On Our Soil (Closed RP)

"Some of you may have heard of Charles Marand. He headed one of Stormwind's largest mining guilds, up until a week ago. Marand was found dead in his office, likely resulting from the mechanism fused to the back of his head."

Tahirus opened the folder in front of him to the first page, a polaroid of Marand slumped over his desk. The mechanism was in full view of the shot. It was almost as small as a gold piece, and shaped like a hammer.

"I was leading an investigation into Charles Marand's business, which was suspected to have ties to the Twilight Hammer. Marand's death and the subsequent discovery of this mechanism affirms these ties exist. But it also suggests he was not a willing cohort."

Tahirus flipped to the next page, another polaroid of the hammer-shaped mechanism, close up.

"Some of you may be familiar with mechanisms like this. It's an inspiration of the Nar'krol Device. Once it's been fused, the mechanism can't be removed without proper procedure or killing the subject. I doubt Charles Marand is the only one who's been at the mercy of one of these. The Twilight Hammer has many willing followers, but thanks to this weapon, they have many unwilling associates as well."

Tahirus flipped to the next page, a polaroid of an older human with heavy jowls and dark, beady eyes.

"Sources at our disposal suggest that this man is another of those unwilling associates. His name is Percy Hamston, of the Elwynn Hamstons. He heads the Elwynn and Westfall farming conglomerates and weighs very heavily in the Stormwind Court. But if he is indeed under the thumb of the Twilight Hammer, that makes him a great threat."

On the next page of the folder was a blueprint of a building.

"Percy Hamston goes on retreat with a handful of other VIP's starting tomorrow. They'll be in a secure location in Redridge. We'll be there too, under the guises of hired help working at the manor. This is a layout of the building. Study it carefully. It is very possible the Twilight Hammer will be present as well, in one form or another. You'll want to know all the exits and plan exit strategies accordingly."

Tahirus paused and looked around the table. "Any questions on these preliminaries?"

This was punishment.

That’s what Oakgu Bloodstalker decided as he listened to the draenei ramble on about whatever it was that demanded such a meeting.

The young orc struggled keep interest, but the draenei’s accent was difficult for him to articulate. His Common wasn’t strong to begin with and human’s tended to be excessive wordy. Apparently, the draenei were more so.

One thing was becoming more and more certain: there wouldn’t be many songs sung of this venture. Judging by the picture they’d been shown of the next suspect, he doubted his tracking skills will be put to much excuse.

As to the strange devices utilized by the Twilights, he had no idea how such devices could work. He begrudgingly respected the power of magic, but overall, he had little use for it beyond the blessings of a shaman. He wasn’t surprised that the Twilights would utilize magic in such an underhanded and dishonorable way.

The draenei began speaking again and Oakgu’s interest waned. This was punishment. There could be no doubt about it. If he’d just stayed out of it, he’d be back in Ashenvale, hunting down that Sentinel that was making prey of soldiers. Instead, he’s been sent here as one of the token representatives of the Horde in this joint investigation.

He very much doubted the Warchief gave a damn about this investigation. It’s more likely that Oakgu was sent here so he wouldn’t cause any more problems.

He glanced at the grizzly orc down the table and wondered what this fellow orc had done to earn such a boring assignment. Despite the age, he looked strong enough to cleave everyone seated at the table with one stroke. He also appeared to be attentively listening to the rambling draenei. Maybe he knew the language better? Or maybe he was just better at feigning interest?

Oakgu closed his eyes momentarily and imagined himself back in the forest, high on the thrill of the hunt.

Oh, and a glorious hunt it had been. For weeks, he had tracked her movements. She hadn’t made it easy for him. There had been traps, false trails and occasionally, their roles had reversed and he had become the hunted. This was a hunt that was deserving of song.

And then, during a stop at Splintertree Post, his hopes of continuing that hunt victoriously had abruptly ended.

He didn’t regret what he’d done. His honor may be marred in the eyes of others, but he’d do it again. In his heart, he was in the right. There was no doubt of that.

If only he could have finished that hunt.

The sound of the draenei flipping to another page interrupted his contemplation. It was a floor plan to a human building. Immediately, he could tell it was a human building, because like their excessively wordy language, there were many rooms and hallways.

