Faster kills fast
Rope smiled. It was too late to stop now.The relief and the thrill of it made him forget where he was and what he was doing.
"Oi! What are ye about?"
Damn! What was he doing here? They were all supposed to be drinking themselves more stupid at the 'Pig and Whistle'. He fumbled trying to put himself away. Warm drops spilled on to his hands and down his trousers. Hell! I can't even pee myself right! Rope cursed and swore as his mangled hand and fingers fumbled with the knot holding up his oversized pants.
The narrow alley and stonework intensified the guard's second rebuke into a roar that made Rope feel that a wounded bear were charging him.
"Oi! You runt! This ain't no bloody privy!"
Faster kills fast. Rope had learnt that quickly on the streets and in the gutters. Mouse was fast, cat was faster. Fish were fast, gulls faster. Pigeons were fast, crows were faster. Soldiers were fast too, but he was faster.
Rope made a dash for the mouth of the alley thinking to squeeze past the startled guard. It was his second error in judgement that night. The guardsman was built for soldiering with a height that was almost matched by his width. Rope got caught between the guard's stomach and the alley wall. He felt only a moment of fuzzy panic before a mammoth hand gripped him around the neck and lifted him off the ground.
"Where ye think you're going, eh?"
The guard's breath stank of onions and old brie, causing Rope to gag. But that was the least of his soldier's hand was so large that Rope felt his whole neck must be within the man's grasp, and worse, the fingers began to squeeze. The guard was laughing.
"I know you, don't I?" The unshaven face leaned in closer and a few of the longer whiskers stabbed Rope's cheek. "I've seen ye before, in the 'Pig and Whistle', haven' I, taking advantage of our Elly's good char...burp...charity?" It wasn't a question, it was an accusation.
The soldier's belch brought up a stink of cheap ale. Rope couldn't help himself. The guard's unwitting self-mockery was just too much.
"Ye'd better wipe that bloody smile off ye face boy, before I put ye in shackles and throw ye in with the wolves down in the stockade!" The guard pushed Rope roughly against the alley wall causing his head to bounce painfully off of the stone. Rope could vaguely hear the guard still talking and it took all his will to focus on the man's voice.
"They'd make short work of you, runt," the man's fingers were closing tighter around his neck,"Then again, there's not enough meat on ye. They'd probably just play with ye a bit and leave ye to the rats. Unless that devil, Targorr, doesn't claim ye for himself first."
Rope's disorientation cleared the instant the guard spoke the Orc's name. Rope had seen enough death to know it was a meaningless achievement– fleeting and soon forgotten– but he also knew first hand that this was not true of the stockade. No, in that vile place, death was master and it took its sordid time. Rope wasn't going back there. Ever.
The guardsman's body– so thickset and burly– was his curse. Rope kicked out violently with his feet and struck the guard's nose. It popped with a crack that echoed sickeningly off of the pave-stones. Man and armor toppled over like a felled tree, hitting the ground with a teeth-jarring crash. The man's skull striking the pavement was like a grim toll announcing his death.
The guardsman lay still.
Rope ran.
Curse the light! Curse the damn guard! Curse the whole bloody city!
A cat leapt off of a wall in front of him. How had it gone so wrong? Rope lashed out at the unfortunate animal, trying to kick it. Just a quick pee into the sluiceway that feeds rainwater down into the prisoners' water trough.The cat was faster, dodging his foot and fleeing back over the wall. And curse you, too! The guards never made rounds when Elly's sister sang at the 'Pig and Whistle'. Never.
Rope gritted his teeth and quickened his pace. So be it, if fate were out for him this night, it'd have to catch him first.
Once within the walls of Old Town, Rope felt a weight lift off of him. He hadn't realized just how much he'd held been holding his breath until he leapt off the roof of the potions shop, the 'Five Deadly Venoms', and sucked in a great gulp of air.
Here Rope knew people walked with their heads down, seldom looking up to see who was walking–or running– the streets so late. Like him, people in Old Town kept to their own business; it was safer that way. Nevertheless, there were some openly despised residents whose very livelihood depended on taking note of what others ignored. So only now, when he was finally home– a jumble of broken and splintered crates– did Rope allow himself the luxury of closing his eyes and letting his muscles relax.
By now, his head felt as though his long blond hair must surely be rooted with nails. Worse still, there were some nasty fumes seeping out from under the door and through the cracks in the shutters of the potions shop. Rope guessed that Mr. Sidney and his assistant's bickering had, yet again, forced them to continue their brewing into the night. Better not ask me to deliver anything tonight! I'll bloody well throw it in his snooty face!
