Two

Morticai From the shadows he waited, watching as the Troll Shaman fought in a way that surprised even him, and he was a hard one to surprise. Slowly, with carefully measured steps, he began to circle around the battle, one eye on her as she fought the Night Elves, the other checking his path to ensure he made no noise or misstep.

His dagger slid from its sheath silently, the poison he generously applied to it keeping it from glinting in the starlight.

A small part of his mind admired her. She fought bravely, with a savage yet calculated manner that impressed him the longer the fight went on. By the time he’d started his silent approach, she’d already cut down half her opponents, green lightening flashing in the night time and again.

He imagined the rictus on her face as she fought, imagined it for he came up from behind, not even a whisper on the wind.

Not even those she battled saw him, such was his talent. It had always been thus, and was the reason his was a name whispered in awe by those who knew it; feared by his enemies and sought after by his benefactors. He was ever in high demand, and his fees reflected it.

<“Bring It to me alive,”> she had said to him, and he never failed to complete a task once accepted. He had chuckled at the ‘alive’ part, but he understood what she meant.

Again, that small part of his mind, the one that admired this Troll, felt a small pang of regret that he would have to do this thing, but the larger part of him understood that he had accepted this task, had been paid half already, and would receive more compensation upon delivery.

Nothing, and no one, could stand between him and the completion of his tasks. He had a reputation to maintain.

These others, the ones falling away one by one as she cut them down – they didn’t matter. Hired swords were so much canon fodder. Still, as the cuts grew on her skin, blood blooming forth, and the weariness began to set in as her muscles strained, and her breathing came in great gasps, sweat pouring down her face, he wondered if he’d not paid these Elves too little for their lives. They were good.

She was better.

He wondered that she hadn’t come up during his search, that no one had mentioned her, not once. She fought with such passion – she wasn’t fighting to save a member of the Horde, she was fighting for a friend. Or, perhaps more.

He’d spent weeks around Splinter Tree, and then a month in Orgrimmar, searching for this creature, his habits, his vices – anything he could use to bring him down so he could collect his money. Problem was, the creature was more paranoid than even himself: never slept in the same place twice, never took the same route twice, always changed how he would come into the city, how he would leave, where he ate, had no women he frequented (if they could even do –that-), never drank…

It was a Rogues worst nightmare.

How do you plan the ambush and capture of a creature that was never in the same place twice?

As the weeks passed, he came to consider it a challenge far more worthy of his skills than he had believed at first, when he took the job simply because of the difficulty in operating within Orgrimmar for someone like himself. The only way he’d been able to gather any useful information had been through his contacts within The Cleft – few there cared one whit about this creature. They wanted it dead as much as she wanted it alive. …something about his tearing the place apart once.

The thing had balls. As she cut down another Night Elf, he thought, so does she…

The Cleft was where he had first heard about this ‘Hardishane’ and his lot – that had been the creature’s downfall, the only attachments he could exploit for his own ends were the one the creature had to The Bone Splinter. Whereas the creature itself kept no discernible pattern whatsoever, the same was not true of its guildmates.

“Follow Hardishane long enough, and you will find Morticai.”

He would have to thank the old Warlock for that tidbit someday.

But not today, today he had a task to complete, and the Troll was set between him and that goal. There were many things he could deny himself and still survive: food, water, sexual pleasures – but none of them compared to this embrace…..

Her back still turned to him, completely unaware of his presence, he felt the heady excitement of ultimate power as he slid the knife into her back, his free hand coming up to grasp her neck as she gasped, pulling her head back. He imagined the look of shock and horror on her face, ecstasy shuddering through him, the knife slicing through her again, and then a third time, her body already on fire as the poison shot through her bloodstream.

She struggled; they always did. Claws reached for him, a growl escaping her lips, but he did it all in such a swift motion: stab, grab, stab, stab, roll and she was falling away from him, landing face first in the dirt. The Night Elves moved forward, one of them hefting his sword as if to strike.

<”Secure the package,”> he told them coldly. No honor… he thought and his eyes, the only part of him they could clearly see, must have reflected his cold disdain, for they quickly gave up any thought of finishing her off, and moved to secure the creature.

Turning, he kneeled down beside her. He wasn’t surprised one bit to find that she was trying to push herself up, still fighting, even now that her end was here. That small part of his mind got the better of him for just a moment, his curiosity piqued.

<Troll> “What is it to you, this creature?” he asked. He waited a few heartbeats for an answer, but she was struggling just to remain conscious, still trying to push herself up.

<”It is secure.”> one of the two survivors said. Nodding to himself more than to the report he’d been given, the Rogue rose gracefully.

<”Then, let us be off. She’s waiting.”>

<”What of our dead?”> asked the second survivor.

<”What of them?”> he replied.

<”We can’t just leave them here….”>

<”Of course we can. Move out – we are on a schedule.”>

The Rogue mounted his Nightsaber, taking the reigns of the one carrying the creature, pulling it behind him. He kicked his heels and the cat sprang forward, the others following closely behind. He gave one last look to the Troll Woman before they disappeared into the trees of Ashenvale.

* * *

Rizarah tried to push herself up, but the poison was acting too fast, was robbing her of her strength, her warmth, her very life. Morticai was gone, taken from her very grasp by the rogue she had not seen, had not felt. But he was still alive, and she started the purge of the poison from his system, so he would be awake soon…. Perhaps he would be able to free himself….come back for her….

Her mind began to blur as she rolled over onto her back, the pain she had felt, the burning, slowly fading to a dull numbness, spreading throughout her body. There was something… something she ….. needed to do….

Clumsy hands touching her face, and she knows they are hers, but they move slowly, sluggishly….something….so cold…..

The stars above her are fading, but her mind cannot grasp if it’s the sun rising, or the darkness in her own eyes, that’s making them fade. Her back is cold and wet, and she wonders if she hasn’t somehow fallen asleep in a puddle of water….and still, her hands move, fingers feeling across her face until they come to her forehead….slowly they trace a small sign of blood….her eyes close, heavy, and she cannot will them open…..but she made the sign….

* * *

Blood feeds life.

Darkness shrinks from light.

Birth breaks the first block.

A cold voice whispered through a certain clearing in a red desert.

"Arise."

Riz'arah's corpse, dead from poison and mortal knife wounds, bared its teeth in a wicked grin. Blood began to flow from her wounds anew. Dust in front of her mouth stirred with her breath. Her eyes blinked.

Her wounds healed to a barely survivable state, the poison having been obliterated with the Rebirth. She pushed herself up, and stared around. Four night elf corpses lay around her.

Not enough. She thought. She gathered her thoughts, and wiped a hand across her injuries. They healed.

She was tired; so tired. Her body told her that if she did not sleep soon, she may actually die from exhaustion. It estimated that reaching this state would not take very long.

How many times can you simply stand up after dying? The little voice in the back of her head asked her.

For Morticai? As many as I need. She growled at it.

She lifted her head and whistled piercingly. Smiler trotted up to face her, its teeth and snout stained red. It was grinning widely. She chuckled softly and patted it on the forehead before mounting up.

