Written in Sinstone: From Where We Last Left Off

It was not unusual for a General of the Ebon Blade to receive missives, or had been the case for the last few years, summons. Death knights had a terrible habit of disappearing from rosters and role calls when the need arose. And while many were happy to show up on the frontline of whatever conflict called to them, they generally did so in colors outside of those of the Ebon Blade. The arrival of the Legion had prompted many to take up arms in Acherus together again, but afterwards they had been scattered to the wind like so many conflicts before, and so many conflicts after. Again many had answered the call from Bolvar Fordragon to assist in stopping the forces of the Jailer in the Shadowlands, though the General had neglected to respond to the message in time. He couldn't particularly recall what he had been doing in that specific moment, but it had apparently been of the utmost importance as he could not drop it for a matter of any importance. If he had to guess, he had been looking at a few fields in Pandaria or something to that effect.

Yet the Ebon Blade persisted, which was something that the dead unfortunately excelled at. Without the need for rest, they could spend countless hours each night crafting each summons by hand. Or more accurately, ordering a battalion of ghouls to do it for them. The creativity with which these messages were delivered never ceased to amaze him. Not the fact that they managed to find him, he was a large blue worgen wearing a confusingly small hat, he was not a hard man to find.

Initially the messages were delivered via ghoul. While they certainly drew some ire by shambling through town, they were effective. This was followed up with geists, who were capable of verbally verifying that it was received and was simply being ignored. After the first few of these, the deliveries became more elaborate. Carrion pigeons were sent to deliver them, often flying straight through windows in the process. He would be asked to replace the windows, which he billed directly to Acherus Central. Next were bone gryphons and wyrms, who would screech through the skies to raise a bit of terror, before blandly dropping the message off at his feet and flying off. More recently a gargoyle had thrown large rocks at him, each of which had a copy of the message tied to him.

The message that had done the job of getting his attention turned out to not be addressed to him. It was addressed to his wife. It should not have surprised him, because of course the Ebon Blade was well aware of his wife. Most of his closest confidants over the years had been made aware of her, due in no small part that it was very difficult to hide being haunted by a spirit for too long. In life the worgen had killed her and his family after his first exposure to the worgen's curse. A crime for which he had spent a substantial amount of time feeling a great ton of guilt for. Reconciliation had been quite the load off of his shoulders.

A few years ago things had gotten complicated again. When the Ebon Blade had started resurrecting corpses again to fight the Legion, they had continued to do so to refresh their numbers for those lost in the conflict. The Alliance and the Horde going to war once more only diminished their reserve even further, and provided enough corpses that those relegated the duty made sure that they happened upon them on a regular basis. One such corpse had happened to be his wife's.

The fervent search for a disappeared ghost had been short lived, thanks to the power of paperwork. His recently resurrected relative was a properly documented initiate, who took her sweet time completing her training, savoring the time away after years being bound. And thanks to bureaucracy there was no rush in having her complete it. Those even higher than himself were satisfied letting him torment himself over the distance.

His career having raised plenty of ire of those deep within Central, he presumed. At this point he had lost track of it all. Detailed as his career record was, though containing a gap following the Battle of Wrathgate and the start of the Cataclysm that he was not partial to filling in, the most distasteful part of it as far as anyone too far up the chain was concerned was a constant claiming of competence. The poor worgen had retained at least something of a brain between his ears, which had saddled him with a certain amount of responsibility that he had refused to acknowledge in recent years. So whatever could be used to poke and prod was gleefully accepted.

When they finally reunited, that pain point was lost. In the intervening years they had toured Azeroth in pseudo-retirement, making up for lost time, with Redamous hoping that eventually they would leave him alone. Who was to say what prompted the idea in some messengers head to skip past him and try a different route. It was a well established pattern that he was going to decline, but she was a quantifiable unknown. Previously some sort of wraith or revenant, perhaps there was the chance that the urge to inflict malice upon her husband still existed. Or she simply liked to torment him. Whatever the case, this hunch did turn out to be correct.

Because unlike her husband, she accepted.