Rope crawled into one of the larger crates that served as his bedroom and fell atop his filthy blanket. Images of the guardsman's still body only fought back his sleep for a few minutes before exhaustion and pain claimed victory.
Rope's head hadn't improved when he awoke to a sky still black.
When he'd roused himself to consciousness, he felt something tugging at his arm. Through his mind flashed images of diseased flesh, yellow teeth and sharp claws. He scrambled out of the crate and screamed. Like a berserker, he stamped and lashed out with his feet until he heard a satisfying yelp from within the crate. At first, Rope was relieved that it was probably just a stray dog, but following the yelp was a curse– a very human one.
"Medivh take you! That bloody hurt!"
The voice was unmistakably female and she was accusing him of wrongdoing. Rope was coming to his senses now, and he was none too pleased to be sworn at, especially by a girl, a girl who'd invaded his home.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"How about a 'sorry'?" came a smart reply.
This irritated him more.
"Sorry? You're the one trying to pilfer me things! I ought to carry you to Officer Brady and have him hang you!"
Rope quickly regretted shouting, not just because he knew better than to attract unwanted attention, but also because his own voice rang painfully inside his aching head.
"You could try. I'll even wait for you to finish peeing in your pants."
Her tone was as annoying as her sarcasm– smug just like Mr. Sidney when he smiled and gave him food riddled with maggots. Rope hated Mr, Sidney and he was fast becoming to despise this girl too.
Rope's cheeks grew hot. He threw out a shamed fist, but succeeded only in hitting the side of the crate. He was fast, she was faster. He screamed his own curse and tried to shake away the pain. The girl had no sympathy, though, and started on him again.
"Your mouth is as dirty as your clothes."
Rope's reply was more heated than his face. "Go away! This is my place. Go find your own!"
"Funny, I'd have thought you'd want to avoid attention, not invite it to breakfast."
"Maybe I want an audience when I show them how you tried to knife me in my sleep!"
She replied with the same infuriating cool. "Oh? What about Lyle?
"Who?"
"The guard you just killed. Is he going to feature in your opening act?"
The surprise must have been obvious on his face for she smiled in triumph, provoking him yet again.
"You're daft! I've been 'ere all night, till you attacked me!"
The girl inspected a nail and said, "Don't bother. I saw the whole thing. And do you think they'll need another excuse to hang you after hearing it from me– whether they believe it or not? Hmm?"
Rope's mind began to race, thinking of how he was going to get out of his predicament. But there wasn't time. The girl strode up to him and poked him hard in the chest. Just as she did, the curtain of grey clouds parted and the moon revealed the girl's features. Rope had a vague notion she was talking to him, but he wasn't hearing the words.
At first it'd been her full, bow-shaped lips, followed by her hair, so pale that it didn't appear to reflect the moonlight, but rather to absorb it. But it was her face that had reduced him to a speechless dolt. He'd seen and dreamt of women he'd thought were pretty, like Elly, the barmaid at 'The Pig and Whistle'. But this girl was more than pretty, she was beautiful.
Immediately Rope felt ashamed, ashamed of his stained clothes, of his disfigured hand, and of his destitute life.
The girl smacked him on the arm.
"Oi! Are you listening to me?"
"Wha...what?"
"I reckon that lout must have hit you something awful." She held up three fingers. "How many do you see?'
Rope's reply reflected his current state of brainlessness."Hmm...?"
The girl's voice softened a little. "Come on, sit down."
He started to do as he was told—she was so beautiful– but when the girl went to take his hand, he sobered immediately and pulled it away roughly. His denial didn't appear to hurt her, she just shrugged and sat down. Rope sat opposite her.
Again, it was the girl who spoke first.
"Look, I need a partner, someone I can trust. And seeing as how I know something you're not wanting others to know, you're just about the most trustworthy person in this rotten city."
It was a battle, infatuation versus suspicion.
"Sure, you can trust me. But first you gotta tell me how you managed to follow me back here."
She ignored his demand. "Tell me your name."
The girl had just about ordered him to give it to her. To Rope, her beauty lost a little of its charm.
"Why should I?"
She moved nearer to him. He could feel her hot breath on his cheek. It smelt sweetly of apples."You know, you ought to be nicer to me. We're soon to be very close friends, you and I."
The spell was cast again.