The trail still glowed; the nightsabers were fast, but Smiler was much faster.

She followed, arrowing through the darkness like an avenging spirit.

* * *

The Rogue pushed the now smaller group hard, trying to reach Astranaar, but he had a nagging feeling that they weren't going to make it, that they were, again, being followed. Were he alone, he could simply fade into the shadows where no one would find him, but with four Nightsabers - it was difficult to hide their tracks, but not impossible.

Calling the first halt in hours, he pulled a small bag of dirt from his saddlebag, tying the cord to his belt.

<"Water the cats,"> he ordered the Elves.

It wasn't that he mistrusted magic, far from it, yet he still felt uneasy as he backtracked along the path they had followed, knelt before the tracks left by the Nightsabers, and pulled the bag from his belt. The Mage had been quite clear on the intructions, on the words to use, and he repeated them slowly, not wanting to miss a syllable. The dirt had a rich scent to it; rich and dark as he took it in his hand and cast it back along the path they had taken.

There was only the one handful in the bag, yet it seemed to catch on the wind, shooting back along the path, erasing all evidence of ther passing. The cat prints closest to him, pressed down into the mossy ground, faded quickly.

<"Magic?"> asked the Warrior who had been watching him all the while.

"Yes," he replied. Then, remembering himself, he used their language, <"Yes.">

<"Handy!"> the Elf said with a grin. He almost told him that it would be completely unecessary were he alone, but thought better of it.

<"Twenty Gold per bag,"> the Rogue replied, wiping the grin off his face. They were getting paid five each for this job. <"Mount up.">

<"We just stopped....">

<"Someone's following again - I don't know how close. This will slow them down a lot - but I don't want to be here anymore."> Even as the words came out of his mouth, the Rogue made a decision and spun around, two daggers flying from his hand, one hitting the closest Elf in the throat, the second striking the far one in the back of the head. Both went down fast.

Moving quickly, he cut the creature from the back of the Nightsaber and let it drop to the ground. Next, he tied the reigns of the second cat to the first, the third to the second, the last to the third, then set them loose. They were close enough to Astranaar that they would find their way home and, hopefully, lead anyone following in the wrong direction.

Hefting the creature over his shoulder, the Rogue started off into the forest, disapearing into the shadows.

* * *

Rizarah pushed Smiler harder and harder, following the glowing tracks along the path in front of her. She was in Ashenvale now, one of their great hills just in front of her, the tracks leading up and over. Even as her lizard was picking it's path up, a cold breath shot down the hill, a swirling dust devil shotting right into her, forcing her eyes closed.

Rubbing the dirt from her eyes and spitting it from her mouth, she blinks. the trail before her is gone. Turning the lizard around, the trail behind her - the dust devil is erasing it as it goes, whatever magic being used, causing her own to fail as well - the glowing path fading away to nothing.

Kicking Smiler up the hill in a panic, she crests it to find .....nothing. No prints, no glowing trail.... no direction....

* * *

In the desert surrounding Razor Hill, Kurmudgeon found himself once again standing over the odd campsite - the mystery campsite, being pestered by the odd Hunter and his crab.

Frankly, he couldn't see anything in the sand anymore, despite the fact that the Hunter claimed it was still there, though faint. Kurmudgeon wanted only to be back in Razor Hill, enjoying his one night off of guard duty, spending the time by the fire, warming his old bones.

But, he had a duty to finish this task, and if that meant bringing the Hunter out here, then that is what he would do.

"Dat's not somtin joo see evahday now," said the Hunter, looking off towards the Barrens. Kurmudgeon strained to see what had caught the Hunter's attention, but all he could see was a few boars out hunting nightcrawlers, and a twister off in the distance.

As he stared out, he realized that the twister was heading towards them, that it almost seemed to be heading straight for them. It was anything but dangerous looking, in face, it looked fairly small, but it was unusual for one to be heading so purposefully.

"is that...." he'd barely begun to ask the question, then the little twister came right up to where the Hunter was standing, and died, the dirt settling at his feet, the wind never even touching the old farmer turned warrior.

"Gadz!," he said. "I ain't never seen anything like that before! The way it just died!"

The Hunter just stared. He stared at the ground at his feet, and back along the trail of the twister.

"No," he said quietly. "Joo dun see dat." It erased the tracks.... Khadiz thought.... Looking down, though, he noted that the Lizard tracks were still there.....

* * *

She took a moment to gather her wits. She couldn't find the trail anymore. It was gone. And there was nothing that she could do to put it back.

How...? She felt something wet curl around her leg. She started and looked down. Smiler looked up at her, its tongue curled around her leg. It nodded forward, slightly off from Astranaar.

She grinned. She had been fooled. Smiler could never be fooled. Predators found traces, and even if she couldn't see the traces, there was no possible way anyone but a shaman could stop themselves from leaving them.

Smiler would find him. She nodded to it, and it got itself into gear. It leapt through the night, unneringly finding a path through the trees until it stopped, very suddenly.

Troll: "Here?"

Smiler nodded.

Riz'arah dropped to the earth and stabbed her knife into the floor. Sudden sunlight illuminated the clearing. In the middle of the clearing, a silhouette, a long, bag-like object slung over its shoulder, began fading into view as she watched.

* * *

Khadiz

So, Jes'rimon told me a story once, about one of the finest rogues ever to grace Azeroth. How he moved like air. Not even a breeze you could feel, but the clammy, warm air of a dead summer's day, the kind that makes you drowsy, wondering where your afternoon and your margarita went. Except, instead of awaking to find you need a refill, you find a knife in your gut, and register only mild surprise as you drift off to sleep again. In the stories they tell about him, they call him Shadehand, and there are a lot of stories. Praise like that from someone like Jes'rimon is saying something; Jes himself leads the Shattered Hand, Thrall's personal under-the-table, you-don't-need-to-know band of agents. Wouldn't even tell me his name, the sly dog - he said something about honour among thieves and that even learning the true name of this particular rogue was something that people would take months to do, when attempting to contact him, enlist his services.

Seems like a rather poor way to advertise, but hey, I'm not in the Dirty Deeds business. And it sounds like this fella is anything but Dirt Cheap.

So, why is this the first thing I've written on a day that begun commiserating with an old man near Razor Hill? Because I never was one for continuity, and because it would become important later in the day, believe it or not. Kurmudgeon, to whom Hardishane had directed me, stood over Morticai's abandonned campsite with a puzzled look on his face, as I dropped prone, eye-level with the ground, with the bloodied rocks and dust, now long since dried black. It was a cold trail to be sure, but I've tracked colder. Of course, I'd be the first to admit that after a certain point, any hunter loses the scent.

In this case though, there was a rather substantial ray of hope - fresher tracks, raptor tracks, in fact, led off following the path of the pack of nightsabres. Raptor tracks, and a line of clear stone through the blood encrusting the rock near the long-dead fire. Someone had knelt near it, and run a finger through the blood when it was still wet. The same person who had mounted that raptor, and set off at breakneck speed toward the barrens. It was evident that I wasn't the only person in pursuit of Morticai.

