Tyanna Blackwood Art (cheesecake!)

 

Mean Streets

 "Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid." -Raymond Chandler 

The fellow named Jon Chess ran through the streets of the Dampwick Ward. The buildings were ramshackle, and the area was the most impoverished district of Boralus. Criminals and ne’er-do-wells rubbed elbows with Tidesage doomsayers and beggars. Unlike the mythical hero, Jon was both tarnished and afraid; that said, he was also resolute. 

At midnight, the killer known to the city guardsman as the Smile-Maker would practice his grisly trade, and the kidnapped Draenei priestess Vlana Starbow would be forcibly violated and her throat opened by the Smile-Maker's straight razor.  

It was perilously close to midnight.

Jon made haste though the streets and alleys, and most abroad gave him a wide berth - someone armed and moving with celerity and purpose did not promise much profit. He entered the open area near the docks, and was surprised to find the night market all but deserted.

“Ho there, fellow,” called a rough voice in Jon’s path. Three ruffians of the Scrimshaw Gang stepped from the shadows. Without looking around, Jon heard more noise behind him to both the left and right. Just over a half-dozen enemies, each armed with weapons ranging from broken bottles to knives to clubs to cutlasses and broadswords. Jon recognized the scarlet signs of membership in the Scrimshaw Gang.

The Scrimshaw Gang control much of the criminal enterprise in Dampwick Ward and hook Pointe; loansharking, smuggling, bribes, illicit drug peddling, pickpocketing, petty theft, mugging, and prostitution. Based in the Kelp Club, they controlled much of the underground commerce in Boralus.

“You seem to be in haste; bide with us awhile”, continued the leader of the mob. “We have been well-paid to… ah, entertain you with our hospitality.” The weapons being carried by his friends became more visibly brandished. 

As if summoned by magic, twin long daggers appeared in Jon’s gloved hands. He was swiftly cataloging how to proceed; a thick smoke grenade tossed to the ground, providing Jon with concealment, roll to the right, take advantage of the confusion to slit the throat of the leader’s flanking flunky when the portly leader became enveloped in a conflagration of fire.

“Our father often runs off for no reason, and explains matters later,” commented a fellow clad in green mageweave garments. A flaming rune was suspended over his short hair, dancing around his brow like a fairy in the moonlight. “He generally has a good reason, though.” Jon felt a spike of hope in his heart. His son Baron had come to help.

Before the Scrimshaw Gang could react, a crossbow bolt found a new home in the base of one of the backline member’s skull. A leather-clad fellow had fired and dropped his crossbow, armed with a Kul Tiran short boarding halberd. A huge wolf with a disreputable coat festooned with the detritus of nature growled alongside his partner. 

Jon’s other son, Bishop, and his partner wolf Mange closed in from the other end of the crowd.

“Father, leave these wharf rats to us - you have a lady to save,” said Bishop. 

Baron Chess, Dalaran-trained, raised a shield of flame. “No time to waste. We got this.” The members of the Scrimshaw Gang snarled almost in unison, and battle was joined. Jon’s smoke bomb detonated, obscuring Jon’s location as he invoked an Aarokoan cantrip, and he merged into the Shadows, wasting no time but trusting that his children were more than equal to running interference for their father.  

His heart swelled with pride even as he sprinted down the alleyway towards his rendezvous with a killer.

At the north end of the Ashvane Docks were a number of buildings used as warehouses and transitory businesses for the Commissioned Privateers whose seized cargoes were disposed of, often with no questions asked. It was not a coincidence that most privateers used the Ashvane Docks for their ill-gotten goods; the area was run by the Ashvane Trading Company, which had a long and notorious history of quasi-legal operations. Wholly spurious Bills of Lading, false Certificates of Provenance, and other forged documents were easily and anonymously available to grease the skids of commerce. The company had interests in virtually all aspects of the value chain of merchandise including weapons manufacturing, shipping, security, smuggling, and outright piracy.

It was the ideal place for a sociopathic serial killer like the Smile-Maker - he fit right in.

Jon’s destination was a building whose third floor was a small apartment with a wide patio deck. Jon felt sure that if he had a forensics mage on retainer in Kul Tiras, that he would be able to prove that the Smile-Maker abused and then killed his victims on that patio, secure in the neighborhood where people rarely looked up, and if they did, denied that they had seen anything. Often during his investigation, potential witnesses either refused to talk at all or had merely said “I did’na see nothing”.

Nearing the long, two-story warehouse that was almost the entire way across the Ashvane Docks, Jon mounted the stairs two at a time. He leaped atop a stack of barrels, and from the top of those, leaped to the covering rooftop of the second floor. Handy widows provided Jon with a ladder-like scaffolding to climb to the peaked rooftop of the second floor. 

He sprinted across the rooftop. The building he sought was now running in parallel with the building he was on, and Jon saw his chance. He ran down the roof edge, and leaped into the air, firing a Gnomish-made wrist harpoon. Less than a foot in length, the flanges of a grapple fell into place as the mithril-wire reinforced spider silk cord followed the grappling hook. Jon saw the grappling hook embed itself in a cargo crane arm attached to this destination, and triggered the mechanism for the harpoon device to retract the cord. The harpoon grappling hook held, and Jon was dragged forward. He dropped the device just as his hands found purchase on the waist-high perimeter fence of the deck area. He vaulted the fence and landed on the deck.

The Smile-maker turned to face him as Jon landed, perhaps fifteen feet away. The fellow was Kul Tiran, and had a mass of muscle forged by long days of slinging heavy crates and barrels on and off of ships. He stood a good head taller than Jon, and his shaggy hair, unkempt beard, mustache, and porkchop sideburns made him seem for all the world like a bear walking on two feet. He was clad in sea-leathers such as any Kul Tiran mariner wore. One of his hands gripped his trademark weapon, a straight-bladed Syndicate Dagger. The other hand was wrapped in the hair of his current victim.

Jon had discovered that the Smile-Maker had been purchasing blue-skinned “foreigners” - either Ren’dorei or Draenei women - from slavers. Slavery was technically illegal in the Alliance, but there were many places where the word “indentured servant” and slave were interchangeable, with forged indentureship agreements. Just up the Ashvane alley, so to speak.

His current victim had been an Emissary of the Light named Vlana Starbow, come to Boralus to heal the sick and feed the poor and indigent, much to the stern disapproval of the Tidesages, who otherwise had a firm hold of Kul Tiran spirituality; the official position of the Tidesages was that if something unfortunate happened to the Alliance Interlopers, that was just too damned bad.

The Smile-Maker had stripped his victim and drugged her to the gills to keep her pliable and quiet. Mercifully, she had lost consciousness and hung almost lifeless in his grasp.

“A knight comes to the rescue,” cried the Smile-Maker, bringing the knife to her throat. “Jon Chess, isn’t it, aping the fashion of Kul Tiras honest sailors? The lickspittle lackey of that Dalaran bitch who stole the Admiralty.”

