Missive

[uthas]

*Notes appear scattered across the great cities*

Fear. Anger. Hatred. Sorrow. My words come to you tainted in these, dipped in the blood of my crimes. Yet they will spread despite attempts to control them. They always do.

I write this to remind you of our existence, and to warn you. Where you are travelling, I have already been. The battles you forge steel for, I have already fought. The dead you will mourn, I have already buried.

While you fought and bled in useless battles at the Butcher's Field, I looked to the North.

While you played with your beetles in the southern deserts, I looked to the North.

While you let your kingdoms honour die at the hands of Deathwing's brood, I looked to the North.

While you cried out against the Horde, cried out against the Alliance, cried out against each other, even in my madness I looked to the North.

Now, at last you ready your ships. The sails are being stitched in Menethil, the baskets woven in Orgrimmar. The cold of Northrend has long since chilled the madness in my blood, leaving only an eternity of clarity stretching in front of me. At last you hear the echoes of my voice, and begin to look North.

I am waiting.
~U

[uthas]

Feel free to repost this wherever you think people will care.

[Tarq]

Three-Finger Sean
<Untalented Pickpocket>

Somethin' on your mind? Anyone could tell you Cutthroat Alley ain't no safe - oh, beggin' your pardon, didn't recognize you was a professional. How might one poor ruffian be helpin' ya?

!Missives

Hey now, you seen these little things too? Crazy bitta business, ain't it? I hear tell it's got somethin' to do with that crazy shit as went down up to the North 'bout two years ago. You know, the one we ain't supposed to talk about? Funny how that works out.

Now me, I think it's some nutter talkin'. All the swords and spells gone over, to Outland, and that's where the business is and where it comes back from. But I got the word in that a certain man a' business is takin' himself a par-tick-you-lar interest in these mad little flutterings. Got the word out quiet that anyone can speak to the...veracity these writings got, oughta be speakin' it to him.

See, this is a man takes a particular interest in tidbits related to that bit of history. I hear tell you know anything, he'll make it worth your while. Go pay him a visit - just go by the Pig and Whistle, down Willow Way in Old Town, find someone as looks like they make their livin' spillin' blood, and ask for the boss. If they don't know whatcha mean, you're askin' the wrong person.

Oh, an' - be careful what you're tellin' 'em. This sort don't take kindly to huntin' the old wild geese, ya know?

?Three-Finger Sean says a "man of business" is looking for information on the strange notes about Northrend that are circulating Stormwind and other cities. If you know anything, go to the Pig and Whistle in Stormwind and ask for "the boss"!

[denne]

Officially, Denne gave up the whole stealthing-around-for-treasure thing a year and a half ago when she accepted the role of heading the Outland branch of her parents' business. Naturally, this hasn't stopped her from carrying on after a brief reprieve, though she's selective about who knows what about her daily business.

It was with a bit of trepidation that she dropped what she was doing and answered Bricu's summons to the Pig that Monday evening. He did promise work, and she tends to enjoy the work he offers. But alas, it was information gathering. Removing objects unnoticed from someone's pocket is one of her fortes, but loosening tongues while she herself is trying to keep a low profile is not.

She hadn't seen the notices until one was handed to her, so she had nothing to go on intuitively. Despite precious little time left in the day, she aimed to accomplish something, and since asking anyone and everyone or setting up reconaissance was out of the question on her schedule, she went to the two men she figured knew best what was going on in Stormwind on a daily basis.

Shaw was little help, though Denne did overhear an exchange between two others whom she didn't know while on the premises. She took notes about a "Jethade" having hired a woman whose name never came up to seek a grimoire with the apparent help of one "Tayzian," but none of it seemed relevant in the end, and she didn't bother reporting it to anyone. SI:7 was aware of the notices but didn't seem to regard them as the threat that the Riders were earnestly discussing.

Heading to the cheese shop next, Denne was coerced into buying a large amount of Stormwind Brie before Trias would talk with her, and all that he would offer was that a single gnome had been seen posting fliers about some monthlong event, but that was primarily in Ironforge, and again, it didn't seem to be relevant. Oh, and if anyone asks, Denne never spoke with him.

People post notices regularly, Shaw had told her earlier, and it tends to go unnoticed unless the matter is itself illegal or if one person seems to be at it too much. As far as anyone could tell, this just seemed to be anti-war propaganda, and not very well done at that. If she was to find answers, she would have to find someone who'd witnessed one being placed, but that would have to wait.

She still had a rucksack full of cheese when she returned home for the night.

