Disclaimer: World of Warcraft and all expansions are the property of Activision-Blizzard, of which I am not a part of, and its intellectual property is used here for non-profit purposes simply to entertain.
Usually I like to begin a story with why I bothered writing it. In this case, I don't rightfully know. It's one of the few stories I decided to post from the compilation document called simply "C." The exact origins aren't worth recounting, I feel, but this specific story is a combination of multiple story ideas that I feel blended together into something rather interesting. For a brief moment, I considered exploring the Cult of the Damned from their perspective, humanizing it, but I found myself preferring the blunt voice of Doomsmayor and left the details curt, efficient as the operation she seeks to run.
I don't have the whole plot worked out yet, but I feel like this story will be going places. Or can be going places. I have other priorities, but this is my intended side-project when I get stuck in editing or rewriting hell for WotSE.
Cult
Footnote 2.1.a:
It is imperative for readers to know the events recited herein involving the persons Pelin Tyrist Vellums, Bridgett Goodmayor, and Vinhild Gardsdottir between the dates March of the 35th year and November of the 36th are reconstructed as accurately as we are able, but considering the vanishing nature of Vellums and the widespread deceits of Goodmayor, some of the things we recount as truth may be either embellished, misinterpreted, or otherwise wrong. This text is intended as a historical reference, but it is in no capacity comprehensive or complete.
February had been a busy month for Bridgett Doomsmayor, born Goodmayor but renamed at her own choosing sometime after her indoctrination within the Cult of the Damned. A string of successful operations against the Argent Crusade within Zul'Drak combined with the assassination of her circle's Speaker led to Doomsmayor's sudden thrust into leadership and the eventual inheritance of the position of Dark Speaker.
By the end of the month, she was already traveling for Icecrown Glacier, and she assumed direct command of the Icewatch and cultist operations early into March. The full extent of her territory was as follows: The Icewatch Gizzard, where corpses were to be broken down and reconstituted into various Scourge constructs; The Icewatch Fields, which will be expanded upon momentarily; and the cultist lodgings called the Nook and Crannies, with the Nook housing Doomsmayor herself and the less said about the state of the Crannies, the better.
The Icewatch Fields covered eighty percent of the land Doomsmayor controlled, and likewise it maintained eighty percent of cult operations for the area, with the Gizzard holding the other twenty. It was at once a wide, spacious land to discard extraneous parts from the Gizzard, dump failed experiments, retrieve fresh parts, and a ways more, such as the Scourge converters which haunted the ghost-ridden regions of the north-west and the plague repository of the south-east.
Icewatch itself became the name of the mountain that the area was built beneath. The Gizzard was constructed within and near the cave system found along the southern fringes of the mountain, while the Crannies were spaced among the deadwood trees and the Nook was a residence of modest splendor hidden to the immediate west between vales, and it was never discovered until after operations had ceased in that area.
The Icewatch Fields were a mix of plains and forestry reaching twenty miles west, as far as fifteen miles south, and a shorter five miles east, where an unnamed cliff wall hooked south. The total distance between that eastern cliff and the end of the western forest was thirty-four miles and a reminder of the wide range that the Icewatch mountain stretched. North of the mountain were vrykul villages which the local cult counted upon as dependable allies, although there was no easy route for trekking over Icewatch itself.
In all, it was a workable allotment of land which Dark Speaker Doomsmayor was willing and eager to run. As soon as two weeks into assuming control, Doomsmayor had established a Scourge factory in the eastern parts of the Icewatch Fields, assembled a steady converter supply for the ghosts of the west, and the excavation of a vrykul burial ground began to supply the sturdy fleshstuffs of what would become the white-ribbed abominations.
Documentation of two separate inspections have been discovered, both praising the success and efficiency of Doomsmayor in those first two weeks. It has been strongly concluded, though not infallibly, that the documents are legitimate and not drafted by Doomsmayor herself in effort to build prestige.
Two weeks after Doomsmayor's introduction to the area also marks the first recorded appearance of the curious man known fully as Pelin Tyrist Vellums.
On March 16th, Vellums sighed.
The exact argument that led him to this forsaken neck of woods, distanced by four days of mount travel from the nearest allied town, went as such:
"I highly doubt there would be Scourge operations that far from any of the fighting. You really want me travel all the way out there to just poke around?"
"There are vrykul villages throughout that region. Subsequently, there will be Scourge activity in some form. It's only logical."
"But will it be relevant Scourge activity?"
"Isolated. Widespread. Bountiful. Secretive. Prime location for research or demanding construction. Yes, the conclusion can be reached that the region is of significant importance."
"Alright, we'll give it a poke. But if you're wrong..."
"This one does not look forward to soap solution-based bathing fluids."
"Damn right."
One week later, here he was – tromping through ominous deadwoods and sloshing slushy ice-mud like a man determined to make his life both short and miserable. Such was his state of mind that when an adorable high-pitched screech accosted his progress, he demanded, "Translation."
Vellums had been warned against heeding the cries of his companion, but it had broken the monotony of the journey. Anything would be more pleasant than the mourning of wind diced among the barren trees. Scuttling across the snow and mud beside him was his other companion, who answered dully, "The valorous Vekyssa has promised to slice across the flesh skin of your throat and spill the ruby blood of human life into the frost water of the forest."
"Ah, how lovely."
"The valorous Vekyssa fancies herself an artist, Praetor."
"I see that." Vellums glanced at the young qiraji guardling. Vekyssa proudly armored herself in blue carapace, wielding the deadly scythe-arms of her race and a glare that shouldn't have been cute but it was. Such was the curse of being only ten inches tall. To the other speaker, he said, "You do realize how messed up that is, right?"
"This one was not born to question the ways of the valorous Vekyssa. It was said, however, to not question after the boasts of this great warrior."
Ahn'Tyrist was taller than his twin by a good two inches, the first of them to reach a full foot in height. His carapace was the same blue, but his breed was that of a qiraji mindslayer. Fortunately, while his psychic ability could barely manage whispers of thought, he was fluent in every verbal tongue Vellums could think of. His name had been chosen by Vellums himself, taken from his middle name "Tyrist" which in turn had been taken from his famed uncle.
There were an estimated zero parallels between Ahn'Tyrist and Uncle Tyrist, but the name was welcome and familiar. Sometimes that was enough.
Having nothing to say back to the qiraji male, Vellums kept his mouth shut and kept sloshing.
Thirty minutes after that sigh, Vellums encountered the first Scourge. The creature couldn't decide if it was an enchanted skeleton or a walking zombie, mostly a pile of bones with enough patchy flesh to cause a classification nightmare. Vekyssa spotted it before Vellums did, hissing some sort of battle cry, but Vellums commanded them to hide behind a tangled knot of wood that was thick enough to keep them all from sight.
