[Story] Echoes Part the Third

[Solivar]

"Solivar!"

All the air left his lungs in a startled gasp, forced out by a combination of genuine surprise and the projectile arrival of Floramelia Steelheart's arms around his middle, heaving him off his feet with the enthusiasm of her embrace -- a rather impressive feat, given that her head came barely to the middle of his chest and he was wearing full armor. A full spin later, she set him back down, laughing, and let him catch his breath. "It is good to see you again, too, Flora. How have things been in Silverwood?"

"A fair sight quieter than they've been about here, I would guess." The dwarven woman grinned easily up at him, tucking the tendrils of fine brown hair that had come loose from her braid back behind her ear. "Yeh look like you've been dragged through the land of no sleep by yer ears."

"The dead breached the cordon around Brill in three places last week." Her smile vanished at those words. "If we did not know them to be essentially mindless, it would almost have seemed a coordinated action -- they struck during the change of the patrols, in different spots, within minutes of each other. It was a near thing for a time."

"I can imagine." Flora murmured, glancing back in the direction from which he had come, the field hospital still a hive of activity. "Silverwood an' the lands about the Keep have only seen stragglers here an' there."

"Flora! Solivar!" The call came from further up the path, and he turned to wave at its source.

Aretegos did not quite execute the full lift-and-spin embrace but his greeting was hearty nonetheless. He had, in the weeks they had spent apart, acquired a new, well-groomed growth of copper-blonde beard that brought his resemblance to his uncle into even sharper relief, as well as several dings and scratches to his armor and a brilliant internal radiance that burned like the sun itself in his heaven-blue eyes. Flora glowed from within, as well, and he found himself sharing a somewhat giddy three-way laugh with them as they all realized the change that had taken place within them simultaneously.

"When did they find the time?" Aretegos asked once the laughter had died down, wiping something suspiciously like a tear of joy -- or perhaps relief -- from his eye.

"Lord Mograine arrived three days ago and made the arrangements for Keldris, Talia, and myself." Solivar shook his head slightly at the brief look of dismay that crossed Aretegos' face. "Now. He has not been that terrible about it..."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. Now he is only ten feet tall and dead-proof. That is down from at least thirty and capable of taking on every ghoul in the East single-handed." Solivar smiled wryly. "Talia, of course, did not let it go to her head at all."

"An' you?" Flora gunned him in the ribs and he found himself coloring to the tips of his ears.

"I assure you that Sir Bridenbrad's concerns about the extent of my enthusiasm are only slightly justified." He could not quite keep the rue from his voice.

Flora rolled her eyes. "Oh, I'm sure. Passed out at least twice trying to overdo it, unless I miss my guess."

"...Three. And I was not overdoing it, I simply misjudged the required length of my own recovery time." He replied, with as much dignity as he could muster in the face of their chorus of snickers. "I am entirely certain you two have been paragons of restraint and moderation..."

Flora and Aretegos exchanged glances and both had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I had tae be tied to the saddle half-way here. There's a flood headed toward Hillsbrad, everyone who can afford it and many who cannae are sending their wives and children as far west as they can." Flora rubbed the back of her head sheepishly, putting her braid entirely out of order. "Made for lots o' skinned knees an' thrown backs."

"You two and your healerly excesses." Aretegos shook his head in mock sorrow. "I, on the other hand, have neither smitten anything nor felt the uncontrollable desire to smite anything -- "

"Ye havnae had anything TO smite." Flora pointed out tartly. "Before that, yeh worked yerself into the infirmary riding circuits three days running an' refusing to sleep because yeh sensed the dead under every rock an' leaf."

"If the master could hear this conversation, he would die laughing and then order us all confined to quarters until we were demonstrably sane again." He shook his head. "Are the others with you? Or have you heard from them?"

"Vangalos and Melias were recalled to the capital some weeks ago -- Princess Calia selected them by name for addition to her personal bodyguard." Aretegos replied, voice low. "Galathas...My lord uncle decided that he was not yet ready and remanded him to Sir Dathrohan for further training."

"Oh, dear."

