The Song of Persuaders

Venomspite, Dragonblight
27th day of the 11th month
Dusk

You offered me your help once, and now is the time. Meet me at the lake just west of Southshore, the first day of the last month, one hour after midnight. Come alone and make sure you are not seen. It’s of greatest importance that you tell no one of this letter and its content.
I believe you to be the kind of person who keeps promises. I hope I’m not wrong.

Rebekka Citreola reads the letter one last time before putting it in the envelope in her hand, sealing it carefully. On the back, she begins to write the surname of the receiver. The first letter, a ‘B’, she writes in a bold style; one straight line, flowing curves. The rest of the letters she scribbles down in a tiny handwriting, completing the name. While she waits for the ink to dry, she observes a scarlet prisoner, sitting in a cage. The irony strikes her; if things had happend differently, the person she is now asking for help could have been locked up in the very same cage. She shakes her head, as if it would chase the knowledge away.
With an impressive stride for such a small person, she crosses the distances to the inn, and puts the letter in the mailbox.


On the road west of Gjaelerbron, Howling Fjord
28th day of the 11th month
Midnight

To the south lies Apothecary Camp. There she will rest until dawn, before she continues to Vengeance Landing. But it is getting late, she should be at the camp already. With a light pressure of her legs against the horse’s body, the undead animal begins to canter.
But Deathguard Citreola is not the only one of undead kin in Rivenwood this night. Mangled, rotting corpses move between the trees, so quietly even the worgs don’t notice them. They crawl across the soft forest floor, climb up trees, settle on branches stretching over the road. There they wait, like birds of prey, for their victim.
When the first geist lands on the back of Rebekka’s horse, she’s totally unprepared. In a matter of seconds, they are all over her. In a tangle of rotting limbs, they fall of the horse. She kicks and trashes desperately in their grip. In some way – thanks to a short, jagged knife she usually keeps attached to her belt – she manages to squirm out of the heap of crawling bodies. As she draws her axes, there is nothing but killing or being killed. Nothing but the Persuaders’ song of rage and death as they cut through flesh and bone.
In the end, she finds herself laying on her back a handful of feet from the road. Her fingers still hug the handles of the Persuaders, and the bodies of the dead lies scattered around her. Even though the pain does not bother her too much, she remains motionless. A great darkness pins her down to the ground, pressing its heavy weight against her body. One single thought manages to reach through the thick haze of her mind. He will wait for me, and I, will not come.
Before the darkness also seizes her mind, her eyelashes flutter one final time, like the wings of a dying moth.


((Inspired by Kelmith’s IC thread. Let’s bring more IC to the forums!
Anyway, this is the IC explanation to why I will be gone for some time – hopefully, I can fix the computer soon enough. Anyway, I hardly believe people will notice ICly that I’m gone, except for the receiver of the letter, as Rebekka will not show up.))

Rivenwood
30th day of the 11th month
Early morning

The first thought that enters her head as her eyes open, is it’s still dark. She can’t tell if it’s getting close to morning, or midnight. As she breaths in, pain stabs her just below the lowest rib to the left. It’s strange, she thinks, to feel pain – without actually being in pain.
After a few moments, her eyes seem to adjust to the darkness. And then she listens.
The murmur of voices is so low that she barely can make it out. It comes from the left, she thinks, and so she turns her head in that direction. On the ground before her lies her trusty staghide satchel. It’s open though, and it’s content is spread over the forest floor of the glade. A little bit more than an arm’s reach away, lies a black piece of cloth. Within it is the mirror shard. She wets her lips slowly as she thinks her options over. If she screams, her voice might reach through the fabric and they can come for her. But on the other hand, she would also give away her location to almost every creature in Rivenwood. Perhaps she could crawl to the shard and simply whisper, but she doubts she is able to move at all. She weighs the two options against eachother.
What if I don’t want to be found, laying here all defenseless. Either, I should get out of this mess myself, or I’m not worthy to serve the Dark Lady and the Grand Master.
And so, she shuts her eyes, waiting for dawn – and possibly new powers that will help her get home.

Hillsbrad Foothills
December 1st

Zane stands at the river's bank, shivering slightly. It is more out of instinct than truly being bothered by the chill. He had been sure to wear a heavy coat that had a hood, which he keeps pulled up so that in the event a human sees him, it will not be immediately apparent who or what he is. Hearing a rustling near by, he looks over sharply.

