Wilting Away (Part 3)

They were broken. In all of the wrong ways. This hands held the scratches of someone who constantly itched themselves. She was hungry. They were all hungry. Many of them were starving. All of them were broken. She knew it, knew it more than anything else. When she bothered to pay attention, she knew it. And when she didn't bother, it was still there, niggling at her head.

One of them slammed a fist onto the table to get her attention. She blinked, head turning to the thing as her breathing intensified. Was she panicking? Was now a proper time to panic? Why was she breathing to begin with. It was not necessary, especially since she was not speaking. The dead did not need air, nor did it need them. They did not need air to survive, and even when they breathed it in it would not be released in the proper form to feed the rest of the planet. They existed in apathy of the air. It despised them for it, she knew it.

It was the other one who had found her. The one who was standing firm and tall, her blue skin glistening so bright in her shining armor. Not the one with the scratched hands. This one had a tired look in her eyes. A look hidden beneath pounds of make-up. She didn't want to be here. None of them wanted to be here. But they were here, and they had nothing better to do, so they might as well all play whatever parts they were meant to play.

She wondered if one of them might consider switching roles.

Scratches approached her first, after Pounds took her time slamming her fist into the wooden table. It was a fine table. Old though. It hadn't aged well. So perhaps it should be considered to have been a fine table. At some point in time it had been a fine table, but it was a fine table no longer. It looked pale and sagging. The result of never seeing the outside world, likely since it had been tossed into this room eon ago.

"Would you like to explain your presence in our city, Outlander?" Scratches said. Her voice was hoarse in a way. It held the same scratches to it that her wrists did. She wasn't losing it, though. It sounded as though she had screamed her entire life. Perhaps she had.

Her head turned to consider the other elf. The blue elf to her deep shade of purple. The elf whose white hair stretched well past her shoulders, while her own green hair was pulled back. Or it had been tied back when she had come in. Maybe that had changed. Things could change so easily.

Scratches took her face in hand, jerking it to the side to force her to stare her in the eyes. She stared back, unblinking. She could see her glowing blue eyes reflect off of the elf's skin. She could see how much the elf was disturbed by her. The rotting shade of purple. To think, this may be the closest one of them had been to their kin, or at least kin from outside their city walls.

And their kin was rotting. They were rotting too. She saw it in them. They craved, like she did. They wanted, like she did. She knew they fed off of something else, but it was a hunger all the same. Something that would drive them mad. All of them were going to either die, or live long enough to go mad.

Pounds approached just as her colleague. She stared, bent over, looking her over. Tried to get her attention a few times to no avail. Once she realized it wasn't going to happen, she gave up. They left.

They left here there. To rot. But she knew something they didn't want to admit. They could lock her away, thinking it punishment. But she was barely here anyways.

Wilting Away (Part 2)

Returning to the forests of Val'sharah was easily one of the last things on his to-do list. Or rather, had been one of the last things on his to-do list until a few hours ago. All the same, standing there, looking down one of the roads that lead from Val'sharah into Suramar, he was very much recalling why he had marked the place off.

Having never been one for forests, the place didn't appeal to him to begin with. Forests were certainly not a terrible place, but being surrounded by trees, with numerous animals slinking about wasn't exactly his idea of a perfect spot. Add to that a whole sect of druids running around, and he didn't exactly feel at his most comfortable. Not that there was anything wrong with druids. He could generally find them agreeable, once they moved past believing that he was an abhorrent crime against nature itself. They were at least easier to get along with than people of the Light.

Perhaps he should have found comfort in the fact that they weren't going to be staying in Val'sharah long. Really they had stopped so he could try picking up a scent, of which there was almost none. From there they were going to make their way through Suramar, combing the land over until they found their errant knight. A task that was most assuredly going to be easier said than done. Having done his fair few laps around the area, he couldn't even begin to count all the various nooks and crannies that the elf they were searching for could have crawled into. That didn't even begin to take into account the idea that she could have made her way to the city. And if she happened to be prancing around Suramar City, then they were both in trouble.

Motioning Simmons on, they started making their way down the path, the greens of Val'sharah slowly giving way to the blues and browns of Suramar. Oh yes, Redamous couldn't help but think, if Elena had managed to find her way to Suramar City, they were most certainly screwed. Which made him think that, on principal, she had somehow found her way to Suramar City. Nothing was ever in the habit of going right, especially not with that elf.

She hadn't been right since Northrend, and he hadn't known her long enough to tell if she had been right before then either. Though to be fair, a number of people he associated with couldn't be considered 'right'. He himself probably couldn't even be considered 'right' by at least a few people's notions. Even if he liked to consider himself fairly normal. Normal, as far as undead hulking wolf creatures went, at least.