"If you're thinking 'nothing good can come of Vangalos and his wretched poetry about the glorious, sad-eyed beauty of Lordaeron's fairest flower being that close to the actual princess,' we are in total agreement."

Solivar was, in fact, very much of the opinion that if the princess wished to please herself with terrifyingly bad meter, scansion, and a lover of her own choosing, she had long since earned the right to do so. It did not, however, seem politic to address such opinions to her male relatives, no matter how distant a cousin he might be. "I was actually thinking that must not have gone over very well at all."

"Well, no." An expressive grimace. "The little snot stopped just short of saying six or seven unforgivable things and rode off looking like he was going to his execution and not to Hearthglen."

"Hearthglen? Not the city?"

"Hearthglen. Lord Fordring has volunteered the use of his lands as a staging ground and Sir Dathrohan has moved the bulk of the forces under his command there." Aretegos glanced up and down the path and lowered his voice. "Rumor has it that our recall to the city is going to be brief, and that we're slated to rotate out into the East to aid the field operations."

"The master did not mention that before he departed," Solivar replied. "It does not seem like the sort of thing he would overlook."

"True. But he also has a great many things on his mind." It was also true that Aretegos' intelligence on such things was usually good -- he was related to half of Lordaeron through his mother's family, it sometimes seemed, and possessed sources of information that the rest of them generally lacked. "What were you up to before we so rudely interrupted you?"

"I was about to make my farewells to the children in the refugee camp." He admitted, easily, and gestured for them to follow.

"That soft heart of yours is going to be the death of you one day, Solivar..."

It was fortunate that the airship route linking the Undercity to the territory claimed by the Forsaken in Northrend was offered free of charge -- by the time he was finished making restitution for the ruined forge floor, paying a perfectly aggravating amount in fees to Royal Library copyists, obtaining adequate replacement armor, and settling his tab with Renee, he was richer in tarnished virtue than silver.

"Perhaps you should change your name to the Poor Knights of the Brotherhood of the Ebon Blade?" The mistress of the Gallow's End suggested with unconcealed amusement as he prepared to take his leave. "It might garner a bit more sympathy for your sorry plight."

"I am relatively certain that if we did that someone would consider the possession of horses, armor, and weapons sufficient grounds to complain that we are not yet poor enough to qualify for the designation." He smiled wryly and surveyed the collection of equipment spread out on one of the tavern tables; despite his financially diminished state, there still seemed a bit too much of it to fit in just the one bag. Especially given the unwieldy size of the copy-books of Lordaeran history, which he was loath to leave behind.

Renee laughed at that, but nonetheless shook her head in agreement. "You might just have a point. Are you certain you've got everything you need?"

"I believe so." The undead required no food or drink, or at least not in the same manner as the living, and his personal indifference to the elements needed no heavy wool or fur-lined clothing to maintain, so he carried none of the things that made up the usual bulk of a traveler's baggage in Northrend. Instead, the table was covered in useful odds and ends -- several lengths of rope, a newish spyglass, an alchemical alembic carefully packed in lamb's-wool against breakage, his scrivener's case, a bag of dried herbs all neatly encased in waxed paper and labeled with their various uses, medical supplies in their own leather-and-canvas satchel -- and weapons. A vast, almost disturbing profusion of weapons. He could honestly not remember where he found them all. And, of course, the books.

Renee looked the collection, and then him, over. "Are you really going to need all the stabbity things? Even in Northrend?"

"In all likelihood, no." He admitted, after a moment's contemplation.

"Then pick your favorite three and I'll store the rest, if you like. And the same for your breakables -- are you really going to be brewing much ink? No? Then leave it here." She elbowed him aside. "The Rise and Fall of the Arathi Empire. The Romance of the Seven Kingdoms. The Arathi Successor States: Lordaeron. Horse-Lords and Iron Saints: Lordaeron and the Order of the Silver Hand. Well. I suppose if all else fails you can open to a random page and bore the Scourge to true death...or, you know, drop one of these on their heads from a great height."