"Rebekka?" he blurts, leaving out the customary 'miss'. A deer pauses, having just emerged from the trees. It looks at him cautiously for a few moments before slipping away again, seeming to decide it would rather drink somewhere uninhabited. Zanthier sighs quietly, looking back at the water dejectedly. He unfolds his arms, reaching into a pocket and pulling out his pocket watch again to check the time. He had shown up half an hour early, but when the watch had shown one o'clock, he wondered if perhaps it had been mis-calculated. Rebekka did not seem the sort of woman not to be punctual. Only when he'd heard the clock in Southshore distantly ring out was he sure that it was correct.

The watch now shows twenty minutes past two o'clock. Zanthier furrows his brows, letting out an abrupt sigh as he tucks the pocket watch away again. A slight annoyance tugs at the back of his mind, uneasy with the feeling of helplessness.

Adjusting the strap of his medic's pack so that it won't slip off of his shoulder, he begins to walk around the perimeter of the lake again, just in case.

He decides silently that he will wait another hour, and then return to the Undercity to check for her. She was not at the summit the previous day either. Zane tries to reconcile her absence.

"Please let nothing be the matter... Maybe she found someone else to help her... or perhaps she went without me.... Rebekka is a strong girl, everything will be alright."

Rivenwood
1st day of the 12th month

A halo of light, refracting on the dewdrops hanging from her eyelashes. Dark wings against a pale grey sky. She lies there for a moment, admiring the beauty of it all. The moss is soft against her back, the air humid and cool. She longs to feel the fresh and earthy fragrance of the forest, but as she takes a deep breath, she's swiftly returned to reality.
It's like there's not enough air. Even though she does not have to breathe, and it's been like that for as long as she can remember, the habit is rooted too deeply. Panic seizes her mind. It’s something totally new to her, so different from anything she’s ever felt before. And it’s terrifying.
Rebekka’s breathing becomes rapid and shallow; and every breath brings with it a new stab of pain. This time, it does bother her. She steadies herself, burying her slender fingers in the wet soil. Slowly, she regains her composure. She stops breathing – it’s uncomfortable, but preferable to the pain. And anyway, she does not want to worsen the injury.
She props herself up on her right elbow, careful not to move her left arm too much – that hurts, too. She gives the gashes on her arms a look-over. Nothing too bad. But she lingers there, inspecting them carefully. She dreads what must be done. She doesn’t want to know.
But a quarter pass and she cannot postpone it any longer. She shuffles to the fallen trunk of an old pine, and then she leans against it. Slowly, she removes the breastplate, and rolls up her shirt. With a quiet sigh, she begins to unwind the bandage she always keeps wound around her upper body. As her lower ribs are exposed, Rebekka gulps involuntarily. It’s not a bruise, and it’s not a broken rib. She could have handled that on her own. But this is a wound, and it’s deep.
Please, oh please. Not the lung.

Hillsbrad Foothills
December 1st

At the sound of bird song, Zane blinks his eyes, only then realizing that they had been closed in the first place. He startles a bit, using the tree his back rests against to scramble back to his feet. In the distance, Southshore's clock tower chimes, half past. Zane quickly fishes out his pocket watch to see half past what. 7 o'clock. He remembers waiting, and his intentions of returning to Undercity. Clearly the last hour drew him down into sleep, and he feels a pang of guilt for it, though now a new solution has presented itself after a few hours of rest. Though his body does not truly need it, he finds that it still refreshes his mind, and allows him to calm.

However, the morning light has been around for almost two hours now, and his hood is down. Not a good way to start things off for the day, so near the human town. Pulling up his hood, he looks around the water's edge, patting down his coat distracted. Soon enough he finds what he is looking for, the mirror shard, and feels rather foolish for not having tried it earlier. On the same note, he has heard no word from it either, which he is uncertain if that is a good thing or a bad thing. There has still been no glimpse or peep of Rebekka.

He clears his throat gently before holding the mirror closer.

"Eh.. good morning.. everyone.... Miss Rebekka? Ehm.... that is.. Has anyone seen miss Rebekka recently?"

