Preparations

 
             The room was sizeable, which was an oddity in and of itself. Space would always be limited, unless one wanted to bring mages and their various tinkerings with temporal order into the conversation, and no exception to that rule was given to Acherus. But for a room to be of decent size in the necropolis, and an office of all rooms was practically unheard. Unless of course one happened to be standing within some of the deepest offices delegated to the highest, or lowest depending on how you looked at it, of the Acherus Central hierarchy.

                To most of the world, namely the living, the room was essentially a large freezer, minus the meats that might usually be contained in one. The room’s metallic walls, which had been selected in place of the structure’s usual stone, only added to the effect.

In the center of the room sat a broad desk, with low-lit lamps resting on top of it, the fire inside of them burning a lich blue. The blue hues they cast matched the glow produced by the eyes of the figures who sat behind the desk, their features hidden in the recesses of their seemingly endless hoods.

As far as he was concerned, this was the closest he could ever be brought to some circle of some Hell he had read about during his days of studying religion abroad. The circle dedicated to those who had refused to send in their taxes with everything signed in triplicate, who at the same time had committed the act of stealing firewood in the winter. Not that he had done either of those things. Or at least, not that he would admit to have doing either of those things.

Samuel Dorsey brought the folder that had been requested by the two and placed it in front of them. He had never been informed of their names, and as far as he was aware they no longer had any. They were simply wraiths of puppeteers, left to haunt Acherus and continue to pull at an endless amount of unseen strings, left to the orders of the Highlord far above.

One of them extended their hand, which even within its glove appeared boney, and pulled the folder back, slowly working through the various papers within. The only reason he could tell they were actually looking at them was because the orbs housed deep within their cowls. Finally the orbs once again seemed to focus on him, a voice emanating from the figure’s general direction.

“How accurate do you believe these reports to be?” the one on the left said, the voice decidedly male. It was hard to even describe the noise as a voice, as it sounded closer to a deep, icy wind.

“Our sources have given us truthful information thus far, sir,” Dorsey answered, noticeably more ‘normal’ sounding in comparison. “The information we have received thus far has been mostly factual, save for an estimated eleven percent of the reports. That is a high statistic in comparison to a number of our other informants.”

“But there is no estimated time of an event.” That voice came from the figure on the right, and while just as icy, was more feminine.

“No, ma’am,” Dorsey responded, shifting his attention to the right now. “We have only word that the trial in Pandaria did not go as planned, and that it could be expected that something sizeable will be occurring at some point in the future.”

“Then we will need to respond,” the one on the left said, taking a pause as if to consider his words, “To whatever situation will present itself.”

“If it is comparable to the last number of incidents, it is possible that there will be an incursion on another section of the world,” she responded, the two beginning to talk amongst themselves.

“Should that be the case then we shall need increase representation in the conflict, from either side. Simply placing allowing Knights to fight on either side has not allowed our image to remain in high spirits, I am certain.”

“Thus a firm encampment or garrison is advised. Assign a small team of specialists for decreased losses but more likely chances of versatility in the field.”

“The leader of the party would not necessarily need to be of import, though some standing with rank could give the appearance of such.”

“Someone expendable.”

They both focused their gaze on Dorsey again, a note one of them had been writing as they spoke being tucked into an envelope which they slid towards him. On the envelope was written a brief set of instructions:

“Upon receiving the proper signals, this letter is to be delivered to its intended recipient.”

               

Apparitions

Written while listening to "I Believe" as performed by Melissa Hollick (Link)

 

            She slowly shuffled her way around the ring that made up the upper floors of Acherus, looking this way and that with disinterest. It should disgust her, it should make her stomach roll, if not worse, and yet it did nothing to her anymore. Instead of being filled with things that she could not have even summoned up in her nightmares, numerous years had left it as just another place.

            Idly dragging her hand across the stone as she went, she allowed her eyes to continue to wander. Her feet came to a rest once she had come across the “Unholy” quarter. The entire place could have been summed up with such a word, yet they delegated it to this one spot in it.

            The acolytes were going about the same routine they always were. Skeletons. Ghouls. Geists. Clean up the bits, rinse, and repeat. The Blood Quarter was much the same. Repeating the same routine. Going through self-defense, practicing, repeat. In the Frost Quarter that routine involved, unsurprisingly, freezing things, or avoiding being frozen. It was all as it had been yesterday, and as it would be tomorrow, and it still no longer bothered her.

            Making her way upstairs, she could not help but notice that even those whose business revolved. Corvus complained as he had to toll away at his work, or lack thereof at times, despite the fact that many, herself included, would have been satisfied to have work to do. The abominations and other ghoulish servants delegated to managing transactions of the bartering nature stood in their positions waiting for someone to come along to browse their wares, despite the fact that visits to the Ebon Hold were less common these days.

            Some continued to train in the combat pit, whether flailing against one of the wooden dummies that would inevitably need repaired by a geist at some point or among each other, though the latter was sometimes done in the Enclave, for a change of scenery, or for fear of drawing unwanted attention she did not know. It did not take much for faction-held beliefs to spill out in the Hold, and she had witnessed such multiple times when she decided to wander. Even in a place dedicated to one cause, that was filled with those from both sides of conflict, it continued on.