"I will have you know that The Romance of the Seven Kingdoms is one of the most entertaining things I have read in...I do not even know how long. Scourge literary endeavors are...uniquely hideous that way. And mostly written by Kel'Thuzad." She was looking at him as though he had grown another head. "In any case, I hope they will help jog my memory."

Renee shook her head. "Hopeless. Here, give me that pack..."

Solivar was beginning to suspect that all tavern mistresses and innkeepers were taught a very particular sort of magic when they took up the mantle, for in a very short time she had the entire mess gathered up and put away and with several more things added: a package containing a handful of heavily enchanted flasks, their contents dark and thickly liquid. "Mistress, I cannot -- "

"I know, I know. You spent your last bent copper on history books that no one reads any longer." She shook her head again, and gave him a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation. "Consider it a going away present. When does your boat leave?"

"I am reliably informed that the goblins take great umbrage at the use of any term but 'airship.'" He replied, amused. "The entire flotilla departs at midday. I understand that crossing the North Sea by night makes random assault by Alliance harriers less likely. Or at least less likely to be successful."

"I suspect that's debatable. Keep away from the sides, at any rate -- those rails wouldn't stop a gnomish toddler from going over, much less a grown man in full plate."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And don't let the deathguards talk you into playing dice for any stakes. Not that you've got anything to stake but your -- well, never mind. They've all had years of nothing to do but stand around and look menacing or gamble."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Travel papers in order? Stamped? Sealed?"

"Yes, right here."

"Good, good." She handed the neatly ribbon-bound, wax-sealed packet issued to him by the Overseer's office, indicating the rights of service to the Undercity and the Horde by which he was permitted to make use of the airships. "You should hurry along now -- they're always looking to press-gang travelers into helping load the cargo, and you might even pick up some coin from it. Scat."

"What would I do without you, Mistress?" He captured her hand and bowed low over it for a moment longer than strict courtesy required, genuinely touched.

She snatched her appendage back and smacked him lightly with it. "Be poorer and even more homeless. Fair travels to you, Sir Eventide. And when you get back, stop by and tell me about them. It's been...pleasant to have a regular guest again."

"Of course. And thank you again, for everything that you have done for me."

The Undercity's flight towers stood atop the rolling gorse-and-heather clad hills that lay between Brill and the city proper, the high stone spires added to buildings that were labeled as a Royal Post remount station on Renee's map of pre-War Lordaeron. At present, those buildings and the sere, somewhat overgrown hills around them were aswarm with activity: three impressively large airships were tethered atop the towers and a steady stream of people and things passed between them and the ground, the goblin flight crews taking the opportunity to stretch their legs or rest a bit between departures, drudges living and undead carting crates and boxes and barrels of war materiel and supplies up the frankly rickety-looking tower stairs under the close supervision/protection of the heavily armed goblin security personnel, passengers queued up and awaiting their opportunities to board, complaining very quietly about the delays under the watchful, unblinking eyes of the Undercity's own deathguards. He quietly joined the end of one such line, dwarfed by the passengers waiting next, a trio of tauren, troll, and orc, whose conversation halted as he approached and who glared steadily at him as he set down his pack to wait. He inclined his head in peaceable greeting and, when it became clear that he had no intention of moving, they went back to their conversation in significantly lowered voices, darting occasional glowers over their shoulders, which he studiously ignored. Slowly, and significantly beyond the stated midday departure time, the queue began to flow with much grumbling and shifting of baggage, with goblin armsmen stalking up and down the line thumping people who failed to step swiftly enough. At the bottom of the tower a direly harassed young goblin woman checked papers and waved passengers through as swiftly as her arms could move. "Keep your cold weather clothing and anything you don't want stowed. Leave your bags. Move, people, move."

