Noxblade - Sweet, Sweet Mistress Sweetflame (WIP)

Silvermoon

It was always strange travelling to Silvermoon City. Located in the north part of the romantically-named Eversong Woods, its architecture was, for the most part, as much a work of art as it was science. The Blood Elves put a lot of work into creating a space of beauty and comfort, where indulgence (or more accurately, over-indulgence) was the order of the day.  Magical automatons roamed the streets, keeping order while the tall, slender, beautiful Sin'dorei promenaded at a slow, languorous pace, exuding peace and tranquility that the rest of us mere mortals could not hope to achieve.

It made me want to toss my cookies.  Everything was "just so", everything was perfect... or banished from view. Much of the western half of the city was still in ruins from when Arthas Menethil had led an army of the undead Scourge, transformed the fallen Ranger-General Lady Sylvanas Windrunner into one of his undead minions, and sackewd the city after the Sunstrider ruling family had deserted ahead of the oncoming force, fleeing to the Isle of Quel'Danas.

But y'know... details.  After Arthas retreated, the Sin'dorei re-occupied the city and sealed all evidence of their defeat behind walls. Out of sight, out of mind; after all, reclaiming the ruins would have taken something like hard work and manual labor, something that the Sin'dorei didn't have the time for, not when there was Blood Thistle to consume, wine to be drunk, and poetry to write.

Given their delicate sensitivities, I was always amazed that they let goblins into Silvermoon at all. 

Diplomatic niceties aside, even if goblins were not generally allowed in Silvermoon, I had a free pass; a week ago I had gotten a letter with a pouch of gold for travelling expenses, a delicate creme-colored paper covered in pretty purple calligraphy, asking if I would be willing to come and take a job. 

Stavros Noxblade, P.I.

My name is Noxblade, and I am the finest, smartest, most discrete private investigator in all of Booty Bay. The fact that I am also the only private investigator in Booty Bay has nothing to do with it... anyways, my money pouch was mostly copper and silver, with gold a mere memory of better days, so I headed down to the docks to catch the next ship to Ratchet, where I hired a wyvern to the Horde capitol city of Ogrimmar, From there, I took a mage portal to Silvermoon. 

Mage portals aren't cheap, but hey - its not like I was paying.

I arrived in Silvermoon and found my way to the address on the letter; a townhouse just off the Walk of the Elders. I rapped my knuckles on the on the double-doors tall enough for a pair of ogres to stand in without bumping their heads. After what seemed an inordinate amount of time, the doors opened and a tall, slender... well, its not like they made Blood Elves any other way.  He was dressed in a tuxedo, which I guess is what passes for proper attire for a butler. He glared at me over this pointed, aristocratic nose.

I did not say a word - I just returned his stare.  One of the most annoying things about Sin'dorei society was that the person of lower status was obligated to be the first one to speak, and there was no frigging way I was going to talk before one of the servants.

"This is the Sweetflame residence," the butler finally said. "The servant's entrance is at the back."

"Good to know, Jeeves," I said, smiling nastily at the fellow.  "I am here at the express invitation of Lyrenestra Sweetflame."

The butler gave a frown and then held out an empty silver tray.  I stared at it and looked back at him.

"Your calling card, sir?" asked the servant.

"My what?"  

"Your... never mind sir." He stepped back and opened the door so that I could enter the vestibule. "I shall inform Mistress Sweetflame that you have arrived. Perhaps you would like to wait in the library?"

"Sure... " I said, wondering if he thought that I could be trusted not to steal a book while he told his boss I was here.  If they left valuable books unsecured in the library, they were almost begging for someone to walk off with them, the rubes. Still, one didn't start a professional relationship by stealing from the employer before you did the job and got paid.

If there was something worth stealing, I'd take it after the job was complete and got paid.

So I stood around like an idiot, looking for a book which looked like it might be worth stealing, but you know the old saying - You can't judge a book by the binding.  Stupid books were all written in Thalassian anyways.  For all I know, there were 200 cookbooks there, in the fancy leather librams. Eventually Jeeves - wouldn't it be a bloody Light-forbid miracle if the butler guy was actually named Jeeves? - opened the door for his mistress, who strode in like she owned the place.  

Oh wait, she did own the place.