At points along the path where they caught signs of someone potentially breaking off the trail, they themselves would break off to search the nearby forests, almost always coming up with nothing. Here and there would be broken branches, or heavily stomped ground, but nothing ever lead them to the elf they sought. They did find plenty of other elves, be it Nightfallen in the area seeking out mana, various withered, or even elves from the Alliance or Horde who happened to be  in the area. The sane elves they asked for any potential clues in their hunt, only to be met with vague tales.

Things like mentions of a crazed elf heading south, muttering to herself. Only when they went south, whispers turned them back towards the east, where they found out that from there she had circled around to the north again. It had been half a day before they realized that they had been going in a circle, and only ended up back at Shal'aran, where the bulk of the Nightfallen were housed. At Simmons's request, they stopped inside to poke around, at which point they finally struck a lead.

One of the Nightfallen, apparently recently having fled the city, spoke in great detail about an elf matching Elena's description. Apparently a herbalist by trade, he had directed her after having stumbled across her.

"Oh yes," he told them, shaking his head as though apparently in some sense of disbelief that the encounter had ever occurred, "Yammered to herself the entire time. Speaking of local flora. Green haired elf, wild, blue eyes like yourself. Smelled faintly of rot and roses. I directed her to a particular spot near a bridge and a waterfall to the northeast of the city."

Redamous thought Simmons was prepared to hug the man. But he restrained himself, shook his hand, and they departed, setting off once more to draw closer to the city. The one place Red could almost feel Wiltmend had wandered into, and the last place they would have an easy time searching for her.

Wilting Away (Part 1)

A mixture of noises filled the second floor of Acherus. From the patter of feet, both small and large, against the stone, to the sound of hammer striking metal over the anvils, the floor was positively abuzz with life. Down in the pit was the sound of wood splintering as weapons were tested on dummies, or the occasional grunt of a live target as a demon that had been hauled in from the Isles was used instead. It reminded him constantly of how insect colonies were supposed to work.

Because in spite of all the motion, nothing ever seemed to stop. People were zipping this way and that, going here, there, and everywhere. But there were surprisingly few collisions. Sure every now and then a ghoul or geist would make a faulty turn and run straight into someone carrying a large stack of ore or paperwork, but in the last hour that had happened something like twice. All things considered, he believed that to be some sort of record.

What wasn't a record was how long everything seemed to take these days. Just to get a simple piece of armor made he felt he needed to submit the proper forms two to three weeks in advance. Such was the burden of the Blade being active again. The services of the Siegemaster were actually in demand now, a fact that he let slip no one's attention. Not that being in business again was enough to stop Corvus from complaining. Every single task was rife with bickering over the smallest of details, be it the amount of ore needed for smelting, to how long something should cool off.

Elsewhere the other various vendors that haunted these upper halls were just as busy. Making sure that the various members of the numerous legions of the damned were all outfitted with anything they may need on the field was no small task, and last he had heard just to keep them all stocked was a massive undertaking unto itself. One being carried out by numerous alchemists being assisted by double their number in geist. Which, far as he thought, was a recipe for Acherus to soon have a massive hole blown in the side of it.

Not that any complaint he filed was going to get listened to. The Blade was far past listening to most of its officers. Instead they were listening to some 'Deathlord' he had never met, and was unlikely to ever meet. On top of that, far as he'd heard, the new Lich King had entered the picture. Based on the reports he had read, especially in regards to recent happenings at Light's Hope Chapel, nothing from the past few months left him with any positive light on upper management at the moment. If anything, his opinion had hit an all time low, with little sign that it was going to spike back up any time soon.

Closer to the landing, people continued to enter and exit the floor, the teleporter getting more use than it must have had in years. People from the front coming in to recuperate or retrieve something they had left behind. Others seemed to have acquired new weapons, probably picked from the fallen corpses of demons, and were in the process of applying new runes to them to make them viable for combat. Soon as they were done, it was back to the teleporter, probably to find a gryphon back to the front.

Redamous had had plenty of time to observe all of this. Mostly because he had been waiting here for the past two hours, back leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Because despite of all his early planning, what he had requisitioned was still not ready. It wasn't that long ago that he had submitted the form, but by now everything should have been processed. Hell, it should have been processed last week. But no, his head was going to go unprotected for a little while longer while he waited for Corvus to finally get to his order. Because he had known that helmet was bound to get smashed in. That was just something that seemed to tend to happen with his head. So it had gotten crushed, he had come to finally pick up the replacement, except there was no replacement to pick up.