His favored weapon was already strapped across his back and so he simply took the first book he could reach once he reached the bottom of the tower, avoiding goblin-maul swats as he went, tucking his papers back inside his armor. Up close, the airship was even more impressive than it appeared from the ground, larger than the strictly passenger vessels that traveled between the Undercity and the Horde lands in Kalimdor, more heavily armored, and clearly more accustomed to taking fire -- long scorch-marks scarred the gondola's sides and the heavily enchanted bag had clearly been repaired more than once. A bruiser discouraged further gawking on his part with a poke to the knees and so he stepped aboard with a number of unasked questions circulating in his mind, and permitted himself to be shooed starboard into a slot immediately next to the railing without a word of complaint. By the time boarding was complete, sitting room was at a premium, as was elbow room -- and despite it, a certain evident gap had appeared around him that allowed him both and, with a sigh, he chose to make use of his fellows' discomfort-largess, settling with his back pressed against the not as rickety as it seemed rail, sitting on his book. With a sputtering cough, the airship's fans came to life, the docking lines tossed in, and, much more swiftly than he had thought possible, the vessel pulled away from the tower, climbing swiftly and steadily into the constant murky overcast and, abruptly, above it. The sunlight speared his eyes without mercy and not for the first time he wished he still had tears, as he blinked the dazzle-flashes out of his vision. It was late in the day -- later even than own sense of time had suggested, the sun well on the way toward the western horizon, and sinking quickly; the autumn breeze, above the cloud-wrack and plague-mist that kept Tirisfal in constant dank twilight, was brisk and sweet.

A sudden, horrendously high-pitched screech from the stern of the airship drew all attention; more than a few attempted to leap to their feet and draw weapons, expecting an attack, and even more flung themselves flat and covered their heads, expecting an explosion.

And then the screech resolved itself into words. "IS THIS THING ON? OH, YES, IT IS. THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING. PAY ATTENTION BECAUSE I WILL ONLY BE SAYING THIS ONCE. WE ARE OFF SCHEDULE. THIS MEANS OUR FLIGHT WILL BE ARRIVING IN NORTHREND AT DAWN INSTEAD OF BY NIGHT. THIS MEANS THAT THE ALLIANCE WARSHIPS THAT PATROL THE HOWLING STRAITS MAY START SHOOTING AT US. IN THE EVENT OF AN EXPLOSION, USE THE EMERGENCY EXIT LOCATED IN THE PORT RAILING AND TRY TO HIT THE WATER FEET-FIRST. OH, AND TAKE OFF YOUR ARMOR, OR YOU'LL SINK. IN ORDER TO AVOID BEING SHOT AT, WE WILL BE RUNNING SILENT AND WITH LIGHTS OUT AS SOON AS WE ATTAIN CRUISING ALTITUDE. THAT MEANS EAT NOW. IF ANY OF YOU NEXT TO THE RAILS SEE ALLIANCE COLORS, SING OUT."

Another chorus of general disgruntlement met this statement, but there was no real quarreling with it: the other passengers brought out their traveling food and arranged their sitting places as comfortably as possible for the long, cold, and now soon to be dark flight to Northrend. Solivar propped his sheathed sword against the rail next to him, and folded his legs as compactly as possible, gazing out over the rail. He had, in truth, expected flying in a goblin airship to be a more discomfiting experience than it had been thus far, replete with strange chemical smells, disturbing sounds at random intervals, and the constant threat that the whole thing would fly apart at the seams at any moment, gossip suggesting that riding one of the things was, at best, taking one's life in one's hands. Instead, he found it not unpleasantly reminiscent of a necropolis in motion, the vibrations of the engine and the sensations of the swift, steady glide through the air only more obvious because of the airship's smaller size. Far below, the evergreen-shrouded hills of Lordaeron gave way to the high-towering cliffs and rocky coves of the long coastline, and from there to the iron gray waters of the North Sea. To the west, those waters slowly devoured the sun, its fall transmuting the waves to a tide of glass-smooth shadow and the vault of the sky to an arch of crimson, golden, violet. As he watched, the very brightest of the stars began to emerge in the twilit haze of the east.

"We call that one Asthera, the Grieving Maiden," Overhead, the sky fell away into starlit infinity, flawlessly clear and marred only by the occasional drift of smoke from the campfire.

"I'm sure I sense a story in that." Keldris' head, warm and heavy against his arm, shifted slightly as he turned his gaze upward. "The red one?"

