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!)

Noxblade - Sweet, Sweet Mistress Sweetflame (WIP)

Silvermoon

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

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

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

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

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

Stavros Noxblade, P.I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My what?"  

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

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

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

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

Oh wait, she did own the place.

Lyrenestra Sweetflame

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

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

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

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

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

Sheer lunacy - she was beautiful.

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

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

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

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

 "Agreed."

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

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

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

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

Pixisticks Art!

 

Greyhawk - Casefile: High Treason for Low Characters (Part Four)

 The echos in the tunnel (which is how Ironforgers say that quaint Stormwind saying "The word on the street") indicated that a blacksmith named Tormus Deepforge could tell me where I could find out more about this Dark Iron officer named Captain Beld, so I stopped off at the Stonefire Tavern in Ironforge to grab a couple of bottles of Dwarven Stout and a wheel of Dwarven mild cheese.

There were two things you could reliably count on with a Dwarven blacksmith; you could find them in and around the Great Forge, at the heart of the city, and that the heat of the Great Forge activities always led to a powerful thirst. The Great Forge was the heart and soul of Dwarven culture, which centered in and around the Dwarven skill and creeativity with metals, gemstones, and alloys. At its center is the famed Great Anvil, where the best of the Dwarven blacksmiths gathered to discuss the arts which fed their prosperity or to actually take hammer to anvil and produced weapons, armor, and other useful devices. Enormous foundries, purifying the ore brouht to the city in bulk, surrounded the Great Anvil.  The cacophony of the foundry and the forge made conversation difficult, which is why I needed the bottles of Stout.

If you are going to go fishing, you increase  your chances of success if you bring the right bait, after all...

I found him standing near the the aforementioned Great Anvil, giving instructions to one of his apprentices. I waited until he had finished, then lightly tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

"Master Deepforge?"

"Ehh?" he said, indicating that he could not hear me over the noise.

I showed him one of the bottles of stout, made a quizical face, and motioned towards the periphery of the Great Forge.  He grinned, and reached for the bottle, following me to a slightly less noisy spot nearby.

"Sorry for thae noise, young fellow," he said, having already opened and drained the bottle of its thick, dark, nutty-tasting Stout.  I offered another to him, and the cheesed I had brought. "Some can't stand the heat of the Great Forge, but I think the heat is just right. And it's the best place to do some serious smithwork."

"Ye are correct, Master Deepforge, and sorry indeed I am to interrupt ye at your craft, but I find myself in urgent need tae prevent a gross miscarriage of justice. I need to know where I can find a certain Dark Iron by the name of Captain Beld, and I am told ye might be able to start me on the path?" I explained.

"Och, aye, I know where ye can find that blackguard poltron, may his forgefire fail!" Master Deepforge replied, more bitter by far than t he beverage he was drinking.  "Once upon a time, nae too long past, my old mentor, Sturgy Ironband, had a compound south of Helm's Bed Lake in eastern Dun Morogh. There he taught blacksmithing and he was the best, until the Dark Ikron Emperor decided that he wanted the strange ore one of his students found."

"A strange ore?" I asked.

"Aye. Master Ironband called it umbral ore, and was eager to work with it, but soon after it arrived, the Dark Emperor stretched out his greedy claw and a band of Dark Iron dwarves under the command of this Captain Beld attacked his compound and made it his base of operations. That is where you may find him, and I hope you kill him very slowly in payment for Master Ironband's death!"

I thanked him for his help, and left him the final bottle of Stout... I imagine it would be drained dry before I hit the tram to return to Stormwind.

I knew who, and I knew where... now I just needed to figure out a way to have some words with Captain Beld that didn't gedt me killed in the process...

=============================

(WIP)

Laurel Nox - Dandelion Tears

 A customer had approached her to make an analysis of her favorite perfume, which just so happened to also be a bloodthistle-based narcotic. Bloodthistle was, botanically speaking, a relative of the Swiftthistle plant, but whereas the Swiftthistle plant was no difficult to find - it was a parasite, often growing intertwined with Briarthorn or Mageroyal plants.  Swiftthistle was very useful in several different recipes, especially those which provided a nervious energy; ingestion invariably produced a fast heart rate, sweating, and large pupils as the user experienced an artificial adrenaline high that could last, depending on the dosage, between five and ninety minutes.  It was often brewed into a tea, highly prized as a stimulant for those needing an "extra kick".

