Author's note: So if you're at all familiar with The Price of Gratitude, you've met Tharrah through her darker half-sister, Maia. I've known for ages that her story would form from Maia's, and I've been waiting anxiously for the chance to spill the beans on HER little story.

This is the beginning. I hope you enjoy.

Oh, and I only own the story and the characters. Everything else Warcraft belongs to the delightful folks at Blizzard.

Tharrah D'Winter relished her career choice for the tenth time that day, contemplating the treasure of a man groveling at her feet. With a sigh laced with just enough boredom to tweak him, she propped her chin up on her hand as she leaned forward.

She let the silence stretch out, shifting as she crossed her legs, letting her gown flick about her bare ankles. Kneeling and bent over, it was the perfect gesture to tease him with. She literally heard him swallow in the quiet of her viewing room.

By far, he was the easiest prey the courtesan had on her list of acquired clients. And that was more than pride speaking, oh yes; he was a scholar, a man devoted to his studies of choice, and there were few who knew their field as well as he. The best part, without a doubt, had been that no one else knew this, in all of Stormwind city.

No one, save Tharrah.

With another sigh, this one edged with sorrow, she uncurled herself and leaned back in her plush chair, uncrossing her legs as she did so.

"I am sorry, my lord," she murmured, regret pouring from her words. "But I cannot offer you the services of my House for free, even to a gentleman as esteemed and worthy as you." She let a frown furrow her features, a thoughtful expression, before she shook her head again, slowly, deliberately. "No, I'm afraid I cannot accept your request; even as fond of you as I am, my lord," she entitled him again, "My servants and ladies depend on me for the coin I bring in. As valuable as you would be to my list of clients, young man, I cannot in good conscience allow you free rein for nothing." With an uneccassary flick of her finger and lifting of hand, she gestured to an unseen attendant in the shadowed curtains behind the groveling scholar.

He was no lord, not by the conventions and politics of the city, but to Tharrah he was as valuable and as respectable as any wealthy patron. Oh, she knew she manipulated him, without a doubt, but it was to good cause. She meant to recruit him, and knew that she'd never let him leave her estate without his signature on her patron-list.

Not that he would.

When she'd first met him, he was holed up in the palace library, up to his eyebrows in books, pouring into a tome that probably weighed more than he did. Unkempt hair, robes askew, he looked nothing like the tidy young man bent over her toes now. He was obsessed, as most good students were, with his chosen course of studies, and rarely left his precious books for anything other than sleep, and sometimes food.

Her lady-attendant, Meaghan, had laughed at her when Tharrah had told her who her next 'target' would be, even as she helped her get ready for the first encounter.

"My lady," she'd snickered, "He wouldn't know a pair of tits if they were unveiled beneath his very nose. Unless they were labeled and catalogued, of course."

Tharrah had tugged the shock of pink hair that rippled over her attendant's shoulder, cursing her for her own laughter. "We'll see," was all she'd said.

And so they had; she slipped into the Royal library without fanfare, looking for her prey with the intent, discreet focus of a savage predator. He had been so oblivious to the world at large, she'd had to literally run into him to get him to notice her.

With a cry of outrage, face contorted and books tumbling from his hands, he whirled about, a loud declaration on his lips.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FRAGILE THIS MANUSCRIPT IS-?" he began, spinning to face her.

To say he was robbed of speech at the sight of her was an understatement; it was as if Tharrah had stolen the very air he needed for thought, let alone the ability to speak.

She was dressed in a dress of a deceptively simple cut, in a shade almost exactly the honey-tone of her skin. It was modest in make, in that it covered her from neckline to toes, with even a small train trailing behind her, but decidedly unmodest in that it clung to her intense curves like a second skin.

She was small, somewhat shorter than most women by an inch or so, broad in shoulder but small in waist and wide in hip. It was a fertile, nubile silhoutte, sinful in its sensuous grace and almost, almost comical in its suggestive nature. She was proud of her shape, of her deep pelvis and alluring, subtle features.

Her eyes were dark, deep brown, edged in lashes the color of burnt gold, set in a voice called heart-shaped by some and round by most. Her lips, full and sweet, were never painted (as was the rest of her face; she detested make-up) but always moist in appearance, ever easy to smile and often so. She was no stunning beauty, even with her long, straight, endless fall of pale, silver-hued hair, but in her bearing and her bones she presented herself with a confidence that radiated sensual promise, a promise given to most anyone who looked her way.

It was this, and all of these things, that enraptured her scholar, but it wasn't quite enough to draw him into her circle.

Not yet.

As he struggled to inhale, gaping her with his jaw working and his eyes wide, Tharrah took the initiative.

With smooth grace, she dropped to her knees, skirt flaring about her, and quickly leaned out to gather the scattered books, gentle but swift in her work.

"I am so sorry!" she gasped, stacking them carefully in her lap. She flicked her gaze up to him, an abashed expression on her face, eyes wide in apology. Deliberately, and so quick he'd question his imagination later, Tharrah licked her lips like a nervous habit and rocked forward, bringing her mouth in close proximity to the belt that peeked through his parted scholar-robes. It was but a moment, a moment followed immediately by her straightening with feet beneath her, the movement too brief to be suggestive or lewd, sparking an image in his poor, startled mind that would taunt him for years to come.

Laden with his forgotten prize, she offered the stack to him shyly. "My apologies, sir, I lost my footing, staring like a fool at all these old books," she murmured. "Please forgive me. And look," she added, gesturing with her chin to the top-most book, the one he'd been reading when she'd collided into him. "No harm done, not even a crinkled page."

And then she'd given him her warmest, most friendly smile.

If obtaining an erection came with a sound, she would swear with her dying breath that she heard it from him then.