My train of thought had only gotten so far when, off in the direction of the trail, something stirred in the distance. Dust devils are common in Durotar, but not ones that move with such constant speed, such a smooth line. The tiny vortex whirrled to our feet, and stopped, abolishing any trace of the cat tracks, and the elven bootprints. As the whirlwind dissipated, a puff of cool, moist air, smelling of loam and turned earth wafted past me. Somebody, a couple somebodies, actually, didn't want to be followed, and had emloyed one of the most difficult counter-tracking spell in the book to ensure they wouldn't be.

I swear, it's like the Earthmother herself is out to give me a rough day, sometimes.

My earlier ray of hope had become my only hope - the raptor tracks left by Morty's quicker benefactor remained undisturbed. And so, I noted, did the blood on the rock. Nothing else for it, I set out at a trot, leaving my own raptor tracks, wondering if this process would be repeated any more times today.

The tracks were leading to Ashenvale, predicatably. I was almost disappointed in my quarry - any raw Horde recruit knows that forest is overrun with Night Elves, that any elf-related disturbances in the Barrens can be traced to it. I was fighting hard against my other assumptions about elves and the ways in which they work. Morticai is atypical - ther are any number of Horde mages near Orgrimmar who would be far easier to track down. Hell, there was one passed out drunk with his mates behind the Crossroads inn last week. His abductors were far more than runn-of-the-mill. Or at least, whomever hired them was.

I was running short on time. If Mort's blood had already dried to that two-day black, his captors were long ahead of me. Fortunately, his pursuer was in far more of a hurry, and far less discreet. Trusting that they knew what they were doing, I redoubled my pace, missing any number of details, but the main line stretched unbroken ahead of me. And the main line was all I had time for. Ashenvale trees loomed overhead, and I hopped off Dromae's back, walking between her and Maenas. Their claws clicked along the cobblestones on either side of me, as I padded along the path, looking for fresh, telltale raptor scratches.

I needn't have bothered. The stench in the air was enough of a giveaway that any tracks would have been moot. It was not too far from the roadway, but far enough not to arouse the suspiction someone who hadn't been trained to taste the air. If a day goes by without my having to thank Melor for something, I've probably been asleep for most of it. I hate it when night elves bleed. It's like tree sap, like fermented berry juice. It's warm and sallow, and has a sickly-sweet aroma that will always turn your stomach onece you've noticed it. Such is the price nature exacts for damagaing that which was once immortal - you know instantly, viscerally just how much has been sacrificed. And there was enough night elf blood here to double me over, nearly retching. The raptor rider had caught its quarry here, and given them a sound thrashing. Four dead elves, left to rot by their comrades, and a splash of a much darker blood - the rider had been injured. Neither the rider nor the rest of the elves were still here, but in the chaos of the battlefield, and the thick ashenvale underbrush, tracking had become nigh impossible.

I could discover, however, that the rider was a magic user. Scorched trees and night-elf bodies told me that much. She - for that was the shape of the depression in the grass where the injured girl had lain - wore mail. And that, from the scent of her blood, was a troll. Red flags, and red hair popped unbidden into my mind. Surely enough, I saw strands of the same firey locks torn rougly from their owner on the branches near where she'd fallen, the same burning strands that Morticai had once shown me, wrapped around his finger. So his pursuer was Rizarah. Stood to reason, of course - and my had she been fighting hard. I doubt any one person could've faced her directly and won. Which left one option - the one who had vanquished her hadn't done anything directly at all. Poor girl probably never saw it coming, the knife of the rogue who'd done this. My trip had suddenly become a lot more dangerous.

Well, it would have, had I been able to discern which direction the survivors had gone. That damnable spell had long since eliminated any visual trail, and the putrid blood stench masked any faint odours that might remain. Resigned, I took Dromae by her reins, and walked her to the nearby lake. Dappled light draped over her, breaking her silhouette along the lines of her striping, an adaptation honed by Raptors over eons spent hunting in jungles. I spend my life observing, living with, and using the perfection of nature to help me achieve my ends, but at this point, I was at a loss. I splashed water over my face, trying to freshen my weary gaze, and maybe smell something other than night elf blood. Maenas scuttled into the water, glad to be immersed. I even had to call him back when an elf fisherman, nearly out of view on the far side of the lake, dumped a bucket of fishheads off his boat.

Whereupon I slapped myself in the face, called myself an idiot, and got to work.

I fished Morty's torn tabard out of my pack, and tossed it to Maenas, who caught it wit a click. While he mulled it over, I hauled my biggest waterskin off Dromae's back, and began walking a circle around what had been a battle, hours earlier. I sprayed water as I went, Maenas clattering behind me, antennae brushing the wettened grass. Crabs, fish, sharks, and virtually anything else that lives its life underwater have to have exceptional abilities to detect odour, even from great distances. It's how they survive, and it's exactly the sort of thing I need to remember in situations like this when I need to bring (and I'm not sure if I can forgive myself for writing this) a fish out of water. Not five minutes after we'd started our inspection, the little guy perked up, excitedly, claws snipping towards the northwest. Moistening our path as we went, Maenas led us slowly after Morticai.

As we pressed on, away from the stench of battle, that rich smell of turned earth became apparent once again, as it had when the twister in Durotar expired. Its path was laid out in tandem with the occasional drop of undead blood; Maenas followed his scent, and I followed mine, until my olfactory trial stopped, abruptly, just outside Astranaar. I thought surely this must have been where the spell was cast, for the only footprints I saw leading away belonged to a cadre of Nightsabres headed back to the elven village. Insistently, Maenas tugged me in the opposite direction - apparently his trail was still fresh.

It unnerved me - I trusted Maenas' tracking, and Earthmother knows we've hunted our share of beasts together, but even upon his urging I couldn't see any physical trail, even when the absence of the Pathminder spell told me that there should be one. My thoughts flickered to the battle whose aftermath I'd witnessed. Someone very subtle is in charge of this little expedition. On hands and knees, I hunkered down. An area perhaps half the size of my palm had been depressed in the grass. A footprint. At least, the kind of footprint an incredibly skilled rogue would leave when carrying a hundred and fifty extra pounds over his shoulders. They weren't too far ahead now, though I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to catch up with him. What would I do - say "Please mister rogue, I know you could kill me by looking at me, but can I have my friend back? Oh wait, where did you go?" and then procede to get stabbed in the face repeatedly? This would require some subtlety of my own.

Maenas skittered along our elusive friend's path, while I followed a parallel course some two hundred metres distant. Perhaps not the most tactically sound gambit, but preferable to a knife in the ribs, and it was all I had available on such short notice. Finally, my crustacean companion reached the edge of a clearing, the trail of our rogue at the freshest point it had been in hours. Through Maenas' eyes, I checked the clearing, and saw what was probably the last thing in the world I'd expected, apart from Morticai jumping out from a rock and shouting "Gotcha!". Rizarah, battleworn and exhausted, nearly fell from her raptor, opposite the clearing from a figure who was only now becoming visible. All I could make out was that he was a stocky man, cloaked in black, because blazing through the forest at top speed, in the thrall of my Cheetah aspect, my vision wasn't at its clearest. I had to bridge that distance before she tried to attack - in her state, she wouldn't stand a chance if that were, as I suspected, Shadehand. Hell, if she were in top form, with me to back her up, we'd be dispatched with barely a though. Thrall himself would have to break a sweat, if half the things I'd heard about this guy were true.

