By early afternoon, Aren had decided: Jaedenar was the most loathsome place he'd ever been outside of a battlefield.
This so-called market was worst of all. Merchants shouted their pitches from stalls hastily raised in the large cavern that fronted the Shadow Hold, their stew of languages echoing crazily from the stone walls. Large violet banners and an eclectic collection of hides - deer, nightsaber, and bear; what Aren was disgusted to identify as furbolg and even a lone satyr skin - draped from the ceiling in an unsuccessful effort to dampen the sound. Torches lashed to poles poorly illuminated the underground twilight. Most of the stalls hawked magical reagents or fel-tainted artifacts of one kind or another, but a number of food vendors had also set up shop, and the greasy cooking smoke and reek of unfamiliar spices tickled the back of his throat.
Aren coughed, edging his way through the grubby crowd of buyers towards the daylight streaming from the front entrance. Rarely had he felt so small and out of place. Most of the jostling bodies around him belonged to orcs, with a smattering of satyrs and felguards and an even lesser minority of other races. Almost every mortal in sight was either clad in fel-runed robes or had the look of a sellsword. This market catered to a specific clientele, and Aren was obviously not it.
He swallowed his outraged disgust as a pair of Gurubashi slave traders bulled their way past him, their unfortunate cargo - night elves and humans, chained together at ankle and wrist - shuffling between them with downcast eyes. Aren had seen illegal markets before, but this was the blackest parts of all of them balled up and emboldened. Poisons, slaves, cursed weapons, the tools of necromancy...all of these, he was sure, could be found in most large cities if the buyer was determined. But at least the transaction would be dangerous and highly discreet. The brazenness of these merchants - secure in the protection of their demonic patrons - somehow magnified the foulness of their trade.
The air was fresher outside the cavern mouth, though the sounds of the market remained a dull roar. A pair of goblins selling soup from an enormous copper pot had set up rickety tables in a clearing to one side of the path, and Aren sank gratefully onto a stool. Once they'd toured Jaedenar's main landmarks, he found he lacked Ander's inexhaustible appetite for letting the succubus drag them from sight to sight. He'd long had his fill of crumbling ruins, blighted trees, and corrupt inhabitants. Why would anyone live like this?
He'd hoped that exploring Jaedenar would provide some clue to Vorthaal and Nathanial's whereabouts, but if anything the task seemed more enormous than ever. Despite the outpost's small size - only a handful of buildings outside the Hold seemed to be permanently in use - it displayed none of the organization he would have expected from a Burning Legion encampment. In fact, relatively little of the population seemed to be part of the Legion hierarchy at all. Jaedenar was a crossroads for dozens of races, factions, and sects, the majority of whom seemed to be transient, here only long enough to barter or broker some murky agreement before moving on to more respectable holdings. If they'd been sold as chattel, their companions could be a hundred leagues away by now.
A pair of succubi lounged at the next table over, whispering to one another and casting him sidelong glances. One of them giggled, shielding her mouth with her hand as she made some remark to the other, and Aren feigned sudden intense interest in the goblins' stewpot. Their voices were not particularly quiet, but he couldn't understand their demonic, only further convincing him that he was the subject of discussion. He was so pointedly ignoring them that he didn't notice someone had approached his own table until a bag thumped down onto it.
Startled, he twisted around more jerkily than was polite.
Callista stared back at him, nonplussed by his reaction.
"Sorry," he muttered. "You surprised me."
"Clearly," she said. Her eyes focused behind him, scanning for the source of his unease, but when nothing unusual presented itself, she half-shrugged and pulled out the stool on the other side of his tiny round table. "Did Azlia give you the grand tour?"
The pair of succubi, to his relief, eyeballed Callista and seemed to find something about her arrival off-putting enough to stop their sideways glances. "I suppose you could call it that," he said. "She showed us the Sweetwater offices, the fighting pit, a brothel, of all places…" He trailed off, alarmed by the way Callista's eyes had widened.
"Tell me you didn't let her take you in there."
"Of course not," he said.
"Not even Ander?" she asked suspiciously, craning her head around to search for him.
"Absolutely not. Wynda's with them now."
"Good," she said, though her mouth kept its misgiving set.
Her clear horror took Aren aback. He'd found Azlia's choice in poor taste himself, but he would've expected the warlock to be less sensitive. "What's the matter with it?" he asked, morbidly curious. "Aside from the obvious," he added hastily.
She looked at him with mild disbelief before amusement loosened her frown. "Ever catch a whiff of that awful perfume the goblins peddle before Noblegarden?"
"Yes," Aren said reluctantly. Actually, just the year before he'd had a particularly embarrassing incident involving a highly unamused Sentinel...he quickly stomped on the memory before the discomfort could rise to his face.
"Well, picture that, but infinitely worse, because all the spells are calibrated for creatures with much more experience resisting mental suggestion. The enchantments in just the foyer would knock a pitlord to his knees. Don't go in there unless you want to lose your whole purse along with any secret you've ever had."
She made it sound less like a whorehouse and more like a semi-consensual mugging. Appropriate enough for an establishment run by demons. "That does sound...more disturbing than usual. I'll make sure Ander knows."
"It actually used to be even worse, if you can believe that," Callista said, toying absently with the tie of her bag. "Even the path outside was a swamp of enchantments, but it was so...um...distracting...that Lord Banehollow put his foot down and made them keep it to the interior. Turns out the local satyr clans and half the Shadow Council have no better self control than the average idiot trader." She flicked a disdainful glance at the bustling cavern entrance for emphasis.
Typically delightful. Now Aren wondered what else in Jaedenar might be even more dangerous than it seemed at first blush. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving Wynda and Ander alone, before the image of some succubus attempting to seduce the stone-faced dwarf woman rose before his mind's eye, and was so outlandishly unlikely that he instantly felt better.
