gallus picked up the page in order to get a closer view and was surprised to find he now had two pages in his hand. Gallus looked at the second page with a great deal of confusion. It was an exact copy of the first. He held the two pages side by side for comparison only to realize that he now held two pages in each hand. He put them down on the desk to spread them out, but found that instead of four pages there were now six, and each was identical to the other. Gallus made sure to only pick up one of the pages but found that once it was in hand he now held two and when held apart for comparison he now held four.

"That will continue until you stop touching them," Lumeus calmly explained. "Now that we have demonstrated that your documents can be duplicated and altered with depressing ease, and mine cannot, which of us do you suppose is in possession of the false documentation?"

An hour later Lumeus left the Bank of Silvermoon with the notion that he would not be making a return visit for a very long time. As he headed for home he hoped Dabeth had found a healer. That meeting had been an unsavory event, and he feared there would be many more like it to come in the following days.

(2/2)

"I've run out of time for you brother. You're simply not important enough. I leave you to yourself. It's the worst revenge that I can think of."

The volcano within him roiled, lava surging, seeking for an explosion, but there would be none. No. The volcano would have to wait. Wait until he had more answers. He waited, not within the estate that he believed he finally won, but within the cell that was his room. Bed, side table, and a lantern. The moonlight drifted in through the lone window.

He pulled out the journal, reading it, again and again. There would be no sleep. There would be no respite. But the comfort of the familiar words upon the pages led him to a more serene place.

It is what it is... Except when it isn't.

Sleep could only be put off for so long, days, nearly a week, he was slipping. But there was no comfort that would welcome him, no open arms to greet him at the end of the day. No, there were smoldering bridges. Oh the distractions. He had spread himself thin, too thin, and when sleep finally took him his dreams were haunted.

Forget me not,

A hand carressed his cheek. her hand. Bright green eyes found their twin in her. Her smile was a laughing one, her laughter was infectious. He could feel that laughter grow in his stomach like a seed bursting out of the soil, reaching for the sun.

As I walk away from myself

Those calm summer nights on the shore, the waves splashing across their feet and ankles as he chased her up and down the beach.

I'm ending my life one day at a time

Power. Money. Greed. Position. She made him forget all of it. "I don't need that with you." He whispered in Isamin's ear. "We're starting over. We'll make a name for ourselves."

Sooner than it began

She was gone. Taken from him. It was an accident. That's what he was told. That is what he believed. In the end it didn't matter why she was gone, or who took her from him. His heart was cold, empty.

Ending a tomorrow

He took to the cell now. If there would be no love, no family, then there would be power, money, greed, and position.

That will never live to see today

Sweat dripped down his brow as he slept, if such an act could be called sleep.

Ending a dream that should never have begun

How many lives had been taken? Slaves, Servents, friends, enemies. The toll was countless, each swirled within his field of view, their eyes mocking.

Ending a lie

Redemption? Peace? Calm?

Written in my own blood

"NO!" He screamed out in the night, a visceral scream, a cry for help. She's gone. They're gone. Take what is yours. There is love again. There is comfort.

Ending a life

He sat up with a gasp for air, like one coming up from beneath the water, saved from drowning. The only light came in from the window. He was safe. He was within the cell that he called a room. Its stark walls reassuring, familiar.

Which was never really mine

Lumeus. Liore. Lindi. His desire for vengeance burned bright within his heart. That which he had been denied. He had been so close. Lumeus' return need not be the ending of things.

Ending, never beginning

"Dellis!" His voice echoed loudly throughout his home. The servant stumbled into the room, still in his nightdress. "Ser!"

Trenetir's eyes flashed bright red, the volcano would not wait. "Start with Lindi." Dellis squeaked before he practically ran from Trenetir's room, leaving the man to himself. As the door closed, the lone lantern on the bedside was lit bathing the room with its warmth.

As I walk away from myself.

The courier looked as though he hadn't been paid nearly enough for this. Once he found the appropriate address, he quickly threw the letter at the first person to open the door, running away without a second thought. Whether it would reach its intended audience, Irilin would never know, and the courier couldn't care less.

Trenetir,

I pray that you are safe, though I know there is much boiling inside of you. I have been hiding in the city, unsure of where to find you, and dreading every moment we are apart. I am frightened, and hope to find you soon that some of that fear might be assuaged.

