The Illidari marched down the cobblestone path. Decrend suspected the click and clang of his armor wasn’t completely muffled by the downpour, but it was no matter. He was not here to be discreet. As candlelight and hearth glowed from inside the house, Decrend tracked the glowing figures through their walls with his spectral sight. Stepping close to the door, Decrend raises the back of his hand. Knock. Knock. Knock. Draven and Alexa Accorsi pause, looking toward the door in confusion and worry. A satisfactory smirk spreads across his face before he braces against the edge of the doorway, forcing the door open with his free hand.
All is still while Decrend saunters through the large doorway. Passing through the foyer, large enough to accompany a modest guest list for a nobleman’s party, he enters the dining room, meeting the two inhabitants within. Decrend feels the air thickened with tension and fear, raising a plated gauntlet in reaction to cover his exposed head before six gunshots ring out, dinging off the demon hunter’s armor and imbedding ricochets in the surrounding furniture and millworks. Lowering his arm, Decrend draws a small object from a pocket and places it on the table separating him from the Accorsi nobles.
“I suspect you realize the nature of my visit,” Decrend says in a low growl, returning his hand to his side. Draven Accorsi fails to notice the silver compass laying on the table, his eyes locked onto the demon hunter commanding presence in his own dining room.
“You gain nothing from killing me,” Draven spits, still extending his shaking arms outward, aiming the spent revolver. His wife stood an arms length away, white as a sheet.
“You’ve not had your own best interest at heart, Mister Accorsi,” Decrend speaks as if he hadn’t heard Draven. “You knew betrayal would endanger the life of not only you, but your wife, as well. These actions cannot be passed without consequence.” Decrend engages his muscles and shoves the dining room table across the room, knocking into the wall and effectively cornering his company.
The revolver clatters to the ground. The two nobles embrace themselves out of fear, and Decrend approaches, Alexa and Draven devolving into a panicked muttering of ransoms and debts, desperate attempts to prolong their doom.
Decrend knew of Alexa’s disapproval and mistrust of the Accorsi’s involvement with the Collective, but he couldn’t have known if the betrayal to their organization was hers or Draven’s idea. Regardless, Decrend concludes as he tears them apart from each other, he was not here to judge. He was here to conduct business.
Uttering a word of power, the room is plunged into darkness, and a bellowing drone emanates from the origination of the spell. Keeping track of the nobles through the blackness, he fells Draven Accorsi with one sweep of his plated forearm, raising his other hand with his fingers outstretched. A thunderbolt of fel energy expels from his palm, lancing through Alexa Accorsi, destroying mind and body in an instant.
Decrend reaches down and lifts the dazed nobleman by the neck. The darkness clears and the roaring sound fades out, allowing Draven Accorsi a final look at his end - the doom driven Illidari, violet tattoos blazing in the dim light. Consciousness fades for Mr. Accorsi as the last of his oxygen is spent, and Decrend flexes his muscles once more to crush the windpipe beyond repair.
Uttering a final word of power as he exits the estate, bright red chaos fires expel from Decrend’s outstretched hands, superheating and igniting the Accorsi residence. A short walk down the cobblestone path, and he looks back upon the glowing mess of burning wood.
“Nothing to gain,” Decrend repeats the words to himself amidst the downpour. “Let’s call it cutting our losses.”
Sharpened edges, blunted tips, forceps and picks, scoops and peelers. Each tool, every tool, had purpose. Aligned neatly in row with inanimate anticipation of her selection. Was it glee that such implement felt as cold fingers wrapped it? Was it excitement that it felt as it tasted warm skin?
The Ebon was ripped from her moment of pondering by the sound of coughing. The wet gasps as the prisoner’s arms wrenched back and drew her face from the trough. The woman sputtered out the sullen water from her lungs as air asserted itself once more to her life.
“We’ve talked about this. Cooperation is what delivers us from adversity.” The Ebon’s words were low, soft, almost deceptively gentle. She lifted a plated hand to dust a few loose hairs stuck against the shivering features of her captive. “We’ve talked about your friends.. but you don’t seem to know much about the ‘Council’ you mentioned. Why?”
The woman maintained her eyes closed, blood leaking fresh from recent cuts against her lips. When she did speak, her voice was cracked and carried upon it the twisted affect of an abused soul.
“..no one knows about them. We don’t. We-” She was violently cut off as her head was pressed down below the waters. Primal panic took over, driving her into a frenzy of kicking and grasping against the hand firmly tied up in her hair. As her head was pulled back from the moment of demise, she expelled the darkened waters from her lungs and stomach with violent wretch.
“One reason.. one.. that’s all I need. If I can give a reason why you deserve to live, you will likely walk away from this. So.. the Council..”
“I don’t know..” She muttered, but as she felt the grip tighten in her hair she blurted out a desperate “Wait!”
It was enough, enough to draw pause to the inevitable. The Ebon turned her captive’s features so they could meet eye to glowing eye.
“Yes?” Magda noted with the slightest hint of interest. The woman leaked only a few more droplets of stirred blood from her mouth before she repealed her last bastions of secrecy.
“Old Town.. a tavern called the Wounded Hound. The people there.. know more than me. It’s the only lead..”
Magda released the woman’s hair, rising up to full height. Her finger lifted to her ear where she depressed the small metal earpiece placed within.