"How did your errand go?" he asked. Based on her easy manner - and the fact that she'd apparently had time for shopping - he assumed nothing had been amiss. Given what he'd seen of the wares available in the cavern, he opted not to ask about the sack on the table.
An expression he couldn't quite interpret crossed her face. "As well as could be expected, I suppose. Let's talk about it someplace quieter. I did have another thought, though. A solution to our money problem."
Aren was not aware that they had had a money problem. "I thought you said you had credit with the cartel here."
"I do," she said. "But the borrowing rate has climbed several points past usury into the absurd since the last time I was here, and I'm beginning to worry this might not be a short stay. I'd rather not have that debt attached to my name if I can help it."
He frowned. "This is an emergency. Whatever the expense, the - my people - will cover it later."
"I'm sure they will. And they still can. But in the meantime, I'd rather not be the one holding the bag."
Once again, Aren suspected there was more to this than she was telling him. "So, what do you suggest instead?"
He thought he'd been prepared for anything she might say - if she'd proposed they accept a spot on the Shadow Council payroll, he would not have been shocked - but the direction she chose was unexpected anyway.
"I still have access to a handful of Dunhaven family accounts. Assuming they still exist. Laszlo Sellgood over at the Sweetwater offices should have no troubling sorting that out. I can write a letter saying the right things, but I think you should bring it to him."
Aren turned that over in his mind for a few moments. Might as well start at the top, he supposed. "Family accounts?"
Callista rarely spoke of her family at all. He knew, from the background he'd been provided on her before this assignment, that they had cut her off for fel magic use, and so he had never tried to pry, assuming the estrangement to be painful. He couldn't think of a tactful way to broach the topic now, either. "I thought your family disowned you."
He winced. That had come out much blunter than he'd intended.
Fortunately, she only laughed. "Disinherited. Not disowned. Cut the purse strings, not the apron strings. Sadly."
Relieved as he was that she wasn't offended, her answer still triggered a twinge of exasperation. Even when she meant no deception, extracting a straight answer from Callista with a direct question could be like trying to cut water with a broadsword. "And that means…"
She cocked her head, the apologetic scrunch of her nose telling him his annoyance had leaked into his tone. "I am my parents' firstborn child. When they die, the family business - several businesses, really - would have passed to me. But alas, having a known fel practitioner as a figurehead is institutional suicide in Stormwind, so when I was expelled from the Academy they stripped me of my inheritance and passed it to my sister. They didn't exactly put me on the street, though, despite being very angry."
"I see," Aren said. He rubbed the scruff on his cheek doubtfully. "If your ties are already...strained...are you sure you really want to drag them into this?"
She shrugged a shoulder. "Oh, the accounts are very well obfuscated. Even they probably won't notice the charges for some time, let alone anyone else tracing them back." She must have read his skepticism - not difficult, as the look he'd leveled at her had been quite clear - because the corner of her mouth rose wryly. "How about this? If you're still feeling sorry for them after this is all over, I'll take you by the family estate. Then you can see what a nest of vipers would look like if they all stood up on two legs and learned to count coin."
Aren laughed despite himself. "You make them sound so charming, how could I refuse?"
"I don't know what you expected. I hope you didn't think I got this way on my own."
He shook his head. "So why is it important that I deliver this message?"
She folded her hands on the table and met his gaze, abruptly serious. "Because you don't know anyone in Jaedenar, and Laszlo is a very good person to know. Especially if anything should...happen."
"Ah."
"Among other things, he's about the only creature in this whole pit you can be sure doesn't serve the Shadow Council." She paused, narrowing her eyes in amusement. "Mostly because they couldn't afford his retainer."
Her conspiratorial expression was so endearing that he reached across the table, covering one of her hands with his. Almost as appealing was the subtle glance she gave him from the corner of her eye: as though she couldn't quite believe he would put himself through this, but was pleased and amazed that he seemed to want to.
Aren still wasn't sure what they were to one another. But the warm twist in his belly let him know that he hadn't given up hope that they might be something.
"You also make him sound charming," he said.
She laughed and squeezed his fingers. "He actually is, in his own way." Her gazed unfocused briefly, as though she were listening to something Aren couldn't hear. "Azlia should be here soon with the others. Let's go back to the inn and I'll tell you what my 'contact' had to say. We can decide from there."
Aren was unhappy, though not surprised, to learn that Callista's meeting had been with the dreadlord himself.
Wynda, as usual, seemed less perturbed. Aren had spent no small time over the years praying to the Light for the same unflappable calm.
Unfortunately, the leads the demon had provided seemed weak indeed, though Callista claimed this didn't surprise her. She was of the opinion that Nerothos would resist pointing them too directly to their missing companions - and might even deliberately obscure the way - if it seemed they might succeed before getting the information he sought. The lack of rancor with which she accepted this astounded Aren. Her philosophical shrug and observation that "demons will be demons" seemed much too indulgent a reaction from someone he'd once seen threaten a pair of crooked merchants with felfire. Warlocks were a breed he suspected he'd never exactly understand.
When all was said and done, however, the immediate - frustrating - conclusion was that there was little he could do at the moment to help search for their friends.
Which is how he found himself, not much later, sitting on a plush velvet chair in the waiting area outside Laszlo Sellgood's office.
Aren had no idea what this building might have been before - some kind of workshop, maybe, or small storehouse - but he was sure its current incarnation in no way resembled the original. Every surface that could be gilded, encrusted with baroque decorations, or covered in gold-veined black marble had been. A jade-topped reception desk partitioned off the right third of the room. When he'd entered, it had been occupied by a smartly-dressed goblin woman with immaculate hair, but she'd disappeared through a door after taking his letter and directing him to the chairs. A chandelier bristling with shards of crystal dangled from the middle of the ceiling, low enough that anyone much taller than Aren would need to keep to the room's edges or risk a faceful of glass. The effect of all of it in the tiny foyer was both garish and claustrophobic. His discomfort only increased when he realized that what he'd taken for an especially hideous suit of gold-plated armor wedged into one of the corners was, in fact, breathing. On closer inspection, it actually contained a very live and probably unhappy felguard.