            Conflict. Another thing she was desensitized to hearing of. Similarly, it was something that had disgusted her but no longer did. It had not taken long to realize that such was just part of the larger world. Disagreement and fighting was part of its culture, yet so was cooperation and assistance. Every time it seemed that conflict could almost destroy, or every time conflict did destroy, it was put to a halt by other means and forced cooperation.

            Turning towards the balcony, she noted him, resting as usual against the railing and staring out over the Plaguelands, despite the rain. She frowned slightly, shaking her head. Of all the things in the world, there of course had to be one thing remaining that she couldn’t be numbed towards. There was a small part of her that wanted to focus on how silly he appeared, standing in the rain, but the rest couldn’t help but wonder why.

            He blamed himself. Not just for any one thing, but for multiple things. Some of those things had long since been forgiven, or at least that’s what she told herself. That she had forgiven him. Others were things where the blame could not entirely sit on his shoulders, not that it would ever stop him from believing otherwise.

            She made her way out onto the balcony, standing next to him. He glanced towards her for a short moment, before his eyes returned to the view below. She gently leaned on him, following his gaze off into the distance, off towards the west.

            The western side of the Plaguelands, as she well knew, was nothing like its eastern counterpart. It stood as proof that the land’s wounds, given enough time, could heal. She turned her gaze up at him, noting the smallest of smiles on his face, where before it had been stoic. Allowing herself one as well, she returned to looking at the horizon.

Burial

     He squinted, leaning forward against the wheel to try to see better. Of course it had to have started raining. Mother Nature on duty for mood fitting weather, every time. With a flick of his thumbs he turned the wipers on high, shifting his left foot to tap the button on the floor to turn the highbeams on. It didn't help much, and if he wasn't careful he was going to miss his turn.

     The front left tire met with an indention in the road, rocking the entire car. Behind him in the trunk he could hear a rather loud, metallic 'thump'. His left foot began tapping nervously. That turn was close, it had to be close. It was about fifteen minutes away from where he had turned off the last time, and it had been about... He shook his head. How long had it been since he had turned off? His fingers drummed against the wheel in rhythm with his foot. The turn was coming up soon. He just had to be watching for it.

     A sign in to a view, causing him to tap the breaks just long enough to read it. One mile. It was one mile to his turn. Bringing his right hand to the top of his head, he cleared the sweat from his forehead. First step, get there. Second step, take it from there. Get there first. Right.

     His foot met the break as he saw the road that lead off to his destination off to his right. Were the road not soaked by this point, the tires probably would have given a horrible creak, but done little else. Instead the car swerved against his will, the rear swinging out to the left before he finally managed to bring it to a halt. Slowly he crept up to the road, turning down it. He felt the change from asphalt to dirt. Step one was finished.

     A crack of thunder lit the surrounding area for a short moment. Off to his left was a large metal gate, and beyond it a number of sleeping people he was going to do his best to not disturb. In fact, he had no plans of going anywhere near those inside of the gate. All of his business was to be conducted outside it.

     The gate eventually disappeared to be replaced by trees on both side. He stopped, putting the vehicle in park and turning it off. Reaching down, he popped the trunk open. Taking a breath in, he exited his car, turning grabbing the flashlight he had brought with him.

     "Take it easy," he muttered to himself.

     Approaching the rear of the car, he pulled the trunk fully open, shining the flashlight into it. Its contents consisted of a large, filled trash bag, and a shovel. He shuddered, shaking his head and looking away, wincing as he did so. Step two. Take it from there. He had to take it from there. He had to. Another crack of thunder came, causing him to tense up. Finish it. Get it done, and leave. He had to get it done, and leave.

     With a grimace, he heaved the trash bag over his shoulder, flashlight clutched tightly in his hand. The beam moved around here and there as he looked for a good spot, finally settling on a small area between a number of trees. Leaning over, he dropped the trash bag on the ground, setting the flashlight next to it so that he could still see it as he straightened it out, making sure it formed as much of a rectangle as he could possible manage.

     Taking the flashlight, he retreated to the car, retrieved the shovel, and returned to the spot. Once again positioning the flashlight on the ground, he took to pressing the shovel into the ground around the trash bag, until he had a solid line formed around it. Plunging the shovel into the ground next to him, he rolled the trash bag off to the side, before plucking his tool up again, beginning to attack the ground within his new line. Every now and then the area would again light up because of a new flash of lightning, which only seemed to cause him to dig faster and faster.

     Once he had reached what he thought was a suitable depth, he emerged from his new hole, pushing the trash bag back into it. It hit the ground with a soft 'thud'. He returned to work, replacing the dirt he had pulled from the Earth to where he had found it, slowly filling the hole. He was sweating again, but at least this time it was from the labor.