“Jaina Proudmoore is every inch a Kul Tiran,” Jon said, drawing both his daggers. “As for my clothes, they have the advantage of being comfortable, given Boralus weather.” Mornings in Boralus were often cold and wet, with thick fogs that often did not burn away before the noon hour.

“Well, closer, little man… let's dance,” taunted the Smile-Maker. “I’ll have to clear my hands of this…baggage first though. Shame, too… I hadn’t quite had the chance to enjoy the foreign slut the way I did the others.”

“Well, put her down and I’ll put my blades down,” offered Jon. “That way once you kill me you can enjoy her afterward.”

“That is the first smart thing you’ve said yet,” smirked the Smile-Maker. “You first.”

One by one Jon let his daggers clatter to the deck underfoot.

“OK, your turn…” Jon started to say but was interrupted by the glove of ice that had instantly formed around the Smile-Maker’s knife, hand, and forearm.

“Wrong Dalaran bitch,” came Alia’s commanding voice from the rooftop, standing in front of a teleportation portal. “He’s MY lickspittle lackey, thank you very much - I just let Jaina borrow him!” She turned to Jon. “Take him.” 

The Smile-maker dropped the Draenei and reached for a weapon, but before he could draw it Jon’s flintlock pistol barked with its loud voice, and the ball tore itself a doggy door hole in the Smile-Maker’s throat.

 

Love is in the Air Part III

The bitter cold of the wind made the bones in Snow FitzSilver's body ache. The trip on griffon-back from Stormwind to Booty Bay was long, and the winds could freeze a man's blood to ice in the dead of winter.

Snow woke up feeling stiff and cold in an alleyway where he had encountered the succubus Darynn and been given... a preview of his payment if he could find out the information she desired.

Unfortunately, Snow was not precisely sure how to proceed and whether or not his promised payment was worth that much effort. Snow was a very young man, but his innocence had been lost some time ago; pleasurable though his encounter with the succubus had been, it was not worth spending an inordinate amount of time. On the other hand, succubi had decades, perhaps centuries, of practice... Snow shook his head to clear it.

What amazed him was that he had fallen asleep in the alleyway climax; taking a post-orgasm nap was not unheard of, but in an alleyway, on the cobblestones and the cold? That made Snow suspicious that the sayaadi had used some magical compulsion in addition to her sexual skill.

Snow's task was to find the alchemist who had sold the compulsive colognes and perfumes for the Crown Chemical Company so that Darynn could obtain a sample. The Crown Chemical Company was a front for a renegade Forsaken alchemist's plan, but adventurers had foiled whatever that plan had been and destroyed the stock of the elixirs which had made the wearer very erotically compelling. 

Unfortunately for Snow, goblins had invented the concept of the "limited liability corporation". New ones sprung up and collapsed all the time. Fraud and chicanery were more common than not in Goblin business, with "take the money and run" often the rule rather than the exception.

Snow did have an advantage. Before heading to Booty Bay, he had sought advice from "Uncle Jon" - Snow's adopted guardian Griffonclaw was the elder half-brother to Jon Chess, a professional private investigator and widely-traveled Agent of Cheese. He had given Snow the name of a contact Snow could use, and a letter of introduction. With that in hand, Snow had hired a griffon and headed south.

Originally named Blackwater Cove, the area was originally occupied by humans, who were slaughtered by trolls. The trolls, in turn, were dispossessed by goblins of the Steamwheedle Cartel, who founded Booty Bay to act as a center of commercial operations. The city is run by Baron Revilgaz in conjunction with the Blackwater Raiders and is open to Alliance and Horde alike as neutral territory, keeping the city and area clear of the depredations of pirates such as the Bloodsail Buccaneers. 

The griffon landed safely, and Snow took advantage of the nearby side entrance to the Salty Sailor tavern, where he found an empty table and signaled for a server. 

"Hello! I am Zixxy, your server. What can I getcha?" said a pretty goblin ser4ver in a short sarong.

"What would you recommend? asked Snow.

"Gilnean Fizzy Water, Thistle Tea, and Tropical Sunfruit Juice" she informed him.

"Sounds delicious. I'll take that," confirmed Snow.

Zixxy returned shortly with a tall glass containing his drink, and a sporty little umbrella.

"That's four silvers" she said, setting the drink in front of Snow.

"Here you go,: said Snow as he laid a gold coin on the table. "I'm looking for a friend, a guy named Stavros DarKovin. Any idea where I might find him?"

"I have no idea, but you might ask Nixxrax," she said, pointing a disreputable-looking goblin fellow out to Snow while deftly scooping up the coin. "He's one of those guys who knows everyone." She batted her eyes at Snow. "I just know big tippers," she said, winking at Snow.

Snow smiled at the not-so-subtle hint. "Keep the change."

Snow rose from his chair, and took a sip of his drink. He approached the fellow that Zixxy had pointed out.                                           

(WIP)

Snow Art

 

Love Is in the Air, Part II (Smut warning)

 

The Slaughtered Lamb tavern was quite crowded, and the white-haired fellow who stood just inside the door let his eyes adjust to the smoky dimness of the lights. The seedy pub was located in the Mage district of the city of Stormwind, and was something of a base of operations for the the city's warlock community. In days past, warlocks had run afoul of Stormwind law and been subject to vigilante action by the Scarlet Inquisition and others, actions often overlooked by the constabulary.  After the defeat of the Burning Legion and the heroic roll played by the Black Harvest and other warlocks, the Alliance forces allowed Warlocks to openly practice their arts, although discretion was still a wise safety precaution; old prejudices died hard after so many years of war with the Burning Legion and it's agents.

The fellow had been sent a message, which simply specified a time and place. While cautious, the fellow was also very curious; a curiosity which had landed Snow FitzSilver in hot water several times before. 

Snow looked over the assortment of disreputable types and street rats. Having spent so much of their career in the seamy underbelly of society, warlocks were an eclectic lot, consorting with hirelings of a less savory reputation. Many warlocks also dabbled in necromancy, and while warlockry and trafficking in demons was now above-board, many of their assistants, minions, and collaborators still pursued borderline illegal activities.

Snow was about to turn and leave when a woman in a full cloak and hood stepped up and took his arm. "Shall we take the air, Snow?" asked husky contralto voice. 

"Nothing would give me more pleasure," assured Sniow, guiding the woman outside. Together the two of them slowly walked together with no fixed destination, their voices low and intimate to keep their conversation private.

"Master FitzSilver, my name is Darynn, and I need you to find someone fro me, someone who probably does not want to be found," explained Darynn.

"Very good. What is this person's name? Profession? Habits? General region?" asked Snow.

"That is part of my problem; let me explain," began Darynn, "During the last Love is in the Air celebration, some coercive magical wares were sold by the Crown Chemical Company. There were brewed and supplied by a renegade Forsaken alchemist but he was defeated before his plans -whatever they might have been - were realized. Most of the coercive wares were confiscated and destroyed... but the recipe for them was almost certainly devised, or at least known, by the head goblin in charge of alchemical products for the company."