"No, there." He raised his free arm and pointed, as best he could; it had been a very fine bottle of wine they'd drunk over supper. "The blue one -- there. She sits by the River of Sorrow, the tears she wept when her brother brought her the false news of her lover's death in battle."

"Oh, ho! So there is a story." Keldris rolled fully onto his side, perhaps not coincidentally removing the last of the space between their bodies. "Why did her brother lie?"

"Asthera's brother despised her lover as unworthy of her, and no proof of virtue, no act of heroism, could change his mind. And so in the confusion of battle, he thrust his weapons into her lover's body and left him bleeding on the field, believing he would die, and that his sister would forget the liaison and seek a more suitable mate." His hand found its way into Keldris' hair. "But her grief knew no end and no balm and her tears flowed unceasing, as did her lamentations. The air itself was so moved by the anguished beauty of her mourning song that, when she sought to end her life by throwing herself from the high cliffs by her father's house, the wind caught her and bore her safe to the ground. The waters drank deep of her tears and knew her grief, and so when she tried to walk into the sea to drown herself, the waves refused to claim her and instead washed her safe to the shore. The fire had borne witness to the purity of both her love and her sorrow, and so when she ordered her maids to build a great funeral pyre for her that she might join her beloved, the flames refused to consume her flesh. The earth had felt the crushing weight of her pain in her every step, but when she took up a knife to let flow her blood as well as her tears, the steel refused to even scratch her skin. Instead, they took up her song, earth and air, fire and water, every spirit of earth and sky filling the celestial vault of heaven with the sweet sorrow of her plaint, so that even the highest of the most high heard it and were moved."

"The highest of the most high?"

"Sister Moon and Brother Sun." He smiled slightly. "But that is actually another story entirely..."

He came back to himself with the memory of silken hair on his fingertips and human warmth pressed close beside him so strong that he reached out blindly into the full darkness after it as the sensation began to fade, finding instead a handful of many-stranded necklaces and loose, rough woolen shirt. The grip that closed around his wrist had three fingers and stopped squeezing just short of snapping bones. "Do that again, dead thing, and I'll tear it off."

"My apologies," He whispered in reply, "I meant no offense."

"See that you do not." The troll released his arm and he pulled it back, sitting tensely and utterly still as he tried to remember the end of Asthera's story, if indeed he had ever known it.

Contrary to the captain's prediction of arriving precisely at the crack of day and under fire, the sickly yellow-white lights of Vengeance Landing's airship tower came into view while the sky was still full dark and the ship itself pulled up hard against the disembarkation platform with false dawn barely a grayish-yellow smear in the sky above the eastern cliffs. Goblin guardsmen moved quickly to prod those who had managed to fall asleep in their little nests of close-packed comfort awake, and even more quickly to usher those who were already awake off the ship and onto the platform, where the deathguards waited to offer what little welcome travelers received.

Which, in this case, was a rather desultory "Transit papers?" and "Reason for your visit?" from a pair of bored guardsmen whose lack of interest in standing atop the flight tower harassing travelers was as palpable the desire of the passengers to not be harassed more than necessary. The regular elements of the Horde military presence in Northrend entered the continent far to the west, through the high command post of Warsong Hold, and deployed to their duty assignments from there. Most of the travelers ahead of him in the disembarkation queue were mercenaries seeking to sign on with the Forsaken mission and were directed down the tower to the recruitment officers in the military outpost below.

"Papers?" He handed them over and received them back without even a glance. "Reason for your visit?"

"I seek an audience with Apothecary Lysander."

"Down the tower and to your --" The deathguard stopped in mid-sentence as what he said penetrated hundreds of layers of accumulated boredom. "Wait wait wait -- you want what?"

"I seek an audience with Apothecary Lysander." He repeated patiently; he remembered enough about the stultifying nature of endless rounds of guard duty to possess a modicum of sympathy.

"Lysander. You want to see Lysander." Both of the guards blinked owlishly at him. "What for?"