Aren ran over the contents of the letter in his head, trying to limit his glances at the unfortunate demon. Callista had shown him what she'd written before sealing it, and it contained only some obscure financial queries and an introduction. Despite claiming Laszlo as an old friend, she'd seen no reason to trouble him with the truth of their circumstances. Instead, she identified Aren as the leader of the small party of guards she'd recently hired to accompany her through Felwood. It was a simple enough backstory - one they'd all agreed upon to explain his, Wynda's, and Ander's presence in the outpost - but it had been so long since he'd approached any conversation with the intent to deceive that he suspected he was overthinking it. Mostly, though, he found it hard to shake the idea that this was a kind of test. After everything that had happened, here was Callista's not-so-subtle way of showing him what greater inclusion in her affairs would entail. At least Laszlo wasn't a demon.
The carved door swung open, interrupting his musings.
"Mr. Sellgood will see you now," the goblin woman said.
She ushered him into an office even more opulent than the cramped lobby. A goblin in a tailored suit perched on a high-backed chair behind a gigantic ebony desk. Piles of ledgers jostled for space with an army of golden knick-knacks that clicked and whirred mechanically. The goblin stood and strode around the desk to greet Aren as he entered, hand already extended for an enthusiastic shake. "Aren Westwood, is it? Laszlo Sellgood, at your service."
Despite his size, Laszlo had a grip like a vice. Aren returned the gesture as best he could around his crimped fingers. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Laszlo released him and stepped back, looking him boldly up and down until Aren thought he knew what it felt like to be the wares at a horse auction. "So, Callista finally wised up and hired some protection. Good! I've been telling her to for years, what with the scrapes she gets into, but every time, she says to me, 'Laszlo, what do I need to spend coin for, all the muscle I need I can pull out of the Nether for free.' Bullshit! Those demons ain't good for nothing but destroying property, can't anyone tell me different." He shot Aren a challenging look, as though daring him to try.
Aren had no problem with this statement doubly, both as himself and in his persona as a hired sword. "Er, no, I agree," he said.
Laszlo nodded sagely. "'Course you do. Your lady employer may put up with demons, but she don't tolerate fools. You ever been to Jaedenar before?"
"No," Aren said honestly. Laszlo's rapid-fire patter could be hard to follow, but the brevity of the responses he seemed to require was a relief.
"Ha! Well you're in for a treat, let me tell you. Come on, let's sit down. One of my clerks is checking on those accounts, might as well put our feet up 'til he comes back."
Laszlo returned to the throne-like leather chair behind the desk while Aren took one of the brocaded seats near its front. Both Laszlo's desk and chair must have been raised substantially, because Aren found himself looking up at him.
"Drink?" Laszlo said, brandishing a crystal decanter half full of amber liquid.
Paladins of the Argent Dawn were not permitted to drink on duty. Freelance mercenaries, Aren suspected, very much did. "Of course."
"Good man," Laszlo said, pouring generous helpings into two highball glasses. He slid the fuller of the two over to Aren. "This stuff is top-notch, Dun Morogh's finest eighteen-year. Never drink anything laid down after the war, myself. All that Scourging did something to the soil, never tasted right afterwards."
Aren flinched internally at the mention of the Scourge, but his only outward reaction was to take a sip of whiskey. He'd never been much for hard liquor, and had steeled himself for the burn, but found there wasn't much fire in it at all, only a pleasant smokiness. "I think I see your point."
Laszlo grunted in approval and leaned back in his chair, taking a pull of his own drink. "So, what brings you folks to this delightful locale anyway?"
Aren shrugged, grateful for the way the alcohol's warmth in his belly soothed his nerves. "Callista ran into some trouble in Stormwind. She thought it would be best to leave the city for a while."
"Heh. Figures. Know if she plans to stick around?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe."
Laszlo leaned his elbows on his desk, tenting his long green fingers. "Interesting. I'm surprised." He watched Aren keenly. "She was never one for slumming it with the Council riff-raff before. Wonder what changed."
Aren shrugged again and took what he hoped was a noncommittal slug of his whiskey. He suddenly felt dreadfully sure he'd said the wrong thing, but was equally unsure how he could have avoided it.
His indifferent act must have not have been convincing, because Laszlo chuckled at his discomfort. "Relax, relax. Didn't mean to grill you. Old habits and all that, I was just curious. I've known Callista a long time."
Aren was sure that the goblin absolutely did mean to grill him, but decided to let it pass. Instead, he took advantage of the rare moment of silence as Laszlo admired the ruddy glow of the light through his liquor. "So how do you know her?"
"Hmm? Callista? Her family and mine go way back, done a lot of joint ventures. Nothing like this though, naturally," he said, circling his hand to indicate Jaedenar. "Mama Dunhaven wouldn't touch anything this risky with someone else's ten-foot pole. Neither would my mama, if she only knew, but that's just more coin in my pocket, am I right?"
Aren assumed the answer was yes, but Laszlo didn't appear to be expecting a response. "What's her family like?" he asked instead, remembering Callista's earlier unflattering remarks.
He knew he'd made a mistake when Laszlo set his glass down to stare at him, a wide grin breaking across his face. "Oh-ho-ho, so that's how it is."
He hesitated with his own glass halfway to his lips. "How what is?"
"Oh, come on," Laszlo said, laughing. "I wasn't born yesterday. You let some broad you barely know drag you out into the middle of demon-city for - how much money? No no, don't actually tell me, I don't even wanna know - and then you get put in a room with me, the guy who knows more about the whole establishment than anything without horns and a bad attitude, and you ask about the woman's family?"