Rivenwood
1st day of the 12th month

She has been awake for no more than one hour when she hears her name being mentioned. She leans against a nearby tree to gain some support. Rebekka had forgotten about the letter, too worried about her current situation. Of course he has noticed she is gone by now.
Zanthier’s voice emerges from the satchel at her hip, muffled by the hide. The black piece of cloth is gone, stolen by nesting birds. Thus she can hear his voice more clearly – though, she cannot determine if he sounds worried or just nervous.
For a moment she thinks about answering, to assure him she was only delayed in Venomspite. But she’s a rather bad liar, and her all too apparent shortness of breath won’t help her convince him. She certainly cannot have him running around in Northrend, looking for her. Even the roads are too dangerous for someone like him – and clearly for someone like her, as well. She has enough to be worried about as it is.
At least she’s on the move now. She has stitched most of her gashes, rather roughly, but that’s better than nothing. All her possession which has not been stolen by crows and blackbirds are now in her satchel. She has decided not to go back to the road, but to travel in the depths of the forest. Here, there are no ambushes, because there’s simply nothing to ambush but worgs and shoveltusks. And if there’s something she knows how to do, then it’s how to move soundlessly and stay undetected. Her injuries prevent her from moving too quickly, anyway.
She gives her satchel a final glance, convincing herself of her choice. She continues – the mirror shard still laying on the dark bottom of her satchel.

(( I must apologize for making you wait.. and also because it's so long. But this is an actual conversation that took place. Hopefully it will make up for the wait rather than being too long to read ;D ))

Brill
December 1st

Having received no useful information from the others of the Apothecarium, and no word from Rebekka herself, Zane eventually had given up and made his way back to Tirisfal glades. He'd hoped that perhaps Rebekka would miraculously be there, drinking from a steaming cup of tea, having simply lost her mirror.

Upon entering the Gallow's End inn, Zane is aware of how quiet it is. Very empty. Except for a rather loud snoring. Looking for the source, Zane finds a modestly dressed blood elf, passed out cold in a wooden chair. The only thing that is out of place is a very clean, new looking shirt. Zanthier sighs quietly, realizing it is the one he had given to the elf. He spies a bottle of liquor still partially gripped in the elf's hand and frowns slightly. Removing the bottle and setting it aside, he turns back to the sleeping Sin'dorei, who starts to fall forward. Zane catches him and forces him back into his seat.

"Harry...?" he questions, trying to wake him up.

"Just ten more minutes, Dars..." the Sin'dorei slurs, trying to wave Zane away from him. Sighing, Zane releases him once he's certain the elf will at least be able to sit up of his own accord.

"No.. it's me, Zane. Stay right there... I'll get you something to drink. Something.. else."

Solemnly he trudges to the counter, ordering two cups of tea and watching somewhat anxiously as they're prepared. He'd hoped to have given the cup to someone else.

"Urrrrghhhh...." a groan comes from across the room as the drunken Sin'dorei starts to recover from his alcohol-induced stupor. "Z-Zane...? Why are you in my house?"

Zane glances back, shaking his head slightly. Picking up the two tea cups, he grabs a muffin or two from the counter as well, bringing them over to where the Sin'dorei sits and setting them all on the table.

"Here's some tea... You're in Brill, Harry," he clarifies as he sits on the closest seat next to him. The groggy elf groans softly as he sits up, reaching to pick up a cup, sniffing at it with a somewhat disdainful expression.

"Thanks..."

"It might help you wake up a bit," Zane nods slightly, eying the elf sceptically, and adding in a slightly wry tone. "Too bad I missed the party,"

"Ugh... How's things.." Harry asks wearily as he drinks the tea down with a slight grimace. Zane fidgets slightly with the cuffs of his gloves, tugging at them slightly to make sure they fit snuggly between his fingers.

"Well, I'm sorry to catch you at a bad time, but.. not terribly well," the doctor sighs.
"It's never a bad time. Just talk softly. I think an ogre is trying to break through my skull," Harry mutters. Zane smiles slightly behind the scarf, as much as he can manage. He obliges the hung over Sin'dorei, even if his natural way of speaking is already softly.
"I just felt bad for waking you up. But I am a little worried,"
"What about?"
"Well.... its Rebekka,"
"She dumped ya?" the elf asks, without missing a beat. Zane coughs a little in embarrassment, though not entirely surprised to hear the remark from Harry. He holds a hand over his chest, shaking his head adamantly.
"N-No! Don't be silly, Harry."
"So what's up then?"

