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.

Snow FitzSilver 01 - Employment in Westfall

Snow FitzSilver 01 - Employment in Westfall

The fellow people called Snow FitzSilver crouched on a tree branch overlooking the road which went from Goldshire to Lakeshire through the Elwynn Forest. Snow was on his real name,but when he had been taken to the Stormwind Orphanage during Winter Veil  after having been found in an abandoned building at Southshore, his snow-white silver hair leading naturally to his nickname applied by the other children made a certain amount of sense; if he knew his true name, he wasn’t talking. His last name was granted when an unafflicted Gilnean paladin from Pyrewood made an application to become Snow’s legal guardian. Dayn FitzSillver, the paladin known as Griffoclaw felt a keen kinship with the boy, having himself been orphaned by the depredations of the mad sorcerer Arugal. 

Snow had been taken from the Orphanage and raised by the Griffonclaw’s gnomish and dwarven clan-friends in Ironforge, where he was given an education and taught the rudimentary weapon skills all dwarven youth were taught. At sixteen he returned to the streets of Stormwind, working at finding employment. Snow had a talent with knives, and became a personal security assistant for Lieutenant Horatio Laine. Laine was a senior Stormwind investigator assigned to investigate several crimes, and Snow had been assigned to canvas the local homeless near the Jansen homestead, which has occupied by squatters. 

Snow had approached several of the homeless squatters that day. Most of them told hilton “get lost”, if they said anything at all. Finally, he approached a woman in a dirty brown dress that had clearly seen better days.

“Excuse me, miss… may I ask you some questions?” Snow had asked, smiling gently.

“Oh, the big hero has arrived. I'm saved! Yea, right... “ the woman had said, her words dripping with bitter sarcasm.

“Did you happen to see or hear anything when those folk here murdered?” Snow asked, ignoring her sarcasm.

“Well.. for two coppers I might tell  you what everyone has been saying… for a silver, I’ll let you take me back to your camp and tell you anything you might want… feed me, and I’ll keep you plenty warm tonight?” She offered, looking Snow over from head to foot, and deciding that she could do much worse.” 

Snow had not seriously considered her offer, but gave her a handful of coppers. “Just tell me what you can, Miss.” and had listened while she told him all of the rumors she had heard - the gnolls had done it, the murlocs had done it, that it was part of King Wrynn’s plan to force the homeless from Westfall and seize the land for his soldiers, and other unlikely things.

“Do you believe any of that?” he finally asked,

“Not a word of it.” She glanced around, to see who might be listening. “Here, come with me over to that hill and spread your cloak on the ground.”

Curious, he nodded, and let her take his hand and lead him to the hills near the river that acted as a dividing line between the Elwynn Forest and Westfall. He spread his cloak and she reclined on the soft, thick fabric. She pulled him down next to her, and leaned over to kiss him. “Nobody will be suspicious about two young folk kissing after you gave me a fistfull of copper” she whispered.

“That wasn't’... “ he began, but she cut him off with a gentle kiss. 

“I know… but around here, there are plenty that would… Every week, agents from Goldshire come out to find girls who will do anything for a pretty dress and regular meals,” she said, her voice sad. “I want to get out too, before I get to that point - if I stay, it’s only a matter of time before the Brotherhood takes me to be their plaything anyways.”

“The Brotherhood?” asked Snow.

“The Defias Brotherhood.. Bandits who wear the red mask - they say they wear it to symbolize the blood shed by the oppressed, but they are the ones victimizing the people in Westfall and Elwynn, not the King.  They are the ones… well, lets just say that rape and murder are the least of their crimes. They killed those poor people, not the murlocs or gnolls or the King - but they also feed us sometimes in Moonbrook,  so people don’t rat on them - and if a Defias takes a fancy to you, you either give them what they want or they’ll take it… sometimes a whole gang will take you ‘under their wing’ and make you their leman, serving the whole group whenever they get an itch.”

“Do you have any proof?” Snow asked.