"Rope."
"What?"
"My name. Rope."
The girl giggled. "What kind of name is that?"
"The other orphans gave it to me."
"Why? Cause you're as thin as rope?" The jest and her accompanying laugh was the first bit of genuine warmth she'd granted him, but Rope's answer sucked all the levity from the air.
"No. Cause they hanged my dad in Trade's Square. Family's allowed to cut 'em down when they're dead, but it was just me, and I was too small. Couldn't reach. They only took him down when the smell got too bad. That's why they call me Rope." He spoke about the whole experience nonchalantly, as though he were talking about what he ate for dinner. Nevertheless, the girl waited a while before replying.
"But you have a name, right? What's your real name?"
"Don't remember. The matrons called me Rope, too."
"And you don't mind?"
He shrugged. "Don't care. Ol'Beasley says it doesn't matter what people call you, so long as they pay you."
The girl crossed her arms defiantly. "I don't want to call you Rope. It's daft."
Rope looked into the girl's eyes. They were amber and complemented her golden hair perfectly. The longer he stared into them, the tighter his body became. While the guard may have grasped him around the neck, this girl was squeezing him from the inside out. Humor seemed his only release.
"Alright, your high and mightiness," he half laughed, "you going to favor me with a new name, then? Rope ain't such a good name to have when their dragging you to the gallows, is it?"
The girl hummed and put a finger to her lip and then looked Rope up and down, appraising him as if he were some livestock on sale at the market.
"What are you good at?" The girl asked.
"What?" Rope was oddly distracted by her attention.
"What are you good at?" She sighed. "You know, have you got any skills? Can you throw a knife, pick a pocket, trick a turkey, skin a squirrel, climb a tree...skills?"
Rope wasn't sure what advantage skinning squirrels or climbing trees would be to anyone, but decided to keep his smart retort to himself. Why bother? He'd probably get more of a rise out of the statues lining the entrance of the city. She was certainly pretty enough to pose as one.
"I've got work, you know," he gestured towards the potions shop, "I ain't so slow that I can't get a better dinner than a squirrel."
"Why would anyone eat a squirrel?" For a moment the girl's features were distorted by a foul look that seemed so wrong on someone so beautiful.
"Why would you want to skin one?" That time Rope couldn't help himself. The desire to one-up her trumped his wish not to see her scowl again.
She smiled and said, "Actually, you'd be surprised how much clearer things look from the inside out."
Is she joking? Rope wasn't sure. "Yeah, well I don't need to turn you inside-out to know you're hiding something."
The girl leaned back and pulled an apple from the small pouch she wore. After she had taken a bite, chewed and swallowed, she bestowed upon Rope his new name.
"I like you Padfoot, you're even quicker than I thought."
"What's a Padfoot?"Rope asked, too curious to register the compliment.
"You are, silly."
The blow to his ego hurt even more because he assumed she didn't like him. At least, not the way he liked her.
"Padfoot? That's better than 'Rope'? Makes me sound like someone's dog!"
The girl shuffled over and sat on her knees facing him. She leaned in so close to Rope's ear that he could feel her lips brush his skin.
"It's perfect, actually, seeing as I've got you on a very tight leash."
Rope felt as though lightning were bouncing around inside of him. He wanted more.
The girl withdrew, her lips brushing Rope's cheek as she stood. Her voice recovered its commanding tone.
"OK, Padfoot, meet me outside the city tomorrow night. The orchard near Mirror Lake."
"Why there?"
She smiled and threw the half-eaten apple at him. "I like apples."
The girl started to leave. The thunder pealed again. Desperation and ache made Rope's appeal sound like the whining dog she'd just likened him to.
"Wait! What about the growers? Their hounds'll tear me to pieces!"
She called back over her shoulder. "Don't worry. There's a new owner. I helped him get rid of them."
"What's your name?" Rope cried out.
She stopped and turned her head. After a moment, she gave him what he wanted.
"Marisa."
Then she was gone.
Rope turned the apple around to where Marisa's mouth had been. He took a bite out of it and wondered how she had known the guard's name.
Rope went to Ol'Beasley first. The crazy old man knew more than everyone thought.
"A few coppers today, a silver tomo...oh, it's you lad. Don't suppose you got a copper for Ol'Beasley, do you?"
"Might have. Depends on." Rope put a hand in his pocket feigning the presence of a coin.
"Depends on what, lad?" The old man couldn't take his eyes off of the promise of Rope's pocket. "You know, Ol'Beasley's good for it."
