World of Warcraft®

Tacked to several posters throughout Orgrimmar, Stormwind, Ironforge, and the Undercity are notices printed in a suspiciously glossy, deep red ink. The notice is written in the respective languages of each city's inhabitants:

Assassination Contracts:

Ever wished someone would disappear quietly
into the night, never to be heard from again?
Well good news!

...For you, at least. Someone's day is going to
be ruined.

Now offering assassination contracts! No
payment necessary. Times are slow as of late,
so simply convince me why I should accept your
job and it will be done.

Contracts are not guaranteed to be carried out,
and will be selected based solely on a whether
I find them interesting or not. Difficult and/or
insane jobs welcome.

BE ADVISED: NO CANCELLATIONS.




Oddly, there isn't any contact information. It seems the assassin either overlooked this, or perhaps he wants potential contractors to be creative in getting their message across...


((OOC: My only requirement is, obviously, that all parties involved are doing so consensually. Also, any potential victims should be willing to have their characters majorly @@!@ed with. Otherwise, be creative!))

Oskor had remembered seeing the notices a week or so before, but it took him awhile to find one that was still hanging. He scanned it quickly and frowned slightly when he reached the end.

"Meh, no name. No contact information."

He muttered to himself and then proclaimed in a loud, clear voice.

"Oh, well. 's probably too hard of a job anyway."

<<scrawled on a piece of tattered silk cloth, and then nailed hastily to the post underneath the advertisement....>>

S.R.R. want ded now. People follwing in words on cloth paper. You kill real good dead. Make dead so we can make undead. Then beter.

Kiloaeda - snooty pants elf dead knight. needs to be made deadder than he is now. too big for us. want to eat his toes. And put his brain in my hole. See if good fit. You kill. We pay. Also, he can't take joke. No sense of hum...hoo...sense of funny. Kill ded. Y kan't I rite good damnit crap damn damn ARRGH <<clawmarks>>

Kanaohe - cow thing. insults lady. smells like...don't know. can't smell. want her brain, put in hole, see if it fit. kill it dead. made me angry, can't find it. want it ded. you find at least, maybe not kill, but find, we S.R.R. kill if need to.

You KILL now. We pay.
Hugses

S.R.R.

p.s. here is funny joke....Ungunguh rote it..."what is best thing about killing elf?"....ansur, "KILLING ELF!"..ha ha, is funny cuz true... <<clawmarks>>

At a desk deep within the sanctuary of the Modas il Toralar, Vectus carefully examined the silk cloth, struggling to discern the jumbled mess printed thereon which passed for handwriting. After half an hour, when he felt he finally had a good idea of the message its writer was trying to convey, he sighed and tossed the cloth scrap aside.

"He's certainly insane, and wonderfully so. I'll have to give him that." He chuckled lightly. "Perhaps I should amend the notice to make it more clear. It's the job that should be insane..."

He relaxed in his chair, leaning back and placing a foot upon the desk as he rested his head against his palm. His eyes passed over the discarded message, and for a brief moment he considered accepting the job. Then he shook his head as he sat forward.

"No, it's not worth the trouble. Too much effort, not enough reward."

Times really were slow. The Order's activities had all but come to a halt, and there was nothing productive (or destructive) for him to focus his energies on.

After going through the trouble of painstakingly writing out all of those notices, he was sure something interesting would turn up to occupy his time. Unfortunately, the only response thus far was the "note" he had just discarded.

It was his own fault for not adding in any contact information. Obviously, he must have overestimated the competency of those seeking his services. He briefly wondered how many buffoons had read the notice, and then arrogantly exclaimed how their job would be too difficult for him, as if he could hear their their pathetic attempts to goad him into accepting it. Not that it would work if he could. He'd probably be just as likely to run them through with a dagger.

"Six," he said to himself. "Has to be at least six."

It bothered him somewhat that the only one clever enough to attach a notice of their own in response was a raving lunatic. He sighed again and set out to hang more notices.

Dakera stopped in front of the notice board, looking around to see if anyone was watching. It was dark, sometime after midnight and before the rising sun of the morning. The Orc didn't see anyone around.

This was one of the last notice boards that still had a copy of the unsigned and ominous letter attached to it. So many other boards had seen their copies removed or covered up with other notices.

"This board have notice still." Dakera said to herself, out loud. "They still watching it."

She took a scroll from her pocket, leaned forward and used a rusty knife to attach her letter to the one on the notice board.

Dakera walked away, fading into the shadows.

The newly attached letter reads:

"Me have a job. Big job. Pay with gold coins. If you as good as you think then come find me and we discuss job."

The note was also unsigned.