"In the middle of absolutely nowhere," Vellums complained quietly to his cohorts.
"Local Scourge activity was statistically mandatory," Ahn'Tyrist replied, no doubt pleased at being proven right.
"Not this far south. We are literally leagues from that mountain, and the vrykuls are on the other side of it!"
"That mountain is called Icewatch, Praetor. However, I concur with your assessment of the situation. It must be assumed that whatever operations are taking place are originated elsewhere, within range of the vrykuls but stationed southward, on this side of Icewatch. The woods have been thickening as we approached, so it is reasonable that a base or camp has been hidden among the forest. Additionally, if Icewatch possesses a comprehensive cavework system, further activities might be found within, especially those of greater importance. Research. Experimentation. Ritual. Suspects: Cult of the Damned."
Vellums was staring at the tiny creature. After a long moment, he admitted, "You know, you're pretty smart for a mind-raping battle beetle spawned from hell."
"This one loves his sister."
A slow nod returned him. "You do at that. Speaking of which, we have our confirmation, and I don't wish to move forward with both of you at my side."
"Agreement. Retreating back to Sansha is advised."
Vellums first step back squished, that foreboding reminder that he'd be spending the days to come ankle deep in this slop. He'd planned on spending the day exploring the region on foot in preparation for the climb over the mountain. Instead, his journey was finished before noon.
A younger Vellums might have gone flying around on his gryphon, exploring with his spyglass. He'd have seen a mountain in his path and flown right over it. Then that younger Vellums saw a gryphon rider sniped right out of the air – a paralysis curse, spoken by some two-bit cabalist from the safety of his hole two miles away. It looked no different from shooting a bird down with his rifle. They dropped. They died. Vellums had grown another increment that day.
He walked back to Sansha.
On the 17th, Vellums thought to introduce himself to whomever the boss was in this area. He made a foxhole and hid it, then he took his scoped rifle back through the woods until he found another Scourge product. The clap of his firearm would have scared away the wildlife had any remained in the area. Instead, it alerted every Scourge creature around for miles, and they approached.
Vellums spent the day clapping, as he liked to call it. He moved from place to place, sometimes miles between shots, leaving a nonlinear trail of discarded shells for someone to unsuccessfully track. Nearly seventy rounds of the sixteen hundred he brought were spent in his excitement.
By the end of his hunting, Vellums had an estimate of just how much Scourge he was dealing with. Several thousand trash creations pocked the area, but several stronger, more capable Scourge existed as well. An abomination, a few cultists, some towering wraith of bone that looked cobbled together of several beasts. He avoided these, but their presence confirmed Ahn'Tyrist's suspicions. This wasn't some backwater peasant circle.
Only two of Vellums' shots were close enough for Dark Speaker Doomsmayor to hear herself, but reports came flying that they were under attack, that guerillas had invaded the Icewatch Fields, that their operations were doomed. She spent some time going over the timing between gunshots, the positions, and she concluded verbally that there couldn't be more than three interlopers.
Two weeks into her leadership here, a small incursion was anything but a setback. The vrykul graveyard was already supplying them with enough powerful fleshstuff to begin testing new strains of Scourge, and the intruders – or intruder – had done little more than help clean up the byproducts of their experimentation.
A squad of hunting ghouls, a banshee with some cultist muscle, and a darling assassin new-named Flaura Thistlekiss were sent to the task. Deflecting the requests to ask for vrykul aid, Doomsmayor considered the matter already settled, and she turned the focus of those at the Gizzard towards finding ways to affix vrykul bones to their creations. The material had proven stronger than steel even before necromantic reinforcement. Vrykul bones were a goldmine of opportunity.
The hunting ghouls vanished two hours later, near the northern reaches of the Fields. Hardly batting an eye, Doomsmayor ordered a pack of thirty ghouls to roam the region with a banshee. Her subordinates jumped to obey, yet not ten minutes after, another messenger came running.
"Dark Speaker!" the boy shouted, red faced and winded. And he was a boy, perhaps seventeen years of age. His lean and gaunt frame made him seem younger. "One of the homes of the Crannies is in flames! We cannot ascertain the cause, but one of the adepts from the area went missing near the same time."
"Put out word that this adept is to be killed on sight and the corpse brought to me immediately," Doomsmayor answered. An itch scratched at her attention, and she followed it with, "Was this a western home or eastern?"
"Eastern, your ladyship," he said, bowing lowly.
As Doomsmayor expected. The western residences were near where the hunting ghouls had gone missing, but it seemed absurd that one man or small team could dispatch them, find the homes, and set fire to them without notice.
"Tell me, who is presently supervising the eastern homes?"
"My lord Abjurer Hevnaf, Dark Speaker."
"After you inform the Wing Captain of the renegade, dispatch yourself to Hevnaf. I want an increased watch around all the Crannies. We have been lax since our unopposed success here. I want this flaw rectified posthaste."
"Yes, your ladyship." The youth bowed deep once more, then bounced up and left at a run.
"Now, as I was saying," Doomsmayor continued to her researchers, "unless we are building a carapace around them, I don't see how the bones will add to the integrity of our current abominations."
By nightfall, another messenger was running. Doomsmayor rose to accept her. "Some good news, I hope?" she greeted coolly.
The woman shook her head quick enough to send her raven dark hair flying. "No, your ladyship. The converters we built for the rampant ghost hauntings have been all destroyed!"
Succulent lips made a show of pursing and moving as Doomsmayor thought. Aloud, she asked, "How many did we have working by now? Five, six?"
"Six, your ladyship," the messenger answered, and she nearly collapsed to the floor for her frightened bow. "B-But there's more, Dark Speaker. A message was left. Nay, a taunt."
Doomsmayor snapped her fingers and held out her hand. The messenger scurried up to hand over the paper note, then immediately backed away to stare straight down at the floor.
"Quaint," Doomsmayor muttered softly after reading. She let the paper dissolve into motes of shadow.
And It All Came Tumbling Down, Down, Down...
Brushing the shadow dust from her long fingers, she asked the messenger, "What of the pack of ghouls I sent to the area? Were they too felled?"
"Nah, Dark Speaker," the woman squeaked. "They continue to rove about, but they detected not a whiff of the enemy."
"Then I believe our saboteur is indeed only one. We shall see how long he holds against the proficient Thistlekiss. For now, relax yourself. One small thorn should not send your knees chattering, girl."
"A-Apologies, Dark Speaker."
"Dismissed."
Three days passed without further incident, however. Flaura Thistlekiss returned, reporting that no one could be found in or past the Fields. It was concluded that the trespasser had left, which raised a panic that he may return with more aggressors now that he knew their location. Because Doomsmayor wasn't a fool, she sent word over Icewatch to the nearby vrykuls.