"Percy Hamston goes on retreat with a handful of other VIP's starting tomorrow,” Tahirus explained. “They'll be in a secure location in Redridge. We'll be there too, under the guises of hired help working at the manor. This is a layout of the building. Study it carefully. It is very possible the Twilight Hammer will be present as well, in one form or another. You'll want to know all the exits and plan exit strategies accordingly."

The draenei paused and looked around the table. "Any questions on these preliminaries?"

Oakgu had several questions, starting with what does ‘VIP’ mean and why doesn’t the Alliance just arrest those suspected? Why all the subterfuge?

He was willing to allow those questions to slide in favor a much more pertinent one.

“Some of us may be noticed there,” he stated, gesturing to the Horde members of this group. He doubted that the humans, especially one as important as this Hamston person, would have any members of the Horde there. Then again, he didn’t understand he details of whatever this meeting was about.

Just tell him whom to hunt down and he’d be content.

It was plain and simple to Abner that he did not belong here.

Perhaps the clearest sign of this notion was the smell. The room - and the people - around him literally reeked of high society in that neither had a discernible odor. Even with senses as worn and dull as his own, Abner thought, he should surely have been able to smell something. He wrinkled his nose, still caught up in disbelief, only to find that the room was indeed empty of smell. There were no familiar scents there to greet him, nothing to tell him he was home. Somehow, the affluent owners of this establishment had managed to purge it entirely of the trademark environment that characterized the lower walkways, even down to the smell. And Abner's mother had always told him to lay low - off the radar, away from the rich swindlers who would rob him of house and home. He had neither, and he did not plan to attain either in the near future, but his surroundings nonetheless made him nervous.

Abner had come to Booty Bay believing the call to be part of a simple assignment. But as he learned more and more details, it became more and more clear that he had bit off more than he could chew. This was a suicide mission. At least, he assumed it was - he couldn't be sure, and preferred to err on the side of caution. These people didn't want him to plant charges and leave as most did - they wanted him along for the ride. Somehow, some way, word had gotten around that Abner was the best at what he did. Silently, he cursed himself for his own bravado. If this was where bragging got him, perhaps it really was best to lay low.

It was no matter. Abner would make do, as he always did. And to make do, he would have to see to it that his presence was known.
He shifted visibly, signifying his discontent to those around him. No response. With a flourish, he reached his hand down to his boot, and quickly withdrew his knife in a single, fluid motion. Much to his chagrin, the swindlers continued about their business, making conversation amongst themselves as they waited for their host to tell them what to do. Abner aimlessly twirled the knife about, letting the light from the chandelier reflect off its blade at various angles. Originally, he had intended to make a show of carving a picture into the table before him, but upon closer inspection of the fine teak it was composed of, he made a split-second decision to return the blade to its sheathe. Despite how uncomfortable the room made him feel, he was not above admiring its beauty. And the knife's edge was better used elsewhere.

Sighing, Abner turned his head back to the goat-man, who had resumed his dialogue.

"Some of you may have heard of Charles Marand. He headed one of Stormwind's largest mining guilds, up until a week ago. Marand was found dead in his office, likely resulting from the mechanism fused to the back of his head."

Abner leaned in to get a better look at the picture of the dead man. Sure enough, there was a small metal device clearly visible on the back of Marand's head. He had never heard of Charles Marand or his mining guild, but he could not help but pity the man. His death looked to be a painful one.

He shook his head as the Draenei continued to talk. Once mention was made of a "Nar'krol Device," Abner zoned out entirely. The "mission" was turning to be more of a children's fantasy than he had hoped. Here he was, seated in a lavish room in an expensive lounge, surrounded by just over half a dozen individuals more well-dressed and well-spoken than he, and being lectured by a hulking, blue thing about the activities of a cult he barely understood, much less cared about. And it was all for some sacks of coin he would spend on booze and whores when it was all over - if he survived, of course.