And now he waited. Standing there against the wall. Watching. Or at least he had been, until some rock managed to hit him square in the head. Blinking, he pushed himself from the wall, squinting about the busy floor, until another rock hit him square in the back of the head. Rubbing the now sore spot with a short grunt, the Worgen turned, squinting into a pile of crates. A hand shot out from behind one of them, beckoning him closer. With more than a little anger, the Worgen slowly approached the crates, only for the hand to shoot out from behind them once more, grabbing him by the collar of his armor and tugging him back behind as well.

Entirely prepared for some sort of conflict, the Worgen raised a fist, ready to strike, though he quickly dropped it. He blinked a few times to make sure that he was seeing things correctly. Far as he could tell, yes, he was. Before him stood a familiar man, one Jeremy Simmons. An old brother-in-arms from the unit he had been attached to during his time in Northrend. A unit that had happened upon a rather unfortunate end, due to unforeseen circumstances, from which there had proven to be three survivors. Simmons was one of them, he was another, and the third was one Elena Wiltmend. Elena being nowhere to be seen. Something told him that that was why Simmons happened to be staring him down with a desperate look in his eye.

"Red," was all the other man could seemingly produce word-wise, staring the Worgen down, gathering his thoughts.

"...Simmons," Red said flatly in reply, after a short pause. There wasn't much else he could think to say. He could ask where Elena was, but something told him he was going to get told anyway.

"She's gone," Simmons said, tone hollow. Redamous blinked, bringing a clawed hand up to motion him on, an eyebrow shooting up as though to say "And?" Simmons took in a breath, "She ran off while we were crossing through Val'sharah."

Even if the name didn't immediately stick out to him, it didn't take long for the place to come rushing back to his brain. He knew Val'sharah well enough, on account of having been stuck there near the start of the campaign. Which had involved far too much time spent walking through far too many marshes for his liking. It was a rather large area, but not necessarily one that couldn't be covered. Which meant something worse.

He nodded slowly, actually speaking to ask his question this time, rather than rely on facial gestures, "...And?"

Simmons took in a breath, blue eyes flicking this way and that in panic, "She ran into that Suramar place. Ran off with some elves or something. Haven't been able to find her since."

Red nodded slowly, considering that for a moment. After that moment had passed, he turned, and began walking straight past the crates. Simmons blinked, following along after him, "Where the hell are you going?"

Ophelia

"Given enough time, and enough effort, anything is plausible."

Her mother had told her that. It was practically her favorite turn of phrase. It had been brought up whenever she was growing weary of something. Whether it be training, or studying, or any other difficult pursuit, she had always been reassured that with persistence, she would endure. She hadn't really given it much thought at the time. Even when conquering her latest endeavor, she hadn't given it much of a thought.

But now a-days it feel on her mind more often. She questioned the entire plausibility of it. Surely there were plenty of people who had put in as much time and effort as they had available and still failed. Not that that discounted the saying, really. It just meant that they hadn't had enough time or enough effort to give, and thus failed.

She allowed the quill in her hand to drop, settling down on her desk near her latest written work, hands coming to rub her forehead. It was only a matter of time until that was her. All this time, and all this effort wasn't going to matter for her in the end. Perhaps it was best that she knew that. It was because she knew that she was already preparing people to take up her work in the aftermath of her passing. Time and effort would continue being poured in because the project deserved it. Azeroth deserved it, as did the Legion.

Every day that passed seem to bring that possibility closer. Duskwood had finally caught up with the rest of her schedule, which meant that soon enough over pieces would start falling into place. Some things had been interrupted, true, but most others had progressed accordingly. Or at least as accordingly as such a plan could. Sheer disruption of operations was impossible, especially with something as large a scale as the Broken Isles's campaign. Elsewhere though things were somewhat stabler or weakened, which meant that they were more open to being abused.

For now though there was mostly the matter of dealing with the particular Knights who had decided to bother her. Or at least setting up the process of doing so, should she not be able to do so in her time.

There was a wrapping at the door of her office. A quick flick of her wrist sent one of the ghouls resting in one of the corners of the room stumbling towards the door and slowly pulling it open. Beyond stood another Knight of the Ebon Blade, his lich blue eyes peering out from behind a standard helm. Another flick of her wrist called him forward. He swiftly set a letter on her desk, saluted, and turned to leave without another word. The ghoul closed the door and shuffled back from wince it had come.

Producing a letter opener from a drawer, she slashed at the envelope. Pulling out the letter within her eyes ran down the page as swiftly as possible, mouth curling upward somewhat. It was at least somewhat more than she was expecting. It was also more than enough to work with. She quickly scribbled out a letter of her own, produced an envelope and sealed it with a quick press from a stamp. Another flick of the wrist brought a geist forward as the ghoul shuffled back towards the door. With one glance at the envelope's delivery address, the geist bobbed its lone eye up and down, making for the door which the ghoul jerkily opened and closed, before returning to its corner.

