slaughterjaw

[slaughterjaw]

The Shadehelm

(The following is written for our guild campaign in Maldraxxus!)

Her crimson eyes studied the leather bracelet looped around Remington’s wrist. The sinewy cord held a silver wagon wheel symbol in place. “That… looks familiar,” Celaryn mumbled. “Fence… Fence Macabre?”

The mask still rendered the caravan master mute, a precaution against dangerous spellcasters the House of Constructs installed when Remington was captured. The older undead’s eyes crinkled as a hidden smile lifted her expression behind the mask. She bobbed her head yes.

“I had the pleasure of meeting two of yours. Do you know a Dezzie and a Calria?” 

Remington dipped her head once more.

“Ah. I apologize for the twenty questions. This conversation is a bit one-sided.”

“Perhaps I can aid?” A voice piped up from the cell’s corner. The figure there looked like a floating suit of armor pieces possessed by blue light. “I was overhearing your talk, well at least the one side of it.” An arcane light lit up in their metal palm as the figure hovered it before Remington. “I believe I can at least deactivate that muzzle’s magic.”

Rem squinted at the strange humanoid figure then peered at his hand. She shrugged then turned her muzzle toward him.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” he offered as he gripped the metal muzzle’s bottom. With a quick surge of arcane current, a crack spidered down the mask, separating the metal in two. Both pieces clanged to the cold stone floor. “Easy!”

Rem rubbed her jaw. It’s like she hadn’t used it in years. She opened her mouth, testing the joint. It made a sharp click. She’d get it fixed after she was back with the Fence. “Thank ya kindly.” She tipped her chin toward the strange figure. “What’re ya in fer?”

“Me?” The figure pressed a palm against his breastplate. “Let us say I am quite the thorn in the House of Constructs’ side.” He laughed. “My name is Kavar. I’m a Broker. And, yes, I would do it all over again.”

“Remington,” the one-eyed forsaken introduced. “If we’re doing icebreakers, s’pose I’m just a caravan master. Lead a lot of folks in the livin’ world. No idea if they’re okay right now.”

“I’m sure they’re doing fine!” Kavar chuckled. Though his tone did soften with sincerity. “Meditating on negative possibilities does no good.”

Both the broker and the forsaken looked to the elven figure who stared back at them with crimson eyes. “Celaryn,” she averted her gaze. “Just Celaryn, a wandering sword.” Her eyes fell to the floor.

Rem knew that look in other forsaken. Her voice softened as she scooched as much as her manacles would let her toward Celaryn. “Ya’ve been through a lot, haven’t ya?”

A knot choked Celaryn’s throat, partially blocking a shaking breath. Her jaw clenched, and she couldn’t bring herself to meet Rem’s eye. “I’ve… Lost family,” her voice threatened to break as she gripped the iron sword insignia looped around her neck.

A long silence passed. No words needed to be spoken to fill the air. Rem reached out, placing a cold hand on Celaryn’s shoulder. “Tell me about em?”

Celaryn shut her eyes. Her jaw trembled as she fumbled for the first words. “They were rowdy, reckless, and loud, but they cared and would have your back no matter who you were if you were one of their own.”

Rem squeezed Celaryn’s shoulder. “Ya cared fer them a lot too.”

A smooth gemstone slid into Celaryn’s palm. She looked down to the lapis lazuli shard in her hand. Its azure surface glimmered in the cell’s fading torchlight.

“This is the Good Stone.” Rem smiled. “Years ago, someone gave me this when I was in a dark place. Said it’d help good come to me, help me get through the hard days.”

 Celaryn peered at the stone, turning it over in her pale fingers.

“Gave it to me with one caveat,” Rem added as she held up a claw. “If someone needs it more, give it to them.”

Celaryn clenched the stone and cradled it to her heart. “Thank you, Miss Thornbolt.”

“Call me Rem.” The caravan master scratched at her nape with a short chuckle. “No need ta be so formal, Celaryn.” Rem’s pulled her hand from Celaryn’s shoulder and let it rest in her lap. “Ya know, when we get outta here, if ya need a group ta roll with. Ya can come with us.”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it. Though those thoughts must fall to the side if we must focus on escaping first.”

Kavar raised a hand. “Not to intrude on a tender moment, but I’ve already a semblance of a plan in mind.”

“Which is?” Rem shifted her gaze to the broker.

“Have you heard of the Veins which lie below Maldraxxus?” Kavar pointed down at the floor. Both undead raised eyebrows at the question. “Tunnel complexes below the land,” Kavar clarified. “But first: We must gather allies and supplies. You are a caravan master, so your caravan must be outside, yes? I know of a way to smuggle messages. All we need is a coffin, corpse, and phylactery.”

[slaughterjaw]

Crash Landing

S-O-S

“Calling all Fence! Where the hell are y’all?!” Nothing but static played over the communicator as Remington fanned the hammer on an incoming squad of six Chosen soldiers coming over the hill. Six shots made six corpses. The earth rumble under her spurs as a gargantuan abomination bigger than a barn charged toward her.

The brute’s massive frame would have trampled her if she didn’t shed her physical form. Fading into a cloud of shadows, she shifted through the abomination and jammed her shortsword into its spine. The construct roared louder than a hundred angry bears. Like a pair of icepicks, she stabbed her way up the abomination’s back and climbed onto its stitched nape. The cold metal barrels of her sawed-off pressed against the back of goliath’s thick skull. Rotting brain matter mixed with gunsmoke as she squeezed the trigger.