"That might be a problem...," said FitzSilver.

"Yes, I am aware. Goblin companies are created and dissolved as swiftly as a summer snowfall, and it has been some months... what I am looking for is a sample of the perfume that they used, the one causing an irresistible lust in anyone fortunate enough to catch the scent."

"I see... well, I don't see, precisely, but that is of no matter. I assume that the pay will be commensurate with the effort?"

"Of course," replied Darynn, pulling Snow into a deserted cul-de-sac. She found a dark corner, offering some discrete concealment, and dropped her hood and cloak, allowing Snow a visual feast of her physical form.

The sayaadi was pink of skin, with glowing azure eyes and dark, luxurious black hair. Her tongue, slightly forked, wet her lips as she parted her lips. Sharp canines, resembling more a vampire's mouth than a human's, gave her lovely face a predatory cast. Her wings were carefully furled behind her, obscuring nothing of her firm, high breasts encased in a leather corset top. Her hips and the delightful apex of her thighs were covered by soft dark mageweave panties, and the material was thin enough that Snow could see her cunt lips and clitoris pressing against the soft material.

Darynn dropped to her knees. "Let me give you a retainer, so to speak..." she said, chuckling as she unlaced the front of his leather pants. "After all, I want you to do a thorough job, so I think that it is only fair that I do a thorough job." She exposed Snow's hardening cock to the night air. "I do so much love the taste of a virile man's hot, sticky seed..." she hissed. His cock was almost touching her lips as she wrapped her hand around it; she had contemplated just giving him a teasing hand job, but she had not had a taste of cock juice in weeks, and she found her own desire for the taste of spunk in her mouth causing an ache in her loins. 

She began slowly brush the cockhead against her lips, her forked serpentine tongue coming out to brush against the sensitive skin of his glans. she took another breath and began to lick Snow's cockshaft. She wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock and lowered her head, taking his hard cockmeat into her wet, eager mouth. Her head began to bob, and Snow moaned at the sensation of her warm, wet, silken mouth. 

Once more Snow moaned, and Darynn matched it with a sultry moan of her own. The resonance of her moan vibrated through Snow's delighted cock, and he slipped his fingers into her hair, enjoying the texture of her tresses. Darynn loved having her hair pulled while pleasuring a partner with her mouth; gentle, loving sexual pleasures were for mortals. She wanted, no craved, rougher treatment; she wanted to be treated like a toy, a sexual object to be used for pleasure like the slut she was. 

She swirled her inhumanly long and agile tongue around his cockhead and shaft, taking him deeper into her mouth. Unlike mortals, she had no gag reflex to fight. She sucked his cock in deeper and deeper until her lips were buried in the rough hair around the base of his cock. She flexed her throat muscles around the length of Snow's cock, and she was gratified when he began to move, tentatively at first but then with decisiveness until the cock was fucking the sayaadi's throat. Darynn purred; that was more like it! This is what she was made for, what she craved, ad she exulted in the pleasure she gave, the pleasure that she controlled. 

Darynn tasted it first; the taste of precum leaking from, his cock into her mouth. Salty and bitter, it was a taste that acted as a harbinger of what was to come. Snow's orgasm almost caught him by surprise as his cock convulsed once, then again. The third convulsion carried with it the wave of his climax, and Darynn had her own series of mini-orgasms as she received rope after rope of sticky sweet cum. She rode his cock with her mouth and tongue, collecting the spunk in her mouth as most of it went straight down her throat and into her belly. 

When Snow's motions ceased and his once-proud cock shrunk to its former self, Darynn pushed cum with her tongue, cascading over her lips, down her chin, and onto her breasts. While Snow watched in a daze, she played with the cum, rubbing it into her breasts, neck, and face. "If I had more time, I would suck that magnificent cock hard again, and give my cunt a taste; I love taking cum in my mouth, but I especially enjoy a cock filling my belly and then playing with it with my fingers, inside of me," she informed him, a hungry look in her glowing eyes. 

"You will find out what I need to know, and come back for your payment, yes?" teased Darynn as she shrugged back into her cloak and hood.

Snow snoring softly was his only reply.

Love Is in the Air, Part I

The Ren'dorei woman named Tyanna Blackwood was in her office, balancing accounts when a knock came from the closed office door.

"Come," she called, not even looking up from her ledger.

Darynn the Sayaadi

"You give the best commands, Mistress," laughed the sayaadi. "But we don't really have that much time.. besides you never take me to your bed."

"Darynn, we've talked about that!" admonished Tyanna. "It is no reflection on you or your appeal."

"Then why have you banished me?" whined the succubus.

"I summon you every day, hardly an exile!"

"You summon me to do laundry and housework! That is worse than banishment!" exclaimed Darynn. "Especially after you forbade me to... ask for a little help."

Tyanna rolled her eyes. "Enslaving my butler was not an acceptable solution, and we still haven't been able to find a decent replacement!"

"It's not my fault you insist on them having free will," sneered Darynn. 

"Enough - the subject is not open for debate!" said Tyanna.

"You don't see the irony of enslaving demons to obey your commands but denying us the right to do the same?" sighed Darynn. 

"Oh, I see it - I just don't care. The Burning Legion was a very costly lesson, and only a fool would give you the freedom to wreak more havoc," admonished Tyanna. "Did you need something or just want to needle me?" Tyanna's sayaadi never missed an opportunity to kvetch to her mistress.

Darynn sulked, mumbling as she returned to the seemingly endless list of chores that still needed to be done. "She doesn't appreciate me at all!" whined the succubus, feeling sorry for herself. "Just because she's given up on love... it would be just and fair if karma made her fall in love with someone unsuitable...a gnome, perhaps, or a stuffy paladin!"

Darynn pondered as she folded laundry; at least the Mistress allowed her to use magic to do the washing, especially Tyanna's lingerie. Tyanna was the designer and owner of the best lingerie business in the Alliance, relocating her Silvermoon establishment to Stormwind after her transformation from Sin'dorei to Ren'dorei and subsequent exile. 

That gave the succubus an idea... perhaps karma could use an alchemical assist? Darynn recalled last year's Love is in the Air holiday, a celebration characterized by sweet flowers, perfume, and sharing gifts with loved ones. There had been a sinister plot is afoot involving some shady goblins - if that was not redundant - and some alchemically-altered perfumes and colognes; they made the wearer quite interested in... carnal adventures, freeing them from inhibitions and stoking their libdios to a white-hot frenzy. 

If only the plot hadn't been thoroughly crushed by a bad of adventurers... a bottle of that perfume would be just the thing to inspire Mistress Tyanna with the right attitude to be more appreciative of her own sayaadi. Darynn continued folding while giving it more thought. What she needed was to find the goblin alchemist who had created the perfume for the Crown Chemical Company.

Darynn had a good idea of who she might convince to help her, too...