     When the job was done, he admired his work for a moment, resting forward against the shovel. The ground was flattened as best he could manage it. For now the most he could hope is that the grass would grow over quickly, as the dirt was quite obvious with the green surrounding it. His left foot tapped rapidly again.

     He took slow breaths as he returned to his vehicle, replaced his tool where he had found it, and closed the trunk. A crack of thunder filled the air with sound for a short moment, caused by some strike of lightning he hadn't noticed. Returning to his position behind the wheel, he started the car, turning and heading back down the road he had came from. Eventually the metal gate appeared to his right again, lightning occasionally revealing what exactly it was protecting.

     He gave a soft chuckle, that turned into manic giggle. He squinted in the darkness, insuring that he wouldn't miss his turn. Finding the main road proved to be far simpler than finding this back one had been. Glancing to his right as the area was once again shone for a brief moment, he almost could have sworn he saw someone inside the gate, with a shovel and a small flashlight. Another short laugh escaped him. At least he wasn't some grave digger.

     What a horrible person a soul had to be to do something like that.

Shadowrun: Mistakes

The night air was cool. Fall was settling into Seattle early, it seemed. It didn't help the warehouse wasn't too far up from the ocean. He shivered slightly, tugging his collar up. Of course they weren't going to be assigning winter gear for another two weeks. His comm buzzed slightly from where it was left to hang on his belt, a man's voice coming through, “Report in.”

Nate pulled the comm off his belt and up to his mouth, “All quiet on the western front.” Around him the small alley he was set to patrol and monitor was silent as the grave.

“And what about you other two?” the man said. Henry Innes, head of security at this particular warehouse. Unlike the other heads of security Nate had had in the past, thus far he seemed like a decent sort. Sure as hell was hard to come by, as far as he had found.

Nate glanced around awkwardly even though there wasn't anyone around to be watching him for a nervous twitch, “Think they're taking their fifteen minute break.”

“At the same time?”

“Somethin' like that.”

Innes grumbled, “Well if they want a nice evening screw maybe they're better served to not be employed.”

A man of tact, as always. It was one of his respectable traits.

A woman's voice broke into the comm, an accent to it, “I have no idea what Malcolm is speaking of, sir.”

A third man broke in right after she spoke, “Got me.”

Innes gave a snort, “Of course you don't.”

Nathan Malcolm sighed, shaking his head. They would go on for sometime, back and forth with too many retorts to count. He replaced the comm on his belt, deciding it better to just look his rifle over.

Just another night at Evo's Seattle Warehouse 34B.

After about fifteen minutes, the argument was over and the status quo as usual didn't budge an inch. In the few conversations Innes and Nate had had outside of work, it was quite clear that the former really didn't see much point in it. The two were vigilant as the night was black for all but fifteen minutes of the night, and there were enough cameras to cover them for those fifteen minutes, as he put it. If he fired them he would have just had to find two more that probably would have had far less military training.

Nate had offered him a small chuckle, “That mean I'm more replaceable than them?”

Innes had shook his head, “Nah. Gotta have somebody to that can open the door to the security locker room when Mike locks us out.”

It wasn't exactly a great compliment, but it certainly gave him the impression that he had some sort of job security, even if it was as a glorified locksmith via the Matrix. Especially since Mike enjoyed locking them out, even more so on the longer hauls through the evening.

Nate had the impression that tonight was going to be one of those longer hauls. Every now and then he would shoot his watch a short look, only to see it had been all of ten minutes since the last time he had done so. Eventually an hour had passed, and then two. There were points where his head drooped slightly before it jerked back up, blinking a few times and pacing a bit to wake himself up. How he managed to even get drowsy in the chilly air surprised him.

Despite his near-naps, his rifle remained drawn, ready to fire should the need arise. “Always be prepared,” as Innes made sure to tell them all on at least a weekly, if not nightly, basis. “Because you never know when some punk Shadowrunner's gonna come around that corner and make a play on you.”

There was another near-nap coming on. He could feel it coming. Maybe he could just rest his eyes for a bit. It couldn't hurt. Just rest his eyes for a few moments, and then he'd be all rested up and ready to be fully on guard.

His comm beeped.

Nate's head jerked upward again. Nope. No no no. Now was not the time to be napping, obviously. He pulled his comm off his belt yet again, blinking as he saw the caller.

“Uh. Evenin',” he said, trying to not sound caught off guard.

The voice on the other end sounded as smooth as could be, “Hi there stranger.” He shook his head, trying to think of something to say, but she beat him to it. “What are you up to?”

“Uh,” he couldn't even think of a reason she would be calling this late, “Working. You?”

“Just sitting around. Thinking.”

“Oh yeah?” Nate asked, shaking his head. This wasn't going to go anywhere good. “What about?”

“Oh, you know. Things.”

He sighed silently. Why she had to be so vague sometimes was beyond him. “Well. That's specific.”

“Can,” she started to say, trailing off for a moment, “Can you come up here? Please?”

He took a few steps away from the building, rubbing his eyes, “Right now?” She didn't answer, and he wasn't even sure as to why he asked.