Bloodthistle, by contrast, was available only in the inaccessable northern point of the Eastern Kingdoms, and grew only near spots with a high amount of quel'dorei magic.  Like its cousin, it was a narcotic, but in the Quel'dorei it induces a happy euphoria and sense of invunerability.  It also enhanced the ability of the users to channel and use elvin magical energies for a time... but with a cost. After the effects faded, the consumer would enter a statge of withdrawal, virtually cut off from magical enemies while the withdrawl symptoms persisted. Like any narcotic, this one also had addicts... and anything with addicts could be found on the black market.

Unfortunately for Laurel, she had the wrong sort of contacts; Bloodthistle only affected elves, and so the local black market had no ready suppliers. This lack forced Laurel to deal with someone that she found abhorrent; a petty merchant in cheese, whose legitimate business masked his smuggling sidelines.  The fellow made a small fortune making "cheese deliveries", hiding contraband of various sorts in wheels of the various kinds of cheese, which were in demand all over Azeroth. This fellow had refused Laurel's own generous offer to distributge her own narcotics, looking down his nose at her. They still did business, however - the fellow had a taste for Thistle Tea, and Laurel provided him with all the Swiftthistle he wanted.

Laurel had asked no questions, but he had been able to obtain for her a supply of Bloodthistle sufficient for her needs in creating the perfume desired by her customer. 

The first stgep, of course, was to create a batch of Bloodthistle essential oil... ordinarily, this was a slow process that could take weeks to distil a useful amount, but the client was in a hurry.

So Laurel cheated.  She retreated to her basement workshop of her house in Darkshire, and began to chant in the dark Fel tongue of demons:

From the Land beyond Beyond

To a place of Hope and Fear

I bid you Tarkin

Now appear!

Her demon Imp appeared in an instant, and immediately began complaining and whining.  Laurel rolled her eyes and inflicted him with a Mino Curse o Agony to forstall more kvetching. "Enough, Tarkin.  I have an urgent task for you." Imps were small, perverse demons with a sadisticly mischevious bent, but they were masters of fire.

"I live to serve  you, my Queen of Fel Darkness!" the Imp flattered. Tarkin really only had two moods - whiny complaining and sevile groveling.  

"I need you to take this cauldron and slow-boil the contents," Laurel said, brusing the Bloodthistle and immersing it in the distilled water. "I will be extracting the oil from this plant, so do not heat it too much, do you understand?"

"Oh yeah, sure," said the Imp carelessly.

Laurel narrowed her eyes in distrust. "Understand me - if you do not pay close attention, and ruin this batch, I will apply a Curse of Infernal Itching to your nether regions for a month, until you scratch yourself to bloody, shredded flesh.  I don't care how boring this is, you will tend it with care and constant low heat. No diversions, no mistreating creatures for entertainment, no nothing... or boredom will be the least of your worries!" She handed him the cauldron, which the Imp was barely able to lift to the hearth, using both hands. "And no noise... I have work to do!"

With that begun, she began to ponder the rest...

Perfumes were composed of three different scent notes, often related; tghe base notge, to which one added the middle notges, which influneced thebase note scent, and then the high note, which, when properly aged, would dominate the scent melange. Her customer, a charming and charismatic professional negotiator known as Dandi (Which was short for Dandelion, apparently), was aware of the narcotic nature of Bloodthistle, but did not want it too strong; Dandi was a creature of subtlety. Laurel was almost certain that the perfume was only an part of the perfume's charm; lthough she had not mentioned it, Laurel was virtually certain that Dani was casting a minor charm spell, using the Laws of Similarity - the law of magic wherein the mage, warlock, or shaman infers that one can produce any effect they desire merely by imitating it -  to direct and amplify the effect of the weak narcotic. It was the same law that had voodoo dolls stuck with a pin produce a magnifed effect in the person dipicted by the doll.

In fact... Laurel chuckled.  She had an idea... Laurel filled a pint jar with denatured alcohol, and placed it wihin a thaumaturgical triangle, quickly drawn on the slate floor of her workshop. Rather than try to rush the product, she could cheat, with a judicious application of the Law of Contagion, whereby a spell-caster could create large amounts of wine out of water by pouring a single drop into the supply of water.

Fortunately, her customer had given her more than enough of a sample for both a carful, time-consuming analysis AND a way to meet the short-tern need.