Doomsmayor hoped that word and worry would get out, that a significant force of her master's enemies would come to destroy them. Icewatch was far removed from the conflict, so between travel times and the attention, the efforts would lessen the pressures near the Citadel.
Icewatch was designed and built to be self-sustaining. Their factories were already producing Scourge, and soon they'd be reinforced by new breeds of terrifying constructs. She'd like to see the army that dared march against her proverbial gates.
In the same days, the bonehead abomination strain was a complete success. Five proper were staffed to defend the Gizzard while nine failures were moved to roam the Fields. Tough, durable hunks of carcass and bone. Doomsmayor felt proud of their accomplishment, but the researchers were allowed only minor rewards. The boneheads were only a step towards a much larger picture. Boneheads weren't going to win them this war.
She was in the mid of overwatching the celebratory revel when the messenger came. Striking blue eyes watched him approach, cool and patient. If he was responding to the celebrations around him, he masked it well. It was the youth, she recognized, yet the firm strength of devotion marked the edges of his dark eyes.
Still, he reached her quickly, and his gaze fell before hers. "Dark Speaker, I bring ill tidings."
"Speak them."
"One of our factories has been shut down," he reported. "The Millstone. All staff has been slain, a good two dozen. Our plague batches and ingredient stock have been mixed to the point of useless, while the metal work and equipment have all been broken to unrepairable junk. The attack was reported as thorough, your ladyship."
"How many did the assault entail?" she inquired, detached from any emotional response.
The lithe shoulders drew up and shrugged. "At least one human, Dark Speaker. He was spotted in flight away. No compatriots were discovered."
"Do not be ambiguous," she scolded lightly. "He flew?"
The bow was deep, emphatic. "My apologies, Dark Speaker. He fled by foot. No other details could be seen in his escape, except that a rifle was found strapped to his back. He was headed north, but while the Wing Commander is combing the area as we speak, he wished to express that the rat may have slipped through already, given enough haste."
Thorough and punctual. Doomsmayor appraised him with her eyes and was not left wanting. "What is your name, boy?"
"Courier Galathon, your ladyship," he revealed, bowing again. He made it a smooth, natural gesture, even throwing in the deep respect worthy only of her.
"You have work to do then, Galathon. First you will see to it that Necromancer Fan'thul raises the fallen to their appropriate undeath, then you will find Flaura Thistlekiss at her estate and tell her that the hunt is back on. Tell her, as with Roundel the Black and Keev Darter, to first meet with the Wing Commander, then set out to work. While you are there, have the Wing Commander begin construction of walls. I want nerubian towers near the factories and in the Gizzard."
"Yes, Dark Speaker."
"Once you have sent to work our assassins and the Wing Commander, you will go to a residence in the Crannies until dismissed. Its reference is 2nd Pip, on the western end. You know it?"
"I will shortly, Dark Speaker."
"Good answer. Go."
He left her another low bow, then hurried out of the cavernous chamber to the outside. Doomsmayor continued lounging amongst the revelers, watching passively as her mind turned over the reappearance of their saboteur. She considered added dog snouts to their abominations, to give them better tracking ability, but then she was reminded of the work involved in grafting sensory channels from part to omninerve, the intricacies of smell, and she banished the idea as idealistic frivolity.
It would be some time before Galathon would reach 2nd Pip, so Doomsmayor contented herself in watching others celebrate. Hers would come in due time.
The exchanges between Vellums and Doomsmayor continued through the month. One man would move and disrupt, one woman would respond. Doomsmayor remained confident in her position, for the damage of the rebel remained hardly a dent in an operation that expanded over more area than even large towns comprised. Gunshots in the Fields, a few slain Scourge, sometimes arson, sometimes a person would go missing.
On the 25th of March, the first assassin found Vellums. Keev Darter went missing. However, he must have succeeded in something, for Doomsmayor was given four days reprieve from her pest. Not a single attack took place for those days, giving them time to build and fortify. By the 29th, Vellums was back in full swing, bursting the ghost converters over the snow and dismantling the facility that spawned them.
The 1st of April pitted a wholly different encampment against Vellums. A wide view of watch, protected against invisibility and stealth, with only a few points that one could even enter it by ground. This extended around the entire Gizzard along with the factories, plague repository, and each other Cult-operated region.
Doomsmayor expressed her pleasure at the completion of their defenses, and she was rewarded by complete silence from her opponent. Two days, she delighted in that silence, while Thistlekiss reported no sightings and returned to the Fields.
On the 3rd, a series of gunshots marked Vellums eventual response. Eight watchmen were killed at the eastern edges of the Gizzard, then half an hour later four more died at the north entrance to their factories. There had been an infiltration and some damage to the crypt that made their ghouls, but Thistlekiss had responded quickly to the shots, and she found Vellums in person.
He escaped – or she escaped, depending on the story – but in the aftermath, Doomsmayor was given a thorough report of the saboteur's appearance and combat ability. He was no longer some amorphous killer from the shadows. Skilled, able to cross with Thistlekiss and walk away, yet still just a man.
After her exchange with her target, Thistlekiss took three days to recover, then she set out once more, to see why Roundel the Black couldn't catch a wounded man in a barren forest. She returned with Roundel's corpse, found hanging upside down and bloodless near the ghost-haunted ruins. Doomsmayor had him raised undead and set out to the Fields once more.
April 15th came without any more sightings or attacks from the loathsome, unenlightened rebel. Doomsmayor slowly let herself believe that her pest had finally departed when a small pack of hunting ghouls caught scent of the interloper and led a team of Black Guards to his place of rest.
Doomsmayor chewed over the report of that meeting. They had taken the man off-guard, but it wasn't enough. There had been a scuffle, and the beastly mount of their thorn had been bloodied, but he had gotten away. Most disappointing was the news that he was still present, still waiting out in the Fields like he owned them.
A sample of his blood had been carefully preserved, but of course he proved warded against any distant curses.
The 22nd of April, the next step had been realized in their experiments. White-ribbed flesh hounds successfully came into fruition, with only a mere seven failures, and they produced nearly fifty armored monsters with the fresh supply of worg corpses the vrykuls supplied her researchers.
As reward for Doomsmayor's accomplishments, she was promised assured undeath following her worldly death, and she was given authority over a team of a hundred war-worthy vrykuls, including a man called Halfdan the Stone whom was comfortable with assassin work. He joined Thistlekiss and Roundel in hunting.
Doomsmayor's fortunate streak made a sharp downward turn on the 28th when Vellums made a violent resurgence. It begin at the haunted ruins, where twenty converters and their foremen were slain at once. The gunshots were heard, attracting all the nearby Scourge, and the Wing Commander acted to reply.
"Dark Speaker!" cried those who let themselves be ruled by fear.