[Alishe]

The lump in her throat continued to grow larger as she read the letter stuck to the wall. When she finished, Alishe closed her eyes and forced a breath out of her lips. "Bloody fecking hell." Then, without thinking about it, she reached out and grabbed the note. She stood there for several moments, silent as a statue, the paper all but crumpled in her hand. It wasn't until she heard the noise around her once more that she finally turned around and walked away.

Uthas was, in her mind, the least of the challenges that awaited in the north. At least if her current research was any indication. But in her heart, he would be one of the most difficult to face. Should it ever come to that. As her feet moved along the pavement, she glanced upward. The dusky sky loomed above and stars blinked at her as she blinked back. Her eyelids attempting to keep a flood at bay.

"I will not cry for you." She whispered to the wind. "Not that you would want me to anyway."

[deanathrae]

Time was not on her side. The traces of decay were spreading, and the expedition to the floating citadel had yielded nothing that might point the direction towards a cure. Her stay in the Emerald Dream had not helped, either. All that had done was to leave huge gaps in her memory, gaps that meant she didn't recognise friends when she saw them again. Or lovers, her mind annoyingly reminded her. Those too, she conceded to herself.

She wasn't sure whether elves could become Forsaken, but it seemed likely that she would find out. The effects of whatever the assassins had poisoned their weapons with, that night in Ironforge..... the effects were progressing faster and faster.

Not for the first time, Deana mentally cursed the fallen paladin and his fanatic followers. Absolution? More like death and decay, she sneered to herself. And you would know, she answered snidely. Passersby looked curiously at the elf apparently talking to empty air, but her greenish skin tinge tended to repel casual conversation. That and the smell of rot.

A piece of paper fluttered by, part of a notice apparently ripped away from whichever tree it had been posted on. She still retained her swiftness, if not the grace which had so characterised her as a rogue, and her hand flashed out to catch it.

........................My words come to you tainted in these, dipped in the blood of my crimes. Yet they will spread despite ...................

...................... of our existence, and to warn you. Where you are travelling, I have already been. The battles you forge steel for, I have
........................ will mourn, I have already buried.

........................ useless battles at the Butcher's Field, I looked to the North.

........................... your beetles in the southern deserts, I looked to the North.

.................................honour die at the hands of Deathwing's brood, I looked to the North.

.............................., cried out against the Alliance, cried out against each other, even in my madness I looked to the North.

........................... The sails are being stitched in Menethil, the baskets woven in Orgrimmar. The cold of Northrend has long since
..................................... leaving only an eternity of clarity stretching in front of me. At last you hear the echoes of my voice, and begin to look North.

I am waiting.
~U


She crumpled the piece of paper violently. It couldn't be. Could it? Was it him? Was it, truly, him?

She didn't know whether she wanted to kill him, swear to serve him, thank him or curse him. But she did know she wanted to meet him again.

To the North, then, she vowed grimly.

[Threnn]

A storm was rolling over Moonglade. Jessen and Kyree had raced the raindrops home, rushing through the door of the cottage just as the skies broke. Kyree sat curled up in the sitting room window, counting the seconds between lightning strike and crash of thunder. When the flashes came, her green eyes lit up like a cat's. She'd squeal and pull the quilt over her head, then peek back out and watch the wind whip through the trees.

Jessen sat at the table while Davien fixed dinner, books spread out all around him.

"An' what did 'ee learn today?" she asked.

"Arithmetic in the morning, then we went looking for herbs in the afternoon with Malvor."

"Did 'ee find anythin' good?"

"Not today." Jessen flipped a page and scratched a few numbers onto a sheet of paper. All along the margins were drawings of animals and plants he'd seen in his explorations. He'd gotten quite good at sketching in the last three years.

Three years. Has it truly been...? Davien cocked her head and looked at her nephew. He'd grown so tall. And Kyree, too. Aye. It's time t'start findin' someone t'foster them. I've kept them here too long. Soon. She'd send letters in the morning. For now, they'd enjoy dinner together. "Go get y'r sister, Jess. It's time t'eat."

He closed his books and stacked them in a neat pile. A piece of parchment stuck out from one of them. Jessen slapped his forehead theatrically. "Auntie Davien, I forgot! Mister Faustron came into Nighthaven today with copies of this. She said they've been finding them them in Orgrimmar, and you'd want to see it." He handed her the folded missive and ran into the front room, hollering for Kyree.

Davien opened the letter, expecting yet another call to arms against the Alliance, or the dangers of Outland, or any number of things Faustron passed along to her. The Forsaken and the Orc had a simple business arrangement: when interesting news came on the wings of a wyvern, he forwarded it along to her in exchange for coin. She didn't like him seeking out Jessen to deliver the messages - the boy wasn't part of the Eye. But surely Faustron wouldn't send along anything dangerous through her nephew. It was likely mere gossip.