Laurel cast the invocation, and using an eyedropper added one... two... three drops of the original perfume. The Rule of Three was also to be respected.

The alchemical transformation was already underway when laurel turned back to her notes regarding the scent notes... perhaps a base of Dreamfoil, with middle notes of Bruiseweend and Fadeleaf, leaving the top note of Bloodthistle. She would have to play with the ingredients, somewhat... but she would call the final product Dandelion Tears.  She smiled, hoping that name would find favor with her customer.

Greyhawk - Casefile: High Treason for Low Characters (Part Three)

The next morning I was up before the dawn and on the tram for Ironforge, a warm stick of Tram Rat Kabob in my hand.  There was a lot to do, and Keynala could not afford to have an advocate not in Ironfiorge, so I was going to have to do something that only such an extremes could force me to do.

I was going to have to beg a place to sleep from "family". 

The theory was that I was primarily identified as a Greyhawk, which was my mother's surname; however, given that my mother was human, this carried little weight with my father's clan, the Stonefists.  The Stonefists had a storied history of various criminal and anti-social activities, both in Ironforge and Stormwind.  They had connections to the south with the Defias Brotherhood, and to the north with the Syndicate out of the Arathi Highlands and Alterac Mountains.

Or as the gnomes like to say "Dirty deeds done dirt cheap."

When I was growing up, I was vaguely aware that my Dad's family were often involved in sketchy activities, and without doing anything at all I learned how to shadow (and dodge a shadow) people, how to open locks without a key or explosive devices, and fourteen ways to hamstring someone who had pissed me off.  Before my fifteenth birthday, I was well on my way to establishing a fledgling criminal career.

Fortunately, Mom and Dad bundled me off to the Alliance military before I could get caught breaking the law in any serious way.  After my discharge from the Scouts, my sergeant got me a job in Northshire, fighting Defias... and I learned something. No, two things - the first one is that I preferred to operate on the right side of the law. The second thing I learned is that the same skills and abilities I'd learned from my Stonefist uncles, aunts, and cousins were remarkably effective against those who operated on the other side of the law.

Part of operating on the right side of the law in Ironforge was learning the ins and outs of the justice system, or what passes for one, under the rule of the Iron Throne. There were three levels of justice in the Kingdom of Ironforge; what they called High, Middle, and Low Justice.

High justice was reserved to the King and his appointed nobility, and covered pretty much all the crimes which ended up with capital punishment in various ways; death by hanging, death by firing squad, death by impalement, death by immolation, and so forth.

Middle justice involved full civil and criminal jurisdiction, except for capital crimes.  This stuff was handled by the courts and magistrates appointed by the Iron Throne - often paladins who were above reproach.  Most of the penalties here, under Ironforge law, were fines - dwarves had a slow reproductive rate, and so a dead dwarf could take decades to replace. Dead dwarves don't make anyone money, and without money, taxes suffer.  And the Iron Throne adores collecting its tithes, it does. 

Of course, anyone could appeal their sentences to Trial by Combat.  Heh. Good luck with that.

Low justice, also called "Clan justice", was all the rest of things which made life bearable - weddings, wills, minor property disputes.  Inside of a clan, the heads of the clan kept order.  Between clans, usually, the head of both clans would work out a weregild of some sort - cash payments.

Did I mention that Dwarves are remarkably fond of cash? Its what they use to keep score.

Anyways, with a charge of treason, this was likely to be brought before King Magni himself, which was both good and bad.  The good - Magni had a busy schedule, so the trial was unlikely to take place any time soon. The bad - Magni had a real hard-on against the Dark Irons, who had left a trail of bodies from Grim Batol to Shadowforge City. 

Because the trial was not likely to happen soon, all evidence would be filed in the archives, which was as well-guarded as the royal vaults.  

Archives had archivists, who kept things in the archives safe and, at least in theory, accessible.

The Chief Archivist was a stuffy old bureaucrat named Hjalth Redfingers.  Even if I thought I might have a chance at setting an appointment with him, he'd refuse to cooperate seven times before my ass hit his desk chair for visitors. He served Important People, not Stonefists of dubious Dwarven heritage.

Being the supercilious prickknob that he was, his three Assistant Archivists were also booked solid for weeks, if not months; the difference is that if you got on their calendar, they would do their best to help you if all your paperwork was in order. I didn't have that much time.