His fingers drummed nervously against his leg as the cab slowly made its way through the straights, his eyes set firmly out from the window. The driver would occasionally glance back at him in his rearview mirror, but didn't say anything. Outside the slums and lower-class neighborhoods were giving way to cleaner streets, that lacked the peddlers and things that defined less savory parts of town. Ironically, it was in this part of town that he would never actually feel comfortable, and he only came out here for one reason: Nicole Brenner.

Nate only knew her because he got shoved on the security team that was supposed to cover her when she was getting shown off by her father at some corporate event. Small talk during the event had turned into an invitation for dinner. Things had gone on from there. There had been points where he could have sworn she was the reason he still had a job, even if she had denied it every time he had brought it up.

By his count that had been maybe a year and a half ago. That seemed right to him. About a year and a half ago after he had gotten kicked off his last job for some product not making it to ship date on time. Those courses certainly paid off. All those years of telling his folks he wouldn't go into security work down the drain. He would at least give them one pro about them. The positions were plentiful.

The cab finally stopped in front of tall apartment complex. In appearance, it made the place he lived in look like a cardboard box. Maybe a bit worse than that. He paid his tab, plus a bit more, telling the driver he probably wouldn't be long.

The doorman straightened up slightly as he entered, offering him a small tip of his hat and a murmur of “Mister Malcolm.” Nate nodded in return. He should probably get that guy's name at some point so he could say something similar in return. The man in the elevator did the same, not even bothering to ask which floor he was going to.

The errant security guard watched the floor number slowly rise, tapping his foot against the carpeted floor in a steady rhythm.

“You seem a bit on edge, mister Malcolm,” the elevator man mused, hands folded behind his back. Despite the fact he was a dwarf, he didn't have much of an accent. Nate could recall Nicole having told him it had something to do with an accent not being “appealing” to the places tenants, whatever the hell that meant.

“It's nothin',” he muttered, shrugging.

The dwarf nodded in return, “I've heard that a few times, sir.”

“How many times were it truthful?”

“Very few.”

The doors slid open slowly, and Nate stepped out. His progress down the hallway was slow and steady. Last door on the right. That was his target. Get in, hear what she wanted to say, and deal with whatever situation that presented, and get back as quickly as possible. This was obviously going to end just fine. Obviously.

Reaching the door, he brought his hand up to knock, having to take a few tries to actually bring himself to do so. Get in. Get whatever needed done done. Stick to the plan.

A minute passed before she actually opened the door. She was dressed in a shirt made of a fabric he'd likely never heard of, with pants to match, her brown hair pulled back. Nicole smiled at him, motioning inside, “Fancy seeing you here.”

He nodded slightly, stepping inside just enough for her to close the door. “Ain't staying long,” he said as firmly as he felt was safe, “Gotta be back soon enough.” That was a lie. He shouldn't have left in the first place.

She shrugged her shoulders, resting back against the wall next to the door, arms crossing, “I can make it short.”

“Just couldn't say it over a comm.”

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “Couldn't say it over a comm.” He didn't say anything more, resting against the wall opposite her, fingers still drumming against his leg. “So I was doing some thinking,” she started, waiting for a response. He didn't give her one. “About something you mentioned a week or two back.”

His eyebrow slowly raised as he tried to recall the things he had mentioned in the past week. Nothing particular sprang to mind besides...

“And I finally decided that yeah, I figure if there's one guy in this city I'd hitch myself to it's...”

“What.”

She blinked a few times, “What?”

“You seriously mean that.”

“I do.”

The cab driver glanced over his shoulder as his previous customer re-entered, just like he said he would be doing. Except instead of looking like he was about ready to have a panic attack, he looked like someone had just hooked up jumper cables to his happy center.

“What the hell sorta quickie did you have in there?” the driver asked as he pulled back out onto the street.

“Didn't.”

“Seriously?”

“Nah.”

“Then what's got you so cheery?”

“I think I just got engaged.”

“To somebody in there?”

“Pretty sure.”

The driver snorted, shaking his head and muttering “Lucky bastard.”

His first impression of the alley he had been supposed to have been guarding for the last half hour or so were that it was just as he left it. As he drew closer to his spot, he saw more and more why that wasn't the case. The door he was supposed to be standing in front of was off its hinges, and he had the impression that someone armed with a blowtorch had had quite the time with said hinges.

He brought his rifle up slowly, muttering into his comm, “Problems.”

Innes wasn't exactly pleased by the phrase, “Define 'problems'.”

“Forced entry, by the looks,” he muttered, slowly approaching the door, leaning to the left to peer inside.

There had to be at least four people standing inside, all working on loading one crate onto a lifter. Shadowrunners dropping in for a bit of take-out. Among them were two humans, an orc, and an elf. The orc was staring him down, armed with a shotgun, which he cocked threateningly.

“Boss,” the orc said, looking over his shoulder.

One of the humans looked up from the crate, before the other two followed suit, all eyes on the door. The first human, a man with a number of tattoos running up and down his arms gave a small hand gesture. The orc nodded, stepping forward and firing. Nate jerked back to the right, turning and pressing his back to the wall.