Lyrenestra Sweetflame

"Master Noxblade, it was good of you to come all this way to speak with me," she said, bowing to me.

"Well, you did send travelling expenses, and since I couldn't afford the return postage, so here I am," I answered honestly.

She chuckled. "I am Lyrenestra Sweetflame. My understanding is that you are a Private Investigator, Master Noxblade?" The woman was tall and slender, like all Blood Elves, and her ears were long and delicate. Her hair was piled in a bun atop her head, and was a deep red-orange. Her eyes glowed the green of mana addiction, like most Blood Elves, but her skin was flawless; whatever the state of her mana addiction, it was mild enough to leave no visible sign.

"Either that, or you've gone through a great deal of expense to bring over a laundry consultant..." A look of confusion passed over her face, and I decided to have mercy on her and stop being a jerk. Banishing my goblin accent, I spoke with clear diction, something which normally takes too much effort to bother with. "Yes, Madame Sweetflame, I am a private detective.  How may I be of service to your House?"

Madame Sweetflame relaxed; now I was acting in accord with her expectations, and all was right with her worldview. "I have a husband, Master Noxblade.  We married late in life, and while he has never been what one might call... overly amorous, over the last few years his distance from our conjugal bed has... increased." She looked away, seemingly ashamed at her confession; I think she thought that whatever was wrong with her husband was her fault.  

Sheer lunacy - she was beautiful.

"Madame Sweetflame, I must remind you, I am a Private Detective, not an Oculist; whatever deficiency of eyesight afflicts your husband, I cannot cure it," I said, sucking up a little to the client. It wasn't even a lie. I do know that many Sin'dorei and Kaldorei take up with other races, and I have heard the speculation that after centuries of beauty, some of them become bored with beauty, unsatisfied with perfection. I don't pretend to understand it, but that is what people smarter than me say.  

Idiots, all of them.  I will call it a blessing that goblins are about as far away from perfect beauty as it is possible to get and not have the race continue to breed, Light knows I never get tired of the look of women in all their aspects; unfortunately, the reverse is not true.  I have been informed on many occasions that my looks are... well, let us just say that my visage is not looked upon by women of all races with favor. My face has been compared to a hatchet, and told that if only my wits were as sharp as my nose, I'd be charming.  Bats envy the wingspan of my ears. Good thing I have my personality to fall back upon... which tells you what a spot I am in.

"What I want from you, Master Noxblade, is a report.  I suspect that my husband is seeking his carnal delights elsewhere, but I have no proof.  Follow him, Master Noxblade.  Find out to whom he speaks, with whom he spends his leisure time.  If he has a lover, I want as much details you can provide; names, places, frequency.  I want to know what he needs that I am not able to supply, myself."

"I can do that, I am quite adept at being overlooked," I said.  "Shall we start with a week's retainer, plus expenses and see how it goes? While I am perfectly happy to take your money, I want to make sure there is no misunderstanding while I am doing it - there may not be anything to find." I chuckled. "He might just be bored, and boring, as Fel, after all."

 "Agreed."

"Aren't you going to ask how much I charge?" I asked incredulously.

"Master Noxblade, I know precisely how much you charge; how do you think I found out who you were, and whether or not you could, racial inclinations notwithstanding, be trusted?" she said, her voice alive with laughter. "I had you thoroughly investigated before I sent you the letter - I will spare you the details, but the phrase which stood out was that you were 'unnaturally honest and discreet', and when I asked why that was the case, I was told that you have never betrayed a client."

"They flatter me - I just understand the nature of people who are paid to discover secrets don't live very long if they prove to be blabbermouths," I said truthfully. "I like happy clients."

"Excellent, then we understand each other, Mister Noxblade.  Go forth and make me happy.  Nastromo," by that I assume she meant the butler, "will see to your advance against expenses. Good day, Master Noxblade." I bowed as the butler came in, and he showed me out after gracing my palm with a pouch of gold.

