Disclaimer: Warcraft and World of Warcraft are the intellectual property of Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. and are being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect of the copyright holders of Warcraft, World of Warcraft, or their derivative works is intended by this fanfiction.
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Purge, chapter 1
by silverr
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"Well, this is… unexpected," Asric said. He hurried to the door and twisted the handle. "I can't believe she locked us in!" He was indignant.
"Why?" Jadaar asked. "Vamira is a forthright person. It is entirely like her to do such a thing."
"While she was at it, why didn't she just strip us naked and cover us with oil?!" Asric said, throwing his hands up in exclamation.
Jadaar folded his arms. "Such a thing would interest you?"
"I… what?" Looking shocked, Asric turned back to the door handle and gave it a second, more desperate rattle. "It's … I hate not having an escape route." He leaned his forehead against the door. His shoulders slumped. "Stupid door. If only I had my lockpicks."
Jadaar pointed to the shuttered window. "You could jump. It's only three or four stories down."
...
When Jadaar had received Vamira's invitation to dinner in her Dalaran studio he'd assumed the evening would be another of her crowded monthly soirees, enjoyable events that were as much about playing cards and drinking ale and telling tall tales as they were about viewing the dwarven artist's latest creations.
However, when he arrived he found the studio had been transformed.
The air, which usually reeked of solvents and charcoal smoke, was pleasantly scented. The thicket of easels and small couches that usually crowded the room had been pushed against the walls and covered with swathes of iridescent fabric; in their place, a small round table, lit by a half-dozen oil lamps and set for two, had been placed next to a low, wide bed.
Jadaar, not seeing any other guests, had for a moment been concerned that Vamira intended to seduce him, but a moment later Asric had arrived. Taking in the change of decor with a crooked half-grin, the elf had asked, "What's all this?"
Vamira had explained that, as much as she loved them both and was always willing to provide a sympathetic ear, she had had her fill of listening to them complain about each other. She hadn't put it quite that way, of course: in typical blunt dwarven fashion, she had said, "I'm tired a' the grumbling. Jump over the awkward and have at each other already!"
When Asric had laughed nervously, Vamira had folded her arms and asked, "Ye think I'm kidding?" The blue tattoos on her biceps, gryphons with outstretched talons, had looked ready to pounce.
"He can see you're not," Jadaar had said. He wasn't so much taken aback by Vamira's extreme tactic as by her stated reason for it.
Vamira had given him a sideways look, then said to Asric, "Alright then. I'll be back in the mornin'. Late mornin'. Noon. Enjoy yerselves."
And then she had left, and Asric had thrown his tantrum. "What did you say to her?" he demanded.
"What I always say when your name comes up," Jadaar replied. "That you are vain and capricious and utterly lacking an ethical core."
Asric scoffed.
"The more interesting question is what you have been telling her," Jadaar continued mildly. "She wouldn't have taken such care to set up what is clearly meant to be a romantic evening culminating in physical intimacy unless she expected her efforts to be successful."
"She's, she's—" Asric waved his hands. "She's an artist! They always over-dramatize things!"
Jadaar considered this to be an evasive answer. "So she came to the wrong conclusion?"
"Yes!"
"I think it more likely that she was misled," Jadaar said. "It certainly wouldn't be the first time your tendency to toy with an audience has led to misunderstandings and chaos." He was becoming annoyed on Vamira's behalf. "Have you forgotten that incident with the Taunka chieftain's daughters? Or the dragon poachers in Winterspring?"
"That was completely diff—"
"Will you never learn that, more often than not, your mischief turns around and bites you? Not to mention everyone around you?"
"Then maybe you shouldn't stay around me!" Asric shouted.
Jadaar sighed, went to the table. He lifted the lid of one of the covered dishes. Goldencake, Asric's favorite dessert. Under another lid was a bowl of talbuk stew, fragrant with herbs Jadaar hadn't smelled in years. "Eat," he told Asric. "Vamira went through great effort to provide this food. It would be rude to leave it untouched."
"I don't need you to tell me what's rude!"
"True," Jadaar said, breaking off a piece of honeyed cornbread. "You are a master of ill manners." When Asric had no reply Jadaar looked back over his shoulder. The elf was now huddled on the floor next to the door, his arms around his knees. It would not have been possible for him to look more unhappy.
"Refusing food will not make the key appear." There were two bottles of alcohol—a pale ale and a bottle of spring wine—but fortunately there was also a carafe of water. Jadaar put down his plate, poured himself some water, then sat and began to eat.