Doomsmayor kept her disdain internal, having long forgotten the days where she could be moved to the same emotion. "We have been given a chance to test our new creations on the field. Send three warbands of vrykuls, with five white-ribbed hounds each. Let us see what this sniper does against enemies that do not break at rifle shot."
The messengers departed, and shortly after the vrykuls began their hunt. Already Doomsmayor expected the assassins to be closing in. The man Galathon looked to her, but Doomsmayor did not honor him by even meeting his gaze. She rose from her research table, then sauntered off to her sitting room to await the reports.
This was, she decided, the final time she would resort to violence in apprehending the thorn lodged so firmly in her side. If they managed to kill him now, that was all the better. She would take his corpse, raise it, and put to use this slippery bastard for her own gain. Otherwise she was exhausted over the cut he put into their profits and this image of incompetence he had given her.
Worse, as she sat in her favorite chair, staring without reading at her open book, one phrase kept turning up again and again within her mind: And It All Came Tumbling Down, Down, Down...
Despite the dogged persistence of this lonesome terrorist, Doomsmayor had thrived with this new territory she was given to run. Her fame and prestige were on the rise. Word all the way from the citadel had come that she was to receive a val'kyr, and the dark angel would grace them in as soon as three days. Finally, the concept of white-ribbed abominations were in her grasp, and the day a shipment of those were sent to the Citadel, Doomsmayor would be ranked almost as invaluable as Noth or Heigan.
Yet these were fragile accomplishments, and even this human male could make it vanish into ash with a single fel stroke. If he could breech the walls of the Gizzard, secret into the cave systems and destroy the research and supplies of their white-ribbed creations, Doomsmayor knew her reprimand would be so harsh she might even loath the undeath she was given. Mindless, rotting, slobbering fodder, rather than beautifully powerful and wickedly cunning, like the death knights.
Barely a month into proving her leadership, her foothold was too tenuous to take risks now. War or not, the Cult of the Damned had other methods than murder to resolve their threats.
The reports began to trickle in. Hafdan the Stone, her promising vrykul assassin, had been found dead by the trackers. His head alone remained, mounted upon a deadwood stick. Then there was the first conflict: the rifle had dazed a vrykul, and the flesh hounds had found and attacked their hunter. He escaped farther along. A second conflict found two vrykuls and a flesh hound from another party dead. They never managed a third, finding the trail ending cold at a patch of gryphon feathers.
The hunters were still out searching when Doomsmayor ordered Galathon to have them return. The white-ribbed program was a complete success, their bony skulls deflected gunfire as effectively as the vrykuls. It had taken daggers and an intense scuffle for this skilled man to slay one, and he had retreated with heavy wounds after. Perhaps they could solve this dilemma with violence, but now that the man knew what they would respond with, he'd be even more careful in his exploits.
Doomsmayor refused to allow anymore risks. This was confirmed when the final report reached her; Roundel the Black had gone missing. This time they were without the fortune of a body to raise.
It was May 2nd.
Vellums watched patiently through the scope of his rifle as flames of flickering blue and purple roamed through the deadwoods, interrupting the calm night. He could make out shapes, counting bands of five to ten with each flame, but they lacked the determined stride of hunters. The vrykuls or damnable white hounds among them were few. He concluded that they were not hunting him or combing the forest at present, but he needed to watch to be sure. At least fifty flames were prowling about, indicating some operation or special event.
He couldn't catch them laying any traps or casting spells. Just men, women, and Scourge marching in some direction. He noticed one flame stop and honed upon it. They were working. Hammering something. His zoom wasn't enough to see what, but he watched anyways. Other flames had stopped, and they too were hammering.
They were done shortly after, immediately turning and marching back to their walls and towers, retreating for the night into their haven. Vellums considered clapping a bit, just to be polite, but the last thing he wanted was another assassin to drop down on him with hate and cold fury. He'd lived through two attempts in a single day and wasn't fond of another just yet.
Assassins made a living off of shoving cold steel into vital parts of their target's anatomy. They were professional killers with skills proportionate to the length of their careers, not madmen jumping from shadows screaming bloody murder. Men weren't meant to walk away from that. Of course, men didn't have the ever vigilant Vekyssa watching over their shoulder every waking moment.
She as much as Ahn'Tyrist was responsible for how Vellums remained one step ahead of their pursuers, like he had eyes on the wings of birds. She was especially useful in finding the weaknesses of their fortifications.
The qiraji twins were beside him now, keeping silent and watchful. The enemy had gotten the jump on them once, while the twins had slept, and they were determined to ensure that didn't happen again.
"We'll check it out in the morning," Vellums finally said, once the last flame disappeared into the distance. "For now, I need rest."
No smug deductions or death threats returned his words, which was telling of their present state. They returned to the hidden shelter together, and Vellums slept.
HUNTER,
We of the Cult of the Damned have elected to resolve our conflict without further incursion of violence. Dawn of tomorrow's morning, our esteemed Dark Speaker will be sent out alone to wander the Icewatch Fields. It is our hopes that you will meet with our Dark Speaker and negotiate a deal that may benefit both our parties. Until this meeting, we have recalled our assassins and tracking hounds, including the white-ribbed hunters you are, we suspect, familiar with.
In grace,
-The Elect
A neat scrawl wrote out the words in plain Common. Vellums inspected three different signposts before concluding that they would all say the same thing. So the cult wished to speak to him.
"What do you think Ahn'Tyrist? Trap?" he asked his companion. Vekyssa remained flying above, testing their claims about no more slinking assassins.
The qiraji mindslayer muttered in his usual expressionless tone, "That is the most logical conclusion. It should be specified that the risks of lethal interference during the negotiations are minute. Cult of the Damned behavior typically indicates subtle solutions. Negotiations may lead to endangering scenarios. Not immediately apparent, but conclusion: terminal."
"So should I meet with this Dark Speaker?"
"Dark Speakers are midway leaders within standard Cult of the Damned hierarchy. Primary application is to offer spiritual and practical guidance for Speakers. Dark Speakers are sent to high profile candidates, intent on indoctrination. Tendency of successful indoctrination are statistically high. To answer your question, is the Praetor agreeable with possibly joining the Cult of the Damned?"
"Depends on if there's still a terminal conclusion tacked on the end there."
"The Cult of the Damned has historically proven to forgive its greatest transgressors after indoctrination. Example: Arthas Menethil."
"I'll meet him, then. You and the spitfire are staying with Sansha though."
"Agreement, Praetor. This one eagerly awaits the outcome of your decision."
Doomsmayor awoke on May 4th alone in the Nook. With the tasks before her, she did not feel it was appropriate to stay a night in 2nd Pip, not if she wanted to keep her edge. She rose from her wide bed and found a simple cult robe to dress herself with. Black with white stripes, her standard before being raised Dark Speaker. She chose two shoes that were easy to slip on, then picked her thickest cloak to throw over herself.