She had packed a suitcase, hiding her tools in secret compartments while she placed carefully folded clothing on top. Donning a long coat over her person, Octaevia picked up a wide brimmed hat as the finishing touches. It was enough to cover her eyes and the coat simple enough to give off the impression of any ordinary citizen. She grabbed the suitcase and tipped her hat to her reflection before heading out.
*Three lifelong friends have been contacted *
Two Human males and one red headed Dwarf; each receiving a letter sent with a different name on the front of the envelope. Each regarded the envelope in their own way. Two of them smiling as they eagerly opened what they believed to be a letter from an old friend. Only one out of the three was hesitant to open it, though he soon found himself reaching for a small knife and popping the fold of the envelope open.
*They were invited to meet at a location in Goldshire to share a drink and catch up.*
“I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve seen the boys…” A thoughtful expression spread across the first man’s bearded face, the dark brown hairs hiding his lips and the only proof of the smile he held was shown in the rise of his cheeks.
“Well, it’s ‘bout damn time ‘e reached out! Thought the lad ‘ad forgotten me.” The Dwarf barked out a laugh to himself, happily accepting the invitation as he quickly folded the letter back up and stuffed it away in his coat pocket.
The third stared at the letter he received, green eyes showing nothing but surprise as he scanned the letter again and again. “After all that… He wants to…” He let out a sigh, running a hand through his blonde locks of hair as he smiled fondly. “It would be nice to see them again.”
*Their connection is the bait that shall assure their guard is dropped.*
Each arrived shortly after the other. The Dwarf and brown haired man arriving from Stormwind by gryphon, the Dwarf having taken the tram over from Ironforge. The blonde did not live too far, a decent walk from his home from the eastern part of Elwynn. He stood waiting for his old friends at the entrance of the Lion’s Pride, the inn and tavern at the center of Goldshire. With their warm welcomes and tight embraces, any hesitation the blonde once felt soon melted away and he eagerly followed his friends inside.
As the three entered the establishment, they quickly grabbed a spot near the fireplace and ordered a round of drinks, what would be the first of many. In the far corner sat a Worgen, wearing a long coat and wide brimmed hat, sipping idly at a glass of wine. She kept to herself it would seem but her golden gaze trailed over toward the table of friends with an ear perked in their direction.
It was a beautiful day in the Hinterlands, and Trin was a horrible mage.
She stood in the clearing with her skinny arms raised to the sky as four men floated before her, held tightly by hot pink chains made of Arcane magic.
“Are we all following along?” she asked. She tilted her head up to look at them: the sun caught the lenses of her glasses, rendering them flat white, opaque discs. One of the men swallowed.
“This—” he wheezed and struggled against his magical bonds. “This’s bullshit—AAH!” He screamed as Trin flicked a finger and he started to slam into the ground, over and over. She looked to the other three, unfazed as the man’s bones made audible crunching noises.
“I’ll need someone to verbally confirm my request,” she said as the first man smacked into the dirt and flew up into the air again, still bound by his magical chains. He’d stopped screaming by the fifth or sixth hit to the ground. Trin made a mental note.
“P-please—” one of them started. The first man flopped uselessly to the ground as the magical chains vanished from around him in a puff of pink smoke. He did not move, or breathe.
“Please, what?” she asked as she turned her attention back to the last man who had spoken. The other two men were quiet, and were avoiding looking at Trin. “I will need verbal confirmation,” she repeated slowly, “of my request. Will you or will you not vacate the area at the request of my employer?”
“We don’t even know who your employer is!” he yelled back at her.
“I hardly believe that,” Trin replied with a scoff. “You’re criminals. Criminals have been known to lie to save their own skin. Is that what you’re doing? Are you lying?” she pressed.
“No, honest!” the man yelled back. “Please! Y’already killed Phil, please— we won’t say a word.”
Silence hung in the air about them for a long moment as Trin considered. Her lip twitched.
“You are criminals, are you not?” she asked.
“Yes! Yes, we’re criminals! But we ain’t out for your turf or anything!”
“But criminals,” she said slowly, “lie. It is a well known fact that criminality often correlates to lying. Do you deny that?”
The man glanced at his other two buddies, who shrugged to the best of their abilities.
“Er…no?” he responded, uncertain. After another moment’s thought, Trin shook her head.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, her tone sincere. “I cannot take your word at its value, as there appears to be no inherent value to it. I’m sure you understand, and can sympathize with my position.”
All three of the men looked confused.
“What’s that mean?” not-Phil asked.
“Yeah, are you gonna let us go?” asked other-not-Phil. The third man simply wet himself.
“Oh, no. I’m afraid you’ll have to follow your friend Phil to what awaits you in the next life. Do send my apologies to him for the gruesomeness of his demise, but examples must be made,” Trin added. Before any of the men could utter so much as an indignant shout, she twisted both wrists in outward motions and swung her arms down hard: all three men flipped upside down and were driven hard into the ground. Their skulls split open with sickening cracks on the rocky earth, and red spilled quickly out in ever-expanding pools.
Trin clicked her tongue.
“Fascinating,” she said emotionlessly. She pulled a notebook out of one of her pockets, along with a red crayon, and scribbled a few things down.