Abner glanced about the room with a look of contempt plastered on his face. He was a mercenary at heart and he knew it, not a master of espionage and guile, as these two-bit superspies seemed to think they were. And something told him that none of his city-slicker companions were ready to do what was required of them. Something else told him that not everything would proceed according to plan, either. And he wasn't about to let himself become fertilizer for cultists in the company of orcs and trolls. No, he told himself - he did not belong here.

It would be easy enough to bail if the mission went south, of course. And it would also be easy enough to collect his pay and go off the radar if it were, by some miracle, successful.

The mention of Westfall broke his train of thought, and he once more turned his attention to Tahirus.

"...farming conglomerates and weighs very heavily in the Stormwind Court. But if he is indeed under the thumb of the Twilight Hammer, that makes him a great threat."

The Draenei flipped hastily through his folder to a nondescript blueprint.

"Percy Hamston goes on retreat with a handful of other VIP's starting tomorrow. They'll be in a secure location in Redridge. We'll be there too, under the guises of hired help working at the manor. This is a layout of the building. Study it carefully. It is very possible the Twilight Hammer will be present as well, in one form or another. You'll want to know all the exits and plan exit strategies accordingly."

Confused, Abner surveyed the papers from afar. He was certain he had missed something. No Hamston had come up prior, and there was no mention of what was actually to become of the man.

Tahirus paused and looked around the table. "Any questions on these preliminaries?"

"'mask you somethin'," Abner interjected, the moment after Tahirus finished speaking. "You want us to kill this feller? Cult did it once, they'll do it again. Don't you got more important things for us to be doin' than chasing some farmer?"

Kitonwy Morgan was very used to feeling out of place when meeting the people that she would work with on a mission. Five feet nothing and a hundred pounds soaking wet, she hardly looked the heroic type. And ensconced on her knees as she was in a large, comfortable chair didn't help the illusion at all. The chair was very big, though. She occasionally thought that she should perhaps offer it to the big, grizzled old orc, but she couldn't think of a polite way to frame the question.

Hi! You are very big! Would you be more comfortable in this chair? She shook her head with a soft laugh. That would have gone over very well, she was sure. Though perhaps commenting on the size and muscle of an orc was a polite enough statement, would suggesting that he needed the chair, perhaps as a comfort to advanced age, be rude? Kitonwy Morgan was a woman to whom manners mattered, and besides, it would not be the best start to a mission to offend someone.

So she kept her big, cozy chair and amused herself with a new book. One of the things that she liked best about Booty Bay was the ready availability of certain tomes about certain subjects that were barely tolerated in polite society. What she did, the fraternizing with demons, and twisting the fel, was -just- this side of legal, and she didn't wish to be tarred with that brush. Only the other warlocks that frequented The Slaughtered Lamb and the contacts that occasionally let her know about interesting jobs to supplement her meager waitressing income knew of her talents.

But here in Booty Bay, everyone had a secret, so she made no effort to hide her own. Harsh demonic script covered the page, and her eyes flicked over it as easily as though reading her native tongue. The lower levels of Booty Bay were smelly and dangerous, but one could find the -most- interesting things down there if one were willing to take the risk. And while Kit may be small, fragile-looking young woman, she was by no means defenseless.

She looked up from her book and carefully marked her place at the sound of a voice raised in more than small talk. At the draenei's mention of the extreme danger of the job, and the fact that they would be left hung out to dry if the kodo poo hit the fan, a lot of people left. But curiosity was ever a failing of Kit's, and she stayed. Such a dramatic speech deserved that much, at least. She picked up the sheaf of papers that the draenei's magic placed in front of her and she flipped through them quickly, before listening as he spoke again.

That mechanism was -FASCINATING-. She couldn't figure out how it worked. Did it actually impart a measure of control over the victim? Or did it use the fear of death to keep them compliant? In any case, as small as it was, there was no way that there wasn't a measure of magic involved in its construction. Engineering had made great strides, but something this small, that could do so much... No, that was far too small. And how could it be removed? Clearly they were going to try and help this poor man. They needed to know more about the device, if so.

She looked up as a lanky orc spoke.

“Some of us may be noticed there.”