I'm sending you this blank journal, and encourage you to use it. There is a lot that you will not let out--not even for me--but, it needs to come out, gradually, evenly. I hope you will consider letting it out in the journal, as I did in mine, so that all the thoughts roiling in your head have somewhere to go. Perhaps one day I might get to see them, as you have seen mine.

Be well, my love.

~Irilin

Dellis opened the door expecting to depart the estate when he was confronted with the startled looking courier. Before Dellis could ask who the letter was from the courier was gone. Ser was not going to like this. No one liked being the bearer of news to Trenetir. Not just bad news, good news, any news. One never knew how he was going to react.

Tentatively Dellis knocked on the door, stifling a nervous squeak, "Ser, there's been a courier."

Trenetir's voice broke the silence from the other side, "Enter."

Dellis surveyed the scene and was struck by three things: Trenetir sat upon the bed, fully armored, his sword across his lap; second the room was bright, far too bright given the sun was now up, the window was high in the wall and there was only one lamp in the room which appeared unlit; lastly there was music, coming from...somewhere. It was soft and ethereal.

The servant's steps were soft upon the stone floor, he dared not speak for it seemed as if he were intruding upon something that he did not understand. He placed the package upon the bed before Trenetir who opened it automatically. That bright green gaze devoured the words, turning quickly to the journal. Dellis stepped back to attend to the business he was assigned to.

Just as Dellis' foot crossed the threshold of the cell-like room, Trenetir's voice was sharp, crisp, commanding. "Find him. Find Irilin. I do not care if you have to tear this city apart brick by brick. I will accept nothing less than success. Find him and bring him here." Dellis dared to look behind him, to meet Trenetir's gaze, immediately regretting this action.

All thought of revenge, of suffering and ruination was put aside, for now at least. Trenetir read and re-read the letter, carefully examining the journal. "How well you know my moods even when we are apart." Dellis heard these words; words that were not meant for him to hear. The chill that overcame him would not be leaving anytime soon, not until his work was discharged.

Upon the streets of Silvermoon, the bazaar was bustling, a cacophony of sights and sounds, citizens dressed in their finest, "How do you find someone who does not want to be found?"

Irilin opened his eyes, and found that the darkness behind his eyelids was no different than that which met his opened eyes. As he tried to sit up, there was a slow, deep throbbing in his head. He felt around until he found a wall, and propped himself up against it. He heard the chain around his ankle slide across the floor, and felt no need to investigate that further. No matter where he looked around, there was no sign of any ambient light; there were no windows, and if there was a door, it was well-masked.

He felt a trickle making its way down his cheek. It was far too cold in the room for it to be sweat. He wiped at it, bringing his fingers to his nose. Metallic. Blood. The throbbing increased with his pulse as he raised his fingers to his temple. They met raw skin and blood still seeping from the area where the rune was.

Where it had been.

Despite the pain, he touched the rune. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar feeling that would let him reach out to someone, anyone. Still nothing. He brought his hand, now shaking, back to his lap, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall. Tears started falling slowly, and his body shook, not from sobs, but from fear. He tried to master his breathing, lest he fly into a panic.

Someone had filled in the rune, rendering the entire tattoo arching around his face useless.

Pain.

Head splitting pain.

Where was he?

The old gnome's head throbbed. It was all he could do to wonder. The pain wouldn't allow an answer. Best leave it alone.

Bits and pieces of memory began drifting back to him. He was at peace. The sun on his face. The tree. Something cold against his face. A chilled sensation slowly grew. Pain plunged deep into his head like a knife, jolting him awake.

Cail remained motionless, his eyes shut. Sounds slowly came into focus around him. People moving about. Idle conversation. As the pain faded he strained to listen he could not understand. The cold sensation against his face spread over portions of his body. A chill came over him and he realized that he was laying face down on a cold stone floor. The pain would not relent however it dulled into an aching throb.

A stench most fowl attacked his senses and he began coughing in revulsion. The old gnome slowly curled himself up into a ball, every limb aching with stiffness. His fists balled around what felt like straw. Moist, mushy straw. Tenderly he turned his head and opened each eye in turn, looking upward. The voices were there again, all around him and in his head, and all as unintelligible as before.

Darkness is all he saw until his eyes began to adjust. The warm glow of a fire danced demonic shadows across the walls. The walls. They were of dwarven make. The vaulted ceiling rounded from what he could see, much like a dome. It was a fort. He was laying on the stone floor inside a dark dwarven fort... which reeked of...