Her manor echoed with emptiness as Doomsmayor made for her door. Outside was filled with unlife and arctic winds, which was just as well. The sun was still shy of rising, which gave her time to trek to the Gizzard and leave out the front gates at the allotted time.
The snow was its usual revolting slush, hampering each step and threatening to slip off her shoes, but Doomsmayor made it to the gate with practiced ease, and she left without a word to anyone. They knew already her ploy.
On cue, the sun began to lighten the cloudy sky. Doomsmayor decided on a northern heading, considering the fondness the saboteur had for breaking their ghost converters and saving the lost spirits of the ruins. She reached the ruins, still alone, so she turned south, threading through the woods and the abandoned Scourge, remaining unchallenged.
She decided rather early on that perhaps her heavy travel boots would have been a better choice.
Two hours more brightened the world to its cheery grey, the lightest it could go, and Doomsmayor had reached the frozen creek. She turned left along it, making east, rather than risk its surface in crossing. For a mile she followed the frosty creek, until a small knoll stumped its languid path, sending the creek south to skirt it, while Doomsmayor rose the gentle slope for a better view of the area.
Standing on the bottom of the other side was a black-dressed man with his arms crossed. Doomsmayor noticed him and acknowledged his presence with a cool gaze. A rifle rose from behind his shoulder. Shaking icy muck from her shoes, she began the descent to meet him.
Doomsmayor knew this man already from Thistlekiss' descriptions, yet it was different to actually catch her first look of him. A hunted living in woods as harsh as these had not been kind on this man. His hair and beard were scraggly, and he was unwashed. His eyes had the dark rings of poor sleep, and Doomsmayor felt a certain pleasure at knowing it hadn't been easy opposing her.
Despite these mars, the man was startlingly handsome. Older than her tastes, perhaps mid twenties at the most. If he cleaned up, he might prove younger. But not even forest living could hide his unblemished skin, the strong lines of face, the dark arches of his brows, or the striking blue of his eyes. He was lithe, perhaps a little thicker than Galathon. His leather armor was dirtied, but it looked snow-scrubbed – or else none of the blood he shed had touched him, for only some of the muck flecked its edges.
The final few steps, Doomsmayor found her attention alternating between the width of his waist and shoulders. The latter nearly doubled that waist. Elvish build indeed! She found herself checking his ears just to be sure it wasn't a trick.
Once before him, she offered a slight courtesy and remembered he was not aware that she ran this area. That gave her an image to maintain. "I am Dark Speaker Doomsmayor. I will speak for the Cult of the Damned in these negotiations."
He nodded his head. "Pelin Tyrist Vellums, at your service."
A smile flickered by. "So I hope you are. You have proven a very capable and enduring adversary."
"You are too kind. I had hoped to unbalance your operations weeks ago, but your leader has adapted remarkably well. Those new hounds of yours are some mean beasts too." She noticed that his voice did not strain with disuse. That was curious. Either he had practiced before coming, or he had some form of communication. He continued: "So, what angle are we going with today? Bribe, threat, or compromise?"
"You are so eager to be through with me? Very well. It is clear that there lies no misunderstanding between us this late into the war. The offer of eternal life does not tantalize you. So I will direct our focus onto the alternative to your inclusion amongst my brothers and sisters. The question I ask us to look at together is this: Must that alternative be a hunted living slogging through these wretched woods in direct defiance to our organization?"
The note hung in the still air. Doomsmayor shook slush from her shoes once more for emphasis. "I have stepped just a few miles in your boots today, and I am already wearied of this lifestyle, even without the paranoid twitch to glance over my shoulder for my pursuers. This speaks nothing of the loneliness and hardship. My angle today, Master Vellums, is bribe, for I am asked to be uncompromising in arresting your rampant terrorism."
Doomsmayor ended her speech with a pause, offering Vellums a chance to respond. He acted accordingly, saying in a strange tone, "You have, without doubt, the loveliest voice I have heard in months. I had almost forgotten what emotion sounds like."
Doomsmayor worked at keeping her face smooth, unprepared for that sort of answer. It left another mental bone to chew over.
Vellums shook his shaggy head. "Pardon me. So you hope to save me from this deplorable forest and the assassins breathing down my neck? I could have that already if I chose to leave."
"If we had pinned all our hopes on you simply leaving, there would be no need to send our Dark Speaker out to negotiate. Time and these living conditions would surely do the work for us. No, the heart of our negotiations will be about what you want in exchange for your departure. The, as you say, bribe. For example, will gold settle your adventurous heart? One hundred thousand gold coins is not too steep a price to pay to stop seeing my kinsmen murdered and vanished."
The sum was enough to pause the man. If he had been here on Alliance or Argent commission, he now had sufficient reason to jump ship. She watched him turn the figure over in his head, perhaps trying to picture that much gold before him. When he spoke again, it had a careful edge – like he knew his value to her and thought it was duly unjustified.
"I'm not sure I like the image of myself crawling under the weight of that much coin. It seems vulnerable."
Doomsmayor nodded, expecting the refusal. "There are other venues to placate a passionate soul. Perhaps we can offer you a woman, to stymie the loneliness of the long hunts?"
"Now that's just being unfair," Vellums complained with a short laugh. "Even suspecting that she'll stick a dagger in me at first opportunity, that is so tempting after this crummy living."
No response showed on her face. "This is no guile in this offer. We have tried assassins before; if we crossed our deal here with another failed attempt, we would only have made your crusade against us personal." She waited a beat, then cleared her throat. "In the same breath of assassins, Lady Thistlekiss herself – whom you are already acquainted with, for she gave you that blemish on the left shoulder of your armor – has offered herself to the role, had you an interest. She has insisted that a human's lifespan away from her regular duties for this service to us is a small matter, and the elect amongst us has in turn promised a proper conversion to Scourge at the end of her assignment."
"And what a short human lifespan that would be. I might be foolish enough to singularly stand against an organization of this size, but I am not so foolish as to make a lover out of a cult assassin."
"I cannot fault your suspicions, but they are unjustified. If it pleases you, I can assemble a cast of other willing consorts and bring them in a similar manner as this by tomorrow's eve, to choose from among them yourself. And to sweeten this deal, as it is said, you may choose any quantity of gold that is less than my former offer to accompany her. A comfortable, yet permanent retirement from this grisly work is the hope of my superiors."
Doomsmayor began to leave the offer there, confident in its allure, but one last thing occurred to her. "And... though I was not instructed to include this, it is a matter of personal observation. I have the clout to additionally promise that if you accept our terms in good faith, the ghostly ruins will be furthermore unmolested by our converters. They will be off-limits for as long as I am the Dark Speaker of this territory. Or for as long as you remain gone."