“Up there on the corpse!” Rem barely had time to react before the whistle of arrows cut through the putrid air and homed in on her. She scrambled off the abomination. A surge of pain shot up her arm. Her eye fell to the source, a serrated arrow punched through the bicep, shattering the humerus. No time to reload the sawed-off with a dozen pairs of sabatons beating against the ground and converging on Rem’s position.

She squeezed the familiar grip of her single-action pistol and swung the cylinder out. It was time to tap into her reserves. Rem jammed her eyes shut and whispered. “Ash. Annihilate. Burn.” As she spoke those haunting words, a malevolent presence answered the call. It spoke alongside her voice like a discordant demon mimicking her.

A̷s̵h̵.̵ ̷A̶n̷n̸i̵h̶i̵l̴a̵t̸e̸.̴ ̵B̴u̸r̴n̶.̶

Each syllable grated the ears like raking claws, the very sound like an anti-thesis to reality itself, an abomination to all that was sound. She let the presence take the wheel. Her eyes flared with shadowflame. The roaring blaze flowed down the neck and surged to all her limbs to engulf her entire body. The pain was nigh-unbearable, but she forced herself through as she trained both eyes on her pistol’s cylinder. She forced down the urge to scream, choking her voice down in the pit of her throat and locking it there.

She would’ve given in if the will to stay alive wasn’t greater. With a restrained growl, she directed the chaotic flame and forced it into her pistol. It was like corraling an angry swarm of wasps jabbing your hand. Each chamber of the pistol flared like a grim furnace. Ghostly smoke wafted out from each as Rem peeked out from behind the abomination’s corpse and squeezed the trigger.

The pistol’s recoil kicked harder than a quad-barreled shotgun. Shadowflame roared out of the barrel and engulfed the dozen enemy soldiers in a gigantic fireball. The only thing remaining was the ash in the wind.

All strength in her limbs withered as she crumpled to the ground. Her palms hissed with still-smoking burns. Despite fighting to keep her eyelids open, they grew heavier by the second.

“She’s a caster!” the yell echoed in her ringing eardrums as darkness overtook her vision. Exhaustion. Pain. Hunger. All these lost sensations returned at the worst possible time. What was this place?

She awoke to tightened manacles around her wrists and ankles. Shifting even slightly raked the cold metal against the skin. Rem groaned. Her dry mouth and parched throat felt on fire as her vision acclimated to her surroundings, a cramped cell packed with maldraxxi undead. Some were already corpses. Some were pretty close, missing limbs entirely or haphazardly thrown into the room still bleeding.

–

Captured

A pair of red eyes peered across the room and met her purple gaze. “You’re the newest, huh?”

Rem opened her mouth to find her speech blocked by a metal mask strapped over the lower half of her face. She made out a silhouette in the darkness across from her chains. Two pointed ears poked out of disheveled snow-colored hair. The figure across from her sat criss-crossed, her metal jaw perched onto her pale fist. All Rem could offer in response was a muffled groan to the other prisoner.

“Shit. Forgot about the Spellguard. You’ve been muzzled,” she said as those red eyes inspected the metal mask. “They only do that for dangerous magical inmates. Must’ve given them a real fight.”

Rem stared back at the elvish figure.

“Blink once for yes. Twice for no.”

Her purple eyes flickered once.

“Good,” the figure growled.  “Every casualty of theirs means an easier time breaking out of here.”

Rem pulled against her wrist’s manacles. The metal dug into her flesh, jabbing against the bone. She winced and flicked her eyes up to each one in sequence. The runes carved into the restraints hummed.

“No use. Chains don’t come off unless they bring in one of the liches to break the spell.”

Rem tipped her chin toward the figure across from her. The gesture’s meaning managed to get across: ‘Who’re you?’

“Celaryn,” the figure offered. “Just Celaryn.” Celaryn panned her crimson gaze across the room filled with maldraxxi in varying states of decay. “Been a while since an Azerothian was down here with us.”

( @slaughterjaw​ )

[slaughterjaw]

Prompt: Abandoned Theatre

An abandoned theatre, wood of the stage splintered and broken, the curtains slashed and burned.

An abandoned auditorium wasn’t her first choice, but drenched in the rain and wounded in two places, Celaryn had no choice. She flung the door open and stumbled into the open chamber. The wounded warrior scanned her surroundings.

An ornate piano sat alone on the stage ahead, its only audience were rows of ruined seats. The once bright and proud banners torn apart, by vandals or by age, who can say? Celaryn dragged her feet as she forced herself to move, dropping her weight into one of the seats with a grunt.

She loosened her gauntlet’s straps, revealing her bandaged, porcelain-like hand. The middle and index fingers dangled, half of the sutures undone. Incidents like these were a pain, but they weren’t uncommon. The undead slid a small tin box from one of her waist’s pouches. Peeling the cap open, there laid a spool of red twine, a smattering of disorganized needles, a needle holder, and a pair of short-bladed scissors.

Unwinding a length of twine, a shaky grip was the bane of threading a needle, even more with clunky gauntlets and lack of feeling. Still, Celaryn persisted. After a few minutes of mumbled curses, she’d finally looped the twine through the needle. The stitching process, the Forsaken veteran performed dozens of times. Most of those were on herself, and the remaining few, on the deathguard under her.

Always suture toward yourself. That way, you can see what you’re doing and can control your force.

Thank the Shadow attending the Royal Apothecary Society’s combat medicine lectures were a part of officer training.

Piercing the skin, Celaryn pulled the twine through. She wedged the needle into the gap in her partially-damaged finger and pierced the top part. She continued this process until she could bend the fingertips without them dangling. The resulting zig-zag suture pattern held a morbid elegance as she inspected her work.