Kit nods and piped up. “Yes, if this is a gathering of noblemen, then...” She clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling in delight. “Oh! We could hide them in a wagon under piles of supplies and sneak them in! Romero did that in a book once, to sneak in and visit his beloved Julianne. Oh that was such a beautiful story...” She sighed dreamily, then looked to the rather shabby-looking man who spoke next, listening raptly before adding her own question to the end of his.

“Are we to kill him or free him of that terrible device? Do we know how it works?" she asked, her voice suddenly brisk and businesslike. "You spoke of a process that must be followed to remove it. Do we know it? I don't suppose you have one of those, ah...” She flipped through her papers quickly. “...You called it a Nar'krol Device? I don't suppose that you have one on hand that we could look at? I would very much like to know how it works.”

Marthias took in the information patiently and readily, all the while studying his companions. Of the lot that remained after the rest had picked up and left when given the choice, there were some very colorful individuals.

Among the orcs there was an elderly brute, wrinkled and whitened from experience and scarred from combat. Despite his apparent age though, the olive skinned orc was not at all fatigued or hunched over, displaying resilience to the years. Clearly a formidable warrior even among his own kind, though it remained to be seen if he put stock in strategy and not just force of strength. Marthias had long learned not to associate age with wisdom.

The other orc, meanwhile, was quite different in nearly all respects. Young, from his hair color, lack of facial hair, and unmarred tusks. Rather thin compared to other orcs, but by no means weak. The bow he wore on his back was large, probably requiring a different strength to notch arrows with. Judging from this and his leather armor, the orc specialized in long distance combat, definitely skilled and precise to have been called upon for this meeting, but it was painfully obvious from his impatient looks that he’d rather be elsewhere, a rather contradictory trait to his assumed profession.

Next his eyes wandered to the troll, whom he immediately identified as a spell caster. He lacked the usual muscle of his kin and wore cloth robes that had a potent appearance, but he was by no means unfamiliar with combat. Scars over his hands, including a portion of his right ear outright missing. Marthias heard tales of troll’s regenerative abilities, and even seen them. Did this troll suffer from some defect he wondered? He heard tales of trolls losing their regeneration to their Loa. There was little else out of the ordinary with him though, so Marthias continued on to the Alliance members of the meeting.

The rough and rugged human clearly dealt with explosives judging from the equipment he had on his person. It was apparent he was out of place though, and did not at all like the situation. In fact, he actively made obvious motions to make his presence felt. He even went as far as to draw his knife suddenly, and play with it casually. For all this man’s attempts to be seen seriously, Marthias chuckled lightly at the bravado, and hoped he was better at actually blowing things up than presenting himself socially.

Marthias found particular interest in the lady of their company, dressed in handmade gowns with long and messy black hair going over wide glasses and wide eyes. But betraying this sweet visage was the tome she had in front of her, written in demonic texts. A warlock, a practitioner of the fel arts gifted by the demons. An unusual picture, Marthias thought. Are her wide eyes a mask for a sinister nature, he wondered, or was it genuine. She would be one to keep an eye on, in any case.

Then he found himself facing a man with a comparatively refined appearance and manner compared to the rest of his company. A shady figure dressed in light leather, better to sneak around unheard Marthias guessed. He was looking at the espionage of the group, no doubt, and probably the most competent of the gathered besides the elderly orc (and perhaps Marthias himself). His fine features, disregarding the wrinkles, suggested high birth, but perhaps he have long since fallen from this high spot. He and Marthias were kindred spirits if that were the case.

Moving on from the human company, the night elf was the one who caught his eye. Most elves he saw seemed to carry themselves with a certain grace, but this one seemed to lack that. From her looks, Marthias gathered she was a warden, particularly wrathful elves that went to extremes to achieve their goals. The most famous guarded a rather treacherous member of their kind, and when he was freed chased him down with a fury. Somehow, he didn’t doubt this elf had that same impulsive nature, but was suited to tracking, though in this sense she had competition in their lanky orc friend.

Which finally brought him to their kind host, the Draenei who introduced himself as Tahirus. The “man” had a flair for the dramatic, freely using his arcane powers to draw attention to the documents on the table rather than simply pulling the folder out and tossing it onto it. Perhaps he had a sense of self-importance. But he was not a thoughtless individual, Marthias granted him, he put a fair amount of consideration into these plans, though his effectiveness had yet to be seen.