Vellums accepted all her words with a thoughtful quiet. A naturally paranoid man, none of it would be easy to agree to, but Doomsmayor had every intention to make this as transparent and obvious as possible. Such a mountainous offer would breed suspicions, but she was patient.
Finally, he admitted as much, fulfilling her expectations: "This is rubbing me all wrong. If my impact was as insignificant as we both pretend, you wouldn't offer such a hefty sum to see me go. Your superiors cannot have missed the possibility that I might tell your enemies about this base as soon as I'm gone. That means you think I won't get that far. Or..."
The inquisitive part of Doomsmayor wished he would finish the last sentence. When he didn't, she slowly unfastened her thick cloak and bent to drape it carefully over the snow between them like a blanket. She began tugging at the sleeves of her simple robe. "It is not my goal to police your thoughts with deceits or half-truths. This price, or bribe, does not carry the same value to us as to you. Gold. Living flesh. Worthless to us, and the ruins have been fruitless since your arrival. Trading worthless commodities for worthy advantages is a specialty of ours."
Her arms slipped through the sleeves, and the plain ties loosened the article, allowing Doomsmayor to slide the robe down to her hips, exposing her skin to the freezing air. Her weak flesh crawled immediately with gooseflesh, but heedlessly she bent to remove her easy-slip shoes and stepped onto her cloak. The thick, weatherproof cloth shifted down with the crunchy snow under her weight, and then again as she knelt.
Turning her shined blue eyes back onto Vellums', Doomsmayor said, "I have been asked to demonstrate our willingness if you doubted our sincerity. Step onto my cloak, and I will show you."
Vellums made a great show of deciding. He shuffled in place, uncrossed and recrossed his arms. His lips worried, and Doomsmayor thought she saw his jaw flex behind the scruff. She waited patiently, resting on her knees. He knew she was unarmed, so she began to wonder at his hesitation.
Finally, the man reached his own conclusion, shaking his head and pacing closer to one of the deadwood trees. "No," he mentioned, once again in that strange tone. "That won't be necessary, Lady Doomsmayor." He was frowning. While her breasts were bared, his attention would alternate from the snow before him and her eyes.
She continued watching him. "Perhaps not, but for the confidence of yourself and my peers, I insist. You needn't fear disease from just my mouth."
Vellums smiled briefly, then shook his head. "It's not that. I am, you could say, easily tempted – especially by the fascinating, and you, Dark Speaker of the Cult of the Damned, are certainly fascinating. However, experience getting burned has taught me to be prudent, especially this close to danger. I want a level head for as long as we are talking instead of fighting."
"Very well," Doomsmayor acquiesced. She immediately began shimmying the robe up her sides, eventually shrugging it back over her exposed skin. She pretended to be unresponsive to the arctic air, but she was not blessedly undead yet. "Tomorrow then shall we settle this?"
"Another day without the gentle clap, clap of my rifle? I suppose there's no other way. I will use the time to consult my affairs, and tomorrow I will find you."
Vellums stumbled in his sentence, particularly over the word "consult." Had he started to say something else? Consult with someone? Was he not alone, after all this time? Doomsmayor gathered her cloak wordlessly, keeping her racing thoughts off of her face.
But no, that no longer mattered. Tomorrow would be the last day she lost a subordinate to this man, and then he would be gone. One way or another, he would be gone.
Doomsmayor agreed with him verbally, passed another courtesy, and then she turned north and began the trek back to the Gizzard. She did so without another glance back, trusting the saboteur to vanish amongst the trees as he was given.
Two days of safe, uninterrupted research. They were so close now.
The heckling, wheezing sound could only be the laughter of Ahn'Tyrist. In all their time together, Vellums had only heard its painful sound twice now, and he considered that twice too many already.
"This one is elated to hear it," the qiraji mindslayer droned around its laugh. "To refuse the terms because "I'm not sure I like the image of myself crawling under the weight of that much coin."" He squeaked and hacked another guffaw.
Vekyssa made one of her unintelligible shrieks, which seemed to help her brother collect his wits once more. "Ah," he purred finally. "Truly your companionship can be joy, Praetor."
"I'm glad one of us considers this a laughing matter. What do you think of the flesh bribe though? Dagger in the back the moment I lower my guard around her?"
"The possibility remains. There is insufficient data to reach a conclusive prediction. We know they raised protective walls around their inner sanctum. Increasingly sophisticated Scourge constructs have been unveiled to us from their experimentation laboratories. Yet once they produce creatures that can hunt and counter your harassment, they switch to negotiation and bide time. All signs point to one obvious conclusion: the end is in sight, and you pose sufficient threat to interfere with its revelation."
"Oh, thank the Light."
"Praetor?"
"I think this is the first time I deduced the same thing you did. If they are genuine, as I suspect they are, it means that they are confident enough in whatever is about to come that they don't care if I bring the Argent Crusade down upon their doorstep. Four days to Blackhaven, perhaps a week to mobilize, then another four to march them all the way back to this Icewatch territory. By then, it'll be long done."
"That is a logical deduction. To apply this prediction to your prior question, the flesh bribe may be sincere to the point of experimental completion, when threat of your return is no longer substantial. Or a lowly novice or acolyte, whose presence will not be missed, will be given to consider you a closed matter. However, if the cult leader is wise, he or she would not forgot how you prevailed in earnest against their huntsmen. This one would wish for your service for himself, thus the cast of flesh I gather would be told to seduce you to cult ideology. The latter two proposals hold the strongest appeal to a cunning master."
Vellums nodded with Ahn'Tyrist's words. "Well, they do need a few replacement assassins now. Damn, I don't like the idea of wolves in sheep clothing. I have no mental protection either, not until you get older."
"This one is unconcerned over the choices of loyalty made by the Praetor, so long as the valorous Vekyssa remains unthreatened by external harm through her growing cycles."
"Thanks, chum. I wish I could have the same loyalty without ethics as you."
"The weakness of human ethics can be removed once this one reaches sufficient age, should the Praetor wish."
"Heh. Presuming I keep alive until then."
"That was the obvious assumption, yes."
"Don't be a smartass, Ahn'Tyrist," Vellums chastised. He reached into one of the pouches on Sansha's side and pulled out his tool cleaning kit. Noticing the look from the gryphon, he also found a handful of dried jerky and fed the beast. "Not much left, Sansha. It will be a few more days until we can get some fresh meats."
She paid him no mind, chewing and swallowing every bit.
Wiping his hand on her feathers, Vellums put his back to her hide and slid down until he was sitting on snow. His rifle was put aside while he unraveled the tool kit, then he began the long process of disassembling the weapon. He hadn't fired it today and probably wouldn't tomorrow, but Northrend weather required regular cleaning anyways.