"The matter is a personal one. Is there some difficulty?" Mutters of discontent were starting at his back, impervious to the glare one of the guards shot over his shoulder.

"No...difficulty as such." The guard waved him through. "Apothecaries are quartered in the spindly-looking tower over yonder. Don't be surprised if...well, you'll find out soon enough."

Vengeance Landing was not a large settlement, its double-handful of tall, narrow buildings, constructed of the dark local stone, clustered close together atop a rammed earth scarp, the whole surrounded by a defensive wall of iron-reinforced stone, pierced at intervals by artillery emplacements. It was, however, a crowded one, particularly with the new arrivals staggering through the half-lit, unpaved streets lugging their baggage and searching for the local amenities, stepping on the tails of irritable plaguehounds, jostling for place with the locals, and generally adding more unpleasantness to what was manifestly an already tense situation. Deathguards outnumbered civilians by a considerable margin, as did the regular troops clad in the Undercity's colors; he caught the occasional glimpse, among them, of gleaming red eyes in a bone-white face, the traditional armor and arms of the Quel'dorei Farstriders rendered in a field superiority scheme that blent into the local foliage, the marks of the Banshee Queen's personal force of rangers. Solivar hung close to the base of the flight tower until the bulk of the new arrivals had passed, and the ensuing commotion had died down, to begin his own search.

He heard the Apothecaries before he saw or even smelled them, something of a first.

"INCOMPETENTS THE LOT OF YOU."

The shout rebounded off the close-packed walls, effectively obliterating the sound of any more softly-voiced reply, and was followed swiftly by a further torrent of invective.

"IDIOTS! COW-HANDED STRIPLINGS! I CANNOT IMAGINE WHAT I DID TO DESERVE BEING AFFLICTED -- "

Apothecary Lysander immediately struck Solivar as the sort of person who had perished in the grip of profound dyspepsia and, having found no respite from that condition in the icy arms of undeath, had instead decided to inflict it on everyone in his immediate vicinity. He was not a tall man -- his body's state of rigor did not allow for that -- but his obvious fury lent him a greater size than he otherwise could claim, his assistants in a state of half-cower before him as he raged, all four gathered together in the small court of what Solivar took to be the apothecary tower. The building's windows were all open and some were even still venting small traces of greenish vapor, the remnants of what must have been a profound stench still hanging in the air. One of the assistants glanced back and caught sight of him as he emerged from the alleyway linking their little court, and half-raised a hand in his direction. "Sir -- "

"SILENCE. NOT ONE WORD FROM ANY OF YOU OR I SWEAR I WILL HAVE YOU SENT TO NEW AGAMAND FOR SPARE ABOMINATION PARTS. THREE BATCHES. THREE BATCHES RUINED IN AS MANY WEEKS -- HOW MANY TIMES MUST I TELL YOU TO NOT LET THE BASE MIXTURE COME TO A FULL BOIL! IDIOTS!"

The assistant stared mutely at him, clearly not willing to risk spending the rest of her existence as a component element in an abomination, for which he really could not blame her. "I beg your pardon."

"BEG ALL YOU LIKE!" Lysander spun on his heel and applied a glare that would have set a lesser being to flight. "What the fel do you want?"

"My apologies. I did not intend to interrupt." He sketched a courtesy, which had no noticeable mollifying effect. "I have come from the Undercity to make an inquiry. I may return later if -- "

"An inquiry? You?" Disdain dripped from every word. "What could one of your kind possibly have to inquire with the Royal Apothecary Society about?"

"I seek information regarding the whereabouts of one of your members." He replied, coolly, beginning to lose his patience with being 'your kinded' by the Forsaken. "One Lythandros Delaine."

"Lyth -- " The apothecary's mouth snapped shut, what was left of his lips tightening into a thin, hard line. Flicking a glance over his shoulder he snarled, "OUT OF MY SIGHT, THE LOT OF YOU. I'LL SUMMON YOU WHEN I NO LONGER WANT TO FEED YOU TO THE PLAGUEHOUNDS."