Rizarah wasn't taking any prisoners - totems from all the elements were planted at cardinal points around her, she was channeling something big. Across the clearing, I thought I saw Shadehand tap his foot impatiently. For someone who thinks three times about every move he makes, ever, that's tantamount to an insult. He must've seen me as I approached - I was making far too much noise not to be noticed - but Riz was lost in passion and vengeance, as she tried her damnedest to save her... (Note to self: Her WHAT? Didn't she say they could never be together? Didn't she try to kill him once? Women.) her friend, I suppose. So it's reasonable to assume that while the rogue saw me barrell roll through the final line of shrubbery and skid across the clearing on my knees to plant a freezing trap between them, Riz was too enraged to notice or care. When she leapt at him, eyes and weapons glowing, she must've been shocked to encounter a fragile, frigid prison.

Underneath his thick cowl, I could've sworn I saw Shadehand raise an eyebrow.

"Go." I said, catching my breath. "This never happened."

He nodded imperceptibly, and I felt my stomach lurch as he shouldered his burden, and disappeared into the trees. I was so close to saving Mort, and so was Riz, but against that foe, what could we have done? It occurred to me, in those endless seconds, waiting for the trap's magic to break, that I would never know. Rizarah had apparently succumbed to the cold, her wounds proving too much to endure once the adrenaline had worn off. It would help her to sleep for a while, and heal. As gently as I could manage, I slung her over Dromae, the female raptor stepping gently to try and avoid bucking her charge. Smiler probably would've bitten my hand off had I known less about raptors, but he seemed concerned enough with Riz to accept my hand on his reigns as we all walked back to Splintertree post.

I've written an abridged version of these events to Alerca in a letter. If the Society was behind this, I don't want Hardishane to know more than he has to - she'll know what to tell him. Rizarah sleeps fitfully across from me here at the Inn in Splintertree - the young Tauren ladies tending her with poultices and magic. I shudder to think the kind of treatment I'll be in for when she wakes, saving her life notwithstanding. Now, sitting here alone, I'm forced to wonder - why did I let Shadehand take my friend? The odds were against us. There was no way we could've fought him and won. If they had wanted him dead, they'd have killed him in Razor Hill. None of this makes any difference to me, because I can't get around the fact that I didn't *TRY*. If that makes me a bad friend, so be it. If that makes me a coward, I don't care too much - cowards are very successful at surviving, a trait valued in a hunter. The idea I can't abide is the one that Riz will probaby accuse me of when she wakes. Am I cold? Am I the calculating type, the one who figures numbers and probabilities before friends and honour? I've been raised by the biggest of the big-hearted, and taught by people who know that family, that friends come before anything else. Why then, when it came to my own survival, did I choose it over risking that survival for that of a friend? I know I saved Riz, and maybe I saved myself too. I should be happy - a wise man once said that "Two out of three ain't bad", but why do I feel this pit in my stomach? When there's no room for any more regret in my mind, maybe I'll be able to think about what to do next. But that won't be tonight. I hope my friends - those whom I haven't abandoned yet - will be able to help me. And help Mort.

Because, God knows, I couldn't.

* * *

Hardishane was in his workshop, deep in the Cleft. They’d gifted it to him upon completion of his training, and his feelings were mixed on it. On the one hand, it was a proper laboratory in which to perform his art. On the other hand… well, nothing was ever free. The price would catch up with him eventually, and he dreaded that day in an absent manner.

He took a pinch of lowly Silverleaf, and began to crush it to powder under mortar and pestle. He remembered its color, lost to him now, blue-white like the steel in a new sword, and with it he was thoughtlessly creating an elixir of defense. Earthroot, gnarled and ugly like the mandrake’s limbs, followed next into the mortar and added its watery body to the mess. Soon he worked a paste, brilliant yellow like fresh ginger, and this became a potion of strength. Then he added the subtle purple petals, Arthas’ Tears, and it became a paralytic brew. Toxic. Poison. The same herbs which hardened the skin and strengthened the muscles became so much more potent, now an elixir that would stiffen the body to stony hardness and also keep the imbiber statuesque on the spot. Absently, he wondered if this could be done without killing the subject, and he made a note.

And then he threw the brew away. He was not like those in the Apothecarium, or in Tarren Mill. He saw no purpose in wasting life on curiosity alone, and darkly he told himself it wasn’t out of virtue, but squeamishness. He started fresh, falling easily back into the rhythm of mortar and pestle, cauldron and decanter, rack and vial. And when the activity had soothed his nerves enough, his mind wandered back to Morticai.

The morning after his encounter with Rizarah, he checked his mail for a note from the tailors of the cleft, to see that the repairs for his robes were finished. What he’d found instead was a letter from a grunt at Razor Hill, a sentry named Kurmudgeon, attached to a package that smelled of blood. With shaking claws he sliced through the waxen seal and read words that had haunted his quiet moments in the days that followed.

…found a campsite in the desert… big cat tracks, perhaps Ashenvale Outrunners… dried blood… tabard registered to The Bone Splinter … no bodies were found… condolences on your loss.

He withdrew the tabard, turning it over in his hands. When you led a guild that was open to all the allied races of the horde, tailoring mattered. The torn red tabard, skeletal emblem clotted with black blood, was short-bodied and narrow-waisted, with reinforced sides. The sides were to protect against the occasional exposed bone. It was a dead man’s tabard, and with sinking heart Hardishane could think of only one dead man of his lot that he had not seen in the last few days, only one who had gone out into the desert… Morticai. The only other thing in the bloody package was a bit of painted wood, whorled and asymmetrical. He recognized it, because he had one not entirely unlike it, but could not imagine what Morticai would do with such a charm. It was perfectly mundane, as his empty eyes could ascertain.

Around him the crowd milled, Tauren snorting and clomping to collect their mail, other Forsaken jostling and cackling in their rough voices, Orcs barking at one another from the doorway of the Bank. A troll elbowed up and plunged a narrow wrist into the pile, and it was only then that Hardishane realized he was still standing in the way of the mail slot, holding this tabard limply and staring straight ahead. Darkly he thought, I must look a sight.

He turned adroitly, pulling out his hearthstone. On the back was the enchanted jade of his guild, ensorcelled to carry the voices of every other member, and his to them. In a voice that sounded colder than he knew his to be, he spoke.

“Exarchs. I need to see you. Now.”

