Prelude To Tale 1: The Quick And The Dead
Then. Lordaeron.
The pumpkin had proven a shade too pest-withered to be used as food, but Morgan Silvers had managed to find another use for it, setting it up on the wooden fence that hemmed in where he kept his sheep. Crossing the pen, taking a moment to climb over the other part of the fence, Morgan walked past his house and to the small crowd of people gathered just beyond it. Nearly all of them were men, some holding flagons of alcohol, but all their eyes were set on the young, brown-haired boy.
"Bartholomew?" Morgan said to his son. The boy looked at him, the strange contraption of wood and metal clutched firmly in his grip. "Go ahead."
Bartholomew raised the device, his eye scanning down its length and at the distant pumpkin. For a few seconds, he stood completely still.
The flintlock pistol barked, and to the complete astonishment of the gathered men, the pumpkin fell from the distant fence, accompanied by a barely-visible spray of splattered husk. An eruption of surprised delight and amazement came from the gathered men, even as a few threw their flagons or whatever they happened to be holding on the ground in frustration.
"That's impossible! You cheated!" One of the angry men said.
"If you believe that, Smythe, go check the fruit yourself!" Morgan replied. Smythe did just that, beginning to stomp over to the semi-destroyed product. In the end, all Smythe accomplished was getting his hands dirty and making himself even angrier when he found the small ball-like projectile inside the pumpkin. With more than a little smugness, Morgan collected the money that he'd made on his bet. For the most part, the gathered villagers let it slide. Morgan was, overall, respected.
"How the heck did you discover your son could do this, Morgan?" Another of the villagers asked.
"That's our secret, but traveling with dwarves helps. It's amazing what those creatures have managed to forge. I feel bad for anyone who tries to pick a fight with them." Morgan said, counting his silver before putting it in a pouch.
"Give me a good arrow any day. At least I know a bow won't blow up in my hands." Another villager said.
"Yes, Morgan, what were you thinking? You could have killed your kid."
"Oh, he'll be fine. Right Bartholomew?" Morgan said, rubbing his son's head affectionately. The child looked up at his father with a semi-eerie expression, far too calm considering the circumstances, but he said nothing.
"…Right. Go put that away child, we should start preparing for bed." Morgan said. Bartholomew obeyed without speaking, again, heading for the door of the house he shared with his father.
"…Morgan, don't take this the wrong way, but your son is…very odd." The villager who had made the comment about bows said.
"Oh, he simply views life in his own way. He'll grow out of it, I'm sure. Besides, no one ever starved for being a little unusual."
"More than a few got strung up on trees, though."
"…True. But why think negatively?" Morgan said, taking out his silver to count it again. The task kept him from noticing his son had stopped, having listened to every word that his father had said.
Whatever opinion he had of it did not show in his face. It remained as quietly aloof as ever.
Now. Another continent. Another world. Another life…in so many ways…
How the Forsaken didn't smell to high heaven was a mystery; not only was he in the baking deserts of Durotar on a none-too-cool day, but he was dressed completely in black. The fact that he did not, however, spoke that there was more to the dark clothing and linked metal armor, all as dark as pitch, than what it appeared to be. The dry bones of the reanimated horse rubbed together in a leathery whisper as it stepped amongst the jagged rocks, the Forsaken taking it to the cliff's edge to get a better view. After a moment's pause, the Forsaken adjusted the wide-brimmed, black hat slightly lower on his head, cutting off the intruding sunlight that had begun to disrupt his vision, before peering down to look at the long, faint trail of smoke rising in the distance. Three dark forms hunched around the campfire, their vague motions suggesting a meal was being consumed. The Forsaken watched for several more seconds before pulling at his reins, guiding his equally-silent ride away from the cliff edge and back towards the route he'd used to get up on top of it in the first place.
After fifteen minutes the Forsaken was back on the ground. Another ten began to draw him close to the camp he'd spied. He made no effort to conceal his approach: he was not a magician, and he didn't know how he could have altered his coming even if he was. The Forsaken suspected the creatures he'd viewed had selected their camp site for that very same reason.
As a result, the three Tauren were all looking at him with wary eyes as he finally got within speaking distance. The Forsaken walked in another fifteen feet before stopping, lifting both his hands to indicate he did not have a weapon prepared. The Tauren did not change their gaze or position. The Forsaken hadn't expected them to.
"Afternoon, gentlemen, or ruffians, whichever you prefer," The Forsaken said, his tone neutral and his voice a quiet, unreadable thrum. "You are the Zergio brothers?"