Dead and Unburied (Chess and Gryffonclaw) Part Three

Jon and Griffonclaw left Raven Hill at first light and used Jon's warrant to change horses at Sentinel Hill and at Westbrook. From there, they went to Goldshire and up to Stormwind. As they passed into the Trade District, they pulled up at the square adjacent to the auction house.

"Jon, you go and update the Constable; I will check in with Lord Shadowbreaker and see if there have been any other victims. Let's meet in the Cathedral after that?" said Gryffonclaw. Jon knew that Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker was the head of the paladins within Stormwind.

"Sounds like a sound plan," said Chess.

The two pointed their horses toward their destinations and headed off on the cobblestoned Stormwind streets.

Jon headed for the Old Town section, where he hoped to encounter Officer Connelly at the Alliance Command Center. A series of buildings and barracks out of which the Stormwind Constabulary worked. He found Connelly at her desk, laboriously working on the paperwork which kept the city bureaucracy working (insofar as it actually worked). He updated her with their findings and they made their way to the Cathedral of Light together.

When they reached the entrance, they inquired of Brother Sarno, who greeted visitors to the Cathedral.

"Greetings, Master Chess, Madam Constable," said Brother Sarno. He knew Jon by sight, as he had often brought supplies to the refugees under the care of Mia Greymane. 

"We're looking for Sir Gryffonclaw," said Jon.

"Sir Gryffonclaw? He was here but left with an attractive woman shortly after arriving," informed Brother Sarno.

"A brunette human woman?" questioned Jon.

"Indeed, just as you say," answered Brother Sarno.

Officer Connelly and Chess exchanged glances and turned, exiting the Cathedral and heading down the Cathedral stairs.

"Where was the last body found?" asked Jon.

"The cemetery; let's check there first," answered Officer Connelly.

The two of them ran around the west end of the Cathedral. Unencumbered by armor, Jon sprinted ahead, out-pacing Officer Connelly, reaching the cemetery first.

"Let's see... if I was going to drain the life out of a paladin in broad daylight without being interrupted, where would I go?" Jon muttered to himself, scanning left and right. An idea came to him just as Officer Connelly caught up. 

"Where do you think they went? she asked.

"Check the Tiffin Ellerian Wrynn Memorial - it's the favored meeting place of people who don't want to be seen. I'll meet you there," Jon said, muttering an incantation and vanishing from sight as Officer Connelly rushed off.

Jon merged into the Shadows and began running for another set of graves also screened with arbor lattices; the Queen's memorial had a pair of guards standing sentry duty at the entrance, and although it was possible, Jon was willing to bet that the other place, unguarded would be far more attractive a spot. 

At least if he was wrong, Officer Connelly would have those guards to back her up in case of trouble.

Jon arrived at the sound of a moan, although from pain or pleasure, he could not tell, perhaps both, coming from,m behind the concealing arbor trellis. Stepping through to the side, he saw what he had expected to see - Gryffonclaw on the ground, on his back, his armor removed, and set to the side. Riding astride him was a beautiful brunette woman with glowing red eyes. The two were surrounded by a crackling ebon nimbus of necromantic energy.

Jon's hand sought a vial in his supply pouch, and he swiftly uncorked and hurled it towards the woman. Jon became visible as he left the Shadows, drawing a pair of knives. The vial and the liquid struck the woman's face, and she screamed, leaping off the partially naked paladin as it burned. 

As suspected, she seemingly vanished;  Jon saw that the woman was no longer human but a Forsaken, one of the accursed undead. Her skin was pallid, and her jaw extended unnaturally as she hissed at Jon, who threw both knives without hesitation. The blades flew true and embedded themselves with a meaty thunk. 

The woman-thing rushed Jon, who leaped backward. She ripped the knives embedded in her while her face smoked. Jon could see where the liquid had burned into her unholy flesh, but neither daggers nor projectile had been enough. She raised her hands, surrounded by the same ebon energy Jon had seen. 

"Foolish mortal! You will not interrupt my work. The Legion may be gone, but our work continues! They have made me more than a mere mortal, more than Felcaller Whitley's mistress; they have gifted me with the powers of the Sayaadi! " she said. "The Veiled Hand will rule this shattered world. We herald a new beginning!"

A flash of blinding Light manifested behind her, engulfing her. Jon watched as the Light ate at her flesh and dissipated into the fantastic night.

"Or not," commented Gryffinclaw, standing still deshabille behind where she had been. "Once you broke her concentration, her control over me was broken. The Light has forever ended her dreams of conquest. By the way, what did you throw? Acid?

"Stratholme Holy Water," Jon smirked at his half-brother as he heard the sound of armored folk rapidly running toward them. "I believe in being prepared. Be that as it may, do me a favor?"

"Certes. What?"

"Put on some pants before Officer Connelly arrests you for indecency!"

Dead and Unburied (Chess and Gryffonclaw) Part Two

Jon Chess led the pannier-laden donkey behind his horse, turning to his companion. The donkey carried the latest order from Chef Grual, the cook in in the Scarlet Raven Tavern in Darkshire. "What a surprise!" exclaimed Jon sarcastically. "The weather is as wet and foul as a winter is Duskwallow Marsh. Cold, hungry, lonely, with only a Paladin of the Holy Light for company... truly, this place is well-named."

The aforementioned paladin snorted in amusement. "Oh, you'll live," Gryffonclaw replied. "You whine like a wet cat who fell into the Stormwind canals."

"Oh, I'll live," answered Chess. "But I won't enjoy it." When Chess had finished his drink and parted from Officer Connelly he had sought his half-brother. When Jon had come to the Stormwind Orphanage as a youth from Pyrewood, wearing only a Silverlaine signet ring, Gryffonclaw had recognized it as a sign of Jon's lineage as a bastard by-blow of the Silverlaine line. The paladin, also from Pyrewood, had thought himself the son of the castle's Commander Springvale, but had later discovered from his grandfather's ghost that his mother, Commander Springvale's wife had been taken unlawfully by the Silverlaine heir. The Commander had married her and salvaged her life until both had been killed when Silverlaine Castle had been taken by the accursed wizard Arugal.  The ring, identical to Gryffonclaw's own, marked Jon as another bastard of the Silverlaine line, and Gryffonclaw's half-brother. He had stood as protector to Jon, and arranged for his first training in both arms and healing.

"Then you are a fool, brother mine. At the end of this case you shall return to your astonishingly beautiful wife, and I... I shall go back to my solitary existence."

"Yes, poor you.  Well, you know you have an open invitation to dinner whenever we are in Stormwind."

"Or Boralus. Yes, and good thing - someone has to hear your and your family's confessions." Boralus, for all Jon loved it, had no Church of the Light and its adherents were dependent on itinerant priests or paladins. Gryffonclaw made a point to visit often, to take care of their needs.