Rope knew of no greater lie, but held his tongue. "You ever heard of a girl called Marisa?"
The old man put a finger to his temple. "Marisa?" He repeated the name over and over. "What does she look like, lad?"
The question sounded so simple, yet Rope found himself floundering for a suitable answer. "Well...ah...she's got long blonde hair and she's just a bit shorter than me."
Ol'Beasley's laugh became a hacking cough. When he recovered he said, "You just described half the women in the city, boy!"
"Well..," Rope felt his cheeks growing hot, "she's pretty, like Elly, but she doesn't have as much...ah..," he held his hands across his chest.
This time the old man nearly toppled over. "Ha! Sounds like you've been stuck with one of Peddlefeet's arrows, lad!"
Rope didn't have much luck questioning 'Fingers' McCoy either.
"Eyes like the rust on Bartleby's mail rings? Rope, did Miles make you drink his latest concoction?"
Rope left 'Fingers' without the few coppers he'd hidden in his shoe. But the encounter wasn't completely in the thief's favor, Rope had helped himself to the man's knife.
By the time despair drove him to ask Elly at the Pig and Whistle, Rope realized he was well and truly besotted with Marisa.
"Hair like the goldclover growing in Felicia Gump's herb garden? Rope, dare I ask what you were doing in Felicia's garden? Does that miser Sidney make you pinch his herbs now?"
At nightfall, Rope left the city with no dinner, no money and no clue.
The city looked different from out here, almost majestic. Up close, though, all that stone and wood was just a partition separating the rich from the poor and the guilty from the innocent.
Rope had another reason to hate all that stone, the heat. Summer in Stormwind was wretched. The tons and tons of masonry– whilst protecting the people from the dangers without– made living within the city walls unbearable. Looking back at the city from his current vantage point, Rope imagined that it were some gargantuan reptile, arching its stony back to the sky in an effort to catch the last rays of the setting sun.
The Orchard in comparison was cool and comfortable, and as promised there was no sign of the hounds. A breeze was gently conducting the leaves of the trees in a harmonious orchestra of soft whispers and rustles. Not to be outdone, the crickets and toads were similarly captivating him with their own nocturnal concerto. With all of the pleasant distractions, Rope was starting to forget the real reason he was there. Fate soon reminded him, though.
"Beautiful place, isn't it Padfoot?" Marisa was leaning against one of the taller trees.
Rope had thought a lot about what he was going to say to her and he'd had a whole day to let his frustration and humiliation fester.
"Don't know how you knew, but I do know you brought that guard down on me. Why? I haven't done nothing to you!"
She gave him her secret smile and said, "Maybe Lyle and I were just out for a romantic stroll by the canal."
Rope snorted and rose his voice. "That ugly oaf and you? Yeah and I'm really King Wyrnn's bastard son."
"Really? Well, if I'd known I'd be cavorting with royalty, I'd have worn a nicer dress."
She'd done it again. The inside of his mouth was suddenly so wet that he was forced to swallow. His mocking retort went down, too. Marisa walked slowly towards him, hips swinging deliberately. When she was sufficiently close, she wet her fingers with her tongue and wiped some of the grime off his burning cheeks.
"Who'd have thought there was such handsomeness underneath all that."
He was not at all ready for her sudden flirtation. So, when she went for the second time to take his disfigured hand, his frustration with his own nervousness made him slap her hand away.
"Why am I here? What do you want?"
"I'll tell you everything," Marisa said as she backed slowly away from him, "but only if you can catch me first." She then gave a small giggle and ran.
Rope was surprised by how quickly his legs had started after her, especially as his mind was still deciding if it was a good idea.
He had to admit it, Marisa was fast. Very fast. At times it was as though she'd just vanish and reappear ten yards behind or in front of him. At first he'd laughed in disbelief, but after ten minutes of running around and around the orchard he was beginning to get annoyed. He'd convinced himself that if only he could catch her, she would be his.
The next time she vanished from his sight, instead of running, he stopped and hid, crouching down in a thick bush. The bush's foliage was dry and sharp and it was all he could do not to cry out when a sharp branch dug into his leg. He waited and listened. His heart was still drumming in his ear, so he had to strain to listen for her bare feet. The seconds turned into minutes and his legs began to burn from crouching so long. But just as he thought he could stand it no longer, Marisa tip-toed passed him. Rope didn't wait and this time he proved the faster of the two. He leapt from out of the bush and grabbed hold of her. They both tumbled to the ground. When they stopped rolling, Rope pinned her to the ground with his good hand. Marisa didn't resist.