And just like that, things were in motion once again. It brought a smirk to her lips. More time and effort to be poured in. More things to make plausible.

Hate

For the most part, he liked to think that he gave everyone a fair shake. Didn’t matter if they had grown up in the woods, on some other world, or were burdened by some curse. If he hated someone, it pertained more to their individual character than anything else.

               Sure, in a number of ways he was predisposed to individuals of a certain descent. He’d grown up hearing stories of orcs and other monstrous creatures, and while he now knew that their actual histories were far less one-sided, there were still moments throughout time that he could fully understand breeding large amounts of hate. But enough shared foes had given him the impression that if they could stop giving each other more reasons, that each side could likely get over their hate and be on agreeable enough terms.

               Yet if he was completely honest, at least with himself, in his own head with his own thoughts, he wasn’t entirely certain on some species or races. The poster child for such internal debates was, generally elves. Perhaps occasionally those among the Forsaken, where he could understand their position but disagree with their methods. But mostly elves. The main reason being that, for one reason or another, there was just something about them. There was just something about the way they held themselves, as though they alone stood atop a hill to look down on others. Maybe it was just their height. Even their tones seemed to carry downward. Or at least, some of them did so. To be entirely fair to them, it was far from being the case with all of them. It just happened to be that those he happened to recall were the types to do so.

               He had of course worked with plenty of elves, some still actively, others less so. Enough of them had certainly been decent folks, but Light if so many of them didn’t make his fist clench. Not that he couldn’t say the same for any other race.

               It was this sort of thing he debated and considered when being called to deal with these “withered” elves. Part of him felt that there should be some sort of joy to it. He could get a proper kick out of killing demons because the damned things bothered him so much. None of the same satisfaction was here.

               The dulled looks in their eyes. The mindless twitching. Aside from their appearance, which was but a gaunt imitation of an elf, they were hardly the same type of elf he had imagined decking right in the nose. The he’s he had to deal with here were treated more as acts of mercy than malice. Which was why when there was a request to thin the herd in some areas, rather than attempt to tame the damned things as some had apparently started trying to do, he took the request with some hesitation.

               It was with that hesitation that he picked through trees and bushes and vines, finding himself in the clearing that had been marked out for him, and stopping. His eyes flicked this way and that, taking note of each and every withered corpse that lined the ground. All told there had to be something like seven or eight of them. He took a few steps further into the clearing, frowning. They all were laid on their backs, hands placed on their stomachs, eyes closed.

               The Worgen lumbered near the closest corpse, dropping to a knee to examine it. The poor thing had taken a small blade to the throat, based on the line that ran across its neck. With the closed eyes and folded hands it almost looked like something set out in a funeral home. Save for the deathly thinness and scraps of clothes that adorned its body. Red frowned, correcting himself. ‘His’ body. At some point this had been a man, not just some…Thing. Scanning further down the corpse his eyes narrowed, noting that what had remained of the man’s pockets had been turned outward, and revealing the holes that had probably been dug in by twitching fingers.

               Standing, he marched off along the trail of bodies. Whoever had done this group in had apparently wandered off near the foliage of the forest once they were done, if the increased amount of corpses near the trees was anything to go off of. They had encountered even more withered there, since more were splayed out in the shadows of the trees. There hadn’t been as many, as he wandered through trying to determine which direction to go next he encountered three or so, but there was enough to make him wonder what the hell had come through here. Or who the hell. Whichever.

               He didn’t get to see whether or not there were further dead past here. As he was taking note of how this set’s pockets, when they had pockets at least, were turned out as well, he was swiftly struck from the side. Though ‘struck’ likely wasn’t the best word. Rammed, or rather ran into. It was with enough force to make him stumble somewhat, but it was apparently his assaulter who took the brunt of any force, as they found their way to the ground.

               The individual in question, some hooded figure covered in robes, was busy rubbing their hands with their boney, gloved hand. He cocked a brow as the attire started to ring a bell in his brain, leaning forward somewhat to offer a hand to help the woman up. Her hand quivered, apparently taking quite a bit of focus to maneuver, but he helped her stand all the same.

               The woman gave him a passing glance, blue eyes settling on his face for but a moment before they were apparently satisfied and began looking elsewhere. Her voice held the same shake that her hands did, as though the earth was moving around her, “Redamous. Ah. A plea-pleasure.”

               He cocked a brow, looking around for a moment to try to find whatever it was she was looking for, before looking back to the elf herself, “Miss Xanthe.” Red paused for a moment, trying to settle on a string of words that wouldn’t come off as too offensive. “You doin’ okay?”

