A line is crossed

[Mossclaw]

She had begged off joining Varulfr and himself in a round (or more) of rum. Rum!

 

He wasn’t going to be able to stop himself. All the pressure that he’d been trying to work off – all the blood on his sword – for nothing. He should have manned up and gone when he’d first seen the pinched look to her features. His talk with Guilestern had rubbed salt into an already festering wound. That Guilestern would be right! He would not have it. The matter would be settled, for good or ill, tomorrow. He drank deeply, and smiled towards Varulfr, ever easy and welcome company. No reason not to enjoy the night.

 

Hours later he worked his way up the stairs. When would he learn not to drink heavily? He swayed on the landing, a smile breaking across his features, remembering that one night that it garnered him the first indication that his intent was not misplaced.

 

He soldiered on up the last set of stairs, smiling gently towards her door, imagining her look when he returned tomorrow. The relief. The ease. His steps lightened as he traveled the remaining short distance to his room, and sleep came swiftly.

 

A soldier’s curse: he woke at dawn. He’d made good use of the time; sending a letter ahead, requesting time late in the day. It was no secret that the War here was winding down; the Alliance involvement slowly morphing from urgency to placid training as the use for non-Chosen dwindled. Still, the pall over The Caravan needed to be cleared and he would look his best. So after eating to settle his gut, he set to polishing his armor. There were enchants for it, to be sure; but he swore he could see the difference, and so he took the time.

 

He eyed himself in the mirror and proclaimed himself fit. Risking no chance of discovery, regardless that he had heard her door open, and her footfalls move out of the Inn (a frown tugged at his lips – she’d not paused for food), he used his Hearthstone and moments later was dancing swiftly out of the way of a very annoyed looking serving woman in the Stormshield Inn.

 

“They aught to move that! Been asking fer it. Lazy mages. Too good for us common folk.” The edge of the serving tray passed less than an inch from Buck’s nose. He could not argue with the woman’s sentiment, yet knew that to weigh in would only cause more resentment.

 

As he cleared the doorway and the clink and murmur of the Tavern receded, the fresh scent of the sea embraced him as his boots moved from worn timber to earth. He hesitated, then decided to walk. He understood meetings. They were battles. The victor was the one who was prepared and acquitted themselves well. Sometimes there were language issues, and this was why he was her Attaché. Buck was nothing if not secure in his understanding of Military Structure.

 

He braced as a Chosen’s mount passed through him, the strange sensation not sending the alarms that it used to when he worked in isolation from his kind. Almost to the entrance his back straightened, his stride lengthened, and his features settled into practiced determination. He was about to engage, and he would accept nothing less than victory. He crossed out of the light of the sun’s rays and into the dark.

[Mossclaw]

In the pause that he took for his eyesight to adjust he noted the smell of wash water on wood, and the creak of chairs from the waiting room on his right. Not so much noise. Good. He would not have to wait long.

 

Entering the room, green eyes swept and he assessed. One merchant, one nervous fighter. Chosen? If so, new to it. He flashed her a polite smile, and turned to the desk.

 

Cennessa braced slightly and managed a smile, resisting the urge to swallow hard after as she took in the appearance of the impressive man who’s shoulders just cleared the doorframe. She’d worked hard to get this far. No one had handed anything to her, but she always feared that at any moment her Pa would appear before her and tell her to come home Right Now! She shifted her helm at her side, hand running through the horse-hair plume for comfort. She forced her shoulders to drop, mail rustling as she did so, the chair creak sounding loud in ears trained to pick up the slightest break of a twig in the distance. Setting her mind to the calm she used in a blind, she catalogued and watched more from habit, than interest as the man approached the desk.

 

Buck did not need to get the attention of the Corporal behind the desk. His armor spoke of his service, his pedigree, and his status as a Chosen. He felt no little pride in that. He’d done well, and now he would pay it back.

 

It was not that he did not fail to observe that the Corporal was from common stock, the Alliance had paid in blood in this war after all, and even the Nobel houses’ children had needed to work in earnest, resulting in a commoner sitting before him rather than a pampered child; it was that it made him uncomfortable, and so stored it as far back in his mind as he could. There were not enough Chosen, after all. Less now. Let it rest. His practiced gaze took in the press of the uniform, the rank, the polish in an instant.

 

“"Kings honor, friend. Welcome to the Hall of the Alliance High Command. What business brings you here?" The boy had grit. His voice was steady, only his eyes revealing the slight awe at Buck’s presence.

 

“Knight-Captain Charles Buckingston the Third, emeritus. I am here to speak with Command on behalf of the Deep Forest Caravan."  He stood tall in presentation, the deep gold stylings of his armor glowing with depth, blue gems shined, picking up the lightning breaking upon the dark cloth, the Caravan’s crest.

 

In the past, before he had separated himself from the Ranks, there would have been courtesies. His would have been welcomed, his rank repeated, respected. Perhaps some small pleasantry regarding his service. His sacrifice. Instead, as Chosen, whatever the boy actually thought or felt was muted lest he be hazed, no doubt.

 

Whatever the boy would have said was preempted as man, well groomed and armored stepped into the room from the meeting room behind the desk.

 

Again, Buck’s eyes made a quick sweep, taking in the Knight’s tabard and insignia, the faded blue of the man’s armor, a well worn sword to the side, and the outline of a shield, most likely worn as well, upon the man’s back. Buck would have once greeted this man as a brother-in-arms, comfortable in rank, equals. He still felt the connection, and while the Chosen had their own challenges, he still held deep respect for those that risked their lives in the name of the Alliance, regardless if he agreed with the orders that preceded such. His eyes finally raised to the man’s face, wariness crossing his features as he read the contempt writ there.

 

“I’ll handle this, Corporal. No pleasantries need be wasted here. Not with his kind.”

 

Buck’s eyes narrowed, the green flashing warning. It was not his choice, to be Chosen. No one chose.

 

The man barked a laugh. “No, mighty Chosen, I care not for your “gifts”. He sneered openly, Gilnean accent coming clear as he continued. “What? Did you think our Houses had forgotten yours just because you are in some elite raid group now?” The man took two steps closer, to face Buck, the table no longer between them, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. “Surely a wall-jumper is not so daft, eh?”

 

Cennessa held her breath, her eyes darting from one to the other. The merchant blocked her view momentarily as he left swiftly. Should she leave too? Her head turned to see his cloak wisking around the doorframe. She returned her gaze to the two men, braced in front of one another, violence crackling in the air. Her hand dropped unconsciously to her bow she’d settled between the seats.

 

Buck’s jaw jumped as his teeth clenched, nostrils flaring as he took in deep air. He could not place the man, but he’d left when he was a boy, and boys change as they mature. His eyes narrowed, trying to place the House.

 

The man grinned nastily. “Oh, we mark you, “Sir” Charles Buckingston the Third. You are remembered as a traitor to Gilneas, hiding in that order of failed paladins, “Knight” to a fallen squire who now walks Azeroth as a corpse. Now a soldier turned mercenary by some dagger-eared woman.” The grin deepened. “A woman you fell for, last we heard. No conquest there?" He taunted. "Behold the son of Charles the Second, Viscount of Gilneas! Behold the failure knight!”

 

Cennessa’s eyes had grown increasingly wide, mouth agape at the verbal assault, cheeks burning to hear such. When the violence came, she still jumped.

 

Buck would stand no more. Lips pulled back to reveal teeth clenched and he dug deep and pulled the Light. Sometimes, with far more effort than normal, those in Service to the Light, could manage to call the Light to their side, situation blessed or not. It brought its own pain, but it was a pain Buck was pleased to bear as the Light responded to his call, flinging the man back against the wall to crash in a heap on the floor, stunned.

 

Buck lowered his hand, then took the three steps needed to stand over the man. This Gilnean. His features set, his tone clipped, the slight bleed of an accent long overwritten.

 

“Easily dispatched by the failure knight. What makes that you, Sir?" The bite to his words bestowed no honorific.

 

The only sounds in the room were that of the Knight regaining his feet. The Corporal was frozen to the wall. If he’d been a horse, his eyes would have been rolling in his head. The thought popped inappropriately into Cennessa’s head, her breath frozen in her chest.

 

"Bloody Chosen!" The man growled out, drawing himself up.

 

What would have happened next, Cennessa was spared from finding out.

 

“What is the reason for the noise? Has a demon intruded into Alliance territory? An imp perhaps in my waiting room?”

 

It was as if a lightning bolt struck the Corporal who near flung himself from the wall to rush to the man’s side. Cennessa barely suppressed the urge to hysterical laughter.

 

Magistrate Vaughan! Kn…Sir.. emeritus..” The poor boy stumbled, helplessly confused now. “Buckingston the Third, Magistrate.” He trailed of, gesturing lamely towards Buck.

 

Magistrate Vaughan eyed the Corporal, who visibly quailed. It quashed all thoughts of laughter in Cessessa, so cold was the look.

 

Magistrate turned and strode towards Buck, hand outstretched, his words aimed at the other Knight.

 

“Now Finnigan, I’ve set my schedule around this meeting; see that you don’t delay it with petty concerns, hmmm?”

 

The man pumped Buck’s hand firmly once, the grip stronger than expected.

 

“Magistrate.” Buck kept his tone neutral, as he demonstrated that years over a hot forge did not make a man’s grip weak. His tight smile returned. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

 

“Certainly. We have unfinished business after all. Come, come in, let us sit.”

 

Cennessa watched as the man gestured for the Chosen (just like her!), Buckingston, to follow. As he turned away from one, he gave an intense look towards the Knight Finnigan, causing a sour but accepting look to fill his features. She didn’t like that he followed after, the door shutting solidly. Like as watching a pack of Gnolls herding their prey. She was left staring at the Corporol.

 

He fidgeted, sat, tried to look busy as his face turned slowly red. It was uncomfortable to watch. It wasn’t as if she had anything to say. She shifted her helm, the small noise causing him to whip his head up and frown at her. Now it was her turn to shift to red, although she managed to stare him down. Suppressing a curse, she grabbed her helm, her bow, and stalked out.

 

Standing outside, the day fading, she scuffed at the earth. Another night and no closer to attaching herself to a group that would give her Real Training! No more of that scripted, mage-twisted, boring history dry toast. She kicked a rock, which predictably spooked the incoming messenger’s horse, earning her the second frown in less than ten minutes. She trudged past the post box to look out over the sea. Ingrained habit caused her to sink into the cluster of bushes. Youthful enthusiasm caused her to slip into pleasant reverie. A light smile played across her lips as she envisioned acceptance and glory.

[Mossclaw]

Inside, Buck was not smiling. As before, the Magistrate had the file folder on his desk. It looked thinner this time. Buck bent in his chair a bit, brushing at his armor as if flicking something off. It was thinner, the book was missing. He sat back, the chair creaking under the weight of his armor, as it had when Coltan had sat in it. He held the Magistrate’s gaze. This time it was he that would wait.

 

Naturally, it was neither the Magistrate or Buck that broke the silence. Finnigan shifted, coughed and moved to the sideboard. Both shot sour looks towards the man’s back.

 

“How is your Caravan Master then?” Dark eyes were attentively focused.

 

“She is well.”

 

“But not here.”

 

“No.”

 

Silence, prompting Finnigan to set down cut-glass tumblers, the amber liquid catching the light and glowing pleasantly. Another sour look from the Magistrate sending the Knight back to the sideboard to settle into shadow.

 

A dismissive wave of his hand accompanied convivial words that did not reach the eyes. “Well then. What can we do for you today?”

 

Buck had chosen his words carefully, repeating them in his head as he’d polished his armor. He wanted information without giving any. He knew the Military; he hadn’t expected to see the Magistrate again. The man had unsettled both Coltan and Buck. There was something off, something wrong. The man didn’t fit his clothes. He would have to improvise.