Cail drew in a deep breath and began to cough again in revulsion.

...excrement.

Fowl, putrid, excrement. Much akin to a stable of those mountain goats the dwarves of Ironforge are so fond of riding, only the stable hadn't been cleaned in a weeks. He squeezed what he assumed was straw in his fists and felt something else. Pushing himself up on one elbow the old gnome leaned back against the cold stone wall and looked about before gazing down at his hands.

It indeed was straw, but old and judging by the dark fowl matter now covering his hands it wasn't straw meant for bedding. Carefully, the old gnome scrapped off each hand as best he could. Evidently the straw was over used. He gazed about and absently wiped his hands on his clothing, only to discover he was practically covered in it. Still a bit numb to the world he gazed down at himself and then at his surroundings.

“What a mess.”, was all he could muster.

A roar of growling echoed around him, filling the small stone fort. Growling? Now it sounded like laughter. He squinted and turned about until finally his vision came mostly into focus. Several large green figures surrounded him. A few stood here and there in clusters while others sat around the one fire at the center of the room. Every one of them looking at the old gnome.

Panic.

It was true.

Fears bubbled to the surface.

Things happened so fast. It couldn't be true. None of it.

“Sims.” He called out. “Sims, where are you?”

A deep graveled voice muttered something and the rest broke into laughter again. The awful truth fought its way to the surface as the panic took hold. The old gnome pressed himself against the wall and pushed to his feet.

“Sims! Say something!” His voice trembled with fear as it inevitably sank its claws deep.

“SIMS!” he yelled.

The pain in his head flared up again. He grasped his temples as if trying to hold his head together. The laughter drifted away as one of them stepped forward. Cail looked up to see him approach the edge of the straw where the old gnome now stood. The hulking brute bent one knee to the floor and grasped a long rifle at his side. The old gnome's eyes widened as the memory rushed back.

“Rem'memb. Me.” The orc muttered, pressing a hand to his chest. A wave of despair clouded Cail's eyes despite is best effort. A hideously toothy grin spread across the orc's face.

“Gud.” The orc nodded, stood and uttered something at him in his own guttural tongue. The room erupted in laughter once again and he walked away.

Cail peered around. It was a dwarven fort in terrible disrepair, occupied by fowl orc. All at once he knew where he was.

Algaz.

These were a faction of Dragon Maw Orc. The very group he had been warned about. The old gnome slid down the wall and sat on his heels, arms hugging his knees to his chest. Despair once again clouded his eyes and his judgment. He was now in their clutches. A captive of these orc.

What will they do with me? He wondered for a moment, mind reeling for an answer. Then he stopped himself.

It didn't matter.

He carelessness delivered his fate into the hands of these brutes. Certainly he wouldn't be alive for much longer. Perhaps he would become one of their meals, or maybe he would be used for their entertainment until all life has faded from his tiny broken corpse.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered now. Sims was gone. Shattered into a million pieces by that monster. Had he the time, Cail could have salvaged his little metallic friend and faithful companion. His core would then at the very least remain intact, but no. No time.

In one random instant the last ties to the memory of those he had once so deeply loved and cherished were now lost. His wife, children, beloved family and cherished friends. They were all gone now, shattered to pieces with Sims. He was now all alone.

The world faded. The voices of the orcs drifted away to distant murmurs as the old gnome retreated within. Somewhere deep inside Cail curled up into the void left behind.

Truly alone.

Several days had passed since the she-orc Kheg picked up the old gnome. Paid her old scout companion a favor and got him moved back into the wetlands and out of the Algaz passes.

To her the little bundle was little more than merchandise. She was a courier, plain and simple. Nevermind the fact that her business often revolved around smuggling and humanoid trafficking; at the end of the day she was just another courier.

She preferred to think in simple terms. Life made much more sense this way. She simply did what she felt she had to do to survive. Right now that meant delivering the gnome to Ratchet.

Buying passage on a cargo ship, plus a few extra crates of rum to help the captain and crew forget they were ever aboard, was an easy matter. So far this business venture was uneventful. Just in case, however, the she-orc always carried her long steel greatsword over her shoulder, ever at the ready.