               She laughed, but he couldn’t tell if it was at what he said or some stray thought that had crossed her mind. Her head shook from side to side, fingers twitching at her side, “Yes, yes. I mean. No.” He couldn’t see her mouth behind her scarf, but based on her eyes it was held firmly in a frown. “I am. I am looking for. For mana. For a crystal. To. To hold me over.”

               With a short nod he idly dug a hand into his bag, producing one of the rocks that happened to be so coveted in this part of the world. Dealing with these elves had left him practically needing to keep them on hand. When having to converse with one of the ‘Nightfallen’ to determine what exactly they needed done it wasn’t uncommon for whoever he was talking to run off mentally, and so it had helped to bring them back to their more stable states. Far as he was aware collecting the little gems had become far more common as of late for similar reasons.

               He could hardly blink before the elf snatched away the mana crystal, running a short distance and keeping her back to him as she did whatever needed to be done with it. Part of him thought she was prepared to take his entire arm off if that was what it took to get her hands on the damned thing. Her body shivered and shuddered while she regained her composure. By the time she turned to face him again, her posture was fixed and straight, her chin held outward somewhat, allowing her eyes to look down on him, even though he stood over her. The twitching in her hands had subsided, and her voice was steadied and proper. In short, she was as much an elf as he would have expected. At least when she wasn’t suffering from withdrawal.

               “You will have to forgive me,” she muttered, allowing her hands to link in front of her waist, “This would be the second time you have helped me with such an issue, and I am exceedingly thankful for such.”

               He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug, “Wasn’t just gonna watch you stagger around or nothin’.” The statement entirely true, and much less blunt than saying ‘I didn’t want to watch you wander around looking for a fix’. To say it made him uncomfortable was an understatement.

               “Well, all the same. You have my thanks, and I would hope that I can do something for you in return at some point.”

               Redamous shrugged again, motioning around at the withered scattered about, “Looks like you might have already. Was supposed to come out and here do this anyway.”

               She gulped, looking down at the dead. He didn’t know for certain that she had done them in, but nothing here pointed to it being anyone else. She took her turn to shrug, gaze turning down as though in shame as she did so, “Well. That as it may be, I would not consider us even in our debt.” There was a pause, one where he tried to find a few words to breach the subject of why exactly she was out here, but she beat him to the punch, “It’s simply just. Difficult. To watch them stagger about.”

               He nodded, “Agreed. Same reason I don’t put much thought into doin’ it, honestly.”

               A look crossed her face, or at least the part of it that wasn’t covered by cloth. He couldn’t decide if she looked relieved or satisfied with the answer. “I like to believe that it is what they might want. To not suffer further. To not be.” She turned for a moment to look down at one in particular, tilting her head, “Locked in themselves, or to do nothing but crave.” His skin crawled at the thought. She turned to face him once more, taking in a breath, “So I shall give them their leave. And pray that my brothers and sisters may be able to strike deeper.”

               “What,” he said, brow raising again, “At those folks in that big city a yours’?” It was the most likely answer. He wasn’t aware of anywhere nearby that housed more Shal’dorei than Suramar. Or for that matter, a single city that housed more individuals he wanted to punch in the mouth, save maybe Darnassus or Silvermoon.

               Every tale from the city made him angry, from how its citizens were apparently caught under the thumb of demons now, to how they also ran the risk of simply being chewed up and spit out. She appeared to share a similar sentiment.

               “Yes,” her eyes darkened as she spoke. “Those of us who are allowed to thrive through deals with devils. Those who suppress the will of the people and do this,” she idly tossed a hand in the direction of the withered, “To us.”

               He looked down at the thing, nodding once more in agreement, “Terrible thing to do to folks. Ain’t gonna get no disagreement outta me.”

               “The worst thing to do to an individual,” she stated flatly. “To toss them to the wilds, taking what they truly need and leaving them to become an animal.” Her fingers appeared to twitch at the very thought, though she quickly regained control of them. They clinched into a fist as she paced around somewhat, riled. An awkward cough escaped her as she calmed herself down, “You will have to excuse me.”

               Redamous shook his head, “Got a right to be mad at ‘em.”

               “I do,” she muttered, “But to go on like this does nothing but belay any sort of vengeance.” The fist unclenched, “You shall have to excuse me, Redamous. But I feel far too tightly wound for this conversation.”

               “Should probably tell somebody that it’ll be safe to pass through here for a while anyway.”

               “Indeed.” It was all she said for a long moment, but she didn’t turn to leave for anything of the sort. Instead she lingered, as though focused on the idea of ejecting from the conversation properly, and not with such shortness.

               “Perhaps we can converse at length about things in the future. When I am feeling far less…” She trailed off, searching for a word, but never really finding one. He couldn’t help but wonder if what little he had provided her was already slipping away, but instead settled on the idea that such absent-mindedness was likely just a usual thing for those such as her now.