"You sulk your way, I'll sulk mine," Asric said. He was watching Jadaar with a wary, resentful expression.
"I am not sulking," Jadaar replied. As soon as he finished his stew he stood and began unbuckling his armor, placing his spaulders neatly next to the head of the bed. He then began to unfasten his leather cuirass.
"What are you doing?" Asric asked.
"Preparing to sleep." After removing everything with buckles that might tear Vamira's sheets, Jadaar took the long edge of the coverlet and carefully folded it back toward the center of the bed, twice, in order to completely uncover his half. If he'd known he'd be spending the night he would have brought hoof covers, but fortunately dwarven beds were small enough that his lower legs would protrude past the end of the mattress. He sat down, stretched out on his side, then pulled the coverlet over his upper legs and chest.
He wondered what Asric had told Vamira to make her think that he and the elf were just waiting for the right moment to fall into a passionate embrace.
...
Even before he opened his eye, Jadaar knew something was wrong.
Granted, it was his nature to scan for danger and brace for disaster, something Asric was constantly pointing out. Depending on the time of day and how recently the pesky elf had eaten, Asric would attribute Jadaar's caution to either cynicism or fear, but such comments had never bothered Jadaar in the slightest. Asric did not, could not, understand that remaining vigilant was more than just a habit: it was a way of life, laced through every draenei's bones and blood.
"Something's going on outside," Asric said in a low, puzzled voice. His voice came from Jadaar's right, and some distance away.
The room was dark. The oil lamps had gone out; the only light came from the tiny glowing moons and stars painted on the ceiling. Jadaar turned his head; there was a dark gray blur near the windows. "What is it?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Asric said. "With the streetlights dimmed I can't tell what's going on. I think I heard an explosion. Might have been at the bank. I can smell smoke, but I don't see anything burning. A lot of movement around the Citadel."
"Late-night Kirin Tor meeting?"
"Not this late," Asric replied. "They never meet this late. And they generally don't blow up the bank."
It was interesting that Asric was speaking with such confidence about the Kirin Tor's schedule; Jadaar had the impression that he'd alienated all his mage friends. "I will look," Jadaar said, folding back the coverlet. "My night vision is superior to yours." The pillow on the other half of the bed was untouched, smooth and plump. Hadn't the stubborn elf slept at all?
As Jadaar stepped up to the shuttered window, Asric hurriedly backed away, knocking over one of Vamira's easels.
Jadaar was irritated that Asric was making such a fuss. Yes, the situation was somewhat awkward, but the two of them had shared lodgings intermittently for the past ten years. They'd huddled under the same blanket in Northrend, shared a sand-nest at the Faire, spent several nights spooned in a hammock on a cargo ship during their trip to Pandaria… they had even crept through an ice cave together, naked except for a coating of boar's blood! All that, yet now Asric suddenly could not bring himself to sleep next to him, or even stand near him? Granted, all their prior physical closeness had been motivated either by a need to survive or to economize, but still, the elf's reaction was all out of proportion.
"What do you see?" Asric asked.
Jadaar lifted a slat and observed the street below in silence for several minutes. "Silver Covenant soldiers," he said quietly. "They are stopping and questioning everyone. Those who resist or run are being taken away."
"Someone important must have been murdered," Asric muttered.
Before Jadaar could ask what he meant, there was the sound of a key in the lock.
Vamira. She rushed in and quickly shut the door. "You're awake? Good. Close the shutters. An' pull the drapes."
As soon as Jadaar had done so, Vamira relit one of the lamps on the table. Taking note of the half-used bed and the barely-eaten food, she pursed her lips in disapproval as she bent to rummage through a large chest. "We have to get Asric out of Dalaran. Now."
"Why? What did he do?" Jadaar asked, ignoring Asric's affronted gasp.
"What's going on?"
"I've only heard bits," Vamira said, closing the chest she had been searching and opening another. "Sunreavers are disappearin' like snow on a firelord's ass."
"Disappearing?" Asric asked. "I guess Vereesa finally made her move. She's been after us ever since Theramore. I wonder what finally set her off?"
"No doubt something your new Warchief did," Jadaar said.
"He's not my Warchief!"
"Aye, the Theramore business was bad enough, but if he's gone so far as to kill Prince Wrynn—"
"Varian's son is dead?" Jadaar asked. A terrible loss; Anduin had been a great voice of peace and understanding.
"Rumored," Vamira said, "though Proudmoore's actin' as if it's fact. Said the Kirin Tor's done with neutrality. She's tossin' the Horde out of Dalaran."