“That is always the problem isn’t it. Nobody will grass, out of greed or fear… that’s why I want out, but not by way of Goldshire. Take me anywhere else, and I’ll gladly keep your bedroll warm - I’m not a professional, but I am not some blushing virgin, either. I’ll keep sweet, and smile when we part, maybe in Lakeshire…” she offered.

Snow made a decision. “How do you feel about Ironforge… My guardian has a house there, and he can use a housekeeper. You don’t have to keep my bedroll warm, nor his either - he’s a paladin.”

“Your guardian is a dwarf?” she asked.

“Well, no… it's a long story, but you could be safe in Ironforge,” Snow confirmed. “And paid a fair wage for something which needs doing. Snow was determined to write to his “Uncle” Griffinclaw that night, appraising him of her plight; he had no doubt that Griffonclaw would be glad to help; more than once he had told Snow “We can’t fix all the evils of the world; but the job of a paladin is to fight back the Darkness, one soul at a time”.

The next day he resigned from assisting the Stormwind investigator and headed for Ironforge.

Grayhawk 01 - Sheer Luck and Silver Linings

A knock at the cramped living quarters of Jonathan Grayhawk startled him out of his concentrated focus, causing his soldering tool to jerk in his hands.  A hot glob of tin solder found its way to a space between Grayhawk's gloves and jerkin sleeve, and he howled in pain after he managed a "Come in!"

Jonathan
Grayhawk

A woman cautiously opened the door, and leaned her head in, clearly spooked by his cry of pain.

"Sorry to bother you, but are you Jon Greyhawk, advertised as an 'Emotional Support Rogue' in the Blue Recluse?" she asked.

"Yes, yes, I am he. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable," Grayhawk confirmed.

The lady stepped in, stamping the snow from her boots. She looked around the chaotic mess dominating every flat surface. "Um.. where? Everything looks... occupied."

"Oh," Said Grayhawk, spreading an alchemical ointment for burns on his new scar, feeling the pain immediately recede. "Tell you what, head over to the Golden Keg, and I'll clean myself up and meet you there?" The Golden Keg was an inn located in the Dwarven District of Stormwind City.

"Very well, Master Grayhawk," she said as he whipped off the jerkin he wore at his often-dangerous workbench, and cast about for a suitable replacement. She paused as she withdrew, admiring the strong muscular back and shoulders while wincing at the scars, remnants of misadventures.

She pondered her decision to approach Grayhawk all the short walk on the cobblestones of the distance to the inn.

Cassandra Mallory was a woman of practicality, and practicality told her that she couldn’t fight anyone that wore shoes bigger than her waist. She was human, but she was short and lean. She could move like a panther at night, and her knives were just as sharp, but her size was a hinderance in a sustained fight. Even with the raises in the heel of her boot, Cassandra only came to about 5'3 at best. So what does a smart, enterprising young woman do? 

Find a bigger weapon. 

“My usual table Myrla. I’ll have company shortly.”

“Alright lass, I’ll tell Thaegra.”

Bounding up the stairs two at a time, she settled into her seat in the alongside the balcony and waited for Grayhawk to follow along.

*      *      *      *      *

Cassandra didn't have long to wait, as Grayhawk, now cowered from shoulders to knees in reinforced cour boli boiled leather armor, entered the in common room. Cassandra barely recognized him; the rather confused fellow she had left in his residence-cum-workshop was almost a completely different fellow. They moved differently, as if the bumbling engineer was a disguise... or this fellow was. This Grayhawk had a thick Kul Tiran cutlass and a dagger so long and think it was almost a shortsword. A flintlock, with clearly Gnomish enhancements, hung in a holster at his waist, counterbalanced by what she only could assume were some kind of grenades. The slightly confused look was gone from his eyes, which never stopped moving, taking in the entire room all at once, wary for threats. Sighting her, he strode purposefully to her side.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, Miss. I was knee-deep in a project, and apparently soldering myself to it was a painful miscalculation," he chuckled.