               “Fair enough,” he said, not allowing her to dwell on the matter too much. With a small wave, he turned and began walking off in the direction he had come from. It let her leave with him being the one to have severed things for now.

               Passing back through the clearing from prior he couldn’t help from glance down at her handiwork. Addicts and elves. That part wasn’t the worst thing of all of this. It had to be the mindlessness. The loss of self, the desperation. He took in a breath, not that he needed it.

The thought simply absolutely terrified him.

Return to Sender

As she had constantly said up to this point, the entire situation was unfair. Not that things were ever fair for her. But this time things were exceptionally more unfair than they had ever been before.

Because it was simply not fair that everyone else in the city had gotten to go home, which meant that they had went home to their families, and she didn't. Of course she didn't have any of that to go back to, save for a home town she really didn't like one bit. So after much pouting, the only decent answer for her origin the mages of Dalaran had managed toe xtract was that she was from Duskwood. Specifically Darkshire.

Despite her complaints, she obviously had no love of the place, there was just no way the majority of them felt safe keeping her in the city as it moved across the world. Regardless of how proficient she was in tossing around a fireball or two, which to be fair she was surprisingly decent at, she couldn't be constantly watched well enough to keep her in check. So it was back to Duskwood for her, for her safety and theirs, regardless of how dark and dreary a place it was.

Of course, given their very narrow view of the subject, they hadn't accounted for the strain it might put on the simple townsfolk they were tossing her to. They had assumed she would simply click back into place, go back to the farm or whatever the heck it was that people in the middle of an eerie forest did. They weren't aware of how long the people of Darkshire had dealt with her as a problem already.

When she was a child, they had been used to letting her cycle about town. It made them feel a bit better, knowing that she wasn't at home, and still had a roof over her head. Such feelings were good to have when one's home was a short distance from a forest full of murderous animals and undead monstrosities that all wanted to murder you.

But there had come a point where housing a grown woman, polite company as she may have been, as well as her aging mutt, had simply become nonsensical. What followed was a period of encouragement and attempts at engagement, tosee if they couldn't have her be a bit more than a simple layabout.

And to be completely fair to the girl, she had tried. It just so happened that 'trying' resulted in a series of gaffes and goofs, a few of which still got brought up to lighten the mood or to befuddle wandering travelers.

Eventually the girl had grown frustrated enough to leave town, stomping off in a fit to some dark corner of the woods. Despite some searching, they honestly hadn't heard much of her since. The only memorable time the topic had been breached again, at least until now, had been one some odd group of deaders had inquired as to her history, and swiftly departed without much information given as to why exactly they were prying into such matters.

But now the girl was back, and being passed about between houses again. For the most part she was the same, a bit older and perhaps a bit odder. That, and for some reason her dog seemed to reek of death and looked as though it had more than just a passing illness.

And Almaria positively did not like it at all. She wanted to go back to sleepding in a bed that was meant for her. Not one that no one had cared about for a long time. It didn't help that it just didn't feel right. She could toss this way or that way, but sleep just wouldn't come visit.

It only took an hour or two of trying for her to give up on the notion completely. She idly tossed an arm in the direction of the one candle that shared the room with her, and looked down at the rotting dog nearby, arms crossing as she pondered.

After a few short thoughts, she stood up, causing the mutt to stir a bit. Its head lazily tracked her about the room. First she found her way back into her day clothes, which mostly consisted of an old red robe. Soon after she found her shoes and her bag, and not long after she called the mutt after her, quietly of course, as she slipped out into the dark night.

Even in rather low light it wasn't hard for her to navigate the road. She had wandered through Duskwood enough times to know it like the back of her hand. And while she had often been told scary stories of wolves and other creepy creatures stalking about, they apparently decided to leave her well enough alone.

For the longest time she just assumed she would hit the bridge that lead on to Westfall, turn back around and try sleeping again. That distance alone would probably be enough to tucker her out. But right before she could step along the stone and over the water to start doubling back, something caught her eye along the shore. Flickering beneath the cobwebbed trees was a small fire. A niggling voice at the back of her head urged her to continue back, but the rest of her simply suggested 'What's the worst that could happen?'.

Three individuals stood were crouched around the fire, sitting on what had to have been recently moved logs. Their packs had been tossed around their makeshift camp, and bare-bones tents had been placed nearby. The people themselves wore dark robes and hoods, under which she could easily see that their skin appeared to follow suit, looking light and grey, as though they barely saw the sun.

One of them noticed her in moments. A large, brutish man with broad shoulders who quickly stood, hand racing toward his belt. The other two quickly turned to take note of the woman approaching their rest stop rising as well.

