Hello everyone, hope this got out to you as soon as you hoped.

There's a fair deal of work gone into some parts, so I hope you'll pick them out.

Alt, 57… though he could be 60, I've had other stuff to do. Please review!

The Brotherhood

Chapter 4

Alt groaned in pain as the goblin tightened one of the bolts on his back. The metal man he had seen the first time he'd come here was back, in exactly the same position as before. His arms were crossed and he was looking out into the room with mild interest. There was no screaming now- the woman in plain clothes hadn't come back with any new people for a while. When she did come in, it was to inspect him, usually. She always seemed very busy, tailed by goblins and humans asking this or that.

This was the second time Alt had seen her come in today, quite a record. She was wearing loose and wrinkled casual clothes and her hair was visibly un-brushed. The metal-man changed his vision from the visual spectrum to the magical spectrum via the implant in his eye, and confirmed his suspicions. She was coming down from a magical high, meaning she had just drained the prisoners pending experimentation of their power for the day. It must be morning, then, he surmised, mildly agitated that he did not have a functioning body clock any more. That was as far as Alt could manage, though, mild agitation. Mild disappointment. Mild euphoria. There was nothing intense about anything anymore, not the soothing whispers of the grassy breeze or the richness of the earth. Not the power of the tiny, beating heart of the mouse or the majestic oaken keepers of Darnassus. Just the faint feelings that passed his emotional block and the nagging commands of the goblins.

"Marisa," the metal-man in the corner addressed her. Alt now knew her name, so he filed it away for future use. "I trust you enjoyed yourself last night?"

"Very much so," she agreed, straightening her shirt. "The look of dismay on her face was most satisfying."

"She did not expect you back?" he asked, raising and eyebrow with difficulty. "Then I have surely been working you too hard. I have almost nothing to do but watch this fascinating process." He gestured to where the small, greasy goblin was now fiddling with some cables in Alt's arm.

"The progress of Project Tinker has been astonishing," she agreed, pulling a crumpled piece of parchment from a pocket. "But I wasn't sure exactly of the number that we decided to commission in the end. As you know, Gold Coast Quarry has been increasingly under siege by Alexton's operation, so getting supplies here fast has been a problem."

"Can we not take them from the Jangolode mine?" he asked. "Though I suppose security in Elwyn had trebled since Jerod's Landing was taken."

"Correct," she sighed and nursed her head in the way that Alt had come to associate with drinking and getting high on any substance. "Project Kick the Bucket has slowed down a bit, purely because we have too many and nowhere to deploy them. On your word, we target Goldshire."

"No, don't. Goldshire is too close to Stormwind. Wrynn would get antsy. How many occupied farmsteads are left in Westfall?"

"Three or four." Marisa answered, skimming down the paper, which was filled with words and codes Alt didn't understand, even though he could read them through the thin document with his non-augmented eye. He switched it back to the visible spectrum and Marisa looked normal again, not the buzzing hub of arcane energy that she had been moments before.

"Take them all out, with Kick the Bucket. If you can, don't let the people flee to Sentinel Hill. The less there, the better."

Her face took on a frightened look that was quickly masked by confusion. "You really plan on taking Sentinel Hill?"

He nodded, wires straining. "In the depths of winter. If we can, I'd like some people put there to dull the knife, so to speak. Not even Stoutmantle knows all of the sons and daughters of farmers in Westfall. We replace the ones that'll be dispatched of with our own."

"The logistics may be tricky," she mused, picking a pencil up from the table next to her and scribbling something on the paper. "But it could be done. What exactly would their residence entail?"

Alt recognized the difference in the shade of light that his eye glowed with as a complicated thought process. The goblin yanked hard on some wonky metal casing around his foot and he grunted. He didn't really mind the goblins and their eternal perfecting, but at the same time he didn't enjoy the pain.

"That hurts?" the goblin asked in a squeaky voice.

"Minimally," he replied. "I do not enjoy it."

The goblin tutted. "I don't think we're ever going to fix your emotional block. It's a malfunction contained to only you… all the others have perfect emotional blocks. I think it's the thorium to iron ratio that messes up the transmissions… much less thorium was used after you, which is probably a good thing."

The metal-man and Marisa had stopped their conversation to take an interest in Alt and the goblin. "So he doesn't have a functioning emotional block?" she asked, curious.

"It does function, Ma'am, just not properly." The goblin replied anxiously, inspecting the re-alignment of the casing.

"So he feels emotions? Just not that well?"

"Correct, Ma'am. He is the only one, though, a defect in the metal ratios. Also, this was the first one we used Thorium bolts in, and only afterwards did we adjust the amounts."

"Take it with you, Marisa, if you are so interested," the metal-man told her. "It has no place in warfare if it has emotions."

"Some would say the same for you," she replied slyly, coming over and inspecting Alt. "I remember you, druid. The little dwarf tricked you into disturbing my barrier. Don't fret, he got his just deserts."

Alt felt happy to know that, and it translated into a wonky smile. "Thank you, Ma'am," he said respectfully.

"You speak no lies, Hagglok, he really does feel." She admired him a second. "Can I have him as a bodyguard?"

"That was the intent, really." The metal-man shrugged. "He is useless for anything else."

"You're too kind," she smiled coyly at him and spoke to Alt. "How do you feel about that, Alt?"

"Pleased," he replied after a bit of thought. She grinned and the goblin, Hagglok, pronounced him serviced. He slid off the bench and flexed his improved muscles.

Marisa bid the metal-man goodbye and Alt followed her out, but she turned and stopped him.

"Not yet, Alt. When I call for you." He walked back, feeling disappointed. Maybe it would be better if he had a proper emotional block, he thought, sitting down on his table.

"Alt, was it?" the metal-man asked, rising from his informal posture leaning against the wall. For the first time, Alt realized he looked quite old, compared to all the other people he had seen down here. His black hair showed strands of grey, and he had deep-set frown lines that made him look perpetually angry. His posture told Alt that he was someone to defer to.