Zane sighs a little as he shakes off the comment.
"Well you see, she wasn't at the summit the other day... which I thought was a little odd. The thing is, she'd sent me a letter, asking to meet me. Tonight. Well.. um, last night. This morning. You get the idea..." he flounders a little. Harry nods weakly in response, picking up a muffin and chewing on it tentatively.
"So she's busy... it's not like she got jumped by a pack of crazies and shipped to every city possible.."
"Y.. You really don't make sense sometimes. But it was important! She was asking me for my help," Zane snorts. "It just doesn't seem.. like -her-, to not show up, and not to warn me,"
"Maybe it's a chick thing?" Harry offers. Zane rolls his eyes slightly.
"Well, we have these mirrors you see, the members of the Apthecarium, that let us talk to each other over distances. And she did not respond when I inquired for her there either. I'm just worried something happened to her... Though I suppose she might just be busy... It's... possible she forgot,"

Zane frowns slightly underneath his scarf, starting to feel more foolish for making a fuss. Rebekka herself had confessed as to not feeling many emotions. But he'd known her to be fairly polite at least. Everything didn't seem to add up, but was he over reacting?

"Maybe try again in a day or two? Has it been a week?" Harry asks, glancing over. Zane shakes his head slightly.
"Oh no.. only a day or two since I last saw her,"


"Well, you know how women get... -you know-...? They need a week off from men sometimes. It's probably better for you to let her have her breathing room," The groggy elf shrugs a little, rubbing one of his eyes. Zane casts Harry a withering look at this. "What?"
"Harry, she's dead. She does not have bodily.... processes... She doesn't even have moods!" he exclaims insistently. "Or at least she claims she doesn't. I still think she has emotions, but perhaps isn't aware, or does not wish to acknowledge them," Zane mutters, furrowing his brows as he considers this.
"Oh..." the elf grunts. "Well.. how am I supposed to know these thinsg. So you're saying she's like a guy then?"

Zane groans softly, covering his face briefly with his hands.
"N-No! It's just.. complicated. I'll teach you about the chemistry of the female body later,"
"I don't need to be taught about the body Zane! What do you want me to say? She's probably just taking some time off, not like she's in a ditch somewhere dying... again... or kidnapped by some lunatic or something,"
"How do you know?" Zane complains anxiously. "She just looks so... delicate. I worry for her being on the front lines all the time,"
"Your a wonder Zane.."
"P-Pardon?" Zane blinks a little.
"Women're scary folk. They look cute and soft, and then you sleep with their sister, and next thing you know you've got a dagger in your stomach, wondering why the room's going all fuzzy," the elven lumberjack explains decisively. Zane blinks again, slower, peering at the Elf rather confusedly, wondering how exactly this fits into the conversation. Finally he can't help but give into the absurdity, a laugh bubbling up from his throat, and another as he hangs his head tiredly, laughter disrupting his words.
"H-Harry.. what... are you talking about.."

The elf grins slightly.
"I mean... Don't count women out cause they look like they'd break in a stiff wind. Women are fearsome, especially ones who go to the front to fight. Scarier then the nether I'll tell ya. She's got her shit together if she's going around busting heads in," the elf elaborates. "And if she's in trouble, what can you do to help? Get yourself in trouble right along side her? She's your friend, she'd be mad about you getting hurt doing some fool thing. You're a wonder, worrying about everything this way and that... you gotta trust your friends to get themselves outta pickles every now and then, Zane,"

Zane hangs his head slightly, sighing in defeat.
"I suppose you're right... But if she doesn't show up in another day or two, I'll have to take action. I'm not completely useless, you know.. I bet I could surprise you still," he nods at Harry, idly rubbing his hands in consideration.
"You say that like I won't come with ya,"
"Well, that's kind of you," Zane smirks slightly beneath his scarf.
"I'm not completely useless either," the elf shrugs.
"Oh I know that, Harry. I'm just afraid that I've cultivated an impression of weakness. Miss Black seems to think so,"
"I know something this Miss Black doesn't, it seems. Strength.. comes from your connections to people,"
"That's very profound, Harry,"
"It's the wine. But with the way you fret, you could probably punch good ol' Arthas in the face,"
"I used to have quite the left hook..."
"Bet you still do,"

Zane smiles slightly over at Harry as he rises.
"I'll let you know how things turn out. I should head back to the Apothecarium to check up on things. I hope the ogre stops pounding on your skull,"

Quietly he makes his way back down into the Undercity, feeling only partially reassured.