And then he folded the bloodied tabard and set it down, and waited for them to arrive.

~~~~

Alerca arrived first, her apprehension at the strange summons showing in her flickering shape. He began to talk to her even as Hakkai arrived, and did not stop speaking when the witch doctor, Hukari, sidled over to say hello and listen. Hardishane’s mind was racing. No body? He could think of a thousand motives for any number of fools to want Morticai dead, but none who would want him alive and captive, as all this implied. Furthermore, any who were skilled enough to catch him unawares… it didn’t make sense, and it chilled him. Alerca paled when she read the letter, and actually turned away when he showed them the bloody tabard.

They brainstormed right there in the open square, a hushed circle of red tabards and ashen faces, and finally he decided they should speak with a hunter to look over the camp. The first one he thought of was Khadiz — and with a wince. Khadiz had seen him at his lowest, his rock-bottom worst, and though he greatly liked and admired the troll he often wondered what thoughts were going on behind that wolf mask of his. But there was no question that it was a hunter he trusted, and he would be delicate with whatever information came into his hands. But the problem lay in finding him—Khadiz often vanished for days at a time. He voiced this concern and Hukari spoke up, to say that he had just been contacted by the hunter in question.

Without a moment to spare, and their tasks set, Hardishane accompanied the shaman to Kalimdor’s southern shores, to set the evidence before him and beg a favor from the troll.

* * *

Rizarah

She lay in the bed in the Splintertree Inn, staring up into the darkened cieling for a long time after Morticai went still and quiet in the bed on the other side of the room.

Now that they had gotten him back, she confronted issues anew that she thought she had lain to rest. The realization had come crashing down on her when she had first seen him stumbling around in Brethan's Haunt, apparently enthralled by some magic she had no understanding of.

He's a corpse!

She had smiled and joked her way through it when he had thrown it in her face earlier, but there was no escaping the cold reality. She shifted to try to make herself more comfortable. It didn't work.

You love him.

Yes.

Do you?

Yes!

Are you sure?

YES!

Then why are you awake?

Because...

Because you don't know if you'll be able to stand his touch.

She shifted guiltily. Yes. That was the reason. Could she really stay with him if it meant that every time she came into heat, she would have to mentally prepare herself to not vomit all over the place?

Her vision zoomed through rooms and darkness, eventually bringing her to a stop in front of a mirror. She looked within, hungry for any advice.

A younger version of herself; perhaps twelve years, stared out at her.

It mouthed, "Life is too short."

She blinked. She sat up. She loved him. Wasn't that all that mattered?

Of course.

...wasn't it?

She took a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

Hardishane knelt over the fallen satyr, the demon’s huge, distorted body still quaking with its last, shuddering breaths. Without ceremony he grasped it by one of its dying arms and levered the beast off the rock where it had fallen, barely aware of its death rattle, and he knelt close to the ground, laying his head against it. There, sure enough, was the frail violet bloom, glowing dimly to his empty eyes. He gently removed the rubble from around its base and drew a sharp knife, slicing through the stem and plucking it, then wrapping the very end of the wounded base in silken twine and tying it off, to prevent insects from invading and eating the remainder of the plant from within. The responsible herbalist protected the stock, after all. Then, his prize carefully cupped in hand, he summoned C’iel’aroth, and rode her back to Splintertree. He was already fond of the mare, her own seething dislike of him notwithstanding. No demon horse liked their master.

Hardishane was, as usual, thinking about Morticai. It had been days since he’d spoken with Khadiz and given over the items he’d received, offering anything he could think of to aid in the search. Every morning he haunted the mailbox as it came in, his hopes rising and falling as he received packages and letters — almost all of them from the auction house, and none of them from his friends in the search. It had become his growing habit, stopping to check for messages in every town he passed, and as the days advanced his concern only grew. But nothing happened and the hunter, as was his wont, had apparently been swallowed up by the earth again. The warlock penned some letters and sent them, checking on the goings-on with the comrades he rarely saw in person, and submitted his shipment of lotus in a carefully sealed package to be delivered to his workshop in the Cleft. He did it all dispassionately, and then stepped into the inn to purchase a bottle of Morning Glory essence for his adventures. With Morticai gone, so was his supply of conjured water for the road. And that is when he saw her.

Laying there on a cot against the well, her aura billowing, the flame and amber clouds of the shamaness. It was her signature, and Hardishane fancied it was her personality that made her look so to him, though in truth the differences in signature between the people he’d met had never seemed to follow a system. He was blind to his own, like a statue in a watercolor world. He felt his stomach sink — he had not seen her since Thunder Bluff, and he still was not prepared to speak with her. Seeing she still slept he turned quickly on his heel, striding to the front door of the inn. Another twenty feet and he would be at the wyvern master, able to pay his passage back to Orgrimmar, back to his workshop, back to…

He slowed before he reached the threshold and paused. A sense of duty, born of a pious and honorable upbringing and sharpened by years in the discipline of the Society, would not allow him to walk out. Out of respect for Morticai, he owed it to relate to her what had happened, if she didn’t already know it herself. At least there are no cliffs here, he thought to himself. He turned around like a man facing the gallows, and was stunned to spot a presence he had not noticed before — Khadiz.

The troll was without Maenas, crouching at the foot of a cot not far from Rizarah, and he nodded at Hardishane from behind that grinning wolf mask he always wore.

“Khadiz!” Hardishane said his name with relief, but too loudly, and he quickly hushed his voice so as not to wake the sleeping lioness nearby. “Light, I’d hoped to hear from you. How goes it?”

“Ah found Morticai, if dat’s what joo are askin, but…”

Khadiz sighed, and didn’t go on. They both glanced at Rizarah. Hardishane prompted him. “He is alive, then?”

Khadiz nodded, but then immediately cautioned, “But, joo see, it’s like dis…” Hardishane let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Alive, thank the Light. He’d never wanted to believe he could be dead in the first place, but how could one know…?

“Ah caught up wit’ de guy who had ‘im—rogue named Shadehand, one o’ de best o’ da best in dis business, de kinda guy dat somebody only hires who has a lot of gold to spend and doesn’t take chances.” Khadiz glanced at Rizarah again. “De kind o’ guy dat I don’ like to mess with unless ah got reason ta. He had a Pathminder spell, somethin’ real expensive, dat joo don’t make unless you know you’re gonna use it, and don’t sell unless someone gonna give you a pile of gold for it. It be dat difficult to make, and dat rare. And it worked — Ah lost the trail.”

Hardishane knit his brow and began to ask, but Khadiz had finished taking his breath and carried on. “Lucky for me, dis li’l lady had ahready caught up ta him, and lucky fo’ her I was dere ta stop her. Shadehand woulda killed us both ah tink, though I don’ know if she’ll see it dat way. She was bad hurt.” They both looked uneasily to Rizarah—and she looked right back at him. Awake.

The warlock moved to her bedside even as she finished her healing spell, and he watched the gauzy lines of her magic enhance and renew her wounds. Then she was sitting up, and he offered her a hand. To his surprise, she took it—and then, less surprisingly, she yanked him forward so he half stumbled and half fell onto the bed, catching himself with one hand.