“Was that a gunshot?” Innes shouted out over the comm. If Nate had been trying for any form of stealth, it was now far, far out the window.

Putting the muzzle of his rifle out, Nate fired off a few rounds. The orc let out a small grunt. Based on that noise, one of the bullets might have just grazed him. Retreating further down the building, he kneeled, waiting for the orc to emerge. He never did.

Instead whatever loader the shadowrunners had managed to hijack burst through one of the nearby garage doors, leaving a nice sized hole in its place. They had even managed to squeeze the orc on there. They sped by, ignoring him as they made their way around the corner. Nate could hear a few more gunshots, probably from one of the other three, before once again, the night was silent.

They hadn't even tripped an alarm.

“When did they show up?”

Innes was standing over Nathan as he sat in the break room. The other two were dealing with the security boys that had shown up to begin an investigation.

“I don't know.”

Henry Innes shook his head, looking up at the ceiling, “How the hell can you not know.”

“'Cause I wasn't there, Henry.”

Innes's hand was firmly on his face, “Of course not. You pick one night to run off. One night to run off.”

Nate said nothing.

Henry took a seat across from him, a coffee cup clinched firmly in his hand. Nothing he could say that was nice was going to be honest, and nothing he said that wasn't nice was going to let him sleep too well.

“They're gonna fire you, Nate,” Innes finally said, settling on honesty.

“Figured.”

“Hell. When they start looking at those tapes, they very well might just fire the other two.”

“I've been plannin' on needin' to job hunt for a hell of a lot longer than now.”

“Won't be easy.”

     “What, you implying people don't like seeing 'let a robbery occur' on a guy's resume? Never would've guessed.”

     Innes shook his head, “Don't get too positive on me now, kid.”

     There was a knock on the break room door. Innes looked passed Nathan, frowning. Standing, he walked towards the door, patting Nate on the back as he went, “My turn up to bat with the question brigade.”

     Nate nodded slowly, “Thanks. For keeping me around this long.”

    Innes glanced over his shoulder, “I'd say no problem, but at the present, I'd be lying through my damn teeth.”

Excerpts from a Worn Journal

Written in Darnassian.

I continue trying to produce reasons to remain here, and I continue to come up with nothing. I've wanted had to do this for some time. No longer can I remain here while I know that some distance away our work has made little progress. I wonder on how Adren may respond, but I've found that such a thought is not enough to keep me here. He may worry, but in the end, I would like to think he can respect and understand why, even if I do not inform him.

They invited those of us that remain to some sort of anniversary “reunion” to remember the “tragedy” that befell us. I do not believe I've ever heard such an insult in my entire life, long as it has been. The resources should be used elsewhere. On the effort. But no. They wish to “respect their veterans”...

...This is the first time in some time where I have actually had a goal, an objective. It's a series of steps, and I can follow them, and I have a purpose again. It's an odd feeling. Yet wonderful. I must go through that goblin town. My 'supplier' of sorts is there. An illusionist by trade, or so he's told me via post when I've attempted to contact him. From there I have to work towards the Blasted Lands. We told each other we would never dig that thing up. That it was not worth it for our intentions, good as they may be. But I will, because I must. I see that now. I see what she was getting at. I know what she was getting at.

…I feel disgusting for even having to take the guise of one of those Scourged creatures, but I feel it necessary. Perhaps I've decided on something far too complicated, but there shall be no questions, and there shall be no direct trail. They may search for a Death Knight, and find no one. Beyond that, should they even be seeking an elf, than they will have difficulty finding myself. The goblin's potions are at least good enough for that, as much as I despised having to pay him so much for such. I will need someone to lead me back to the area, though. Which means a witness.

There can be no witnesses. Such is a depressing fact. But such is the way of this.

…It was brutal. But it was swift. Painful, I'm sure, but his pain did not last. If anything, I am the one that had to suffer. I had to cut him into pieces. Like some animal. But I will not break the impression I am trying to convey. They will find him, and they will blame me, and they will look, yes. But it is better than said dwarf returning and saying anything about the item I came to recover.

…I suppose one can now say I've killed art. Or at least an artist. It's quite terrible that I attempt to make jokes for such a thing, but it's to... Cope. There is some bloodshed on my hands now, and I despise myself for it, but there will only be more in the future. That in the future though, is deserving of it. Very deserving.

It strikes me as almost a good thing that I am using the dead girl as a sort of disguise. For the time that I must use her as such(and it is worth saying that I remain impressed by the goblin's work), I shall be forced to remember such. My removal of a flame of life shall not be for not. That must be seen to without a doubt.

Goddess help me down the dark road I've chosen.

…I've heard some word that death knights were investigating the dwarf's demise. Why death knights of all creatures? Is it out of fear that they may be being wrongly accused? Some chasing of a potential rogue member? It makes no sense. Mercenaries, perhaps? I cannot even imagine who would hire such things for any work involving investigation. Adren certainly would not.