"Yes, Sir," he replied, not sure if he should offer to shake his hand or salute or bow. He made the decision for Alt, stretching out a plated hand for him to take. His grip was firm with years of swordplay and his muscled knotted. His normal eye sparkled with a lust for life and a motto of squeezing every last drop out of it. It also spoke of vengeance, of years of bloodshed and pain, of something big made from nothing.

Alt wasn't sure about the metal-man- he didn't give his name. They stayed in silence, the metal-man brooding over something that had suddenly occurred to him. The night elf let him; not wanting to overstep programmed boundaries that told him this man was one to leave alone. He lay down on his table and stared at the rocky ceiling for a bit, very confused about himself. He knew what was going on, of course, and he remembered his past life lucidly- but he didn't seem to care, or to fight his predicament or orders given to him. It was hurting him to thinking about this kind of thing, so in the end he just closed his eyes and drifted into the state of rest that had replaced sleep- not waking, not sleeping, just resting.

-

They were using daggers again today, for which Conyeri was glad. Geylan had drilled her through staves, maces and swords (both one-hand and two-hand), polearms and fist weapons already, and she was thoroughly glad to be back on a weapon she could use without an embarrassing clumsiness. He was showing her a quick, twisty disarm that required a huge burst of speed at just the right moment, which was good for Conyeri, because she was all about speed. Not strong, not enduring, but sure as hell was she fast.

She lunged again, twisting the hilt of the wooden dagger around Geylan's grip. It was pried from his firm hand and clattered to the floor of the cavern with an incredibly satisfying clunk.

"Good," he gave her a small smile, picking the weapon up. "Again, but make sure your footing stays secure even after you've disarmed them- a well-placed kick would have had you grounded."

"Do I want to know where that kick would be placed?" she raised an eyebrow, and Geylan sighed.

"No. Get on with it." She lunged again, but this time Geylan twisted away from her and hopped around, lashing his booted foot out and catching her squarely in the stomach. Conyeri staggered backwards as the wind was pushed from her, but she didn't complain. This was the start of their sparring.

She loaded all of her weight onto her back foot, but kept her stance normal, lashing out. Geylan saw this and tried to kick her leg from under her, but as she didn't have an reliance on it, she harmlessly lifted it up and whipped her arm around, her wooden dagger meeting his, brought to parry just in time. Taking advantage of the wooden nature of the dagger, she grabbed his and twisted it from his grip, sending it arching over to the edge of the cavern. Excitement bubbled up in her.

Geylan saw her growing confidence and smirked to himself. She was good, yes, and vastly improving, but he was ex-SI:7. He could have killed her before she even took in a breath, but there would be no fun in that. She lunged at him; body low, so he twirled around her side, catching the arm he had expected to lash out in an iron grip. He levered the arm over his shoulder and scooped her up, bridal-style, in one swift movement.

"Confidence kills people," he intoned, looking at her shocked face. "As soon as you thought you had a chance against me, you got sloppy."

"Put me down!" she wriggled in his grip, face flushed an amusing scarlet. "Let me go!"

"This isn't summer camp," Geylan warned her. "As much as you want to pretend, there's real stuff on the line. Your life. My life."

She grimaced. Since Sarah, Conyeri had been mentally blocking everything in the past and the future. There was only now, only the enjoyment of the minute. It was a dangerous philosophy, but she was hanging on by a thread of morality, her brain overflowing with juxtapositions of good, evil, and the shades of gray littered between them. She hated herself for what she was doing, how selfish it was to value her life over the memory of her parents. She enjoyed belonging to something that gave her greater purpose, however dark that purpose was. The company of Geylan, the antics of Dez and Harrman, even her rivalry with Isobella felt more real than anything she had ever experienced before. There was a new intensity to her life, like she had been colourblind before and could now see in startling definition.

Her stomach roiled as Geylan put her down. Something was missing, or was here where it wasn't before. Something was returning, skewed, and full of a feeling Conyeri recognized. She glanced at the singular entrance tunnel to the cave. The whole complex was lit with magic, of course, but she couldn't see much further than a few meters into the corridor. Nevertheless, sight was a poor sense in comparison to the overwhelming screaming in Conyeri's subconscious that told her that happy time was over.

Geylan looked at her with worry. She knew he was expecting a quip, or a smile, or something to identify that he had been paid attention to. Her entire attention had shifted to the tunnel, however, her mind telling her it was more important than sparring.

Thump, thump, thump. The muffled sound of hard-soled boots came into focus along the darkened entrance.

Clank, Clank, Clank. Conyeri's insides did a full turn as she heard the sound of metal on rock. She knew without doubt it was the metal-man from Carnie. With Marisa. They came into sight and Geylan followed her intent gaze. He immediately saluted her and Conyeri hastened to do the same. She was dressed differently than usual, her plain leather armour replaced with a heavily embroidered shirt pulled tight over her torso, a deep blue. In silver spellthread, runes covered it, shimmering in the magical light. Silk pants that tucked into marvelously crafted boots that matched her shirt replaced her toughened, armoured trousers. Sophistication was a new look for her.

Her thick blonde hair had been pulled up into a ponytail, with strands artfully left loose to frame her face. A silver ring adorned her finger. The metal-man next to her looked tired. His brawny elven body reflected the soft glow, making him golden. This Marisa was a complete opposite of the one Conyeri had had the misfortune to meet six nights before, when she had re-emerged into her life as abruptly as she had left, bringing back all her needs and wants, things that Conyeri had hoped- thought it was more like a desperate prayers- would leave her alone.

"Master Shaw," she addressed him as the two of them came to a stop. "Can I have a word?"

"Yes, Miss Du'Paige," he answered, his voice flat.

"A private word," she looked in Conyeri's direction. "Nice to see you again, Cony."

She merely offered a glare in return. Marisa sighed, but thankfully left her alone. For now.

"Alt, stay with Cony while I talk with him." The metal-man, Alt, obliged unblinkingly and walked slowly to Conyeri's side. She shied away from his presence. Marisa and Geylan walked off, down into a more private place, considering that there were other classes going on in the main cavern, and people in their rooms. Geylan shot Conyeri an apologetic look over his shoulder before disappearing into the gloom.