She spat the words, aura flickering. “Choo bettah be havin’ answahs foah me, li’l dead mon, oh d’wall be wearin choo.” Her chin was lifted resolutely. Conscious for less than a minute and already raring to fight? He wondered if it was traditional among the Gurubashi trolls to offer a threat before saying hello, but decided she probably just never liked him.

Hardishane did not fight her, keeping his voice quiet. “If I had any answers for you, madam, I would have already gone myself and retrieved our magus safely, instead of relying on the strengths and skills of others to find him. The decision to go on ahead was yours, and your failure was your own; I take no responsibility.” A voice reminded him he hadn’t exactly sought her out, either, but he muffled it effectively. She let him go immediately — but instead of a retort, she started to cry.

He softened immediately, regretting being so harsh with her. How could he help it, when she pushed him so? But, he couldn’t stand seeing a woman cry, and although he knew she was as certain to appreciate it as to stab him in the middle he laid a clawed hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. The tigress wept on. Khadiz, Light bless him, cleared his throat and began talking about Shadehand, pitching his voice to distract from her sobs.

“When I caught up wit’ d’ two of ‘em he had Mort over ‘is shoulder, all bound up in a sack like, and he was running on foot. He couldn’t ‘ave been all dat far from ‘is destination.”

“Where did you find him at?”

“Not too fah from Astranaar, mon.”

“Perhaps we should start our search there, then.” Rizarah was drying up on the bed, composing herself quickly. Hardishane wondered how long he could antagonize her so, before the wench got sick of it and tried to kill him. He had a feeling they would come to blows some day, and he didn’t like to think of who would win.

* * *

A distant clopping sound became a large shadow in the doorway, and in came the ebon-furred shape of a Tauren wearing the red tabard — Torero.

“Hello! I am Torero. I am not here to spy on Hardishane for Alerca,” he announced. Hardishane began to greet him, then stopped on the last sentence, poleaxed. There was a dumbfounded silence, and then Khadiz started snickering.

Hardishane cleared his throat. “Well! Well, that’s… that’s excellent. Have a seat, Torero.”

Khadiz composed himself and went on. “Like ah said, though, couldn’ ‘ave been too fah from where he was headin’.”

“Then it might be too late, even if we tracked him. If he was hired, wouldn’t he have left Morticai and gone home with his pay? We’d not have to fight him, but we truly lack any other leads, if what you said about the Pathminder spell was true.”

Rizarah spoke up. “Ah can track ‘im.” She held up a digit, grinning evilly. The talon on the end was dark, and she stuck it in her mouth and sucked it. When she showed her tongue and teeth again, they were covered in bright blood.

“Ah got a claw in ‘im the fahst time ‘e got me. Ah got ‘is blood, an’ dat means ah got a li’l bit of ‘is life…. Coahse, ah can’ nec’arily do anyt’ing to him wit’ it, but he doan ‘ave ta know.” The way she was smiling told him she had other plans.

She sucked the talon again, then let out a great cough and sprayed it on the bed sheets before them, to the distant (but very quiet) shock of the innkeeper. Who would dare to complain to this woman? The orc woman shuffled out of sight to attend to some very pressing cleaning duties elsewhere, as Rizarah traced delicate crimson signs against the white linen. He and Khadiz watched with interest, as did, to a lesser extent, Torero. She wove signs and chanted words of power, and slowly a crimson sign settled in the visible air before them — Hardishane had watched it form. And then she opened her eyes again and directed it at Khadiz, where lines erupted from it and touched his spectral eyes. The hunter took it bravely, hardly with a grunt, and Hardishane began to summon his fel armor before it reached him too.

Not fast enough. The sign attacked his spectral eyes as well, burning the shape into it, like a filigree arrow, and blinded him temporarily. He let the pain show with a grunt, his hands shooting upwards to cover his empty eyes. Within a few seconds the disorientation faded, leaving the arrow burned into his sight, tugging in one direction insistently. A tracking spell. She had performed a tracking spell, and shared it with them.

Beside him he heard Torero mutter, with meek insistence, “that is not the way.”

Hardishane let his hands drop from his empty sockets, lifting his chin with slow anger. “One would appreciate it if one offered some warning before the next time she hexes one.”

“Ah’m doin’ dis ta ‘elp Morticai,” she said smugly. Hardishane’s composure was thin, and Khadiz still looked stunned.

“Yes. You’d burn the world if you thought it would help him. This is your problem; you only act, and never think!”

She grinned broadly. “Yeah, ah’m an animal.”

“Evolve, Rizarah.” Hardishane wanted to spit, as always. She had no regrets! He could barely stand the woman, and if Morticai were here…

But Morticai wasn’t here. Khadiz stepped in. “Yeah, evolve, like ah done.”

“Chyeah! Like joor people done, an’ got all but hunted ta extinction! Like joor people done, and dey be slaves to de rest a de world. No t’anks, we Gurubashi be de fightin’ type.”

Khadiz spoke reproachfully, but not angrily. Hardishane made a note to ask Hukari about some troll history later. “Yeah, we gone civil an’ nearly been hunted out—but if dat be the way, den dat be the way. If Nature be wanting my people gone to history books, den she’ll have dat. But dere’s no call for de way joo actin’, miss.”

Rizarah made a wicked smile and began to reply. Hardishane cut her off, head beginning to ache from the object dominating his Sight. “Are you finished defending yourself, or would you like to find Morticai now?”

She looked to him, plainly wounded. He fought hard not to feel regretful, but he was. And without another word they all rose, striding to the threshold and summoning their steeds. Rizarah’s orange Smiler came to her, and with a beckon his C’iel’aroth came as well. Khadiz let forth a sharp whistle and forward came his violet raptor, Dromae.

Khadiz closed his eyes, at the point of the party, and then lead on. Perhaps the rogue was no longer in Morticai’s company, certainly, but he would be able to tell them who had bought his services… and no rogue, no matter how skilled, was believably a match for the three powerful riders.

 

* * *

Torero watched with growing concern. The magic that the Witch Doctor (he refused to call her a Shaman since she lacked the inner Balance) called upon - they were wrong and she should know better.

"This is not the way," he said.

Quietly, to himself since no one else was listening, he added a few other things in his own language. He was very disapointed in the Witch Doctor. That he spoke at all was eveidence of that.

He wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but hexing both the Hunter Troll and Hardishane - this was not the way to deal with it. He made a mental note to find out the Witch Doctor's name and, since he had the ear of the King of the Troll, he would speak to him about setting her on the straight path again.

Suddenly, he realized that, perhaps, as King, Hukari might know her mother. That would be very handy - if anyone could get through to the woman, it would be her mother. Everyone listened to their mother after all.

This reminded him of the Troll Woman in Orgrimmar - the one baring her legs for all the world to see. The thought of her made him blush again, as he had when he had seen her. Hardishane was saying something but all he could think about was that poor woman's mother.....

That was when he realized that they were leaving!! Alerca had trusted him to watch over things, to report back to her anything he observed and here they were leaving!!

Following them outside the inn, he was mortified to find them mounting up on thier steeds - he didn't have one of those yet!!!

"I cannot follow you!" he said in a panic.

"That's all right, Torero. you had best report back to Alerca on the things you weren't spying on me about," Hardishane said with a laugh, harsh and grating. And then they were gone - the three of them riding off.