Cassandra smiled at him, a brilliant natural smile, “Oh that’s nothing. My uncle Glover was dead set on uncovering some lost recipe to create Vrykul metal… one hammer strike and his whole arm was nearly set ablaze. Thankfully he was wearing the right protection, or he and his whole forge would have probably been toasted!”

"You can never take too many precautions in the lab.. or anywhere else, for that matter," said Grayhawk with a smirk.

“No you can’t, which is why I’ve come seeking you.”

"Now that you have found me, what service may I perform for you?" asked Grayhawk

"Simple work. I need you to retrieve some gold that belongs to me, and to deliver a message along with it." Cassandra replied.

Grayhawk raised an eyebrow, hoping for elaboration. "This message... not a creative euphemism for death or grievous bodily harm, I trust?"  Grayhawk was adept at the application of violence to achieve goals, but he drew the line at assassination.

Not that he had not, upon occasion, goaded some of lesser temper into beginning hostilities, requiring a final and thorough response.

"Ha! No no I don't mean that kind of message. Just a stern talking to and, a little property damage to make sure the message sticks in his little gnome head."

"A gnome? May I have the target's name and clan affiliation? There are some gnomes against whose interest I will not act," informed Grayhawk.

Camlek Overwire

"Camlek," She said between bites of food when it arrived, "Camlek Overwire."

"...He's a fence, is he not?" asked Grayhawk.

Cassandra looked offended, "He would be so upset to hear you say that... He is a purveyor of hard to obtain items, and he treats his clients with fairness and honesty."

Grayhawk chuckled. "I am sure he pays bards well to make sure that everyone hears that about him, but he also reports to a fellow in Ironforge named Fenthwick... who works for some friends of mine." Grayhawk conveniently forgot to mention that his "friends" and Fenthwick worked for the Hall of Shadows, the brotherhood which spanned the cities of both Alliance and Horde, known as the Uncrowned.

"That may be, but he and I also share friends in the silver industry, and right now he is making me look very bad in the light he's been painting me in."

"I think it would take an act of the Titans to make you look anything less than incredibly desirable, but I digress..."  commented Grayhawk. "How much does he own, how much would you settle for, and what, precisely, is the message?" 

Cassandra counted with her fingers, adding and subtracting as she spoke, "The original payment of five hundred gold, plus item I originally procured for him, as well as an additional two hundred for the defamation... I guess I will settle for three hundred and the mold, but keep in mind that I intend to spilt with you what ever money you obtain from the miser. I will not settle for anything less than the mold. If you can only escape with one thing, grab that."

"Very good... can you describe - or better yet, draw me a sketch? - of the mold?" asked Grayhawk.

“I can do that. Do you have paper and charcoal?”

"As it so happens, I always carry a sketch pad and charcoal." Grayhawk guided her to a table, and unpacked his implements. One never knew when inspiration might strike, and Grayhawk prided himself on being prepared.

Cassandra held the charcoal like a skilled painter, and sketched out the silver mold in question, box and all. It appeared to be a candlestick that had been custom ordered by someone with rank, as the woman clearly shaded in the parts where jewels and other ornamentation would eventually be affixed. She then took another page and started to draw a vessel; not quite an urn, vase or pot, but somewhere within that area. It had a metal fixture that went around the mouth of the thing and came back down to create legs that lifted it off the bottom. A line here, a correction there, and both pages were handed to Jonathan for inspection. 

"This is the prime target, then? It's re-acquisition?"

“This is the silver mold, yes. The other one is your… leverage, should he not agree to give what is due.” She pointed to the urn-looking drawing, “Camlek adores that thing like a surrogate son. Surely he would rather hand over a few hundred gold than see it smashed into pieces too tiny to repair?”