For whatever reason they may be doing so, they shall not be finding me. My path is clear for now. I must head north again. Duskwood shall provide a decent route. I already had to pass through there to arm myself to be able to match up with the impression of such knights, not that there is any proof of such. I passed on the weapon to a man in the woods. I would hope that he would be able to defend himself with such. He did not seem in his right mind, though.

...These people at Raven's Hill have given me the opportunity to remain here for a time. I have decided to take said chance, and shall use it. They seem kind enough. It is good to see. I pray that I do not need to commit any more violence for the time being. There should be enough to keep any investigating in the Blasted Lands. Of course, what may go wrong, likely will. When the need arises, I shall continue west into Westfall, and then towards Stormwind. From there, it shall be time to return west.

It's been some times since I've returned to Darnassus. I cannot imagine that any of these death knights shall pursue...

...The things I continued to hear were correct. At least one death knight has been following me, trailing me. She did not identify as to why. I had to resort to using those damned magics that I was hoping to reserve for a later time, but I do not regret such. It was too confined a space to use my bow. I expected more from her. She was rather easy to slam around. If I were to guess, where there is one there are at least other involved parties, death knight or otherwise.

She shall regret doing so. That much I can say. She was close enough for me to make use of the goblin's concoctions. And those around Westfall will find that “she' is very generous. Once she pursues, it should create a decent enough distraction.

…I should not be as pleased as I am with the fact that I wasted so much time conning and playing with them. I was correct. There is yet another knight, a companion of the prior woman. The poor fool questioned and threatened me, and I led him on a merry chase before moving onto Stormwind. I shall acquire passage to Darnassus soon enough. That should be more than enough distance.

Should these knights become a problem, I shall have to make sure that they are one no longer before proceeding with the rest of my work. If the rest are on par with the first, this should be easy. If they are not, then I shall need to prepare for such a conflict.

Innocent Introductions

    The Last Shot was buzzing with activity, as was the usual come the evening. Positioned near the edge of Stormwind, its crowd consisted of workers coming in from the fields, as well as those that worked within the city, creating a strange melting pot of personalities and people.

     At some point in the establishment's history, people became regulars. Even as its appearance declined over time, for the most part they didn't stop being regulars. Some preferred the Lamb, others the Pig and Whistle, and there were those that enjoyed the Recluse, just as the Shot's regulars wanted to spend their evenings there.

     It was far from impressive. The outside consisted of worn wood that was lucky that it hadn't caught aflame when Deathwing had passed through the city. Even though it was stationed in an alley, it was still visible come the night, a torch placed outside its door as to illuminate the aging sign that rested above the door, “The Last Shot” carved into the wood accompanied by the image of an empty shot glass.

     The interior matched the exterior to a degree. The newest looking items within appeared to be the bottles lining the back walls. The room had a darkness to it that came natural to a building lacking windows and was amplified by the darkened wood that made up the furniture and walls. What light there was came from candles around the place, which the owner liked to claim added “atmosphere”.

     It was spacious enough to allow a number of tables and chairs in, as well as other amenities. A decent sized bar was stationed at the north end of the room, and the corner to the left of the door space was reserved for a few musicians wanting to earn a bit of extra coin. The place was known well enough for a few performers. Some even argued that when no one was there to play, a bit of music could still be heard.

     Aside from the entrance, there was one other door in the entire room, and it stood behind the bar. This back room received steady use as the night went on, with the bartender having to retrieve something from it here and there, but more commonly for a few patrons who entered the Shot and went straight for the door. Others might exit from it, with those who arrived later in the night having never seen them enter. For those who might have wandered in for the first time it was a primary point of interest, but for those who had been there before their interest was much more subtle. Occasionally someone was brave enough to creep up to towards the door and take a peek into the room beyond, but they were only greeted with a pantry stuffed with food stuffs and a few bottles of harder liquor.

-----

     When the turned into the alley, she found herself alone, save for the flicker of the torch in front of the door. She had a small bag hanging on her belt, leather armor covering the rest of her. A small smirk played on her face as she approached the door, anticipating the conversation she might leave in her wake. Pulling the door open, she entered the tavern, not giving anyone among the crowd a passing glance. Her destination was the door in the back. Once she had opened, gone through, and closed it, the smirk broadened. Just another spark of conversation on it.

     The pantry was dark with the door closed. It took only a moment for her hands to find the small latch on the trapdoor, pulling it upward. Shifting forward, she dangled her legs into empty air until her feet found the rungs of a ladder. As she began to descend, she made sure to close the door above her. Below her a few more torches offered a faint flicker. Her feet found the floor, and she released the ladder, turning around to face yet another door.

     She stepped into the next room, eyes scanning it slowly. It looked much like the room above, save for the door in the rear. There were a few tables scattered here and there, a bar at the end opposite the door, and a man in the corner plucking at a few strings on an aging instrument. The crowd her was smaller, being made up of a small group in the corner who all glanced up at her for a short moment, before going back to their hushed conversation, the bartender, and a lone man at the bar. Of those choices, she went with the bar.