His assistants, clearly too wise to question the providence of their reprieve, scurried away as quickly as their legs could carry them. Lysander's shoulders slumped slightly further down as they went and he turned away, gesturing for Solivar to follow. The innards of the apothecary tower were decorated in the remnants of whatever disaster had prompted Lysander's wrath, the support beams still dripping with caustic condensation, the air thick enough to leave the unmistakable tang of overcooked alchemical products laying on his tongue with even a shallow, experimental sniff.

"An inquiry." Lysander muttered, more to himself than to anyone else, it seemed, as they climbed the tower to his private office. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

"I am not certain what you mean." Solivar admitted, glancing out one of the narrow windows; far the in the distance, to the west, a fire burned close to the shore.

"I'm sure you don't." The resentment in Lysander's tone was unmistakable, even if its source was not, and he gestured for Solivar to remain on the stairs while he fetched something from his desk: a parchment affixed with both the royal seal of the Undercity and the wax medallion of the Royal Apothecaries. "Chief Plaguebringer Harris wished you sent to New Agamand as expeditiously as possible upon your arrival in Northrend. Give this to one of the bat handlers and they will provide you access to the express courier line animals."

Utterly confused, and deeply uncertain how much of that it was advisable to reveal, Solivar echoed, "Chief Plaguebringer Harris?"

"Yes." Lysander replied curtly. "He will brief you on the specifics of your mission. There is, however, one thing you should know."

"...And that?"

"Before this...unfortunate...lapse in judgment, Lythandros Delaine was one of our most skilled and talented colleagues." Lysander struggled to keep the emotion from his voice and failed, anger flashing hotly in the golden pinpoints of his eyes. "It is my belief, and that of many others, that his many years of dedicated and unfailing service to the Royal Apothecary Society has earned him the benefit of a far greater doubt than he has been given."

"Your advocacy is noted." He took the proffered parchment and bowed swiftly from the shoulders before his confusion could show too visibly. "I will take it into account during the course of my investigation. A good day to you, Apothecary."

"And to you, Deathstalker."

Solivar descended the tower and walked swiftly away, his thoughts chasing themselves in a tight circle around that single word: deathstalker.

The Forsaken possessed one of the smallest and most tightly disciplined military presences within the greater body of the Horde. This was by both design and necessity -- the Quel'dorei military theory that the Banshee Queen clearly hewed to yet in many ways dictated that a smaller force was a more agile and responsive force, and the grade of discipline she demanded permitted any unit of that force to break with the larger body and function independently to achieve tactical and strategic objectives with little outside support. It was not entirely dissimilar to the design and function of the Farstriders, whose captains in the field frequently possessed more practical power to decide objectives for their individual commands than the ranger-general to whom they all theoretically answered for their actions. It was necessary as the Forsaken alone among the Horde possessed no natural means of reconstituting their numbers -- the living being understandably reluctant to submit to the processes used to create new recruits -- and thus the possibility of losses required minimization of the most radical kind. The Forsaken, as a rule, eschewed stand-and-fight battles in favor of strike-and-run tactics, subversion, espionage, and, not infrequently, assassination. Deathstalker, within the body of the Forsaken military, was the rank applied to their professional assassins and, if the whispers in the halls of the Undercity were to be believed, the left hand of the Dark Lady's own darkest advisor, the dreadlord she kept yoked to her will, the spies and killers of a tamed son of the Burning Legion.

That Lythandros Delaine had done something to earn the attentions of his ruler's most competent professional killers was a matter of not inconsiderable concern. Few things, indeed, earned the sentence of true death within the ranks of the Forsaken. That he had managed to involve himself in the situation by suggesting he was that professional killer was a substantial complication to his relatively straightforward plans -- but now that he had done so, there was no practical method of undoing what he had wrought unawares. Or, at least, none at present -- answers waited in New Agamand and, once he had them, he could decide what to do next.

As he went in search of the bat handlers, the sun finally rose, staining sea and sky and the face of the high cliffs that embraced Vengeance Landing the color of fresh-drawn blood. All things being equal, he hoped that was not an omen of things to come.