They arrived in Darkshire just as night was falling, although the storm clouds had made the day as dark as night. Jon unpacked and delivered the cheese to the kitchen, while Gryffonclaw tended to their mounts at the stables. They met together in the common room, and struck up a conversation with the barkeep, Hann. Jon and Hann had devopled a strong relationship; Hann sold smuggled Moonshine which had avoided the royal taxes, and Jon sometimes supplied him with Silvermoon Port for his Ren'dorei customers. In exchange, Hann provided Jon with information for Elling Trias. 

"So... I heard about the mystery body found some weeks ago... a merchant who was thirty one night, and found the next day as a 90-year old mummy. Do you remember serving him that night?" Jon asked casually.

"I do remember him, and I told the Night Watch," said Hann. "Funny thing though.. the poor sod spent most of the evening buying wine for a woman, and both of them went up to his room after dinner. She has not been found since."

"Do you remember her name? Can you describe her?" asked Gryffonclaw. 

"After all this time? My memory is hazy... perhaps if I had incentive?" said Hann slyly.

"A failing memory in one so young is a shame." purred Jon softly. "Do you suppose that 50 gold might purchase medicines to restore your mental capacity?" Jon slid a small bulging purse across the table, when Hann made it swiftly disappear from sight.

"I recall woman, past her prime a bit but still handsome, with long silver hair; she could have been your older sister," Hann said. polishing a pewter tankard with a towel. "She visits us quite often from Raven Hill. Her name was Ilona, Ilona Locke." 

"I don't understand... you told this to the Night Watch, but they didn't report it?" Gryffonclaw asked.

Hann leaned forward and spoke in a tone just above a whisper. "She was Veiled Hand."

"Interesting," said Jon softly, and then finished his wine. "Time for bed, Gryff; we need to head to Raven Hill in the morning."

"Jon, shouldn't we ask the Night Watch why they didn't mention her?" asked Gryffonclaw.

"No... during the war against the Burning Legion, the Veiled Hand used demonic sorcery to subvert the wills of many of the Night Watch, and some were willing agents. They sought to overthrow Stormwind rule, but their plans were thwarted by SI:7 agents," said Jon. "I doubt that anyone wants to admit anything where the Veiled Hand was concerned. 

"We will find no answers here," Join concluded.

Dead and Unburied (Chess and Gryffonclaw) Part One

It had been a long while since the fellow commonly known as Jonathan Chess sat in the Pig & Whistle tavern in Stormwind’s Old Town neighborhood. It might have been longer still, but he had gotten mail from an old friend, requesting his assistance. Officer Connelly had been just a newly-recruited beat constable when Jon had been first making a living in Stormwind after returning from his service in Northrend and having his heart broken in Hearthglen. She had initially been suspicious of a Private Investigator operating in his patch, but over time, Jon had been asked to consult with the Stormwind Constabulary on a serial poisoner case, and Officer Connelly had been assigned as her liaison. They had never been friends, precisely, but when Jon discovered things he felt the constabulary should know, he sent the information via Officer Connelly. Her career prospered, she knew that a large part of that had been cases closed due evidence gathered and given to her by Chess.

“She had always been able to resist my charms,” Jon mused. He had tried his best to work his way into her bed, but she had always shot him down like an archer with a telescopic sight; which of course increased Jon’s attraction. At least it had until he had met the beautiful, powerful and brilliant Alia Atherton, who had made Jon forget any interest in any other women. Still, he could not ignore her appeal for assistance.

He did not have long to wait; she was almost religiously punctual. Conversations ground to a halt as she entered the tavern’s common room; the clientele of the Pig & Whistle was not precisely replete with understanding citizens. They relaxed when they saw her make a beeline for Jon’s usual table under the stairs. The low buzz of conversation in her wake translated, for the most part, to “better him than me”.

“Master Chess, so good of you to come,” she said as she approached the table.

“Please, Officer Connelly, call me Jon,” Jon said, waving her to the seat opposite his. “You are looking well.” Morning arms practice and then walking about Stormwind in plate and chain armor had kept her in a svelte, muscular fighting trim. 

She ignored the complement. It didn’t bother Jon, he was used to it from her.

“I need your help on my current case,” she began, but Chess interrupted her. “I don’t really do that kind of work any more.”

“I know - you somehow conned your way into the Lord Admiral’s service. It's just as well, as I don’t have any budget to pay you anyway.” She smiled an insolent grin, the kind Jon remembered so well.

She had a stunning smile, and Jon knew, that his gorgeous wife aside, there was no way he was going to say that he declined to help.

“Tell me,” Jon said.

“Well, two weeks ago, the first body was found in the Scarlet Raven in Darkshire. The body was drained of all life; the fellow was a 30-ish male merchant in the prime of his life, but the corpse looked like a man triple his age, who had died of natural causes,” she said.

“Did the local militia come to any conclusions?” asked Jon.

“I have not had a chance to question them; that would require traveling, and when I asked for permission, it was refused,” replied Officer Connelly bitterly.

“I see,” Jon said. Travel costs money, and time, and resources; the local magistrates would never approve that for a commoner.

“The next bodies were found in Raven Hill, on the ground between the town and the cemetery. They were identified as two who had planned to harvest the poison glands from the giant spiders there, to sell to apothecaries for making antivenoms,” said Officer Connelly. “Again, both bodies were shriveled with age, with no other sign of injury.”

“I suppose you haven’t spoken to those who found them, either?”

“No. I was told that given the number of people who have died in that undead-infested cemetery, two more were not important and quite out of our jurisdiction.” Once more Jonathan nodded; a predictable if uncaring answer by the civil bureaucracy. 

“The only reason I know about them at all is because another body was found early this morning in the Stormwind cemetery; whatever or whoever is causing these deaths have come to Stormwind. I am assigned the case to find answers and stop them from happening, but my hands are tied, hamstrung by my superiors.” She scowled, clearly unhappy about her situation. “I thought perhaps you might be willing to investigate, given how many pro bono cases you had taken in the past. I remember you saying ‘Everyone matters, or no one matters’ when that insane Scarlet Crusader was killing Void Elves in the city, and nobody would help them. Except for you.”

Jon blushed. There was a time before his wife when he had several Ren’dorei lovers; he was appalled by how the authorities had ignored their plight, believing that the newly-arrived Ren’dorei still held allegiance to the Horde. Jon had done his best to help them, including finding the Scarlet Crusader responsible for a string of racially-motivated deaths. 

“I won’t be able to offer much, but I think I can manage to get you a Crown warrant to investigate. Will you please help me?” she asked.

“I will do my best,” said Jon, his mind already leaping ahead to what needed to be done.

Rikalyn Microheroes

 

Rikalyn

Rikalyn in
uniform

Danger in Darkshire (FitzSilver) Part Two

 "Okay, kiddo - you've been sulking in bed for a week," began his guardian, Sir Griffonclaw. Snow FitzSilver had arrived in Ironforge with a head wound and a concussion, and Griffonclaw had taken him home. The head wound was healed that very day, and the concussion had been dealt with as well. Healing Snow's spirit was another matter.