With her self-care complete, Celaryn only now noticed the eerie silence of the chamber. No wind. No creaking floorboards. No scurrying rodents. There was only the pattering of rain outside and the lone piano on the stage ahead.

Reflecting on one’s past was a controversial topic among the Forsaken. Yet as Celaryn stared at the piano, she couldn’t help but find herself stepping up to it.

This was useless. She’d been out of practice for decades. Still, that didn’t stop her something within guiding her up the stage’s steps and placing her in the seat. The weary warrior rested her repaired fingers on the dusty keys.

“Play us a song, Cel!”

Celaryn jammed her eyes shut, her gauntlet’s leather palm rising to rub her forehead. An echo of a memory. Thoughts like those were distractions. They’d get you killed. But she fought for no one now. She could entertain those thoughts. The realization was a mixture of melancholy longing and relief.

The undead took a slow inhale through the nose and let her mind wander.

“You’re always the best at it.”

A quel'dorei girl sat at the piano’s seat, legs too short to reach the ground. She shyly scratched at the back of her nape.

Beside her, several friends sat around the pristine piano.

“Just one. Please?”

She could feel the tingling in her stomach as her shaking fingers rose to rest on the keys. Performing before a crowd was a large leap from playing for one’s self.  She’d never have this chance again. She needed to do this right the first time.  

“I-I’ll try.” The blacksmith’s daughter lifted her soot-covered fingertips to hover over the spotless keys. She held her breath as her pinky and index finger pressed down. Two gentle hammers within descended and tapped two strings. The piano made a soft hum.

Her hand shifted right, playing another pair of delicate note followed by a soft flourish of a third. The rhythm was simple, but joy lifted her up as the graceful sound brightened the faces around her. Muscle memory took over, and she closed her eyes.

Imagined instruments joined her modest song. The rumbling cello was the first, then the second, the empowering organ. Each instrument crescendoed as her rhythm quickened. At the apex, the supporting instruments silenced. The girl’s solo returned to that two-note tune.

Her crimson eyes opened. The faintest hint of smile lifted her scarred lip. Her index and pinky pressed on those two keys.

[slaughterjaw]

Prompt: Abandoned Theatre

An abandoned theatre, wood of the stage splintered and broken, the curtains slashed and burned.

An abandoned auditorium wasn't her first choice, but drenched in the rain and wounded in two places, Celaryn had no choice. She flung the door open and stumbled into the open chamber. The wounded warrior scanned her surroundings.

An ornate piano sat alone on the stage ahead, its only audience were rows of ruined seats. The once bright and proud banners torn apart, by vandals or by age, who can say? Celaryn dragged her feet as she forced herself to move, dropping her weight into one of the seats with a grunt.

She loosened her gauntlet's straps, revealing her bandaged, porcelain-like hand. The middle and index fingers dangled, half of the sutures undone. Incidents like these were a pain, but they weren't uncommon. The undead slid a small tin box from one of her waist's pouches. Peeling the cap open, there laid a spool of red twine, a smattering of disorganized needles, a needle holder, and a pair of short-bladed scissors.

Unwinding a length of twine, a shaky grip was the bane of threading a needle, even more with clunky gauntlets and lack of feeling. Still, Celaryn persisted. After a few minutes of mumbled curses, she'd finally looped the twine through the needle. The stitching process, the Forsaken veteran performed dozens of times. Most of those were on herself, and the remaining few, on the deathguard under her.

Always suture toward yourself. That way, you can see what you're doing and can control your force.

Thank the Shadow attending the Royal Apothecary Society's combat medicine lectures were a part of officer training.

Piercing the skin, Celaryn pulled the twine through. She wedged the needle into the gap in her partially-damaged finger and pierced the top part. She continued this process until she could bend the fingertips without them dangling. The resulting zig-zag suture pattern held a morbid elegance as she inspected her work.

With her self-care complete, Celaryn only now noticed the eerie silence of the chamber. No wind. No creaking floorboards. No scurrying rodents. There was only the pattering of rain outside and the lone piano on the stage ahead.

Reflecting on one's past was a controversial topic among the Forsaken. Yet as Celaryn stared at the piano, she couldn't help but find herself stepping up to it.

This was useless. She'd been out of practice for decades. Still, that didn't stop her something within guiding her up the stage's steps and placing her in the seat. The weary warrior rested her repaired fingers on the dusty keys.

"Play us a song, Cel!"

Celaryn jammed her eyes shut, her gauntlet's leather palm rising to rub her forehead. An echo of a memory. Thoughts like those were distractions. They'd get you killed. But she fought for no one now. She could entertain those thoughts. The realization was a mixture of melancholy longing and relief.

The undead took a slow inhale through the nose and let her mind wander.

"You're always the best at it."

A quel'dorei girl sat at the piano's seat, legs too short to reach the ground. She shyly scratched at the back of her nape.

Beside her, several friends sat around the pristine piano.

"Just one. Please?"

She could feel the tingling in her stomach as her shaking fingers rose to rest on the keys. Performing before a crowd was a large leap from playing for one's self.  She'd never have this chance again. She needed to do this right the first time.  

"I-I'll try." The blacksmith's daughter lifted her soot-covered fingertips to hover over the spotless keys. She held her breath as her pinky and index finger pressed down. Two gentle hammers within descended and tapped two strings. The piano made a soft hum.

Her hand shifted right, playing another pair of delicate note followed by a soft flourish of a third. The rhythm was simple, but joy lifted her up as the graceful sound brightened the faces around her. Muscle memory took over, and she closed her eyes.

Imagined instruments joined her modest song. The rumbling cello was the first, then the second, the empowering organ. Each instrument crescendoed as her rhythm quickened. At the apex, the supporting instruments silenced. The girl's solo returned to that two-note tune.

