Gaaron (02) - The Stockades

 

Gaaron picked up the longsword, feeling the balance fall just beyond the steel gold-plated hilt. “I can work with this”, he muttered. “I mean, the officer was probably a pretentious fop, but he knew a fine craftsman.”

Stormwind Guard officers paid for their swords as part of their commission, and since almost all were from noble families, they often vied for the most ostentatious show of wealth where their personal property was concerned. This sword, taken from the lifeless fingers of one of the casualties of the uprising, had caught his eye despite the serpent-scale scabbard and its lion-headed basket hilt. 

Bazil Thredd had been, if not the right-hand man of Edwin VanCleef, had been his left-hand, and his capture during the riots which led to the death of Queen Tiffin had been a severe blow to the operational effectiveness of the Defias Brotherhood. His incarceration in the Stockades had been itself something of a scandal; clearly, the magistrates were as corrupt as the families from which they came. Although in theory, he was just another inmate, life inside the Stormwind Stockade had its own social hierarchy. In here, Brazil Thredd was as close as one could get to royalty. Prisoners who had money could arrange for decent food, decent clothing, and even laundry service. Someone - different people each time - met with Thredd every couple of weeks and brought him money, food, wine, pipeweed… anything outside of magic or weapons.

Gaaron snorted at the thought. He did not for a minute believe that those might not also be available, given sufficient gold. Guards always could justify looking the other way, for the right price.

Of course, Gaaron hadn’t set out to make the infamous prison his new residence. Several months earlier, Gaaron had been working for The Dockmaster out of Jerod’s Landing, as part of the lucrative smuggling route from Lakeshire in the Redridge Mountains, down the Nazferiti River to Klaven’s Tower in Westfall and back again, and his job had been crewing one of the shallow-draft barges making the run. Smuggling was not a capital crime, but since Gaaron could not afford the stiff fines attached, he was sent to the Stockades until his debt was somehow paid. 

Granted, the system did not address how inmates were meant to earn the money required to pay the debt, thus being caught red-handed and poor, Gaaron earned what amounted to a life sentence. The violence and filthy conditions of the Stockades meant that a life sentence was only a few months long anyway…Unless you knew someone, which he did; the inmates of the Stockades were ruled by violence, lust, and greed, and the Defias Brotherhood ruled the inmates, and Bazil Thredd ruled the Defias Brotherhood. Gaaron’s reputation for his ruthless skill with blade and gun gained him attention. A few well-chosen “arguments”, and some well-placed “accidents”, and he now stood him in good stead as one of Thredd’s newest bodyguards.

Even then, the uprising of inmates against the Stormwind Guard establishment had taken him completely by surprise. Not being a part of the planning meant not being part of the “need to know”, and while Gaaron was as trusted as anyone in the Defias Brotherhood could have been, it was clear to him that he was still on the outside of operational security. Gaaron had been allowed a sword taken from the casualties, which lessened the immediate concern, but even though he was now armed, it still rankled that as one of Thredd’s top guys he had been left so in the dark.

“So… what happens next?” asked one of the other members of the Defias Brotherhood.

“Next? We do what the Brotherhood has always done under the greed and corruption of the Council of Nobles! We will keep our freedom until we get assurances - backed by the Cathedral of Light - that they'll give us decent food and water. That we will have access to healers of the Light when we get sick or injured. We still have some guardsmen alive; they won’t charge in here and risk them, or risk the infamy that would come with the death toll of those who would dig us out.”

Gaaron kept his face carefully neutral, almost certain that Thredd was lying. The inmates had very little food, and Warden Thelwater was unlikely to give them any more. Nobody outside the prison had any inkling that something was wrong. All it would take to cover up massive casualties would be to tell a story of a plague outbreak. He could hear the officers now, “Sorry, but we had to burn all the remains. Couldn’t risk the contagion spreading.”

It was far more likely that Thredd would wait until the guards tried to retake the prison, and sneak out in the confusion, maybe with the help of some smuggled potions of invisibility or somesuch. Gaaron could not blame him for making an escape plan, even though he was certain that such a plan did not include himself. Including Gaaron would throw off the chance of a successful escape, and what other plan could there be but one that was a guaranteed success? 

He was still pondering the question some hours later when the Alliance strike team broke through the guard into Thredd’s headquarters. Brazil Thredd had two guards in addition to Gaaron. The chamber door burst inward, shattered by mystical violence. Three of the assault team charged through the door; the leader was a plate armor-clad warrior wearing the tabard of the Scarlet Crusade. The next was a Quel’dorei archer, clad in dark colors. She let fly an arrow with a stone arrowhead, glowing with green runes. The third was a Night Elf glowing with a nimbus of Shadow energy.

Thredd used his twin blades to knock the arrow aside, where it detonated with an explosion that would have torn the flesh of its intended target asunder, had it landed as intended. The Scarlet Crusader engaged Thredd, and the two of them seemed evenly matched. One of the Defias rushed the archer simultaneously, and she backpedaled before them, parrying their swords with wide sweeps of her hardwood bowshaft.

Gaaron let his sword fall to the ground in a clatter. He felt no loyalty to Thredd, given his expectation that Thredd would betray and desert Gaaron in the final circumstance. He simply had no motivation to help Thredd and the other Defias; perhaps his lack of opposition would earn him leniency.

The shadow priestess assessed Gaaron as not being an active threat, and the shock of having so misjudged Gaaron showed on her face as Gaaron’s blade came up almost of its own accord. Before she could react, Gaaron’s sword passed over her shoulder; a Defias bravo had come through the door unnoticed, and Gaaron caught his blade before it could chop through her pretty swan-like neck, then reposted the longsword’s point into the Defias’ throat. She, in turn, intoned a spell in a voice that sounded as if it had come from the crypts of the damned, and a burning sigil appeared like a brand on the foreheads of the two assailing the archer. They screamed in agony, and the archer put a pair of arrows into the belly of each of them with preternatural celerity. 

The three of them had no difficulty in putting Thredd down like a mad dog, earning himself the long-delayed execution he so richly deserved.

“Thank you for your help there, fellow!” said the Scarlet Crusader before he reversed his glaive and brought it across his head.

Gaaron fell, his consciousness fading swiftly. “No good deed ever goes unpunished” flashed through his mind before everything went black.

When Gaaron came back to consciousness, his first thought was “What a comfortable bed…” before opening his eyes and realizing he was in a chamber near the entrance to the Stockades staircase from the street level.

The chamber had clearly been set up as an infirmary, and several beds were occupied by either injured guardsmen or inmates. A young human heard him stir and came to stand next to him. He wore chainmail armor, and his tabard proclaimed him to be one of the Order of the Silver Hand. He smiled at Gaaron. “Nasty little head wound, you have there. Lay back down, all is well. Let me get your attending healer.”

Gaaron lay back down; head wounds were deceptive, and could be quite serious, but aside from a residual headache, Gaaron felt perfectly fine. Still, he had no objection to spending more time warm and comfortable while he could.

