Chapter 6

"That be it, my lad. The Muddy Murloc, one of the finer lower class establishments. Not a favorite of the dwarven populace. No dwarf barmaids for one…" Daghmor explained, twisting a portion of his black beard with a stubby finger and looking wistfully to some place beyond their current location. With the thought of stocky dwarf females with low-cut bodices circling in his head, Crys shuddered lightly and rapped on the door.

"Nay, nay, lad. They'll never hear you like that. You have to make it sound like the world's coming to an end just outside their door if you want them to think its important," the rogue admonished, walking up to the door and thumping it several times quite hard with his thick-soled boots, enough to make the hinges rattle. Sure enough, a few moments later a faint voice called from within. Nodding to the elf in satisfaction they waited.

A small brass slot set into the door at about eye level for a human slid open, a pair of bleary green eyes peering out at them…well, at Crys anyway, as the dwarf was practically invisible at that angle.

"What you want? We're closed, it's not even past the third watch yet. Come back later. Much later," the eyes complained, the eye slit starting to close.

"We are with the city guard, and would question you about a murder of one of your patrons last night," the warmage responded in a stern voice. As if verifying the "we" of that statement the eyes moved around finally coming to rest on Daghmor.

"Yer not with the guard, I'd recognize that dwarf anywhere."

"My companion is acting as a guide currently, and if you feel its necessary to verify my authority with the governess at this early hour, you'll find her wrath more unpleasant than my own," the elf scowled, while secretly delighted. The barkeep could very well just be reluctant out of general crabbiness, or he could be trying to delay their entry for as long as possible to cover up something within.

"No one will be bothering the governess with something like this, especially at this hour. I think the lot of you are trying to rob me. Even you elves have fallen on hard times, and I wouldn't put it past either you or that rough-looking dwarf to do such a thing. Come back with someone wearing the colors and emblem of blessed Lordaeron or don't come back

at all!"

With this declaration the eye slit slammed shut with a metallic 'clack'.

"She's a solid door, I'll attest to that," the dwarf hummed after they regarded each other in the wake of the rejected entry, "it'd take a coupla dwarves with a ram to bring her off her hinges. We may just have to go get the guard and bring them here."

"It would take a pair of dwarves with a ram, or one elf with the proper spell," the wizard corrected, already weaving his fingers in a deliberate pattern. A trail of green energy began to follow his index fingers, and with a final gesture, the light leapt from his digits and onto the door, snaking its way across the seams and around the handle before vanishing. A second later there was a loud series of metal clicks as the door's apparently large number of locks unbolted in rapid succession, a panicked cry coming from the occupant as the door suddenly flung open with great force. The occupant of the room stumbled backwards, sputtering and cursing before landing quite soundly on his rump, his right arm becoming entangled with the legs of a bar stool. The wispy hair that surrounded his shining pate like thin, dark clouds about a round mountain peak were in disarray from his slumber, the middle-aged man wearing only a pale blue night shirt over his well-padded form.

"A handy spell, that is," Daghmor admitted quietly as the odd pair stepped through the now open portal.

"It is, especially when one forgets his house key," Crys admitted, drawing a slight smile from his stocky companion.

"Damned magical elves and their dwarven thugs! Begone with you, leave here!

Guards!" the man shrieked, staggering to his feet after freeing his arm from the stool and back-pedaling frantically.

The wizard closed the door once they were through, pulling the hood back from his angular features, while the dwarf set upon the barkeep and forced him to sit on one of the round tables that occupied the middle of the common room. The man was beside himself with panic, all of his bluster stolen when the solid door between himself and them disappeared. Crys suddenly advanced on the human, one slender finger pointed like a knife, so close the elf could smell the familiar sour odor of alcohol on the man's breath quite keenly. The barkeep recoiled, turning his gaze from the dwarf whom he had considered the more immediate threat.

"Listen, my good merchant, I need not ask you these questions verbally, I do so as a courtesy. If I wanted, I could open up your mind as easily as I did that door, but it does tend to damage things in the process, and we wouldn't want that, would we?" Crys growled. The man shook his head slowly, quivering ever so slightly at the prospect.