As Marthias finished his observations, the Draenei had finished his briefing, and now turned to the group and asked, "Any questions on these preliminaries?"

“Some of us may be noticed there,” the orc hunter stated snidely.

The warlock agreed with this point. “Yes, if this is a gathering of noblemen, then...” She clapped and beamed childishly. “Oh! We could hide them in a wagon under piles of supplies and sneak them in! Romero did that in a book once, to sneak in and visit his beloved Julianne. Oh that was such a beautiful story...”

Suddenly, Marthias began to feel that the “cute girl” cover wasn’t actually cover, leading him to wonder just who did the recruiting for all of this. But he kept a smile as he spoke up, disregarding the child’s fanciful solution.

“I’m afraid our orc friend is right. The story of a staff of mixed races is possible, but not unsuspicious in Alliance territory. It would draw attention to us, and make the task that much more difficult.”

Marthias glanced towards the draenei, though, and continued. “But you have a solution for that, I gather? Illusions to allow us to blend? Such a thing would not be beyond your arcane prowess.”

After some more chatter from the group on why they were going after this Percy Hamston character, which Marthias assumed was for his secret association with the Hammer, the warlock spoke with fascination of the ‘Nar’Krol’ device, and wondered if she could study it.

Marthias cheerfully chimed in. “I second that curiosity. The psychological implications of it alone make it fascinating. I could learn much from a study… And if you’ll allow me another question, what are our particular roles in this operation?”

A steady metallic thud was heard against her mask, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, the sound of her gauntlet rapping against her mask. Hammer shaped thing, mind control human names she hopefully won't have to remember, at least by name. The faces were targets, at least from what she understood, boredom was a common feeling, a quick scan of the room made that fairly evident, no one else was paying attention. But the images of those humans were seared into her mind, along with those of satyr, succubus, all manner of daemon and a handful of druids that fancied themselves above the laws of nature, though the humans were far less aesthetically pleasing.

Mental notes were scribbled somewhere in the back of her mind, some words found themselves sparking memories, words becoming clearer, bolder causing notes to become closer to the front. Miranda, mining, younger, dead, not gonna see him, push him further back. Nar'krol, demonic mind control device, gave birth to hammer shaped trinkets fused to the back of the neck. Porkson, farmer, he's the one being investigated. A gauntlet was removed and purple fingers idly flipped through the paperwork.

The linework of the human's home was sketched somewhere closer to the front, names didn't matter nearly as much as an exit, entrance or a place to hide when eavesdropping. Silver eyes finally looked up from her paper, looking over the group again, some of which began speaking, though few managed to spark any more interest...

Though, through the beating of metal against her ear, something nagged at her like a dull pain. Even when she attempted to ignore it, skill kicked in and she found herself asking an obvious question, “Why is it you have a picture of a grafted golden twilight hammer, and the SI: 7 does not?” Certainly they aren't police and, even the wardens wouldn't lead an inquisition, leave that to the Sisterhood, but it is something along the lines of counterintelligence or silently removing power from those who shouldn't have it.

“I understand that there might have been a clean up and no evidence the Hammer was ever involve, or is this an example of bad human fiction where 'We don't know who we can trust.' or, 'It's an inside job.', 'A sting operation.', 'A set up?'” A few of those phrases she didn't understand the exact meaning of, she didn't even understand them in context of the books she read while guarding her crazed druid, you can only read about the War of Shifting Sands so many times before you pick up any trash you can gets your hands on. “And will I have to dress as a Stromgarde maid?”

Themba sat almost perfectly still and straight with one hand in his lap. The other hand rested on the table, scarred fingers occasionally tapping against the solid surface. He was reluctant to trust anyone in this venture; he'd be a fool to do so. But he also had to escape the stifling confines of Dalaran. True, the human mages tolerated him with somewhat more patience than their Sin'dorei, but situations could still be...tense.

No, Themba had always done well on his own.

Not that he didn't throw his lot in with unsavory bunches now and again. He secretly reveled in the adrenaline rush of an unknown situation.