     The bartender stood, silently scrubbing a glass. At her approach, he glanced up, an eyebrow silently raising. She kept her smirk, resting forward against the wood, a knowing sense of amusement in her voice, “Business seems a bit slow tonight.”

     The eyebrow didn't move, and neither did his mouth. The tender offered no response, simply continuing with his scrubbing. “So talkative,” she said, smirk widening.

     To her right, the original occupant of the bar snorted, his voice low and rough, “Still thinkin' you're clever?”

     She turned, resting her left side against the bar as she crossed her arms, the smirk not waivering once. He was a tall human, with dark skin, and his hair was cut short, a trimmed beard on his face. She recognized him in an instant. “Corvo,” she said, “Still drinking?”

     “Not nearly enough,” he grumbled, bringing his mug to his lips. Returning the mug to its previous resting place, he turned his head to the side slightly, shooting her a glance, “I'll take that as a 'yes', then.”

     “A yes to what?” she asked, head tilting a tad.

     Grunting, he shook his head yet again, leaning forward against the bar, “'Yes' it is.” Corvo almost sounded amused, for once in his life, like he wasn't trying too hard to fit in with copper novel detectives, “Swear one of these days someone will walk in here who ain't a damn smart ass.”

     “Considering you're already down here, and you still don't believe a person fitting that description has yet to enter, that doesn't speak highly of your self-esteem.”

     “Don't get paid to have a high self-esteem,” he grunted, taking another pull from his mug.

     She rested more against the bar, “So then tell us, mister Booker, what grand payday has brought you to this establishment of 'smart asses'? Because I can't imagine you coming down here for pleasure. That would imply you could smile.”

     “Think that's my business, not your,” he said, shaking his head. “Go around poking everybody with questions like that? 'Cause eventually they'll get to poking back.”

     She put a hand to her chest, eyes widening, “You wound me, Booker. As if I'm so unprofessional as to go digging into another's affairs.”

     He snorted yet again, but said nothing in response, “Then why the hell do you even come down here if not to pry into other people's stuff? 'Cause that's all I ever see you doin'.”

     She blinked, “Are you accusing me of something? Because I assure you that I'm perfectly i-...”

     Booker put a hand up, “Say what I know what you're about to say and I'm gonna have a hard time resisting the urge to come over there and shove a cork in your mouth.”

     “My aren't we rude tonight,” she said, amusement leaving her voice to be replaced by a heavy dose of sarcasm and annoyance.

     He shrugged, “Maybe if you got a new joke, people wouldn't be tired of it.”

     “One, it is not a joke, and two, it is far from overused.”

     He cocked an eyebrow, “You're kiddin' me.” The man held up a single finger, “One, it's a joke. A pun. Maybe it was clever the first time I heard that, but it sure as ain't funny now, and I have no clue what Light-forsaken urge a person'd ever have to use it on a regular basis.” A second finger rose to join the first, “Second, like hell if it isn't overused. You pull the whole 'I'm innocent' schtick every single time you get the chance. I don't even think that's an overstatement in the slightest.” He looked to the bartender, “Ain't I right?”

     The bartender glanced up from his glass, looking at Corvo for a short moment, before his gaze drifted back downward, not a single noise escaping him. She smirked, “Does that mean he's taking my side?”

     “Doubt it,” Booker said, sliding his glass towards the bartender, partially for a refill, and partially to provoke some sort of response. A silence set in for a moment, before he lifted it, “I'm waitin' on somebody. What's your excuse?”

     She produced a small bag from her belt, tossing it over towards the bartender who caught it. Offering him a shrug, she inched away from the bar, “Delivery.”

     “And the whole standing here was just to terrorize me.”

     She shook her head, smirking yet again. Her back to the door, she began to inch closer to it, attention focused on him, “I'm afraid not.”

     “Nope. Not walkin' into that one,” he said, shaking his head, looking away from her. “Innocent”, at least that's what she called herself in such a place, bit her lip, having to resist to say anymore. Instead, she turned, exiting the room. Soon enough she would find her way back out onto the street, before slipping off into the night.

Closed Doors (Part 2)

This is a continuation of something I dredged up while searching through a few word docs. The first part of it can be found here.

The initial inspiration for the concept of this story and its world goes to hearing tales from Eve Online and its insane double crossings, trickery, and player-driven scams.

-----

     As one might guess, it was of course not that simple. Those in the shipping field could take a glance at a bulletin board if they needed work, and colonists could easily be recruited in large groups, but those in the field of recovery had to dig deeper for theirs. Those who needed them weren't going to simply put it out in the open air that they had been robbed. That ruined reputation.


     At times, it would be best to put one's ear to the ground, and listen for a good rumor flying around. During others, one might consult a few who kept track of such things. In desperate times, one simply went straight to the source. For Alan Everett, this was growing close to a desperate time, but had yet to reach that point just yet. It was at this point where Frank Coban again became useful again.

Fanning out a number of pages across the table, he looked up at Alan with a decent sized smile, “This is what I could pull up.”

     Flipping through each page one by one, Alan made sure to add his commentary to each, “Didn't Ruby Mendez try to shoot you?”