Her crimson eyes opened. The faintest hint of smile lifted her scarred lip. Her index and pinky pressed on those two keys.

[slaughterjaw]

"You're overthinking it." Celaryn turned over her shoulder to Zatna. "Just tell the Executor what you know, as you understand it, and we will take it from there. I assure you: Talking to him won’t be nearly as stressful as taking a test. Fortunately, he's one of the rare commanding officers that doesn't have a stick up his ass.“

A dry chuckle escapes the undead's cold throat. As the two approach the town. The two deathguard posted at the entrance squint at Celaryn and Zatna as they approach. As the former gets closer, both soldiers straighten their posture and cross their arms in an 'X' shape across their chest in a salute. "Captain," both of them acknowledge.

"At ease,” Celaryn waves dismissively. “No need for the formalities. We have information High Executor Wroth will be interested in hearing.”

One of the deathguard motions over to one of the buildings within the town. “He’s in there. Caught him at a good time. Last I saw, he’s only doing paperwork. No interrogations today.”

Celaryn chuckles. “Rare for him.” With that, she enters the town. As she pauses before the entrance to the Venomspite command center, she turns back to Zatna. "Is there anything else you require before we head inside?"

@once-upon-a-memoir

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

[slaughterjaw]

Raw anger and vengeance. The corners of Celaryn's frost-bitten lip curled into a smile, pleasantly surprised. The Forsaken wanted the Lich King's head on a pike. It was a unanimous sentiment, one that genuinely did unite them all. Seething anger hot enough to drive one to these frozen wastes and murder all Scourge? It was a refreshing sentiment, one Celaryn shared in spades.

"You'll have to get in line," she responded with an amused chuckle, voice cutting through the icy breeze. "Though I can say the Executor shares your murderous sentiment. You can find assurance in that. Ironic that a villain united the efforts of both Alliance and Horde rather than any peace treaty."

She tirelessly marched on toward Venomspite, sabatons crunching through the snow. It wasn't far now. The tattered banner depicting the Forsaken Icon of Torment fluttered in the frigid winds atop a watchtower. Its height loomed higher and higher over the two with each step.

"Have you practiced your pitch? Deadly nerubians are scattering explosives underground. You stole the assembly plans and have the chemical recipe, which the Apothecaries will likely study and find a counter or sabotage to make it inert. And from there, we take the fight to the bugs. Was there anything else?"

@once-upon-a-memoir

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

[slaughterjaw]

Celaryn winced as that orange glow shined into the darkened piano room. That fire was brighter than it had any business being. She was surprised that she could even feel the sting in her eyes. So much for subtlety. Though even the cynical ex-soldier herself couldn't help but try to force down a smile at Kina's antics.

Well, if this family knew she was here. There was no use brooding in a corner. For all the challenges Celaryn welcomed, the challenge of social grace was one she dreaded and often failed at. But, well, here goes nothing.

She took unsure strides toward the room, armor clanking with each step. The tall, black-armored warrior loomed in the doorway. The flames illuminated every battered and scarred section of her decade-old armor, only kept whole by constant maintenance. If there was a test for being used to the undead, then this was it. The forsaken stared, crimson eyes unblinking as she swept her gaze across the room, only breaking it at Kina's question. A child was speaking Draconic? Strange, though not unheard of.

Celaryn gathered her words, piecing out a rough Draconic.

"A wanderer," she answered. Her pronunciation was a bit off; she wasn't fluent, but she could at least hold a conversation. "My name is Celaryn. Just Celaryn. I sought shelter against the storm, unaware a family already staked their claim. Mo'hir found me playing in the piano room. And now, after a tense introduction, I am here--for the 'atmosphere of companionship.'"

She looped her sword in her belt and swapped back to Orcish. "Of course, I can always speak in this tongue if you would prefer. And who are you, child?"

@hugs-not-anonymous

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

Ever since N'Zoth broke lose, Jasculs has spent his days fighting the Old God’s forces wherever he’s needed; the Vale, Uldum, the Emerald Dream, any other dragon flight, and any other place Void forces show up, so does Jasculs.

And before that, when Sylvanas - what was it Nali said she did? Vanished into smoke? - Jasculs and his family had taken the opportunity to get his bounty revised. Progress is and has been slow, Orian still quite badly wanting Jasculs’ head - and so, fighting alongside the Horde and the Alliance to take down N'Zoth is a huge risk; a risk Jasculs deems necessary to restore his emotional and mental stability and, if he’s lucky, to have the reward of his head drawn back.

However, it also means more bounty hunters have found way to him or his family. The current ones - a group of four slithering along in big, alligator-like lizards as mounts - have found their way to Stormheim and uncomfortably close to the village his home is in.

The Stormdrakes will cover for him and Mo'hir, he knows that, but they still need to get out of the danger zone. Still, they can’t leave their house unattended and unprotected - and, besides, Jasculs’ mom isn’t strong enough to make the trip to the safe-house. Thus, much to Kina’s disapproval, Sol'alore, Egg, and Werythra stay behind. It doesn’t sit well in Jasculs’ stomach.

Arriving at the safe house - a big, abandoned Vrykul house of rotting, wet logs up in the mountains, nestled in the crevasse of the mountain-side - all three of them are feeling glum. Kina is silent, clinging to Jasculs’ neck, and Mo'hir keeps a guarded eye out. All three of them are soaked and rattled by the thunderstorm, Kina muttering she wish they would’ve flown again and again while trying to find cover under her father’s hair and coat. It’s highly ineffective.