"She can't do that!"
"Of course she can," Vamira said, hurrying across the room to search a third chest. "Problem is, some of the Covies decided this gives 'em leave ta act like hoodlums. Confiscatin' property, bendin' arms on anyone who says boo."
Jadaar nodded. "I saw them interrogating citizens."
"Filling the Hold with whomever they don't like. Guilty, innocent, doesn't matter." She pulled a gnomish-style leather bomber cap from the chest and tossed it to Asric. "This should be big enough."
"Big enough for what?"
"Yer ears. Won't do much for eyes, but I have some ideas on that."
"You're going to disguise me and try to smuggle me out of the city?" Asric said. "Why don't I just hide here?"
"I'm friends with Uda the Beast," she said, closing the chest and upending a tall battered bucket of paint-stained rags. "Just because door-ta-door hasn't banged here yet doesn't mean they aren't coming. And then what'll ye do? Cover yerself in gold paint and pretend to be a statue?"
"He wouldn't be able to stand still or stay quiet long enough to fool anyone," Jadaar said. "Do you intent to pass him off as a high elf?"
"Better ta pass him off as no-elf," Vamira said, choosing a yellowish rag with rust-colored splotches and setting the rest aside. "Make him look like a human with head injuries. Hurry now, put your armor on him while I fabricate some trauma bandages."
Asric shook his head. "I'm not going to—"
"Redmourn, ye can take your chances dodging Covies if you'd rather," Vamira said brusquely, "but ye better have a stomach for rotting in the Hold." She began to tear the rag into wide strips.
"Fine. Do whatever you want to me."
Vamira grinned. "Och, be careful what you offer, sweetness. Someone might take you up on that." She winked at Jadaar, who was lowering his cuirass over Asric's head.
"It's much too large," Jadaar said, pushing on the chestpiece to demonstrate. "It won't fool anyone."
"Buckle up the sides as tight as ya can," Vamira ordered, "and put the shoulders on. Once we drop a robe over it no one'll guess there's more air than meat and bone inside."
"Hot air," Jadaar murmured.
"Your specialty, not mine," Asric hissed back. "Shouldn't you be out on the streets, bossing people around?"
Vamira handed Asric a small, clean knife. "Cut up yer hand or arm a bit. I need some blood to make the bandages convincing."
...
Jadaar had been skeptical, but Vamira had known what she was doing. Once Asric put on a hooded robe, he did indeed look almost as though he were a short human… from the shoulders down.
"This next part's not going ta be fun," Vamira said. "No getting round it, though."
"I'm ready." Asric squared his shoulders, then wrinkled his nose.
"Fold yer ears down across the top of yer head, and hold 'em there while we put this cap on."
"Fold?" Asric paled and winced and made small unhappy noises during this process.
"Does it hurt?" Jadaar asked, indulging in a tiny barb.
"What do you think?" Asric growled between clenched teeth. "Try bending your tail up against your back!"
"Well, fer what it's worth," Vamira said, "the constipated expression you've got is a bonus. They'll really believe that yer injured and in pain."
"I am in pain!"
Vamira fastened the bomber cap's strap tightly under Asric's chin and said confidently, "Looks a bit lumpy, but the robe's hood'll hide it. An' now the final touch." She wrapped the yellowish "bandages"—smeared with streaks of Asric's blood—across the elf's eyes, eyebrows, and forehead. The effect was quite realistic, and also concealed his elvishness entirely.
"Alright then," Vamira said. "My turn." She went to the corner of her studio and, to Jadaar's astonishment, punched a rough block of stone until her knuckles were bloodied. "Needs to look like I've been fightin' too." She wiped the backs of her hands across her forehead and tunic, leaving bloody streaks.
"What now?" Asric asked.
"Assuming you can pass for Alliance," she said, "we'll take the Gate down to the Stand, then pretend to head toward Windrunner Overlook. Once we're out of sight, you can circle around to the Sunreaver base and make your way to friendlier territory from there."
Jadaar clenched his fist. Under the circumstances, it was the best course of action that could be devised on such short notice—but even so, too many things could go wrong. Asric's disguise could fail, the teleportation room could be closed or occupied by enemy forces, the Sunreaver base could be overrun by Alliance forces by the time Asric arrived…
"We have to make a stop on the way," Asric said
"A stop? Are ye daft?"
"There is… something I need to get from my room before we leave."
"Is it worth your life?" Jadaar asked.