 

“I am following up on the reports I have sent regarding The Caravan’s success. As The Caravan’s Attaché, I am responsible in the ordering of all such missives and reports. There has been no response, and I would not be lax in ensuring that the reports were received. I’m sure you understand. The last such report was sent less than a fortnight ago.”

 

The Magistrate looked through him, clearly unimpressed. Buck resisted the urge to continue talking. He felt now that he would either learn something or not; victory was no longer assured.

 

The Magistrate picked up his glass, making a show of drinking while the other hand moved languidly to pass over the folder, lifting several papers upon his desk before finally selecting it and placing it before him.

 

All this done with interspersed glances towards Buck. He resisted the urge to grind his teeth.

 

“Ah. I see it here.” The slim collection of pages were lifted, the top eyed, then placed back down in the folder. Cold eyes focused forward as lips aped social engagement. “Yes. We received it.”

 

The air grew taut as Buck maintained his course, a bead of sweat breaking free and running down his spine. If he ever held his tongue, now was the time. The Magistrate’s smile shifted subtly to become more warm; Buck’s features remained impassive in the face of his mounting doubts. When the silence was broken, it was as if a thunderclap broke upon the room.

 

“Strange that it has multiple pages.” The report was lifted once more. “There seems to be no change.”

 

The Magistrate’s voice was clipped now, and he slapped the report down upon the folder crisply. A wise man would have thanked the Magistrate for his time and left.

 

“Perhaps the Magistrate has missed the connection between a roster drastically reduced and what is reasonable to expect upon the actual field of battle.” Buck’s features had grown cold, and his ire was only partially contained. It helped not that it had been idiocy such as this that had driven him from the ranks.

 

“My. My. Is this caravan so mismanaged that you cannot field a fighting force?”

 

The smile broadened and the liquid swirled before the sip.

 

“Perhaps you need more oversite.” The Magistrate’s eyebrows lifted slightly, aping concern where there was none.

 

Buck went cold. Then hot. To his credit he rejected the first three things impulse would have him do, and the first five that he would say.

 

“I was thinking more support. You sent a Chosen to us quite some time ago. This is my formal request for more.” It was a struggle, but he thought that his tone was reasonably bland.

 

“Formal…?”

 

Eyes swept his person and he kept his curse to himself.

 

“Yes.” The mocking smile came easily. “It was my thought that you could supply the proper paperwork for me to fill.”

 

Let the bastard chew on that! Buck relaxed back into the chair as much he could, the line of his body relaying that he had every intent of waiting until supplied.

 

The heavy black brows of the Magistrate moved in and downwards in time with the strangled sound from Finnigan. It was shaping up to be a meeting more filled with silence than else.

 

This time it was the Magistrate that broke it. A heavy hand reached out and pulled a blank sheet of paper from a ream of it, his broad shoulders twisting to complete the reach for a writing implement. A glance, then a moment of concentrated writing. The pen was replaced and the Magistrate fleshy lips blew upon his words. The paper was neatly placed in the file, the folder shut.

 

“Request noted.” His eyes still narrowed, the Magistrate smiled affably. “We’ll drink on it. Then I must get to my next appointment. I’m sure you understand.”

 

Buck straightened in his chair. “My thanks to you.” He rose. “Accept my regrets to the drink. I have work yet to do.”

 

Finnigan was at his elbow with a step. “It is of quality. Those unused to it can be put off.”

 

Buck looked to his left, to see that the man was speaking to his superior. Damn if he’d let him get away with that!

 

“Well, if it’s quality, then it will add fire to my sword.” Buck leaned forward and downed the generous glass in one go. The Gilnean Knight from a House Buck no longer knew had not lied – it went down like water.

He turned and held out the glass to Finnigan.

 

“My thanks to you for pouring it.” He managed to keep the sneer from his voice, but allowed the upturn of one corner of his lips.

 

Finnigan colored, and he took the glass in a jerky motion, lips pressed tight. All the while the Magistrate looked on, an amused cast to his features.

 

Buck turned and was almost to the door before the Magistrate called out.

 

“One moment, I forgot to ask you something.”

 

Buck turned, the desk blending in with the light.

 

“Yes?”

 

“What was that man’s name? The one that your Caravan Master gave over the lead to?”

 

Buck took an involuntary step forward, confusion passing over his features before he straightened.

 

“Coltan?” He shook his head, attention grabbed by the motes of dust slowly hovering in the light cast by the window. “Pardon. Sir Coltan Fletcher?”

 

“Yes. How is the man?”

 

Buck’s eyelids felt heavy and his answer came as if from a distance.

 

“Fine. Just. Fine.”

 

There came a crash of armor, and the thud of a body. His view was all wrong and the carpet needed a good brushing.

 

“Get that collar on him.” The Magistrate rose from the desk. “The mage is waiting out back. I’ll send the Corporal on an errand and clear out the room” The door shut firmly behind him and his voice was muted as he worked.

 

“Oh, I’ll get the collar on him. He’s a dog after all. Bloody Chosen Traitor!”

 

Finnigan muttered that and more as he knelt down over Buck. He wrestled a bit with the heavy shoulder armor, but finally managed to lock the thin band around Buck’s neck; so what if the dog bled a little in the doing, it wouldn’t hurt the collar. Finnigan’s grin was as nasty as the piece of work now encircling The Caravan Attaché’s neck.

 

Rising, he stepped down on the shoulder plate to force him on his back. He turned then and traveled to the sideboard for a pitcher of water. Returning he upended it over Buck’s face just as the Magistrate reentered the room, leaving the door open.

 

As Buck spluttered and tried to roll from one side to the other, the two levered him to his knees, and from his knees to wobbly feet.

 

“Damn plate.” Finnigan cursed.

 

“They’ll strip him soon enough. Move sharp.” The Magistrate was shorter, but it could be said that Finnigan was barely needed.

 

Cennessa had held her breath when the small Gnome passed within inches of her place in the bushes. I mean, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Still, if she moved now she’d give him a terrible fright, Light knew; and those frightened were apt to yell. He most likely wanted to enjoy the quiet and the view, just like her.

 

Moments later a door opened onto the small strip of land behind the Hall and what had been an isolated location with a view became something much, much more.

 

Cennessa’s eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth to keep herself from crying out. She stopped breathing as she watched the portal being cast, and sat frozen for many moments after the portal dissipated and the door had been shut once more.

 

She waited for twilight to fade, and dark to truly arrive. Then she waited an hour more. The sweat that coated her chilled her and caused her to tremor. She was deathly afraid that her scent would be marked. Slowly she backed out of the bush, back round the corner, then down the hill, avoiding the post box entirely and thus the front of the Hall. She used every one of her skills to blend into the dark.

[Mossclaw]

It seemed an age before finally those Chosen who worked Ashran and spent their stone liberally started to gather around the Flight Master. She waited for a large concentration of them and then blended in, keeping her gold ready and her eyes down, stating her destination and setting off as quickly as she could.

 

The wind in her hair was sharp and her eyes watered. Yet, it was welcome, and the fog of shock began to lift and her thoughts to race.

 

Her legs were frozen and wobbly by the time she landed in front of Firn. He chuckled in a friendly way towards her as he dismissed the mount.

 

“Welcome back, Cennessa. Elune light your path.”

 

Cennessa blushed, as she always did. She was sure that’s why he took the time to greet her. Or perhaps it was just because she kept returning. She felt comfortable here. She forced herself to sound cheerful.

 

“Thanks to you, Flightmaster Swiftbreeze. That will sure be handy now that it’s night!”

 

She gave a quick wave and trotted off to secure a bed. She picked up speed as she hit the small hill, breath coming short as the images of what she’d seen started to replay in her head. By the time she burst into the main bunk-house where the kindly Elria maintained gracious order, she was leaking tears again.

 

“Here child, what troubles you so?”

 

To Cennessa’s horror, she burst into a full cry, allowing the woman to envelop her and bathe her in the soothing musical sounds that was the Elven language. It was happy luck that the entryway was absent of others.

 

Eventually she pulled away, accepting the linen cloth and cleaning up her face.

 

“Sorry, Mam. Much thanks to you. Sometimes things just get to me, you know. So much more…” she groped for the words to express the deep upset that she felt, “ugliness to some predators that the wild lacks, ifen you know what I mean?”

 

Elria’s features were soft as she reclaimed the cloth and reached out to smooth the child’s hair.

 

“Ah, Cennessa. There is wisdom to your words.

 

Cennessa blushed, ducking her head and digging for the gold needed to secure a bunk.

 

“Not tonight, Cennessa.” Elria gestured to halt any payment. “May Elune’s grace give you ease. There is a room in the back. Here is the key.”

 

“Why thank you! Light Bless!” Cennessa did her best to bow properly and headed to the room. A room! She’d never considered paying for one, for all that the gold did mount up. Most she sent to her family. No word from them, but she knew there wouldn’t be one. The best she could hope for was if her Brother came a looking, but even that was a dim hope here in a world away from the World.

 

She lit the candle on the side table, turning to look back at the stout door. Funny how the room felt like a box. She shook her head and set to getting ready for the night, the tasks pushing what she’d witnessed to the back of her mind.

 

She snuggled into the clean bed and swung out to blow out the candle; and stopped, eyes focusing on the glow, then lifting to sweep around the shadows cast in the room. She settled back into the bed, the dancing flame making the walls flex.

 

What was she going to do? What should she do? Why should she do anything? They hadn’t even spoke. He certainly didn’t know her. Emerald green eyes blinked as her brow furrowed. Yet..; she twisted and hammered her pillow some, trying to seek comfort.

 

She saw him. The smile. She wasn’t one to have the manner to draw attention. Her gear was not the best, and everyone knew it. Most Chosen just brushed her aside as they went about their business. In fact, the only time a Chosen paid attention to her was when there were no other pants to try and tug down.

 

She scowled.

 

But “Knight-Captain”.. “Chuck?”… “Buckinston the Third, something”; he’d smiled at her. Not in trying to get something. Just a simple nicety from one Chosen to another.

 

Her features saddened as she replayed the door swinging open, him falling to his hands and knees, the kick, the sound his body made as he hit the hard earth. She covered her face with her hands. Why hadn’t he fought? Why hadn’t he stopped them wrestling him through that portal?

 

Her knees drew up and she hugged them to herself. She’d go back. She’d stick with her original plan and find another with that crest. Someone who knew him, and would track him.

 

She’d not had a hard life, but not a life of dreams, either. She didn’t think she’d be the hero, for all that she was this Chosen thing now and fighting Demons and such. She’d worked hard, as she was taught. Never did figure why this happened to her. Somewhere out in the forest. Something she’d done?

 

So no, she wasn’t going to be some stupid girl in a tale that tracked Mr. Smile to wherever he was and beat the tar out of those who took him. She knew the difference between tall tales and hard reality.

 

She kicked out her legs angrily, turned and thumped the pillow once more, then practically spit out the candle in defiance before turning away on her side and squeezing her eyes shut.

 

Moments later they popped open in the dark and her lips moved as she thanked the Light for its goodness and named all those important to her. Then she could sleep.

[Mossclaw]

The Wagon, and the horses surrounding it, had been thundering down a dusty road for over an hour. Such as it was when not Chosen, or having a powerful Mage in your employ: travel lengthened.

Buck shifted, his arms testing the craftsmanship of his chains for the hundredth time. Limited movement was its own form of torture. Whatever was around his neck was the other. He couldn’t reach the Light. He couldn’t reach his neck. Cut off from his gifts, a grimace painted his features as he calculated his predicament. How long will it take before he is missed? His weapons and armor; discarded? What of the tag?

Irianos, Mossclaw, they had been right to leave sleeping dogs lie; but Buck never could. He had to know. So he had inadvisably stepped onto their grounds and now he was in transit to Light who knew where. It wasn’t the local cells. They had ported him, he was sure of it. Anger warred with shame.