That was not at all what had happened - if anything, he had dragged Callista into Felwood, not the other way around - but the facts were hard to dispute without abandoning his cover story. "That's not how it went," he muttered, trying to convince himself the warmth in his face was only from the liquor. He took another fortifying gulp to confirm it, almost emptying the glass.
Laszlo drained his own whiskey, continuing to chuckle. "Hoo boy. Of all people. Here, push that thing over, I'm about ready to call it a day anyway," he said, topping himself up and then refilling Aren. "You seem like a nice guy, so let me give you some advice."
Aren had not particularly enjoyed what had followed when Callista had said something similar earlier, but apparently this was just his day for uncomfortable discussions. He'd prepared himself for this encounter to be potentially embarrassing, but he'd assumed it would be because he'd been caught in a lie, not because some sharp-eyed goblin decided he was a lovesick rube. He looked resignedly at Laszlo, curling his fingers around his glass. At least the whiskey was good. "Sure. Let's hear it."
"Now, I'm not really talking about women here...okay, yeah, I guess I am, but not only women. Just...in general. There's only two kinds of people in the world," Laszlo said, punctuating the sentence with a sip. "You got principles people, and you got people people." He paused, waiting with theatrical flair to see if Aren was listening.
Aren, for lack of a better response, nodded and began making inroads on his own second whiskey.
"Me? I'm a principles man. I'm here to turn a profit, and it's as simple as that. Don't interfere with my business, and no matter who you are or what you did, we got no problem. Easy, right? I'm a predictable man. My clients like it that way."
Aren couldn't decide if Laszlo was threatening him, or if this was his idea of a neutral statement. He suspected this wasn't the last time he'd encounter this ambiguity in Jaedenar.
"Now, my second and third wives? They were people people. Number three in particular, not a shred of moral fiber in that one. What can I say? Something about the ruthless ones just does it for me. But the thing about people people is, they're loyal. Once you're in, you're in, they'll move earth and sky for you and no neverminds about what lever they need to do it." He seemed to think about that for a second, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Well, fewer than average neverminds, anyway. Sounds pretty great, right? The problem is, how can you ever be sure that you're the one they're really in bed with, and not just another one of the levers?"
The question seemed to not be rhetorical. Aren mulled through several unsatisfactory reactions before settling on a sympathetic shrug.
"Exactly!" he said, jabbing a finger at him. "Can't ever tell. Triss left me for a priest of the Light out of Gnomeregan, if you can believe that. Shuffled a third of my assets through so many shell companies no Trade Prince on Azeroth could prove they weren't hers and then took off for Booty Bay. Dirtiest I've ever been done, but the part of me that wasn't dying to strangle her fell in love all over again."
Aren wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or Laszlo's relentless torrent of words (and wives), but partway through the last diatribe he'd lost the thread. Rather than attempt to muster a response, he sipped steadily at his whiskey. Laszlo seemed to need little encouragement from him, at any rate.
"So what it really comes down to is, you're a grown man and I'm not going to try to tell you what to do. I'm just saying, if your boss was a couple of feet shorter and green, I'd probably have proposed to her at least twice. And I am obviously not an intelligent man, so you can take that as you will."
Aren sincerely had no idea how he should take any of that. "I'll, um, make sure to consider it," he said.
Laszlo laughed. "Nah, you won't. Just don't say I never warned you."
Aren was sure he would make every effort to never revisit this conversation again. "That I can promise."
Laszlo tipped his glass to him in a toast.
Before they had finished draining their whiskeys, a door behind Laszlo's desk struggled open, thudding against the stack of ledgers impeding its swing. A goblin in a rumpled tweed suit squeezed through the gap and slid a piece of parchment onto the corner of Laszlo's desk.
"Here's the account info you asked for, sir," he said.
"Thanks, kid," Laszlo said. He snatched the parchment and fitted the monocle dangling from a gold chain at his collar into his eye. He peered at the text briefly before letting the monocle drop again. "Looks like everything's in order." Folding the paper, he dripped a glob of blue wax onto the seam and pressed a jewel-topped seal into it before passing it over to Aren. "Give this to Callista with my regards, tell her she owes me a drink. Tomorrow, close of day, if she's available. Here, take this too." He fished around in a small box on his desk, producing a cream-colored rectangle of parchment with gilded lettering. "That's my card. You come talk to me if you need anything at all, you hear?"
Aren set down his empty glass and took the proffered items. "Thanks. For the whiskey and the...talk," he said.
Laszlo was halfway around the desk before Aren had finished speaking, shaking his hand vigorously and guiding him towards the door to the lobby. "Any time at all, my pleasure. You take care out there, you hear? And don't let those demons push you around, they don't run as tight a ship around here as they think they do." Laszlo seemed intent on escorting him all the way outside, and he shot a stern look at the felguard crammed into the gilded armor in the corner as they passed. "Yeah, that's right, you heard me. You go tell that to your masters, I've about had it up to here."
With one last firm shake of his hand, Aren found himself deposited into the warm Felwood evening.
There was a time when Nerothos had found these council meetings to be purely useful, but that was before Banehollow had acceded to Beltherac's presence at them.
The three nathrezim faced one another across a table spread with a large map of Felwood and the bordering territories. Uniformly, they had decided to shun the high-backed chairs in favor of standing. The Shadow Hold's captured kaldorei furnishings were usually comfortable enough, but these particular chairs seemed designed to gouge at the joint between wing and shoulder at the most intolerable angle. Banehollow had come to dislike these weekly meetings as much as he did, and Nerothos was sure the choice of venue was no accident. Still, he could not fault his companion for Beltherac's inclusion. Whatever else he might be - and Nerothos could supply a considerable list of damning qualities - Beltherac was still nathrezim, and what separated their people from the Legion's horde of lesser demons was their ability to limit their personal vendettas to appropriate moments.
