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:
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.
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| 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.
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