Kheg stepped into the cargo bellow deck. Between two large crates sat the old gnome. Arms and legs bound with simple cording. She took a barrel opposite him and sat, resting her large greatsword against another crate. The she-orc stared down at the old gnome for a long moment. He didn't move, save for the occasional deep breathing.

Poor thing. She couldn't help but feel bad for him.

I wonder what his story is. She shook her head, pushing away such thoughts and emotions. It wasn't wise to start feeling anything. Not now that they were so close to Rachet. He... It, is still cargo. Nothing more than frieght.

Kheg leaned back against the bulkhead and closed her eyes, arms folded.

A long quiet moment passed, all the while her curiosity bored deeper into her mind. She couldn't restrain herself.

She lifted her head and gazed at the gnome. "Do you know where you are going?"

Silence. Her bound captive didn't so much as twitch.

"Ever hear of a she-orc that goes by the name One?" The old gnome lay silent.

Kheg huffed. "Well, I figure you should know what's happening." Kheg shifted on her barrel-seat. "One is a slaver by trade, but not by choice. It was something she just, well, sort of, fell into..." The she-orc motioned in the air as if gathering her thoughts. "At least, that's one of the rumors."

Kheg leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head resting on her clasped hands. "She's not such a sort, mind you. I've only dealt with her a hand full of times, but she'd always given fair business and been decent enough company. You should fare well in her care, provided you don't do something foolish like try and escape." She glanced down at the motionless bound gnome.

"So doesn't take kindly to runners, nor does she tolerate back-talk. She's one of them practicin' Shaman you see. Friend of the earth and the element, and all that." Kheg waves dismissively. "I've never understood any of that magical mumbo-jumbo. Point is that she will treat you fairly just so long as you behave."

Kheg chuckled. "Why, she will even go out of her way to protect you, should there be any highwaymen wandering about. ...and there always are."

The old gnome shifted his head slightly to look at the orc. The emptiness in his eyes threatened to swallow the she-orc whole. It would have broken her heart to see him in such a state, had she not steeled herself and buried that heart deep. She feigned a grin.

"Welcome back to the world gnome. I was beginning to wonder if you were still all there." She said, rapping the side of her head with her knuckles. "I can't double my money if you're not all there." The gnome just stared. Kheg continued.

"At any rate, we should be hitting the docks in a few hours. Then I get my money and you become someone else's burden."

A wrinkle in the sheets. That’s all it was. Even the finest of silks may wrinkle now and again if it is not carefully tended to. And this silk, it could be unwrinkled.

Trenetir looked down at the form sleeping next to him. It had been quite some time since he had enjoyed a real night’s sleep. After Irilin’s return it was easy to sleep. He had forgotten how much better he felt with some rest.

A light spray of water.

Perspective came clearly now. There was a host of unfinished business, starting with the gnome in his dungeons. He was but one engineer. It would take two, perhaps more to craft the device. The trio fell upon Booty Bay like a plague of fire and brimstone. They were there for one purpose and one purpose only: to secure the second piece of the puzzle.

The hot iron is pressed slowly to the fabric.

The puzzle, the artifact, it had not been forgotten, hardly, it was merely set aside for a time until Trenetir was ready to return to it. The Library had proven his bane as he attempted to find the artifact, but while he was unable to secure the texts that he so coveted, there were others. Others that they did not seem to pay much mind to.

Another spray of the water.

Ignorance was bliss wasn’t it? And they were woefully ignorant. He descended into the depths of the dungeons, his strides were sure and swift, the clanking of his boots echoing ominously as he made is way to the cells. His bright green gaze lingered on the pair of erstwhile companions: the gnome, his spirit obviously broken; and the goblin, her fighting spirit not yet burned to oblivion.

The wrinkles slowly fade away.

His voice was soft and bordered on reassuring, “Language may remain a constant barrier, but I am assured that you can both read schematics.” Oh the stereotypes. He produced two copies of the schematics for a rather large device and slipped them through the bars of the cell. “Dellis will be along later with your evening meal. You will begin work in the morning.”

Be mindful of your sheets and they will not wrinkle.

He smirked to himself, “The sooner you are finished the sooner you may return to your pathetic lives.”

Pathetic life.

The insult danced on the tip of the tongue of his inner voice for many hours that night. Rest would elude him another night. He lay sprawled on the floor of his cage. His shirt removed and bundled behind his head, propped up against the bars so he could wearily gaze forward. With a bare toe he pushed the rolled schematics up against the bars at the far end of his short cage. When it slowly rolled back he would push it again.