The sound of the piano reaches them when they’re about to open the door. Jasculs and Mo'hir lock eyes, silently asserting the situation. Jasculs lays a hand on Kina’s head, massaging her scalp, as Mo'hir opens the door and they sneak inside.

Jasculs, carrying Kina, go to the right, and Mo'hir goes to the left. The planks creak under their feet, but only Mo'hir isn’t alarmed.

The stranger calls from the piano room. Assertive, confident, attentive, maybe a bit embarrassed and taken aback, Mo'hir deduces. She steps out into the light of the piano room, her eyes immediately finding the silhouette of metal, red eyes glowing under the helm. The description feels familiar.

“I’m Mo'hir, and this is my family’s safe house. Who are you, what are you doung here, and are you a threat?” Mo'hir says with a steady and clear voice, her glare cold steel.

[slaughterjaw]

Celaryn's fingers wrung around her weapon's hilt as that green glow lit up the darkened room, expecting a spell flinging in her direction. Though, at the flower, she couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, both out of surprise and skepticism. A flower offered to a red-eyed forsaken staring through the dark. How quaint.

She extended a cold hand out, accepting the flower in her gauntlet's scarred leather palm. Celaryn rotated the stem in her grasp. It felt like it could snap in her fingers. Regardless, the ex-soldier couldn't help but stare at the petals. It had veins just like a beating heart.

A symbol of peace for one who had dedicated both of her lives to warfare and death, one who left so much destruction in her wake. She felt undeserving. Crimson eyes drifted downward at the mention of the war, a sharp twinge of guilt jabbing through her breastplate at the mention of the two children.

She eased the sword off of her shoulder, sliding it into its scabbard with a grinding rasp. There was no need to fight--Celaryn didn't want to fight. It was a feeling the ex-soldier still needed to grow used to.

Celaryn looked to the warm orange glow shining beneath the mentioned door. Dinner? The forsaken shook her head. "I do not eat. You should instead give whatever portion you intend to share to your own, those who need the sustenance. Though you may not fear me, your children may. I do not wish to frighten them." She knew how villainous she appeared in her scarred, blackened armor, much less her unmistakable undeath and deathly pallor.

"I intend to depart after the storm ceases. Though, until then, I suppose I can offer my protection for you all in exchange. I have no coin; all I have is my old companion." She thumped the tip of her scabbard into the creaky floorboards, resting her hand on her weapon's crossguard. "You mentioned this is a safehouse. Why are you taking shelter here then rather than in your normal home?"

@hugs-not-anonymous​

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

Ever since N'Zoth broke lose, Jasculs has spent his days fighting the Old God's forces wherever he's needed; the Vale, Uldum, the Emerald Dream, any other dragon flight, and any other place Void forces show up, so does Jasculs.

And before that, when Sylvanas - what was it Nali said she did? Vanished into smoke? - Jasculs and his family had taken the opportunity to get his bounty revised. Progress is and has been slow, Orian still quite badly wanting Jasculs' head - and so, fighting alongside the Horde and the Alliance to take down N'Zoth is a huge risk; a risk Jasculs deems necessary to restore his emotional and mental stability and, if he's lucky, to have the reward of his head drawn back.

However, it also means more bounty hunters have found way to him or his family. The current ones - a group of four slithering along in big, alligator-like lizards as mounts - have found their way to Stormheim and uncomfortably close to the village his home is in.

The Stormdrakes will cover for him and Mo'hir, he knows that, but they still need to get out of the danger zone. Still, they can't leave their house unattended and unprotected - and, besides, Jasculs' mom isn't strong enough to make the trip to the safe-house. Thus, much to Kina's disapproval, Sol'alore, Egg, and Werythra stay behind. It doesn't sit well in Jasculs' stomach.

Arriving at the safe house - a big, abandoned Vrykul house of rotting, wet logs up in the mountains, nestled in the crevasse of the mountain-side - all three of them are feeling glum. Kina is silent, clinging to Jasculs' neck, and Mo'hir keeps a guarded eye out. All three of them are soaked and rattled by the thunderstorm, Kina muttering she wish they would've flown again and again while trying to find cover under her father's hair and coat. It's highly ineffective.

The sound of the piano reaches them when they're about to open the door. Jasculs and Mo'hir lock eyes, silently asserting the situation. Jasculs lays a hand on Kina's head, massaging her scalp, as Mo'hir opens the door and they sneak inside.

Jasculs, carrying Kina, go to the right, and Mo'hir goes to the left. The planks creak under their feet, but only Mo'hir isn't alarmed.

The stranger calls from the piano room. Assertive, confident, attentive, maybe a bit embarrassed and taken aback, Mo'hir deduces. She steps out into the light of the piano room, her eyes immediately finding the silhouette of metal, red eyes glowing under the helm. The description feels familiar.

"I'm Mo'hir, and this is my family's safe house. Who are you, what are you doung here, and are you a threat?" Mo'hir says with a steady and clear voice, her glare cold steel.

[slaughterjaw]

"It isn't far," Celaryn assured as her sabatons crunched through the snow, starting the journey to Venomspite. The forsaken kept a steady, grim pace despite the unrelenting cold.

She intermittently turned over her shoulder, ensuring Zatna was keeping a steady pace. Losing one's direction in Dragonblight, and the very real possibility of frostbite would set in for the living, Celaryn knew. Though, at the question, an amused grin spread across her face. Names and pronouns? Those were a luxury she'd nearly forgotten after years in the Deathguard. "Celaryn," she answered. "Or Captain Slaughterjaw works too. The latter may be a bit too formal. Though, whichever you choose, it makes little difference."

"She/her, just as you. And what of you, Zatna? What is your stake in this? I doubt you are wishing to eradicate nerubians and inform the Executor of what you know out of the goodness of your heart."