The wagon lurched and he was thrown against the side with bruising force. He muffled his curses; they would do him no good. He rolled back to the center of the wagon, braced on his knees and hands, vertigo washing through him as he reflexively reached for his gifts. Let her miss me swiftly; the thought was almost a prayer. The rest of the night was spent in maintaining the center.

[Mossclaw]

Cennessa rolled out of bed early, moving sharp to warm up as the sky woke up as well. She had a mission! One that wasn’t a lesson. One that she’d made all her own! She grinned as she walked down to greet Firn and fly back to Stormshield.

She looked with joy upon the wide view afforded by the powerful Gryphon. Anything was worth this; her smile wide, her frame straightening with pride.

Back on the ground, she perched herself on an out-of-the-way boulder and pulled out her brush to tidy her hair. She wanted to be presentable when she located a member of…., she hesitated mid-stroke. Now what was the name of the Guild? Her features scrunched up, as she tore into herself for forgetting. You’d think that at the least doing all those step-n-fetch requests would have improved her memory! The remaining strokes were harsh, and there was some hair to set out for the birds when she was done.

Stowing her brush, she stood, the smile returning to her face. She could picture the tabard, the Guild’s tag matching it. That’s all she needed. She fair hopped down the road.

By mid-day she was a wilted thing, auburn hair limp and clinging to her neck. She stumped over to the ponds by where the Ashran-bound Chosen milled. Hopefully they’d leave her alone. She sat, shooting a glance up in nervousness now and again, but the lessening of road dust was worth it. She took out a cloth and poured some water on it, wiping her face, then tucking it under her hair on the back of her neck. As she put the flask away, she glanced up – spying the flicker of what looked like the exact same tag on gear! She launched forward and ran to catch up.

“Excuse me! Mister!”

The man stopped and turned, helm tilting.

Cennessa slowed her remaining steps, a grin splitting her features as the name came to her!

“That tag you are wearing, that’s Deep Forest Caravan’s tag, ain’t it?”, she practically crowed.

The man stood there and Cennessa took a step back. She was wondering if she should run just as the man finally spoke.

“Yep”

She took a step forward, her mouth opening to speak.

“Also, Ashran queue popped.”

He vanished.

She stared at the spot for a moment longer before looking around to see if anyone saw such a ridiculous exchange. They hadn’t. Her lips twisted and she kicked the earth. Light! This was not as easy as she had thought. She whirled and took three steps over to the lone tree and slumped sulkily against it. She’d just have to wait.

Heat and boredom took its toll and Cennessa was nodding at the base of the tree when the man returned. He started to pass her, striding purposely.

“Hey! Mister!” She scrambled up, almost forgetting her helm, then pelted after him.

The man stopped abruptly almost causing a collision. He turned and stared at her from within his horned helm.

“Food.” He whirled away and resumed striding across Stormshield, headed for the Inn.

Cennessa stood for a moment watching his retreating back before shrugging and tugging her helm over her head and following at a slow trot.

The man entered the Inn, Cennessa on his heels. Ignoring everyone, he strode forward to an empty table against a wall. He dug into his pack and pulled out the thickest book Cennessa had ever seen and placed it on the table. He then ordered from the woman who bustled up to the table. His helm was removed and thick-set features and a distant look presented themselves.

Cennessa sat opposite and leaned in once the woman was gone.

“So you are with Deep Forest? I think there’s trouble. I saw someone take..”

He interrupted her.

“Food.”

He opened the book, clearly settling in to read.

“Then talk.”

Cennessa sat back, dropping her helm on the floor with a thunk. This must be one of the rude members of this guild. He was nothing like Mister Buckingston had been! She balanced her bow against the other chair. The food came and Cennessa waited to be included in the feast. Ashran looked to sure work up an appetite. Ten frustrating minutes later she cast manners to the wind and ordered a plain sandwich, wolfing it down in good order, and still having to wait until finally the book’s cover was closed.

The man tidied himself, looking down at the guild tag on his chest and tucking it away with a sigh.

“I suppose.”

Cennessa’s brow knit.

“Suppose what?”

“That I am a member as you say.”

“Oh.”

They stared across the table at one another for some time. Cennessa’s mind was racing and she felt highly uncomfortable. Under the table she wiped her palms on her leggings.

“Well. Don’t you want to know about Mister Buckingston?” she stared intently at him, exasperation tinging her words.

“Hrm.”

Cennessa leaned in, the frustration causing her to blurt out her thoughts in a rushed whisper.

“I saw someone take one of your members away and I don't know if he saw me see it happen or not.  Do you know Mister Buckingston?”

“Vaguely.” He rubbed his upper lip. “Probably speak with Coltan.” He nodded.

Cennessa’s voice angled upwards in pitch. “Who is Coltan?  You are the only person I met since I saw that.  The Magistrate and a guard named Finnigan dragged him into a mage portal.” Her temper was on the rise.

The man yawned as he stretched, scratching the back of his head and tapping the top of his book.

“Where and when and why did you see it?”

Cennessa’s voice shifted from whisper to low as she began to lose control of her temper. “Just yesterday, right here in Stormshield behind the Hall. I was inside the hall at one of the tables waiting to find a group to sign up with.  Mister Buckingston came in for some appointment about being an attaché and then he got in a fight with this Finnigan person who hated him for being a chosen.  Buckingston beat him real good though and then the Magistrate showed up and the three of them went into a back room.  I took that as my cue to leave and went out to watch the dusk settle.”

Her hands had come up now and she was gesturing as the story poured forth.

“Then, While I was outside that is when the three of them and a gnome mage person opened a portal and took Mister Buckingston away.  Well, the Gnome came first and I didn’t exactly know he was a mage, but when he opened the portal then it became obvious.

Of course I don’t know what happened in the back room… but the door came from the room I left, that I’m sure of! Oh, and that Finnigan person was kicking Mr. Buckingston and he didn’t even fight him and then the Magistrate, he gets all close and grabs his arm in some sort of lock because Finnigan gives this yell, you know, high pitched and rabbit like, and then they all go through the portal, well not Magistrate Vaughn, he goes back in and I’m still in the bushes scared stiff as a board because I’m pretty sure that they didn’t want me to see that. I mean why else go to the back of the Hall and all. ‘Sides…”

The man abruptly held his hand up, palm out to stopper the flow of words.

“And you are?” He picked up his book and stuffed it in his pack, pulling out paper and pen.

Cennessa sat back, a blush on her features from the telling.

“Oh! I’m Cennessa!” She stopped. Thought. Then added: “From Lakeshire!”, in a helpful tone.

The man cast an eye up as he wrote. “What do you do?”

“Well. I used to just be a hunter and trapper like my older brother, but somehow I got turned into a Chosen and now my hunting and trapping skills are way more incredible!”

She watched as the man nodded, then picked up the paper, folded it, muttered a few words and stuffed it in his bag.

She leaned forward again. “What do you think I should do now?  Are we going to go for help yet? Will you do it just yourself? Do you need me to do anything else?”

The man blinked and nodded absently. “I’ll just send this to Coltan later.”

Cennessa sat back, a perplexed look upon her face. Her eyes narrowed and her tongue grew sharp. “It didn't look like he was going to have a later.”

The man frowned in confusion then shrugged. “If he doesn't have a later just resurrect him."

“What if there isn't anything to resurrect?” She countered.

"He'll be fine. If not they’ll just bind his soul or something."

Her eyes widened. She had no idea they could do that. She swallowed hard.

“So. Can I join you? I work real hard.” She straightened up, pushing her hair back.

“Not for me to decide.”

“Well, who then? I want to travel and face all sorts of exciting dangers and see the world!”

 “...you haven't already?” For the first time the man focused fully on her in a very disconcerting way.

Cennessa’s cheeks puffed up and after a moment of concentrated thought as her eyes swept the tabletop from left to right she said: “Well ... yes. but I want to see more. I wasn’t expecting to be a witness to a kidnapping though.  I mean, what if someone knows I saw him? I need more training, I’m thinking. And Mr. Buckingston seemed nice.” Her features wrinkled and then her eyes nearly popped out of her head as she blurted: “Light! What if they’re in this tavern right now!!!” She looked ready to bolt.

The man sighed heavily. “Clean that one up later. Buck first. I wonder if he’ll have scars? Interesting. We should get him.”

“You make it sound like you know where they took him.” She eyed him skeptically. “What should I do in the meantime? Can I join? I was right to find you; I don’t mind not getting a reward if I can join. I pull my weight.”

"Not up to me. It'll have to be run by Coltan and Moss.”

Cennessa grinned wide. “Moss?  Is she a druid or something? Can she turn into a bird? I know some hunters use birds, but I’ve never had one. Can hunters use Druids that way?” Eagerness pushed all worry aside.

The man suddenly beamed. "Actually, you're a hunter and trapper? I need some Mana Wyrms caught -live."

“I can do that.” Cennessa answered by reflex

"Good. Need more for experiments." The man clapped his hands together and stood. “Moss is the leader. Or was. Not really sure anymore. Haven't paid attention. Busy with experiments.”

Cennessa looked up at him: ”What's a manna worm though?”

“I thought you said you've traveled" He challenged.

“I have traveled but I don't recall a manna worm.” Cennessa’s lower lip pushed out. “Sounds like worms in soil close to magical energy areas.” She reasoned.

"Mana Wyrm. Arcane creatures. Fly around low to the ground. Not a worm. A Wyrm. Like a dragon or drake." He swung his pack up, then oddly pushed his chair in. “Blew up myself and the last one. Need more.”

“Oh  those.” She made an undulating movement with her hand and arm. “Flying electric eels.” She chuckled, proud to know of them now. She rose to follow him out the door.

“Sure.” The man wove swiftly through the Inn. “Just be careful. They sometimes blow up.” He set his helm on as they cleared the door. “Not a pleasant way to go.” He strode off up the hill. “Better than melting in lava though.”

Cennessa continued to trot alongside, nodding her head as he talked. “Sounds like the Caravan is going to be exciting!” She couldn’t believe her luck! She gave a small hop-skip.

“How many times you die?”

The man asked, his tone the closest to conversational the entire evening. They were almost to the Flight Master, and Cennessa was struggling to keep up.

“Die?  I’m not dead. I mean, you can see that.” Her chuckle was weak. “I mean, I avoid it, okay.”

“Just Chosen silliness. I'm on 5,532.” The man stopped and turned to her with a bright smile. “You'll get used to it!"

Cennessa’s eyes went wide. “Wow how old ARE you?”

“No idea!”

She watched as the man mounted and flew off without another word in the direction of Spires. Light! She was going to have adventures now! She spun on her heels and strode down the road towards the Stormwind portal whistling. She knew just where those Wyrms were!

It wasn’t until she’d crossed into the Peninsula that she thought how she didn’t know his name, and he’d never told her when to meet him. It was probably a test. She’d set out from Shattrath in the morning, fresh for her adventure!

[Mossclaw]

Buck woke, temples throbbing from the tainted water they’d finally given him. Before he could raise his head to see who had stood up, the scrape of the chair legs on stone excruciating to his ears, there were boots in his field of vision. Strong fingers worked their way into his hair, and scraped his scalp as they jerked his head painfully up. Turns out he was seated. The cell could do with more light.

“Took you long enough. Lazy to a fault, eh?”

His head was pushed back and Buck gazed upon his tormentor.

“You would know.” He forced his rubbery feeling lips in a semblance of a grin.

His vision sawed and he saw flashes of light before hands grabbed his shirt and centered him roughly back upon the chair. The bastard Finnigan turned away as the cell door opened and an official flanked by two guards and a reedy looking boy filed in. The boy’s eyes were as round as Elune on full night.

“Here, here! What’s going on here?”

The Official was well fed, as all bureaucrats were. The boy probably from some minor noble house. Buck pulled slowly at the manacles attached to the chair that kept is arms down to the side and back, hands forming into fists.

“Spit on me. Just meeting out some well needed discipline. Chosen of his sort, Raiders, they need a firm hand.”