Fortunately, each of the Archivists had assistants as well. One of them, a fine young fellow named Anand Paledust, who, from my perspective, had three things going for him. First, he had no talent for his job, and had obtained it because his aunt was the head Librarian for the Hall of Explorers. Second, Anand was known to be enamored of Jesicara Stonefist.  And third, our good fellow Anand had an addiction to dice games played with crooked Troll Dice in the less savory dark halls of Ironforge. 

Jesicara was eager to convince him to see me, and even convinced him to fill out my paperwork in exchange for a small pecuniary remuneration.

By the time I arrived at his office for our appointment, dear Anand had piles of paperwork on his desk almost as tall as he was. 

"Ah, Master Greyhawk, an honor to meet any cousin of dear, sweet Jesicara!" he said, clearly embodying the maxim that Love is Blind. "Please, sit down."

I sat in the spare chair at his desk. "I understand that you are the advocate for one..." He read her name from the file under his hand. "...ah, here it is - Keynala Softstone.  However, advocate or not, I cannot possibly show you the contents of this file here in the red folder.  Red folders are to be held strictly in the highest confidence, and I barely have aurhority to have pulled the file so as to familiarize myself with your request before informing you as to its impossible nature." He gave a look so full of crockolisk tears that I almost thought I was sunbathing at Lake Nefertiti in Stranglethorn.

"Of course," I said, frowning my frustration.

"But to prove that it is only regulations and rules that compel me to refuse your erequest, let us drink together, perhaps in a toast to the Iron Throne?" he said.

"That sounds marvelous.  To justice!"

"Excellent.  Let me just run over to the Stonefire Tavern for a small keg of ale," he said.  "It should not take me more than fifteen minutes. Please wait here in my office, in comfort," he said.

"Oh, but if you are going to do the fetching, ther least you can do is allow me to pay for the drinks?" I insisted, handing him a rather large pouch.  Stuffed with a pre-determined amount of gold.

He had not been gone a minute before I moved across the desk to his seat and opened the red file.

This was bad.

This was very bad.

The file was full of the usual stuff I had been expecting - insinuations that her Dark Iron heritage had overcome her.  Implications that she had chosen to work for a so-called "foreign" organization rather than for an Ironforge company.  A list of known associates, of which I was disappointed to not have been found worthy of inclusion - I must be slipping. 

Finally a report from the Stormwind intelligence service, who had slowly been recruiting gnomes.  Their agent, a gnome woman named Kelsey Steelspark, had detained and killed a Dark Iron agent provocateur, discovering a pouch of gemstones and instructions to deliver it to Keynala Softstone, payment for supplying them with the defense plans of Gnomeregan prior to the sabotage of the city and the invasion by troglodytes.  The bottom levels, those occupied by  Dark Iron saboteurs serving the insane Sicco Thermaplugg, were clear proof of Dark Iron involvement.

Exhibit A

Well, the good news is that now we knew what evidence they had for charging Keynala with treason, and it wasn't good.

I think it was time for a chat with Captain Beld.

Whoever he was.

Greyhawk - Casefile: High Treason for Low Characters (Part Two)

 The Deeprun Tram has long been overlooked by the citizens of both Ironforge and Stormwind as the marvel of Gnomish Engineering and ingenuity that it is - a fully enclosed underground pair of tunnels lined with gantry and a set of double tracks.  These tracks guide two tramcars, a set of three linked wagons which run between Ironforge and Stormwind. 

After the debacle of the Second War, the Stormwind crown faced a massive rebuilding project of the city and surrounding area which had been devastated by the orcs of the Horde. To limit the military possibility of either Stormwind or Ironforge being completely besieged, the Alliance engaged the genius of High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, who designed the grand subterranean railway system that would link Stormwind and Ironforge. After not a few incursions by plagues of rats, the Deeprun Tram has allowed goods, services, food, and other necessities of life to travel safely between the Kingdom of Stormwind and the Kingdom of Ironforge. 

Best of all, it was free, and the transit was both long enough and smooth enough to give me some serious time to think about what to do next.

Or more accurately, who to bribe next.