"Good morning," Alt said, holding a hand out for her to shake. She looked at it in mild disgust. Was the thing being nice to her? Was it programmed to do that? She remained silent and the metal-man looked a little offended. "Am I wrong? I thought that in human culture, shaking hands was a standard greeting."

"Uh," she was confused now. "It is."

"Then why will you not shake my hand?" It asked. "Would you prefer an elfish greeting? You are of such descent, but diluted beyond recovery from…" Alt's face became calculating. "At least forty generations."

So, Geylan's first theory had been correct. It was nicer to know that she was of elfish descent rather than troll, but it disconcerted her that the metal-man could know this from just looking at her. He pressed his hands together as if in prayers and gave a short bow.

"Ishnu-alah," he said, his voice gravely with something she did not understand. Sadness, perhaps? Or longing? His common was perfect, with years of living away from his kin. The elfish greeting was something she had not anticipated, so she mimicked his actions, without the strange words she did not understand.

"You are not scared of me," he observed lightly, his brow knitted with concentration. "I have seen you before. You are scared of your own decisions."

"How the hell would you know what I'm scared of?" Her eyes widened at the words that came out. She didn't mean to say them, but the sudden insight that Alt was providing was all too uncomfortable to listen to.

"Miss Du'Paige speaks of you a lot," he admitted. "She is insane."

Conyeri didn't know what appalled her more, that Marisa actually spoke about her, or that Alt had openly and frankly called her insane. "So?"

"She is very fragile." He searched for words. "I have been in her direct employs for over a week, and as such I have witnessed many of such incidents. I am at liberty to tell you this because she has not directly ordered me not to speak of it." He looked a little embarrassed. Conyeri understood, from his long-winded way of saying it, that he was gossiping.

"Is she…" the girl scratched her head and searched for an appropriate phrase. "Sound of mind?"

"Mostly," Alt replied. "She has a dependency on magic nearly rivaling that of the highborne. She is insecure and childish. She is sadistic."

"Tell me something I don't know," she muttered, deciding that after any longer than a few minutes with Marisa, Geylan would not be up for more sparring. She put the dagger back in one of the surrounding crates before stripping off her leather armour and reveling in the cool breeze that filtered through her linen shirt. A catcall came from someone the other side of the cavern, but she ignored it and, thinking that Alt was safe enough to follow her back to Geylan's cubby, walked back there. He clanked behind her, still garnering looks of interest from the assembled trainees.

"Why is Mar- Miss Du'Paige- dressed up?" she asked in what she hoped was an off-hand remark as she shifted some papers off her thin, spongy mattress. Geylan had pilfered it from the supply office when she had decided that Marisa wouldn't be back any time soon.

"I am not at liberty to tell you that," he said, face cool. "But…I can tell you what she is speaking with master Shaw about."

"Good enough," Conyeri said, unsure whether she could change with Alt in the room. He was obviously once a man, but did he still have carnal urges? She decided against it and shimmied behind a small, thick parchment screen, again from the stores.

His voice took on a strange pitch and tone, and when he started talking, it was Marisa's voice, not his. It was like he had taken a recording and was playing it back.

"What do you know of Sentinel Hill, Alt?" He asked as Marisa, and then his voice dropped several octaves into its natural tone.

"A primarily human settlement in the mid-east of Westfall, population of around 300 persons, over a quarter of those involved in military work. It is the second-closest independent settlement to Stormwind after Goldshire, not counting Northshire Abbey as the population is not high enough to constitute it as a village."

"Personally," Alt as Marisa pushed him. "You've visited several times."

"Yes," he replied. "I have operated out of Sentinel Hill as a base for my missions in Westfall, mostly pertaining to the Defias Brotherhood." He pauses. "What are you planning to do there?"

"We're taking it," her voice was slick. "After we send the occupants of the farmsteads all into one place, we'll deploy the project that preceded you. With the last bastion of rebellion gone, Westfall will be declared a Defias state."

"Are they not smart enough to know that when a huge influx of people seek refuge with them, a large attack is planned? They would be prepared." Conyeri now saw the reason Alt was asking her question and she was taking them: he was acting as a sharpening stone for her ideas

"We are sending some of our people in with the farmers. Their function would be to sow the seeds of laxity within the community, with fake information- and we'll be sending smaller raids of fodder to the outskirts to distract them until we can get Project Kick the Bucket sufficiently organized."

There was a small clicking noise coming from Alt, like he really was stopping a tape. It was scary, but Conyeri swallowed her fear and came out from behind the screen in simple cotton breeches with leather kneepads, worn leather boots and a shirt several sizes too big for her. There was a system of purchase within the trainees, and considering that Conyeri had come in with nothing, she was doing well to have a couple of changed of clothes. A base set was provided, but any surplus had to be bought out of 'wages'. Conyeri was skeptical at first, considering everything, but it turned out that small wages were paid to trainees to keep them on their feet. The less you had, the grittier your clothes generally were. When you got higher up, like Geylan, you were paid by your performance in raids and such, the loot being split between the people involved, the general Defias vault, which financed things like the projects and the trainee's pay, and the higher-ups who did the planning.

People like Marzon, who did a lot of teaching and didn't participate in so many raids, were paid a chunk of their trainee's pay. Conyeri knew that 30% of her monthly wage went to his pocket.

"So, Geylan is going as one of the farmers," she deduced. "Won't people recognize him as Mathias Shaw's son?"

Alt's eye became far away. His voice became more aqueous, the harsh touch of metal falling from it. "It was ages ago," he said, some Darnassian accent slipping through. "I was in Stormwind at the time, back from Stranglethorn. I was called to testify, since I had been with him in Booty Bay. We were running errands together. I was disgusted at him, that he would aid the enemy. I am a druid… the Cenarion Circle is on friendly terms with the Tauren, but I can't forget now the Orcs ravage Ashenvale. I gave a huge testimony against him, and he was sentenced to exile, in front of his own father." He stiffened again. "He has been away many years. His appearance is so different to that of his father that there is little problem."