She unfolded the parchment and felt the ground crumble beneath her. One pale hand gripped the back of a chair so she wouldn't fall. The shadows that were ever-present threatened to swarm across her vision. But she forced them back, steadying herself.

Fear. Anger. Hatred. Sorrow. The Plaguefather's words screamed across the page, threatening, promising, gloating.

She read it three times and felt suddenly old in her undying skin.

"Auntie Davien?" Kyree tugged on her sleeve. "Auntie Davien, are you okay? The thunder's almost gone. The storm won't hurt you."

Jolted from her fear, Davien reached down and ruffled Kyree's hair. "I know, sweetling. We're safe here."

The lie tasted bitter. If Uthas was stirring again, nowhere was safe. She threw the parchment into the fire and watched the flames swallow it up. She'd find another copy to show to Noxilite; she didn't want these tainted words anywhere near the children.

I'll be waiting.

Davien shuddered as lightning flashed again.

"One one thousand," said Kyree, hugging her aunt around the waist. "Two one thousand. Three one thousand. Four one thousand. Five one thousand. Six --" The thunderclap boomed out over their heads, its rumble growing softer and softer as it moved away. "See?" she said, as reassuringly as a spooked eight-year-old girl could. "It's going away."

"Aye," said Davien. "Movin' on t'somewhere else." But the one that's still to come will be far, far worse. She hugged her niece closer.

[shaila]

There was once a little mushroom, with red dots on his head.

He used a leaf, silky and soft, for the blanket on his bed.

The dewdrops of the morning he drank with his food.

Which consisted of bread and honey, to improve his mood.

The mushroom also had a friend, brave and strong.

Who would help and protect him whenever something was wrong.

But one day the friend was gone, vanished without a trace.

So the mushroom decided to search for him, he took on the case.

He looked in the hills, he looked in the glades,

He even looked in that human place, known as the Stockades.

But the mushroom could not find his friend, not anywhere, in no place.

And the mushroom cried and cried, tears falling from his face.

But then he remembered, what would his friend do?

Would he just sit around, being sad, feeling blue?

No! He would be strong, he'd persist, he would thrive,

So that when the mushroom came back, he'd be happy his friend could survive.

And the mushroom went on with his life, and even found love!

The mushroom did well, when push came to shove.

And finally, one day, when the moon was shining bright,

His friend came back, and found the mushroom quite all right.

The mushroom's friend was so glad he did not cause him too much grief!

That he had ruined the mushroom's life turned out to be a false belief.

The mushroom had indeed grown, he'd persisted, he'd thrived,

He'd become brave and strong by the time the friend arrived.

And now, in their life, whenever something went wrong,

It was the mushroom -and- the friend who would be brave and strong.

For truly, whenever life brings hard weather,

It is far, far better to forge through it together.

Shaila sat back in her chair, smiling. The short childrens' story she had written had been finished for quite some time, and as soon as Chelody finished drawing the pictures for it they would be ready to bring it to a publisher and hopefully earn some extra money. The first in their hopefully long line of childrens' books. Books for the Horde as well as the Alliance.

It would be her contribution to the world, she had decided. These stories, as well as her own children, would be the important things she'd leave behind to help the world even after she was dead. Things to make people happy, even a little bit, and bring some hope to their lives.

She frowned, looking to the paper on the side of her desk, bearing the imperfections and lines of being repeatedly crumpled and folded. Uthas' missive, if it was really from Uthas, hadn't struck her as deeply as she might have thought. She had such a full, busy life now, there was barely any room left in it for her former adopted father.

Of course, there -was- still room. There had to be. To outright dismiss the missive would have been a dangerous thing to do, especially for herself. Somehow, she doubted Uthas would send for her, or even send anyone after her. Last they had met, they'd both known where the other stood. Shaila had been very clear with Uthas that she had disagreed with him. He had been clear in his response to that. But she'd still be cautious.

"I won't go out of my way to find you, Uthas," Shaila thought. "And I hope we don't meet again. But if we do...I'll try my best...and I won't be alone...and that's why I'll make it. You're already doomed. No matter what you do."

Shaila patted Gravy, her mechanical squirrel, on his head. He chattered mechanically.

"Jeez," Shaila said. "I hope I'm right."