"Good, good," the warmage soothed, lowering his hand and moving away from the intimate distance he was holding and glad for it. The smell would linger in his nostrils for hours, he was sure.

"I come, as I said earlier, to question you about the events in your bar last night that lead to the discharge of three unusual patrons into the foggy night streets, one of which turned up dead this very morning."

The barkeep calmed down a bit once his mental or physical well-being was no longer being immediately threatened. Daghmor remained close though, hand on his cudgel should the man try something hasty. He seemed to ponder the elf's words, using the time to steady his breathing and wipe away some of the sweat that was beading up on his brow.

"The-the only unusual patrons we had last night were three stinking orcs from some caravan," the man finally answered, gaze moving back and forth between dwarf and elf.

"And your low opinion of these patrons is not strong enough to turn down their gold, obviously," Crys said, slowly pacing the wooden floor with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"They'd just be needing more of it than your regulars, eh barkeeper?" Daghmor intoned before lapsing into a watchful silence once again.

The fat merchant nodded. "Aye, that I do. In these hard times after the war, every gold coin counts."

"But not all of your patrons shared this pragmatic view. They took exception to these orcs sharing their favorite watering hole, and started trouble," Crys asked, continuing the line of questioning.

"Nay! By my reckoning it was that one orc, the one with the axes cross his chest that started it. Called Theramore a rat's nest, inhabited by mice and not men."

"And this lead to their removal from the premises," Crys prompted.

"What would ye have done? Turned out three damn orcs, or twenty regulars into the streets?"

Crys nodded to concede the point. "No one followed after these orcs? No one looking for a little payback for their inflammatory comments?"

The barkeep only shrugged. "I don't know my customer's state of mind when they leave this place. No one left here for some time after the orcs had been tossed out. With the fog last night, I doubt they'd have been able to follow the green-skinned brutes unless they left right after. How long are you going to keep drilling me like this?" the barkeep sulked, having regained some of his surliness.

Daghmor's hand was a blur, whipping the club from his belt and striking the table just next to the human's hand with a very audible 'crack' of wood on wood. The merchant jumped, emitting a short cry of alarm and belatedly drawing his hand back. "We'll questioning you till we're through, got it?" the rogue threatened, a sour look on his face.

The merchant looked sufficiently cowed after that, allowing Crys time to gesture Daghmor over to a private conversation by the bar, their backs turned to him.

"What do you think?" the elven wizard asked his stocky companion. Daghmor looked back to the once-again perspiring human.

"He's about as blubbering and blandly informative as you'd expect a barkeeper to be."

"Just enough, wouldn't you think?" Crys affirmed with a sly smile. Daghmor nodded again.

"He's telling us the truth, or a version of it, but omitting details. We'll see if he cracks under a little pressure, if not, I have other means," the elf finished, turning to face the man once again.

Daghmor swaggered up to the man, cudgel in hand. "Me friend and I, we don't think you're telling the truth. We talked to the orcs and their story tells a little differently."

The barkeep regarded Daghmor with a look that mixed fear and frustration quite well.

"And who would you believe? Me, or a stinking orc who would want nothing more than for a human to pay for his friend's death?"

"Or maybe we be believing that you're covering up for some pals of yours who decided to single out an orc for some payback last night. Like maybe there were some outside the bar waiting for them, trailing along behind until they found a nice quiet spot to gut him."

"You couldn't prove that!"

"You'll prove whatever needs to be proven, with the right persuasion," Daghmor sneered, his club lashing out and rapping the merchant across the knuckles. The human retracted his injured hand, looking at the dwarf with renewed fear.

"Tell us who your friends were, and we'll go talk to them, not to you. The two unpleasant customers who woke you up early in the morning will be gone, and you'll be able to forget all about them," Crys added, advancing on the seated merchant as well.