Snow FitzSilver, his ward, sat up. "Head wound. Concussion."

Griffonclaw pointed his finger like a pistol. "I healed the head wound  before we left the tram. The concussion took longer because it wasn't an emergency, and there was no reason to have you dehydrated and weak; the Light steals from your body's resources for the healing, so I let nature take its course. Well, with the Light's help... but just a little." He smiled affectionately. "So why the brooding?"

"Brooding?"

"Yes, a sombre emotional state characterized by depression and despondency. Brooding. So enlighten me, kiddo," requested Griffonclaw. We may be citizens of Ironforge, and live here, but we human, and brooding and a taciturn surliness isn't part of our natural psyche."

Snow remained quiet, gathering his thoughts. "I was on a monster hunt in Darkshire, with about a score of others."

"...and together you slew the creature."

"Well, they did - I was so out of it from my head arguing with a headstone that I was useless. I got off two shots, and missed... Fel, I'm lucky I didn't hit one of the others. Others were injured, and one died - because I wasn't pulling my weight."

"...Snow, I am sorry that you and others were hurt, and glad you survived without permanent injury," said Griffonclaw slowly, his voice laden with empathy. "The path you have chosen - helping keep others safe, and defending those who cannot effectively fight... 

"... like myself ..." interjected Snow.

"Interrupting is rude," Griffonclaw added, almost automatically; Snow had a bad habit that Griffonclaw had been unable to remedy while he was growing up. "the others knew the risks as well. While regrettable, there is rarely violent conflict without injury or death. The creature you described had killed, and would kill again; honor the fallen, who made the choice to protect others by slaying the beast."

After a pause, he added "I am very proud of the man you have become."

The silence between them grew, but it was borne of familiar comfort and undoubted love.

"So what do I do" quietly asked Snow.

"Well, I can tell you what Uncle Jon did," Griffonclaw said. "He has spent his whole life doing what he calls 'cheating' and what I call 'optimizing his offensive capabilities to ensure maximum effect and minimal threat'. He is an accomplished apothecary and a certified combat medic; he often envenoms his throwing knives and other weapons. He has a Gnome friend who makes him explosives, smoke bombs, and other devices to minimize the risk of combat. He never  stops learning, never stops finding another way to protect himself and the family from harm." Griffonclaw frowned. "He has even become adept at the Shadow magic of the Arakkoa to enhance his stealth and disguise abilities, which may ultimately cause more harm than good, but that is his choice."

"Do you think he might be willing to help me?" asked Snow.

"I think he will, if approached; none of his children have followed in his footsteps thus far. I know Alia is relieved; she worries about Jon constantly, but at the same time is very proud of the good he does. And while he doesn't really know how to show it, I know he would do anything to keep any of his family safe. Or at least more safe."

Danger in Darkshire (FitzSilver) Part One

The fellow most people knew as Jon Chess, Agent of Cheese, looked up as his adopted nephew entered the kitchen where Jon was preparing dinner. "You sent for me, Unca Jon?". Jon checked the progress of the cooking food, and turned to his nephew. Jon's half-brother Griffonclaw had adopted an orphan named Snow, who bore the silver-white hair marking Gilnean bastards; conrary to ordinary characteristic inheritance, the Gilean royal line carried a dominant trait of that hair color.

May Gileans had white hair. The Royal Family of Gilneas had historically never missed an opportunity with a willing lass, and once in a bloodline the hair would periodically appear. Griffonclaw had figured that the orphan Snow (named for his hair) was to one degree or another related to the FitzSilver line; the surname was given to all bastards of the Silverlaine line, acknowledged or not.

Anyone seeing Jon next to Snow would assume they were father and son.

"Yeah, Snow... I need to ask a favor of you; I need you to take a cheese delivery to the cook at the Scarlet Raven in Darkshire, and I can't really get away right now," Jon informed Snow. Snow nodded; Jon was a privy agent to the Admiralty of Kul Tiras, and had been in Jaina Proudmoore since the founding (or thereabouts) of Theramore.

"Of course. What does it pay?," responded Snow, grinning.

"What do you want?," answered Jon.

"I want you to teach me how to cook," affirmed Snow. 

"Oh?

"Yeah, I've been helping Van... Miss Colton, and she can't cook without lethal results. I've seen you charm Alia with your menu - especially the desserts - and I thought I could make 'Nessa smile with some food that's actually edible."

Jon considered; Vanessa Colton was the daughter of an ex-Syndicate assassin Jon had dated, once upon a time. Snow could do worse, and Vanessa could use the protection that Snow brought.

"Done. Go to the Trias' shop, and they will have the shipment ready for you."

"Done" agreed Snow.

Stavros DarKoven Artwork

 

Snow FitzSilver (05) - An Week's Pay for an Honest Day's Work

Snow made sure nobody was watching before he launched himself into space from the roof of the inn in Surwich; the first time he had done this he had made the mistake of doing it in front of Donna Berrymore, the raven-haired pretty innkeeper. She had served him very plain fare for dinner that  night and breakfast the next morning, telling him "Why should I waste good food on someone with a death wish?" It was not until he swore that he'd never do that again in front of her that she relented.

So he had been very careful to not do it when he had any sort of an audience. It would have been a shame to miss his final chance to have a bowl of her Ragnaros Chowder, so named because it was made with Pandaren Cindergut Peppers. It was a rare treat, and the occasion was that Snow had finished replacing or repairing the tar paper, wooden shingles, and misaligned widows on the inn building. 

He used a wrist-mounted grappling hook and spidersilk rope to catch himself before he plowed face-first into the stone fence, and went to the well to wash the last day of honest sweat from his body. His employer,  in despair of finding someone to deliver the supplies and do the work, had paid him what in Stormwind was five times the going rate, as several other trips had ended in failure. 

He went to the inn, and settled in the Common Room, waiting for dinner to arrive. Madam Berrymore brought him a pint of Thunder Ale (imported from Kharanos), the favored libation of his youth spent (or misspent) on and around Ironforge. 

"A letter from Stormwind arrived earlier for you," she said. "Dinner will be in a half-hour."

Snow examined the envelope, which was addressed by hand he recognized. The envelope was sealed with a wax sigil of the Silverlaine house. Excusing himself, he retreated to his room; the seal was from the noble family that had once ruled the Silverpine forest, and anything sealed with it was written in what the intelligence services called a Book Code, known only to the FitzSilver family.  A Book Code worked like this; each letter represented by a three-digit code. The first number  corresponds to the page number. The second number is the line of the letter counted from top-down.  The third number is the position of the letter counted from left to right.

 Using his copy  of <A Steamy Novel: Of Elvin Bondage> Snow laboriously decoded the message.

"Jon asks to borrow you for a task. Meet him at the Usual Place in Boralus".

It was unsigned. 

While he pondered whether or not he should respond, he ate two helpings of Ragnaros Chowder; he knew that it would be some time before returning to Surwich.