Torero was beside himself now. He dug around in his pack, trying to find the stone, hopping from one foot to the other, tossing out peacebloom, silverleaf, earthroot - all out onto the floor, eliciting a growl of displeasure from the innkeeper that caused his own ears to flatten against his head in embarrasment.

Turning around, he squeezed the tiny stone tightly in his hand.

"ALERCA!!! I THINK IT'S GOING VERY BADLY!!!!" he shouted.

"..what? Torero - calm down."

Only, he couldn't calm down, he was far too excited and the innkeeper was mad at him and he had failed Alerca in the only thing she had ever asked him to do and he got lost and she helped him and then he was here and then the hex and the Witch Doctor and the giant crab and then they were riding away without him and everything was happening so fast and he didn't know what to do...

"THAT WOMAN, I THIN.....g.g.ggrrrRRRRRRAAWWWR!"

"Torero? Torero?!"

Bear stared at the odd place he found himself waking up in. It wasn't the first time he had gone to sleep in one place, and woke up in another. This looked like the kind of place the two-legs liked. Sniffing, he caught the scent of something sweet even as a big two-legs began to hit him with something. From the smell, this was a female. The strange straw thing she hit him with stung, and he growled at her, but let her shoo him outside.

He still smelled something sweet, raising his nose high into the air to catch the scent again. With a roar, he ran up the high dirt and across the hard dirt that made his claws click and then down into the place beyond. It was cool here and he could smell water nearby and the something sweet and there were fish, and he didn't know them and they tasted good on the air too.....

* * *

Torero woke in a cave, surrounded by bones and covered in something sticky and sweet. Groaning, he pushed his way out into the light and found that he was high on a hill overlooking a lake. Taking another step forward, the ground gave way beneath him and with a bellowing shout, he started rolling down the hill, smashing through shrubs and bushes, finally landing into the lake below with a great splash.

* * *

Lion woke in the strangest place......

* * *

His entire body ached. The bed felt soft and warm, the covers pulled tightly over his curled up form. Still, he shivered. The pain in his head, ever present, felt tenfold stronger than it ever had before, and he cringed at the thought of opening his eyes.

A bit disorientated, he remembered bits and pieces of the previous night: Hardishane barking orders in demonic, his being unable to do anything but follow, Riz'Arah standing before him, only he did not know her which caused her to turn away in anger and hurt, walk off by herself. And then he was here, in Splintertree, softly crying, his head cradled in her lap.

Bits and pieces.

A scent assaulted him, and he realized that it was himself, filthy and unwashed. He'd have to do something about that, and soon, only, he still didn't want to deal with the pain that would come from opening his eyes. It was the light..... Always the light.....

Moving a bit to readjust beneath the covers, his body aches all the more, and he realized that he's probably been curled up in a ball all night - not surprising, really. Given all that's happened to hm this past few days......

Even as he starts to remember, a sharp pain slashes through his mind, his body, and the image fades away.

"I'm fine," he says outloud. "Never better."

Moving of it's own violtion, his hand grasps the locket around his neck. He sighs contently - it was still there, after everything.... it was still there.

A sudden impulse to see her pushed his eyes open, blinking with the harsh light of morning, each blink letting a dagger stab through. He recognizes the little inn at Splintertree and the smell of food cooking pulls him into a sitting position. Only the inn keeper is there - scanning the other beds, he finds them all empty. His eyes pause where she had slept, across the room from him. Empty.

Pushing to his feet, letting the blankets fall away, he is cold again. He still wears the clothes of a simple laborer, the clothes they found him in and they provide little protection. That's when he realizes that all his posessions, except for the locket, are gone.

Moving to the edge of the bed, he sits heavily, using the mound of clothes piled there as a foot rest. Idly, he runs his toe along his staff, depressed that all his belongings.....

Looking down - there were his things. Diving into them, he found his packs, his staff, his favorite hat, his clothing - it was all here.... except for the Frostweave Robe he'd worn the night.... Shaking his head, he didn't think about it - his things were here, waiting for him.

Excitied, he asked the innkeeper who had left them for him, but she said she didn't see anyone come or go in hours, and couldn't remember when the pile appeard at the foot of his bed. She said this while her nose crinkled up..... He stunk....

Digging through his things, he found his coin purse and ordered up a hot bath, which the innkeeper was only too happy to provide. he tried to think who could have gone out and found his things, and kept coming back to Riz'Arah - only she would have done it. But, why find his things, leave them for him, and then not stay for him to wake? They had so much to talk about. She'd said, last night, that she loved him.......

Morticai dove into the tub and began scrubbing the filth from his body. He gave the innkeeper strict instructions to BURN the clothes he'd been wearing. Clean and dry, he beagan dressing, pulling on a second robe he'd kept in his pack for when he wasn't in battle. Soon, he was dressed, looking normal again, pulling his hat down low to shield his eyes. He bent over to pick up his staff, and the locket came loose, dangling free, sparkling in the light of the cookfire....

Images flashed in his mind.

Morticai dug through his pack again, eyes glazed over, pulling a sheathed dagger out and fixing it to his belt. The inn keeper said something to him, and he looked up.

"I'm fine. Never better."

Leaving the inn, he walked across to the purchase a flight to Orgrimmar. Fingering the dagger, he knew, he had to see Riz'Arah......

* * *

"Morticai is okay?"

He smiled at Rukra, her purple locks falling across her face, the wind making it look like a tangled mess. Still, he thought her beautiful - he always had, but it had never been a sexual attraction. There was simply something about her that drew him, made him want to protect her, keep her safe.

Which was ridiculous, of course. She was a Warrior, strong enough to rip him in two if she ever had the inclination, and she saw it as her duty to protect him whenever they fought together.

"Joo dun seem y'self," said the Troll, and he tried very hard not to frown. Idly, he wondered if any man would be worthy, in his eyes, of Rukra's love and attention. She had picked this one, though, this Witch Doctor named Hukari, and all he could do was continue to watch, and make sure he didn't hurt her.

Pain, sudden and sharp behind his eyes. He had something to do, someone to see, yet he tried to fight the urge. If he saw her... it would...be....bad.....

"I have a favor to ask of you, Doctor," he heard his own voice say. Rukra's face was showing such concern, even Hukari, who cared as much for Morticai as Morticai cared for him, looked worried.

"Joo gonna ask me ta talk ta 'ardi?"

"Yes."

"Joo did dat ahready, tree times now...."

"oh."

His mind was so foggy now. It was so hard to concentrate. Still, he needed to ask a favor of the Doctor.

"Hukari? I need you to do me a favor - I'd like you to talk to Shane for me. He needs to talk to Rizarah. Keep her away for a while. She'll listen to him - she always has, they are the best of friends."

Hukari only nodded, and Rukra looked near tears.

"Morticai need sleep."

He nodded, they continued to talk, and he even said something, but it all became a blur. They wanted him to sleep, and he needed to sleep, so he did not argue. Sleep came quickly enough, and then the dreams began again. he tried to force them away, tried to dream of anything else, but he could only hear the voice, repeating itself over and over.....

"....I want you to suffer as I have suffered....you will kill her...."

Morticai slept fitfully.

* * *

It was time. She craned her head to stare at the moon as it drifted serenely in the sky. It was time. She looked down at the squirrel, perhaps mauled by a wolf. It was strange for a corpse lying in the wild; insects and bloodsuckers swarmed around the body, but the eyes, complete with pupils, stared straight towards Orgimmar.