The bastard Knight grinned at Buck before turning away, and taking up a spot to the side of the table. Bucks eyes were hooded, and his features set in an unpleasant mien. He swallowed the blood.

“Yes, Yes.”

The man maneuvered his bulk onto the chair behind the desk while the boy caught himself staring and dug into the pouch around his shoulder, placing papers, pen, wax, and seal in their proper array before the Official.

“Alright. Let us begin. You are Buckingston, Charles – Attaché, Deep Forest Caravan, are you not?”

Eyes peering over glasses, fat fingers on thin sheets. Buck shook his head slightly to clear it and focus. He winced.

“Yes.” His words rasped, and he began to cough, the spasms wrenching his shoulders.

The Official turned ponderously to Finnigan when it was apparent that Buck was not going to stop coughing.

“Don’t just stand there. Fetch him some water and give it to him.”

Finnigan’s look soured, but he did as he was told; taking delight in almost choking him a different way. Buck cleared his throat and tried again.

“Yes. I am he. For what reasons have I been brought here?” He tried to sound confident, to regain some control.

The Official licked a finger and moved on to the second page in front of him.

“Well now. It says here that you passed to High Command forged documents. Now that is something very foolish of you to have done. We can’t have that. Chosen or not, there is the Law.”

Buck’s frame arched and he protested: “What! I have never forged a document in my life! Who claims this! What proof of this is there!”

The Official just stared for a moment at Buck, beady eyes giving nothing away in the gloom. Buck heard the clang of another door, a muffled shout, then nothing. He managed a measured breath.

“Perhaps if not by your hand there will be some small leniency. However, you are the Attaché. You bear the responsibility you see.”

Another lick. Another paper.

“Here it is. Declaration of Second in Command, one… “

The Official grunted and swore at the lack of light.

“Catan, no, Coltan, yes! Coltan Fletcher! Utterly worthless.”

The paper was placed back on the table. Buck’s mind reeled in thought.

“You do not deny that you supplied this Declaration for filing, do you?”

Buck took in a breath, tongue running over the back of his teeth, the taste of blood a sharp reminder that this was not a simple clerical error to be rectified.

“I do not. All signatures were in order and when the Declaration was needed no longer, there was no indication of fault before the papers were filed, or after the situation resolved.”

The Official had reached the paper on the bottom and now he picked up his pen, the shaft disappearing in his meaty grip.

“Did you or did you not give over the Declaration to be filed?”

“Yes.” Buck ground out.

The pen scratched upon the paper.

“Were you aware of the contents of the Declaration that you gave over to be filed.”

“Yes.” Buck locked his tongue behind his teeth. Outbursts would do no good here.

“You did not author this Declaration.”

“No.”

The pen assaulted the paper once more.

“Where did you receive such papers since you did not author them?”

 “I” Buck hesitated.

The Official looked up, lips pursing.

Buck saw Coltan’s face. The Declaration moving from Coltan’s hand to his. The guarded look that Buck had ascribed to the stress of the situation. He heard Moss’ words, confirmation that all should be as it had been. The implications rocked him to his foundation.

“I do not have all day.”

The peevish words disrupted his thoughts. Buck stilled, fear blossoming where none had been.

“I found it in a cache of papers pertaining to the Caravan’s order. I have no knowledge of who penned the document. I took it at face value.”

His words hung on the fetid air while the pen scratched away. Sweat made its way down his back and sides. Finnigan wore a sneer that burned him. He lowered his gaze to his lap. There was the strike of a match, the smell of sulfur followed by beeswax.

“Thank you for your time.”

The Official remarked sardonically before heaving himself up, the boy scrambling to retrieve everything swiftly.

The sounds the cell door made in the opening were the only sound of protest that Buck was allowed. His heart sank as he steeled himself as Finnigan approached.

[Mossclaw]

A day later, idle thoughts moving towards Mana Wyrms, Sorros was shuffling through his pack and pulled out a folded paper. He frowned, opened it, then turned and walked to the post across the way.

"Buck missing. Random girl says she saw magistrate in Stormshield and other fellow take him away. says she was meeting Buck to join the caravan. Also I need more paper. "

Now where could he find Food?

[Mossclaw]

Urs stared meditatively at her mug of shitty grog. The Inn’s common room was deserted again. When it was full, she was annoyed. Now, she was annoyed that it was empty. She took a deep draft and grimaced at the taste. Her eye roved around the room and the wait and garrison staff carved a wide arc around her. Fine with her.

She continued the inward debate that ever raged and rattled about in her mind. Where were the Officers? Scattered. She’d not seen Coltan; but then, at least that there was no change – no one saw Coltan unless there was action to be taken. Her mind imagined pitiful reasons behind closed doors and moments after her skin flushed in shame. She took another long draft, resisting the urge to finish it in one go.

Irianos she saw come and go frequently. Occasionally she would get small glimpses that there was a deep relationship between his wife and him. Her lips puckered and a half sneered. Not so the “hopeful couple”. They had shown up to humor her independently it would seem. Perhaps now their fearless leader would understand a thing or two about loss.

She grabbed the mug and downed the rest from reflex. Now she did, perhaps, use a bit too much force to set the mug down. Her hand shot up into the air and she gestured to the mug. Naaru shine, you’d think she would strike one of them down by how swiftly they scuttled in and back out. Didn’t they know she hadn’t killed anyone in the Caravan for over a year?!?

She took another sour draft and wiped her lips with the back of her arm. As for her lovers, they were absent as well. Well fuck them. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need their care. Only Vixanya remained, and she always busy elsewhere. Hardly saw her, either. Her lips curved in a wicked smile. Perhaps she was with Buck. That would be fitting.

Her right fingers tapped upon her thigh. She was allowing herself to drift with her element too much. She didn’t wish any of them ill. When she wasn’t making an open mistake, she was failing quietly. She downed half the mug, almost choking on it. Someone should just go to High Command in Stormshield and demand answers. She could do it. Not that anyone would ask or think of her. No. She was not included in any of the meetings. Bad enough that Mossclaw excluded her, at least her Sister-in-name-only was an adult by their race’s standards, but the latest affront was that the child, Galious, was in and out of the Hall now on a regular basis! Galious, who had not a thought in his head and a reckless abandon for the pockets! She was good in a pocket! Why not her in the Hall!

Her hand stilled half-way to the mug. She could smell the sour taint of it from where she sat. She eyed her arm, the lean corded muscle creating light shadows. Fit. Worthy. She was going to cry; and with one eye, it just wasn’t the option that it was for those with two. She would burn the Inn down right now if she tripped or ran into a table.

The chair almost tipped over as she shot up and whirled for her rooms. She would not be ignored. She would find Mossclaw and she would tell her that she should be sent to Stormshield. They were just wasting time most likely. She knew when to take action.

The door slamming could be heard down in the common room. Only then did the staff approach the table and clean all traces of the troubled Shaman’s presence.

[Mossclaw]

Buck woke, his head feeling swollen. He’d not had the opportunity to give as good as he got, but Finnigan should have two black eyes right now. His teeth gleamed in the dim light before he grunted and switched to shallow breaths and focused on not moving. At least he wasn’t trying to pull his gifts. Whatever fel-tainted magics were in that thin band bound around his neck, they were effective. Finnagan had flew into a rage, and used a truncheon after that. The pain was easier, somehow, distributed as it was, but after a few blows Buck could not control his impulse to use his gifts. The gut tearing pain that ran through him as if struck by lightning made any application of pain inflicted externally pale by comparison. His mouth ran dry just recalling it. He spat.

He was a Buckingston, and he would not fold at the first signs of misfortune. She would come for him. He just needed to make it that far.

His thoughts spilled out of his mind and he was left in sudden stillness, worry gnawing around the edge of it, growing until it filled him.

He pictured Coltan. The man had taken the solid foundation that Buck had carried with him and honed him until he could be a challenge. Buck had been proud, was proud, to have been the man’s student. He sifted through his memories. The excuses that he had made for the man’s reluctance to join in lazy banter around a table with a drink or two. The way he left, once his job was done. How little anyone knew.

Buck’s breath rasped as the seed settled that perhaps, perhaps all this while he had been wrong; that he had misjudged. He saw the letter again. He called forth again the image of Coltan’s eyes as Buck had taken the letter. He shook his head, using the pain of the motion to dislodge the image.

If it had been deceit, then for what? The Caravan had been cared for, and returned to Moss as soon as she was fit once more. Was that it? Had the Caravan not filed proper note of Second? Then why not tell him?

He ground his temple into the bench he lay on as if to wipe out such thoughts. He was shackled now, so that he could not reach up to his neck.

He would have sworn that Coltan valued him. It was he that pursued him when he left the Caravan for a short time. Told him that he was needed. That Moss needed him, even if she was incapable of expressing it then. Why had he not been trusted?

His eyes opened. Because you were a tight-ass, straight-arrow that would never in a thousand lifetimes file a false document. His chest constricted with his emotion. If Coltan had just trusted in him… His eyes squeezed shut. He would never have set foot in Stormshield once the deed had been done. His breath came hard.

It was bad enough, to be sure. But what made him want to cry aloud was the image of her face, the object of his desire, and her words: “Thank you for supporting my Second.” It had been a deception. There was no way around the fact. There had never been a document until there was a need, and then they needed a fool that would not be questioned to deliver it. His features burned.

The lock in the door grated, startling him badly, the jerk of his frame causing pain to course up and down. He ground his teeth to stop himself from crying out, turning his head away as the person led into his cell with a lantern that pierced his sight.

A grunt of disgust was followed by the door shutting and the sound of the lantern being placed upon the small table that had not been taken away.

“Your Countryman does not seem fond of you, does he?”

Buck twisted his head, squinting as his eyes adjusted.

“Magistrate. No, we do not seem to be brothers.” His voice sounded horrible, and he mastered his urge to cough.

“Magistrate? Surely not. Is your vision addled?”

It was not a correction, for he recognized the voice, it was informing him that deep water had just opened up under his feet.

Strong hands grasped him and hauled him upright. This time he could not stop the expression of pain. The man did not seem to care. He pinned Buck’s head back against the grime of the wall and peered intently at the band around his neck before yanking his head down, moving his hair aside and pausing there. Buck considered vomiting on the man’s feet.

“Good. The work is sound. The effect… just as promised. Although that was clever of you to blacken his eyes. He won’t see you as soon as he’d like. Can’t have him walking about looking like that. Ha!”

The man let go and moved back to the table, throwing a leg up and sitting on the edge of it.

“Now tell me everything you know about Coltan Fletcher. Especially the private details. Especially those.” The man spat Coltan’s name.

Buck blinked, still leaning over, shoulders burning, chest lancing pain. Slowly he hitched himself upright until he leaned back against the wall.

“Little to tell.” He rasped.

Now it came back to him. The question before the drug had forced him down. What in the Fel was this about? Nausea gripped him as his body assessed the damage. His eyes still fluttering in the light, he took in the man’s demeanor. It was grim. Resolute. Here was the true danger.

“That is a mistake. Coltan Fletcher would drag you in front of an arrow if it spared him. Or haven’t you figured that out by now?” The man chuckled darkly.

Buck’s mouth worked, dryness halting any glib replies had he any in his possession. Instead, as his face twisted in discomfort, he saw the letter, the eyes; the path to this cell.

“Water.” He managed. If this was to be an interrogation, devoid of protocol, then he would capitalize on it.

The burly man grunted, and caught the handle of the water pitcher in a meaty grasp as he rose.

“Open your mouth.”

The stream of water arced towards his face and to his shame he opened his mouth wide, twisting his shoulders to capture as much of it as he could. He bowed his head, the wasted water dripping past to the floor as he hid the work his tongue did, while awaiting scorn.

There was none forthcoming. His gaze finally rose to find the man staring forward, at ease, as if this was a natural interruption to their discussion.

“Now. Tell me about Coltan Fletcher.”