While Melissa D'Arque provided both long-legged, red-haired motivation to get started, she had also distracted my enough that I had forgotten to make her sign the usual employment contract, which specified the daily rate (which was a modest 20 silverweight per day), but also to establish an expenses account for the case - which naturally included a few items that were going to be hard to document with receipts for reimbursement; you can't often bribe someone and then demand they sign a receipt, after all.  Still, given that once she told me of Keynala's situation, I would have worked the case for free.  Keynala was a friend, and one of the few Dwarf women I knew who didn't look at me like I was some half-breed nightmare of Troll and Trogg. 

Being a private investigator severely limits one's social contacts, as people never really feel they can relax around someone whose day job is peeping through windows and sorting through other people's dirty laundry. When I make a friend, I do my best to keep them healthy - and I never take cases that might involve hurting my friends.

But in any case, there were two things I needed to do post-haste; first, I needed to speak to Keynala about the case, and second, I needed to pull information from people within the Ironforge criminal justice system. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately), I knew the Ironforge criminal justice system rather intimately, with the Stonefist side of the family always somewhere in the shadows on the criminal side. Getting to see Keynala should not prove to be difficult, as I could represent myself as part of her legal defense team (possibly the only member of her legal defense team, come to think of it, but again, my Stonefist relatives knew a handful of clever legal advocates).  

Finding out what the prosecution had in terms of evidence against her might be a little more problematic - but then again, like I said, I knew some people.  

I entered the Stormwind entrance to the Deepwater Tram, and bought a set of Deeprun Rat Kabobs from a gnome named Nipsy; he and his brother Monte had a racket going where Monty kept the Deepwater Tram rat population under control, and Nipsy marinated the meat and cooked them over a grill with onions and mushrooms. Delicious.

By the time I hit the other end of the tram, I had a plan.

The Ironforge City Guard was a fierce but sleepy force, more dedicated to the defense of Ironforge from potential Horde or Dark Iron incursions than anything else; I'm not saying that they wouldn't stop you if you blatantly attacked someone with no provocation (and understanding that casting aspersions on another dwarf's clan was considered a valid reason for naked assault... provoked assault, they called it).  They usually only got involved once the fight was over, to levy a fine for Disturbing the Peace and to send the wounded and the dead to the Mystic Hall for healing or final rites, whichever were deemed appropriate.  

The actual criminal activity was the province of three specialized guardsmen, known as Thief Catchers. Thief Catchers are charged under special charter by the Iron Throne to undertake law enforcement, and while they could technically involve City Guards for assistance, all three of the Thief Catchers had learned early in their careers that the City Guard looked assisting them in the performance of their duties and opportunities of enriching one's self with monetary considerations to develop myopia and bad memories.

If there was an arrest to be made, inside or outside of Ironforge, it would have fallen to one of them.  It did not take more than a fistful of coppers to a ne'er-do-well gnome named Fenthwick to find out that it was Thief Catcher Shadowdelve (not his colleagues Thunderbrew nor Farmountain) who had gone out to Theramore to make an arrest, and bring the malefactor to the Ironforge holding cells.

I caught up with Shadowdelve as he made his rounds, which today covered the Mystic Hall to the Auction House and back again. Shadowndeslve bore twin axes and wore a pair of Cats Eye Goggles to aid in seeing rogues who had the ability to meld into Shadows or procure invisibility vial alchemical means. He has a full head of hair and his coal-colored beard was neatly tucked into his belt.

"Hail, Shadowdelve!" I called out to him as his path took him past where I had appropriated a patch of wall to hold up.

"Guid morrow tae ye, Greyhawk.  'Tis a foine afternoon for it, isnae?" he said. I had been gone from Ironforge proper for too long and his thick Dwarven dialect was hard to follow.

"You have the right of it, Master Shadowdelve," I conceded, not really sure what it was precisely a fine afternoon for, precisely, but agreeing with him would do no harm. "I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time?"

Thief Catcher Shadowdelve

"Och aye, o' course ye may!" he said, his voice cheerful enough that I assumed he was smiling beneath his impenetrable beard and mustache.

"I am told you had an all-expense-paid trip to Theramore Isle, to fech a lassie home again?" I said.  "Did she give you any trouble?"

"Nay, that she did not, although her employer was another matter; she spit and yowled like a mother cat over one of her kittens, but I had a proper warrant, so there was not a lot her boss could do, when all was said and done," Shadowdelve answered.

"Oh, then, well-done to you," I said, congratulating him. "It must have been something important to send you down to Menethel Harbor to cross the waters and back."