It was not very long before the paladin of the Silver Hand returned with a dwarven fellow. He was bald as an egg, but the wealth of spiky black hair more than made up for any cranial lack. His skin was an unusual hue for Ironforge dwarves, who spent much of their lives out of the sun, but instead, his skin had the same color - and possibly, the same texture- of uncured leather. He was clad in black, ironically for the same type that would not be out of place by a member of the Defias Brotherhood or an agent of SI:7, Stormwind’s espionage service.

“May we have a privacy ward, young Paladin?” the dwarf asked politely of the attending medic, who nodded and cast the Warding of Confession; within the ward, one was safe to speak and think in confidence. 

“Hello,” greeted the dwarf. “You are Gaaron, formerly of the Defias Brotherhood, correct?”

“Yes, I am part of the Defias Brotherhood,” Gaaron confirmed.

The dwarf chuckled. “Oh, I don’t think so… I think helping save the life of one of my agents has pretty much written an end to that chapter of your life. Still, Grail - Grail is the Scarlet Crusader who fetched you that rather nasty blow to the head, by the way - made sure that there were no witnesses who survived.”

Gaaron nodded, without understanding why the fellow had knocked him out but left Gaaron alive.

“Which brings us to my being here,” said the dwarf. “I run a group of agents, former prisoners convicted of crimes, and offer them the opportunity to earn time on their sentences by going on missions for the Alliance.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Gaaron.

“Well, the assault on the riot in the Stockade was a perfect example. All four of my team are technically prisoners, but they live in a normal small apartment between missions. They are fed, trained, and allowed their own weapons and armor and whatnot, whatever the tools of their trade require. They can even take odd jobs between missions for a little spending money. When the Alliance has a mission that is very dangerous, or too sensitive for normal forces, I send in my team to get the job done.”

“And if they fail, it is blamed on a band of known criminals,” Gaaron commented.

“Yes, all of my agents are what we call in the business as ‘deniable assets’. It's a dangerous job, but each mission reduces your sentence remaining,” said the dwarf.

“And your… agents, you called them? When their sentences are deemed to have been finished?” asked Gaaron.

“At that time, you get a full pardon. Freedom,” said the dwarf. “We lost one of our own in Stockades; if you hadn’t acted the way you had, we might have lost two. Or more. So… I have an opening on the team. Interested?”

Gaaron took a moment to weigh his options, although he did not seem to have any; if what the dwarf was saying was true, and there was such a team of convicts and criminals acting as a sort of ‘suicide squad’. Then for them to be as effective as the dwarf said, they would need to operate in total secrecy. There was an old saying “Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” What the dwarf was explicitly not saying was that if Gaaron turned down the offer, it was not likely that he’d leave this room alive; what kind of an idiot would let someone turn down a job offer to become part of an ultra-secret group of operatives and live to tell of it?

Thankfully for Gaaron, Gaaron was not an idiot. “Yes, I’d like the job.”

“Excellent!” said the dwarf. “My name is Lucius Stonehand. Welcome to the Disposable Operations Personnel Engagement team.”

“DOPE? We’re dopes?” confirmed Gaaron with a chuckle.

“Yes, you are!” confirmed his new employer.

Gaaron (01) - Surena Caledon

Surena Caledon

Gaaron carefully made his way from the camp of his employer, the Defias bandit chief Dead-Tooth Jack, near the Ridgepoint Tower in southeastern Elwynn Forest towards the Brackwell Pumpkin Patch. Having been taken over by the Defias leader of the Elywnn Forest, a man named Morgan the Collector, it served as a go-between for Defias operators and high command of the Brotherhood in Moonbrook. The main house was used by Morgan the Collector and his lieutenants and once a month Dead-Tooth Jack sent the Defias share of his ill-gotten gains to Morgan the Collector, who would in turn send tribute to his higher-up located in the subterranean Deadmines. 

The journey was not without its dangers; the amphibious murlocs inhabited the shores where the stream that ran south from Stone Cairn Lake to the river Nazferiti which separated the Elwynn from Duskwood were alert and vicious. Too far near the road which connected Westfall to Goldshire, Eastvale, and eventually Redridge, and you could end up hanging from a tree limb by Stormwind guardsmen. 

And of course, there was always the hungry bear population, who did not appreciate having the humans and murlocs poach what the bears regarded as their fish.

Gaaron had joined the Defias Brotherhood once he had reached a certain age, where acting as a bouncer for the brothels in Goldshire had ill-prepared him for any other career besides an outlaw. As members of the Defias Brotherhood were frequent patrons of the Goldshire courtesans, Gaaron had no difficulties in joining them. 

Gaaron also knew better than to draw attention to himself; it was not beyond the Defias bravos to slit Gaaron's throat and seize his courier package for their own. As a rule, there was no honor amongst thieves, and the Defias were adept at betrayal. Disposing of his body was a simple matter of leaving his corpse in the stream, and the murlocs would make short work of his remains. 

Fortunately for Gaaron, he was almost invisible in his green leather armor, which matched the greenery of the Elywynn Forest very well in the dusk of twilight. Morgan the Collector had both sentries and roving patrols, but Gaaron found his way to the back of the farmhouse base. He carefully took a quick glance through the side window, which was mostly covered in foliage.

The room was large, with a stone fireplace opposite the door. A desk was pushed against the wall, and Gaaron knew that the locked drawers contained records and ledgers, albeit enciphered. Morgan the Collector did not appear to be in the room, just Morgan's second-in-command, a large muscular enforcer named Erlan Drudgemoor, who was clad in tight-fitting midnight-black leather armor; typical of the leathers worn by the Defias Brotherhood elite in Westfall. Leaning against the desk was the Collector's mage, Surena Caledon. According to rumor, Surena had been recruited from a coven of warlocks, who operated in secret, by Drudgemoor. Morgan the Collector had wasted no time in making use of her arcane abilities, nor her beauty, taking her as his lover. 

"Erlan, Morgan will be gone for at least a couple of days... why don't we make the most of it?" she said, her voice low and husky. The brunette wore a black full-length skirt, covered in silver runes and symbols. Her blouse was low cut from her shoulders to just above where the shirt tucked into a dark gray belt, and her apple-sized breasts set high and firm, were barely concealed by the blue trim. "Don't you remember how you promised once we'd gotten away from Darkbinder, that we'd be together?"

"I remember," said Drudgemoor in a low voice. "He wanted you in his bed, and you went willingly," he accused.

"I had no choice!" Surena said, her voice redolent with pleading. "If I'd gone with you openly... how long do you think you'd have lasted? He'd have sent you on the most dangerous jobs, far away from me. I went to his bed, but he is not who I dream about at night..." Her voice dropped back onto a husky purr. "Whose hands do you think I dream of, touching me?" As she spoke, she leaned further back, arching her chest out. Her hands came up to her breasts, touching them through the minimal coverage of her blouse. "Whose fingers do you think I dream of touching me?" Matching her motions to her words, she took a breast in either hand and began gently squeezing her orbs.

Erlan was captivated by her actions. "I can almost feel the drool about to fall," Gaaron thought contemptuously. Gaaron had been born in a Goldshire brothel, and been raised not by his birth mother, whoever that might have been, but by an ever-changing cadre of "aunties". Sex had never been a mystery but rather a medium of commerce, and while the women had been pliant and enthusiastic about the attentions of their customers, Gaaron had heard what they truly thought of the patrons; how pathetically easy they were to control, to please, and how eager their egos were to hear the baseless flattery. 