Buck saw no reason to lie. The sooner done, the sooner this was over with.

“There is little to tell. He keeps to himself. He is exemplary on the field of battle. He gives tirelessly of his time to improve his fellow Chosen.”

The man’s lips puckered up as if tasting a lemon.

“Yes. Yes. Let me add to your list.” He mocked Buck. “He leaves the Caravan just when you need him most and he has you deliver falsified documents, doing nothing, I might add, when you are brought up on Charges.”

Buck watched warily as he levered himself off the table and approached with a measured tread. The man bent over so his face was even with Buck’s. A Blunt finger punctuated every word, burning hot into his shoulder joint.

“He’s still there now. Having supper. Him and the Dagger-eared.”

Buck held the man’s gaze as he replied: “You know nothing if you think that.”

The man eyed him, his face relaxing.

“Well. You think on that. Perhaps another night will jog your memory.”

The man stood and stretched, as Buck eyed the action with tortuous desire.

“I always say: They never know what they know until I’m done with them.”

Then the man smiled down at Buck in an almost fond way. The way some look towards an idiot. The blow to side of his head as the man turned away caught him completely off guard and sent him crashing to the floor. His back locked in a spasm and he could not muffle his cries as he flopped in vain to lessen the agony. It didn’t matter, the man didn’t wait.

[Mossclaw]

Galious shifted from bird to man, landing expertly onto the Courtyard’s flagstones. He was angry, his light green brows pulling down, forming a steep angle. He’d given himself some distance so that he could appear calm when he reported. He carried more responsibility now. He would not seem a child.

By the time he stood in the stone archway, gazing upon Mossclaw to whom he had pledged, his brow was smooth and his stance relaxed. He took a moment. This was the way he was used to seeing her, after all; bent over the missives and logs that occupied her time now that the Caravan could not field a pocket.

The brows tugged down with the corners of his lips as the thought crossed his mind that it was Buckingston that should remove the need for her to sit so, and clearly for some time. He smoothed his features again and knocked softly on the stone.

Inwardly wincing that he had startled her, swiftly taking in the hollows around her eyes, the thinness of her face. The rapid shift from startlement to a smile in greeting swept his concerns aside and he turned from her to settle his mind and his new weapon, glowing blue in its power, against the wall before striding over to join her at the table, resisting the urge to send some of nature’s balm to her unasked.

“Galious!” worn voice turned merry.

“I figured I should check in with you now that I am back.” He waited for her leave.

Lips still upturned in welcome she gestured to the chair. “Come. Sit.”

He settled with grace into the chair, folding his lean frame so that he was comfortable.

“There was disruption and I had to return before I found what I was looking for in Thousand Needles.”

“That is sore news. What occurred?” Dismay echoing in her tone.

“Well, Animus had an issue with his addiction and that caused a larger problem.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but anger made his voice clip the words. “That resulted in him being pulled into the Dream. Took me two days before I got him out.” He could not stop his frown. “He is in Darnassus with the healers.”

He saw her jaw drop in shock before she questioned.

“Addiction?”

Her frown was a mixture of dismay and something else.

“What do you mean?”

Her tone asked him to correct her, but he could not. “I wasn't aware either but he seems to be relying on agility potions and flasks for day to day use.”

It pained him to see her eyes close. He played the fool, mainly when he was wearing his bearskin, but still light when dancing in and out of bark. It covered his thoughts, hid his unease. He wished to be seen as strong, and yet could not deny his healer’s nature for those that he cared for. Could not deny his healer’s eye. So while it was not his place to speak, his gaze had missed nothing over the years when it came to Mossclaw. He checked his features as her eyes opened.

“That is not sustainable. A human, as well.”

He watched the Alchemist in her shake her head from left to right in concern. Useless babble poured over the comm and they both moved to shut it off. Galious did not approve that Ursuola would participate in such foolishness.

“Agility pots. They are vile enough without craving more. Perhaps this explains his poor performance towards the end.”

He nodded in agreement.

“That and I woke up to find myself without protection: he was at the speedbarge in thousand needles trying to buy more potions.” He could not halt the anger in his tone, his body reacting to the memory once more.

It pleased him to see her eyes narrow.

 “You could have been harmed.”

Her tone reflected his anger and held no hint of amusement.

“It was his duty. He agreed to it.” She added.

Galious took in a measured breath before continuing, anger soothed in her immediate grasp of the situation and her care.

“I was enraged. I made him some potions. I was on the trail and so wished to re-enter the dream as soon as possible. Somehow, he seemed to get pulled into it with me. I cannot be sure. It exceeds my training. Perhaps it was nothing more than a shared fear, yet things worsened from there. It took me two days to free him. Us.”

Galious paused, a quick check to see how his words were being received before continuing.

“That experience, layered on top of his addiction pulled a number on him. He wasn't awake for the trip to Darnassus. The Healers there say he will recover but it will take some time.”

He assessed again, now continuing with less conviction.

“I saw that they had gold to cover his treatment and left.”

He shifted slightly in his seat.

“The Priesthood cares for him?”

“That was the closest treatment that was safe.”

He saw her nod tersely.

“He wears our tag?”

Galious nodded, features tightening as he listened to her mutter a detailed and vulgar Kaldorei curse. His palm rose to rub his face; he was not at his best.

”Elune grant that it does not come back to us. The fool! To risk his gifts to such!”

Her tone was agitated now, and he straightened in his chair as her gaze returned to him.

“But you are alright. So at least I can be thankful for that. Did you find something of what you seek?”

He was grateful that she returned to center, and he did the same. Emotions were still a struggle for him.

“I didn't find anything in Thousand Needles but in Stonetalon I found another place like the first.”

He leaned forward, his voice warming with controlled excitement as he related his experience to her.

“I was walking around and they just appeared same as the first time and they were doing the ritual again. The language they used still is beyond me. I am not sure I could even repeat it. Maybe if I had an elder with me if I find the message in thousand needles.”

Her brows knit and her words came slowly.

“You could... perhaps, find an elder in the Sisters or Sentinels that knows the speech of long ago. I can read but a little and I have never heard it spoken natively.”

As she sunk into thought he watched her body released from her vigilance. The hand drifting from pouch to ear, to lap, settling only reluctantly. He grew more concerned.

“The Circle, perhaps? Would they not be interested, and would it not be safer?” her head tilting in that way she had when feeling an idea out. “It would be safer.” She asserted.

Reluctance filled him for reasons he only half understood.

“I don't know. I can try and see if they would be available to assist me but I think I would fall low on their list of importance.”

He watched her blink, head straightening, hands idly moving some papers upon the table as she attempted to encourage him.

“Surely if you told them, they would not miss a chance to hear Kaldorei spoken as it has not been for so long. I know my Father would have lept at the chance.”

His ears picked up. It was not a reference that was made often, and clearly not a happy one as he saw her frown, her eyes moving down the table to the fire, her ear-tips dipping slightly. He determined that his report was finished.

“Well I will talk with them and see. How has it been around here since I left?”

Not perhaps the best choice, and her features reflected it as she turned from the fire to focus upon him. Her tone was solemn.

“There has been no word from Command. Their silence... I do not trust it. At the same time, I do not wish to be the one that stirs the nest.”

He wondered if the same feeling of a beast being herded caused her to run a hand along the ridge of one ear.

“The Alliance is pulling back, the Chosen used more for clean up than any true push. Since you have been gone, Vixanya and I have suspended our activities rather than continue without you.” She shrugged as if to take the sting from her words. “I keep busy.”

He processed her laugh, short and with a bitter edge as her hands made busy straightening the paper stack just a bit more. He concentrated. Humans were much easier to read than his own people who he had never known.

“Well hopefully we can pull out since the fighting is almost over with here and I was never into fighting the ebb and flow that is the war with the horde.”

He eyed her as she pulled her hair back with another shrug. What did that mean?

“You were good, and a fine companion. I would not venture in without you, in truth.”

Had she sighed?

“We dare not move from here without word or orders.” She snorted. “Did I say "orders"? I mean "requests".

Now that was definitely a sigh of tension. Galious rubbed his temples.

“This is a wonderful system we are in.”

Mossclaw’s eyes settle upon the flames once more, her tone slipping into teaching cadence.

“It is the only way to coordinate a unified source that is, at its heart, a collection of small parts, and not a monolithic whole.”

She leaned back into her chair, hands now occupied with her pen.

“I feel like I would be able to do more than before. The time in the dream has increased my strength.” He moderated his pride. “At least it feels so.”

He saw her nod absently, her tone indicating a mind far away.

“The Clan's Druid could be so still. It was if a tide was pulling you towards him.”

He shifted in unease, a feeling of waters deepening. He looked for distraction.

“What all else has been going on of note.”

It was the wrong thing, and as if an arrow had been loosed, she tossed the pen upon the table.

“What else is there to do? The raid team has collapsed, we cannot field stable Arena groups, the Caravan falls to working on simple things, busy work. I dare not ask for reassignment or decommission!”

Frustration clear in her tone and line, a thin hand running over her brow and hair.

“The last thing I have done is to sweep the land with Ursuola. Drov, Rukhmar, and Kazzak fell with ease.”

Not content with his first misstep, he doubled-down on it.

“This seems like the worst rut the Caravan has been in since Pandaria with the mercenary and such. Do you have a way to get us out of this or are we just going to ride it out?”

He was babbling, and the look she threw him in askance made him close his lips with a soft snap.

“Have you not been listening?”

She rose abruptly and began to pace on the rug behind her chair. He wanted to take his words back.

“We are on the edge! But the edge of what! They say nothing!”

He felt distress run through him.

“When the Citadel falls…” He ventured, words cut short as she spun on her heel to face him.

“Fall? It will not fall. The Echo will be pinned, but there is no end! You know this.”

She strode past him on the far side of the table to sit heavily into the chair before the fire, pulling out a flask of rum.

He pushed up from his chair and walked down the length to stand behind her seat.

“It is like they are almost forcing us into breaking the rules.” He said, confusion evident in his tone.

He could not see her features sour further, but he heard the explosion of the bottle in the fire as she rose rapidly, crying out as she turned:

“I'll be damned if they'll force my hand!”

She pulled up short in front of him, his need to address her pain forcing his body to block her way.

“You would rather run yourself into the ground over training while they move the pieces on a map in a safe room.” He braced under the narrowing of her eyes and pushed on. “I am not great with politics but this seems like an attack to me.”

Her jaw spasmed and her words lashed at him.

“You state the obvious. We are boxed in.”

They stood for a moment like that. He looking down, her head tilted to drill him with her gaze. It was a relief when her face turned to the side.

“This gets us nowhere. I am more than pleased you are back. Now if you will excuse me, I have rounds to make.”

He could do no more, and so he stepped aside. Her bow was perfunctory, features displaying her emotions fully as she swept past. His hand came up and he rubbed his face once more.

He wouldn’t leave it like this. He sprung forward, grabbing his weapon as he moved through the arch.

“Moss”, he cried out, shifting to the familiar to halt her departure, the black serpent already curling, lightning flickering across it’s hide.

Elune graced him, and she looked down towards him. He shouted up:

“If you need help I am always ready to do what I can.” He executed his most gracious bow, raising his eyes to watch her.

He could not judge the effect of his words. He saw her features twist with unnamed emotion, almost as if struck, but the serpent would wait no longer and it launched into the skies as if from a bow.

[Mossclaw]

Ursuola’s eye flashed open in dim light of mid-morn through half closed shutters, a sour taste in her mouth that matched her thoughts. She sat up and greeted her day just like she had greeted the last: expecting nothing good. Except breakfast. Breakfast would be good. Perhaps she’d travel to the Throne. Leave the Caravan’s issues behind for a time. Leave her Sister-who-was-not behind for a… ah. That was what had awakened her. She should move rooms and cease to share a wall. Her eye moved to the thin window. Late. Even for a Kaldorei. She muttered a Draenic curse as she levered her wiry frame up, casting the sheet aside as she did so. Better to enjoy that breakfast; she didn’t need to use farsight to see the day was to be ill.