"Ok," she said, watching Alt slip out of focus as she looked around him to see Dez and Harrman approaching Geylan's cubby. "Excuse me,"

He swiftly moved aside and she went out to greet them. "Geylan's not here,"

"Eh? What's 'e up to now, 'e's supposed te be trainin' ye." Dez's thick and at times incomprehensible Lakeshire accent asked.

"Miss Du'Paige wanted to talk to him. I think he's going on a mission."

"No shit?" Harrman said, eyes wide. "Do you know what kind?"

"No," she lied. "I'm sure he'll tell us when he gets back. What were you going to talk to him about anyway?"

"I was gonna ask fer some help with brawl tactics," Dez admitted, waving a sheath of papers at Conyeri. If there was one thing she couldn't complain about, it was that she wasn't getting a thorough education. The Defias were more meticulous than any guild or school would be. They had to be, she guessed, to survive as long as they had so close to the influence of Stormwind.

"He should be back soon," she said hesitantly, inviting them in. Harrman froze when he saw Alt. "Ah. This is Alt. He's Marisa's bodyguard."

"Er," Dez held out a hand. "Nice the meetcha, Alt." something crossed his face. "What'was that you just said, Conyeri?"

"Uh… 'He's Marisa's bodyguard', I think. Why?"

"You called her Marisa." He said, looking at her worriedly. "I know that she's… got it for you, but ya usually call her tha Monster, or Miss Du'Paige."

"Well, sorry," she grumbled. "She's not here. I can use her first name if I like."

"That ya can, I don't doubt it." He let go of Alt's hand and Harrman took it with apprehension. "But it sets a dangerous pred… pref…what's the word?"

"Precedence," Harrman said. "I agree. If you're heard calling her by her first name, like you're on friendly terms, others are only going to get more angry at you."

"Why would they get angry?" She asked, barely concealing the ire in her voice. She had called Marisa by her first name, so what? It wasn't like she was enjoying what was done to her. She was tolerating it. There was little choice in the matter.

She thought about that. Choice. It was a word that was becoming alien to her tongue. She had had no choice in coming here. She had no choice in staying. Marisa had a choice, but she chose to follow her desires over her head. Geylan had a choice, and he still sold poisons to the Horde. Isobella had no choice. The word made her head spin. It was too complicated to dwell on, venturing dangerously near her delicate moral weave, tattered and threadbare. She tried to pull away from the lure of sinking into her problems, but it just tugged her harder. What the hell was she doing here? She could get away. Become a hermit. Was her soul stained with the death of Sarah that fouled her heart? What was evil, what was good? Why was everything grey and not like it was in storybooks as a child?

She didn't enjoy this; this growing up and having to deal with the problems it brought her.

"You are shaking," Alt told her nonchalantly, his deep voice cutting her moral weave to shreds. He was horrible. An abomination of nature. He had no choice. The Defias made the choice for him. They were evil. She wondered how long she would have to say these things before she honestly believed them.

"No shit," she said, the cuss word feeling good as it rolled out of her mouth. She understood rage well. She couldn't claim any experience of desire, or addiction that made up Marisa's vices. "You're right," she said through gritted teeth. "It was stupid."

"Your eyes flicker when you lie," Alt simply said.

"Your eye flickers when the bulb needs to be replaced," she told him icily. He looked hurt, but she'd gotten too riled up to care. Sparring with Geylan was a good outlet for the anger, and it had been cut short today. And Conyeri DeHayersae was very, very angry, and for the first time in her life, there was nobody to calm her down. Nobody to change anger to sadness so she could go cry it off. Just pure ire that flushed her face and set her fist shaking while her knuckles whitened.

"Calm down, lass," Dez regretfully said. He glanced at Harrman for support.

"It don't matter now. How 'bout we go to the refectory and get a hot drink? It's getting colder by the day,"

"No," She said tightly. "I'm not in the mood."

"We'll go then. Tell Geylan I stopped by." Dez gave her a final look and then walked away. She gruffly turned and bumped straight into Alt's brawny chest, forgetting he had been standing behind her.

"Can you leave me alone for a second?"

"Miss Du'Paige requested I keep you company," he replied mildly, stepping back swiftly and she stormed back into Geylan's cubby. "And you do know you'll have to move back into her quarters."

"She can go fuck herself for all I care!" Conyeri shouted at him, snapping. Her head was too mixed up right now, her hormones raging. She didn't care if she hurt Alt's half-feelings. "Just get the fuck out of my fucking room!"

"Profanity shows lack of developed vocabulary," he intoned dully, seemingly goading her further. "And this is Master Shaw's room, not yours."

"Why do you give a shit!? Who are you kidding? Go back to the foundry and tell them to weld your mouth shut!" she chucked a wooden dagger that was lying on the floor at him, which he caught without a moment's hesitation. His face crumpled with an attempt at a frown.

"Unprovoked aggression can be caused by mental stress, consequential-" He was winded when Conyeri rammed into his stomach, but remained stationary. She came away nursing her head, a trickle of blood marring her face. His stomach was plated. She went in again, this time kicking him in his manhood. Her foot came off the worse.

"Is there any part of you not covered in metal?" she exclaimed, wincing. It felt good to hit something. Though probably not the most constructive outlet for her anger, it was nevertheless enjoyable in a sadistic sense. Fear washed over her then. Sadistic. One of the things Alt had listed Marisa as.

"Just leave, okay? Can I give you the order to leave?"

"Miss Du'Paige is the only person who can directly order me, and she told me to stay." He recited, feeling his reinforced stomach with clicking finger joints. "Thus I will, however many times you hit me."

"Fucking robot!" she huffed, but thought better of striking him again. She would probably come off the worse. Instead, she decided to outwit him, which would be easy. She briskly took her towel and soap and headed towards the washrooms, small pools of sulphurous hot spring water separated by a partition. There were vastly more men than women in the Defias, so they enjoyed the bigger pool, but the women's one was hotter and didn't smell so bad. She smiled, knowing that Alt would not follow her into the designated female-only area.

He did.

"You're not allowed here," she said, agitated. "Whatever Marisa says."