While whittling at the parts, he mentioned, "I hate this place."
Vekyssa made a cute shriek, which Vellums didn't need translating to know she was agreeing with him. It was the only time they ever agreed on something. For the sake of the positive relationship between them, he didn't make a point that sand dunes were even worse.
He held the removed barrel up to his eye, looking through it for any lingering muck stuck to the grooves. "What do you think, Ahn'Tyrist? Some dame comes marching out of the gates tomorrow, ravishingly beautiful and cunning smart. We lock eyes, falling in love instantly. She climbs onto Sansha bearing piles of gold, and we fly off into the rising sun, leaving the cult and bitter Icecrown behind us. Never looking back as the future brightens before us. Does this all sound reasonable?"
"This one thinks the Praetor's imagination is as active as ever, despite the trials of recent weeks."
Vellums smiled and cleaned his rifle.
Despite the unspoken ceasefire between them, Vellums refused to be caught flatfooted the morning of May 5th. Ahn'Tyrist woke him before daybreak, and he trekked to a place where he could watch the main gate of the cultist base behind the safety of his scope. He lay patiently prone for over an hour, watching the cloudy sky begin its slow lightening process until it could be sufficiently guessed as dawn, and the gates opened.
The Dark Speaker from before stepped outside, spearheading a movement of several other individuals. He noticed that blond elven assassin, presently unarmed and wearing cult robes instead of her sleek armor. Four vrykuls marched from the center, each carrying an end of a platform laden with skull-decorated chests. Two more flanked the procession, carrying spears with knives and axes strapped to their sides. Vellums assumed they were to be the guards, since none of the others openly carried a weapon or other suspicious nasty.
Vellums waited until the gates had closed without emitting another threatening figure, then began to turn his attention back onto Doomsmayor's gathering. He had just found the leading Dark Speaker when throaty horns began to blare in the distance. Scourge or vrykul sounds – sometimes they overlapped, he supposed – but from the unchanging expression on Doomsmayor and those behind her, the horns were expected.
Turning his sight about, he looked for some response to the sounds, and he found it in the undead Scourge that had been mindlessly clawing at clearing a hundred yards to the north-east. The creatures were running towards the horns. Opening his off-eye, Vellums caught sight of other undead between the trees, similarly retreating towards the sounds. The woods were clearing out. The cult, offering as little resistance as possible for their encounter.
Rather than wander the fields again, Doomsmayor drew her procession to a stop when they were a safe distance from the walls. Vellums studied the area they settled upon, looked into the faces of the women and vrykul, sweep his gaze over the motionless walls. He tried to picture the view between rampart and the chosen area, and he thought there was sufficient deadwood cover to prevent free shots from other snipers. They hadn't employed any of his type before, but that wasn't an assurance.
Once certain that the Scourge was gone and Doomsmayor had no intention of forcing her followers out any farther, Vellums shouldered his rifle and crept back to Sansha. His qiraji wards waited quietly with the gryphon. He nodded to Ahn'Tyrist, tickled the stern Vekyssa until she retreated behind Sansha, then gave the gryphon a specific pat and murmur that told her to obey Ahn'Tyrist in his absence. Sansha lowered her head to the snow and raised it. Vekyssa peeked at him from behind the saddle, glaring. She clicked and hissed a comment.
"This one recommends thicker gloves around the valorous Vekyssa," Ahn'Tyrist responded softly.
Vellums huffed a laugh and waved a final time. He turned north and began the trip to the cult.
Remembering the futility of sneaking upon vrykuls, Vellums settled on an open approach. His boots made regular footfalls, crunching or sloshing through the snow in a straight path. His first step had been deciding on an angle of approach that didn't betray the location of Sansha, but after that, his path was linear.
His first sight of the group showed that all six vrykuls were already looking his way, and they saw each other. One bent to mention this to Doomsmayor, and she also faced his way, taking a second to spot him against the dark trees. Once she had, she walked forward to meet him, leaving the others behind.
Six vrykuls and nine cultists, Vellums counted, with one he knew to be an exceptionally skilled assassin. A flesh trade with death worshipers. Every survival instinct warned him away, fraying his nerves and stiffening his spine. His feet made a steady march over the snow, stopping only when the Dark Speaker was in a respectful distance.
The deadly beauty offered him another small courtesy in greeting, which he returned with a bow, addressing, "Dark Speaker."
Doomsmayor wore the same thick cloak from before, but beneath it was a decorate uniform that couldn't be so easily discarded as her robe from before, same with a neat set of traveler's boots. Her silver hair remained expertly done, flaunting a natural wave to contrast its unnatural color, and it framed that heart-shaped face. Her skin was like ivory, flawlessly smooth and regularly washed. She was a gorgeous relief from the wasted land he had lived in. Not even her cult tattoos or polished blue eyes could detract from that.
"Master Vellums, you are well met," she announced kindly, her voice like velvet carefully laid over sharp steel. The sensation over his spine was wholly different from his early fears. "I hope the day of peaceful meditation has been as kind to you as it was to us. It has made my superiors all the more eager to see this matter closed. I should add, they found my promise of ending converter production to be an agreeable leverage in this deal. The factory will remain closed as long as you no longer interfere with our operation."
Vellums nodded, finding it fair. He also noticed her word choice. "No longer interfere, you say. Yesterday you seemed quite fixed upon me leaving."
Doomsmayor's face remained completely neutral. "Yes. I have been appropriately reprimanded for taking liberties regarding their will. My superiors wish only for you to cease your hostilities. Should you wish to remain present among the fields and personally ensure that the ghosts are left alone, that is in your right. Should you wish to stay, they have similarly promised construction of comfortable lodgings for yourself and your chosen, including fresh water, regular supply of foodstuffs, and operational plumbing."
Point to Ahn'Tyrist. They wanted him recruited. It was too indirect if said lodgings were only to better locate him for assassination. He briefly wondered what constituted "appropriate reprimand" among the cult before deciding it was best not to know. "So that's them?"
Doomsmayor's nod was a quick, proud gesture. "Each of the women behind me is available for your pleasure. They have been drawn from a wide array of positions and physical appeal, while I have personally ensured each is disease-free and capable of enduring a rugged living among the snow, should you wish to continue this lifestyle elsewhere. A waif who perishes two days hence is of little use to you and great misfortune to us."
Sweeping her hand back, Doomsmayor smiled and suggested, "Come and let me make introductions. Or shall I call them forward instead?"
Vellums struggled to keep unswayed by Doomsmayor's excitement. What would Ahn'Tyrist say in this situation? Heed not the illusion of choice. If they meant to ambush him here, three seconds of distance would not change the threat of the vrykul guards. In that case, he would allow himself to see the cult's bribe in person.
"Alright then," he said. His mouth felt dry. "Let's meet them." Doomsmayor's dark smile was wide, and he knew this was a mistake.