"Who's asking?" Tauren 1 said, hefting a huge, spiked maul.
"Barsidious Silverbane. I believe you have information that would be of use for me." Barsidious said. Tauren 2, or Voignar as his mother had named him, snorted, looking up and down at the Forsaken, wondering what his angle was. The fact that he knew who THEY were sent alarm bells off in the Tauren's head, but only quiet ones. His brothers, Losin and Gignus, as well as he himself, had dealt with enough problems, especially recently, to know how to handle situations like this.
The thing Voignar noticed, besides the undead's all black outfit, was the fact that he had only one eye. Somewhat strangely, the Forsaken was wearing a black band to cover the other one, which inwardly amused the Tauren. Did he think it made him look more intimidating? All it did was call attention to the fact he was now halfway to blind, if his apparent lack of weapons and the fact he'd just strolled up like he wanted a quiet chat didn't indicate his stupidity enough. Still, Voignar remained on edge; idiots could still be dangerous, and opinions could always be revised. Still, from what he could see, the advantage was theirs.
"How much?" Gignus said, always the most money-hungry of the three. Barsidious' response to slowly reach into his coat and extract a bag filled with coins, tossing it near the Tauren's campfire. Gignus snatched it up, dumped the gold coins into his hand, and began counting.
"If you want to negotiate for more, I'm open to it. But payment should be tended in turn." Barsidious said. "Where is Gallywix?"
"The goblin prince? Why the fel would WE know?" Voignar said, watching as Losin shifted his maul. "If you want a guess, and you haven't heard, he has some place in that mess the goblins are making of Aszhara! He even named it after himself!"
"Yeah, so, if you're asking for directions…you need them!" Gignus said, gesturing at the Durotar desert before exploding with laughter at his perceived-clever joke.
"Yes, well, despite what many goblins say, Gallywix is clever enough, it seems, to not always hang around in the location he slapped his name on. So I need to figure out where."
"And why would we know, again?" Voignar said.
"You're Grimtotem. Your clan rebelled against the rest of the Tauren and attempted to dominate them. I see you still have Magatha's runes tattooed on your shoulders, so you're among the group that chose exile. You're not down in Stonetalon or the Needles, which suggests you did something to anger your larger clan. Since the rebellion, Grimtotem that did not swear allegiance to the Horde have been outcast amongst them, so you wouldn't be doing work in Orgrimmar. The neutral goblin clans have, at the moment, also shunned work from the Grimtotem for fear of angering the Tauren and Horde in general. That leaves the only employer for types like you to be the Bilgewater Cartel, or more precisely, its rather…controversial leader and his attitude towards anyone telling him what to do. For someone of your stripe, Gallywix would deal with you personally…all the moreso because he probably thinks he's smarter than you and could make you do the work for less money. Oh yes…and the way you're sitting suggests you're uncomfortable with your armor. Which suggests that it's new, and since you couldn't purchase new armor like that in Orgrimmar or any nearby Horde towns…that leaves one option. Likely rewards from Gallywix's mining and hunting operations in Azshara. So, I ask again. Where is Gallywix?"
"Why do you care?"
"I have my reasons. And you are mercenaries who work for money. I paid you. If you've suddenly grown a code of ethics, I would be very interested in watching you try and explain them." Barsidious said. Voignar was about to reply when he heard the faint cry.
"…Heh. Well, no. Not ethics." Voignar said, holding out an arm. The hawk landed on the thick hide glove he wore there, sharp eyes glaring at the Forsaken. He'd sent his pet up several minutes ago, and it was clear from the way the Forsaken glanced at it that he hadn't seen it. Said hawk had been trained to give certain cries based on what he observed, and the one he'd given had confirmed Voignar's choice of actions. "Rather, information. See, Furor here just told me that you came here alone. No allies, no one to watch your back. Which means that the negotiations have ended. You're going to give us everything of yours. And die, of course. Again."
"…if you really wish to raise issue where none is needed…" Barsidious said.
"Oh no…I think I'll just do what seems best. Which is to help anyone who is stupid enough to walk onto my defenses without a care in the world shuffle off this mortal coil with the speed he's requested." Voignar said. Gignus chuckled nastily, and even Losin made a brief noise of dark amusement.
"…Is this really necessary?" Barsidious said.