"I was ordered to keep you company, and even the gender restriction does not override the orders of the third in command of the Defias." He said, a hint of smug in his words. She wanted to punch his face in, but the outcomes would most likely leave her with not only a bleeding head and an aching foot, but a shattered hand as well. Se briefly contemplated actually going for a wash with him in the room, but decided against it and trudged back to Geylan's cubby. She couldn't stay here now that Marisa was back, as much as she wanted to.

She growled under her breath and put the towel and soap away, Alt omnipresent at her back. Her nerves were fraying dangerously fast again, and she idly wondered if she could find that stuck-up bastard Nightly and take out some anger on him. It was frustrating that however much she learnt, she was still the bottom of the food chain. Geylan could down her in a matter of seconds if he wanted. Nightly probably could too. Alt most certainly, but he'd have to be ordered to.

"I have been alive a great deal longer than you will ever live." Alt began tentatively. "Though now I will have approximately the same life span as you."

"Not surprised," she ignored the quiver in his voice, pulling out some parchment and trying to decipher Geylan's scribble. He had given her the paper on basic poisons when she had expressed interest in the subject. She didn't really like poisons, but it gave her mind something to focus upon, and she found it interesting.

"I have seen much in my life," Alt was babbling again. "And known many people. But, no offense meant, you do not seem the type to revel in bloodshed and thievery as many here do."

"Well done," she cocked an eyebrow. "I didn't have a choice, same as you. Unless you volunteered, then you're a sick bastard."

"No," he said softly, eyes downcast. "I was in a group raiding the Deadmines."

"You're one of the ones taken," she guessed. Rumours traveled fast in such an enclosed community.

"I fear I serve a better fate than my companions. Miss Du'Paige took me to see my friend Yohwyn, a paladin."

"And he was two feet taller, rotting and thirsty for flesh?" she guessed cuttingly. She knew about the project the Defias were brewing, and not just the one Alt was involved in. The Defias had perfected the undead plague to a degree, and it was being used to turn the dead into an army that desecrated anything they touched.

"He was a great warrior. Short tempered and zealous, yes, but good of heart. He did not deserve what happened to him."

"Is it my problem?"

"Is it?" He countered, holding her to a level gaze. "If I could, I would hate myself. You can. Do you?"

"No." she stared harder at the list of ingredients, trying to push everything out. It didn't work. All she could think of when it told her to crush silverleaves was Marzon crushing Sarah's chest. The only thing that sprung to mind when it said to cut the earthroot into neat slices was how her dagger sliced through Sarah's throat. Something welled up behind her eyes. It was tears.

"I am sorry- I didn't mean to…" Alt looked at her. She had gone from pissed off to manic-depressive in a flash. "I need to voice my thoughts sometimes…"

"Whatever," Conyeri said, voice threatening to break. She was a monster, a murdering, ruthless monster. Just like Marisa. She panicked, her yes flitting from the sheet of poisons to the dagger belted to her hip. How could she have ever justified her actions? How could it have been kind to kill Sarah? The smut covering her immortal soul wouldn't just wash off in a few tears. It was there forever, to mark her as a killer, a murderer.

She barreled past Alt, needing fresh air. She hadn't had any since the camp, and she didn't come out of that feeling anything but dirty. Conyeri needed to be cleansed, to believe without a doubt that she was anything but what she was. The way to the surface was long, and winding, and she had followed Geylan closely last time. She was lost before long; the clomping of Alt's heavy body had faded long ago as she had run on, her lungs burning and her eyes stinging. The air was thicker, more cloying with a scent of death that came in puffs with the otherworldly subterranean wind, snaking its way through the caves. She didn't know how far she'd run, and didn't know the way back. Stupid of her, really, but she had been too disgusted to care.

Leaning on the wall of the rough-hewn corridor, she panted. She had options. She could go back the way she'd come, and eventually she'd find somewhere within the Defias system.

Or she could escape.

The idea tantalized her, tugging her heartstrings. The tattoo on her hand was enough to get her shunned everywhere, but did that matter? She could stick to herself. Travel around, wear gloves. Dye her hair. She could reconcile herself, run away from the life she had set out in front of her.

It was too good to lose. Her fatigue vanished and she skipped along the tunnels, pausing to see which direction the wind was coming from. The air got lighter, filled with surface scents. The walls of the cave widened, and plants began to cling with varying success to the rapidly earthening stone. Conyeri came to the end of a tunnel. The wind was clearly coming from here, but it was a dead end. She was about to start cussing when she heard a soft moan from above. Wary, she looked up to find the ceiling was flat and dark stone, lower that it should be. She pushed up on it, and it gave. Excited, she pushed the stone across a bit, revealing a crack. Light shone down, the light of fel-fires. She was frightened. Fel-fire was eternal, usually put in to light crypts so that nobody would have to go down and renew the spell. Nevertheless, the promise of the surface and freedom was her carrot on a stick, and Conyeri pushed the stone further, making a hole just big enough for her small body to exit from.

She heard another groan. It was so light, though, and the wind whooshing down the tunnel was causing other, similar noises, that she disregarded it. She pulled herself out of the hole with a single heave and hefted herself on top of the stone. It was a grave, as she had expected. Around her was a large mausoleum, of what was once one. Fel-fire burned in rusty brackets on the walls, and the whole place was a tip. Graves were cracked, tombs pulled open and the ground around disturbed. Dread settled in a blanketing layer over Conyeri's mind, but she could see where to exit. The whoosh of the wind made another small moan. She stopped.

A faint scratching came from somewhere. She wheeled around, eyeing the way back to the Defias. It looked inviting now, in this ominous crypt, but she screwed her eyes shut and told herself she wouldn't be weak. She'd escape.

It came for her, lunging our of a side grave with frightening speed. Conyeri sidestepped, her heart beating a million times a minute. The creature had once been a woman, though now was something else entirely. Great chunks of her flesh oozed acidic blood and her skin crawled with maggots. Her hands were fleshy claws, dripping gore as they flexed in anticipation. Her eyes were sockets, one of them gooey and festering sliding down her cheek where it congealed, white upon pallid greenish skin. Her mouth, filled with rows of jagged teeth and open at the bottom where she was missing half of her lower jaw, lolled around, saliva coating her neck and she lunged again.