The figure closest to her was a woman, or so she guessed based on their slimmer figure and sharper eyes. Their soft, sultry voice backed that up, "Calm yourself Mortimer." Her head drifted in the direction of the large man, who complied with a grunt, letting his hand drop. Appearing satisfied with the motion, the woman turned back towards Almaria, eyes narrowing as she likely smirked behind the cloth that hid the rest of her face. She drew closer to the other woman, eyeing her over with a bored look in her eyes, which only brightened when she made note of the hound following close behind their guest.

Almaria had long since stiffened, looking awkward and out of place, a hand coming up to rub her arm as she debated simply turning around and walking back to town as fast as possible. Yet she couldn't bring herself to move while the woman advanced upon her, like a predator might on its prey, eyes narrowing once more as the grey lady spoke, "What brings you to our neck of the woods at this time of night my dear?"

Almaria gave a short shrug, looking away nervously, "I couldn't sleep." Her voice shook as the other woman stared at her, pale eyes housed by a paler face seeming to pierce everything about her.

Reaching up to pull her mask down, the woman revealed her smile. She calmly approached Almaria, grinning horribly and extending a hand. "Why don't you come sit down and tell us all about it, dear." With a long, debating look, Almaria took the hand, shrugging, and quickly being led off towards the fire.

Reliance

               Somewhere there was some old sheet of paper with his name on it. That was the assumption he worked off of. It detailed what was expected of him, and had probably been updated over the years. Hell, it probably wasn’t just a single page anymore. Said set of pages probably detailed what his duties were since having been continuously cursed with different titles. Not that he hadn’t tried to have all of that nonsense stopped some time ago. Regardless, Redamous was almost dead certain of one thing. Nowhere on any piece of that document did it likely say “go find glowing rocks for elves”.

               Sure, there were probably details regarding dealing with potential allies in a positive manner. And these elves certainly seemed to be potential allies. All the same, picking rocks out of the ground and dealing with the mindless addicts that were prowling about wasn’t high on his to-do list. He paused his train of thought to bend over and toss another blue crystal in the bag he had going, slinging it over his shoulder once it was in place amongst the others.

               All in all this entire arrangement seemed to be a recipe for disaster. At any point if the supply chain stopped their would-be allies could easily slip into as mindless as a ghoul, and if someone along the supply chain decided it was time to starve their friends for whatever reason it would prove to be a rather nasty negotiation tactic.

               The worgen paused once more to kneel down at retrieve a few pebble sized crystals, adding them to the bag and again throwing it back over his shoulder when it was tied shut. As he made to stand up he paused mid-motion, an ear twitching. He remained halfway kneeled down for a minute or two, he had struggled with more exact timing since the need to sleep and such had departed, until he was certain that nothing nearby was moving. Some shambling elf had sprung themselves on him enough times to make him not want to relive the experience yet again.

               Continuing through the thicket of trees he had decided to cut through, he debated whether or not this was one of the bigger mistakes he had made in the past few days. On the one hand, there wasn’t a swamp here, far as he had seen, which made it better than Val’sharah in the sense that his bare feet weren’t getting all muddy and damp. On the other hand, Val’sharah, despite its corruption issues, hadn’t tossed its psychotic denizens at him from the tops of trees and under patches of grass. Sure, he had found more of these crystals off the beaten path, but the fact that there was less to be found on the path meant that there were less things hovering around the path. Either way, here he was.

He curved off to the left as he found some sort of cliff side, the top of which he couldn’t see through the trees. It was bound to lead out to something, and at present the most he was going to hope for was that it was a peaceful something. Getting lost was hardly a concern, what with the fact that a death gate made Acherus a few moments away. Red came to a halt as the cliff jutted inward somewhat, with the ground moving downward to follow suit.

On the one hand, descending into a dark cave was just asking for something untoward to happen. The other possibility was that other people had thought the same, and that there would be enough of these damned crystals down there that he could call it a fairly successful day. There wasn’t much debate on the matter. Anything that could make this go quicker was something worth at least a try.

Striking a torch he raised it close to the ceiling, descending into the cave, eyes peeled for anything blue. Within a few minutes of rounding corners he had added at least four or five to his haul, and only found more the further he went. By the time the cave had quit winding his bag was full enough to call the whole ordeal a success. Which was good, considering by the time the cave had quit winding his surroundings had changed enough to make him want to leave.

The first thing he noted were indentions in the wall, which appeared to be places to house torches at one point in time. Soon enough what seemed to be holes that had once housed traps, as shown by the old mechanisms that were broken and abandoned below said holes, a few of the piles containing arrows or old stones bearing runes. Once he had left the long hallway it became most apparent that someone had been here before he had. Long before he had, he assumed.