"Now that you've got me, Padfoot, what are you going to do with me?"
Rope knew exactly what he wanted to do and her lips were so very close to his. And he almost did, except his poor luck hadn't given up in its effort to thwart him.
"Is that you Marisa? Looks like ye got a ruddy great rat on top of ye!"
The voice came from behind them. Rope leapt off of Marisa and spun to face the speaker. At the same time, he drew the knife he'd taken from 'Fingers'. The man was not the least bit perturbed. Bending down, he picked up a fallen apple and began tossing it casually between his hands.
"Bet ye wish you could do this, eh?"
"Do what?" Rope spoke forcefully, letting the other know he was serious.
"Well, from the looks of ye, I'd imagine juggling ain't gonna be your future calling."
"And what do you care about my future? You might not have one if you take another step."
It was Marisa who answered, coming to stand beside him. She looked down. Rope assumed she was looking at his marred hand.
"Listen to him, Padfoot. And you don't need the knife. He needs you. I need you."
He didn't mean to shout at her, but he was embarrassed by his hand and by his seeming inferiority in the presence of the other man. "You didn't say you'd be bringing your friends!"
"I didn't say I wouldn't either. Just calm down."
"Ye ought to listen to 'er mate. Jac here reckons that knife of yours ain't big enough."
"Besides," a third voice added, "as Marisa has already told you, there really is no need to fear. We haven't any cause to do you harm."
Rope wasn't foolish enough to take his eyes off of the thug standing in front of him.
"Hmph! Another one. With all that fancy talk, I reckon this gorilla must be yours. Tell him to back off or I'll..."
Rope dropped the knife and screamed, a sound that sent night birds fleeing from the trees. His hands were excruciatingly cold, as though ice water were running through his veins. Losing one hand had meant desolation. Losing the other would be his execution– slow and torturous.
So, he ran, or at least tried to. Before he'd even finished the thought, the Orchard was silenced by Marisa's voice. It was her voice, only amplified a hundred fold, as though she'd been keeping a clap of thunder in her pouch and released it the moment she opened her mouth. The instant her strange words rang out, Rope found his feet encased in great chunks of ice.
He bent over and began pounding on the ice holding his feet. In his frenzy, he felt no pain and paid no heed to the horrible lacerations that were tearing and bloodying his skin. Faster kills fast. Faster kills fast. Over and over again Rope repeated the words, striking the ice faster and faster, harder and harder. The others watched bewildered.
Then, quick as a viper, Rope stopped, scooped up the knife and put it to Marisa's throat.The ice around his feet shattered instantly.
The giant exhaled. "He's fast, ain't he, Marisa. You can pick 'em good."
The smooth talker was equally impressed and gave Rope a short applause. "Indeed. A most convincing performance. You had us all fooled."
Rope's chest was heaving and his hand hurt terribly. In defiance of his pain and humiliation, he closed his fingers tighter around the handle of his knife and pressed the edge harder against Marisa's throat. The irony of having been in a similar state of helplessness the previous night did not escape him. Nor did it escape her.
"Feels good, doesn't it? Now you see what drives monsters. "
The other men both laughed.
"Nice friends you got, Marisa. They think it's funny that you're gonna die."
The cultured man laughed again, and went to sit on a stump that was in Rope's line of sight.
"I certainly do not find the prospect of Marisa's death at all humorous. But then again, I have no fear whatsoever that you will be the one to bring about such a tragic event."
The man's elegant speech could not have been more in contrast with his choice of garb. He wore a peasant's tunic, plain and unassuming. The only piece in keeping with the grandeur of his voice was a pristine red bandana tied around his neck.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, and looked directly at Rope with eyes he thought belonged on a snake, not a man, and they held him faster than the ice had.
"Padfoot, is it?"
The man was sizing him up. Rope knew then and there that if the man didn't like what he saw, he wouldn't be leaving this orchard. He nodded slowly, expecting the man to uncoil at any moment and skewer him with the rapier hanging from his belt. Rope felt his arms and legs go tight in anticipation. Faster kills fast.
"I do believe you have genuinely impressed our Marisa. No small feat, isn't that right, my dear?"
Marisa pressed her body up against Rope's. "No, Edward, not small at all." Rope shivered.
The man, Edward, continued, his gaze never leaving Rope.