Not that Gaaron didn't enjoy the show; but that was what it almost always was - a show. An enchantment designed with a goal in mind, whether a golden bejeweled bauble or a simple gold band. Gaaron had a lifetime of experiencing the 'magic' of romance, and how at best it was a mutual delusion, and usually a cynical, insincere exploitation.

"How I've dreamed about your fingers pulling my nipples," she said, pulling the blouse back until it was a mere framing for her breasts. She grabbed her nipples between thumb and forefinger, pinching and twisting. "Do you like my breasts, Erlan? Would you like to make my nipples stand up like this so that they are ready for your lips?" She moaned in pleasure. "Is your cock hard, darling?" she asked.

Drudgemoor nodded. "Yes," he croaked hoarsely.

"Show me," she asked, continuing to play with her breasts.

Erlan dropped his hands to his leather codpiece, a shaped piece of thick leather reinforced by metal, and undid the lacing that held it in place. It hit the wooden floor with a dull thud. Erlan then unlaced his small clothes and fished out his erection. 

"Yes... now stroke it for me. Make it ache with need, darling," she said.

Erlan obediently stroked his cock with a circle formed by his first three fingers and his thumb.

Gaaron watched as a sultry silence, punctuated only by Surena's moans, fell across the room.

Gaaron had almost decided to work his way around to the front door and knock when Surena spoke again. 

"Seeing your cock so swollen and purple makes me think of other things... other things I want, other things I crave...: she crooned. She raised herself until she was sitting on the edge of the desk, rather than leaning against it. Ever so slowly she raised her skirt, gathering it above her hips, revealing the dark blue mageweave panties she wore. "I am so wet, so ready," she said. She ran her fingers over her mound, pressing the soft material into the sensitive flesh. As she touched herself through her panties, the wetness darkened the gusset of the panties, turning the color almost black.

"Come closer," she commanded.

Erlan moved closer, standing between her spread thighs. 

Erlan watched as her hand dipped underneath her panties, and both Erlan and Gaaron watched the motion of her fingers underneath the material.

"Such a good boy... you deserve a reward, I think," Surena said. She removed her fingers from her panties, redolent with her scent. Gaaron could see the wetness glisten in the light.

"Do you like my smell?" she asked, wiping one of her fingers on his upper lip. Erlan growled his arousal at her.

She smirked. "It's nothing, compared to the taste." She placed the other fingers of her hand into his mouth. Erlan sucked on her fingers enthusiastically, running his tongue over every square inch of skin, giving her fingers a thorough cleaning.

While doing this, Surena used her other hand to remove her panties entirely. When they dangled around her ankle, he reached over with her other hand and grabbed his hair. Leaning back, she guided his mouth to her aroused, swollen cunt. "It tastes better fresh from the source," opined Surena. Elan moaned his agreement.

"Darling, come to me tonight. Morgan won't be back for days, my stallion. It is long past time for you to take me, to let me feel every inch of you inside me. Tonight, come and reclaim me - put your seed in my belly, Erlan. Make me yours! Mark me with your scent, with your seed."

Erlan came up for breath just long enough to groan a fervent "Yes!"

Gaaron had seen enough. Quietly, he made his way to the front and pounded his fist on the door. "Morgan!" he called out, concealing that he was unaware that Morgan was not in residence. He smirked as he made out the sound of Erlan hastily lacing himself back into his codpiece; by the time the door opened, Surena looked as she had before the lustful encounter.

"I've brought Morgan's cut from Dead-Tooth Jack; I will need a receipt," Gaaron said. Surena opened the desk drawer and prepared Gaaron's receipt. 

"Smells like a brothel in here," commented Gaaron. Erlan glared at him but Surena just laughed. "Jealous?" she asked.

"Who wouldn't be?" Gaaron replied with a smile. 

"Nothing happened here!" claimed Erlan.

"If you say so. Not any of my business," shrugged Gaaron.

"Erlan, go check the sentries and ask them why Gaaron was able to approach without being challenged," requested Surena.

Erlan left to obey, and Surena stood next to Gaaron. "Nothing. Happened," she said pressing something into Gaaron's hand.

"Absolutely nothing" confirmed Gaaron; Surena's machinations were indeed none of Gaaron's business. 

He left, heading back to Dead-Tooth Jack's camp, smirking. Surena had made the mistake of thinking that Gaaron was like most men, led around by his cock, and giving him her wet panties was a gambit to entice his silence and loyalty. 

Instead, she had given him the incriminating evidence he might use if Gaaron needed proof of Surena's infidelity, although he suspected that her plotting would conclude sooner rather than later. These kinds of games of power and control always did, and it was never a happy ending at that.

Snow FitzSilver (06) - An Honest Job

 The fellow that many people knew by the name of Jonathan Chess immediately spotted this half-brother's adopted son entered The Curious Octopus, a tavern in the Mariner's Row region of Boralus, and smiled. Jon was very aware that Jon both intimidated and impressed his adopted nephew; Snow FitzSilver had been taken under Jon's wing, to a degree, and had the makings of a first rate intelligence agent. Snow was currently spending a lot of his free time at a stripper bar called the Steel Rose, which was slowly stealing clientele from the Scrimshaw Gang's headquarters, the Kelp Club. Jon's younger daughter Cassia was a bouncer at the Steel Rose, and a friend of Snow.

Jon's eldest daughter Reina periodically slept with Snow FitzSilver; very little happened in the Chess household without Jon knowing about it. Jon was aware that Reina had been the aggressor where Snow was concerned, and that Cassia had no interest in Snow romantically; as neither points of information was Jon's business, he ignored them.

Jon did enjoy speaking with Snow; he suspected that Snow suspected that Jon knew everything, but was smart enough to keep the suspicions to himself. Jon approved - learning to keep one's cards close to the vest was important in Jon's business.

Jon was the personal spy and occasional assassin for Jaina Proudmoore, and had been her man ever since she had taken up the rulership of Theramore. Jon has been recruited by the former Alliance spymaster Elling Trias, and working as an Agent of Cheese had provided him with cover for extensive travel and an opportunity to gather intelligence reports from Trias' agents. 

Jon was aware that his years of work had left him physically damaged; his body was festooned with scars, burn marks, and other souvenirs of torture. He was slower, and less inclined to put himself in harm's way. He was happily married with Alia, and adored his children. Jon hoped that if he had lost a step, that Snow would be a worthy replacement.

He loved his children so much so that he had never wanted them to follow him into service.

"Mind if I sit down?" asked Snow, after he made his way up the stairs and all the way to the end of the balcony.

"Please do," said Jon.

"Thanks," Snow said. "I'd hoped to find you here." He settled himself in the chair opposite the back wall; Jon always kept his back to the wall, a habit of longstanding. 

"Oh?" said Jon.

"Yeah... I need some advice," said Snow. 

"...So long as you remember that free advice is sometimes not what you paid for it... quipped Jon with a chuckle.

"Well, its like this... I've been offered a bodyguard job for a Ren'dorei lady, who is travelling to the subterranean city of Hallowfall. She wants to study the phases of the Beledar crystal, but she is not sanguine about her safety amongst the Arathi."