Snow FitzSilver (04) - Rainy Days in Darkshire

The rain seemed to follow Snow FitzSilver wherever he went.  What was a light rain in Stormwind when he was offered a job which made use of his less-profitable talents - carpentry - to fix the inn roof in Surwich had seemingly followed him to the stables in Goldshire where he "borrowed" a one-horse cart and the finest horse (a Kul Tiran thoroughbred stallion, no less). The road through the Elwynn Forest was a complete mess by the time he pulled off to the Eastvale Mining Camp. It mercifully abated to a light drizzle as he loaded the bundles of wooden shingles, crates of roofing nails, and casks of caulking tar into the cart, then secured it all into place with rope.

The lady Pandarian who had hired him had warned him that several shipments had gone awry. Snow had not been surprised; after the fall of Nethergarde, the road through the Blasted Lands were rife with orc desperados, demons, and other hostile encounters. Still, Snow was being paid to do what he needed to do anyways - disappear from the Kingdom of Stormwind for awhile.

He had spent the night with the sorceress Marisa DuPaige, and slept the deep sleep of the exhausted - or drugged. Either way, he had woken tied to an interrogation rack. He knew that Marisa liked her bedsports a little rougher than some (a lesson he had learned the most delightful way), but a rack seemed a little outre.

She and  Snow had shortly thereafter engaged in a strange conversation. Marisa had faked her kidnapping to draw me into the open, and captured me so that her boss, Vanessa VanCleef, could pass along a message: stop hunting the Defias Brotherhood.

"Ordinarily, there would be no discussion," clarified Marisa. "We'd just leave a cooling carcass behind in Goldshire where it would be certain to be found, marked by the Defias as a warning... but your family complicates things." Snow had looked up sharply at that; Snow was an orphana ward under the guardianship of the Ironforge Mystic Hall, sponsored by Dane "Griffonclaw" FitzSilver, also called "The Tarnished Knight. 

"Your guardian has a half-brother who is known to us; while the Defias Brotherhood does not fear him, he  could choose to make the cost of vengeance upon you too expensive, too unprofitable."

Showing uncharacteristic intelligence, Snow kept his mouth shut. She must be referring to a man introduced to him as "Uncle" Jon Chess, who was a well-known mercantile agent  for Elling Trias' cheese business. Snow also knew he was a smuggler and intelligence asset for Lady Jaina, whose relationship with Jon went back to before the mana bomb had destroyed Theramore. Snow accompanied Griffonclaw to dinner at the Chess home in Boralus several times. Jon had married a powerful and fiercely intelligent Dalaran mage, so small wonder they were stepping carefully.

"My boss offers this - stop hunting the Defias Brotherhood for whatever crimes you think they have committed, whatever  wrongs you imagined they have done you. From today, if you kill a Defias, it had better have been a clear case of self-defense, ir she will have you hunted down and your pieces dropped in Stormwind Bay." She waited for Snow to say something, but Snow remained quiet.

"Snow... tell me you understand?" she said in a low voice that layered concern around a core of iron. She may have come to like Snow, perhaps even care for him a little, but she was the Defias Brotherhood through and through.

"I understand," was all Snow said

"Very well... it might also be a good idea for you to get out of Stormwind for awhile, to avoid any 'misunderstandings' that might end up badly, but that is pretty much up to you." She rose and snapped her fingers, magically unlocking the manacles around wrists and ankles. "Goodbye, Snow."

That night, as Snow was pondering what to do, he had been offered the job in Surwich. Snow had no illusion as to the supposed virtue of honest labor, but a few months away at someone else's expense was vatther convenient.

Surwich was occupied by Gilnean refugees, and Snow found their accents comforting; the white hair he bore was a recessive trait prevalent in the Gilnean royal bloodline.; about an eighth of the population had silver hair or platinum streaks. Gilnean royalty had never cared to exercise restraint, and over the decades it had ceased to have a significant meaning. His Majesty Genn Graymane himself had sown more than his fair share of bastards before his marriage; one might truthfully jibe he was for some literally the father of his country.

Most of its citizens had come following the dream of an idealistic druid named Marl Wormthorn. Wormthorn believed that the Tainted Scar could be healed, and attempted to grow it back. The attempt succeeded, but it also lured the majority of demons still present in the scar into the area. 

Now Snow plodded up the mountain trail to Deadwind Pass, and the rain followed him. He realized that it had all likely been a con on her part, but Fel-damn it, he had liked Marisa. 

(WIP)

Snow FitzSilver (03) - Trapped by the Defias!

Vanessa VanCleef drummed her fingers on the tabletop in the bar of the Hall of Shadows beneath Dalaran, deep in thought. The Defias Brotherhood had supported the Alliance during the Third War against the Burning Legion and joined the Uncrowned, an organization, both Alliance and Horde, who walked the path of Shadows; while many of these were deadly enemies outside of Dalaran, Dalaran itself was considered sacrosanct neutral territory. VanCleef used it as an office and neutral meeting place. The woman standing in front of the leader of the Defias Brotherhood had just reported that Defias operatives in the Elwynn Forest had taken heavy losses in the last few months. Descriptions of the fellow were sparse; whipcord muscle, a dancer's step, and a long ponytail of silver hair. The fellow was adept at disguise and the use of poison, but was not seemingly affiliated with SI:7 or worse, with Ravenholdt. A troublesome lone wolf. VanCleef nodded to herself, and addressed her lieutenant. "You reported that the mages on Stonecairn Island had declared themselves independent, and no longer pay tribute. I think that it is time to show them how vulnerable they are without Defias protection..." As VanCleef gave her lieutenant her instructions, the lieutenant's eyes twinkled with mischief.

   

---

Snow FitzSilver 

The fellow known as Snow FitzSilver was crouched up a tree. Not the most uncomfortable position he'd ever been in, but it was made worse by the campfire burning below. Snow had ascended to the branch, taking advantage of the leafy foliage as cover in order to eavesdrop on a Defias road bandit gang which had plagued the area near Jerrod's Landing, a smugglers' dock. He had selected the tree because the wide base of the tree had been where the bandits had burned a fire the night before. What he had not been aware of was that the smoke made his eyes water and his nose itch. 

“Hey Arsenal… What are we doing next?” asked one of the bandits. 

 “Well, we wait here. I got orders for us to wait until a ransom arrives, minus the Dockmaster’s cut, of course. Once we have it, we go to Stonecairn Island; the kidnap victim is a mage, so it was the only safe place to stash her. ” 

Snow had already learned that Jerrod’s Landing was a big smuggling center, once operated by the Defias Brotherhood, but since then had been operating independently. 

 That was enough for Snow. 

 The first of the bandits died when a noose wrapped around his throat. His neck snapped when Snow used the other end of the rope to rapidly descend from his perch, sending the bandit;s lifeless corpse into the tree’s lower branches. The second and third bandit died with envenomed throwing spikes impaled themselves in the bandits’ throats. The fourth bandit got his sword halfway out of its scabbard before Snow’s dexter dagger opened his throat. The bandit leader Arsenal managed to draw his own longsword clear of the scabbard when he took in the carnage. “Boo!” yelled Snow, and the bandit turned to run. 

