Chapter 13: Our Duty
In the vast lands that make up the southern part of the continent of Azeroth, otherwise known among the Alliance-aligned peoples as the Eastern Kingdoms, lay the seemingly endless bounds of Elwynn Forest. A familiar sight for anyone who has business in any part of Stormwind, Elwynn Forest was massive, stretching many miles wide and long. A skilled adventurer could pass through the entirety of the land in three or so days; if he didn't sleep on any of those nights, of course.
But, like so many who called the region their home, few found reason to quickly scamper through. In the late spring and summer in the forest, most days were the same: the gorgeous golden sun only able to pierce through and shine on a few select parts of the massive forest ground. Not that this bothered the locals, though, and the forest was no less hospitable as a result. A large dirt and stone road traveled through the heart of the forest, connecting either side of the region to its immediate surrounding areas, in this case Westfall to the west and the Redridge Mountains in the east. This same road ran through and connected the various small towns around the forest to Stormwind proper, giving any weary traveler a good idea of where to go and how much distance there was to an inn or a town.
Indeed, due to the size of the forest and its various inhabitants, the locals and innkeepers dedicated themselves to providing the safest travel possible. Signs were adorned at all crossings and bridges, mine entrances and of course, towns. They would give the reader a sense of distance required of them to traverse before they could rest. Most nights, or days, the innkeepers would receive a steady supply of new bodies to bed and new thirsts to quench – so the extra work put in by the people who maintained the signage was seen as a welcome trade-off.
Of course, the new customers and passers-by weren't always of the inconspicuous sort – although thankfully most of the oddball wanderers mainly stuck to one central inn, one not without its own reputation. The Lion's Pride Inn, one of several inns scattered across Elwynn, was arguably the most solicited inn in the entire forest – it seemed every night there was a new crowd of people, all of varying races, all wanting to forget their worldly weariness and let loose. Not that the innkeeper or his staff would complain, quite the opposite in fact. Their purses were kept overflowing by a healthy influx of the occasional sleep-seeking lodger, and the more common party animals.
The hamlet in which the Lion's Pride was located was called Goldshire. A small town, beset on all sides by huge trees that nearly blocked out the sun during the day, if not for the seemingly perfectly-shaped break in the tree-ceiling. Not much occurred here, not much except the rowdiness that seemed to find its way to the town every single night. Outside of that, there was a blacksmith's hovel, a few odd houses containing the townsfolk and a long, winding dirt road that led astray from the main road of the entire forest.
The entrance to the path was easy to find, no matter the time of day. It barreled on down a small hill someways before flattening and straightening to lead into a small grove – surrounded by a peaceful lake. The grove was almost semi-circular in shape due to its positioning on the shores of the lake it straddled, and around the semi-circle grew magnificent willows that hung low.
Besides the trees populating the grove; there was a small, humble house with an engineering workshop and a modest stable. As one might surmise - an engineer lived here - or perhaps used it as a residence during the busier times of the year. A closer look, however, would reveal quite the haphazard work environment.
Strewn about in no particular order were metal frames, gun barrels, locking mechanisms and an innumerable amount of hydro-spanners. In the humble house, the clutter seemed to get worse – books, manuals and random pieces of parchment littered the parlor (which could hardly be called a parlor because of the absence of chairs) all seemingly unrelated to the last.
As the morning sun greeted the forests of Elwynn on what would be an unseasonably cool spring day for the Kingdom of Stormwind, the owner of this domain slept lazily in a chair. He shifted back and forth, a leaflet of some device resting on his midsection. He had short brown hair, grown in but not quite going past his ears. He wasn't the most masculine of human men, but he rather didn't mind this.
He stood at five foot, ten inches tall and had a slender build – not weak or anywhere near indisposed, but slender nonetheless. His face, adorned with a shaggy beard, had long streaks of blackened dirt from the previous night's tinkering – something that didn't seem to bother him, or that he did not take heed of.