"I begin to understand," Grayhawk said.  He recognized the urn as a clan funerary vessel, venerated by a whole clan of relatives.  Grayhawk wondered if she knew the significance, and if so, did she know that Grayhawk understood the significance.  Was she aware that he had apprenticed under Gnomish Engineering Masters in Gnomeregan, and was considered family be the clans he had worked alongside after the Meltdown?  If she did, she was taking a calculated risk as to how cheaply Grayhawk's loyalties could be purchased.

Cassandra sat back down at their table, taking a long draw of her drink before admitting, unprompted, “Let me be perfectly honest… I don’t… actually want the damn vase smashed. But he’s fucked me to the moons on this one and I have other investors looking over my shoulder that will do far worse to me if I can’t prove I’m not at fault. So the money, the mold, or the vase.  That’s the job.”

"How much time do I have, and I am to receive only my cut of the cash recovered?"

“Let me say it this way. When and how much you get is directly proportionate to when and what I can pay you.”

"I suppose that is only fair - not that 'fair' is a business concept," commented Grayhawk. "How do I contact you when I am done?"

“Drop a message in a bottle down the well in Old Town,” Cassandra replied.

*      *      *      *      *

And thus began the least exciting part of locating an elusive quarry; canvassing the city.

Grayhawk looked for people who watched people; such people weere much more likely to notice someone slightly out of place, like a gnome on the streets of Stormwind. While not rare, they were uncommon, and likely to be noticed by people for whom people-watching was a hobby and habit,

From the Pig & Whistle to the Memorial Park to the Blue Recluse tavern, he found people to ask his question:

"Excuse me, may I have a moment of your time?"

If Grayhawk approached them with courtesy, most of the time they agreed to answer questions. Grayhawk would show them the sketch Cassandra had made, and ask " I am looking for a gnome, orange hair that is thin on top but sticks up in front, goatee mustache, sideburns, medium height (for a Gnome), pear-shaped, awfully quick wih a straight razor. Goes my Camlek Overwire, but is not above using false names."

If they were still amenable, he would continue "If you know of him, there is a bounty for information leading to his interrogation regarding some stolen goods he was trying to fence in Stormwind, I can be contacted through the management at the Blue Recluse." He would them give them his business card.

Slowly, the net was weaving would catch him something!

*      *      *      *      *

Grayhawk leaned against the wall on the building across from the Lion's Pride Inn, standing out of the heavy rain and grateful that the building was home to the village blacksmith.  Grayhawk had spent the previous week canvassing Stormwind, searching for a gnome who had taken a silver mold of a vase... of sorts... from his client, who was very keen to have it back. 

The money that the gnome owed her would have been nice as well.

In any case, word had come back through the street rats of the Old Town that the aforementioned gnome was ensconced in a room upstairs in the Lion's Pride, which was where things became dicey; the Lion's Pride Inn was perhaps the most infamous den of whoremongering and sexual indulgence in all of the Eastern Kingdoms, if not all of Azeroth.

Every town had some form of prostitution; in Lakeshire, there were bar staff (of both sexes)  who took money in exchange for amorous congress (with both sexes). Booty Bay had several establishments where any manner of entertainment, however licentious, could be had - for a price.

What set Goldshire apart was the sheer... exuberance of both the patrons and the purveyors.  All manner of races, of every sex and sexual orientation, could be found here, and what was not on display by professionals was often available at no charge from gifted (and enthusiastic) amatuers.

Grayhawk had no problem with any of that; the problem which he faced was that a haven of such indulgence was very well-protected, with both wards and armed bravos. Grayhawk was not afraid of conflict, whether with knives, swords, axs, maces, or even firearms; but the odds of slipping past the guards and breaking into Overwire's room long enough to achieve his client's goals were slim to the point of foolhardiness.

Fortunately, while Jonathan Grayhawk wasn't the sharpest blade in the armory, he had one advantage over so many others; he knew  he wasn't. He didn't have to be; there were others who were not only sharper than he, but they were willing to assist Grayhawk for good, solid coin.

A voluptuous kaldorei woman, clad in gauzy scarves under a hooded cloak, exited the inn and crossed the street to where Grayhawk waited.