@once-upon-a-memoir

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

[slaughterjaw]

That steely glare glanced off of Celaryn's armor as she rose to her full, towering height. She matched that gaze with her own, two red, unblinking eyes peering through the dark, left hand wrapped around her sword's hilt, the other resting on the dusty piano keys. So much for nostalgia.

Am I a threat?

"Do you intend me harm?" she countered, a question for a question. "If so, then, yes, I am a threat." Her tone was unusually eloquent, even for someone with a metal jaw. "If you do not, then no. I am a traveler, a drifter wandering from place to place."

An unmistakable artificial hand half-rose, gesturing lazily and unsure before falling limp at her side. "I walk a vain journey. Enlightenment may be at the end of it, though I have my doubts."

She hauled up her heavy sword with ease as she took a seat with her back facing the piano, setting the blade on the crook between her pauldron and neck. It was a relaxed position, yet one that allowed her to go on the attack or defense at a moment's notice if needed.

If this was a family's safehouse, that implies that family may be nearby. That either meant that Celaryn was in for an outnumbered fight, or, at best, she'd likely be forced back into the rain. One cannot hide the crimson eyes nor the pale, deathly skin, and most living were not kind to the dead.

"I'm here for shelter against the elements." The statement wasn't a lie. "A roof over my head here, no matter how old nor abandoned, is better than rotting out there." She tipped her metal chin to the rainstorm visible through the nearby window’s foggy glass.

"Celaryn," she introduced. "Now you know my purpose, and now you know what I am." Her crimson eyes looked back from the window to Mo'hir. "Now what shall you do with it?"

@hugs-not-anonymous​

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

Ever since N'Zoth broke lose, Jasculs has spent his days fighting the Old God's forces wherever he's needed; the Vale, Uldum, the Emerald Dream, any other dragon flight, and any other place Void forces show up, so does Jasculs.

And before that, when Sylvanas - what was it Nali said she did? Vanished into smoke? - Jasculs and his family had taken the opportunity to get his bounty revised. Progress is and has been slow, Orian still quite badly wanting Jasculs' head - and so, fighting alongside the Horde and the Alliance to take down N'Zoth is a huge risk; a risk Jasculs deems necessary to restore his emotional and mental stability and, if he's lucky, to have the reward of his head drawn back.

However, it also means more bounty hunters have found way to him or his family. The current ones - a group of four slithering along in big, alligator-like lizards as mounts - have found their way to Stormheim and uncomfortably close to the village his home is in.

The Stormdrakes will cover for him and Mo'hir, he knows that, but they still need to get out of the danger zone. Still, they can't leave their house unattended and unprotected - and, besides, Jasculs' mom isn't strong enough to make the trip to the safe-house. Thus, much to Kina's disapproval, Sol'alore, Egg, and Werythra stay behind. It doesn't sit well in Jasculs' stomach.

Arriving at the safe house - a big, abandoned Vrykul house of rotting, wet logs up in the mountains, nestled in the crevasse of the mountain-side - all three of them are feeling glum. Kina is silent, clinging to Jasculs' neck, and Mo'hir keeps a guarded eye out. All three of them are soaked and rattled by the thunderstorm, Kina muttering she wish they would've flown again and again while trying to find cover under her father's hair and coat. It's highly ineffective.

The sound of the piano reaches them when they're about to open the door. Jasculs and Mo'hir lock eyes, silently asserting the situation. Jasculs lays a hand on Kina's head, massaging her scalp, as Mo'hir opens the door and they sneak inside.

Jasculs, carrying Kina, go to the right, and Mo'hir goes to the left. The planks creak under their feet, but only Mo'hir isn't alarmed.

The stranger calls from the piano room. Assertive, confident, attentive, maybe a bit embarrassed and taken aback, Mo'hir deduces. She steps out into the light of the piano room, her eyes immediately finding the silhouette of metal, red eyes glowing under the helm. The description feels familiar.

"I'm Mo'hir, and this is my family's safe house. Who are you, what are you doung here, and are you a threat?" Mo'hir says with a steady and clear voice, her glare cold steel.

[slaughterjaw]

Seven explosives, and those were the ones away from Venomspite. She knew the Nerubians weren't stupid. Heavy plate thumping around on the surface meant that the bugs knew exactly where to detonate them. Celaryn tilted her head. Sport could wait. Losing Venomspite meant the Hand of Vengeance losing their grip on Dragonblight. The town was too crucial to risk.

"Then I believe we have our work cut out for us," Celaryn mused, looking over the blown-open hole. Her heavy greatsword grinded into its scabbard, and the captain  hefted up the weapon's straps and slung it across her back. "Venomspite must be evacuated. The High Executor must know. He will likely send us back down, with other squads to fight their way to the other explosive sites."

She pointed a clawed, plated finger in the direction to the Forsaken town. "We cannot tarry."

@once-upon-a-memoir

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

[slaughterjaw]

'A secret library' didn't do this place justice. The hearth to the room's side burned with an azure arcane flame, illuminating the room in an otherworldly glow. Enchanted brooms swept their way across the bookshelf aisles, faithfully performing their duty long after whichever mage abandoned this oasis of knowledge for reasons unknown. Despite no one being here for decades, the books themselves were pristine, dust swept off of them and sorted in their proper place.

Books on most topics could likely be found here, albeit dated considering the age of this place. The library was organized into alphabetical sections based on authors, and a giant ledger containing the various topics from Botany to Draenic Crystal Technology sat undisturbed at the empty librarian's desk.