Asric turned his bandaged head in Jadaar's direction. "Yes."
"Where is the room?" Vamira asked. "If it's in the Sunreaver—"
"No," Asric said. "It's not. It's above a shop."
Jadaar frowned. When in Dalaran, he and Asric had always met either in the Legerdemain or the Cantrips and Crows, so he had assumed that Asric had a free room within the Sunreaver Sanctuary, and couldn't recall the elf ever saying anything to contradict this. It was strange that Asric would pass up a free room to lodge elsewhere, unless…
Vamira shook her head. "We can't risk it. Covies might have already ransacked it… and even if they haven't, if they catch us there yer disguise might not hold up ta scrutiny in close quarters." She took Asric's arm. "Ye'll have ta leave it."
"Tell me what and where," Jadaar said. "I'll keep it safe for you." It was a foolish thing to offer.
Vamira snorted. "Going to wander outside in yer skivvies, are ya? Redmourn's wearing all yer armor."
"Don't concern yourself with that," Jadaar said. "Concentrate on getting out of the city." He handed one of his maces to her. "Just in case."
She hefted it and gave a small trial swing. "Good idea."
Asric sighed. "Above the weapon shop," he said reluctantly. "Small iron box next to the bed. There's an envelope under a false bottom."
"Weapon shop, iron box," Jadaar said. "Simple enough."
"I don't have the key with me," Asric said. "You'll have to break the lock. But don't use my good daggers. You can—"
"I can manage, thank you," Jadaar said.
"What if you get caught?" Asric said. "They'll recognize you as someone who's fraternized with the enemy." He was trying very hard to sound nonchalant.
"I will not be recognized," Jadaar said. "I will go disguised. Undercover."
"I'm sure it'll be very convincing. No one will notice a one-eyed blue planet lurking in my room."
"Enough flirty talk," Vamira said as she started to lead Asric toward the door. "Let's go, mousie. Before the silver kitties sniff you out."
"Don't be reckless," Jadaar said. "You'll get Vamira killed."
"Try not to bleed on my stuff," Asric said. "It's valuable."
...
There were two approaches to undercover work. The most common was to escape notice by being as unobtrusive as possible in both appearance and action, so that no one would give a first look, let alone a second. The other was to be so visible, so intimidating, that discomfited onlookers would choose to avoid looking at you for fear they'd make eye contact.
Jadaar knew that Asric had made a valid point. Even on a normal day draenei hardly faded into the background in Dalaran—and more importantly, today most law-abiding draenei were probably staying off the streets behind locked doors inside the Silver Enclave—he needed to go with the second approach.
Unfortunately, disguising Asric had taken most of his armor.
He looked around Vamira's studio. Her artist's smocks and overalls were, of course, far too small for him, but the row of what she had referred to once as "guest robes" hanging on pegs were generously sized. They were far too garishly patterned for his taste, not at all the sort of thing he would ever choose to wear… but then again, if glowering and looming wasn't an option, perhaps being as outrageous as possible would work? Being outfitted in a way utterly opposed to his usual self should make him less likely to be recognized.
He took one of the robes down. Red silk accented with gold thread, It was the sort of thing he could imagine a sensualist like Asric wearing. Asric wouldn't care that the silky fabric was too thin to be practical; all he would care about was how it felt on his skin, how it clung to his body…
Jadaar clutched the robe and pressed it to his cheek as a wave of affection and worry washed over him. Don't die, brat.
He shook himself. It was fitting: Asric had crept forth as a blinded defender, and now Jadaar was preparing to stride through the streets dressed as an amoral, overly dramatic criminal.
Jadaar set aside the red robe and took a more garishly floral turquoise one. At first he put it on as a jacket, but, feeling that the effect was too sedate, he took it off and tied the arms around his waist, adjusting the fabric to hang down in front like a modesty cloth. Better, but still too… conservative. He slid the knot over one hip, then tied on the red robe on the opposite side, so that the robes overlapped in front and back. Jadaar considered himself in the mirror for a moment. "Much better, although now hardly modest," he pronounced, and then got an idea. He'd noticed how often Asric had glanced speculatively at his crotch before the ice cave had revealed all; perhaps the Silver Covenant elves would be as curious? "So let's give them something extra to look at," he muttered, taking a large, clean rag and folding it into a thick pad. Positioning it inside the front of his leggings, he nodded. It wasn't a tactic that would have worked on a draenei, of course, but he felt confident that the high elves would either look away or be unable to look at anything else. Next, thinking to cover his eye-patch—it was a distinctive feature—he eyed Vamira's collection of feathery hats, but decided against it. Trying to disguise the eyepatch would only call attention to it. He passed on an bristling orcish armband, but donned a slightly more sedate trollish necklace of raptor teeth and feathers. As as final touch, he unbraided his hair and shook it free around his shoulders.