"These days, Padfoot, there's much to laugh about, though none of it's at all amusing." Edward pointed in the direction of the Stormwind. "You live in the city of jokes, a veritable sanctuary for fools. It's not your fault, of course. It is what it is. Allow me to present my case. First, I find it priceless that the man calling himself King lays claim to that title because of the murder of a senile old fool and the maniacal son who did him in!" The man's tone was rising in intensity. "Second, groveling and scraping at the pretender King's feet, are a pack of nobles who are just about as ignoble as ogres at dinner. And you won't find ogres feasting on each other!"
Edward uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. Rope flinched but did not stop listening. He couldn't. So rare was it to hear someone speak the truth.
"Third, the very people who built that city, toiled for it, died to rebuild it and turn it into something magnificent and respected, those people, good people like Marisa's father, were either thrown out, or hanged!"
As Edward spoke the last word, Marisa put a hand up to Rope's face and caressed it gently. He almost dropped his eyes to look at her, but Edward was reaching the zenith of his sermon.
"Well, I fight for those people. I will see that city become what it was supposed to be, and I will take back in blood what those leeches owe me!"
His lecture finished, Edward rose and approached Rope.
The man's tone was even again, almost fatherly. "I'm offering you an opportunity, Padfoot. Help me, help us, and help Marisa to right these wrongs and I'll not only give you back the life those villains stole from you, I'll give you back your hand, too." Edward put an upturned palm out towards Rope. He didn't wait long.
Rope placed the knife in his master's hand.
"What do I need to do?"
"But why me? Can't he just pay some bloody thug-for-hire to do it? That gorilla back in the orchard would be a good choice!"
Marisa's voice rose to match his own. "I told you. He's ready for that. It has to be you! Zardeth knows you. Besides," her voice softened, "you've got an innocent face." She cupped it with her hands."
Padfoot tore himself free and threw his hands in the air. "But I've only made a few deliveries to Zardeth. Doesn't make us the best of friends, you know. I doubt he'll ask me in for a glass of Moonberry juice!"
Marisa changed her tact. "You're smart. You'll think of something. Edward's counting on you. I'm counting on you."
Padfoot sighed in defeat. If he had to ride a bleeding horse through the Gryphon rookery in Stormwind to get his hand back, he would. Fortunately, he just had to knock on the door of the only warlock lair in Stormwind, ask to see the most powerful and vile of the lot, then order him not to lead some band of would-be-heroes on a mission to kill Edward, and if he refuses, kill him. Somehow, Padfoot thought the gryphon rookery might be easier.
"Remember, this will only work once. There's no second try."
"You mean there's no second death."
She smiled. "Yes. So don't waste what I give you."
Marisa approached him once more and made some strange gestures with her hands. She was also muttering low incantations under her breath. Rope's street instincts moved his legs away from her.
"Stay still," she hissed, "or they'll be finding bits of you from here to Theramore!"
The threat was enough to bring his flight response under control. Rope felt the chill come over him again, not as biting as it had been in the orchard, but uncomfortable nonetheless. The sensation ended the moment Marisa ceased her invocations.
She warned him again.
"Don't forget, this will protect you only once. And I'm not familiar with fel-based magic, so I can't even guarantee that. Be careful. Try not to be in the direct line of anything he throws at you."
Why? Rope thought. Because you care or because you don't want me to fail? He stared into the amber eyes hoping to find an answer. Does it matter? I want you either way.
"Can't you just turn me invisible or something?"
"Oh, no. I want to see your handsome face when I'm kissing you."
Again, he looked into her eyes and imagined making her jest a reality.
"Besides, you've got everything you need." She pointed at his feet. When he didn't catch on, she said, "Padfoot, be sure to live up to the name."
Marisa held out her hand. She was holding something, a dog's paw mounted in silver and attached to a chain. When Rope didn't take it, she placed it in his hand. Her fingers lingered on his skin. She smiled. Rope began to wrap his own fingers around hers but she gently pulled her hand away.
Disappointed and embarrassed, he tried to make a joke.
"So, where will I meet you, assuming I'm not blasted into small bits from here to Theramore?"
"Eating apples."
Rope watched her leave, lingering even once Marisa was well out of sight. Then, after donning the necklace he lost himself in the shadows and made for the the Slaughtered Lamb, the location of the warlocks' guild. He could only hope that the tavern's name wasn't a dire warning of things to come.
It was well after closing time. He knew he'd have to wait.