Her gurgles were not unheard, and Conyeri's eyes shot open when more of the ghouls started to come out of the figurative woodwork, slow and ambling, wondering what the fuss was about. They all smelt her, one after the other, and their actions became snappy and driven by eternal hunger.

Conyeri drew her dagger shakily, plunging it into the chest of the woman. She completely disregarded it, clawing again for Conyeri's head, managing to grab her arm and pulling on it with frightening strength. The only living person in the room gasped as her shoulder dislocated. She pulled the dagger out of the ghoul woman and cut instead into the sinew of her neck, making her head fall back, flopping back on the flap of skin.

She kept coming.

Conyeri nearly soiled herself in fear as one of the ghouls went towards the exit into the Defias tunnels. That was her way out. Or up, but how many more ghouls were waiting for her? How infected had this place been?

The ghouls began to descend upon her in a pack, their eyes ravenous. Conyeri switched tactics and tried to vanish, an ability Marzon had been just starting to explain to them. The ghouls looked confused for a minute, but they were smarter than that. She was backed into one of the smaller graves to the side of the crypt, and there was nowhere else she could be. The grip on her vanish became tentative as the seconds passed. She eventually had to let it go and maintained normal stealth, but they saw through it easily, all rushing into the enclosed space for their meal at once. In a sick way, it reminded Conyeri of Geylan's cubby.

The woman was at their forefront, gibbering madly and frothing at the mouth. Conyeri backed right into the corner and panicked, feeling her death imminent. It was the most horrible, terrifying thing she thought she could ever feel. Greedy hands grabbed at her, postulating sores stung her skin as she was pulled into the crowd. She didn't believe in God, or the Light, or anything, and considered converting in those sickening seconds. She felt a surge of pain as jagged fangs clamped onto her arm, then her neck and shoulder. She was dying, as ghoul food. Stupid girl. Stupid for running off. Stupid-

The hands left her. Ghouls scuttled to the side into a semi-circle. In front of her was a huge ghoul, more gruesome than any other she saw around. He- for it was a he- was the undisputed leader of the group, even stopping them during their feeding frenzy.

"Uhhhh…." He gurgled, his hungry eyes showing something else, something disconcerting. "Cuunnnyyryy??"

She froze. He tried again. "Couunnyrrii?"

"Conyeri," she breathed, shock sending lightning through her body. He knew her name, and jumped a little, eyes wild with excitement. "Who, um, are you?"

He looked confused, like he hardly understood. The other ghouls began to bay, a low whine of hunger, shuffling forward on decrepit limbs.

"Nhhhaaa!" the lead ghoul roared at them, and then shied away, albeit reluctantly. "Hhhaaarggggn,"

"Hargn?" she breathed. "Hargn… Harrigan. Holy… you're my father."

Conyeri threw up onto the mussed earth. "Dad. Harrigan. My father." He was undead. Undead. Dead and then not dead. Tormented. Flesh-hungry. "Where is mum?"

He howled wildly, spittle flying from his teeth. The first woman who had attacked her scuttled forward, the same one with the partially severed head and the gaping chest wound. Her mother had just tried to kill her and eat her. Oh gods.

If she had the time, she would have been furious with the Defias. Their forays into plague and their greed of more land had done this to her parents. They'd never be laid to rest. There was no time, however, for anything but survival instincts. Her body was aching dangerously and the ghouls would not stay back forever. She didn't want to leave her father or mother, but there was nothing she could do for them. She needed to escape, and this was her window. Taking a step forward, the injured girl stepped past the ghouls, who surged after her, but Harrigan stepped in front of them.

He was not enough. He may be the leader, but their urges were stronger than rickety hierarchy. Conyeri ran, she screeching of ghouls on her heels. The loose earth was treacherous, her boots sinking in. other things, darker things, stirred in the shadows as she passed, but they slid past her vision, so focused she was on escaping.

A hand clamped her ankle and she fell face first into the earth, tasting a mouthful of dead person. Vicious teeth sunk into her ankle, ripping the skin cleanly off. There was a shriek of elation from the rapidly enclosing ghouls. Conyeri flipped over to see dangerous green fluid drooling from the ghoul's maw and into her open wound. She kicked it off and scrambled to her feet, pain lacing through her. There was a staircase upward, she took it, wheeling around the corner and thumping painfully into the wall of the crypt, but sprinting up the stairs anyway. She heard the soft cawing of a raven and her heart leapt into her throat. It was daytime, and ghouls wouldn't stray too far from their place of rest. At least she hoped they wouldn't.

Breaking out into the daylight, she saw in horror that there were skulking shapes lingering around graves. Undead cooed out from their places of un-rest, their hollow sockets of eyes taking in the new arrival.

She just ran. Ran with the ghouls behind her. Ran under the huge canopy of trees that only let small shafts of dappled sunlight through their enveloping thatches of dimmed leaves, stiff with the autumn turn. Ran until her lungs could hold no more air and her body was left like a hinge that had never been oiled. Ran until she reached a small village.

There was an inn. Nobody was around, but she rounded the small wooden porch and grabbed a banister to support herself. A small, nervous titter of surprise came from somewhere in the back, followed by the crash of a pan falling to the floor and a stream of curses in the high pitched voice. A head poked around the small pantry, and upon seeing her enlarged into a body. A sturdy man in his middle years, a little of a gut on him, with messy blondish hair and an unkempt mustache. He can over to her, his hands shaky.

"Are you okay, miss?" he asked, pausing at about two meters away, looking uncomfortable.

"Do I fucking… look it?" she gasped, precious lungfuls of dusty air traveling in and out of her, something she had never properly appreciated before now.

"N-no, of course not…" he apologized. "I'll get the first aid stuff." He scuffled behind the pantry again and came out with a roll of bandages. She let him bandage up her wounds, soundlessly thankful. Blackness threatened to creep from the edges of her vision, but she willed herself to stay awake. His eyes fell to the bit on her arm. "Can I take your glove off?"