[rashona]

On a sun-baked road just outside or Orgrimmar, the tawny cat stretched up for a closer look at the scrap of paper tacked to a road marker. When it fluttered in the harsh wind, she pinned it down with a paw - then flattened her ears and bared her teeth as she scanned the words. The undersized spore bat that had been trailing her (with frequent detours to investigate boars, scorpions, or particularly interesting rocks) squeaked and dove for cover under her ruff when she snarled.

Arrogant, she thought. But no less dangerous for all that; the plague had proven that the paladin's arrogance had power behind it. As it was, she ached to follow the rumors drifting down from Northrend...

Patience, she told both herself and the fallen paladin. I hunt at the Mother's bidding and not at yours.

And if She is kind, She'll allow me to hunt you, plaguebringer.

[Yva]

Humming, and the crunching sounds of boots on snow. She can't rid herself of the song, can't seem to get the melody from her brain. It had been like this since she'd left the Undercity.

A gust of wind blows and she hisses at it, launching the iciness back from whence it came, willing winter to leave her and hers at peace.

My love is ice and fire and wind.

"Yva?"

"Yes. I am Darrows. Nothing more than that, you know. Just a small girl in a big land. Don't believe that do you? No, of course not. Foolish talk."

He watches her beneath hooded eyes, and she can see something there, concerned wariness or perhaps it's just resignation. His hand hovers over his sword. The veiled threat of that action, an action so secondary for a soldier, it tightens her grasp on reality and she cracks her knuckles, watching icicles fall to the ground.

The glaze leaves her eyes and he nods his head, going back to whatever he had been doing. Crunch go his footfalls.

It's time for them to continue on the journey. She wonders, now, where he is. Uthas. Tarquin asked for her eyes and ears, and she's not an idiot. She knows who he seeks.

He wants the Tricky Witch's help does he? Liar. Silver tongue liar like all the rest of the blade wielding bastards. Like Melciah. I'll murder him one day, but for now . . .

"Uuuuuthas. Where are you?"

She laughs as she croons his name, not realizing she's assigned her melody to it.

"It's time to move on."

"Yes, yes. Time to go."

As she turns, there's a twinkle in her eye and a skip in her step. The Tricky Witch, the White Witch, so alive in the land of ice and shadow. Her song is replaced by a word, no a name, and it brands itself on her mind.

Plaguebearer.

[Threnn]

((Posting for Bricu, who can't come play on the forums while he's at work.))


Threnn picked up a hand full of pebbles from her spot on the canal and threw one into the water. Bricu counted as her rock skipped twice.

"Maybe if yeh think that way, yeh really should go back on the tea in the mornin'."

Threnn's next rock plunked into the water, her aim thrown off by Bricu's remark.

They sat close to each other but the distance between them was growing. The silence was broken only by Threnn's pebbles. She threw the smallest in her hand. It skipped three times before sinking below the water. Bricu watched the floating candles of the Midsummer Festival rock back and forth from the ripples of the pebbles.

"Do you honestly believe" she said, "that you could stay at home, with me and a crying baby, while your friends and family were led into battle by the 'flashy git' Renidus Funil? You were the one scrambling North at the first rumor to make sure this was done right. Do you think that you'll be able to just give it all up when I'm pregnant?"

Threnn picked another pebble, this one larger and without a flattened bottom. It sank despite her side-arm pitch. The candle Bricu watched sputtered but didn't extinguish.

Bricu looked for his own rocks to throw, but the handful of pebbles he could pick up were not worn for skipping. They were small chunks of cobble stone, only useful for making a splash or waking up a light sleeper. He held onto them anyway. He folded his hands, pebbles in tow, into his lap.

Threnn skipped two more stones--one skip each--while Bricu tried to give her an answer. Threnn took a third pebble from her hand and whipped it down the canal.

"Just don't do it." He counted four skips as he blurted out his thoughts.

"Don't?"

"Strewth love, I don't want yeh ta get back on the bloody tea...but yer the one that has ta make the call." He cut his thoughts short. Threnn held back her pebble.

"Then what do we do? Keep our hands to ourselves?"

"Neither o'us want that Threnny."

"Neither of us want to want to leave an orphan either."

"We don't want ta stand by an' let our family rush north, we don't want ta leave an' orphan behind, we don't wanna let someone else deal with Uthas, we don't want ta live in the Rose for the rest o'our life. Everythin' we don't want will take a bloody miracle ta work--an' we both know that there will be blood before we go north. What do we want?"

Threnn skipped a stone in response. It skipped four times before sinking into the canal.

"Bloody hell, I want yeh ta stay off the ruddy earthroot...Threnny. What do yeh want?"

Bricu turned and watched as she turned her last pebble over in her hand. She didn't look up to meet his gaze--he didn't focus on her very long.