An hour later she stood in the Courtyard, nursing a cup of tea as she marked who moved about. Her Sister-who-was-not was not the only Kaldorei to look as if they had forgone sleep. Fyfaesia, normally boisterous, was subdued, merely nodding as she passed, collecting a pocketable breakfast and swiftly leaving. Jade had been polite, and stopped by her table to speak for a small time, but even she was reserved and pensive. Ursuola’s brows drew downwards and she clopped down the steps and traveled over to the forge, each hoof-fall resonating in the elemental plane. No, she knew before she arrived, she would not like what she saw.

It was as Ceamus had bellowed, a calf crying for its mother in a field, all noise and no reason yet to the point: hollow and quiet. Oh, the forge was stoked, always maintained at a low temperature by the staff, but Buck’s hammer lay in the exact same position that Urs had left it. There was no need to touch it; to seek a new impression. Her hooves echoed hollowly upon the wooden floor as she left. There would be no trip to the Throne today. Today she would remain here. Waiting.

[Mossclaw]

Mossclaw awoke, eyelids sticky, hair plastered to the sides of her face. It was past day and the walls of the room were now radiating inward. She went to groan, then coughed, clearing her throat as she sat up and fumbled for water. She was still in her leathers, but at least she’d removed her boots. She looked down as she wiggled her toes, the socks rippling as she did so. She groaned again, swallowed more water and rolled back into bed, this time on the top of the blanket. She took a pinch from her pouch, eyeing the cobweb between the rafters and noting that it had grown. She should rise before it grew larger. She took a deep breath and rose once more. Perhaps she would spend the day drinking and skip the fishing. First however, the Hall. She hesitated by the door, then opened it with a sigh and headed out.

She was not at her best. She didn’t even notice the milling about in the courtyard. It wasn’t until she reached the landing in front of the Hall that she noted that there were an unusual number of Caravanners about.

Ceamus blocked her path. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead yawned mightily, her ear-tips warming as she noted those gathered turning towards her. She moved her hand from her mouth to rub her face, blinking to clear her sight. She should make drops.

“Oh!” she heard from the group, and then the rounds of saluting or bowing in greeting began. She snapped out a salute from reflex, eyeing the cigarette falling from Fyfaesia’s hand with remorse.

“Ceamus. How are you today.” She ventured.

“Commander, I am yours.” Fyfaesia interjected with typical Kaldorei devotion. Mossclaw schooled her features and did not wince.

“Lady Mossclaw I'm glad to see you well.”

Why shouldn’t she be well?

“How nice of you to show yourself.”

She blinked, centering her gaze upon the disapproving mien of her Sister-who… she sighed, belatedly running a hand over her hair. Why had she risen? She suppressed the urge to reach into her pouch so soon, her confusion causing disquiet.

“I'm... having a very odd day that lacks both adventure and … something.”

She heard Ceamus state ponderingly as she responded to Ursuola, her unease growing.

“Good eve...?”

Ursuola’s eye narrowed and she asked: “Is Charles with you?”

“Yes! I have not seen Sir Buckingston!” Ceamus chimed in, the volume high, rattling her further.

She noticed Jade, and dour Murarkamir. What was this about? Her eyebrows pulled down as she responded.

“Buck? He's out. We've both been... out.”

What more could she say? She hadn’t seen him since assisting Urs. She cut a path through the group, collecting her post. Eyeing Urs as the Draenei sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Is there an issue I can resolve?”

“He is apparently behind on his chores.” Urs stated enigmatically.

Mossclaw unloaded all the mail, eyes scanning for the High Command’s crest, her tension not dissipating upon finding it not.

“Behind?”, she murmured; not wishing to vex Ursuola further, keeping her longer from drink. She glanced up, holding the pile of mail in both hands.

“Indeed he's not been doing any blacksmith work in the forge which is most Odd.”

She frowned, her confusion showing now.

“Ceamus says he characteristically works the forge often.” Urs offered in an attempt to clarify.

“Indeed!” Ceamus chimed in, clearly unable to remain quiet.

Urs ignored him, continue to explain: “Yet he has not done so for some days. It is unlike him. Apparently.”

Mossclaw looked up from the odd collection of letters, folders and such to find Ursuola, Ceamus, and Jade eyeing her intently. Only Fyfaesia spared her; instead staring mournfully down on the now extinguished and worse for wear cigarette.

“Have you seen him, recently?

Her nose twitched, and she swiftly transferred the package of Worm Supreme to her pack, clutching the rest to her side.

“As have you, Sister. At your hunt.”

Mossclaw glanced once at Ursuola, then back to the post, flipping through the folders, sifting the letters to the top, still intent upon moving into the Hall. Both she and Buck had been doing the same; it did not worry her that he had remained out a night, so had she. She turned to enter the hall.

“That was over a week ago.”

Mossclaw stopped, her face blank as she watched Irianos come out from the Hall, stopping in surprise for the same reasons she had. She turned back to Urs as Ceamus began to mutter:

“There was a hunt? I missed a HUNT?”

“What is going on out here?” Irianos asked, bemusement in his tone.

“Greetings Sir Drakon! How does this eve find you!” Ceamus came to attention and saluted.

Mossclaw marked in passing that he was the only one.

“We are trying to find where Charles is.” Ursuola responded.

Mossclaw turned back to Irianos with a shrug. “I am not sure. Buck is out. He'll check in soon. if for no other reason than these.” She gestured towards him with the post, winnowing out the last letter and setting it on top of the stack. “Still nothing from.. well. Not much for him to do. So it's not surprising. Raise him on the comm.”

Now Galious joined them, Lucieliea welcoming him. Galious returned her courtesy with a bow of his own before taking a long drink from his water flask, wiping his lips and neck with the short cloth thrown over one shoulder. It did not take long for Mossclaw to spy him.

“Galious.” She nodded to him in greeting.

Now others turned to him, greeting him as well. It was a formality that tired him easily. He was glad when the mage, Bindlegop made his appearance.

A round of pained looks swept through the group as Ceamus’ voice boomed through the comm.

“Sir Buckingston are you there!?!”

Irianos protested: “He hasn’t been on the comm for days!” He eyed Mossclaw in disappointment. “Just as you have not as well. I was looking for him this morning. He didn't answer. The least you could manage is to have been together”, he reproached her, eyeing Ceamus with annoyance.

By then Galious had made his way forward and stood with Ursuola in front of Mossclaw.

Ursuola eyed the Druid.

“Do you...often walk about in transparency?”

Galious barely glanced down at her. “Only when I am training on the dummies.” Let her figure it out.

Bindlegop’s high voice pierced the air. “Was there a gathering planned?”

Ursuola frowned up at Galious with disappointment, taking a step away from the insufferable child. “I see no dummies here” she muttered peevishly, dismayed to see that Muarkamiir had heard her.

He eyed her stolidly. “I believe he’s referring ta us.”

A dour Dwarf, Muarkamiir, but one that knew an insult. Ursuola colored, turning back towards Galious with a retort on her lips when Mossclaw spoke once more.

“Irianos. Could you take these while I determine what is going on? She held out the post, ignoring the wash of voices as her frown deepened. She barely registered Irianos doing as she asked.

Galious exhaled heavily, suppressing the urge to transform and fly. Instead he channeled it into embracing his healing nature, his form solidifying. He sighed, rolling his shoulders.

Irianos fell silent, a frown touching his lips as he studied the writing on the letter at the top of the stack.

“I do hope that no one has woken him. We've been rising late.” Mossclaw observed, shifting, her hand touching her pouch, then brushing an invisible something from her tabard before committing to passing over her hair once more.

Fyfaesia sighed, dropping smoothly low, plucking the cigarette from the ground and rising back up attempting to look casual as she brushed it off surreptitiously and relit it.

Jade’s gaze moved back and forth amongst the group, content to stand near her wife and wait until there was a clear sign to be helpful.

Ceamus and Bindlegop were whispering together, Ceamus almost comically bent over.

Irianos glanced up from the letter, to the group, concern writ plain upon his features.

“Let us worry about waking him after we find him in his bed.” Ursuola quipped, her tone tart.

Mossclaw frowned, looking more harried by the moment. “Hasn't anyone seen him?”

Irianos nodded to himself, taking liberties and pulling out his pocket knife quickly slit the top letter open, unfolding it to read the contents.

“No. Not at all. I mean, that is the point of all this.” Ursuola gestured to the group around her.

Fyfaesia took the cigarette from her lips, blowing the smoke out hastily to add: “I scouted Stormshield earlier, Commander. No sign.”

Ursuola added: “I even tried to See him last eve. I could not. All I found were feelings. Emotions.”

Now a chill traveled down Mossclaw’s spine. Her hand flew to her tag, her lips moving silently, as if her voice could garner the response that the others could not.

“Buck. Are you listening?”

A ripple of unease ran through the group to hear the tone of her voice. It could not be helped. Her frame was tense and her foot began to tap the ground.

“The Forge’s Assistants have not seen him.” Ceamus added bleakly.

Jade moved to Ursuola, questioning gently: “You know what sort?”

Ursuola turned to Jade, her features blank. “Sort?”

“What sort of emotions?” Jade clarified.

“Perhaps he has his tag turned off. I do.” Mossclaw’s ears turned red as she reconsidered her statement.

Bindlegop attempted levity: “Didn’t get lost doing paperwork, I assume.”

Behind them, Irianos face went from confusion, to incredulity, to horror as he read the letter. His head jerked up, and he took an involuntary step, halting suddenly, letter in an outstretched hand.

“Mossclaw… Look at this.” He moved to her side, his features reflecting concern. He gently nudged her elbow.

Mossclaw was focused upon Jade and Ursuola, holding a hand up to indicate her will.

“That is an issue in and of itself.” Ursuola said enigmatically.

Bindlegop’s bushy eyebrows rose, tracking the conversation with interest.

Irianos jostled Mossclaw, waving the paper in front of her.

Galious’ eyes narrowed, eyeing the paper clutched in Irianos’ hand. He stepped in closer.

Mossclaw uttered an oath, uncharacteristically turning on Irianos in annoyance. “What... !?!”

She blanches as she sees Irianos’ expression, grabbing the paper and reading hurriedly.

Bindlegop observed to himself, as he was wont to do: “Now that actually worries me.”

Mossclaw’s mouth dropped wide as she read, then her hand slapped the comm gem inset upon her tag.

“SORROS!”

A few of those gathered reached for their ears for all that communications were via the mind.

She turned, a look of anger upon her features, thrusting the worn paper into Galious’ hands.

Galious read it aloud, so that he would not be endlessly answering what had been in it.

"Buck missing. Random girl says she saw magistrate in Stormshield and other fellow take him away. says she was meeting Buck to join the caravan. Also I need more paper. " His voice rose in incredulity at the last sentence.

“Well this is fucked.” He lapsed to gutter-common as he resisted the urge to crumple the paper, turning instead and thrusting it away from him into Ursuola’s hand.

Varulfr, who had joined them at the right time, apparently, shifted with tension.

“The trap has closed upon him.”

The sharp eyes of the Caravan Master branded him. He would not take it back, not with what he had learned in service to her questions.

“Oh good! My Mana Wyrms are at the Garrision?” Sorros’ voice sounded over the comm, his tone unconcerned by such things as loyalty and brotherhood.

Bindlegop watched as Ceamus’ features twisted in distress. It moved him so that the Gnome could not stop himself from responding, his tone severe.

“Now is not the time for jokes, Sorros!”

“Always a time for jokes.” Came back the observation.

Ceamus could contain himself no longer.

“KIDNAPPED!!!!! WHAT FIEND HAS DONE THIS FOUL THING! TELL ME THAT I MAY STRIKE THEM DOWN!!!” He bellowed.

It was as if a wave emanated outward from him, everyone recoiling in some fashion or another.