Even Celaryn took a moment to appreciate the work its former owner put into this place. She stepped forward, crimson eyes panning across the gilded encyclopedias and ornate storybooks.

"I believe we have found the jackpot, as others would call it," Celaryn said as she motioned into the giant room. "Take your pick then. Did you want to look up anything?"

The Pebblebrook Horror

[A continuation of this ask!]

“You are much too merry given the potentially lethal environment we are currently in.” Sweeping her torch around the various rooms, Celaryn continued to pan her crimson vision across each one’s interior, through one ear remained perked to listen along Talia’s ‘tour’ detailing the arachnid-infested dining room.

The mere mention of spiders made her squirm in her armor; the mercenary couldn’t help but incessantly scratch at her gauntlet and breastplate before tilting her head slightly and checking an old wound had indeed been covered over with clay. “Avoid the spiders and… the ballroom?” Her voice tone raised at the question. “Ah. I never was good at dancing. Always stumbled over my feet. Though I’d challenge anyone to try to put a mask on my face.” A rare chuckle escaped the forsaken before rapping her helmet with the side of the improvised torch with confidence, sparking flecks of orange against her blackened plate.

The towering mercenary closely followed behind the seemingly cheerful sin'dorei, crimson eyes glancing at every room they passed. Finally, they approached what appeared to be a study. 

“Perhaps if I were the house’s architect, I would place my secret room somewhere in the confines of these walls.” Celaryn swept her torch wide across the sprawling area. 

Moonlight met Celaryn’s torch, shining into the L-shaped room. Old bookshelves stand at the perimeter of the area, each one with a fine layer of dust over both it and the tomes they held. A creaky old chandelier loomed overhead. The wax sticks were frozen, unlit for decades. At the other end of the room, a blackened hearth with ashed firewood, a poker stabbed into one of the boards. And finally, adjacent to the ashed-over fireplace, there sat a long-forgotten velvet recliner with holes in its cushions.

“It appears the rats made their nest here,” Celaryn remarked as she picked one of the books out of the neglected shelves: Fish of the Forest: A Complete Guide to Drustvar sea and coast life. The mercenary thumbed through the pages, humming softly at the sketched models of the sea creatures on each page. “Now, if one were to hide a secret room in a library, logic dictates that there should be some mechanism that reveals it. Let’s have a look around?” Celaryn proposed as she clapped the encyclopedia shut.

@talia-nightluck​

[slaughterjaw]

A rare hint of a smile tinged the weary, ex-soldier's face. This was a job well done: No need to draw her weapon, no bloodshed, and a simple, straightforward process. She noticed herself smiling after a few moments, forcing it into a neutral expression.

"Right. Did you need anything el--" Celaryn paused as she stared the gnome down. What was it doing here? "Because appears someone knows you, calling you by your very name," Celaryn said as she motioned with a spiked gauntlet to the smaller cage.

The towering suit of armor stared down the rest of the office, not out of intimidation but rather curiosity.  Why was customs keeping it here rather than handing it off to a bonafide prison? Crimson eyes looked the gnome up and down: Extravagant and flashy dress. Afraid. Desperate.

"Do you know this one?" she asked, red eyes returning to Talia. If so, this job would become more complicated. An animal was one thing, but Alliance in Silvermoon was another.

@talia-nightluck (apologies for the delay! I should be more consistent with reply times now, however)

[Previously…]

Despite his attempted bravery, the hardened warrior saw through the clerk’s façade. Release permit? Too much work. Too much bureaucracy. “I’m sure you can make an exception.”

With a chilling voice, the looming elf spoke, “Did you know the heart pumps enough pressure to squirt blood thirty feet?” Celaryn stared him down with each cold word. She pulled up a chair, taking a seat across from him. A black gauntlet rested on desk, the claw-like fingers drumming. “Or the fact that the heart can beat outside of the body for a several minutes?”

“I can talk about these interesting facts about the body all day. I can even show you if you wish.” She grinned. “My client is very sad without her companion. I’m sure no one will fault you for releasing a harmless riverbeast into its loving owner’s arms once more.”

@talia-nightluck​

[slaughterjaw]

Theatrical--it’s somehow endearing. Celaryn fought to hide her smirk.

“It shall be my honor to meet whatever potential horror lurks on the other end.” But first, a test. Celaryn lifted her greatsword up, stabbing its blade through the portal. After a few moments, she pulled it back.

No scratches. No burns. The entire blade remains whole. She lifted the weapon onto her shoulder. A direct approach was best. Celaryn walked through the portal. Ten seconds passed before she peeked back through and beckoned Talia over.

“It’s safe. I suppose through this is the secret library mentioned. Shall we?”

@talia-nightluck

The Pebblebrook Horror

[A continuation of this ask!]

“You are much too merry given the potentially lethal environment we are currently in.” Sweeping her torch around the various rooms, Celaryn continued to pan her crimson vision across each one’s interior, through one ear remained perked to listen along Talia’s ‘tour’ detailing the arachnid-infested dining room.

The mere mention of spiders made her squirm in her armor; the mercenary couldn’t help but incessantly scratch at her gauntlet and breastplate before tilting her head slightly and checking an old wound had indeed been covered over with clay. “Avoid the spiders and… the ballroom?” Her voice tone raised at the question. “Ah. I never was good at dancing. Always stumbled over my feet. Though I’d challenge anyone to try to put a mask on my face.” A rare chuckle escaped the forsaken before rapping her helmet with the side of the improvised torch with confidence, sparking flecks of orange against her blackened plate.

The towering mercenary closely followed behind the seemingly cheerful sin'dorei, crimson eyes glancing at every room they passed. Finally, they approached what appeared to be a study. 