     “It was an odd night for me, what can I say?”


     “More like an odd morning for you, but hey,” Alan replied with a smirk, “Anton's out of the question."


     “He pays good,” Frank rebutted.


     “He also has something against me for some ungodly reason,” Alan said, tossing the paper down on the growing pile of rejections, “I think I looked at him funny at a party or something.”


     “That'd do it with him. What about Chris Matthews? You look at him funny too?” Frank said, noticing how small the remaining options were getting.


     “Didn't he try to shoot you too? Was that an odd night too?” Alan said, flipping to the last page, holding up the picture to where Frank could see it.


     “Al, no,” Frank said, voice growing incredibly wary, “Please for the love of everything you hold dear in your life, no.”


     “Frank, she's probably the only person in this pile who doesn't want us dead,” Alan said bluntly.


     “Yeah, and there's still a good chance she'll try to off you,” Frank replied, snatching the photo from him and reading the description he had managed, “They don't call her a black widow for nothing, Al.”


     “She's got work, it looks like it pays well, and you know me. I'm one of the most charming people here.”


     Frank looked around the empty cafe, “In here maybe, Al.”


     Without any kind of warning Alan stood up, plucking his hat off the table and headed for the door, “I'll be back.”


     “You ain't sure of that!” Frank shouted as he exited the cafe, muttering to himself once he was gone “We seriously need to get off of this damn planet.”
-----------------------------


     The tall metallic building gleamed in the bright noon sunlight. Alan had to cover his eyes as he approached as to keep the bright red metal from blinding him. Myers' Shipping Yard's main office was a tall building, standing high above the lifts and machines that surrounded it. The land around it was made up of warehouses, loading docks, and more, with people rushing here and there, items being moved, coming and going in one constant wave of movement. Most knew the business by another, simpler name, that being Myers' Movers. It was shorter, and more to the point. The company was a rather well known name by the area's standards, and held a fairly decent reputation, save for one thing. Its owner.


     Allison Myers was known to many as 'the Widow'. As with some nicknames, it wasn't undeserved. You'd never catch anyone referring to her as the Widow to her face, of course, unless you liked the long trip down before you crashed onto the road below her office window. The name had been earned as one might expect, through the sheer number of men who had been at her side one day, and headfirst in a dumpster whistling through a hole in their skulls the next.


     Of course no one ever noticed. In the Imports District if Lee didn't own it, Allison Myers likely did. Those who did notice tended to keep their mouths shut. Most enjoyed living, despite whatever meager existence they might have lived in. One look explained why some continued to try to woo her despite said past results. She was a pretty woman, short cut hair, short stature, but pretty. Her brown eyes never left Alan Everett from the minute he entered her office to the minute he left.


     “Oh Alan, I was hoping you'd be the one to show up,” she said, leaning forward against her desk, voice sweet and noticeable.


     Taking his hat off when he reached her, Alan eyed her over, every single one of his motions oozing caution, “That so?”


     “Oh yes!” she exclaimed, resting a bit farther forward, her dress forcing him to make sure he kept his eyes towards the north. The fact that he did so seemed to only feed her. “You're just so much better than anyone else. Everyone else is just so stiff and professional, but not you.”


     He frowned slightly, “Not sure if that's a good thing or not, considering I like to think I'm pretty professional.” He was trying to make it sound like he wasn't getting annoyed by the small talk, somewhat succeeding.


     “Well. I think it's a good thing, and the customer is always right, right Alan?” she asked, sounding overly amused by what she was saying. Why was beyond him, but he wasn't about to ask. The flirting act wouldn't buy him, it never had before.


     “Can we focus a bit here?” he asked, trying not to roll his eyes.


     “Focus on what exactly?” she asked, feigning ignorance, “Should we focus on you, or maybe me? Or somebody else.”


     “Work, lady. You got work. What is it?”


     Her head tilted forward a bit as she pouted, “That's not a very nice Alan,” she said, puffing her lower lip out even more. With a sigh, she slide a small screen over to him, “Fine, fine...Yes. It's always got to be work work work with you. I don't get it. Don't you ever take out some time for fun?”


     “Not with folks who I'm afraid'll kill me, no,” was what Alan wanted to say. Instead he bit his tongue, looking over the screen, letting out a short whistle, “Crate of off-worlds. That's a nice haul for somebody. Rare minerals to boot. Boys dropped the ball, huh?”


     She frowned, voice growing colder, “That's none of your business, now is it Alan?” Allowing herself to rest back in her chair, she smiled, the cold tone of her voice filtering out through her expression.


     “Guess it isn't,” he said, motioning to her with the screen in his hand, “I'll get back with you when I got it.”


     Allison steepled her fingers, watching him for a moment, “I'm sure you will.” Her gaze lingered for a moment, before her smile turned into a mischievous grin, “Not even going to offer me a time?”


     He shook his head, turning his back on her as he headed back for the elevator, “Nope.”


     Even though he wasn't able to see her expression, he was more than certain that she was pouting again. She was welcome to, of course. He was past caring.