Jon nodded, recalling what he and Alia had learned in their sojourn under the lands near Dorn. The light provided by the radiant crystal, which had served for many years as a constant form of light for the under-realms, allowing the settlers to grow food in abundance. When Sargeras plunged his sword into Azeroth, the stability of Beledar was affected, with the radiance shifting to periods of shadow. The creatures of darkness took the opportunity to attack he Arathi settlements.

"It might well prove dangerous," Jon agreed, nodding. "She might need a good right arm, under the circumstances, even if the Arathi don't bear the Ren'dorei any ill will." There was much danger in and around the area, noth the least of which was the constant encroachments of the Nerubian forces of Queen Ansurek and the kingdom of Azj-Kahet. "So... what is the problem?"

"The problem is that I don't want Cassia to be left without backup," admitted Snow, blushing.

"I see," said Jon. "Snow, understand me clearly when I say this with love and respect; my children don't need protection. They were raised to be able to assess risks, and undertake them when they deem it necessary. Cassia has backup, even when you don't see it; her family is always there for her, and her boss at the Steel Rose is a friend of Griffonclaw's."

Snow looked crestfallen. "Oh," he said in a meek voice.

"Make no mistake, kid. That you feel that the family is important enough for you to put yourself in harm's way is proof that Griffonclaw made the right choice in adding you to the family, but understand that it goes both ways - the family will always be there to back you up, as well." Jon stood, and clapped his hand on Snow's shoulder. "Besides, I can always use another set of eyes down there. Just remember to make the reports on the back of the letters you send home to Alia." One of the first lessons Jon had taught Snow was how to write invisible ink.

"Letters?" said Snow.

"You don't want her to worry, do you?" said Jon. 

Ultryk (01) - Home Sweet Home

Ultryk sat in a dark corner table of the Broken Keel Tavern in the goblin town of Ratchet, nursing his pewter tankard of the local specialty, Wiley's Wicked Ale. Although the taste was not the best ale Ultryk had ever tasted, he did find it mildly amusing when a new customer drank it for the first time; when the can was opened, the beverage made the sound of a rough voice laughing a cruel laugh, and if the customer actually drank it, they took on a ghostly ethereal aspect and a bloody red hue. Some speculated that the ale was brewed in barrels placed over the victims of pirates, and their unresting spirits made the drink imbued with a haunting malevolence, but Wiley, the goblin proprietor of the tavern and brewer of the ale refused to comment one way of another. 

Either way, Ultryk approved - it made for an entertaining spectator sport. 

He was enjoying the drink, and eating an early dinner of a dozen Bristle Whisker Catfish Bites (made by frying chunks of de-boned catfish flesh in a cornmeal batter). Ultryk had been introduced to it at the last Kosh'harg festival in Razor Hill, and Wiley had been convinced to add it to the menu, given the preponderance of seafood available off the dock (Ultryk was not convinced that Wiley was too concerned about only using raw Bristle Whisker Catfish in the making, but the food was delicious even so). 

He was just finishing when a trio of Orc warriors descended on his table and confronted him.

"You are Ultryk, are you not?" said the fellow, apparently their leader. He stood taller than average for an Orc, and was as muscular as seemed proper. His hair was a deep crimson, and tied up in a topknot, the long ponytail falling halfway down his back. He was clad in leather adorned with thick bands of metal, and both the iron and leather had seen better days; the metal was spotted with rust, and the leather was stiff and cracked. He held a large, two-handed battleaxe in his right hand. It, too, had seen better days.

"I am Ultryk," Ultryk confirmed.

"Have you no other name? No clan? No ancestors?" asked the orc in a mocking, aggressive voice. His two companions smirked, watching their friend.

"Actually, I do not. I was raised by Orphan Matron Battlewail in Ogrimmar; I was brought there when I was found in Ashenvale near the Splintertree Outpost; I have no idea who my parents are." Ultryk shrugged; the Matron had not been kind, and had worked her charges hard but no harder than most Orc parents would have.

At least there had been regular meals; not all orc children were that fortunate. In fact, many of the children of the orphanage learned to fight for every scrap as growing orcs required a lot of protein, and many lost their portions to other children if they could not defend themselves. Only the strong flourished, much as in life itself.

Ultryk had learned to fight smarter, not harder. He was shorter than many, and not as brawny, but he had a certain native cunning that had served him in good stead. Ultryk had learned to prefer to strike from a distance or by surprise, and preferably both.

"No wonder you learned the ways of the coward!" the Orc said with a sneer. "Perhaps we should call you Ultryk Ur'gora?" Ur'gora was Orcish for "Dishonorable" and considered one of the worst insults someone might bestow; clearly the fellow wished to goad Ultryk into a fight, regardless of the fellow's many advantages; Ulttyk's weapons and mail armor were in his bedroll in the stables.

"Perhaps I should. Thank you for the suggestion," Ultryk said.

"You are a coward without honor! Have you nothing to say?" the Orc said, the disbelief mixing with scorn.

"Only a fool fights in a burning house" replied Ultrk, quoting the old Frostwolf saying.

"Bah! All of your coin, on the table. You will pay for your reticence for a Warrior's Feast in Ogrimmar!"

Ultryk slowly and carefully placed his money pouch on the table, his face burning with embarrassment. He sat very still while the three Orcs bought some skins of wine with what had been his money, before leaving.

He waited five slow minutes, and then said to Wiley "I'll have to owe you for the meal."

Wiley shrugged at Ultryk. "I'd rather have a live customer than a dead one; and I am grateful there was no damages; their type never pays for what they break anyways."

Ultryk nodded as he left the tavern.

*     *     *

The three Orcs tossed their empty wineskins behind them as they happily made their way up the road's steep incline towards Crossroads. The Crossroads was the largest Horde town in the Northern Barrens, aptly named for the crossing of the  Gold Road and the road from Ratchet, and sword-work was easy to pick up there.

The first two didn't even notice when their third fell over, dead from a crossbow bolt. The leader and his companion snarled when they saw Ulrick stand, putting the crossbow end on the ground so he could use both hands to re-cock it's powerful corded string. Confidently, the two charged up the slope covered with long, golden grass. 

The leader was too enraged and too far ahead of his companion to note the flash of an ice trap halting the companion's progress. "Ur'gora scum! I will feast upon your liver!" he screamed at Ultryk loaded his crossbow, and in one smooth motion fired.

The bolt passed the leader harmlessly. He laughed "Hah! You are as bad with your chosen weapon as you are at being..." Ultryk would always wonder what the fellow might have said before he began screaming. It was hard to annunciate clearly when a beautiful Savannah Huntress had just buried her powerful fangs in one's throat. Savannah Huntresses had a coloration that made them perfect ambush predators the tall golden grasses of the Northern Barrens.

"That's my girl, Katya..." he said to his hunting partner. Ultryk looted the possessions of the dead orcs. Ratchet merchants would pay good coin for weapons and armor they could resell, and asked no inconvenient questions. Wild creatures would take care of making the dead bodies unrecognizable once he dragged them a little further off the road. 