The sun crept over the horizon and raised its light just enough for a single beam to break through the white curtains that covered the windows of the parlor. He snorted as the sunlight touched his face and caused him to open his eyes slowly. Rubbing his eyes, he threw the leaflet to the ground and made his way to the washroom.
…
The sun was at its peak on this breezy, brisk day in Elwynn Forest – and outside the humble hovel of the engineer, he was hard at work. Covered in dirty overalls with a thin white shirt on under, the man struggled to screw in a bolt to some housing that sat on his table. His eyes were covered by thick, darkened goggles, shielding them from any blow-back and the sunlight's reflections on his table. He heaved and pushed, finally getting the bolt in its proper place.
A deep, relieved sigh emitted from him as he sat back in the sunlight, resting. It was while he sat here and rested that he had a visitor: the postman. Exchanging mild pleasantries with the bespectacled gnome; the man went back into his messy parlor after seeing the small creature off and carefully removing his goggles.
Skimming through the addresses and senders, the man stopped midway through the stack. On the beige envelope was a seal, one that he was familiar with. He smiled, gingerly opening the letter and reading its contents. As he finished, he sighed again. Standing and stretching, the man ascended the staircase into the upper level of his home.
The upstairs of his home was about as humble as the rest – just not nearly as messy. He entered his chambers, leaving the door ajar – however this was not to let anyone else in or anything of the type. Instead, from behind his half-open door, there lay an armoire. It was crafted simply, a few perpendicular carvings of artsy lines littered the surface. Unlocking it, he reached inside and retrieved a simple looking casement, carrying it downstairs. Taking the parchment, he carefully placed it back inside of the envelope and set it down with the casement at the base of the staircase.
He was silent throughout; almost rhythmic in his process, taking off the dirty overalls and shirt and folding them neatly. He hastily bathed himself and went back up the stairs to his bedroom, again digging in the armoire. Except this time he didn't retrieve a casement, he drew from the armoire a few black cloth sets of pants, a dark brown leather belt and a series of dark gray shirts. These, he proposed, would serve as his traveling attire – for the time being.
Sliding into his traveling clothes and once again retrieving his casement from the base of the stairs, he put out the oil lamps in his house carefully and quietly slipped out the front door. He walked over to his stable and readied his steed. The horse; strong and sturdy, was a beautiful chestnut color, further complimenting its features were the jet black hairs that grew from his mane and flowed magnificently.
The man ruefully smiled, searching for a moment for his saddle. Finding it, he carefully and respectfully fastened his horse with it. It was then, as he fed his loyal beast its reward for behaving, that the man heard a sound.
Silence immediately filled the area, save for the occasional whine from the horse. Stooping low, but not completely squatting, the man reached for his belt and sighed annoyedly upon realizing he hadn't put a blade... or any weapon on his belt. His eyes darted around the small, semi-enclosed stable, searching anywhere for anything out of the ordinary.
It was then that a woman - a short human woman - stepped into his stable. At the sight of her, he sighed an audible sigh of relief and relaxed his form. She smiled at him, slowly striding over to his horse and caressing its mane.
"What are you doing here so late?" he finally broke the silence.
"Are you not happy to see me? Or even hear from me?" she replied, still fixated on the horse.
"Come now, Andrea, I have known for a long time now that you're alive. Alive and well, I might add", he said, beginning to search for any kind of weapon the casement might have.
Andrea, at that comment, chuckled heartily. She stood at a rather stout five foot, four inches tall and had long locks of red hair that loped down well past her shoulders. She had a friendly, approachable face – save for one aspect that drew most away from her, her eyes. They were a rather piercing shade of green – cutting through those with weaker wills when she spoke with them at length, in addition to seemingly glowing at night.
She had yet to reach the age of forty; but as she and many others knew, she most certainly did not look it – or feel it. Her olive skin was smooth and clear still, belying her actual age to almost anyone who did not know her personally. Perhaps the only aspect of her physical appearance that gave her any kind of social skill was her insistence on looking the part for whatever occasion she found herself in.