Moments passed before he broke the silence. "Five skips?"

His joke sank like a rock.

Threnn turned the pebble over in her hand. She sat with her back ramrod straight, her jaw clenched. He threw away the thought with his handful of pebbles. The floating candle sputtered but stayed alight.

"I told yeh what I wanted--both the last time an' this time--no tea. I just want ta hear what yeh want."

He sat next to her, not speaking, while she played with the pebble. Bricu could see Pomeroy and his lantern circle the canals twice more before Threnn finally spoke up.

"Time. I wanted more time."

At first, he thought she sighed. When he felt her shake from the sob, his own tears started to run down his face. Just as he had a year before, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. That first embrace was full of promise--now they wept as their future was swept away.

"Time. This was our time. We were going to have to go North and deal with both of those bastards--but I thought we had more time. I wanted time to have our family. He's not just taking a part of you away. He's taking our family away. All of it."

Threnn cried into his shirt, Bricu wept in her hair. "I know love, I know."

"You can't--we can't--keep either one of them from taking away one more thing we care about." Threnn stopped crying while Bricu was still trying to rein his in. She nuzzled into his shirt. "I'm crying for our family, even when..."

"We don't have one--or may ever have one."

"Its stupid and its selfish, but I wanted our time."

Bricu held her well after they were done crying. When Pomeroy made his third tour, Bricu stood up then helped Threnn to her feet.

Bricu leaned close to her ear and whispered. "Our time ends when we stop drawin' breath, love. We'll be as selfish as we want. We'll share the joys an' losses with everyone else. We get through this, with or without the tea." He kissed her on the cheek.

"That's enough North for the night. We'll either buy the tea in the mornin' or have Kara cook us breakfast. Sound like a plan?"

Threnn nodded, and the two paladins walked, arm in arm, to their home.

[rashona]

((You're going and making me all mushy over freakin' paladins. STOP IT.

<3))

[Bricu]

'cause we rule!

[itanyablade]

She waited for the other Tauren to leave the open room that was the Crossroads Inn. She hid beneath her cloak, taking shelter from the harsh barrens heat in the pitiful shade of the building. Raga and Bullhoof left together, neither one quite as drunk as they might want observers to believe. Then’liath had seen both of them turn from carousing drunkards to terrifying defenders in an instant. The Alliance that prayed on the Crossroads were wary when they were present.

So intent was she on avoiding the notice of Raga and her hatred of elves, that she missed the passing of the others she was seeking to avoid. Only Rashona remained. She had chosen Rashona, out of all of Noxilite, to approach because she seemed the least likely to kill her out of hand. Oh, Then knew that Davien and Gharr would not have been adverse to answering her question, but continually using them would not get her any closer to the others in Noxilite. And Stonewalker, damn his hide, had once again danced off into the wind. She liked the gruff bull, but she could not depend on him. No, her only chance for solid answers was Rashona.

Entering the inn, she sighed gratefully for the cool air inside the mudbrick hovel. She returned the inkeep’s nod with a distracted one of her own, but managed to withhold the sigh of disappointment as Rashona shifted quickly into her plainscat form at the sight of her.

“Greetings, Rashona.” She smiled, holding her hands out to show them as empty.

“Priestess.” The voice was a rumble-purr of warning as well as greeting.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”

“Hrmm?” It was as much of an invitation as she was likely to get.

“Who is this Uthas?” Rashona snarled; her ears pressed flat along her sleek head. Suddenly, the druid shifted forms and stamped a hoof hard enough to earn her a look of suppressed irritation from the patrons of the inn. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“His name is an offense.” The Tauren woman stood very tall and imposing, but Then’liath was certain that at the moment, that anger she saw twisting her snout was not directed at her. Finally, she lowered her muzzle to look at Then. “You have never heard of him.”

“Before Sylvanas brokered our induction into the Horde, I had little reason to look beyond Silvermoon. My education in recent history is somewhat lacking, I am afraid.” She lowered her eyes to the ground, feeling a twinge of shame at being so lax but she also hid a smile of gratitude. Rashona was actually speaking to her. To her surprise, the Tauren continued to speak, pacing to and fro. Despite the heat, Then felt herself grow cold as she absorbed the words.

“And he lives…” Rashona had, at some point, shifted back to her plainscat form. Then’liath did not dare approach her, not like other members of Noxilite would; she would not dare take comfort in the feel of silky fur. “I am not so sure I like this knowledge. What will Noxilite do?”

“What we always do.” That rumble-purr again. “We will watch and, when it is time, we will fight.”

[uthas]

(( <3s to all ))