Dry

 The coroner handed him a pair of gloves as he passed. It was good that they'd taken the time to do so, as it would never have crossed Tony's mind on the way through the yellow tape. He knew better, of course. He'd been to dozens of crime scenes over the years, and not wearing gloves when looking over the evidence was one of the first rookie mistakes that got forcefully corrected.

The sad fact of the matter was that he had other things on his mind right now. Namely an unceasing pressure and pounding, every pulse of which felt like they were going to send his stomach rolling. When he wasn't trying to keep his eyes open against the blinding light, he was too busy keeping his feet moving in the correct order to worry about the damn gloves.

In the rare moment that his mind cleared enough to process a thought or two, he was thrown back to thinking of the bottle of Jack and the cans of Coke he had stacked up the night prior. Various positions were passed back and forth on whether or not it had been worth it to pass out alone on the couch yet again, flicking between reruns on basic cable.

Moving past an ambulance, its flashing lights sending sharp pain behind his eyes with every rotation, he decided that things could be decidedly worse. He could be dead, like the poor soul who was currently slumped against a dumpster. He sobered up somewhat just from the view. The poor girls pale face was contorted into a ghoulish smile. However she'd gone out, she'd been the happiest girl in the world at the time. On instinct he rubbed his neck.

Someone was already crouched near the corpse, occasionally leaning out of the way for the photographer to snap a pic. She looked up at him, what looked like a wallet in her hand. Her short cropped hair was swept to one side. The wallet dropped from her hands as she stood, looking him over with the most unimpressed look he had ever seen.

"'Bout damn time," she said.

He didn't give her the satisfaction of following that train of thought. Instead he just rubbed his eyes, trying to give himself enough willpower to focus. "We get a time of death yet?"

"Jack's estimating somewhere between 1 and 3 this morning," she said, dropping whatever insults she'd had primed. "Checking with the local bars to see if anybody spotted her at closing time last night, no word yet."

Tony bent down, picking up the wallet and poking through it. All it confirmed were a few suspicions. No money taken, all cards present. After a quick gesture to the photographer, who nodded with approval, he began manipulating the corpse. A few turns of the neck, checks of the wrist, a look at her front and back.

"No wounds," he said. It was a lie. A good one, on many levels. Good because to them it was true, and good because it was better that they never knew it was true.

"Yeah, Jack's not sure about that one," she said, making a general gesture at the deceased, "Clear signs of bloodletting, but we're not sure how."

"Christ," he said, happy he was still able to sound surprised and disgusted. The pair of bumps were obvious to him, but he didn't blame anyone for missing them. They were slighter than the bite of a gnat. Which was worrisome. The person who made them knew what they were doing.

His hands found their way into the girls pockets. He produced a handful of items, a tube of chap stick, a few crumpled up receipts, before he found what he was looking for. With a sigh, he offered the tiny slip to his partner.

She took her turn to sound disgusted, "Christ."

"Blood donor," he said grimly.

Her eyes rolled as she bagged the slip, "Some sick fuck thinks he's a vampire."

"Yeah," he muttered, standing.

His pocket buzzed. The familiar sign of a phone call, save for the fact that it didn't continue. For a moment he wondered if it was better or worse that they already knew. On the one hand, he wasn't exactly looking forward to having to break the news. On the other, they weren't going to be happy having to hear about it from third parties.

Turning back towards his car, he offered only a short explanation, "I'll see if anyone at the Red Cross knows anything, start working on the timeline."

He didn't wait for her response. The walk back to his car was brisker than the walk in. His phone was out of his pocket the moment his ass hit the seat. The recent call was from a number he'd never seen before. Local area code, spoofing his own number. Spam call should have been his default assumption but he knew better. The dial tone had barely started before someone picked up.

"Again?" was all he heard from the other end. It impressed him how much a single word could house so much pure contempt.

"Again," he said, glancing up at the rear view mirror. He half expected someone to be in the back seat.

"This will be the last one, mister Ambrose. Should it happen again, we will have to drastically reconsider our working relationship.

He winced as the line cut. It was with clammy hands that he put the keys in the ignition, and pulled away.