On this particular evening she was adorned in black, blood-red robes that were fastened at her waist by a dark blue cloth belt that possessed a skull on its buckle. Her boots were blackened leather, but light at the same time, leaving her very agile if the situation called for it. Hanging lazily from her left hip was a small sheathe, a blade's hilt jutted out. The hilt wasn't anything to marvel at, a simple iron and wooden hilt with a blue star jeweled on the bottom.
Her red hair, while not styled or tied up, was still organized and brushed. It was clear from the way it swayed in the slight breeze that it wasn't unkempt or dirty – it flowed in almost exact rhythm with the breeze.
The man looked at Andrea, closely examining any parts of her skin that were revealed in the outfit she wore – which wasn't much. She snorted at this and turned about, leaning over in a mocking fashion as the man grumbled.
"You know you ought to be more careful out there", he said, satisfied with his examination.
"We never learn anything without taking risks. You know this", she retorted.
"Risks?"
Andrea smiled softly, looking down at her blade's hilt. She slowly stepped toward him, sarcastically placing her hand on his shoulder.
"Sometimes... taking a risk is absolutely necessary. Did you think I'd come to you for no reason whatsoever?" her voice lowered somewhat, sounding almost motherly.
The sun was now lowering, the temperature dropping slowly. The man shivered before shaking it off. He looked around, glancing lazily at the shadows that grew longer as the sun set. Could they have been talking for this long? Was it later in the day than he had anticipated? Perhaps Andrea just had that effect on people. He shook his head lightly, looking her square in her eyes.
"You say that like I'm unaware of our racist 'friends'. Risk? I am well aware of the risks, plural, to what it is I'm guessing you'll ask me to do for you. My only problem is that I thought I was done with this kind of crap", the man wanted to continue on, but was interrupted by Andrea raising her hand.
"He is dangerous. Racism has nothing to do with this. The one the half-orc travels with, now he, he is dangerous. That is beset by the fact that this is the first we've heard of him for years – the first sighting or hearing of him since he vanished from Shadowmoon Valley, almost three years ago now! What he wants with the half-orc, that is up in the air. There is already one who searches for the half-orc, perhaps you can combine forces..." Andrea, like she had cut the man off, now found herself on the receiving end of being cut off by a swift, abrupt hand movement.
"Combine forces? If this is the same disgraced general I think it is, then perhaps I'd be safer shooting myself in the head! This... man you seek, is it Furman?" he pointedly asked.
"Yes... I am glad your deductive skills haven't waned", Andrea smiled as she sized the man up.
"Deductive? No, no! I didn't deduce anything. It's rather obvious you're after Furman. You can't let up on an opportunity to show your worth, can you? Have you considered that perhaps, just maybe, this half-orc he supposedly travels with is enslaved to him by some vile demonic magic? Furman isn't just a master sorcerer, my dear Andrea. You know this! You know that he far exceeds what our friends would consider dangerous. I know men who would rather serve another tour in Northrend than hunt him down! What makes you think I'd be interested?" the man was stern and steady in his delivery.
Andrea's smile only grew. The rise in her friend's tone meant that he would, most likely, accept what she was offering. She reached down to her dark blue belt and hastily opened a small leather satchel.
"If you're interested, you know you need to sign" she said, holding a piece of parchment before the man.
The man snatched the paper from her hand. He slowly read it, once, then twice before rolling it up and placing his right index and middle fingers onto his chin – slowly rubbing it.
"This contract is terrible. A sorcerer so notorious not even SI:7 wants to go after him and I'm getting a pitiful 1,500? And this contract doesn't even contain any contingencies in the event that he has friends – or, you know, slaves – that will hunt me down. I'm older now, Andrea. I can't run for as long as I used to, nor can I rely solely on my hands to get me out of a rough spot. You and yours are going to need to up that payout... then" - the man strolled to a bench and sat down, further rubbing his face and beard before sighing deeply and exhaling - "Then I might consider this."
Andrea chuckled ruefully.
"How much?" she joined the man on the bench, sitting on the opposite end of where he sat.