Pathetic life...

He had a purpose once. It was a simple enough purpose. Be happy, she would tell him. Smile. Seeing his mustache tips curl upward when he smiled made her giggle, which only made it easier to smile. At least, in those days. Since the horrors of the scourge and the fall of Lordaeron, joy was harder to come by.

Joy..., his inner voice lingered on the memory.

Now more than ever one could not be remembered without the other close to heel. Pain. Horror. Ashes. At the end of the day, each day, that was all he was ever left with. It was all gone, and had been for a long time. He bumped the scroll away again, his inner voice scoffing.

You've been diluting yourself Liam.

"Perhaps..." he whispered into the darkness, at no one in particular.

All this time. The books, the studies, the medical practice, the watch,... The old gnome sighed deeply and rolled to one side, tucking his arm beneath his head.

Then with the fishing, the cooking, and the tinkering...

"Shush." He whispered again. The old gnome closed he eyes, attempting to relax his tired body.

All distractions of the inevitable truth.

"No." Cail grimaced.

Everyone in your life,...

The old gnome clenched his eyes shut. "Stop."

Everyone you have ever loved,...

"Stop it." His voice grew more hoarse as he fought back the wave of emotion.

They're all gone.

"Enough!" His voice strained, barely above a hoarse whisper. Unable to hold it at bay the gnome rocked and quivered with each stifled sob.

Dead. Every one of them. You will forever be alone. Your end will come, old gnome, only when you accept it. Then will the everlasting silence come to claim you, as it has them.

"Anthel is going to be SO mad!" was her first thought as she drifted into fuzzy consciousness, briefly. As she sank back into dark unconsciousness, she struggled to remember how she got into such a hurting state.

...

More than minutes before, definitely hours if not days prior. . .

---------
The AAMS front desk secretary (of the Booty Bay office) informed Phenelopy that Derscha and some-elf-with-way-too-many-vowels-in-her-name were both unavailable (the two were apparently co-bosses and how did THAT work?), and asked if she would care to leave a message. So she left her name, where she'd be for the evening, and her Wee-Fix-It business card with the secretary to pass on to Derscha. On the back of the card she had writen that the call was regarding a site visit.

She tried to slip up the stairs to give Derscha's office door a check - since she was here already, it just made sense to try and get some of the measurements while she was here - but the keen eyed secretary was having none of that and shoo'd her out of the office.

She'd considered the Feathers Tavern but that place was a bit too sedate. So she adjourned to a tavern in the warehouse section of town. This Tavern? it had a lively after work crowd; the decor was a bit dated; but the furniture looked utilitarian and reliably sturdy - just the kind to keep one propped up or survive an arc across someone's back.

She ordered a drink to start; she'd decide on food (if & what) later. Once her beer arrived, she quaffed it, spilling equal amounts onto the table, onto the chair, and onto & into herself. Enough got IN to tell it wasn't anything special but it'd do.

"Mott is it?" The voice was all sneer but in that golden, melty elfen tone that put her knees all aquiver, even sitting down.

She turned on her seat and glanced up, thinking "My, he's a tall one," while grabbing her yellow beehive wig with one hand to keep it atop (or with the tilt, practically beside) her head.

"That it is, sweetie. Want a seat?" She kicked the adjoining chair back from the table, but the elf declined; actually, he flat out ignored it, but with that elfen disdain that could always make her catch her breath.

He tipped his head (her first thought was that he was agreeing to sit although he stayed afoot) but she then noticed he had a henchman, hench gal actually - another elf, who was clearly itching for a fight, even carried an axe and shield into the bar. In the old days, back at the Pittstop, Phenelopy would have had two of her ogre bouncers take that uppity elf girl outside and "instruct" her in proper bar etiquette. But here . . . management didn't appear to mind.

In that serious tone that elfs get when they go all dramatic doom like, her elf dude intoned (an elf verb if ever there was one): "Phenelopy Mott, wife of Anthel Mott, you have been found in excess."

She giggled; he sure knew how to catch and hold a girl's attention. "Not the first time, honey! And what did you say your name is? You look familiar." Had he been a Pittstop patron?

"There was no name given but if you must have it, Trenetir Moradinel. It matters not really, it will be one of the last names that you ever hear."