Conyeri couldn't care less what he did. She was safe, and there was a small fire in the cooking fire. She was laid on the preparation table, as stairs were thrice what she could handle right now. He peeled the leather off with a rip of skin and she groaned, stifling the pain.

"Oh," he exclaimed, regarding her hand. "Defias."

Ah, shit, Conyeri thought. The tattoo. He wouldn't help her now. She was finished. "What are you doing outside camp?"

She looked at his own hand, marred thought it was, and saw the outline of the stonemason's cog. This was worse. Now he'd want to know why she had escaped. She'd be taken back, back to the people who had killed and un-killed her parents and tortured innocent people into metal-men, who were going to wipe out Sentinel Hill. She didn't want to go back. She couldn't stay here.

"We'll get you back soon enough, anyway…" he said. "P-people call me Jitters." She pushed herself up. "What are you doing?"

She ambled out of the inn as fast as her wounds would let her, but not before vanishing. It took a great deal of strength she did not have, and she silently thanked whoever was watching over her. "Where are you? Come back! You're injured!" His voice became faint as Conyeri found herself in the centre of a small village, decrepit and abandoned. Her pace doubly slow with pain and stealth, she laboriously dragged her limbs along the path. She skirted around a small, lighted camp and followed a small, winding path upwards. The scenery began changing, the murk replaced with mossy ground and overhanging trees with huge boughs and purplish leaves. A feeling of peace perpetuated the place, and Conyeri's eyelids began to droop. She found the misty aura of the place intoxicating, and soon staggered into a tree and dropped down unceremoniously into a downy nest of leaves. She was unaware if it was sleep, unconsciousness or death that took her then.

-

The raw morning light that glared with disapproval through Baros Alexton's window, frowning upon his secret activities. The paper in his gnarled hands was thick and rich, the ink soaking into it like knowledge into a curious child, his neat and loopy handwriting cultivated through years of scribing in his younger days.

He had just officially signed the death warrant on a seventeen-year-old girl.

And it felt very good.

The thought of Harrigan DeHayersae writhing in his grave, his daughter a wanted criminal, pulled a smirk from Baros's ageing lips. P-P knocked on his door, but he told him to go away, his eyes transfixed on the paper.

P-P knocked again, this time more insistent. His voice, ravaged by the uncertainty of mid-puberty, came muffle through the wood. "The King is here to see you, Sir!"

"Damn," he cussed, pulling some breeched on and smoothing his hair. No sooner had he done so than the door boomed open and King Wrynn, in his full and imposing armour. Sweat lined his brow as he ducked under the doorframe. He was so tall.

"Master Alexton, I am sorry to disturb you, but this cannot wait." His rich voice filled the room as his dark eyes locked with Baros's.

"No, no," he said quickly. "Please, tell me."

"Sentinel Hill is under siege. We sent in a unit of backup, but they did nothing. The borders of Westfall have all been fortified. The Defias have taken over."

The architect's mouth fell open. Edwin had been ambitious… but ambitious enough to take over a whole region? Right next to Stormwind, no less?

"What action is going to be taken?" he asked.

The king sighed and ran gloved fingers through sweaty hair. Had he been to the frontline? "Our forces are so widely and sparsely stretched… Outland, Northrend, Elwyn, the capital itself, constantly under siege… even if we had the force, it would be suicide. There are so many of them, so well trained. We have been underestimating Edwin all these years, I fear."

"Gods," Baros's voice became low. His enjoyment evaporated, a shallow puddle in the baking Tanaris dunes. As soon as he had made a small victory, it was overwhelmed by a great step backwards. "What do you propose we do?"

"We tried conspicuous." The king said, eyeing P-P in a way such that he looked predatory. "Now, perhaps, subterfuge."

"If you can't beat them, join them." Baros followed the monarch's gaze. "Do you fancy a pay rise, boy?"

"Um," he paled. "What d-do you mean, s-sir?"

"Your parents are in terrible trouble. They threw you out onto the streets. You've been stealing and begging the streets of Stormwind for several months. Now that the Defias are openly in control of Westfall, you've found something to live for."

"S-sir… are you saying… d-do you mean…" his voice cut off as Wrynn nodded.

"In a great service to your country, son." The king insisted. "Money can be provided. I understand you're financing your family. I can arrange for a stable income to go to your address while you are away. A title, perhaps, as a knight of the realm?"
"Sir… I can't believe…"

"You'd better. I ask you because you know much of what is going on here, and the less people knowing, the better." His tone cast a serious spell on P-P, who nodded, his eyes full of awe.

Baros was surprised at the speed at which the deal was closed. In his aristocratic life, decisions were slow and hindered at every step by somebody complaining. The king, however, could overrun anything, do anything. This was probably outside the law, but if it would bring the Defias down… Baros would use it.

He'd be sorry to lose P-P. They boy may be spindly and meek, but he brewed excellent coffee and tidied his residence impeccably. The likelihood that he would come back with the right limbs was minimal. With no Mrs. Alexton to run his errands and stoke him fires, he'd be forced to hire another servant. They didn't come cheap from reputable sources, and illegally sold services would mar Baros's perfect record.

"Right then. The sooner, the better, to be honest. I'll see that your back story is credible, then we can set about briefing you on what you're to do," Varian nodded stiffly, and turned back to Baros. "Meanwhile, Baros, I fear that searching for the girl under the present circumstances would be foolish. The warrant you hold can still go out, but we need the main focus to be the general Defias population as opposed to select members."

"Sir," Baros said, question in his voice. "Who is the new leader now that VanCleef is dead?"

"He is not." Varian glared at the wall. "He may have been 'killed', but the Defias' tactics remain in exactly his pattern. I suspect that through some miracle they brought him back. His head is missing from its pike on Sentinel Hill… that was only hours after it was recovered."

Baros's spirits fell further. He had held a small amount of hope that with Edwin's death, the Defias would break, but it was not so. "I see. I'll broaden my search, your majesty."