Ultryk worked out of Ratchet because as a Bounty Hunter, he appreciated their pragmatic approach to things.

Tyana Blackwood and Laurel Nox AI art

 

Laurel Nox

Tyana Blackwood 01

Tyana Blackwood 02

Griffonclaw AI Art

 

Daffyd Wildhammer 02 - Last Night in Ramkahen (Smut) WIP

Daffyd stepped on the balcony at the inn in Ramkahen in the desert region of Uldum, only the moisture from the Vir'naal River stopping the dry air from being a dust-laden hell. Sandstorms aside, Daffyd found the area and mysterious ruins fascinating, not the least because of the Tol'vir.

The Tol'vir were the descendants of an ancient race, created by the Titans to guard the Titan's tombs, many of which had long fallen into ruins. The Tol'vir had been created with stone skin, but an ancient curse from the Old Gods had turned the stone to flesh. When Deathwing returned, the Tol'vir found themselves pitted against the Neferset Tol'vir, who served Deathwing, who promised to restore them to their ancient stone-skinned forms.

"What sight can possibly be more appealing than the view from the bed," asked Valencia from within the inn room. Valencia Blacksong was the reason why Daffyd had come to Ramkahen; some time ago she had hired Daffyd to guide her from Gadgetstan in Tanaris to Ramkahen so she might pursue the translations of recovered scrolls that were her passion. The trip had been dangerous; there were many treasures in Uldum, and its antiquities were popular amongst the indolent wealthy with pretentions of sophistication, and the fear and adrenaline had resulted in bedsport when Daffyd had guided her successfully to the city. Valencia did have some vices that were impossible to legally obtain through normal channels, and so Daffyd made semi-regular trips to Ramkahen with a case of Silvermoon Port, and concealed stashes of Bloodthistle.

Valencia paid well, and the periodic 'bonus' of her company was added incentive. She had taken delivery of her shipment at the house in Ramkahen she rented; a small house functioned as a library and office for Valencia's scholarly pursuits, with a tiny bed stuffed into one corner. Daffyd had 'consulted' with the palace official Kazemde, a Tol'vir whose remit included finding accommodations for visiting foreigners like Daffyd. For a modest fee, Daffyd had been given the metaphorical keys (Tol'vir had no door locks) to a comfortable house whose bedchamber was rather luxurious.

Valencia

Valencia had come in the night like a sensuous specter, taking full advantage of her Ren'dorei affinity for the Void and shadow magics to appear at his front door virtually unseen. She had dressed in a a burgundy red dress that was floor-length. but had slits all the way up her thigh, showing  lots of slim, muscular leg encased in lilac silk fishnet stockings Daffyd could see that she wore a simple pair of black sandals. Her hair was a tangle of green tendrils that reminded Daffyd that Valencia was as deadly as if her hair had contained serpents; she was a mistress of the dark arcane Void magics.

Fortunately, she liked Daffyd.

She had filled his arms with her slender form and captured his mouth with a fervor that left no imagination as to how much she had missed him while he had been away. Her body molded itself to his, and her mouth nibbled at his lips teasingly. She moved her attention to his throat, her sharp, almost vampiric canines marking him with bruises; it would claim his as her own for the duration of his stay.

"Miss me much?," Daffyd asked. 

Valencia tore her mouth away from where it was devouring his shoulder. "Maybe," she said, working his way down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as she worked her way south. "I mean, why would I miss you?" she asked, rhetorically. "I mean, after all, you bring me letters and news from the outside world," she continued, stopping long enough to suck Daffyd's nipples into her mouth. He moaned, and she continued, her mouth traveling lower. "You bring me the things in life that make living in exile bearable... my wines, my cheese, and my smoke." She stopped at his waist, and undid the leather belt holding up his trousers. "And most importantly, you bring me this," she said, fishing his cock out from the confines of his soft mageweave underwear. "A nicely-sized hard phallus, the only one within a hundred miles sized for use without being split in half by a monster kitty cock; even a small Tol'vir erection would be harmful ... although I do know some of my cousins whose cunts would drool at the prospect." She laughed. "I'm not into that much pain."

"How much pain do you like? asked Daffyd, curiously. 

"None of your business!" she grinned. "What I do want, though, is a nice, long ride to remind me of why men are worth all the trouble." She stroked his hardening cockshaft gently, the way one might pet a shy stray cat, and like the cat Daffyd wanted to purr.

She licked the cockshaft, eliciting noises of pleasure. "So first... we do this!", she said, engulfing his purple engorged cock head and half his shaft into her talented mouth. "Your first load... lets get that drained," she said, running her tongue around the bulbous head, using two fingers to pump his shaft. 

"I am entirely at your disposal," Daffyd agreed. Valencia smiled. "Yes, you are... now, as I am not fond the the taste... lets send your first load straight to my belly." She took his cock deeply into her mouth and down her throat. Grabbing his hands, she guided them to her hair. 

The two of them swiftly established a rhythm, him guiding the pace with his hands in her hair. The muscles in her throat flexed and massaged his entire length. "How does she breathe?," he wondered, and then he surrendered himself to the hedonistic pleasure of a skilled fellatrix. 

Steel Rose Song Night

 Every night when the dancing begins. musicians are encouraged to come up to the stage, and prime the audience for the dancers' performances to come. This night, a ancient gnome with a swatch of pink hair, threaded with the silver that comes with age, faced the audience.

"This song was written by the sole survivor of the demonic assault on their position; the defenders of Hyjal were desperately trying to finish their preparations for the demons. Several bands of volunteers deployed at choke points to slow the Burning Legion advance. Many of them died under demon claws and fangs, but a few, deeply wounded, managed to survive. The delaying action bought the defenders crucial time, and as you can see, we are still here. Azeroth survived."

A respectful silence settled on the crowd as the gnome strummed his lyre and began ((Sung to Garetrh Brooks' IRELAND))

"They say Azeroth is bleeding

With every warlock soul is born.

They summon Sargarath's minions 

Demon eyes are full of scorn.

They snarl and bleed corruption

Twisting beast and tree alike

Assaulting sacred Mount Hyjal

Nordrassil the target of their strike.

We are twenty against hundreds

In the Night Elves desperate war

Astride the road we will be fighting

Until the demons overwhelm our score.

They will wait until the evening,

As they are weakened by the sky. 

The Hammers of Magni all stand ready

No alternative but to die.

Ironforge, I'm coming home

I can see the snow-capped peaks 

and hallways made of stone.

I'm leaping out over fiery gorge

I' coming home, Ironforge.

Captain Tbelle, she lays bleeding

And she groans and sas to me

"Our men are now yor for the healing,

In this fel-damned catastrophe.

And I look up all around me

I see warrior, mage, and priest.

Our job to slow the demons down

and gain half an hour at least.

Ironforge, I'm coming home

I can see the snow-capped peaks 

and hallways made of stone.

I'm leaping out over fiery gorge

I'm coming home, Ironforge.

Now the smoke is deep and heavy

As we chain our pains and fears.

Terror in their screaming,

They approach our line and grow near.

There are no words to be spoken

Just a look to say goodbye.

We charge before they're ready

And they die to Dwarven battle cry!

Ironforge, I'm coming home

I can see the snow-capped peaks 

and hallways made of stone.