The hallway lead to a large circular space, with no exit save the one he had come through, far as he could tell. His jaw grew slack somewhat as he slowly entered the chamber. Peppered around the room were tables and bookshelves, all covered with aged instruments, texts, and pages of some script he could only guess was elven. Red lowered his bag from his shoulder, laying it against one of the tables near him as he slowly circled the room. There was nothing to be gathered from any of the books, unless he could convince someone from the area to translate for him, which wasn’t a struggle he felt like going through at the moment. Most everything else was too worn to be useful, or even recovered. The tables were damp and rotting, the glasses and beakers they housed broken or smashed. As he reached up to tap one of the more whole cylinders, his ear twitched once more at a small noise behind him.

The noise got louder as he turned, flicking the glass on accident as he did so. Near the entrance some slate of stone fell into place, a few spots on the ceiling blinking with light as it did so. The wards coming to life caught his attention long enough that he almost missed the fact that someone was actually standing in front of the entrance, and had likely just barely missed being smashed between the new stone and the wall.

Redamous stood as rigid as possible, waiting for the other individual to move. He allowed his hand to lower somewhat, directing the torches light more at the figure than the room on the whole. Their attire was almost entirely covering, and rather soft in terms of material, with not a piece of armor in sight. Their face was concealed under a hood, with a scarf covering the lower half of their head. Their torso was covered in some long-sleeved shirt and coat, a long cloak which appeared to be attached to the hood stretching from the front side of their right shoulder all the way down their back.

His company’s head tilted somewhat as they apparently examined him. Their arms remained at their side, fingers, occasionally twitching in their gloves, involuntarily tapping at the side of their legs. Their left foot seemed to follow suit, tapping along to some unseen beat. By the time the appeared to move of their own volition rather than some sort of tick, it was towards the bag of crystals he had left near the door. They paused in front of it, but didn’t lean over to pick through it. Their hand traced the wall as they circled the room, walking closer to the worgen.

“I would never fault someone here’s ability to keep someone from taking any of their things, even in death.” He turned as the figure moved along, keeping her, and it was a her far as he could tell from the voice, as they drew closer to him.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten locked in by some stupid trap,” he muttered, keeping himself at the ready should what conversation there was turning sour.

The woman nodded, stopping as she reached the worgen. Up this close it was easier to identify the blue skin and seemingly curved face under the hood. Even if his interactions with the Nightfallen had been short up to this point, they looked different enough for him to know this was one of them. She didn’t stop to give him enough time to dwell on the matter, motioning for him to move to the side, which he did. Continuing to prod the wall, she glanced over her shoulder, voice somewhat forcibly steady, “What brings you to our woods, beast-man?”

Red couldn’t help but let out a snort, “Technical term’s ‘Worgen’ thanks. ‘Beast-man’ or ‘beast-folk’s a bit offensive.”

The response produced an uneven chuckle in the elf, who nodded, silently muttering “Fair enough.”

“And I were,” he paused, glancing at his pack for a moment, “Rock gatherin’.”

“Getting mana crystals for the locals. A relatable endeavor.”

She stopped in front of a section of the wall, pressing inward until a section of the rock sunk into itself. He could only assume she looked more than a bit smug as she turned to look at the stone door swing back open.

He worked his way around the room, in the opposite direction she had, finding himself facing her near the door. Slowly bending over to fetch his pack, he looked back to the elf, cocking a brow, “Assume you’re out doin’ the same, then. With it bein’ ‘relatable’.”

The elf paused, even down to her twitching fingers, as though she had suddenly become aware of them. “I suppose I am.” He could see her blink a few times, turning back to look at the room on the whole, “Sometimes it’s nice to forget about it for a bit.” She chuckled again, looking back to him, “A little distraction, or a brain-teaser.”

Redamous nodded somewhat, glancing down at his bag, pulling it open. He grabbed a few of the gems sitting inside, tossing them in the elf’s direction. She was apparently caught off guard enough that she nearly didn’t catch them. She looked between them and their donator for a long period of time, until he finally muttered “Make it a bit easier.”

They stood in silence for a moment, until he started his way out of the cave. She coughed to draw his attention for a moment, “Do you ‘worgen’ have names?”

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder to nod, “We do, as it happens. Redamous. Or Red, if that’s too on the long side a things.”

The elf glanced down at the mana crystals again, before looking up at the worgen with a nod, “Then I thank you, Redamous. And I do hope to see you further down the path.” Her attention shot back to her new prize for a moment, before a thought occurred to her as he began to walk off again, “I am Xanthe.”

Red sighed, stopping again. He turned somewhat this time to look the elf more in the eyes, and nodded. “Nice meetin’ you,” he said, offering a small nod, before turning around to exit the cave, and begin wandering back to wherever his delivery was due.