 "Oh, that is was - the lass is facing a charge of treason, don't ye know?" Shadowdelve said. "It turns out that she was herself hald Dark Iron, and sold information about the defenses inside of Gnomeregan to spies from Shadowforge City." He leaned forward and whispered "A certain bunch of gnomes offered me a small fortune to look the other way while they performed a bit o' back-alley justice, but I put an end to that!  When we got here, I put her down in the Warlocks Hole."  The Warlocks Hole was the part of the Ironforge holding cells designed to inhibit mage teleportation and demonic portals.

"She's that dangerous, then?" I asked.

"Nay, she's pleasant enough, and a priest besides... but the Hole prevents vigilantes from teleporting in as well as out." Shadowdelve barked a laugh. "She should be safe enough until trial, I'm thinking."

"Well, that's good to know. Please, when you finish your shift tonight, have a drink on me," I said, slipping him a gold. "A minor reward from a grateful citizen."

"Oh, thank ye, lad..." He said, and as I turned away added. "Davros, I know ye tae be a guid fellow, but understand this... she WILL see trial.  Be careful how you tread with this... I know ye like to sometimes help, one side or another, as ye see your way, and I will nae stand between a man and his conscience, Stonefist or not. But there is no give in this case, no amount of money large enough for anyone to be looking the other way.  The Iron Throne has both eyes bent her way, and she will see a fair trial."

"That's all I want, Master Shadowdelve. A fair trial and justice," I said.  

 Getting in to see Keynala was a very straightforward process, without the usual banter with the screws (the guards in charge of the prison).  I presented myself to the guard at the entrance and told them that I had been engaged by concerned parties in Theramore to investigate.  I even had a writ with the Proudmoor signet; to be fair, it was carefully worded to imply much more than what was actually true, and the official seal did come from a really, really good copy that I'd had made before I returned the original seal to the clerk's office.

Getting to the Warlock's Hole required taking me past three levels of other prison cells. It was amazing - and depressing - how many people I knew were waiting for their trials, including Uncle Mortimer Stonefist. The guards didn't seem to mind short stops along the way to Keynala's imprisonment after I gave them some beer money to toast their health.

One of the guards brought me a stool as I sat just out of reach of the bars of Keynala's cell. The cell was small, perhaps six feet across and deep, but unlike most of the prison cells, the stone perimeter where the bars met the stone had glyphs and sigils carved within the stone, no doubt part of the wards for the cell. The cell contained a simple pallet bed, a simple wooden chair, a chamber pot, and the cell's occupant, who had curled up in a sitting position on the bed facing the back wall of her cell, her knees drawn up to her chest.

"Miss Simplestone?" I said, in a soft voice.

Keynala did not respond.  She was clad in a simple set of double-stitched robes, which had been provided by the prison. 

I tried again, pitching my voice slightly louder. "Keynala, I have been engaged by Melissa D'Arque on behalf of the Phoenix Ascendant to investigate this matter. Would you be willing to answer some questions?"

I unrolled my forged credentials. "Key?"

The sitting figure grunted at me from her corner, providing the first indication she could hear him.

 "Phoenix Ascendant, I don't want anything to do with them," said, sighing deeply and rising to her bare feet on the cold flagstone. Her auburn hair was a tangled mess, but given that she had been arrested and transported here, I could hardly blame her for not packing a comb.  She had bags the size of Traveller's backpacks under her eyes; clearly she had not been sleeping well, if at all.

Again, I could hardly blame her.

"How is Melissa?" she asked, her voice a croak much less melodious than I remembered. 

"Melissa is in quite a foul mood, given that her best friend has been arrested on charges of treason.  She believes you to be entirely innocent... as do I," I said. Having obtained her attention, I shredded my forged paperwork. "Now neither Phoenix Ascendant nor Lady Proudmoor are involved, just you and I."  I paused, to let that sink in. "Have you hired an advocate yet?"

Keynala shrugged her shoulders, as if the matter of legal representation was irrelevant. She stood, and moved the chair closer to the bars. "Advocate?" she scoffed. "No, why would a half Dark Iron with no affiliation with anyone have an advocate?"

"Key, there are certain legal principles that are real, here," I said. "The first is that whether you participate or not, you will get a trial.  You are allowed to have an advocate defend you.  You are allowed to hire an independent investigator."

I bent over and placed a single Ironforge copper penny on the smooth flagstone, and slid it across the ground to her feet.