He looked ridiculous, which was perfect.
After one more quick survey of the studio for anything useful, he took one of the long, thin Pandaren hair ornaments he saw in vase of paintbrushes to use as a lock-pick. Tucking it into his greaves, he hid Asric's daggers at the bottom of Vamira's rag-bucket, then slung his remaining mace across his back, picked up the unopened bottle of springwine, blew out the oil lamp, and sallied forth.
...
The predawn streets were in chaos. People carrying bundles were running toward Krasus' Landing; others stood at street corners, paralyzed with panic. A few vendor stands were on fire, and everywhere he looked, Sunreavers and Silver Covenant forces were fighting. It was difficult to curb his instinctive urge to help.
He hurried to the weapon shop. The door had been broken down, but no one was inside. One of the display cases had been smashed and its contents stolen. There were fairly fresh bloodstains on the floor.
Upstairs, most of the crates and weapons lockers along the mezzanine had been broken into as well. Jadaar climbed the last stairs to the top level. There were four decorative wall panels along the side of the building that faced the street; as he moved past the first one, he caught a glint of light. He pressed on the panel, and with a click a hidden mechanism opened the panel outward like a door.
The room behind the panel was narrow—he could have touched both side walls simultaneously without stretching out his arms fully—and stiflingly hot. The space, lit by a small glow-light, was stacked shoulder-high and wall to wall with dusty storage crates.
Behind the second panel were more crates; behind the third was a dusty pile of broken, rusted weapons.
The space behind the fourth and last panel he took to be Asric's room, for there was a small iron box at the foot of the narrow bed that took up nearly all the floor space. He set the bottle of wine down on the bed—the only furniture in the tiny room—then bent to pick up the box. It was unexpectedly light, as if empty, but when he gently shook it, there was the sound of contents shifting.
It took some time to pick the lock—ten times as long as Asric would have taken, of course—but at last it sprung. The box contained various currencies, assorted tarnished rings, a worn velvet bag containing pieces of a broken necklace, crusted vials of dubious liquids, and a well-used professional lock-picking kit of mithril. Jadaar upended the box onto the bed, then pried up the box's false bottom to reveal a small courier's packet of grimy leather. From the feel of it, it contained something in addition to documents.
Without thinking, he began to open it, then stopped himself. Anything that Asric had been willing to risk his life for—and had hidden so well—had to be something very important. If this had been a retrieval errand for a client, Jadaar would never have been tempted to look inside the packet. He would have considered it a violation of privacy. Then again, if he had been sent to investigate the rooms of any other person with Asric's shady and unsavory background, he would have opened the packet at once, assuming that it contained evidence of criminal activity.
Torn, Jadaar held the packet more tightly, hoping to discern by touch alone what it contained. The problem was, Asric was neither a client nor a suspect. While Asric had not specifically forbidden him from looking inside the packet, Jadaar had a feeling that it wasn't something he was expected to do. Or was it? was Asric playing him, knowing full well he'd look?
It was at that moment that Jadaar heard voices on the ground floor of the weapon shop. He slipped the packet into the back of his leggings as footsteps thundered up the stairs.
An instant later, three Silver Convent guards—he assumed they were Silver Covenant, as they were high elves with drawn swords—appeared in the doorway. After taking in the contents of the room and Jadaar's outlandish appearance, one said in Common, "These lodgings are registered to Asric Redmourn. Where is he?"
Jadaar, pretending not to understand, gave them his best blank stare.
"Where is the elf?" the leader asked, speaking more slowly.
Jadaar pointed to the items on the bed, then said in Common—making his draenic accent so thick he knew would be just barely comprehensible—"Mine."
One of the guards, who had been ogling, asked, "Arrest this one for looting?"
Jadaar could tell that the leader wasn't a fool. He had taken in the mace slung across Jadaar's back as well as the many scars on the draenei's chest and arms, and seemed to have decided that even with three on one the odds might not be in his favor. "No," he said, "let him keep his worthless trophies."
"Trophy. Yes," Jadaar said, thumping his chest with his fist. "Elf trophy mine."
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~ To be continued ~
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first post 13 March 2017; revised and reposted 29 July 2017; rev 18 May 2018