"Have you had any additional word from Sathrovarr?" Banehollow asked. He stood at the head of the table, both clawed hands planted on its surface as he stared pensively at the figures marking Jaedenar's garrisons.
"Yes," Nerothos said. "We are not to be recalled. Our instructions are to hold our forces in readiness and begin selecting targets for additional strikes should the assault on Quel'Danas succeed."
"Given the strength we're bringing to bear, how could it do otherwise?" Beltherac said.
Even in their native tongue - more subtle than Eredun - Nerothos could detect no trace of sarcasm in his words. The secretive contempt in his eyes told him it must be there anyway. He chose to ignore it. "Our directive involves preparing for all contingencies, probable or not," he said.
"Of course. I am very familiar with your deftness with contingencies, brother."
Nerothos would have given dearly to know whose hand had worked the levers of Legion bureaucracy that had freed this creature after so many millennia. He was aware of the official justification, of course: the need to bolster their ranks after the Betrayer's humiliating assault on Nathreza. An excuse broad enough to cover a thousand real agendas. He couldn't even be certain if the order had filtered down the nathrezim hierarchy or come through Legion channels, though, personally, he suspected the latter. The eredar believed with such charming zealotry that the inexorable grasp of Argus would sear away all dissent. Tichondrius and Mephistroth knew better the inclinations of their own people.
Nerothos sneered. "I know you may find the rapidly expanded complexity of your surroundings overwhelming, but do try to engage with your orders instead of dwelling on your past errors."
One of Banehollow's claws twitched slightly against the map - a miniscule irritated motion, but Nerothos saw it. Banehollow had no love for Beltherac, but even less for the kind of internal squabbling that could upset the position they held in Jaedenar. "Has anyone informed Diathorus and Gorgannon?" he asked, ignoring the hostilities with exaggerated care.
"No. I've left that pleasure to you," Nerothos said. Diathorus and Gorgannon were nathrezim who had taken up residence in Ashenvale, near the site of Mannoroth's fall. Embarrassing casualties of a truth that all the Legion's races must eventually face: that the Dark Titan's crusade would last much longer than it took most creatures to find their level in the hierarchy. Some demons, after several millennia of unsuccessful bids for advancement (and the agonizing periods of torture that often accompanied successive or particularly humiliating failures), decided it was better to simply cease trying. Over the years, Diathorus and Gorgannon had honed mediocrity the way their more motivated brethren honed violence and subterfuge. Their usual scheme involved finding an isolated - but not too isolated, lest an unusually formidable group of mortals take exception to their excesses - stronghold on a besieged world, and setting themselves up as petty warlords. They took direction with the precise degree of competence necessary to avoid reprimand, yet not tempt their superiors to challenge them further. The precision of the balance they'd achieved was remarkable in its own right, but exasperating when one's own orders required their cooperation.
"Very well," Banehollow said. "And you will provide suitable instruction to Xavilis?"
"I will," Nerothos said.
"Actually, I would like to address that subject," Beltherac said. "Why is Prince Xavilis not included in these meetings? He controls the bulk of our troops in Felwood, it would seem to me his counsel would be desirable."
It would seem to Nerothos that Beltherac was tired of being overruled in their discussions. Better for the unequivocal refusal to come from Banehollow, though. "'Controls' is a rather generous term for Xavilis' activities," he said instead.
"Xavilis has not been recognized by Legion High Command," Banehollow said. "He holds no more status than our mortal collaborators in this forest, and has proven himself hardly more reliable. I see no reason to grant him special privileges."
"Agreed," Nerothos said. "If he wishes to prove himself, he will have ample opportunity in the battles to come."
Though the curt rejection must have galled, Beltherac's courteous mask never rippled. "I see you are decided," he said. "Very well. I have no further items to discuss."
"Nor I," Nerothos said.
Banehollow nodded. "Then we will adjourn for now."
Beltherac exited first, as was his custom, allowing the door to shut behind him.
Banehollow lingered. He waited to be sure the other demon was out of earshot before resuming the discussion. "That was far less adversarial than usual."
"Yes," Nerothos agreed. "He's planning something."
Banehollow flicked a small marker representing a Sentinel outpost with his claw, knocking it onto its side. "Who isn't? So long as he tows the line until the invasion, I see no reason for concern. You have made your suspicion very clear, but the evidence is not."
"For now," Nerothos said.
The company left much to be desired, but at least the beer was cold.
Callista took another sip of dark oaky ale as she scanned her fellow patrons of the Shattered Moon. She'd picked a table squeezed up against the plinth of the defaced statue on the back wall, giving her a full view of the customers trickling in as the sun set. This was the favored establishment of Jaedenar's non-orcish population; if any of Callista's acquaintances were in town, they would likely turn up here. So, too, would any of Beltherac's "missionaries" out fishing for converts. Nerothos' documents had contained descriptions of some of the cults' higher ranking members, detailed enough she expected to have no trouble picking them out of a crowd. Providing any showed, of course.
Interesting for a different reason had been the brief on the cult's mortal figurehead - a man called Roland Lavonte. Something about that name had set a faint bell ringing in her mind. No one she knew herself, certainly. Something she had heard once, perhaps? Lavonte was the disgraced son of a minor Stormwind noble. Many of the city's better families paid their children's admission to the Academy, regardless of magical aptitude, and she and Roland were close enough in age that they might have attended together. An ancient piece of schoolyard gossip, maybe? She shook her head and took another drink. It would probably come to her if she didn't worry it too much.
Halfway across the room, a doughy human man swerved his way from the bar to a table, bottle clutched in his hand. His next destination likely would have been the floor, if not for the timely intervention of his succubus, who helped him collapse haphazardly onto a stool. Callista recognized the man's face and grinned.