I'm leaping out over fiery gorge

I'm coming home, Ironforge."

The audience cheered,  banging their fists on the table, and a shower of coin began to flow to the stage. 

"Cassia, wasn't the Hammers of Magni Uncle Gryffonclaw's... " began Snow, but Cassia interrupted him, tears in her eyes. "Yes... the song was written by a healing paladin named Dayn FitzSilver." She grinned through her tears. "He has not sung that since I was a babe."

((Wrote this when WoW came out of Beta and my main hooked up with an almost all-Dwarf guild called The Hammer of Magni. Been lost for quite awhile.))

Daffyd Wildhammer 01 - Last Night in Ratchet (Smut)

 Daffyd moaned as a pair of goblin lips teased his left earlobe while a different goblin's hands softly massaged his cockshaft and scrotum. The indulgent pleasure of his last night in Ratchet drained the last of the gold from his purse, but there was always more gold to be had; Southsea Freebooters to the south in Gadgetstan, a camp south of Ratchet in the desert of Tanaris, buccaneers across the sea at Booty Bay... there was a standing bounty for their deaths, which meant that Daffyd spent a lot of his time travelling between the three mercantile centers, replenishing his funds to pursue his mail goal; hunting and destroying Twilight Hammer cultists wherever they might be found.

Daffyd Wildhammer

Daffyd had been found amidst the ruins of a merchant caravan in the area called the Twilight Highlands, although at the time it was merely the Highlands; there were no other survivors, and no clue as to which of the corpses were family. At eight years old he was adopted into the Wildhammer clan, and raised by the Wildhammer community.

Cho'gall, who worshiped the vile Old Gods, brought the Twilight Hammer to Grim Batol, allied with allied with Deathwing and claimed the Twilight Highlands as its base of operations. The black dragonflight drove off the agents of the red dragonflight who guarded Grim Batol (now at [19, 54]) so that it may be used as a fortress for training Deathwing's minions. The cultists and Deathwing's minions spread death and destruction, and the community which had raised him fell to fire and foul sorcery. Daffyd and other Wildhammer survivors assembled at the Alliance stronghold of Highbank. He served as a scavenger for the forces of the Alliance, hunting beasts for their meat and hides, taking the opportunity to hunt Twilight Cultists wherever they might be found.

Eventually he found his way to Sithilis, and began his cycle of killing pirates to fund his vendetta against the Twilight cultists in Sithilis. Spending so much time in goblin territory had its compensations; goblin chefs were masters of their art. And goblin courtesans did their best to get clients to part with every coin they had with a ruthless efficiency and well-honed skill. 

Daffyd had prepaid for tonight's lodging, tomorrow's breakfast, and shome refreshments for Zwerka and Felcha, who were ostensibly sisters who didn't mind sending Daffyd off to sleep with a bang, so to speak. It was the goblin custom to pay by the orgasm, so that they could bring the customer off as fast as possible, and go seeking further patrons. Daffyd had paid for three orgasms. 

"We might be here all night!" whined Zwerka. 

"It's an unfair contract!" complained Felcha. 

"And yet... it's not my fault you didn't check beforehand, and a contact is a contract," Daffyd said smugly.

Both Zwerka and Felcha allowed that this was so, and the three of them repaired to Daffyd's inn room. The goblin women alternated stripping off their street clothes with relieving Daffyd of his armor and weapons. Zwerka began to nibble and bite Daffyd's neck and ear while Felcha stroked his growing cockshaft and scrotum. 

They murmured their appreciation of Daffyd's whipcord-lean body, his short, blond hair, and made appreciative noises about the size of Daffyd's six-inch, thick cock. Daffyd was aware that they probably would have made the same noises about a middle aged, paunchy merchant, and praised his erection regardless of their true opinions; flattering the customer was the wisest course of action. Still, he hoped that they would not find pleasuring him too much of a chore.

Zwelka

Not for the first time, Daffyd noticed and appreciated that the goblin women wore lingerie that stoked a male's visual senses while doing nothing to impede access to their womanly charms; Zwerka wore a purple teddy with garter and translucent stockings. The panties of the outfit was open, the delicate lace framing her succulent cunt. Her breasts were pushed up my a shelf that left her erect lime green nipples bare, beckoning enticingly to her lovers' mouths. Felcha's outfit was a tight leather corset that also displayed her breasts, and her garter belt also showcased her legs in grey stockings; however, the goblin's panties were not crotchless and open. She wore no panties, and her labia glistened with moisture.

Both had worn skirts and sheer blouses upon arriving, and watching them divest themselves of any vestige of propriety had raised an instant reaction from Daffyd's constraining trousers. They had pushed him on the bed and had unceremoniously added his trousers and boots to their pile of blouse and skirt. 

"Felcha and I so enjoy visits from our Alliance friends,: purred Zwelka as she bit his neck just under his ear. "I prefer men who bathe regularly." Most of their Horde customers were either Orcs and Tauren from Crossroad, and Orcs considered bathing to be a decadent indulgence of the weak. Goblins bathed sparingly, as time spent in the bath was time they were not acquiring wealth, and Tauren... the scent of wet Tauren was worse than unbathed. Of the Horde races, only the Sin'dorei had a tradition of hygiene.

"While it is certainly pleasant being kissed and nibbled on by such a beautiful lady, some of us prefer to taste than be tasted," Daffyd said, rolling slowly onto Zwelka, sprawling her onto her pretty backside. Sliding down her ample chest, boldly presented to him by her lingerie. He sucked gently on the erect, puffy nipples, enjoying her moans of pleasure. His hands squeezed their fullness and he began to alternate sucking ever harder and biting the nipples, latching on and pulling with his teeth.

While Daffyd did this, Felcha pulled his hips up high so she could move beneath his cock. She took the head and first inches into her luscious, soft lips and used three curled fingers to stroke the remaining exposed shaft. Daffyd went from mostly erect to almost painfully hard as she bathed his cockhead in her saliva, swirling her tongue, tracing the sensitive skin behind the crest of the ridge. 

As Zwelka enjoyed her breasts being ravished, Daffyd decided he wanted more. Slowly he disengaged Felcha's delightful attentions th his cock, and pulled her up besides her sister. Daffyd moved even lower, and spread Felcha's snatch wide. "Such a clever girl, wearing no panties," he praised as he French-kissed her glistening cunt, tasting the evidence of ehr enjoyment. His tongue massaged her labia as he suckled on her distended clitoris, sucking it as he had her sister's nipples. Two of his fingers began probing the entrance, while another finger rubbed at the tight sphincter of her ass. 

"Fuuuuuck..." Felcha moaned, and Daffyd chuckled. "Not yet, little goblin, but soon!" he promised, his voice muffled by her intimate flesh. He continued to abuse and tease her hard pleasure button with mouth, tongue, and teeth while two of his fingers pushed into her tight, constricting entrance. He felt her began to move in time with his fingers, slowly pushing herself onto them, craving, needing, begging him with her body to frig her tight cunt harder and faster. Daffyd obliged, feeling her cunt clamp down on his digits,making him work for every centimeter both coming and going. Harder and harder she fucked his hand, grinding her clit onto his mouth. With a low guttural moan she began a litany of goblin smut, her slutty, filthy mouth spewing what Daffyd hoped were endearments, confessions, and exhortations to make her orgasm. She crested, and her cunt spurted on his face and in his mouth, taking Daffyd by pleasant surprise. She almost collapsed back onto the bed, and Daffyd fell to her side, between Falcha and her sister.