"It's like you said, carrion. We're not part of the Horde any more. We don't WANT to be. This land is OURS. One day, you'll all learn this as we sweep you off it to your doom. Just like that idiot Cairne." Voignar said. "If you'd like to make one last show of defiance, please do. I always enjoy watching my prey squirm."
Barsidious stared at the Tauren hunter, his lone eye's faint glow barely visible in the desert's harsh sunlight. The Tauren brothers stared back, beads of sweat glistening on their muscles, their bodies tightly coiled in eager preparation for the carnage to come.
Barsidious' hand jerked for his coat, and Voignar closed his hand with a smirk, activating the rune in his palm.
The smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. Nothing had happened. The sand beneath the Forsaken remained just that, and the Forsaken was still reaching into his garment. Before Voignar could react, it extracted what it had gone for.
A handful of small, white crystals.
"If you're looking to spring those ice prison traps you laid all around the ground here, helps if they have these." Barsidious said, scattering the removed trigger-gems on the sand around him. The Tauren goggled at the sight. Their traps had been disarmed. "It's true you tried to hide your tracks and your camp when you went to ambush those caverns you decided to rob. It's also unfortunate that I've tracked down people who were better than you at doing it."
"…FU-!" Voignar bellowed, beginning the command that would make his hawk tear the Forsaken's remaining eye out.
This time, the Tauren did not see the Forsaken move. One moment, the Forsaken had his hand out from his crystal-scattering, and the next he had a gun in it, the smallest gun Voignar had ever seen. As a hunter himself, Voignar knew that all the power of such weapons lay in their girth, the firearms often the size of the wielder's arms, not their hands. This gun was so small (to Voignar's experience) that it had been successfully concealed beneath the Forsaken's coat. If he'd had a chance to examine it, he might have recognized the finest goblin craftsmanship money could buy.
With a cracking explosion that echoed across the desert, Furor flew off Voignar's arm in a spray of blood and feathers. Despite the sudden and violent death of his pet, Voignar found himself leaping to his feet and pulling up his own gun; all guns needed a brief moment between shots, no one on Azeroth had successfully invented a personal weapon that could utilize what others might term automatic fire, he could beat this bastard to his shot-!
Voignar was right; Barsidious' gun had the same pause between shots. He was wrong, however, in thinking he could beat the Forsaken blurring his hand up and yanking back the hammer of his weapon before he fired again.
The second bullet snapped the Tauren's rifle in half at the trigger-point before impacting against the Grimtotem's armored torso, the kinetic energy throwing him backwards onto his rear, all the air leaving his lungs in one explosive woof. Sand sprayed from his impact, putting out the remnants of the Tauren's fire even as his brothers rose to make their own challenge.
Gignus, despite his size, was also incredibly fast, leaping up and drawing one of his poisoned daggers. A person's dodging options were limited on a horse, and his virulent toxins would tear into putrefying flesh as quickly and as vehemently as living…
"You're not so…!"
Said poisons, unfortunately for him, were kept in a bag at his side. A bag that was not placed against a piece of armor, as the Tauren had not yet settled fully into the protective gear and re-arranged his usual attire around it.
Which meant that when the bullet tore through the bag, it also tore into the flesh beyond it. Gignus's initial howl of pain turned into an agonized screech as the venoms, their containers shattered and leaking, immediately entered the brand-new wound and went to work, their actions commanded by no master. The scream faded in two seconds, Gignus falling onto his side, foam gushing from his mouth as his body went into near-immediate septic shutdown.
"Brother…" Losin finally said, before his eyes, burning with overwhelming hate, snapped towards the Forsaken. "RAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Losin was a warrior, covered in armor that could stop most weapons on Azeroth. His rage would have let him sunder creatures five times his size to pieces. His stride would have reached Barsidious in two seconds.
There was, however, no armor inside his screaming mouth. Barsidious promptly put a bullet in it.
Voignar rose even as his brother fell, unable to believe what had happened. Just like that, everything important in his life was gone, all because…
"I WILL KILL YOU!" Voignar screamed, drawing his massive skinning knife and lunging at the Forsaken.
The bullet broke the blade off at the handle.
"You're a touch late." Barsidious said, and put his final bullet into the meaty part of Voignar's left thigh. The importance of proper armor adjustment.
Voignar collapsed onto his chest, his leg no longer able to support him. He snorted and growled in pain, spying his bag of provisions in front of him, from where he'd tossed it when he'd arrived at camp. He began crawling forward, every second an eternity, but if he could get at his healing elixirs he could get back into this, he could kill this thrice-damned Forsaken, he almost had it, he…!