Collecting her beer, she edged her way towards where he slouched over his liquor.
Daeron Miller was not a man she knew very well, but he had never had a reputation as a drunk. That was what he was now, however - so much so that he could barely pilot his cupful of dubiously brown liquor from the table to his mouth.
His succubus noticed Callista's approach well before he did. A tawny-skinned woman with red-brown hair, she clung to his arm with a small satisfied smile that hardened as her gaze swept upward from Callista's feet. She assessed her clothes and face with barely veiled hostility, lingering on the neckline of Callista's tunic before meeting her eyes.
Callista tilted her head in acknowledgement, nodding at her in a way she hoped was disarming. This little excursion was likely to do enough damage to her reputation on its own - she had no desire to start a bar fight with a succubus over a paunchy middle-aged warlock.
"Hello, Daeron," she said.
Daeron's head jerked up and he looked at her soddenly. Dim recognition wobbled across his features. "Hey...um…"
"Callista. Dunhaven. We've met a few times at The Slaughtered Lamb."
He started automatically to smile before apprehension caught up and wilted it into a grimace. He shoved his stool clumsily away from the table, dislodging his succubus. "Did they send you after me?"
Callista had expected that kind of reaction. She sat down across from him with reassuring slowness, setting down her glass of beer. "Of course not. Last I spoke to anyone at the Lamb, no one had any clue where you were. The authorities ran me out of town a few weeks ago. I assumed they'd done the same to you."
He gauged her silently - she imagined she mostly looked blurry. After a moment, his panic faded, though his expression remained guarded. He scooted his stool back towards the table, close enough to reach his drink. "Yeah. Yeah, that's about right." He wiped his chin sheepishly as he misaimed a sip. "So, uh…"
Callista took a long swallow of her beer. Glancing around the tavern proved no one had noticed Daeron's reaction. An altercation had begun near the doorway, and the sparse crowd cheered as the felguard bouncer backhanded a tipsy-looking man across the mouth before grabbing him by the collar.
Callista's nose wrinkled. "Why, of all places on Azeroth, did you run to this one?"
His succubus leaned between them, all large limpid eyes and poisoned sweetness. "I could ask you the same question, mortal," she said.
Daeron's gaze slid clumsily to his companion. By Callista's estimation, he appeared to mostly be addressing her breasts. "It was Zev - Zeviyra's - idea. Missed her sisters. Didn't have a better plan, so…" He shrugged.
Callista blinked, torn between amazement and dismay. Diffidence was not a trait usually associated with mages, let alone warlocks. Daeron had always had a reputation for being henpecked by his wife, but she was beginning to suspect general spinelessness on his part rather than unusual tyranny on hers. "I see," she said, managing, with effort, to keep her voice bland. She glanced at Zeviyra. "Explains how you ran into Azlia, I suppose."
That caught her interest. The naked hostility on the succubus's face vanished, replaced by sly delight. "So. You're Azlia's mistress. I've heard a lot about you."
"Whatever it was, best keep it to yourself for both your sakes," Callista said dryly.
Zeviyra crossed her arms, continuing to study her with a smirk. "Well, now I really must know. What did bring you to our poor little tavern in the woods? Dear Azlia seemed to think you were both too good for places like this."
Callista tossed a look at Daeron, but he was alternately applying himself to his liquor and gazing listlessly around the room. A typical warlock would find his minion supplanting him in conversation to be insolent in the extreme, but Daeron seemed not to care. Callista decided that she didn't either. She was after information, not competent colleagues. Swirling the dregs of beer in her glass, she sighed. "Equal parts desperation and spite, I suppose," she said. "I am not a Legion sympathizer, though I do have contacts here. But if Stormwind has already decided I'm a traitor...well."
"Poor little human. Your kind is so very frightened of real power."
Callista was tempted to point out that any demon bumbling enough to find herself bound to Daeron Miller was hardly qualified to discuss 'real power,' but she doubted that would lead to a useful talk. Instead, she pressed her lips into a frown, casting down her eyes as though conceding the point. "I must admit, it's been awhile since I was last in Jaedenar. I came over here hoping my...colleague - " she glanced at Daeron, who only stared intently into his cup - "...might be willing to share some information."
"Fascinating." Zeviyra said. "Information about what?"
Callista took another sip of beer, then pulled her mouth into a sheepish grimace. "Our situation in general, I suppose. I know that power in Jaedenar shifts constantly, but since I never expected to end up here, I haven't kept an eye on its politics at all. I only wanted to know if there were any particular dangers I should be aware of. Other than, you know...the usual." She waved a hand at their surroundings.
Zeviyra smiled, flashing sharp feline fangs. "Ooooh. So you want to gossip."
Callista matched her devious smile. "Exactly."
Zeviyra slid her stool closer - unbalancing Daeron, who had slumped against her shoulder - and playfully twined her tail around Callista's calf. "You should have just said so. I love show and tell."
"I have no doubt you do," Callista said, gently pushing the tail away before it strayed any further up her thigh.
Zeviyra considered her. One claw tapped against her shapely chin as she did. "Now, let me see. When were you last here?"
"About a year or so ago."
"Oh my. You have missed a lot. Hmmm…" She pursed her plump lips, pretending to think. "Well, the Sweetwater goblins have opened a courier service. You can get whatever you want delivered, so convenient. That's not really a danger, though, now is it. Let me think...what else...I know. Have you heard there's a new dreadlord in the Shadow Hold?"
Callista raised her brows inquisitively.
"His name is Nerothos. Has a reputation for powermongering, even for a nathrezim. Rumor has it he's trying to bring the satyr clans in line, and they don't like it, oh no."
"I see," Callista said, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. "But I thought I heard there were three dreadlords now? Where's the third one come in?"