Zwelka saw this as an opportunity, and climbed onto Daffyd, leaning forward to clean Felcha's cunt effusions. "You don't need to do that..." Daffyd objected in a weak voice. 

"Oh, this isn't the first time I've cleaned my sister's juice from a client," she responded with a stroke of her tongue. "I love the taste of her, especially when she erupts like that... its even better than when I taste it still fresh from the oven!" What has started as a clean-up job evolved into a deep kiss, with her sucking on his tongue like a miniature cock. She felt his erection push against her generous ass seeking attention.

Zwelka moved while continuing their kiss, raising her hips up and positioning her mound over his straining cock. Slowly shespread her labia around th base of his cockshaft, thrilling at the aching pulse his cock made against her. :Hold still." she commanded, and masterbated his cockshaft with her cunt lips, grinding her clit against the hardness. Up and down she stroked, teasing his cockhead with her clenched entrance befirew slowly drenching his cockshaft with her wetness as her labia massaged his cock. She grinned malevolently as he began pushing against her, trying to ease the urgency he felt building. "Please, please, fuck me," he begged, and she replied with a feral glance.

"Make me!" she taunted.

Daffyd growled, taken over my animalistic need, the desire to mate and breed this saucy minx. Daffyd picked her up by her hips and threw her on her back, stabbing her with his cock. She spread her legs as wide as she could, taking his cock deep. Human cocks were longer and thicker than goblin cocks, and she felt an  erogenous discomfort as her cunt stretched to accommodate the girth while feeling the head of his cock press against the entrance to her fertile goblin womb. Zwelka eschewed using birth control with her clients; she loved feeling hot seed spread inside her, seeking to breed her slutty goblin body. 

She especially liked being fucked by a male forceful and driven beyond control, as she had with Daffyd. She had been pleased that he had made her sister cum with his mouth, a rare treat from a customer; usually it was Zwelka who made her sister orgasm with Zwelka's mouth against her cunt, cleaning a creampie out of Felcha after being filled by a satisfied customer. Each thrust of Daffyd's cock brought her closer to her own orgasm, each push against her womb by his aching cockhead a call for her cunt to contract and force his seed into her. She knew when she felt him cum deep inside her that it would push her over the edge; when she could provoke a savage fucking, it almost always did.

This time it was her ogram that pushed him over the edge, her eyes rolling back in her head as her cresting orgasm caught her by surprise. Daffyd was helpless to do anything but explode heavy ropes of his essence into her body, roaring like a beast as she bucked up again the cock impaling her. 

Moments later, Daffyd collapsed between the two goblins. While Zwelka recovered her composure, Felcha got dressed to go downstairs to the common room and fetch some Sweet Nectar and whatever snacks she might find. Billed to the room, of course... 

Zwelka looked at Daffyd with what in a human might pass for affection, and in a goblin might pass for greed, and said, with a self-satisfied smirk. "That's three orgasms. All done!"

"Wait a minute! I only came once!," objected Daffyd.

"No, the contract specified three, and you came, you made Felcha cum, and I came... oh Light, did I cum.  Three, and very generous of you," she smirked.

"... a contact is a contract," conceded Daffyd.

(WIP)

Steel Roses Have Sharp Thorns (Snow & Cassia 01) Part Four

 

"Snow? May I ask a favor of you?" said Cheyr, one of the dancers.  Snow looked up at the Draenei woman, no somewhat more conservatively clad then when she'd been dancing on stage -- not that was difficult, given that during her last set of performances she had been clad in scandalously little. The red magewave lingerie had been replaced by a wide-brimmed jungle hat, a crimson silk vest, and red mageweave trousers. The color set off her light blue skin tone, and the hat obscured most of her raven-black short hair.

"Sure" Snow responded cautiously. A week ago when Cassia had begun work as a bouncer at the Steel Rose, the owner-manager Phaedra had introduced Snow to the staff; while not an official employee, he had been introduced as the son of a colleague from her adventuring days, and Cassia's cousin. Snow had dinner every night at the Steel Rose, which functioned as a restaurant until the dancers begun their work shift, and then Snow relocated to one of the tables furthest from the stage. The dancers took his presence in stride; Snow tipped each dancer,  spending gold, when most of the patrons gave copper and silver.

"I was wondering if I might impose upon you to walk me home?" Cheyr asked. It was not an unreasonable request; given the prevalence of criminals skulking in the neighborhood, the dancers often asked one of the bouncers to escort them home in the late night or early morning hours when they finished their sets. It was however, the first time on of them had asked Snow.

"It would be an honor, Cheyr," he assured her.

Cheyr collected her full-length cloak, and guided Snow, to his surprise to the kitchen. Cheyr guided them past the kitchen staff, who ignored them completely as Cheyr led him down the stairs into the pantry. The building in which the Steel Rose resided had several levels, and the back door entrance to the pantry went down to the water. The pantry itself was enchanted with cold spell, the better to keep the food ingredients fresh. 

Cheyr and Snow stepped out the back door. The back door was heavy wood, reinforced with steel and magic, and was more like a bank vault door, not the back door to a restaurant pantry. "It's very useful to have an entrance well away from the customers," Cheyr commented. "I suspect it is,: agreed Snow.

Snow offered Chyr his arm as if the two were on a date. 

"Oh, a gentleman!: said Chyr with a pixie-like grin. "The other bouncers don't offer me their arm."

"No doubt so that they don't encumber their sword arms," informed Snow.

"Really? I was thinking that it's because they don't see us as real women, but as a commodity they label 'dancers'," said Cheyr.

"If that is so, then they need to find better oculists," said Snow. Cheyr chuckled.

They walked together in a comfortable silence. Many of the dancers stayed at a tenement of apartments scarce an arrow shot from the Proudmoore Barracks, including Cassia, who had taken up residence in a small studio apartment. Snow walked her up the stairs and to the door of her apartment.

"Thank you for the escort," said Cheyr, meeting Snow's eyes. "Perhaps I can reward you with a drink?"

"That is a kind offer, but I should be getting back," said Snow. "But I would love to take you for a coffee during the day, when neither one of us is otherwise occupied."

"Its a date!" Cheyr said, leaning down. Her azure lips were soft on Snow's, and the initial kiss was sweet. Snow pulled back as they disengaged, and he was surprised when her hand snaked into the hair at the back of Snow's head and puled him forward into a second kiss that lasted considerably longer. Her mouth tasted of cinnamon, and her tongue traced his own lips as she pulled back. 

Snow was still bemused ad aroused when she slid into her apartment. He snapped out of it when he heard Cheyr slide the four locks into place. 

Snow returned to the Steel Rose, but was forced to use the normal front entrance; he did not have a key to the back door. 

As Snow entered, along with a half-dozen patrons. Cassia caught his eye, and nodded, beckoning him to sit next to her. 