He had heard of Charles Marand. Now and then he spent his free time at the jeweler's in Dalaran, slowly learning the craft. The monotony calmed his tumultuous mind, and the mages themselves didn't often spend free time in the trade part of town. He knew of Marand's controlling stake in the jewelry trade, and had also heard of his death. Curiosity combined with a desire to escape had led him here.

He studied the others. There was a particularly fidgety young orc, his roving eyes and restless nature pointing to him only being half-present. Themba assumed he'd have to pull his ass out of a fire.

The other orc, the older one, seemed more attentative than his younger counterpart, but he hadn't done much to let Themba formulate an opinion.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes as a human near him deftly pulled a knife from somewhere on his person, flourishing it wildly. It was clear the man wanted attention, and was trying to show off his prowess. Inexperience, ineptitude, idiocy, or a combination of all three could be the reason.

The night elf, he gave suspicious glances to. While marginally more disciplined than their Sin'dorei cousins, he'd been too close to the pointy end of a jumpy night elf's arrow more than once. He was surprised she was here at all, given her race's penchant to stay in the forests and out of others' business.

The Forsaken he was unsure about. Themba got along decently with most Forsaken unlike some of his race-or any of the Horde. But Themba himself had always been somewhat of an outcast. He noticed the Forsaken's attention traveling slowly to each person in their company. So far, not entirely stupid then.

The human woman, however, sort of threw him for a loop. He could see from the book she was reading openly that it was very demonic stuff. She was either entirely stupid, or entirely studied in her craft. He had hardly ever seen books like that in the hands of amateurs. Her easy-going nature was something else that threw him. The human women he knew in Dalaran were generally tight-lipped and straight-laced. It could have been his presence, but he suspected it was the discipline the Kirin Tor demanded. The mages he knew held no trust for warlocks; humans were some of the worst offenders. He had heard tales of warlocks practicing in secret deep in the bowels of Stormwind. This woman did not fit that profile.

Another human, some sort of rogue from the looks of it, sat comfortably, looking not at all uncomfortable at being surrounded by orcs, trolls, and undead. He had to hand it to the man; he wasn't overcompensating like the other human male.

As for Tahirus, Themba had heard of him as well. Just in passing. He knew he was a powerful mage, and he had pursued Marand before. Themba wasn't intimidated; he'd proven himself in fights before. Besides, if Tahirus was anything as good as his reputation, Themba suspected he'd picked people for this job with a wide range of abilities, himself included.

Tahirus asked if there were any questions, and the younger orc brought up a good point of not fitting in. Themba agreed; he had also been curious about that detail.

Themba blinked and shook his head minutely when the warlock woman compared their plan to some romance story. This woman was either putting on the most elaborate and unnecessary character front, or she was that insane. He made a mental note not to be anywhere close to her if she tried to summon a demon.

Themba's immediate questions were asked by other members of the party. He stayed silent, observing. He was also interested in studying the device the human woman was so keen on. He distrusted anything like that in the hands of an enemy. And everyone was an enemy.

The orc Bloodstalker was the first to raise a concern, and concerned the Horde-affiliated members of the group.

“You’ll be going under the guise of the gourmet Krulkal and his sous-chefs,” answered Tahirus. “There won’t be any question as to your allegiance, because the people at this retreat are very rich, and have paid a large amount of money to have you there. Of course, this also means many members of our group will be sequestered in one area for a great part of the endeavor, which can be dangerous in some circumstances, so plan accordingly.”

One of the humans, Macullogh, spoke up next. “You want us to kill this feller? Cult did it once, they’ll do it again. Don’t you got more important things for us to be doin’ than chasing some farmer?”

Tahirus wasn’t sure how much the human had listened to, but it was clear he hadn’t been paying attention. “We’re not setting out to kill anyone. We’re confirming whether or not Percy Hamston is working with the Twilight, willingly or unwillingly. Let me remind all of you that this is not an assassination mission—at least not primarily.”

The human Morgan spoke up and fired off a round of questions.