"At least 5,000. That'll cover my travel expenses and my housekeeper. I'll also need to spend a few days... honing my weapons" the man belatedly said.
"5,000?! You must... you must have some hilarious idea of how much this is worth" Andrea sounded disheveled, but her calm tone said otherwise.
"You want Furman brought in... or dead. Probably brought in. So... that's going to be costly by itself if I am to attempt to bring him in. If you're asking for me to bring him in for 1,500 – I shan't do such a thing. Not for less than 5,000. If you want him dead... well maybe we can discuss how much his head is worth after I have wrung it from his neck. I'm not taking a paltry 1,500 though. You're asking far too much, for far too little. If you value his life as you claim to value my time... 5,000 it is. Not a copper less!" the man stood up and walked to a toolbox, opening it and rummaging through it.
Andrea didn't say anything at first, processing what the man had said. She observed him pulling a small cylindrical shape from the box – fashioned from some type of light, tough material. It was painted a shade of dark gray – about two or so inches in length.
"That's your 'honed weapon'? A tube? Surely, you are serious! 10,000 gold pieces it is!" she laughed sarcastically.
"This will turn the tide in our fights against the Horde, no doubt. They'll never hear us coming with this", there was a certain, audible pride in his voice.
"It's a madman warlock we're after, not Thrall."
"You think there's a difference, really? They're both 'enemies' of our mutual friends and associates. See, my dear, with this simple device... we can all be as stealthy as our thieving counterparts, just maybe not exactly see-through. Silent, but not see-through. Who needs to be up close to your enemy when you can take him out from a distance and never worry about so much as a crack being sounded?" the man went on.
The sun was now at dusk, the breeze having become almost brutal for the man in his simple overall-thin shirt combination. He shuddered and placed his cylindrical object aside and hurried inside, the robed woman following close behind.
"Your toys aside" - Andrea said this as the man almost closed the door on her - "all this tinkering must get boring after a while."
The man rolled his eyes and extended a hand.
"You tell the folk back there that I'm signing this on the promise of a lot, and I mean a lot, more money if I am to bring him in alive. I wanted out of this... work for a long time. A year goes by and I think I'm good, and like a miracle nobody asked for, you show up. You try to appeal to me with a vaunted sense of justice to bring in Furman. It's not about justice for your ilk. Never was", he quieted as Andrea shook her head.
"I'm glad to see you're still thinking outside the box. Your senses haven't dulled, that's for sure which is exactly" - Andrea stopped as she noticed the man looking her directly in the eyes.
"My skills are the same, my senses haven't betrayed me. You... you haven't changed, not one bit, Andrea. Tell me, have you advanced since last I was appraised of goings-on in the circle? No... you haven't. Still ogled by the older ones, I'm sure. You want some deduction?" he gestured with his hand and she handed the parchment over.
She nodded as he searched for a inkwell. He briefly disappeared inside before emerging with a feather dipped in fresh ink in his left hand. He hoisted the paper against the door frame and began to scribble – looking up when he finished. He blew on his name in the fresh ink and scrolled the parchment up.
"It's late, much later than you are accustom to working. You're well dressed, as I've come to know of you, and yet you carry this... sadness about you. But, I know you well Andrea Stern... you don't feel sadness normally. Could be anything, really, but I think I can pinpoint what it is. You come to me not because of your adoration of my skill set, or even because you think I can do this successfully. You're desperate. The entire circle is, aren't they? Come to find that with the armies stationed in Northrend and at the Dark Portal they've developed legitimate uses for fel and shadow magic? But the circle... that's never been what you're about. You cannot stand them, the demons... the sorcerers, the warlocks. They are as disgusting to you as stagnating water is to all who smell it. The circle will soon break, won't it? And that is why you've come to me? To bring in Furman alive so you can gallivant him around Stormwind... Ironforge... you want to prove that warlocks cannot be trusted at any cost. Is that what you want, Andrea? Justification for your bleeding, undying hatred?" the man never seemed to run out of breath.