Jade prudently turned her comm off as she turned to Ceamus.

“Do not be jumpy, Ceamus. We must gather information.”

She stood in front of him, holding his gaze as she watched his chest heave in consternation. She saw Galious’ hand reach past her as if to rip his tag from his tabard, the hand pausing, then retracting as he must have remembered the binding. Fyfaesia, standing next to them, could not suppress a chuckle of glee to see the action. Jade repressed a sigh. So much work now. She should not have been complaining earlier. She pinned Ceamus in place with her gaze, sharper now.

Irianos’ voice was firm: “Calm down!” Then he muttered a curse and Jade assumed he meant that for the comm.

“Everyone just calm down.” Irianos repeated through the comm this time, even if his words were for Ceamus in the main.

Next Irianos and Mossclaw’s voices overlapped, their minds thinking alike.

Irianos – “Where are you Sorros?”

Mossclaw – “Sorros, report to the Garrison immediately.”

Galious grimaced sourly as he moved to stand next to Varulfr, the rangy Worgen likely to be an asset as he pulled his helm back on shifting back to the gifts that would allow him to obliterate who had done this.

Muarkamiir popped his neck, muttering sourly as he did so. "Well...that escalated quickly." Ursuola glared at him and he took three steps to the side. Always prudent to move off when some insane creature looked likely to gore you.

Incredibly, Sorros failed to grasp the severity of the situation.

“Already sent letter about it, in middle of work. Ask Coltan if I didn’t send it to you.”

Ursuola could contain herself no longer.

“You did not think it urgent enough to inform, well, EVERYONE?”

Another wave went through those gathered as Ceamus once again bellowed over the comm:

“A COMRADE IS IN PERIL AND THIS IS ALL YOU DO???!?!?!”

If everyone hadn’t agreed with him, he would probably have needed to speak with the Spirit Healer. As it was he received many glares and Jade gently ground her foot over his.

“Do moderate your emotions.” Jade suggested, easing up as she felt the bones beginning to grind.

Ceamus’ eyes widened and he spoke contritely. “...ah Again sorry.”, before wincing and hunching, eyes downcast.

Fyfaesia could only imagine her former Commander’s reaction to this chaos and so struggled to keep the mirth from her features with varied success.

“What a dutiful one this Sorros is.” Was her dry comment.

Bindlegop held his hand out to Ceamus as he remonstrated his friend.

"Tense emotion will not aid us in this Ceamus."

Lucieliea, Jade’s wife and a kind healer, attempted to soothe Ceamus. 

“It will be alright Sir. Please relax.”

She smiled gently towards him. Unfortunately this had the opposite effect and there was another outburst from Ceamus as he lost control of his form and transformed into a Worgen after he objected.

“My Friend is in the hands of Nefarious FIENDS and I should be Calm!?!”

Jade was unconcerned, as even in Worgen form she was taller than he. “Yes. Emotions will not help him.”, and she made sure to capture his gaze and hold it, quite making the polite remonstrations of her wife immaterial.

“Yes, please. you are upsetting the others.”

Ceamus managed to subside, embarrassed to have lost control.

Jade flicked back on her comm to hear Irianos and Mossclaw attempting to speak reason to Sorros. A exercise in frustration, by the sound of it.

“We have it. Come here now.” Irianos demanded.

A curse in Kaldoric followed by a terse order: “Sorros! Report to me immediately. What is the meaning of this letter and where is that girl!”

“He’ll be fine. I told her.” Sorros complained. “Landing soon. Make room”

They had just a fraction of time to clear space in front of the Hall where they were gathered before Sorros seemingly landed, then activated his feather, landed again, plus engineering boots, leaving a trail of flame to the steps as Irianos threw himself over the railing.

“Sorros!” Mossclaw cried.

“Yes?” Sorros replied as if this were an average day, filled with average events.

“Sheathe your damned weapons, and report! Now.”

He moved down the steps to stand in front of Mossclaw, pulling off his gauntlets as he did so.

“The letter you sent. When did you meet this girl?”

Jade nodded approvingly as she watched their Leader exercise control over her emotions. To be sure, anger was still evident, yet she did not leap upon him, nor scream at him.

Galious rolled his shoulders, simply waiting to be told where to go and who to injure.

Sorros paused, the remaining gauntlet half removed.

“Uh” His head tilted up as if calculating, then he completed the movement, tucking the gauntlets under one arm. “Yesterday?”

There was a collective indrawn breath, even the taciturn Knight, Stark, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

Predictably Ceamus burst forth for them all with a cry of outrage. “WHAT!” Strong hands and sharp claws clenched in an effort to remain somewhat calm.

In contrast, Mossclaw’s voice was but a whisper. “Yesterday?!?”

Incredibly, Sorros yawned. A large, head back, chest out display.

“Maybe two days”

Ceamus growled low in his throat

“What day is it?” Sorros blinked as he looked around the group.

Bindlegop shook his head, observing aloud to any who would listen.

“One would think that information of that magnitude would be more important to deliver post haste?”

Ursuola answered him. “Sunday.” Her tone indicated what she thought of the situation, and Sorros.

Irianos’ hands balled into fists, but he kept control over his form.

“Where. Is. The. Girl. Her name, as well.” her words come out in a strangled pitch.

“Good question!”

Muarkamiir stood gob-smacked. “Is....the lad right in the head?”

Sorros head swiveled to eye Muarkamiir. “What's right?”

Mossclaw's eyes closed, nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath. All around there were various gestures of disbelief. Ceamus, predictably ended his low snarl with a bellow of aggrieved disbelief.

“DO YOU NOT VALUE YOUR COMRADES!”

Ursuola clapped her hands to her ears, whirled and shouted: “SHUT UP!”

Irianos, too, glared across the distance. “Ceamus, shut up or leave!” he ground out.

Muarkamiir trundled over to grab the distressed Worgen by the arm, continuing to travel past and out to the edge of the group. “Comon lad, back off...give'em some room”

Jade allowed Murarkamiir to take over and she moved closer to Mossclaw, her eyes missing nothing.

Mossclaw thrust out her arm, palm outward to silence the others. She moved close by Sorros’ side, speaking softly. “Sorros. I want you to focus. What is the girl’s name?”

Sorros blinked owlishly at her, as if unused to looking up. “Cenn?” He ventured. “Cenn something.”

Mossclaw kept her tone even. “Senn. Good. But not the full name, correct?”

“No. Told her to go run an errand for me.”

“Sorros. Where is she to meet you when she's done?” Mossclaw asked persuasively. “This… Senn.”

“Oh.” Sorros looked around, even up, as if the answer would materialize before saying: “Never specified.” Sorros’ face twisted up as he thought “Maybe gonna need someone else to now.” His tone laced in disappointment before he shrugged.

Ursuola could just blink at Sorros. Bindlegop’s eyebrows met his hair. Stark let out a long, drawn-out sigh as even Jade’s face assembled into a menacing frown.

Sorros chose to ignore all this, focusing instead on Mossclaw’s hands, now balled into fists, knuckles white.

“Well,” he opined with some cheer; “She's a hunter, she can find me when she has them.” He smiled and nodded, the situation well in hand by his lights.

This time it was Ursuola that could not contain herself; a strangled “Are you—“, as she took two steps to the left, then two steps to the right, hooves ringing hard on stone, “Why would you not—“ She couldn’t form the words, so hard was she working on not just enveloping him in lava on the spot.

“Does she know where the Garrison is?” Bindle asked hopefully. Ceamus snarled in anger, words halted by Muarkamiir’s hands clamping tightly around his bicep.

Mossclaw and Irianos spoke at the same time, voices overlapping.

“What is "them"?”

“Has what?”

Sorros chose to answer Irianos, eyeing him pleasantly. "Told her to get me Mana Wyrms."

Ursuola reached up and gripped both her horns, her tone maddened: “For what purpose?”

Mossclaw took a step back, eyeing Sorros incredulously. “Mana Wyrms? What?”

“Experiment. Blew up the last one.” Sorros shrugged.

Irianos’ sigh was loud in the stunned silence that followed. Usuola was the first to recover, her hands lowering, her face coloring as her eyes narrowed upon Sorros.

“Actually, you know what. Spare me the details of your sexual life, please.” Her accent thickening, words clipped.

Sorros blinked, eyeing her uncomprehendingly for a moment before what might have been a gleam of interest could be detected in his gaze.

Mossclaw was already turning away and consulting with the others. They’d all been through their training, all remembered the beasts vaguely. Ursuola connected them with the Elves. Jade agreed that there were some in Sindorei lands, but that it was too dangerous. She was just remembering the place of magic winds when Bindlegop put a name to their faded memories:

“Wouldn't there be some in the Netherstorm?”

Exhalations made the rounds as they nodded in agreement.

Galious, in the meantime had stepped softly up to Sorros. “Do you have a good description?” his low tones were set to soothe.

Sorros ignored him completely, stepping past him to recapture the focus of the group. Galious put his hands together in front of himself, exhaling slowly. He would not grip his body and look the child as much as he found Sorros’ continued idiocy maddening.

“Well,” Sorros broke in. “She might be in Stormshield.” He blinked as Mossclaw presented him with a narrow gaze and angry focus. “Hopefully with my Wyrms."

Mossclaw face went blank. “You met her in Stormshield?”

Sorros nodded. “Does no one read letters?”, he asked, for the first time sounding baffled.

Ceamus’ response, a conversational “Nay!” was swiftly overlooked as Mossclaw paled noticeably, stepping to the side, seeking support from the post box.

Jade took two steps to Mossclaw’s side, supporting her. “Are you well?”

Mossclaw raised a shaking hand to her brow as she cried out:

“Elune, Elune. I know what he's done.”

[Mossclaw]

His time was spent trying not to move. Difficult, when you can’t feel your limbs; the mind had to be kept still. The floor leached his heat. They must have spent money on a repulsion spell – nary a rat or flea had he seen. He thanked the Light for that. That was yesterday now, and his concentration was cracking, causing him to almost sob in relief when he heard the door.

“Alright. Now let’s see what you know.”

The lantern lit the cell, swaying before settling, causing the creeping shadows over the dank walls. He braced himself for the pain of being raised, but instead boots came into view.

“My arms.” Buck rasped, far past any childish idea that this was a contest. At this point he feared for his hands.

He registered a heavy sigh and heard the scrape of the pitcher before the boots returned, one rocking him back, setting fiery bands of pain sparking around his chest.

“You’ll need this for what comes next. Good dog.”

Buck opened his mouth and water flooded it. He swallowed all that he could. He was rolled back on his side, choking, the pain fighting his need to keep the water down. The boots returned, moved behind him. Strong arms stilled him until he could once more master his body.

“There now. There. Tell me, who does Coltan Fletcher fuck?”

The vulgarity made his eyes snap open, and his mind race. The hesitation wasn’t long. As far as Buck knew, Coltan had as much success in pursuing love as he did. Less, it would seem.

“No one.”

He heard a heavy sigh. The creak of leather and the voice close to his ear.

“Stop. Thinking.”

He did not feel the patting motion on his arm, but he heard it. Boots moved from behind to in front and the man squatted before him, broad hands pulling a compact curved knife out and setting to work upon thick nails. The light caught a faint pattern on the blade.

“Life takes odd turns. Doesn’t it?” The point of the blade worked, flicked. “People come with baggage. Chosen most of all.” The knife extended towards him, past his vision, then back. “Here you are, blameless. He’s not suffering, that is for damned sure.” A thread of anger creeped into the words, made more frightening for the clear leash upon it. “You are. You are suffering.” The blade moved past his vision again, and Buck realized he was wiping it on his arm. “More will follow. For what? For trusting. For believing.” The words grew tight. “Believing in Coltan fucking Fletcher!” The blade flicked out, and the hand was drawn back with a hiss. The man spat. “Well.” The man rose. “Your hearing is tomorrow. I’ve kept them away as long as I can. I’ll have my answers now.” Boots moved behind him and Buck’s mind raced. Fingers laced through his hair and bent his head back as he heard two sharp snicks of a knife on leather. “You can yell, but I will have answers.”