"Their names!" Daghmor roared, striking the man's shin with a blow meant to cause more pain than damage. The merchant twitched like a cowering dog, but then did something that surprised Crys only because of its suddenness. The merchant fixed the elf with a hard stare, a core of inner strength within the terrified, quivering form of a self-serving merchant. The looked passed as quickly as it came, however, so rapidly Crys wasn't completely sure that he had seen it. The man who hid behind the façade had shown itself for just a moment, a man who was willing to participate in the butchering of an orc, or any other who were deemed enemies by his peers, and who was willing to put up with physical pain to protect those peers.

"Tell us…!" the dwarf bellowed again, but his club was held back by Crys' hand.

"Enough, Dagh. He was telling the truth. He's not our man," the warmage said. The black-bearded dwarf retracted his weapon and merely glared at the merchant.

"Please understand what we did was for the benefit of Theramore as a whole. Good

day." With that the pair left the tavern, closing the door behind them, which was promptly locked a few moments later.

"Who were they?"

"Said they were working for the city guard. Wanted to know about the murder last night."

"What did you tell them?"

"What they wanted to hear, what I was supposed to tell them. You could have heard that well enough yourself."

"No passed notes, no mouthed words?"

"I'm not fool enough to go against his plans, nothing they could have done could be worse than what would have been done had I said different than I did."

"Fair enough. I shall inform the master that the guard is on the killer's trail."

"It's likely he already knows, but do so anyways. They are just pebbles in his path, of no consequence."

These were the voices that sounded out within the depths of Crys's mind, sounding like they originated from right behind his eyes. The first speaker had a whispery voice and a superior tone, the second was the barkeep that they had just interrogated. There was then the sounds of booted feet on wooden blanks and the muted sounds of the merchant rubbing his injuries and cursing under his breath.

There was a tugging, a physical summoning back to himself, and Crys' eyes suddenly blinked open, once again outside in the rain and no longer surrounded by the sounds of the tavern's interior. Daghmor had pulled him from his scrying, his magical eavesdropping using only his sense of hearing. This was the Sorcerous Sight, the transference of his hearing or his sight to another location apart from his body.

"What did you hear, lad?" the black-garbed rogue inquired.

"It seems we are on the right trail, my friend, and that these murders have more backing than we had first anticipated. I have an important meeting with Governess Proudmoore to keep, but I doubt even she is up this early. We will return to the tower, perhaps engage in a few more hours sleep, and set out near the end of the fourth watch to the council chambers…after breaking our fast at that inn we dined at last night, " Crys was quick to add, seeing the protest ready to spring from Daghmor's mouth. Nodding in satisfaction, the dwarf and elf turned their sights back on Greymere Tower, and a dry, comfortable chair to snooze in.

The rain and the early hour kept the foot traffic down, but as it stood it took Crys almost an hour to get to the council building, which looked even more stern and unfriendly when framed by gray clouds. The sun would be just rising now, if it could have been seen, though the elf was sure that Jaina was up and around at this early hour, her duties allowing nothing more than a short night's sleep he was sure.

The rain had relented somewhat, coming down now as more of a drenching spray than heavy drops, and a lightening of the cloud cover held a small promise of seeing blue sky sometime later in the day. Crys alked alone, having left the dwarven rogue on a comfortable stool at the Plucked Gander, seeing little need to drag his limping friend across Theramore to merely sit in an antechamber while the Governess and he spoke.

He was admitted entry after his identity was confirmed, the heavy, hooded cloak he wore shed and given to an attendant just inside the front foyer. He followed along the same route he had taken the day previous, arriving at the antechamber with the heavily armored guards and the doors leading to Jaina's office and the council chambers.

To Crys' mild surprise, one of the double doors to the council chamber was open, and a sweeping gesture from one of the flanking guards closest to the open portal permitted the elf access. The chamber was quite large and circular in shape, with thick stone columns spaced evenly along the outer wall of the room, each bearing the coat-of-arms of a different kingdom or faction in the Alliance. Small formations of quartz crystal, chiseled carefully from their rocky perches in caverns and enchanted to give off a pure white luminescence bobbed slowly up and down over golden bowl-shaped sconces, giving the room its light.