Zeviyra looked puzzled before recognition brightened her face. "Oh, you must mean Beltherac. Don't bother yourself about him, I've never seen him in town. You know how dreadlords are, all work and no play, not even a little. Spends all his time skulking in the forest with a bunch of dirty cultists."
Callista made a face. "Ugh, cultists. Just what I want to hear after being evicted by a bunch of Light-worshipping idiots. Tell me they don't drink at the Moon."
Zeviyra giggled. "Actually…"
Callista didn't need to feign her look of disgust. "You're kidding."
"Don't let it put you off your liquor, darling. Typical zealots, only the highest ranks are allowed out for any fun, and they're not hard to spot." Her eyes swiveled to the right of Callista's shoulder, and she smiled and leaned closer. "There's one back there now, in fact. Their leader, if rumors are to be believed. Doesn't look very devout to me, but what would I know about it. Dark Titan knows where his flock thinks he is."
Callista glanced casually behind her, and had no trouble identifying the subject of Zeviyra's speech. A tall lanky man clad in robes of hideous orange-brown silk stood with his back to them near the bar. His lowered hood revealed a black mop of wavy hair tied with a cord - that matched well enough with the description of Roland Lavonte that she'd been given - but when he retrieved his beer and turned to show his face, there were two things that Callista knew at once.
The first was that, despite her earlier suspicions, she was positive she had never seen this man before. The second - related to the first - was that Roland Lavonte was almost preposterously handsome.
It was difficult not to stare. She'd assumed a cult leader would have charisma, but she'd been expecting the more traditional fiery-eyed, long-bearded, seeker-of-truths-in-the-wilderness look. Roland did have a beard, but it was carefully trimmed close to his face, accentuating a strong square jaw. Tanned skin set off the startling green of his eyes to fine effect. He had a scholar's lean frame, but moved with a fighter's confidence as he navigated the press around the bar. Not entirely her type - Callista preferred her men a little more powerfully built - but he was a perfect enough example of a type that, in slightly different circumstances, even knowing what she did, she might have been tempted to entertain religion for a night.
Zeviyra giggled maliciously. "Suddenly seeing the charms of faith, are we?"
"Not hardly," Callista lied.
"Good, because I'm tired of answering questions. Now it's my turn." She rested her chin in her palms, fixing her eyes on Callista's face with cruel anticipation.
Callista tilted her head, curious.
"You must tell me," Zeviyra said, heart-shaped mouth twisting into a malicious smile. "When Daeron's frumpy little wife realized we were gone, what did she do?"
Sometimes, Callista reflected, it was nice to have a reminder that her own succubus was not actually the pettiest creature on Azeroth.
But in the end, it took longer than she would have liked to extricate herself from Zeviyra. Most sayaad were chatty by nature, but she suspected Zeviyra had been saddled long enough with Daeron's morose silence to be even more grateful than usual for any outlet. Callista had finally escaped by pleading the need to get a new beer, promising to catch up with the pair once she'd had time to settle in.
Scanning the backs lined against the bar, she was relieved to spot Roland's garish orange robes almost immediately.
She pretended to study her empty glass as she considered. Given her intention to strike up a conversation, there were a few ways she might proceed. Simply going up to the man and introducing herself might work, given the setting, but it still seemed too direct and potentially suspicious. A safer option would be convincing him that he had noticed her first. Nerothos's papers indicated that Roland had a common-law wife - a low-born woman named Martha Tennant - but it also noted repeated rumors of dalliances with others. Given their current location in a tavern of very ill repute, flirtation seemed worth a shot. His extraordinary good looks were another point in the plan's favor; a homely man might be suspicious or timid of her apparent interest, but a man like Roland would probably only consider it his due.
Arranging her hair more precisely around her face, she tugged the neckline of her tunic a little lower, inspecting the result with a critical eye. For good measure, she nudged one shoulder of her robes askew, baring a careless sliver of skin. Azlia's tricks could be obvious, but that didn't mean they didn't work.
Satisfied with her alterations, she sauntered up to the bar. Not next to Roland, but several places down, where the bend in the bartop placed her directly in his line of sight. Setting down her empty glass, she leaned over the water-ringed wood and attempted to flag down another drink.
She was in luck - there were only a handful of other humans in the tavern this early in the evening, and none of them were women.
Her eyes met Roland's on their way to the bartender. Almost too easy. She let her gaze linger for a fraction of a second longer than chance would have permitted, noting the acknowledging smile beginning to play about his mouth, before looking away coyly.
Now, to wait.
She caught the attention of the orc woman behind the bar and called for another beer. She was just drinking off the foam when a rich voice sounded over her shoulder.
"My apologies for interrupting, but there aren't so many of our people in this unfortunate forest that I don't recognize a new face."
She turned, pretending to hesitate as she took him in. After a moment, she smiled. "You've been seeing a lot of new faces here lately, I'd imagine." Her gaze dropped to his chest and rested there for a heartbeat, leaving it to him to decide if she was contemplating his clothes or what was under them. "This is a strange place for a priest, though. Unless Stormwind fashions have changed greatly since I left."
He laughed. "No, you've placed me right. As for where I find myself…my calling is to shepherd the broken and hopeless, and where better to reach them than here. In the numberless paths of Shadow, even the least and most lost may have parts to play."
Her brows rose. "I'm surprised the demons tolerate you. Doesn't seem much in keeping with their philosophy of 'eat the weak'."
He smiled, and Callista thought that the deliberate enigmaticness in it would have been maddening on any face less beautiful. "We have our protectors. Not even the Burning Legion is as single-minded as it seems at first."
Rather presumptuous to be instructing a warlock he'd just met on the nature of demons. But what could you expect from a high-born man who was both preternaturally handsome and convinced - or pretending to be convinced - that he was a conduit for divinity? Arrogance, at least, she could work with. Callista tightened her gaze as she pretended to muse on the implications of his words. After a breath or two she let her thoughtful expression melt back into a smile. "Callista Dunhaven," she said, offering her hand.