Temptation and smoky promise surrounded Vellums like incense, wafting around his head, into his eyes, through his nostrils and down his lungs. His heart pounded in his ears, realizing the magnitude of his situation. Like an animal, he had lived in these woods, hounded by unholy beasts and cunning masters. Sleep came between icy ground and camouflaged foxholes, and his company was qiraji survivors or hostile assassins. The contrast now as he met the chosen women was surreal.
Vellums knew he failed to keep a level head about him. The lingering danger kept his hands near his dagger hilts, but no one deigned to notice. This, he realized, was how the cult wrapped men and women in its dark tendrils. It preyed upon discontent, entrenched itself one promise at a time.
A callous hand touched his, and there was the assassin named Thistlekiss. There was a charming shine in her wide blue eyes as she showed him a scar on her neck, where he had nearly taken her life. Speaker Eleanor, courtly and demure, and then a researcher, with another face and another name. Vellums was speaking back to them, satisfied that his voice kept smooth and steady. But his mind was numb and muted, wondering. Two days prior, he'd have put a bullet into any of them without a second thought. Did none of them realize this? Did he not realize this?
The vrykuls did not threaten him. The two guards remained aloof and apart, while the gold bearers opened the chests at an allotted point in time, revealing the glimmering contents. The coins were bright against this dreary realm, same with the faces of the women Doomsmayor offered him. Paradisaical, that's what it was. Vellums tried to convince himself it was an illusion, but the voice was distant.
"So, Master Vellums," Doomsmayor was saying finally, "who will it be?"
"Wait, wait!" an eager voice interrupted, originated from the elf Thistlekiss. There was a great deal of pressure pushing towards her, and Vellums couldn't fault it. Presently, she took his hand again, distinct by the callouses that matched his, and she was pulling him aside, away from the others. The dreamlike quality waned with the distance, voiding out the world outside of her blue eyes and mischievous smile, but she stopped them before the intoxicating element could be lost to the cold winds.
Vellums tried to glance around for hidden danger, but his instincts were confused and quiet. Thistlekiss gathered his attention to herself again, still holding his hand between both of hers. "There is no need to fear for yourself here. We are in earnest, as am I. That is, I've grown a bit smitten with you, little huntsman. Crossing blades with you, tracking your fox trails in the fields – maybe danger doesn't excite you like it does me, but I am not here for the reward. I think we'd make a perfect team, even away from the cult. Choose who interests you most, of course, but I'm excited by what our future could be. I wanted to say this to you directly, not through the mouth of our Dark Speaker."
Vellums started to reply, her words spinning through his mind, but Thistlekiss attacked him with a kiss, executed as gracefully and precisely as the killing strike of her dagger. His first thought was panic, almost expecting her to force some cult concoction through his lips. But her lips were sweet, the touch warm and brief, and then she was retreating with red-tinged cheeks and a coy grin. Her hands remained on his as she returned to the others, until her fingertips slid from his and she rejoined the cultists.
A moment was spent staring after the high elf with a racing heart, then Vellums looked at the other faces. Doomsmayor had a finely arched eyebrow at Thistlekiss' stunt, suggesting it was unplanned, but satisfied that she could trust the assassin, she smiled once more and asked, "Have you decided, Master Vellums?"
He nodded mutely, convinced that he had. If machinations were in play here, they were outside his understanding. Doomsmayor's raised eyebrow confirmed his choice, confident that some things were outside of her or her superiors' control. That's what mattered here. Control. Nine cultists to choose from. The illusion of choice; nine doors to the same path.
Mentally shaking off the lingering effects of the kiss, Vellums found his wits again and nodded at a woman. "The vrykul."
Doomsmayor glanced her way and back, seeming confused. "A necessary contingency, in the case you thought to bring hostilities. I am unclear on what-"
"I choose the vrykul. That one. You," he repeated, staring into the eyes of the giantess. He turned back to the Dark Speaker. "Her and fifty thousand gold pieces. That is the price of the bribe required for me to desist."
The cult negotiator appeared at a loss. "I'm afraid she isn't a willing-"
"She is."
Doomsmayor released the rest of her breath. She faced the vrykul woman instead. "You understand the full extent of what Master Vellums is asking of you?"
"I do," the vrykul answered. Her voice did not rasp, but its sound reflected her size. Vellums was glad to finally hear it.
Thoughts brewed over Doomsmayor's face for a long moment, until she asked Vellums, "You are sure of your choice?"
"I'll accept nothing else."
"You have an... unprecedented taste, Master Vellums. But very well, we have an agreement," Doomsmayor said. The other vrykuls were bristling and murmuring darkly. The woman Vellums had chosen remained calm, raising an eyebrow at one of her fellows' comments but looking away again.
Vellums heart was still pounding, and his nerves returned to worrying over everything. Despite this, he kept his face smooth and expression expectant. "You will leave your clothes, weapons – everything – here and take only the coins I am promised with you."
The woman nodded like they had already agreed to it, beginning to unfasten the thick fur arm bands and unlace her boots. As she did, Thistlekiss broke free of the crowd again and took his hand once more, turning Vellums aside so he was looking only at her. Behind him, feminine voices commented in whispers, while a vrykul growled something in their tongue.
Rather than decry his choice, the elf had another smile. She said, "I know you well enough to see a clever plan in motion. I mean what I said though. For now, I am still bound to my duties here, but so long as you don't break terms, I'd like to meet you again." Her attention flicked to the side, then back, and her grin touched her blue eyes. "In case you find a taste for hunting smaller game."
Vellums' returning smile was embarrassed, not missing the implications. Thistlekiss leaned to place another kiss on his cheek, then she stepped back towards the others. Just then, the giantess made forward with a decorated chest under each arm, like a barmaid carrying casks. She was unresponsive to the cold, as he had expected.
"As to our other terms," Doomsmayor interjected quickly. "Should I tell my superiors that you will linger or depart?"
Struggling to keep his eyes off of the vrykul woman, Vellums answered, "I'm not sure what I'm doing." His own phrasing tickled his humor, and he was satisfied to leave it there. "I trust their response will be the same for either route?"
Doomsmayor's response came a moment too late. "Of course." Her throat cleared. "It is a pleasure to resolve this matter with you, Master Vellums."
Ignoring the obvious and tacky reply, he concluded, "With luck, this is the last you will see of me, Lady Doomsmayor. Goodbye."
A tall expanse of bronze skin touched Vellums' peripheral, so he gave his back to Doomsmayor, Thistlekiss, and the cult, and he made forward with the vrykul, retracing the way he had approached from. Their leave was unobstructed, but he couldn't relax himself until Sansha was in sight.
Vellums and the unnamed vrykul disappeared.
AN: And we're off.