The room was sparsely furnished aside from the large wooden table dominating the middle of the floor, shaped like the iris of an eye, but with the outer-most tips cut off squarely, creating a place for someone to sit at both ends comfortably. The high-backed chairs flanking the table, elaborately carved with images of dragons sat empty now, save for one the furthest from the chamber doors. It was there that Jaina Proudmoore sat, quietly dining on her breakfast with her left hand, while her right scribbled notations onto crisp vellum, occasionally stopping to either take a bite of food, or read something further in a large tome set on a small wooden pedestal upon the tabletop.

Crys felt somewhat guilty for bringing such news to her while she ate, but by the looks of things, a meal alone and uninterrupted was not a common occurrence for the arch-wizard anyways. When his footfalls ceased, his position roughly five feet from her, he was struck again by her proud beauty, her determination. Crys tried not to stare.

She dined from a selection laid out on several small platters, one holding spiced sausages enrobed in a golden, flaky pastry, steam still rising from their surface. Another platter held sliced and whole fruits, including some that Crys had never seen before, undoubtedly native to Kalimdor, and the third a small mountain of fresh rolls possessing a delicate honey smell to them, in all likelihood carried directly from a baker's oven to the building for her meal specifically. The food looked exquisite, one of the few perks afforded to one who was on call all hours of the day and night, and upon whose slender shoulders rested the future of the human race.

While she penned more words onto her paper a few loose strands of golden hair slipped from behind her ear, partially obscuring her fair countenance as if trying to hide her face from his eyes. She was dressed in a simple yet elegant gown, made of burgundy velvet with purple ribbon woven into the hem and sleeves. A tiara made of spidery strands of platinum set with winking sapphires was apparently her only adornment, yet was more striking for its understated simplicity than if gold and jewels literally draped her form.

The awkward silence of his standing there must have finally become keen enough for Jaina to sense, her ice blue eyes swinging up to meet his, her hand abandoning the quill she wrote with and her body sitting up straight in her magnificent chair.

The look she gave him then was not one of a superior distractedly ready to receive information from an underling, no, it was something much more familiar, more intimate. It was a look that seemed to suddenly drain all of the moisture from Crys' throat, to cause his heart to flutter like a trapped bird against the cage of his ribs for a beat or two. The look passed quickly, the eyes losing that openness they shared with his as she very quickly became Governess Proudmoore, grand ruler of the Alliance remnants once again.

What a beautiful child we would have together, the elf thought dreamily, suddenly aware the onus was on him to speak first and he hadn't said a thing for several seconds.

"Good-good morning, Governess. I hate to interrupt your meal and your work, yet I have the feeling that it is constant throughout the day…your work, that is, not…your meal, of course," Crys stammered, clamping his mouth shut after so quickly losing control of his tongue. He mentally cursed himself, feeling like some awkward boy trying to talk to someone he was infatuated with, which wasn't too far from the truth.

"Quite alright," she soothed, a slightly puzzled look on her face, "it was I who summoned you. I trust you have something to report?"

"Yes, your ladyship, I do."

With this Crys dove into his findings, once on the gruesome subject his boyish discomfiture evaporated. Jaina listened intently, not touching her cooling food nor penning anything further on her papers. Obviously this case was of growing concern to her. Crys lost his train of thought for a moment as he then realized, about half-way through his speech, why he had received such an inviting look from her when she first laid eyes on him.

For an instant, just a short moment in time, he must have looked more than a little bit like Arthas, the Arthas that she was familiar with growing up, not the one who betrayed his father, his paladin order, and later turned his kingdom into a giant graveyard, all in the name of the Lich King. The Athas that she was most likely falling in love with before the Scourge arrived. It was yet another possible path a life could have taken, cut mercilessly short by the undead hordes that had come to Azeroth's shores. Crys felt more than a little jealous that the look was not for him, but quickly reminded himself that it was likely not him who was suffering the most from that moment of mistaken identity.

The elf finished his report quickly and concisely, looking out the square-paned windows that occupied the majority of the chamber's further wall when he was finished, letting her digest it all.

"I shall have the owners of the Muddy Murloc covertly watched from now on, should they be used for any sort of cover-up in the future. I trust you have some leads to follow up on?' she asked.