"I am told that there are lots of eyes on the trial. Not only will you have a trial, but with such attention, the prosecutor is going to bend over backwards to make sure it's fair; they don't want any mistakes or irregularities in the proceedings.  That means there is room for us to maneuver - but time is our friend, not theirs.  The more time we can obtain, making them follow due process, the more time we have to prove your innocence. So let me ask again  - do you have an advocate?"

"No, Mr. Greyhawk, I do not have an advocate; why don'a ye go ahead an' be that fer me, then?" her voice was redolent with sarcasm, but I saw that the harsh lines around her eyes soften, and blur.  She was a strong woman, was Keynala - if I had been arrested, incarcerated, and seemingly left to rot, I would have bawled like a wee bairn at the first sign that I was not alone. 

"Give me the copper coin, then - we will count that paid in full, and in front of witnesses," I said, indicating the watching guards with my eyes. 

Keynala looked down at the coin and back to Greyhawk.

"I have no pride," I said. "I will fall to my knees to grovel and beg if I have to."

Keynala rose and pushed the coin across to me before turning her back.

I picked up the coin, and said " I am hired, and I get to oggle a petty backside.  I will consider that a tip, of sorts". By establishing the client-advocate relationship, my ability to help Keynala opened up several avenues. 

Keynala had begun to silently sob, and her shoulders shook a little.  Mixed with her muffled sobs, I could hear a half-chuckle escape her lips.

"Wit' this robe certainly shows enough of it.  No room ta hide an axe or staff fer certain," she replied.

"Although I regret the circumstances, I do not regret the view..." I quipped. "Are you being fed?  Do you need anything? Bath?  Clothes?  Wine?" I paused and then added "Viking beaver cheese? I know a guy..."

"Any other time y'd make me blush ta mah ears, Mr. Greyhawk, an' tingle all over" I hoped she meant the flirting, and not the mention of the Viking beaver cheese. She sighed, and walked back to her pallet, resuming her sitting position. "

"I have questions," I said.

"What do ye wanna know?" Keynala responded.

"You are part Dark Iron in heritage?" I asked.

"Aye I am, she affirmed.

"Tell me how that happened... never mind, that came out wrong.  I know how it happened, not how... oh you know what I mean.  What brought you to Ironforge?" I clarified.

"I was a mere babe when mah parents passed in the War," she said.  I assume she meant the War of the Three Hammers. "Mah uncle took me in"

"And your uncle lives in Ironforge? May I tell him you are well?" I asked.

"He don'a care ta much now that everyone knows," she said, her voice as filled with bitterness to put Black Bean Brew to shame. Ouch. Time to change that subject, clearly.

She waved her hand dismissively "But if ye wish tae, go ahead."

I nodded, and said, "Do you have any details about why they have accused you of treason, of selling Gnomeregan defense plans to agents of Thaurissian?"

"No," she began. "It's nae been a secrect thae I've made it a point to study Thaurissian history an' tae attempt tae help those taken into bondage under Blackrock Mountain."

"I suppose thae I was just an abvious, easy target tae be their scapegoat."

"So there is no hard evidence, just circumstancial prejudice?" I asked.

"They haven'a exactly discussed wit' me what proof they have," she said. "Admittedly even when they do speak wit' me I do nae exactly hear 'em."

"Very well.  That is a good place to start, then." 

"Anything else?" she asked impatiently.

"Yes.  Allow me to get you visitors. I know Melissa is very worried. And you have other friends, as well, who must be frantic."

Keynala nodded with a sigh "Mel is a good lass." She brought her knees to her chest again, hugging them.  Her voice cracked a little ass she responded "Do what ye will, but tae be honest 'm not wishin' anyone tae see me like this"

"If I get you better food, will  you eat it?" I asked. "And if I can get you a bath, will you take it?"

Keynala shook her head. "'Mhm not hungry."

"With all due respect, I do not see what  your hunger has to do with it.  You need food to stay healthy.  Especially cheese," I said. "Maybe some books?"

Keynala chuckled over her sob. "Only if a naked man is there ta wash mah back... I don'a wish fer anythin' Mr. Greyhawk"

A few minutes of silence passed between us, and I shook my head as if to clear it of cobwebs. "... I am sorry, I dont think I heard anything after you had me giving you a bath."

Keynala blinked a few times, and started to laugh softly.