Screamed as the bullet tore through his hand. Barsidious had not just sat on his horse and watched Voignar try and reach his bag. He'd taken the time to get off the skeletal beast and collect a length of rope. Oh, and reload.
"YOU BASTARD…!"
"I told you that there didn't have to be an issue. We could have parted as friends, or…well, there's probably another term, but it's not coming to me." Barsidious said. "You decided, instead, you'd rather be enemies. It's true I have a lot more enemies than friends…that's just ensured I've become very good at dealing with them. Now, again. Where is Gallywix?"
"GO TO THE NETHER…!"
"Zergio, I assure you, the better option is to tell me what I want."
Voignar spat onto the sand, just missing Barsidious' armored boot.
"Have it your way." Barsidious said, and reached out with the rope.
"ARAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH!" Voignar roared, every inch of his body screaming in pain. The Tauren had sworn that the Forsaken would try and hang him when he'd seen the rope. He'd been wrong, very wrong. Rather than go to the immense trouble of trying that method of rope-interrogation, Barsidious had instead tied the rope under his arms, smashing him in the face with the gun when he tried to resist, and then tied the rope to his horse and gotten back on. Voignar hadn't even gotten a chance to protest when the Forsaken had taken off, dragging the Tauren behind him and raking him across the burning desert sands, the Grimtotem thrashing and fighting with all the strength he had left to get free, and failing despite himself.
"Care to talk now?" Barsidious called over his shoulder.
"BASTAAAARRDDDDDDDDDD!"
"Such continued, and vehement defiance. I doubt, however, the sand notices." Barsidious said, and put the spurs to his horse again. He did not bother keeping track of the time, or where he was going (he was rather glad he'd picked up his money from Gignus' corpse before he'd left; he probably would have had a hard time finding his way back to the camp if any wind disrupted his tracks), instead listening to the cadence of Voignar's noise. The yells and bellows eventually gave way to screams, and from there to cries. Barsidious didn't pay attention until words finally came out of the agony he had crafted behind him.
"AHHHH I'LL TALKKKKK! STOOOOPPP I'LL TALKKKKKKKKK!"
Barsidious halted his horse without a word, stepping down and walking to the bleeding, half-pulverized mess he'd made of the Tauren.
"water…"
"Talk." Barsidious said, crouching down at Voignar's front and drawing his revolver again.
"…water…!"
"I'm dead, Grimtotem. What need would I to drink? Talk." Barsidious repeated.
"…Gallywix…the Pleasure Palace…"
"Are you seriously trying to do this in your circumstances…"
"No…really…I heaarrd…" Voignar rasped. "Going to…actually be there…wanted bodyguards…pay was…too low…soon…in two weeks at most…pleassseeee…helllppppp…"
"…lies grow heavier with the more we've lost, I've found." Barsidious said, standing back up and holstering his weapon. Voignar looked up with half-blinded eyes as the Forsaken reached into his coat and dropped a canister in front of the Tauren.
"I don't drink. I have few friends. They often need to drink." Barsidious said, turning and walking towards his horse. With a half-dead arm, Voignar pawed weakly for the container.
"Oh yes. One more thing."
Voignar's eyes flicked back upward at the figure in black.
"Cairne Bloodhoof was a good soul. He wouldn't have appreciated your opinion." Barsidious said, before drawing his gun again and turning back around to aim. "Neither do I."
"Nooo plea-!"
The bullet exploded through the Tauren's eye, spraying blood and brain matter onto the sand around his head. He shuddered and went still, the water canister inches from his grasp.
"I'd say he can tell you that himself, except I doubt you're going to the same place he did." Barsidious said, giving his gun a brief, potent twirl before he slid it back into its rigging and turned back to his horse. He did not bother to untie the rope, instead drawing his own knife from his boot and cutting it with one quick sawing swipe.
"…actually going to be there…" Barsidious mused, swinging up on his horse. He checked the sun, wondering if he could get back to Orgrimmar before nightfall; once the sun went down, the guards got twitchy. The blessing of the new Warchief.
He needed more information, too, but at least he had something to go on. Soon, he'd pin down Gallywix's location. And then…
"Shouldn't have been so stingy when it came to hired hands, Gallywix. Especially protective ones." Barsidious said, before he jerked his horse around and took off at a full gallop across the sands, his shadow dancing all around him.
"Then again…all the money in the world's not going to save you now."