((Nice one Zanth! Few of those lines gave me a good laugh, it sucks not to be able to interract In-game, Rawr...))

((Indeed, it was hilarious. I read it in the library during the lunch break. Tried not to laugh too much so I wouldn't disturb my poor fellow students...
"Maybe it's a chick thing" and "So you're saying she's like a guy then?" are my favourites x3))

Howling Fjord
3rd day of the 12th month

With a low grunt, she drops her satchel, and sits down by the pond. Morning is drawing near again, rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy. She's been walking for more than twenty-four hours in a row now. Usually, that's nothing, but now she's exhausted. Nor has she covered any greater distance – perhaps as little as one hour on the horseback. At the moment she would do almost anything for a cup of tea, but is afraid to light a fire. During the night, she has heard people moving in the forest - and she's rather sure it's not people she'd like to bump into.
Instead, she cups her hand and fills them with water from the pond. She drinks it slowly, and sighs internally when the liquid wets her dry lips. She does not have time to bathe – nor would it be a good idea, all exposed in the middle of wilderness, and with a nasty wound – but at least she dabs her face and arms with the cool water. It’s an acceptable substitute for the lack of sleep.

A few minutes later, she continues through the ground vegetation. She walks slightly hunched forward – she has noticed it hurts less this way. She is almost able to ignore it now, only the occasional peaks as she starts to breathe or moves her left arm without thinking truly bothers her anymore.
As she wanders, her head is filled with thoughts. Strange things are going on within the ranks of the Apothecarium, and she’s not there to help. The meeting she did not show up to. The miles and miles that lies before her, separating her from Vengeance Landing. But one single image keeps returning, again and again. Amandah’s face, looking at her pleadingly. I promised her I’d be home by now.
She’s too occupied to notice that someone is approaching. Only when a twig snaps, not even thirty feet away, she realizes that she’s not alone.
The vrykul huntress spots Rebekka only a second later. Their eyes lock for a moment, both taken by surprise. She barely thinks, just reaches for one of the syringes at her belt – she cannot wield the axes in this condition. As the huntress lifts her bow, Rebekka grabs for a tiny vial in the outer pocket of her satchel. She can hear her own voice echo in the back of her head, a distant memory. It’s a poison, created by the Society itself. Lethal, too dangerous to use in combat - you could easily kill yourself by accident.
Looks like I have no choise, she thinks wryly, as she sinks the needle through the vial’s wax plug.

Tirisfal Glades
December 3rd

Zane grunts slightly as he bites the strap of the plated bracer, leather gripped between bone and metal, tugging it taught and buckling it with his free hand. Once the bracer is secure, he pulls on a faded red leather gauntlet, covering it. Flexing his fingers experimentally and listening to the worn leather creak slightly he seems satisfied. As a finishing touch, he pulls a dirty white tabard over his head, buckling his belt over it. A scarlet flame decorates the cloth, the top obscured by an old blood stain. He is somewhat unused to the weight of the platemail at first after so long of forgoing the ritual, though it feels comfortable, and familiar even still. It fills him with some lingering sense of duty, though now his mission is entirely different. He unsheathes his sword, looking it over. It gleams slightly in the pale light, having been newly sharpened and polished. He needs something clean for this, not a mace. Gripping the hilt with two hands, he lets out a forceful cry, swinging the blade into a tall sapling and cleaving it in half. His skeletal horse makes a snorting sound of agitation at the shout. Seeming satisfied with the ease in which the blade cuts, Zane slides it back into its sheathe before turning back to the steed. He grabs the saddle horn, sticking a foot in the stirrup and pulling himself up. He knows exactly what he needs, and who is going to give it to him.

"Light forgive me for what I am about to do..."