"I wish you luck." He nodded curtly. "Boy, I expect you in the upstairs parlour of the Lion's Pride Inn, Goldshire. It is a short ride out of Stormwind, and I will be at the front in Westfall, and thus an inconspicuous place of meeting would be best. I will be under the name of…" he paused. "Ollian Hammermantle. Dressed as a smith."

"Y-yes, your highness," he bowed low, and the King offered them a nod before stooping under the door and leaving with a soft thud of the door closing.

A silence of understanding settled over the luscious room. If P-P came back from this mission, he'd not only equal but also surpass Baros in stature. That was a scary and frankly disgusting thought that someone so low born could end up in such a high place. He regarded P-P thoughtfully. He was maybe a couple inches shy of six foot, but his frame wasn't thickened and strengthened with adulthood. He had dull brown hair that was brushed smoothly down, so that it nearly fell over his eyes, which were a liquid blue and scared. He was very normal looking, without any of the budding heroism that Baros saw in knights or warriors.

A sneer of distaste curled his lip, but P-P didn't see it, so awed was he not only by the king's appearance and personal address, but the promises he had been given. Baros imagined that he was from a poor family, and what he was paying the boy now was meager at best. The fixed income would help them, and having their son made a knight… with the wealth and prestige that came with the title- they'd never have to worry again.

That was if he came back.

-

Geylan's greasy blonde hair flopped over his eyes and he pushed it away, agitated. He was tired and aching from the take over of Sentinel Hill, having learned that in civvies, the Defias had the same go at him until the very last minute when he had been sensible enough to grab a bandana from a dead body. And Conyeri was nowhere to be found- he was only just back from his mission, and the first person he had wanted to see was her, hand on hip and smirking at him, a cutting remark on the tip of her tongue.

He had searched his cubby. Poked a head into Marisa's. The refectory, the first aid bay, the stores. Marzy's classroom. She was nowhere to be found, and nor was much of the Defias, as they were fighting up top against the last of the forces. It felt weird to know that they weren't hiding any more, that they actually controlled Westfall.

Maybe Conyeri had been sent up top?

Would they do that? She wasn't out of training yet. She could hold her own, but not in a proper, full-on battle. And was she ready? He remembered the look on her face when Sarah had stopped breathing, in pain thought he was. He didn't think she would kill again, at least not until she'd sorted that moral battle that raged behind her deep, brown eyes. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye or tell her about his mission. What if she was wounded? What if she had been… killed?

He shook the images from his head, and more hair stuck to his sweaty face. He wanted to shower and change into clean clothes, but he wanted to see Cony more. Where on earth was she?

He rounded a corner and came back to the main cavern. It had only been a two nights since he had been here last, but it had changed. There were no people sparring, or talking amiably, and cubbies were left empty. The people who occupied them might be dead, or worse. The trainees must still be here?

He gave up on Cony, thinking perhaps she was in the baths, and that led him on to how bad he smelled. Blood, dirt and sweat were not attractive, by any stretch of the imagination, and he figured that if Cony was in the baths, she'd come out sooner or later, and then it would be better for him to appear clean so that she wouldn't mock him.

The sulfurous steam that rushed out from the cracks in the bamboo door made the back of Geylan's neck prickle. He walked in, stripping down until he was just wearing a towel, marveling at how he was so dirty that he looked tanned. Splashing reached his ears as he turned into the pool, to see a good group of the trainees splashing each other in the pool. How immature of them, when people aboveground were dying and fighting. You had to admire their sense of priority.

Harrman, his wiry frame sunk into the blissfully warm water, saw him and waved. "How did it go?" he asked as Geylan got in. The water stung his cuts, but his tightly bunched muscles unknotted as the warmth suffused them. It was good to be away from the battlefield… he was a fighter, yes, born and bred, but there was a certain guilt that wriggled in his stomach at the thought of killing people, which he did on a daily basis. He had been with the Defias for over a year, and in that time had been through the slow learning curve Conyeri was just embarking on, filled with the same self-loathing, the violence, and the friendships. You learned to be tough. To survive, and to hold on to what you had and never let go.

"Alright. I managed to get some town leaders and divert most of their forces to the wrong side before the main forces got there, but Nightly got Stoutmantle, which pissed me off. He was acting so important until a wayward arrow found its way into his leg."

"Wayward?" Dez and jack spotted them through the smoke and came over.

"I was honestly aiming for the man behind him," Geylan shrugged and smirked as they chuckled. "Have any of you seen Conyeri?"

"We were about to ask you the same question. She stormed off and we guessed she'd gone to meet with you on the surface." Harrman's brow furrowed.

"You let her storm off alone into a cavern system she hardly knows?" He asked, eyes wide, stopping mid-lather with the soap.

"Alt went wit' 'er." Dez said quietly, not wanting to induce the wrath of Shaw Jr. "Ya know, Miss Du'Paige's bodyguard?"

"You let her storm off with someone under direct orders from Marisa into a cavern system she hardly knows?" he rephrased his question, the slimy soap slipping from his tightening grip. "What the hell were you on!?"

"'Old on," Jack, ever the peacemaker, tried to dissolve the rising tempers. "The metal-man must be way faster than 'er. He probly caught up te her an' took 'er somewhere te calm down."

"No," Geylan said softly. "She's way faster than him, and even if he has a blueprint of the caves in his mind, he can't know where she went."

"Pessimist," Harrman muttered. "If she did get lost, all of the caves end up somewhere up-top. She probably got out and is traveling back here now."

"Be quiet a minute, will you?" Geylan's mind mapped the tunnels. If she had stormed off the way he assumed she had, there were four exits- one in the Dagger Hills, One in Moonbrook, One in the Jangolode Mine in Elwyn, and one in the Dawning Wood Catacombs in Duskwood.

Shit.

Conyeri was left-handed. She had a great prejudice towards the right hand side of anything- they'd laughed about how she'd always walk along the left hand side of a corridor. She would take the left tunnel, subconsciously. The one that led to the catacombs.

She was dead.

-

I do so enjoy dramatic irony.

~Emmy