“If he’s under duress by one of these devices, it’s in our best interest to free him of it. Without knowing the warding principals used to administer each individual device, the most effective way of dispatching them is creating an anti-magic field in close proximity and forcibly removing the device. So long as the magic binding it is disrupted, the worst one can suffer from it is a bit of bleeding. It’s not the most ideal approach, but it’s all we have at the moment.”

He glanced at the others around the table at Morgan’s request to examine the device.

“If I had one, I might, but in the spirit of maintaining secrecy over such powerful devices, our sponsors have not given us any to look at. Pull this off successfully, though, and you may keep whatever spoils you happen upon.”

Marthias returned the conversation back to the question of roles that Bloodstalker had brought up earlier. Tahirus was about to address it when Shadowbramble, who’d been quiet the whole time, suddenly spoke up.

“SI:7, or a generous member thereof, I should say, are where these pictures have come from. This is a clandestine operation, but that does not mean we are barred from all of the resources we would normally use. We just can’t talk about them,” answered Tahirus. He smiled. “As to your question about dressing as a maid, not unless you want to.”

Tahirus looked at Marthias. “As to your question of roles, I think it’s time we go into the details. Like I said, our Horde affiliates will be under the guise of the gourmet Krulkal and his staff. The rest of us will be staffers outside the kitchen. Your individual roles are outlined in the folders. Bloodstalker will be our gourmet. I’ll be a master of ceremonies of sorts at the retreat, which will allow me to stay within earshot of most of the activities going on, which will in turn keep you all informed. There will be plenty others working around the retreat, so you won’t be attracting much attention easily, unless you’re asking for it.”

Tahirus pulled out a number of small stones from a pocket of his robes and laid them out on the table.

“These are hearthstones. They’re simple to use. You close your fist around it, you can communicate with each other through thought speech. I’ve also warded each one with a magic veil. This will make any magic signature you naturally give off very difficult to detect. Bear in mind it’s not foolproof, and using the stone may give off trace. Activate them only in special circumstances or emergencies.”

Tahirus looked around the table, and when everyone remained silent, he raised his hands.

“I believe we’re ready. Any other questions you have, I can answer on the way. Prepare anything you’re bringing and be at the zeppelin landing in one hour’s time. See you then.”

As everyone at the table began stirring, Tahirus pointed to Fireseed and Velmoran. “I have a special assignment for you two. Stay after to speak with me.”

Kitonwy couldn't stop a laugh of pure delight at Mr. Tahirus's plan for getting the members of the Horde in place. Oh it was brilliant! Truly a plan worthy of the most trashy, tawdry romance novel that money could buy. When did her life get so exciting? Also... She'd caught the Forsaken man's interest in the device, and had noticed the rather handsome troll look up when it had been mentioned. But they would be in the kitchen. That meant she had the best chance of getting it! Of course she would share. It was only polite. But not everyone was as polite as her, after all.

She picked up her hearthstone, studying it raptly. Yes, there was a sort of power in it. Not one that was native to her, but... Hmm. She picked up another and glanced around the table before noting the younger orc. He'd been off in his own world for half of the briefing. Perhaps he just didn't understand Common very well? And she so seldom got a chance to practice her Orcish. She scooted over to him with a bright smile.

“~Mr... Bloodstalker, right?~” she asked in careful Orcish. It was a language ill-suited to her sweet voice, and she had visible difficulty on some of the gruffer syllables, but she was understandable, at least, if very formal. “~I'm Kitonwy Morgan! It's so very nice to meet you! Do you actually shoot that giant bow on your back? It's taller than I am!~” she exclaimed in honest praise.

Without waiting for a response, she almost shyly offered him the second hearthstone she'd picked up. “~Would you mind helping me test mine? I would hate to be stuck in that place and need to get someone to come help me only to have it not work. I mean, usually I work alone, because I bring my own friends, but they wouldn't be very welcome in... well, anywhere. In fact, they tend to escalate a situation, rather than defuse it.~” She frowned and shook her head. “~That's beside the point. I think. What was my point again?~” She tilted her head to the side, then remembered the hearthstone. “~Oh yes! Please?~” She held his hearthstone out on her open right palm.

(( Using ~ ~ to denote Orcish, since not everyone would speak it ))