Crys shrugged helplessly. "I have some lines of inquiry, but with still no eye witnesses or a pattern to work with, I can only do so much."

"Do whatever is necessary to bring this investigation to a close as soon as possible," Jaina reminded him in a no-nonsense tone.

Through a recessed doorway off to the side of the chamber, one of the blue-tunic wearing pages stepped quietly through and approached the two speakers. The boy whispered something into the arch-wizard's ear as she leaned closer to hear. Nodding she took up a folded green napkin and daubed away any crumbs that might occupy the corners of her mouth and set it down on her half-finished meal. With a wave of her hand another half-dozen attendants filed through the door, efficiently and swiftly removing any trace that a meal was taken there.

"I have a meeting with a very important ambassador from Nighthaven shortly. He has come to see what can be done about the addiction that ravages your people, as well as trying to maintain the loose alliance that our kingdoms share. He may even allow a Moon Well to be constructed on Theramore…" she trailed off, letting the impact of those words sink in. Crys almost jumped like a mule being offered a carrot, but managed to restrain his emotions, mixed as they were. Moon Wells were like miniature versions of the Sun Well, providing the night elves with life-sustaining mana, and could do the same for high elves, their racial cousins, albeit in a much smaller area. To not have to feel the pain of the addiction…

"I would owe them nothing," the elven wizard said finally, spitting out the last word like a curse and making a cutting motion with his open hand. The Kaldorei looked upon their arcane-wielding brethren with the same guarded contempt you would show a drunk known for violence staggering your way. It was the pursuit of their studies that finally forced the Quel'dorei, or 'High Born' to sail across the sea to make landfall on Azeroth thousands of years ago, where they were free to do as they pleased away from their paranoid oppressors. Such paranoia wasn't completely unfounded, though, as it was this same single-minded pursuit of power that lured the Burning Legion to the world thrice in a row.

Jaina was taken aback by the vehemence of his answer, but nodded in acquiesce. Crys was turning to leave when a hesitant question drifted to his pointed ears from the woman behind him.

"The…addiction. What is it like? I don't mean to pry, but,"

Crys turned his head but not his body, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"Imagine cooking and serving food all day, every day, while you yourself are starving,"

Not waiting to receive her response he started towards the double doors leading out of the room.

A Moon Well! Here! The thought both enticed and repulsed the warmage as he traveled down the corridor. Such a thing was an amazing concession the part of the night elves, most of whom would just as soon see the Quel'dorei finally laid to rest forcefully, thus ending yet another potential beacon for the Legion to follow. Crys didn't even want to give the thought any more attention, as it caused such turbulent emotions to rise up within him. He would cast it out of his mind, focus on his trip back to the inn and what he was going to do next in his investigation.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Crys looked up from his own internal conversation and saw two Kaldorei ascend the last step and turn around the corner, walking straight towards him. The ambassador Jaina spoke of, it seemed.

The male was old, that evident from the subtle clues that most other races missed, just assuming that all elves never changed upon reaching adulthood. It wasn't so much a physical difference, more of an air or aura about the person. A being who has lived for over ten millennia tends to carry themselves differently than those who have seen only a handful of decades, or centuries. Despite his hatred of night elves, Crys couldn't help but feel awed in the presence of someone who was alive when the world was still in its infancy.

He was tall, as most night elves were, in a way that make orcs seem stocky in comparison. His hair bound in a single braid of impressive length and looped around his shoulders like a mantle, he was clothed in rough-spun viridian robes with brown leather around the collar, cuffs and hem. Unbowed by age he still walked with a staff, which seemed to be made of intertwined drift wood with a small cage-like opening at the top. Inside this wooden prison sat a small point of bluish-white light, as if a fragment of a star sat in residence there.