“Perhaps if I were the house’s architect, I would place my secret room somewhere in the confines of these walls.” Celaryn swept her torch wide across the sprawling area. 

Moonlight met Celaryn’s torch, shining into the L-shaped room. Old bookshelves stand at the perimeter of the area, each one with a fine layer of dust over both it and the tomes they held. A creaky old chandelier loomed overhead. The wax sticks were frozen, unlit for decades. At the other end of the room, a blackened hearth with ashed firewood, a poker stabbed into one of the boards. And finally, adjacent to the ashed-over fireplace, there sat a long-forgotten velvet recliner with holes in its cushions.

“It appears the rats made their nest here,” Celaryn remarked as she picked one of the books out of the neglected shelves: Fish of the Forest: A Complete Guide to Drustvar sea and coast life. The mercenary thumbed through the pages, humming softly at the sketched models of the sea creatures on each page. “Now, if one were to hide a secret room in a library, logic dictates that there should be some mechanism that reveals it. Let’s have a look around?” Celaryn proposed as she clapped the encyclopedia shut.

@talia-nightluck​

[slaughterjaw]

“Perfect. Thank you very much. I’m pleased we could come to an agreement.”

The undead’s lip peeled back in a grin, revealing rows of yellow teeth. She reached across the table, looping her metal claw in the key ring. She rose to her feet, towering over the entire office as she returned the chair to its original place.

Even if she didn’t admit it, the mercenary always did prefer words over force. Force is messy, especially with this many people watching.

“Come,” she waved Talia toward the mentioned room and offered the keyring forward. “Will you do the honors?”

@talia-nightluck

[Previously…]

Despite his attempted bravery, the hardened warrior saw through the clerk’s façade. Release permit? Too much work. Too much bureaucracy. “I’m sure you can make an exception.”

With a chilling voice, the looming elf spoke, “Did you know the heart pumps enough pressure to squirt blood thirty feet?” Celaryn stared him down with each cold word. She pulled up a chair, taking a seat across from him. A black gauntlet rested on desk, the claw-like fingers drumming. “Or the fact that the heart can beat outside of the body for a several minutes?”

“I can talk about these interesting facts about the body all day. I can even show you if you wish.” She grinned. “My client is very sad without her companion. I’m sure no one will fault you for releasing a harmless riverbeast into its loving owner’s arms once more.”

@talia-nightluck​

[slaughterjaw]

Celaryn whipped her head over her shoulder as the bookcase toppled over louder than a mortar shell booming.

She readied her weapon. “What the hell was--” Where the bookcase previously stood, a darkened and veiled doorway. “That?”

Crimson eyes curiously stared toward the doorway. A portal swirled in its space, thrumming and inviting the two toward it with its dazzling purple flecks on its abyssal background.

“Talia. I think your companion found it.”

@talia-nightluck

The Pebblebrook Horror

[A continuation of this ask!]

“You are much too merry given the potentially lethal environment we are currently in.” Sweeping her torch around the various rooms, Celaryn continued to pan her crimson vision across each one’s interior, through one ear remained perked to listen along Talia’s ‘tour’ detailing the arachnid-infested dining room.

The mere mention of spiders made her squirm in her armor; the mercenary couldn’t help but incessantly scratch at her gauntlet and breastplate before tilting her head slightly and checking an old wound had indeed been covered over with clay. “Avoid the spiders and… the ballroom?” Her voice tone raised at the question. “Ah. I never was good at dancing. Always stumbled over my feet. Though I’d challenge anyone to try to put a mask on my face.” A rare chuckle escaped the forsaken before rapping her helmet with the side of the improvised torch with confidence, sparking flecks of orange against her blackened plate.

The towering mercenary closely followed behind the seemingly cheerful sin'dorei, crimson eyes glancing at every room they passed. Finally, they approached what appeared to be a study. 

“Perhaps if I were the house’s architect, I would place my secret room somewhere in the confines of these walls.” Celaryn swept her torch wide across the sprawling area. 

Moonlight met Celaryn’s torch, shining into the L-shaped room. Old bookshelves stand at the perimeter of the area, each one with a fine layer of dust over both it and the tomes they held. A creaky old chandelier loomed overhead. The wax sticks were frozen, unlit for decades. At the other end of the room, a blackened hearth with ashed firewood, a poker stabbed into one of the boards. And finally, adjacent to the ashed-over fireplace, there sat a long-forgotten velvet recliner with holes in its cushions.

“It appears the rats made their nest here,” Celaryn remarked as she picked one of the books out of the neglected shelves: Fish of the Forest: A Complete Guide to Drustvar sea and coast life. The mercenary thumbed through the pages, humming softly at the sketched models of the sea creatures on each page. “Now, if one were to hide a secret room in a library, logic dictates that there should be some mechanism that reveals it. Let’s have a look around?” Celaryn proposed as she clapped the encyclopedia shut.

@talia-nightluck​

[slaughterjaw]

[Previously...]

Despite his attempted bravery, the hardened warrior saw through the clerk’s façade. Release permit? Too much work. Too much bureaucracy. “I’m sure you can make an exception.”

With a chilling voice, the looming elf spoke, “Did you know the heart pumps enough pressure to squirt blood thirty feet?” Celaryn stared him down with each cold word. She pulled up a chair, taking a seat across from him. A black gauntlet rested on desk, the claw-like fingers drumming. “Or the fact that the heart can beat outside of the body for a several minutes?”

“I can talk about these interesting facts about the body all day. I can even show you if you wish.” She grinned. “My client is very sad without her companion. I’m sure no one will fault you for releasing a harmless riverbeast into its loving owner’s arms once more.”

@talia-nightluck​