She sighed and whistled loudly. Smiler peeked through the brush, grinning widely. She smiled back; Smiler trundled over and wrapped its long warm tongue around her outstretched arm. She patted him on the forehead for a few seconds, then swung up onto his back.

Off she went, faster than the wind towards Orgimmar, only one face in her thoughts; Morticai.

* * *

She found his trace in the Cleft; she followed it straight into a two-storied building. She trudged up the ramp and found Hardishane and Morticai and another strange undead woman. Hardishane and Morticai were lying down, one with his head to the wall, the other lying at a ninety-degree angle at his feet. The undead woman was crouched over Hardishane.

She looked up, "You're not supposed to be in here!"

Hardishane's imp was running screaming around her feet wailing helplessly about her walking in where she wasn't wanted. Under her wolf mask, she grinned. He sounded oddly like his owner.

Casually, she kicked the imp aside and tapped her foot. Hardishane came to his feet, the undead woman supporting him. He paled at the sight of her.

"You! He... he hasn't seen you yet! Leave!"

She hesitated, but then simply walked back down the ramp and waited outside. Presently, Hardishane came out to see her. He looked pale, drawn; worn out.

What he said there was basically summed up to, "He's going to try to kill you."

With that running through her mind, she stepped into the room where Morticai was arguing with the undead girl. He looked shocked and pleased to see her. He opened his arms to embrace her, but she moved back. Hardishane and the undead girl walked out of the room to give them space.

Riz'arah had smelled something she hadn't liked much. She whispered a few words and measured him again. Inviting him, she opened her arms. He came in, and hugged her, speaking soft words; then he stabbed her in the stomach, over and over again. She smiled smugly, the began laughing out loud. It was true, but the fact that his face showed almost no awareness of what he was doing told her the story. It wasn't really him. She took the knife from his hands and threw it aside; her stomach healed instantly, and she gave him a right cross to the jaw, knocking him out instantly.

"Hardishane!" She called.

After some exchanged words, they decided it better for her to leave, and not to interfere until it was either desperate, or he was better.

So off she went.

* * *

"Morticai? How are you feeling?"

The question is asked by everyone who sees him, everyone who cares, and the answer comes immediately, as if by rote:

"Fine. Never better."

It is almost always greeted by frowns. He wasn't fine - far from it. His behavior was erratic, his clarity of thought lacking in substence - his memory had as many holes as a piece of Alterac Swiss.

Sadly, it was getting worse.

When he had given his answer, and moved away, there was almost always the parting whisper, at the edge of his ability to hear it, from those who asked and cared:

"....what happened to him?"

It was a question he couldn't answer, try as he might. In his most lucid moments, he remembered heading out into the desert, heartbroken and weary, falling asleep quickly enough, and then waking up at the inn in Splintertree, alone and confused.

The days in-between were empty; a void; a darkness. No matter how he tried, he could not remember what had happened, how he had come to be in Ashenvale, who had tortured him - for Hardishane had seen the evidence on his body - there was nothing.

Nothing.

....except in dreams that faded immediately when he woke, often in a panicked sweat.....

How long he slept, he couldn't say. The last blow to his head had sent him reeling back into the dark recesses of his mind far longer than he liked, consciousness coming slowly along with a ringing in his ears. Darkness all around him even with his eyes open - the hood again. In his mouth, the gag.

The difference was that he was no longer tied to the back of an animal, a definite improvement until he tried to move, and heard the clink of chains, felt the burning in his shoulders that indicated his arms were shackled high above him and pulled taut. His skin prickled and with it came the realization that he was all but naked, standing on cold stone in bare feet.

["What is this?"] asked a female voice. She sounded more than angry, like someone who had come to the edge of madness and, happily, had jumped.

["Looks like a locket to me..."] replied a male voice, almost a whisper. If he had to, Morticai didn't think he would be able to identify that voice - it was male, but other than that, it was completely nondescript. He knew it must belong to the Rogue who had come at him from behind.

["Why?! Why would it have something like this?"]

["Why would anyone?"]

["NO!] she shrieked at him. ["It's a thing - a cold dead thing!!!"]

While she was shouting, he decided to test the shackles holding him, pulling as hard as he could, causing another clink of metal. This time, they heard him.

["It's awake,"] said the whispered voice.

Angry steps followed, and a hand gripped his head, twisting it back roughly. Still, he could see nothing, the hood tied tightly in place, keeping him in darkness.

["Is it awake?!"] she screeched, and a blow to his stomach came that would have doubled him over had he not been stretched the way he was, standing on tip toes. His eyes watered as the bile rose in his throat. The hand released his head and the angry steps moved away.

["I have to know what this is!"] she said.

["What does it matter?"] the male asked quietly. ["I brought it to you, as you wanted."]

A slap and then ["I HAVE TO KNOW!"]

["You paid me to bring it to you, and I did,"] the male says, all threat and malice now. ["...but strike me again, and I may decide that the payment is not enough, take a little bit more out in trade..."]

Whoever he is, the threat works, and she apologizes, but to Morticai, she sounds as if she is on her last thread of sanity. Again, the footsteps padding toward him, the hand on his head, pulling it back.

The hood is pulled away and, for the first time, he sees the Night Elf standing before him; her robes white and glistening, her very body seemingly bathed in the 'Light'. - or was it Elune? He could never remember with Night Elf Priests. Her purple hair was pulled back and away from her face, falling down her back loosely. Dark eyes flecked with blue stared coldly at him, and dangling from its chain, she held his Locket in her hand.

["If it could understand me, I would ask it what this was,"] she said.

["Oh,"] said the male, and Morticai tried to find him, but all he saw was a shape off in the shadows. ["It understands everything we are saying. My research indicates that it speaks all the languages quite fluently."]

Those cold eyes turned back to him and he gave as good as he got, staring back with all the coldness he could muster.

["...is that so?"] she asked. She held the Locket up, close to his face. ["What is this?"] she said quietly. Of course, Morticai said nothing, and it wasn't just the gag still in his mouth. He was not about to discuss something so personal with the woman who had paid to capture him.

The cudgel cracked across his nose, and he heard the bone snap as his head was thrown back with the impact. She asked again, and again the cudgel struck, his jaw cracking with the blow. Somewhere, he heard the male voice saying something about the gag, but then the cudgel struck again, and again, and again, until the darkness came, and the world melted away to nothingness.

["You killed it."]

She stood over the dead thing, the bloodied cudgel held in one hand, the Locket in another. Her robes had dark splatters of blood all across, with speckles on her face and arms.

["I did."] she said proudly. Then she dropped the cudgel, and clutched at the Locket as the Light grew within her, a silent prayer on her lips. With his dark blood still dripping from it, her hand rose toward the dead thing, filling it with the Light until it exploded out its eyes, its nose, causing the body to thrash as breath again returned to it, the thing gasping and coughing against it's gag.

She held the Locket up to its face, now healed, and smiled in a way a cat might just before pouncing on it's prey, and asked, ["...what is this?"]

Part Three