I stood, and slowly etended my hand and arm into her cell, my fingers open. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and rose, stepping close. "That made me laugh, didn'a think I would feel that again."

"Dearest Keynala... do not give up hope. Trust me. Trust Mel" I said.

Keynala took his hand, seeming to draw strength from the contact. "I don'a have much of that left Mr. Greyhawk".

"Then trust my inherent untrustworthiness," I said with a grin. "Never give up on a buffoon of  a scoundrel Stonefist, either."

Keynala's lips quirked unwillingly into a half-smile. "Good thing yer handsome, an' I thought so before all this."

"Then would it be killling ye tae call me by my first name, Keynala?" I said, laying on the Ironforger accent thickly. 

Keynala threw her head back and let out an unforced, pleasant laugh.

I took a half-step forward, and before the guards could object, kissed her fingers interwined with my own. I dropped her hand and stepped back. "There, I will reclaim that kiss loaned to ye in the Darkness, with full interest, mind!"

Keynala blinked, bemused, as her cheeks immediately darkened several shades of red all the way to the tips of her ears.

Yes, I am shameless, but she was laughing now.  I considered that a major victory.

"I cannae promise I will eat, or change, she said with a sigh, "but I will do mah best."

"Nobody ca askf ro mroe than that," I said, nodding. "Someone will visit every day, whether you do or not. You will not be alone and fogotten, Keynala.

"Oh, I'm nevr alone..." she said. "Thae guards make sure I do nae do anythin' stupid."

"Well, lets see if I can arrange company a trifle more congenial, then..."I said, grinning. 

"Davros!"she exclaimed, achieving something I had thought impossible - her coloring discovered a new deeper shade of red.

"Come tae thae," I mused out loud, "I don't think I could manage someone less congenial than the guards." I turned to the guards, who were smiling as they eavesdroped.  Even better.

I left the cell, and added Melissa's name to the 'allowed visitors' list; I could do that, as her official advocate. I took the tram back to Stormwind, where I met with Melissa in the Pig & Whistle Tavern in the Old Town section.

Melissa had adpted the table under the stairs as if it was her own, and not my unofficial office desk. I sat down opposite her.  

"Keynala is well, but very despondant," i said with a heavy sigh.

Melissa took a long drink from the tankard in front of her. "I'm not surprised...Well, hopefully it she won't be in there for long." She sighed. "Did you learn anything new?"

"I learned quite a bit... and yet, not enough," I said. "But the investigation continues; indeed, we are just beginning."

"No shite, Greyhawk," she opined. OK, so I have a penchant for the obvious.

"But I need your help.  I need a change of clothes for Keynala; as you can tell, I can barely dress myself. She needs something comfortable, and some decent food. Can you get something appropriate for her? I wouldn't know where to begin."

She waved off the notion that it was in any way an imposition, nodding to herself. "I'll grab some things from her room. Do you think we can get any personal effects besides clothes in?

"Probably not.  She is in the highest level of security they have... so clothes, maybe food.  Probably nothing else," I said.  And she doesn't want visitors, but she needs to know she has friends who she can rely upon.  I think her embarrassment is the least of her problems at the moment."

"I can do that," Melissa confirmed. "Clothes, snacks, people... got it. What are your next steps?"

"Next, I go and bribe a file clerk. I need to know what evidence they have, and the easiest way...

"...Say no more. This isn't my first go around the bend, Davros." Melissa thought for a moment, and grinned. "You know, we never did discuss your rates."

Greyhawk held up a Ironforge penny that he had pirced and put around his neck on a leather thong. "Paid in full."

"Key?" she asked.

"Key," I confirmed.

"Damn that women. I should have guessed." Melissa chuckled to herself, and stood up from the table, taking hold of her staff as she did so. 

"I am blessed with such stubborn women in my life, apparently," I confessed.

"Apparently, though you shouldn't be surprised. In this line of work, we all tend to be stubborn." She slid two gold coins across the table. "Drinks and dinner are on me," She said, daring me to challenge her on the subject.

Mama Greyhawk didn't raise any fools. "...fair enough."

Melissa nodded and... teleported in a shimmering portal of arcane energy, no doubt to Theramore.

I ordered a bowl of stew with unidentified meat in a congealing mass of vegatables and gravy.  It was better than prison food. If only for culinary reasons, I had to get Keynala out of there.