This guy needs mood music when he speaks, she thought to herself, and some dreamier lighting. Then she paused to consider his odd words. "Oh dear. You're just going to repeat it over and over again? Might excessive. Even for an elf."

The undead spoke, "Brave antics from such an endangered creature," catching her attention for the first time. He'd been standing by the stairs before he made his approach.

This apparently was a signal for the elf gal: who also strutted up, and said while smirking as only elves can do (pursing lips but still annunciating properly - their jaws must be anatomically different from the other races), "So this is the delivery?"

Phenelopy glanced over at the lady elf. "A present, for me?" Ahha, these were AAMS folks. Out of uniform. Was this lady the Horde co-boss? Why didn't this feel as right as it ought to? Phenelopy's eyes shifted from elf to elf to undead and back as she smoothly adjusted her position on her chair for a quick exit, if it were necessary.

The elf dudette stepped forward and nudged Phen with the edge of her axe "Shall we go? " She paused briefly, teasing that she'd wait for a reply before continuing, "Please fight back, I need some action."

Mmm, she thought, clearly NOT the AAMS. Phenelopy smoothed her vest down, casually checking her "pockets" for anything sharp or pokey.

Trenetir grinned, "There is no problem, and yes, that is the plan, to get her back home with us." The undead, unconcerned, picked at his teeth with a long yellow nail from his left index finger.

"Are we certain she needs all her limbs with flesh on them?" the elf gal grinned.

Phenelopy gaze flicked from to the blustery elf girl then to Trenetir, then checked to see if she's likely to get any support from the staff. Nope, they all melted away from her table.

So she addressed Tren. "Now deary, I was expecting no holiday. Just gotta get back to the office. Maybe we could talk over there?"

Elf Bi . . Well, EB as Phen tagged her, took another step forward attempting to grab Phen by the shirt with her left hand. Phenelopy slapped EB's hand away, surprisingly strong from her experience dealing with drunkards in her old bar.

EB just smiled, all teeth, at the act of aggression

Phenelopy, trying to buy some time, "Now, none of that."

EB thrust both of her hands forward attempting to hit Phen in the shoulders and knock her back. That didn't take any thought on Phen's part; she just rolled her shoulders to absorb the push without losing too much of her balance, as Trenetir offered, "Well it would be better that we talk back at your new residence," which caught Phenelopy by surprise.

"New?" Phenelopy 's focused on Trenetir, for a second forgetting to keep an eye on EB or the undead.

"Yes, your new residence. One of solitude."

Phenelopy shook her head, pushing her hair back up. "I ain't no monastic type ta be holed up with no one to drink with. You've obviously never come to the Pittstop when it was open."

Meanwhile, EB smiled at the lack of attention and grabbed Phen's right arm and hair. As well, her compatriot undead stepped closer to the Goblin, close enough for his wretched breath to curl hair.

When EB pulled her hair/wig, Phenelopy squealed that classic street brawl challenge: "Oh no you dintent!" and grabbed at EB's arms, trying to wrest herself and her wig free.

EB smirked and yanked down hard on the arm switching her hand from Phen hair to her ear.

Trenetir watched them all, disgusted. "She's a small creature; how hard can it be to catch her!" he hissed.

To which EB frowned and replied, "Am I not allowed to play?"

Trying to catch her during her distracted response, Phenelopy kicked at EBs torso with her spiked heel and growled, "I'll show ya play, deary."

EB backed away, grunting, amusement quickly replaced with anger

Phenelopy stepped off her chair, hoping that gravity would cause the elf to loose her ear.

The undead, bored, sighed and let a ball of fire rise from the bones of his left palm. "I'd listen to Trenetir, lass. I'm not beyond burning every Goblin Hobknocker, Bouncer, or Enforcer that gets between us and you."

Meanwhile (neither of the girls listened to him), EB stomped down hard, aiming for Phen's foot. Phenelopy yiped as EB's foot scraped down her leg and foot, then tried to tackle EB around the legs.

Trenetir looked around in actual shock at how difficult it is to capture a single goblin. "Am I truly surrounded by incompetence?"

EB looked down appalled and struck Phen in the temple with her left fist. Phenelopy hugged EB's legs tighter as she briefly lost consciousness. The fire in the undead's palm extinguished, closing the digits into a fist, as Phenelopy tried to steady herself.