Andrea stood, annoyed. These weren't new revelations.
"Is that it? All of that energy wasted on things that are already common knowledge?" she laughed again, this time with a hint of sincere insult toward the man.
"Fool me once... shame on you. That's how it goes, right? But I know you, Andrea. More than you think" - the man leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper - "he is not who you think he is, Andrea. He will not give you what it is you want. He does not have the answers."
The color drained from her face, although she tried to keep her composure. She took the contract from him, her hands ever-so-slightly trembling.
"How do you know what I seek, what I want?! You have no idea the things I've seen... the questions that sear in my mind... the answers I need!" Andrea had a small sliver of tears rolling down her cheeks.
"And that is how I know you aren't ready for what he will say to you. Or for what he will do, or plan to do. Andrea... my old friend... I will do my best to bring Furman in alive – if not for your sake then for those who fear ones that possess more power than they could ever hope to understand. I want my money, though. No less than 5,000 if I bring him in alive!" with that the man shut the door and left Andrea reeling.
…
Around an encircled stone table, four chairs sat. The chairs themselves were made of mahogany and redwood, exuding an air of importance for those who sat in them. Of the four, only two were filled with people. The room that the table itself sat in was dimly lit by lanterns, such that one could not easily see very far in front of them.
In this dark room, faint footsteps were heard from afar by the two seated around the stone table. The footsteps grew closer as the figures in the seats began to adjust their bodies. Shifting of stone was heard, followed by a metallic sliding sound. The figures gazed before them, as a woman stood in the dim light.
"He has... acquiesced to our request. Begrudgingly and with a few caveats, as to be expected", she said, standing at her full height.
The left of the two figures gestured with his hand, and the woman produced the signed contract from her person. He opened it and gave it a quick leafing through. A shrill voice then spoke.
"What does he request? Money? More of it? Preposterous! He is a killer and a vagrant! And he wants more money from us?" the left voice spat out.
"He is no vagrant, my lord. A killer, yes, but a vagrant no. You instructed me to seek his skills for this, and he asked for more money. Putting our... storied history aside, I truly believe if nobody else, he will succeed in at least one of our stipulations", the woman replied.
The right voice, a calmer yet still piercing voice, spoke up.
"We sought him out because of his skill, not in spite of it. It is not regular fare for us to be handing out contract work like we're some... assassin's guild. He is the best for what we need, and what we need is George Furman brought in to us alive, or killed. I'm assuming he's signed the contract? It would be a rather... perilous waste of your time if he hasn't and you've returned empty-handed", the right voice looked on at the woman.
"As I said before, he has signed. He does want more money for what we're asking... even if it will clear the coffers, it seems. This is our duty, however", she was respectful in her tone.
"What of Bloodbane? Has he completely been lost?" the left voice interjected.
"Logan is... missing. He hasn't responded to any of our missives", the woman said.
"Not a one? So strange for one like him. No matter. If we need Furman alive, it is fortunate we have outsourced to one like O'Neill. Being of this circle or not... we have an agenda, Miss Stern. I trust you shall see Mr. O'Neill to the right path?" the right voice spoke again.
Andrea paused, thinking carefully of her response.
"In a shroud of secrecy, I shall. Horace... works alone. Rest assured, however, we will not have another situation the likes of Logan", she said quietly.
"Off you are, then!" the voices said in unison.
As Andrea stepped out into the brisk night of Stormwind's Park district, she looked to the starry sky with its two bright moons. She felt a ping of longing – a longing she quickly forced to subside as she strolled casually out of the park. Perhaps Horace was right? These thoughts wouldn't normally bother her.
She rounded a corner and entered a short tunnel that led into the city's Old Town. Many questions still bothered her as she entered her small lodging. She closed the door and locked it tight, changing from her robes into a simpler, more comfortable set of clothes. She laid her head on a feathered pillow and the thoughts still ran like wildfire. After tossing and turning for what seemed like eternity, she finally drifted away into a restless sleep.