He knew who she was, of course, had the moment he saw her, and now stammered his way through the rest of their conversation with a blush that seemed permanent by the time she'd departed, promise of a future meeting extracted.

Everyone knew who the Lady D'Winter was, from laughing child to scowling King, they all knew.

There were no immoral expectations on either parties' part; it was simply a mutual admiration, she for the wealth of his collected information, and he for the aura she radiated. So he claimed, anyway.

She knew better, but she was also confident that if she so much as genuinely propositioned him, he would probably explode into flames. Or melt into an incoherrent puddle of unrecognizable goo.

Which was why she'd introduced him to Taven. And Jassica. And Veema, and Veema's sister, Twen. He had learned quickly that it didn't matter that his robes were plain, or his fingers bare of gemmed rings or that he toted neither sword nor staff. All of her girls knew the value of a man, that it was never in his purse but always in his heart.

And, in this case, a fabulous, well-oiled mind.

Tharrah shifted in her chair, regretful in her expression, coming back from her memories of that first encounter. "I wish there were something I could do," she murmured to him, letting him see the true sadness in her eyes as he sat back on his heels before her. "Your intelligence is without peer, my dear, and if you could make that material and offer it in place of coin," she gave a soft, disbelieving laugh, "I would snatch that readily in payment, by the Light, and gladly!"

And there it is, she thought in private glee. As easily as leading a mouse to cheese, she watched the gears click into place behind his eyes.

He licked his lips, a smile blooming across his humble, sweet features. "Maybe, my lady D'Winter," he said slowly, "that's something I could offer you... Though," and here, his happiness faded somewhat, "I don't know what you'd do with my-"

She raised her hand, her expression sharp and keen as she seemed to consider his offer. In his silence, she pretended to think long and deep about his suggestion.

"Perhaps..." she murmured, tapping the full shape of her bottom lip. "Hmm. I think, my lord, we may be able to work with such an arrangement after all. Provided my establishment would, of course, profit from such a thing...?"

His bright, joyous smile returned. "To be sure, my lady D'Winter. I may dress in humble cottons and plain clothes, but my knowledge is priceless to the Alliance-"

It's why you're always busy, she thought, researching at all hours in that blessed library with every waking moment you have. Well, until now. Now, at least some of those lucid stretches of time would belong to her, here.

With her left hand, she gestured again, offering the pen, inkwell, and contract on a wooden tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl, given to her by a silent servant who'd been at the ready for that very moment to come.

"Then sign here, young master-scholar," she beamed, "And we will make arrangements that suit us and us alone."

With a grin and a bounce of triumph, he jumped to his feet and signed the document without looking at it. Not that it held anything malicious, but still; he was very young, despite his learned years.

"Alright, alright," she laughed at him as he practically danced in place. "Now, young master. This page is about the payments in question." She scribbled down her terms, and brought it to bare beneath his eyes.

He read it quickly and reached for the pen. Then paused. And read her terms a second time. Then a third.

His mouth seemed to have gone dry; he was licking his lips.

"An oath, my lady?" he breathed, eyes going wide.

She tilted her head at him, letting him see the keen intellect hidden behind the cleavage, soft-spoken words and swaying hips. "How else would I hold your promise to bear?" she whispered kindly.

He swallowed. He knew, now, what she was, and contemplated the words beneath his pen yet again.

Finally, his grin returned, and he nodded, signing his name with a flourish.

"As you wish, my lady." He dropped the pen on the tray and brought her hand to his lips, grazing a kiss to her knuckles. "To be so bound by you and yours?" He laughed, showing her the man she knew he'd grow to be. "It's a bargain."

Sighing happily, relieved at last of her mask of manipulation and feminine wiles, she leaned back into her chair and ran her hands along its arms, as pleased as a cat with a bowl of rich cream. She watched as her newest client bounced off to the bevy of women who truly fancied him, discreetly encouraging them to distract him as much as they dare.

With good timing too, it would appear, she thought to herself, watching a familiar figure peel from the shadows behind her empty couch as soon as her scholar was out of sight.

"Nicely done, my lady," came the quiet remark, tinged with a smirk and a soft chuckle.

She laughed softly. "Really? I thought it almost crude how I drew that boy about," she replied, propping her chin up on her hand, elbow on the arm of her chair. "But it seemed to be what he needed; I'm simply glad to count him among my number. I have a feeling he'll be as invaluable to me as he is to the Royal family." She contemplated that a moment longer, then cleared her throat and sat up.

"Alright, Abavon," she murmured. "You've been patiently waiting. What news?"

Her devoted servant leaned back against the arm of her couch, gazing at her above the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. Arms crossed over his chest, his relaxed pose belied the seriousness of his eyes and the ready lines of his long-limbed, lanky body. He was all business now.

"Her house is empty," he said without further ado, voice emotionless but steady. "And with no sign of occupancy for some weeks now. I'd say three."

That got her attention.

With a snap of her head, she stared at him, eyes wide as fear gripped her, uncharacteristic and foreign.

"Three weeks?" she blurted out.

Her mind began to reel, counting backward, pulling apart events in her head like they were pictures in an album.

Three weeks, three weeks... That lines up with... nothing. No events nor festivals, no announcements, no-

And then she stopped. She brought her attention to bear on her servant again, eyes narrowing.

"Out with it, Abavon," she snapped. "You know something else."

He gave her a little bow. "Of course."

"And?"

"The bracelet on the Forsaken, the fancy one with the spells upon spells woven like a tight, water-proof basket."

She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Don't say it.

"They know for sure it's hers, as of this morning."

She groaned. "Son of a- Maia."

Stupid, stupid, stupid little sister! What have you done now, you damned hermit?