Grim Views

Bal'a dash,

I have heard of your kind, The Grim, for centuries now. I must admit, as of late, I don't usually write to those who are not exclusively Sin'dorei but have known you are a part of something mutual, something bigger... something greater. Alliance spies are everywhere, one can never be too cautious with mail. We share common enemies and common friends, my curiosity of you is at a peak now that I can leave my homeland. I have fulfilled a vow made hundreds of years ago and have no shame at all really in the blood that rests on my hands. I have the freedom to choose my own path now. I have full intention of becoming a part of The Grim if I am found worthy. There is no fault in peace through annihilation, none at all... it is the true way. I seek to be a part of something bigger. I submit myself, and my knowledge of mending, to you if you so choose to use me.
I must tell you, or apologize rather, when I was in Silvermoon I heard of several persons belonging to your fist seen in a certain part of the city. Upon eagerly investigating that area I found you all by happenstance. I left as soon as I could.. out of respect, I want to know if I may be informed of your next stated meeting of such types, I prefer to be a bit more formal.

Anar'alah belore, vendel'o eranu.
-Fremen

P.S. About the smell. The almost sickly-sweet floral smell of this script is that of a poisonous concoction sold in Ogrimarr. Its one that kills Humans and Taurens, however, unfortunately its limited to only them that I know of thus far. I make it a habit to rid my routes of potential Alliance interceptions given past problems.. Traitors are another story. Anyways I just love the scent, it's delightful! Don't you think!? But I digress.

From time to time, the High Inquisitor would attend to his official duties in a more casual setting, eschewing the dark decor of his office in the Grim Halls to enjoy the rank air of whatever piss-soaked hovel that called itself a tavern. It was on such an afternoon that Khorvis opened the letter from Fremen: an elf apparently, by the exposition contained upon the pages, and brimming with centuries of pent up rage.

The relaxing warrior chuckled as he guzzled a worrying amount of what passed for Ratchet's local brew. He then squinted at the final passage. A fatal poison to his Shu'halo comrades?! With a menacing growl issuing from the depths of his gullet, Khorvis stood and marched over to a Tauren hunter and goblin rogue, who were engaged in a friendly game of darts.

"Plainsrunner! Smell this for me!" Without any more warning, the orc shoved Fremen's missive up the Tauren's snout. The surprised gamer let out a whoop, his hands flailing to defend himself, before a redness began to overtake his eyes. Clutching his throat, the hunter sank to his knees and hoarsely gasped for air. The bartender and a few patrons (not including the goblin rogue who now covetously counted his game's winnings) rushed to the wheezing hunter's side.

Khorvis nodded with a grunt and returned to his seat to pen a response.

Aspirant Fremen,

Your bloodlust does you some honor, and does recommend your talents to the cause of the Grim. Aye, the Mandate do be larger than us all, even the great Shu'halo, who tower over even the mightiest orc. It do be they who worry me, and your little stunt. Should this letter have been delivered to my Commander, Awatu Stonespire, given the high chance of my death, I do think it may have caused him great harm!

You will report to the office hours of the Inquisition without delay and explain the intent of your prank, and why I should not Lash the flesh from your hide. If I do be satisfied, may be there will be a chance for you in the Trials.

Grom'gol Base Camp. Monday evening, when the goblin clock does strike seven past noon.

High Inquisitor Bloodstar

Sealing his response, Khorvis arose from the table and eyed the distressed Tauren. He untied the drawstrings of his purse and tossed the leather satchel to Ratchet's barkeep. The clinking was clue enough that it contained at least enough to purchase the whole of the tavern.

"Find that hunter a proper priest with a cure. I do doubt it was enough poison to require a grave. The remainder of the gold will reimburse what I do assume he lost to the goblin." Khorvis pointed to the rogue scurrying out of the tavern. The High Inquisitor was soon to follow, his mood now soured.

Fremen opens the letter, as he carefully reads and re-reads it contents the color drains from his face as his gaze slowly rises and settles upon his servant. The blank look then turns to one of rage. Reaching for his staff he leaps up running to the corner of the room and repeatedly beats his loyal yet simple minded servant without mercy.
After exhaustion from his fit of rage and his servant lying on the floor barely clinging to what little "life" is left in her and his staff covered in gelatinous rotten blood, Fremen revitalizes the servant enough for her to awake and stand on her own.
With fire in his eyes Fremen yells in the undead servants face
"IDIOT!! I had you dug up from the grave to serve me, in a way that benefits myself! Not in this way you ... you... Kim'jael! How am I to see this through now? YOU FOOL! I could have you burned alive until the end of time itself for this!"
Fremen then cuts a finger off his servants hand while staring her in the eye and takes a very expensive golden laced blank scroll from her desk, walking back to his table and cleaning what little flesh remained off of her finger he then sat down and dipped it in ink and began to scribe..

High Inquisitor Bloodstar,

Firstly I assure you the previous letter was no prank. It is with sincere regret and apology that this letter reaches you. My soon to be former un-dead servant dictates for me often and has come to learn that with certain mail routes we must use precautions. It is at these times she recites post scripts from her feeble memory, as she only possesses half a brain - a result of punishment from her former life. At times she laces letters with certain poisons. This shall never again happen. I shall deal with her.
Indeed I will join you in Grom'gol Base Camp, my duties here are slowly drawing to a close. If this carrier is trustworthy enough you will find more than enough gold to reimburse you for whatever trouble my previous letter may have caused. We both know gold is no substitute for some actions. I only hope it opens the door for me to be heard.

With sincerity,
Fremen

Fremen sealed the letter and turned again to the servant. The half brained undead girl cowered as if to flinch. With a heavy sigh Fremen stood up. Calmly walked over and then violently began the process of removing her head. Her body was treated as refuse, burned, however Fremen kept her head, conscious and alive by only magic. He placed it on a shelf... in the latrine, with the ink stained finger-bone in front of it as a reminder. Looking into her rotting eyes he said:

"This is where your fate will be decided you foolish girl. You could have done the Horde great harm... Until the day of your ultimate fate, here is where you will spend all of your time. Know that I will offer your head to those who may seek it, should they refuse then I will see to it that you suffer. Should I receive lashings for what you have done then a hundred fold will be drawn from your sufferings."

Fremen then took the letter a days journey South to a young Blood Elf rouge residing in the Plaugelands. Entrusting its delivery, without harm or interception, to those whom he desired to serve.