His companion was slightly shorter, but still would tower over Crys, and there was no understated power in her movements like her superior, there was only a lithe grace and a hard, distrustful mask on her face. White eyes twitched and fixed on him as soon as they rounded the corner, her violet skin crinkling around the corners of her almond-shaped yes and along her smooth brow in a scowl. Her night blue hair was considerably shorter than her companions, but still reached down to her knees, and was lustrous in a way that his had not been for many years, Crys was sure. Most of what she wore was covered in a dark purple cloak, but she was most likely armed. The male's gaze was considerably less hostile, the sort of pitying look someone would have on their face when passing by a waif on the streets. The wizard bristled under both their gazes, trying to keep from yelling something very satisfying and unpleasant their way. The elder male nodded softly as he passed by the wizard, a slight smile on his lips, a smile that the high elf could not, try as he might, misconstrue as one of smug superiority. Rounding the corner that they had just come around themselves, Crys glanced back to see that the female had not taken her eyes off him for a second, even looking back over her shoulder as they continued on their way.

Descending the staircase Crys suddenly stopped, leaning up against the wall and closing his eyes. He envisioned the antechamber, shutting out his other senses except for his keen hearing. In the darkness behind his shut eyes he no longer heard the soft sounds of the staircase, but the muted conversation in Darnassian taking place just outside the council chamber.

"Your gaze would have stopped a Wildkin in its tracks, Sharleste. Must you glare so whenever we pass a Quel'dorei by? It does nothing but hurt what I am trying to do here. "

"I saw the look in his eyes. He was a wizard besides, who knows what foul magicks he could have been channeling as we passed. We can never be too careful around their kind."

"That is just the sort of rigid thinking that I had hoped I was steering you away from. If a dog misbehaves, you do not beat it, or it will never obey again. Nor do you allow it free reign, either. Stern discipline tempered with compassion is what is needed to help our cousins over-come their dependence on the dark magic. It all begins with understanding, Sharleste. "

"Yes, Shan'do. I will try harder in the future."

With this the pair were admitted to the chamber, and Crys recalled his senses back to his body, not wanting to chance Jaina sensing his magical intrusion. A misbehaving dog? Is that how he was seen, is that how centuries of dedication to their dangerous and powerful craft was viewed? Disgusted by the whole incident Crys stormed out of the building, snatching his cloak from the hands of the attendant waiting near the door without a word.

Outside the misty rain continued to fall, drenching the honor guard sent with the ambassador who loitered around the building's wide steps. They were six in number, all Sentinals, the female warriors who rode into battle atop tamed yet still ferocious nightsaber panthers. White eyes lacking pupils all fixed on him from under the smooth, hawk-nosed helms they all wore, as well as the amber eyes of the panthers. All quiet conversation stopped as the elf wizard made his way down the steps, icy stares keeping him self-conscious and eager to be gone from their collective sight. Some of the nearest panthers growled as he passed, a like sound would have come past the curled lips of the Sentinals if they were capable of it.

"Demon's dog," one of them said in Darnassian when he had just passed, obviously meant to be heard, but most likely not understood.

Crys paused just long enough to say "Ignorant fossil," in the night elf tongue before walking on, seeing the Sentinel's expression go from shocked to enraged in a heart-beat. There was the keen ring of metal being drawn and a hiss from her nightsaber mount, Crys whirling about, the fingertips of his right hand encased in a white glow. The two regarded each other intensely for a few moments, the Sentinel's moon glaive glimmering with deadly promise in the dim light, and the wizard's mouth drawn into a thin line, ready to complete the spell and send searing bolts of energy at the night elf guard. After a few moments their stare down ended bloodlessly, the tri-bladed weapon once again returning to its holder, and the white magical light winking out from the tips of Crys' fingers.

About to turn around and continue his journey back to the tavern, something else held Crys in place, a thought suddenly occurring to him. Glancing back at the Sentinels again, more specifically where the moon glaive had disappeared from view. Nodding once to himself as if reaching an internal conclusion, the elf hastily departed.

Some time later the heavily cloaked warmage walked through the door of the Plucked Gander, Daghmor turning in his stool to greet him, a tankard up to his lips.

"Ah, lad. Back at last. How did your meeting go?"

Crys pulled the hood from his head with a light shake of blonde locks, walking up to the dwarf and gazing into his eyes as he spoke.

"The murder weapon. I think I know what the murder weapon is."