Finally, he heard someone approach the door. A small square portion of the door slid aside and a pair of bloodshot eyes peered out at him.
"What do you want? We're closed."
Rope prepared his most credulous face and said wide-eyed, "Sorry, Miss. But Mr. Sidney sent me. Rope. I've got somethin' fer Mr. Zardeth."
"Well, don't just stand there peeing in your britches. Leave it and I'll take it to him."
Rope was getting tired of people, directly or not, mentioning his accident of two nights before. He almost gave a smart reply, but had the good sense to swallow it down with his indignation.
"But...ah...well...Mr. Sidney said that I ought to give it to Zardeth m'self. Somethin' terrible in 'ere 'e said." Rope thrust the potion bottle into view, causing it to shake and fizz angrily. "I don't want no trouble with Mr. Sidney or Mr. Zardeth."
"For Medivh's sake, boy, be careful!" The eyes narrowed in anger. "Wait there!" The eyes were hastily withdrawn and the door-slit slammed shut. A few tormenting minutes later the eyes returned. "Alright, you can come in, but keep your eyes down and Gul'dan's Skull, don't touch anything!"
The tavern itself looked ordinary enough, just a little dark. But the air was thick and, even for summer, felt unnaturally hot. There was a peculiar smell, too. At first, the scent reminded him of removing rust from the mail at the back of the armorer's shop in Old Town. Then his eyes widened and he fell out of step. It was the smell of blood.
"I told you not to look at anything. Hurry up!"
The woman's scolding was wasted as he had no intention of dawdling.
They travelled down some dark-stained stairs into a passageway that eerily evoked the Stockade. There were no metal bars, no prisoners and no wails of suffering, but he knew that this was another place where death prospered.
As he passed room after room, Rope stole glances out the corners of his eyes. There were many hideous things bottled up in jars and even more horrible things that weren't, but that he thought ought to be. He even imagined that he'd seen a few of the vile creatures move. But dead or alive, all had the same wide-eyed look of terror and all seemed to be looking right at him, pleading with him to put an end to their torment.
After descending another set of stairs and negotiating a further series of increasingly danker and darker corridors, they finally came to a stop. The female warlock whipped around and turned her blood-shot eyes upon Rope once more.
"I've got better things to do than chaperone delivery boys. Listen carefully, I won't repeat myself. Continue down here and take the first left, then a right, a left and two more rights. Walk down a long passageway and take another two rights. Zardeth will be in the first room on your right." The warlock pointed a cautioning finger at him. "Do not enter until he bids you. Understand?"
Rope nodded an affirmative. The warlock stared at him and then at the bottle in his hands. It was obvious the woman was interested in its contents. After another few moments of silent deliberation she pushed past him and strode off into the dark muttering something under her breath. While relieved he no longer had to share the woman's foul company, being alone at the bottom of a demonic sanctuary gave Rope chills. He supposed bitterly that his honest fear would aid him with the treachery he was about to commit.
When he was sure she'd gone, Rope walked to the end of the tunnel and turned right. He knocked on the first door on his left and waited. She sure doesn't think much of Zardeth, nor me for that matter.
"Enter." Zardeth's voice was much more unnerving than the woman's for it was the exact opposite, melodious and far too merry for such sinister surroundings. "And close the door behind you, there's a good lad."
Rope did as instructed.
The room was illuminated by a single candle burning on the desk the warlock was busy writing at. There was no draft but the flame was dancing wildly. Perhaps it too, he thought, was writhing in the warlock's presence. Rope's musings came to an abrupt end when something smack his leg.
"Master want Ziggy to blast small man? Give master peace and quiet?" A sharp-toothed imp was dancing around Rope's leg in a frenzy.
Rope remembered it. On his previous delivery to the warlock, Zardeth's nasty little pet had latched itself to his head and demanded that the 'worthless mortal' give him his hair. Clearly amused, Zardeth had taken his time ordering his familiar off of Rope. By that time, the imp had uprooted a painful quantity of his hair.
The warlock seemed similarly amused with the imp's current antics. He turned in his chair but did not get up.
"Ziggy, if you were to...how did you put it?..blast this young man, how would master be able to retrieve the vial he has so kindly brought me at such a late hour, hmm..?"
The imp ceased his gyrations and thought for a moment.
"Master is always so smart. Ziggy bring master vial first, then blast worthless boy."