He took it, nodding in return. "Roland Lavonte, High Priest of the Veil. Very charmed." His handshake was firm, and he stroked the back of her knuckles lightly with his thumb before releasing her. Whatever the tenets of his faith, Callista observed cynically, marital fidelity for the priesthood seemed to be optional. "One of the Stormwind Dunhavens, I presume?"
She leaned back against the bar, surveying him with amusement as she took a sip of her beer. "You're actually speaking to the former heir-apparent. Lavonte...I know that name, though I can't quite place it."
He chuckled, a low pleasant sound. "Oh dear, I hope I haven't put my foot in it. Yes, I'm not surprised you're not familiar with my family. The Lavonte name has been fading into obscurity since before the Fall, though there's still a title attached. My father is Lord Lavonte, though, like you, I no longer expect to inherit."
"The ladies of the court must be inconsolable," she said.
"Some of them," he said with an impish smirk. "I'm afraid I was something of a cad in my directionless younger years. If you had known of me, I'd have been compelled to apologize for whatever you'd heard." He paused, half-smiling. "Pardon my directness, but now that we've been introduced, I can't help my curiosity. How does a woman of your background - dabbler in the fel arts or not - come to find herself in such a hard setting?" Beneath the lightness of his words, the chiseled charm of his face and the liquid intensity of his gaze, she could sense the point of a genuine probe.
Good. Now they might get somewhere. Callista tsked playfully. "I'm surprised you'd even ask. A lord's son, of all people, should know that the advantage of backgrounds like ours is that we can go anywhere."
"Well said. I know, too, that there are few as skilled as those like us at evading a question."
Callista's pleasant expression never wavered, but it took a great deal of effort to suppress the sardonic curl of a lip. His words were innocuous enough, but his tone managed to hit the exact note of indulgent chiding to make that one of the most patronizing remarks ever addressed to her. Even in her role as displaced ingenue, there was only so much she could endure.
"Oh dear," she said. "You never told me you were part of your order's inquisition."
He blinked at her, and for a moment she worried she'd insulted him. Then he laughed, a startled infectious sound. "My apologies if I gave offense. I've been told before I can come off a bit...intense. Some find it charming, but I take it you're not in their company."
Now it was her turn to laugh. Pompous bastard. "Not at all. That's what I get for trying to be coy, I suppose. The truth is, if you've spent any time talking to poor Daeron over there, you already know my story. Stormwind isn't a very friendly home to warlocks these days." She considered for a moment, tilting her head. "As for why I came here, precisely…" She injected a hint of self-consciousness into her smile, hoping to imply a confidence. "Part sheer perversity, part hope of finding others in a similar situation. Misery does love company."
He nodded sympathetically. "Believe it or not, there are several men and women formerly of Stormwind among our congregation." He paused, managing to look almost abashed. "I realize this is going to come off as terribly disingenuous, but if you were ever interested in making their acquaintance…"
She laughed again. "Oh, I see now. Tell me, is this how all of your conversions usually start?"
He smiled. "If I said no, would you even believe me?"
"Possibly. Or perhaps I'd be tempted to show up to your service just to discover the truth."
He grinned, flashing ivory teeth. "I'd welcome your presence, regardless. There are infinite paths to wisdom, and even the most crooked is no less valid than the straight way."
"Sounds...disorienting."
"Simple faiths are for simple minds." He rummaged in the pocket of his robes for a moment before producing a folded slip of paper. "Here, please have this. If you're curious at all, our next public meeting is evening after tomorrow. At the very least you might make some new acquaintances."
She accepted his note. "Nice pitch, but no promises. I've never found much use for faith - though I can't say it's ever chatted me up in a Shadow Council tavern before."
"But it has chatted you up in other taverns?" His playful words were shaded with just enough jealousy to be flattering.
She widened her eyes in mock innocence and smiled.
His gaze brushed her face, following the line of her neck down across her front, and if the raw appreciation in it was feigned, then he was too practiced a liar to be caught out by her. "Even if you decline the invitation, I do hope I'll at least see you here again." He touched her lightly on the arm, fingers curling just above her elbow. "Goodnight, Miss Dunhaven."
"Goodnight," she said.
Callista exhaled slowly in relief and took a long swig of her now warm beer, watching Roland's orange-clad back recede into the crowd near the door. Despite herself, she was acutely aware of the warmth where his hand had rested. Twisting Nether. Animal magnetism could get one far, but she already found herself questioning if she could have tolerated a whole night in the high priest's presence without ulterior motives. Arrogance was one thing - she could even find it appealing, in the right circumstances - but Roland's particular blend of condescension, vice, and religious airs left a rotten taste in her mouth, no matter how perfect his cheekbones.
She unfolded the slip of paper he'd given her, revealing directions to one of the ruined stone pavilions on the outskirts of Jaedenar. Even now, she couldn't tell if he was truly attracted to her, or if he simply considered her an easy mark. Not that it mattered. Either way accomplished her purpose. The second choice might actually be better in the long run - the surest way to fool someone was to convince him he'd seen exactly your kind before.
A/N: Okay, so this wasn't quite out by the end of the summer like I'd planned, but I promise I tried, lol. Unexpected work travel ftw. As always, thanks for sticking with me! I think part of the reason for the slowness was I needed to get so many new characters introduced, but next time should have more of the 'usual' cast dynamics. I'm pretty excited, because we're getting close to what (hopefully!) will be some of the really fun parts.
It's kinda funny...I was worried that I took so long writing this that canon WoW developments would make parts of the plot nonsensical, but almost the opposite has happened. A lot of the new Legion lore has been super useful. Though my goal is still to have this thing finished before I need to test my luck with another expansion, ha.