--------------------------
Earlier

The Undercity
December 2nd

The stench stings Zane's nose, and he quickly adjusts his scarf so that it covers it, coughing quietly. With nothing else to do, he finds himself recruited to assemble the Abominations. He wants to be looking for Rebekka, but he can't. The work is only to distract him, for he still finds the monsters detestable. His only clue is that Rebekka was stationed in Venomspite. This is still no guarantee that she is there. Nor is he prepared for Northrend in any case. He does not feel inclined to ask at the mirror again, afraid that perhaps she simply has more urgent business, and he will come across as a silly fool for pestering. Part of him is angry that if she were in trouble, he would be unable to help. But at the same time, he has hardly tried to test his full abilities. He has been trying desperately to maintain the mostly intact state of his body, and avoided physical activities that might compromise this. Even during the battles, he has stayed in the rear, waiting to tend to the wounded. Though, the Scarlets of Fenris Isle did leave him with a few decent scrapes. But perhaps he is not as unprepared as he thinks?

This abomination is a particular mess, with only parts of a lesser quality available. It's skull has been partially smashed, which he cannot fix. The monster's jaw has been partially knocked off as well. He supposes that it might need to talk, to give directions to strangers, so he resets the dislocated joint, sewing muscle and skin back together to the best of his ability, trying not to make retching noises as he works. As he finishes the stitches at the corner of the creature's mouth, forming the edge of its lips so that it can speak, he begins to slow. It seems logical that such a fix will be enough. Why couldn't he do the same for himself...? It's true he lacks the skin of his own to cover his artificial jaw, but surely he could... find some.

The doctor grabs at his throat, coughing violently as his throat tries to gag. It's disgusting. But it might work. But... who?

He pulls off his working gloves, throwing them onto the table. Dark thoughts start to enter his mind to answer this question, fueled by his anxiety and frustration with the situation. It isn't as though any Forsaken would look poorly on him for what he is considering. But he knows it is a cruel thing to do. He was no stranger to cruelty in life, but in death he has tried to be penitent. Surely killing those who are evil is not a sin though? It is not revenge, it is justice. The one who ended his life still live, and he feels they owe him some small sacrifice for their crimes.

Howling Fjord
3rd day of the 12th month

A wail escapes her lips as the arrowhead pierces her upper arm. The hit throws her of balance and she stumbles a few steps before regaining her rhythm.
Not fast enough! she shouts at herself mentally. Be FASTER! Move SWIFTER!
She pushes herself even further, making every stride longer, every breath deeper. It feels like fire is raging up her throat from the bottom of her lungs, but there’s not enough time to think about it. All that matter is to get close enough.
A moment later, the vrykul has laid another arrow on the string, and before Rebekka gets the chance to react, she hear the swish of the arrow as it pass her by, just inches from her face. The huntress is certainly skilled, barely wasting any time at aiming.
But she never gets the chance to shoot a third arrow. The syringe needle pierces her leg, and as Rebekka crashes into her, she presses the trigger, releasing the poison in the woman’s bloodstream. Almost as by reflex, Rebekka instantly lets go of the syringe. You could easily kill yourself by accident.
Underneath her, a shiver runs through the vrykul woman’s body. Her lean muscles stiffen, and a second later, her breathing halts. Rebekka does not have time to feel relief, can only gasp for air like a fish on dry land. It seems, like the victory is not without a price.

Tirisfal Glades
6th day of the 12th month

As she slowly makes her way down the zeppelin tower on the horseback, she can feel how the tension lets go, displaced by exhaustion. The green night sky of Tirisfal stretches wide over her head, a familiar sight after a week in the wilderness. She lets go of the reins, burying her fingers in the horse's mane instead to gain some support. Without any direction, the animal slowly makes its way down the hill.
Halfway down, she hears a tearing noise, and then the metallic thud when the kettle lands on the ground. She moans quietly, glancing at her satchel – one of the seams just ripped. For a moment, she considers leaving the dropped items. But as she peers down over the horse’s neck, she spots the silk scarf – a gift – and her mirror shard. Clenching her jaws, she prepares to slide out of the saddle to retrieve them.
That’s when she hears a familiar voice. She stops, frowning. A familiar voice - shouting her name.
Oh, of course, she thinks to herself. Scarf – shard – tower. He’s observant.
Pulling at the rein slightly, she turns her horse around. As they reach the top of the hill, she spots Beldane’s silhouette as he walks through the tower’s doorway. The sight fills her with relief; a final confirmation, that she made it back home.