The imp leapt onto Rope's arm and began prying the vial out of his hand. The potion bubbled and hiss in protest. Finally, Zardeth rose from his seat, and face fuming, stormed toward the imp. At the last second, Ziggy saw its master's hand swinging towards its face, but it wasn't quick enough. The little creature flew across the chamber and hit a shelf of jars. Ziggy, jars and shelf all crashed to the floor.
"Fool! Make yourself useful and clean that up." The warlock's civility clearly did not apply to his servant. But when the man turned his attention back to Rope, he seemed to have found his manners again. "Now, Rope, would you be so kind as to put that vial with the others on my desk? Careful, now, don't trip."
As he was doing as he was told, the warlock said, "I am surprised that Miles was able to put this little brew together so quickly. Pleasantly surprised, of course, but Miles is not usually so punctual, being ever the perfectionist. Something to be admired, mind you."
Rope felt Zardeth's eyes on his back as he set the vial in a rack on the desk. When he turned around, the warlock was standing with arms folded. Zardeth was expecting him to say something.
"Umm...not sure Mr. Zardeth. He just tells me where to go."
"Of course," the warlock conceded, "better not to know too much, isn't that right?"
Rope nodded his agreement. "Can I leave now?"
The warlock's smile was nearly as mischievous as Ziggy's. "Surely you're a curious young man. Wouldn't you like to stay a little longer and explore such a mysterious place."
"Not really."
"Stop being so short, it's rude. Now, you see, since our...unveiling, our guild," he swept his hand around the room, "is always the first dish to be served up at those absurd soirees up there in that castle! And then they have the audacity to demand that one of us volunteer themselves for some ridiculous raid on the Deadmines! Ha! Don't wish to get their hands dirty with affairs outside of their precious city! Well, young Rope, I plan to get those pompous fools very dirty." The warlock smiled again. "And you, my boy, can help me. You see, I am sure that drunk Wishock wants very much for our little group of adventurers to fail. Well, Zardeth of the Black Claw does not plan on dying down in some stank, godforsaken mine. But then again, my revenge will be all the more sweet if the fool thinks I'm dead. Which is why, good Rope, I have need of your soul."
Reaching out to grab him, the warlock's hands began to glow with a red light. Zardeth was soon disappointed, however, when he discovered that his victim was not the simpleton he had thought. Rope easily ducked under the clumsy attack.
In such a dark and cluttered space, he found it easy to avoid the warlock, running behind shelves and toppling them. Rope picked up books and jars, launching them like missiles at the now screaming Zardeth.
The warlock yelled for his familiar to help him. Unfortunately, Ziggy was enjoying his master's dance too much, and was rolling on the floor in hysterics.
At last, fuming and breathing hard, Zardeth stopped. He'd had quite enough of this young delinquent. This time the warlock's entire body was suffused in red light. He was preparing to unleash a spell, and from the look Rope saw on the warlock's face, it would be a lethal one.
Thankfully, Rope's intuition saved him. He dove behind the warlock's desk the instant a bolt of purplish-black energy came crackling towards him. Still, he wasn't fast enough. The bolt struck his leg and he cried out in agony. Behind the desk, he lay gasping and clutching at the wound. Despite his smoking skin, Rope was surprised that the pain was fast subsiding. Marisa is better than she lets on. For a moment Rope was surprised by a great sense of pride toward her. The thought didn't last long, though, for he could hear the warlock's soft-booted feet approaching. Zardeth coming to claim his prize.
Instead of waiting, Rope leapt up, vaulted the desk and ran. He collided with the open-mouthed warlock and both crashed to the floor. Only Rope got up. Zardeth lifted his head to stare at the hilt of the poisoned dagger jutting out of his chest.
Rope gave the warlock his last words, "Faster kills fast."
Ziggy continued to laugh until his master's head dropped back to the floor, mouth still frozen open, then he too faded from existence.
Rope surprised even himself with how quickly and quietly he could move. He slipped from the guild's lair before any of the other warlocks knew he was ever there. He was Padfoot.
"I've been waiting all night."
"I had something to do before I left the city."
"Oh?"
"I needed to pick up something from the matrons at the orphanage."
Marisa couldn't take her eyes off of his bloody hands. "And what did you get?"
"My name."
"So, Padfoot, what shall I call you no..?"
He held and kissed her before she could stop him. When he finished, Marisa said, "You found more that just your name, Padfoot."
"Garrick," he replied.
"Well, Garrick Padfoot," she entwined her fingers in his. "I want you to tell me all about it."
This time she kissed him back.