"Cheyr get home safely?" Cassia asked as Snow sat down at her table. 

"Quite safe," confirmed Snow. 

"And you must have come right back," Cassia teased. "Poor Snow."

"Well, we do have a coffee date soon," Snow admitted.

Cassia giggled. "You are determined to break Reina's heart." Cassia was aware that her elder sister Reina and Snow had been intimate,even if she did not know how many times. 

"She doesn't want me, she's made that quite clear," said Snow stoically. Cassia's heart broke a little bit at the bitter heartache that had laced his voice, but Snow's heart wasn't the first Reina had damaged, if not broken. Cassia firmed up her own voice. "Snow,I have something I want you to do."

"Tell me," Snow said.

"You see the short guy with the blue hair, the guy with the Kul Tiran woman, sitting away from the stage?"

Peebles and
Ophelia

'Yes," Snow confirmed. The gnome had bright blue hair, standing up with hair mousse. His thin handlebar mustache stuck out like whiskers on a cat. , and the only weapon visible was a short stiletto more useful for opening bottles of wine than tickling someone else's ribs.

His companion was a blonde Kul Tiran women of heroic proportions, heavily muscled and wearing Cuir boli armor. She had a broadsword slung over her shoulder, and several thick-bladed daggers in a baldrick around her chest.

"The guy is named Peebles, and he's an alchemist by trade. Kharel tells me that the woman is a bravo who used to belong to the Scrimshaw is Ophelia, but Kharel says that few people quit the Scrimshaw Gang, and he would know." 

Kharel himself had been an enforcer for the Scrimshaw Gang before they'd left his crippled body behind for dead. Unable to do the Scrimshaw's dirty work, they'd cut him loose to beg, borrow, or steal to survive. Phaedra had found him and healed him, and he had become the first employee of the Steel Rose.

"People keep coming to his table, and strike up conversations before leaving," informed Cassia. "His visitors don't stay long, but funny thing; Ophelia gets up and leaves a few minutes later. Ophelia comes back after a short while, but alone."

"So... what are they doing," Snow asked.

"No idea - that was what I need you for?" said Cassia in a pleading voice.

"Well, lets see if we can find out," said Snow.

The
Baroness

Snow took a seat near the stage, not coincidentally where he could pretend to toggle the dancers but also surreptitiously observe his assigned quarry. It was difficult to feign interest in the dancers while focusing his attention on actually keeping tabs on the pair. It was during and energetic routine by the Ren'dorei dancer known on stage as The Baroness that he observed what appeared to be a scion of a Kul Tiran noble family, dressed for a night out, sit down at the table with Peebles and Ophelia, engaging them in quiet conversation.

The fellow and Peebles spoke for almost five minutes before the fellow got up and left. Perhaps two more minutes passed before Ophelia likewise headed for the door.

Snow got up, tossed a tip on the stage, and pretending to be slightly inebriated, staggered out the door, following Ophelia. Ophelia had not gotten very far, and was just passing the Loose Cannon Inn, where she was joined by the  Snow pulled his cloak above his head and followed at a discrete distance.

The Scion and Ophelia walked together in silence, heading into the Dampwick Ward neighborhood.  The streets were deserted at this time of night; no children running through the muddy streets, no proselytizing religious fanatics. just criminals, prostitutes, and the citizens that would be often referred to after the criminal element had made themselves known as 'victims'.

Ophelia and her companion made a right turn and temporarily vanished from sight. When Snow turned the corner, he found his way blocked by shady-looking members of the Scrimshaw Gang.

Snow VS Scrimshaw Gang!

"Well, well, well... a plump pigeon, ready for the plucking," began one of the thugs, but he got no further before Snow, who had carried a loaded flintlock under her cloak, placed a bullet into his head while throwing the cloak over the head of the second thug, and grabbing the third thug, spinning him into the line of sight for the fourth Scrimshaw, who taken by surprise and looking for a clean flintlock shot of his own. 

Snow placed his boot on the ample rear of his shield, and booted him forward. Snow grabbed his grapple hook gun and fired the hook and training cable past the sniper, turning the control to "retract" and dropping low as the sniper fired. The sniper was pulling a second flintlock from his belt when the grappling hook found purchase in the sniper's neck. The hook sunk more deeply as Snow put his full weight on the retracting cable, dragging the sniper over the railing.  

The cloak-entangled thug freed himself and drew a rapier while the thug with the sore ass drew two thick Kul Tiran Marine daggers while Snow drew his rapier and warhammer. Snow feinted a lunge at the daggerman to lure the rapier into his own lunge. Snow bound the opposing rapier and used the warhammer to split the Scrimshaw skull into pulp.

"Always were a helm... " muttered Snow hypocritically - he rarely wore a helmet - and spun to face the remaining Scrimshaw bravo warily; Snow had no monopoly on thrown weapons. Only the superior reach of Snow's rapier kept the Scrimshaw at bay. At the next attack, Snow dodged left and sent a cloud of sulphur, cayenne pepper powder, and ground pepper into his face. The cayenne pepper temporarily blinded him, his nose was overwhelmed by the ground pepper, and the sulphur coated his lungs. As the fellow sneezed uncontrollably and his eyes closed, burning and watering, Snow stabbed him in the throat.

Snow grabbed one of the orphaned daggers and headed for Ophelia's last known location. There were only a few possibilities for their destination; if they were willing to do their business in the street, the could have done it a lot sooner. At this time of night, most of the shops in the Dampwick Ward area were closed.

The only really feasible place nearby was a tavern called The Drunken Gryphon, and what recommended it to Snow was both its proximity, and the fact that is was a known hangout for Scrimshaw Gang members.

Snow had been in time to watch Ophelia exchange a purse of gold for a small wooden box.

Ophelia left while the fellow was finishing his beer. Snow followed him when he finished, and in a dark alley, relieved him first of his consciousness then the wooden box. Snow returned to the Steel Rose, and met with Phaedra and Cassia in Phaedra's office. He reported the events, and opened the box, revealing a set of 12 crystal vials, each containing a supply of the drug Sa'Diablo.

Sa'Diablo was made by mixing Warlock soulshards with other ingredients. Ground into a fine power, SaDiablo was easy to mix into alcohol. It was a mild euphoric and aphrodisiac, healing physical damage while making the user feel invincible. 

It was also highly addictive, and because of the addiction the Admiralty had made it illegal.

Phaedra was furious. "I'll have them banned. I'll have them arrested! I'll... " she sputtered.

"... you will do nothing but swear out a complaint," said Cassia. "I will also swear out a witness statement, as will Snow, and then we will notify the proper authorities."

"The 'proper authorities' have proven corrupt and uncaring as to the enforcement of law in this neighborhood," said Phaedra, her tone bitter. 

"Normally,  I'd agree... but you should know that as my mother is the aide to the High Admiral herself, I think we'll be able to get Auntie Jaina's attention", said Cassia, glossing over her father's role as Jaina's spymaster and privy agent, first in Theramore and then in Kul Tiras. 

"You call thhe Lord High Admiral 'Auntie Jaina?" laughed Snow.

"Of course I do; she's our Godmother." Cassia smirked. "But lets keep that a secret, shall we?

(WIP)