 He failed to outrun Snow’s loaded flintlock bullet. 

Snow FitzSilver Artwork

Art by Bugge!

Snow FitzSilver Microhero!

Snow FitzSilver 02 - Wagonload for Lakeshire

 The road from Goldshire to Lakeshire was well-covered in leafy shade from the trees which grew in the Elwynn Forest, and it made the loaded wagon almost comfortable is it trundled along slowly on it's way. The driver, a strapping young lad in inexpensive homespun work clothes that had seen better days judging from the patching on the pants, seemed in high spirits as he whistled a Dwarven mining song called Drunk Dwarves, singing at a creditable volume:

(Wind Rose! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPQAfz1GulI )

One mug filled with mead till the morning

Too much for an elf

Two more mugs full of mead till the morning

Add more from the shelf

There's three mugs filled with mead till the morning

Long since I was born

Four more mugs full of mead till the morning

Worthy of a dwarf

Nobody is welcome in a tavern full of drunken dwarves

No respect for humans, dragons, trolls, or pointy ears

If you want to die, stay as long as you're alive

We'll bring chaos to the tavern till the dawn has come

Nobody is welcome in a tavern full of drunken dwarves

No respect for humans, dragons, trolls, and pointy ears

If you want to run, do it faster than my axe

Don't you dare mess with a hall full of drunken dwarves

May you hear us sing along, from the forest

To the tavern's hall, until we fall

Alchemy and magic forge the night into a hearth of stone

In the tavern's hall, until we fall

With five mugs full of mead till the morning

Someone starts to crawl

Six more mugs full of mead till the morning

Everybody falls

Seven mugs full of mead till the morning

Right or even wrong

With eight more mugs of mead till the morning

We will start the brawl

May you hear us sing along, from the forest

To the tavern's hall, until we fall

Our blood is boiling fast

Like mead poured on the table

In the tavern's hall, until we fall

Nobody is welcome in a tavern full of drunken dwarves

No respect for humans, dragons, trolls, or pointy ears

If you want to die, stay as long as you're alive

We'll bring chaos to the tavern till the dawn has come

Nobody is welcome in a tavern full of drunken dwarves

No respect for humans, dragons, trolls, and pointy ears

If you want to run, do it faster than my axe

Don't you dare mess with a hall full of drunken dwarves

It was clear that the lad, however high his spirits, had more enthusiasm than singing ability, but as his audience was composed of the nearby squirrel, no harm was done. He had reached the bridge past the Tower of Azora, where he had shared his flagon of ale with the Stormwind guards not more than an hour past.

The Defias Brotherhood

"Stand and deliver!" rang out from a side of the road, and out from the trees stepped a ragtag.set of bandits, each clad in mis-matched armor, but each wore the blood-red masks of the Defias. "We hereby claim your wagon, your ox, and your cargo in the name of the Brotherhood."

The fellow slowe3d the wagon, having noticed that several more had came up from behind, surrounding the wagon. The driver dismounted, keeping his hands well away from the dagger at his belt. 

"What is your cargo, stripling?" asked the leader of the bandit crew.

"Just a load of cheese and a few barrels of some Thunderbrew ale ordered by the inn in Lakeshire" answered the young fellow, trying to keep the fear from his voice, and succeeding... mostly.  

"Nothing else?" the bandit asked suspiciously.

"Nope, hardly worth the trouble, isn't it? I don't suppose that you'd consider letting me through?" the driver asked. 

"I see no reason why not! Grab your bedroll from the back of the wagon, and be on your way - without the wagon! The turnoff for the Eastvale village is about a mile up the road, and with a little luck you can spend the night sheltered from the predators of the forest.... well, at least the wolves and bears," the bandit joked, his troop laughing at what was clearly a well-known jest.

"But I... I thank you for your mercy," the driver said, thinking that a profest as to the unfairness could only end one way, and that way not well for him.

"Smart lad... especially when you forgot to tell us about the smuggling hole under the seat bench," the bandit snarled. "Now step off sharply, before I remember that you tried to lie to us."

The driver did as he was told, gathering his sleeping rolland slinging it over his shoulder before walking so fast he was nearly running towards Eastvale, the sound of the amused bandits echoing in the road behind him.

It was not until near the midnight hour before the driver returned, and followed the bandits' trail. The driver's appearance had changed almost completely. Gone was the worn-out homespun peasant clothing, replaced by dark blue cuir boli leather armor. The barely-serviceable knife was gone, replaced by two Stormwind military daggers. No longer a scared wagon driver, he moved with a catlike grace, making nary a sound as he headed for  the old barn of a deserted farmstead, taken over by the Defias Brotherhood. Most dramatically, the coal-black hair had been rinsed of the black dye, and the silver hair hung down his neck in a very short foxtail.

He approached the abandoned farmstead warily, making sure there were no sentries to raise an alarm at the intruder in their midst. There were no sentries, just a firepit hastily dug in the middle of the fallow field, the charred remains of the poor ox who had been bought with this fate in mind. All around the large fie were corpses of the Defias bandits, many of whom had fouled themselves as they died. There were several pools of bile and vomit, as some of the bandits had figured out that they had been poisoned and tried to purge themselves.. too late.

There was one survivor in the old farmhouse that the band had used as an office for their leader. He was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, an open bottle of the Silvermoon Port wine that had been concealed in the wagon's smuggling compartment. He looked up as the former driver entered.

"You... you did this to us! I'll see you in Hell!" ranted the Defias leader in a weak, drained voice. 

"I think you'll beat me to it" said the silver-haired fellow.

"Why? asked the bandit. "We let you go!"

"Only because you saw no profit in taking me for ransom. After all, who would ransom a strilplig wagon driver waylayed on his first trip? You'd have had feed me and guard me; no profit in such a little fish. Best to throw him back and catch him another day."

"Fair enough, I suppose..." chuckled the Defias weakly. "And what poison did you use?"

"Deathadder in the Silvermoon Port, and Essence of Agony in the cheese, just not enough to taste. It's called. The Essence of Agony made the Deathadder more potent; you might have survived one, but not both in concert."

"Tricky... where did you learn that?"

"My adopted uncle Jon showed me how; he's really good with toxins and venoms. He was annoyed that I ruined some perfectly good cheese, though," he said. "He also refused to let me use real Silvermoon Port - too valuable. He did give me the empty bottles and showed me how to re-seal the corks."

He stepped behind the Defias and drew steel, slicing hs carotid artery and nobly avoiding the sudden splash of blood. "You released me, so I release you from a slow,agonizing death."

The former driver collected all the Defias masks he could find, bundling them together for the Goldshire authorities. It was quite  the bounty, but he was determined to stay anonymous; vengeance rarely could rarely touch just another shadow in the forest.