"Grayhawk?" she asked as she grew near.

"Yes ma'am," answered Grayhawk.

"Never assume..." she mumbled. "Come with me," she instructed, offering her hand. "We have limited time."

Jon took her hand, and followed. She led him into the inn, through the Common Room, and down a staircase to a corridor with several doors. Using a silver key, she opened one of the doors and led Jon into a chamber.

The room was decorated as a dungeon cell, with a slightly sloped floor leading to a drain. Leather manacles with steel chains hung down from  a large, solid A-frame in the center of the room. There was a bed, also of thick, sturdy construction, with each bedpost having it's own set of steel and leather bindings. Along one wall was a rack of leather floggers and whips of various thicknesses, and lining the bottom of the rack were a number of potion bottles, presumably for healing

"Wait here," the kaldorei woman instructed Grayhawk. "I need to slip away to my room and change into my 'Naughty Nurse' costume and visit our target; the wine I am bringing him for 'healing' has a sleeping draught. I'll bring him down here, and you can ask him any questions you want, using whatever persuasions you want... no questions asked, so long as you leave him alive. These rooms are sound-proofed... for obvious reasons."

"Very good," Grayhawk handed her a large pouch of gold. "Your 'finder's fee', as agreed, and a bonus, as agreed."

"A patron who pays promptly... you are a gift from the Gods, Master Grayhawk," she replied. "A business doing pleasure with you. I shall return soon."

*      *      *      *      *

"Who the Fel are you, then?," the goblin growled as Grayhawk entered the small house by the dock on the Elwynn Forest river. Jerod's Landing was a boat landing on the Elwynn Forest bank of the Nazferiti river. The landing had until recently been run by the Defias Brotherhood, and they used it to smuggle stolen goods to and from Redridge Mountains and Westfall. While the Defias were gone, the route was still actively in use.

"I'm the guy here for that silver mold you got from the gnome fence," said Grayhawk from beneath ao orange Syndicate bandit mask. "Stealing from the Syndicate is a Bad Idea." The gnome had given up the answer to all of Grayhawk's questions before Grayhawk had even begun to apply pressure.

"Why Should I even pretend to be a tough guy? Just leave me enough to pay my bill and buy some dinner, and we're square!" said the gnome, good naturedly. "Easy come, easy go!"

"Oh yeah? We'll see about that!" snarled the goblin, blowing on an alarm whistle and drawing a wicked-looking dagger. Before he could do anything else, he found himself slightly cross-eyed, staring at the business end of Grayhawk's primed flintlock pistol.

"The patrol around the house was too strenuous for your friends, They're taking a nap," commented Grayhawk. He did not add that the nap had been caused by gas from an exploding grenade; the goblin didn't need to know. "Now, the silver mold, if you please?"

"I know of no silver mold," said the Dockmaster defiantly.

Grayhawk cocked the primed flintlock. "I'm sure it will show up after I blow your head to Goldshire. Three... two... "

"Oh, why didn't you say so?" smiled the Dockmaster. "It's right over there, third drawer." The goblin pointed to a desk with a roll-top. "Help yourself."

"Tell you what... Let's do this together, and the whole time I will have this flintlock pointed betwixt your ears," Grayhawk said. "That way there are no misunderstandings around things like poison needles, goblin explosives, or a holdout weapon you might be tempted to use, eh?"

The goblin grumbled the whole time, especially when Grayhawk chose to relieve the Dockmaster of his cashbox as well. 

"Thief!" the goblin accused.

"Call it a fine for dealing in stolen property, I should leave your body as a warning to those who would steal from the Syndicate, but who knows? You might be useful in the future" Grayhawk misled as he tied the Dockmaster to his own desk chair. "If you yell real loud, your guards should be awake in a few hours."

*      *      *      *      *

(WIP)

Jon Chess - Worgen?

 

Narisca Artwork

 (Art by Buggie!)