Report One

A week passsed prettry quickly. Nastromo (I still wanted to call the pretentous prick as Jeeves, but I forbore; never bite the hand that pays for your roof and food, after all) arranged to have me installed at the Wayfarer's Rest Tavern, located between the Walk of Elders and The Bazaar; close enough to keep tabs on Misatress Sweetflame's husband.  Meals were included, and the innkeeper was a lady named Jovia, who proved amenable to several discreet arrangements regarding billing; certain services were to be provided on the bill, and the charges for those services split between us. So I took a bath one or twice a week, with plain soap... but on the bill I bathed every day, with perfumed oils and soaps. This was Silvermoon, after all, and such little luxuries that the Sin'dorei think of as normal meant a nice chunk of change got diverted to my own uses.

Every morning I woke myself up with a steaming cup of tea and a couple of sweet rolls, and loitered near the Sweetflame residence; Mistress Sweetflame's was not an early riser.  When he left the house I followed him at the discreete distance, and made full use of both available cover and the Shadows. 

Master Tyndall Egalantine Sweetflame was, in may ways, a typical Sin'dorei upper-crust flopdoodle. He stood tall and slender, with a long shock of hair, thich and black as a lump of coal. Trained at an early age as a mage and in alchemy, the only thing at which he truly excelled was ennui. I knew from Nastrromo that he woke in the later hours of the morning, and met with up to a half-dozen poorer Sin'dorei servants, to whom he would give instructions on what herbs he needed them to gather, and then dispersed them to their myriad regions via mage portals,  often by way of the mages portal in Ogrimmar.  

If he had no pressing business, he would then leave the house, an unimportant list of visitatios to make to fill out the hours. He had long since mastered a feeling of listlessness and general dissatisfaction with his life, no doubt the result of having come from wealth and priveldge.  Heck, I even had to use the Thalassian word; the Goblin language doesn't have a word for boredom caused by a lack of activity or excitement.  Say what you like about the Goblinr race, but the struggle to extract enough coin to keep you from strarvation is not boring. Goblins don't inherit weath, we get it the old-fashioned way.  We steal it.

The first week, I followed him as he made the his rounds of doubtlessly critical visits; over the days of the week, we visited the bazaar and it's various trradesmen; his tailor, his wife's modiste, several trips to the barber (although how grown Sin'dorei men avoided shaving every morning I have no idea;if goblins don't shave twice a day we start to resemble seasick, anorexic Dwarves - but you keep that particular obseervatrion to yourselves lest you lose body parts in a wholesale fashion). 

After his barber, freshly shaved and with what they call a 'pomade', and what goblin barbers call 'stinky water for which we charge extra', he would gather in a coffee shop to 'hear the news of the day' with like-minded Sin'dorei flopdoodles. They call it the 'news of the day' but regular dolks call it gossiping like an angry henhouse.

After maybe a quart of esspresso (served in little cups, four ounces or so at a time) and a selection of pastries, he would visit a townhouse above a little butcher's shop.  The first time we went there, I was excited; was this his little hideout from which he fled the world - or at least his wife?

I slid into the Shadows and followed him up the stairs, which ended in a landing, with two doors to apartments, one on other side, but staggered so that if both doors opened at once, neither occupant could see into the other place.  A Sindorei woman opened the door, and "this is it!" I thought.  This was going to be what Lord Flopdoodle was trying to keep from his wife. 

"Sylann, I am here for my cooking lesson," he said as she moved out of her doorway to let him enter. Before the door closed, I saw that the room was a well-appointed kitchen, with a huge oven, a bin of coal, a large, scarred table, and row after row of knives and other cooking implements.  Lord Flopdoodle was going to learn to cook?  That was his secret passion? 

I was disappointed, to say the least.  All I could see is was me reporting after a week, and being told - and rightly so - that my services were no longer required. No dirt, just just an alchemist learning to work a little kitchen chemistry.

I waited around outside, and followed once more when his lesson was over, but nothing else of note happened that night. He went home, and according to Nostromo, locked himself away in his study until dinner. After dinner, he left again, and I followed him to Stratholme, a private gentlemen's club. A little grease to the guys at the servant's entrance got me reports on his evening; it appeared that Master Sweetflame liked to play cards with a half-dozen friends.  He played middling well, which is to say he only lost a modest amount, most of it after he'd indulged ins erveral bottles of Silvermoon port. Just after midnight, he would return home, where Nostromo would tuck him into bed.

The next three days were a study in monotony as Lord Flapdoodle repeated is habits (which is why I suppose they are called 'habits') with no notable variation.