Buck was pitched forward as the man rose, his arm rolling past his vision. He stared at its unfeeling length, angle so that his hand was hidden. Then the pain started. He did not bother to block his screams.

Awareness of the rest of him returned; eventually. He had no mind as to how much time had passed. He was still on the floor, and white hot wires still crisscrossed his arms. His arms.

He was hauled up, sat upon the thin boards they offered as a bed, slumped against the wall. His arms were drawn inward and his hands lay in his lap. They were claws. Bloated claws, blue and gleaming in the light. He gagged in horror, a low moan of disbelief.

“Now. The ladies. Or men. I don’t care. Names. Now.”

His head rocked to the side, but he barely felt the blow. Head drawn upwards to see the face of madness glaring down at him. He couldn’t do it. He sobbed aloud. He wanted to, Light knew. He could taste it. His chest heaved, vision blurred. He was struck again, harder. He heard animal sounds and his body was lifted and slammed against the wall.

“Why”

His breath was knocked out of him.

“Does”

He barely had time to gasp in air.

“Everyone”

Light in his vision.

“Protect”

Sliding upwards against the stone.

“HIM!”

The rage was overwhelming. It was terrorizing. Buck’s head whipped from side to side, his vision unable to settle.

He was drawn back down the stones, madness and evil inches from his face now.

“Do you not know! I don’t even need anything you have to give!!! Why not give it to me?!? You’re use is over! You’ve done what I needed the moment I took you from him!”

The sheer force of the man’s madness, the brutality and complete control the man had over him overwhelmed Buck.

“Why would you love him so! He is less than nothing!”

The madness reached its apex in a shriek of rage.

Buck was battle trained. Before he was Chosen. After he was Chosen. Fear on the field he knew well. Standing and watching the tide of those who wish to kill you rush forward. The stink of fear. Fear turned to rage, rage to action, action leading to death of those you never knew.

“If I send him your cock will he mourn!!!!”

Buck saw the knife hand’s shoulder dip, then rise, the blade somewhere now. Uncontrollable fear gripped him, he kicked outwards, but was being lifted again. He tried to turn his hips, to shield himself, the vision of that wicked curve filling his mind. He sobbed, twisting his torso, arms flailing uselessly against the wall. An acrid scent filled the air and Buck was Buck no more. He was a collection of impulses all focused on one thing: removal from the evil that had him.

The man’s face was a twisted mask of rage, darkened from all the blood drawn into his features. Veins stood out on his temples, spittle flecked his beard. The smell of piss brought him back, and he gripped the fool and flung him down the wall away from him in disgust. The body rolled along until it careened into the corner, then collapsed with a meaty thud onto the floor. Then it contracted, arms tucking in, body curling, kicking backwards while uttering mewling, gibbering sounds as it tried to press itself through the wall behind it.

It was a bitter satisfaction, to reduce one of Fletcher’s companions to such. He stared for a time, then let out an impatient breath. He moved ponderously forward. Stooped down and patted the man’s head as it flattened itself, movements growing weak.

“There, there. You’ve done nothing. Good dog.”

He stood, and without a backwards glance, or a second thought, left the cell. He would move on to the next; time was with him.

[Mossclaw]

All eyes had turned to their Commander. They saw her as if she had taken a blow to the chest, curved around herself, one hand covering her features.

Sorros was the only one unaffected, the moment bringing him clarity instead of horror.

“Oh, he was kidnapped by some Gilnean.” He paused, then added as an afterthought: “and a Magistrate.”

Mossclaw straightened, her hand lowering to reveal a mask of resolve. Jade’s paws let her go, but her eyes remained trained upon Sorros. It would not have been a comfortable gaze to bear, had Sorros the wits to perceive it. In the babble of voices following his pronouncement, few marked Sorros’ look of thoughtfulness followed by a twist in features.

“Never liked him.” His tone conversational, volume pitched for his own ears.

Bindlegop struggled to push past the concept that a Magistrate of Stormshield was involved. If so, it was bait, he felt, and a clear trap for the Caravan. His features turned grim as he realized that rushing in would do not good, and might just lead to further harm to Sir Buckingston. His gaze, upwardly tilted as always, swept the group. Not rushing would seem a tall order was his conclusion as Ceamus bellowed out, stepping away from Murarkamiir:

“TO THE MAGISTRATE!”

Sorros, the only one not to care at what volume Ceamus was speaking at, responded in a tidying fashion.

“Well not THE Magistrate, just A Magistrate.”

“CEAMUS!” Finally, Mossclaw could take no more and all chatter ceased as her voice whipped through the air, the motion of her hand clearly negating such a path.

For a moment the only sound was a high pitched whine of contrition emanating from Ceamus, his ears fully down.

Sorros continued speaking.

“I think.” He rubbed his nose. “Maybe she lied.” His shrug was inconclusive.

Mossclaw turned away from Sorros to address those gathered.

“Listen. Everyone. Pay attention now. I feel that he traveled to Stomshield to confront Command. We are all aware of the tension between the Caravan and Alliance High Command.”

Mossclaw’s eyes closed as murmurs rippled through the crowd. Fyfaesia’s eyes narrowed, and her ears twitched.

Lucieliea turned swiftly as she heard Ceamus draw in breath. Pinching his arm as she pulled him back she leaned in to his ear and whispered: “Perhaps it is best if you stand back here.” Ceamus yipped as the heat of the pinch ran up his arm, but allowed himself to be pulled back once more. Lucieliea patted his shoulder, whispering: “It is alright. Just let them talk it out.” Her tone was pitched to sooth and to still. “If they need us, they will call for us. Okay?”

In the mean time it was Ursuola who spoke of their confusion.

“Confront?”, her tone puzzled. “On their absence, yes?”, clearly unsure.

Mossclaw’s gaze captured Galious’ as Ursuola spoke. They both understood the underlying nature of this situation. She nodded imperceptibly before returning her attention to the group.

“Yes. If we are to resolve this. We must step carefully. First...”

Sorros interrupted. “If he's dead just resurrect him.”

He either had iron control or was as witless as he seemed, displaying no reaction as Galious, anger displayed clearly upon his features, turned towards him. The rest stared as well, Mossclaw speaking first.

“You will say nothing more. If you wish to be of service, find that girl.”

She spent no more time on him, turning back to the group. Galious’ eyes narrowed, but he too returned his attention to the words being said. Only Irianos failed to control himself; rime pouring from him to envelop the area where Sorros stood.

“We must locate this girl, first. This Senn. I need two teams: two for Stormshield. Some that can be discrete. The rest, we need to comb Netherstorm in search of Senn.” Mossclaw’s tone was decisive, her earlier dismay hidden now.

A sea of nods in agreement followed.

“I shall go to Farahlon.” Ursuola proclaimed, one of the few that would refer to Netherstorm as such. “I know it far better than most here, anyway.” She shrugged, turning color slightly as eyes turned to her in question. She did not make references that aged her often, preferring to keep the past behind her.

Jade moved to where her wife stood, still exerting calm upon Ceamus. After a moment of a swift exchange, Jade faced Mosscalw and called out:

“I shall search the Netherstorm, I am not discrete. Luci will travel to Stormshield.” She saluted.

“I shall travel with her.” Stark stepped to Lucieliea’s side.

Jade eyed the steady Knight coolly, then nodded in approval. She would trust him to stand between her wife and anything that may come.

Mossclaw’s eyes focused upon Varulfr, a slight turn of head to indicate he should wait with Galious.

“I Shall Search Netherstorm to the bedrock for Sir Buckingston!” Ceamus declared, showing impressive constraint at last.

“As I can be there in moments, it would be sensible for me to go.” Bindlegop’s words were for the group, but his attention remained upon Sorros.

Muarkamiir rolled his shoulders and scratched his beard. “Hmm....the....nether eh?........oot of all the damned thing ye lot do this is the damnedst...but ye might need some help soo I'll go to this Netherstorm thing” He patted his weapon out of habit.

Sorros frowned. “The Nether is fine. Just don't fall off.” He yawned. "...if you find me a Wyrm... I can find Buck..." He stretched.

“A POX on your Wyrm!” Ceamus cried, then hunched, embarrassed that he had sworn aloud.

“Ursuola, form up the group for Outland.” Mossclaw saluted Ursuola. “Galious, Varulfr, with me.”, and she strode some way from the group, gathering the two around her, her voice sinking into an indistinct whisper.

Ursuola had returned the salute out of reflex, not missing the look of hope upon her Sister-who-is-not’s face as she eyed Varulfr and Galious.

Jade turned to Ursuola, a short bow to acknowledge her authority. “I will be there very soon, I have an idea crazy enough that it could do something.” She gave Ursuola a look of encouragement.

Sorros sighed loudly. “No no” His foot stamped. “Find me a Wyrm!” He frowned. “Live! Several!” He nodded rapidly. “Then I will locate Buck.”

“Who doesn't have a method to get to Netherstorm quickly?” Bindlegop called out.

Ursuola frowned, eyeing Sorros once more. Irianos groaned.

“Earthcaller, this is not important. We need to set up search parties.” Irianos ground out. “The reason for collecting them cannot take up our time.”

Ursuola hesitated, throwing a glance over to Mossclaw, deep in conversation. “It might be of import. If it is not then he shall not mind telling.” Her brows moving downwards.

“Portal senses.” Sorros blurted out. “Bigger the better. More arcane potential.” Then he stopped, a dazed look upon his features.

“Earthcaller…” Irianos reached out in supplication.

“Speak plainly!” Ursuola cried, nodding towards Irian at the same time.

Sorros merely looked confused. “That is plain?” Was all he offered.

She snorted in disgust and turned away.

Fyfaesia took a last drag from her cigarette, shaking her head as she stated: “We have orders. Let us carry them out.”

“INDEED to the Search!” Ceamus declared, clearly restive now, voice rising once more.

Jade embraced her wife, and in moments Luci was gone, Stark at her side.

“Do you wish my help in setting up a search?” Irianos offered.

Ursuola nodded. “Yes. You lead one group, I the other. We will assemble in Shattrath, then move to Area-52.” She turned to Bindlegop. “If you would.”

Bindlegop nodded and began to cast.

“Brace yourselves everyone, the leylines have been misbehaving...the trip will make you a little queasy”

The blue luminous portal hung in the air, Shattrath glimmering in it like a translucent curtain. Bindlegop eyed the portal critically, measuring the fluctuations reflexively. He wasn’t happy at all.

“....ye won't have me fall from the sky again will ye?” Muarkamiir eyed the shimmering disc with trepidation.

Bindlegop stood up straighter, taking offence. “It is fine. Trust me.”

Muarkamiir turned his eye to Bindlegop. “Ye sure? The last time I trusted ye....”

The two eyed each other in mutual mild annoyance.

Irianos strode past them, desperate to be doing something. Ursuola cleared her throat noisily, and Muarkamiir stalked through the portal like a Dwarf barred from a Tavern. The rest followed, Ursuola the last to cross through, leaving Sorros blinking at Bindlegop.

Finally, Sorros let out a sigh. “No. No.” He shook his head mournfully. “And no one listens.”

“Sorros, as a mage, I honestly believe you” Bindlegop stated. “Certainly the Wyrm’s inherent arcane sensitivity could be harnessed.” He placed the stress on the word “could”. “I’m willing to go with you. The rest can search for Buckinston using their eyes. We’ll use magic.”

Sorros’s face broke into a smile. “See, the mage knows.” Nodded to the air around him. “Use the Wyrm. Find where Buck went.” He paused. “Well, within a distance. And time.” He looked at the portal as if seeing it for the first time. “Off we go!”

Moments later Bindlegop gave a light salute to the three in their huddle and was gone.