Malfeasance
Feldspar - February 7, 2006
Feldspar crept through the entrance to the Forlorn Caverns,
stealthed and prepared for multiple attacks. The addiction to the
thistle tea had grown stronger over the last few weeks and his
dosage was increasing at an alarming rate. He had gone so far as
to raid a gold reserve he kept in an anonymous account in order
to keep the guild from tracking his purchases and had contracted
a shady character at Booty Bay to be the go-between for his
bundles of swift thistle. To complicate matters further he was
beginning to experience increased paranoia and had taken to
conducting normal business around the ‘Forge while stealthed, to
avoid any perceived attempts at assassination. Oh, that he had
never learned to brew the accursed stuff!
Feeling a tremble cross his shoulders, the Dwarven rogue swiftly
melded to the shadows, in case the tremor negated his precarious
balancing act with the nether. He heard and felt a couple of
Dwarven citizens walk past, bent upon whatever task had brought
them to this gloomiest of areas in Ironforge and sighed relief
when they continued on, oblivious to his presence.
Earlier in the week, a courier had stopped him at the Auction
House and had asked him to sign for a registered letter. The
letter had been embossed with the ring of King Magni and was
magically sealed, to prevent any but the intended recipient from
viewing the contents. Eying the courier with suspicion, Feldspar
had signed the document…while holding his sword to the throat of
the terrified sycophant. Once the signature had melded with the
parchment, the seals had released and the document was ready for
review. Only then did the rogue remove his sword from the
courier’s throat, blind to the line of frost that had scarred the
poor creature’s throat. Engrossed in the words, the rogue also
failed to notice the courier dash away panicky, eyes wide and
arms pumping as fast as they could to get away from the crazy
thief.
The letter read…
Knight-Lieutenant Feldspar,
Greetings and blessings from the king of Kings. In an effort to
develop additional methods of combating the Horde insurgency, it
is commanded that you report to the Forlorn Caverns, in 3 days,
at the turning of midnight, whereupon you will receive orders
from Us, the royal king of Ironforge, to further said ends.
His Royal Highness, Lord of Ironforge,
Prince of Loch Modan, Scourge of the Horde,
Master of Dun Morogh, Baron of Duskwood,
Savior of Redridge, Duke of Westfall and
Defender of Elwynn Forest
King Magni Bronzebeard
What in the Nine Planes of Hell was that crazy king talking about
now? Horde insurgency? Is that what he called this war? Though
his paranoia told him to stay away, Feldspar’s curiosity got the
best of him and at the appointed time and day, made his way to
the Forlorn Caverns. In preparation, he had coated both weapons
with instant poison and had stocked up on his blinding powder and
flash powder. If this was an ambush, he wanted to be ready for a
quick escape.
The Caverns broadcast their name with an air of superiority and
gloominess. Every where one looked, there was cause to become
depressed and…well…forlorn. Water dripped from the stress cracks
in the tunneled out ceiling and a moan, as if a ghost had lost
his way and become trapped forever in the cold, austere walls,
drifted throughout the area, sapping warmth from the bones
quicker than the damp cold could ever accomplish. Despite this,
Feldspar loved the Caverns and felt at home every time he entered
its forbidding archways. Not because of the feelings the place
evoked, but more due to the fact that it was so opposite of the
forced cheerfulness that pervaded Ironforge proper. The Forlorn
Caverns were a direct reflection of the true voice of the
Alliance. Fractured, porous and prone to change with the
slightest outside influence.
Once the foot traffic cleared, he stepped away from the shadows
and did what every rogue did when uncovering from the protective
envelope of darkness, he shuttered involuntarily and nervously
glanced about the area, looking for a threat.
The cavern was dark and what few wall sconces were about had been
extinguished, their white ash and wisps of smoke indicating a
hasty hand or quick smothering by some cloth. There was an eerie
quiet about and it seemed the general background noises of
Ironforge had somehow been muffled, or removed entirely. The
shadows…felt…strange…as if they had become corporeal and were
ready to strike at any moment.
“Feldspar?” a soft whisper of inquiry from a crumbling staircase.
Glancing to the top of the rough-hewn stone, Feldspar spotted
movement and was confronted by a wall of brimstone and blue
energy. He fought the overpowering urge to attack the entity,
knowing full well the effects of a Voidwalker and its ability to
torment. Though there appeared to be form to the entity, as well
as eyes, the rogue knew it to be a daemonic mass of intelligent
energy, prepared to do the bidding of its master. Glancing around
the ‘Walker, Feldspar noted a swish of robes and the black and
silver garb of a fellow member of the Sgian Dubh…
“Bajjim?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The diminutive warlock stepped down from the staircase and
whispered in a strangely sibilant tongue to the Voidwalker. It
responded in kind and then floated off to the right, a few feet
from its master.
`”Ahh, good, Feldspar…my mostest of humbly apologistics, o’
nefarious one. Thus the naturesness of our respectabling
disciplines must we choose to stride along the pathness of most
excellent of subterfuge and sneakonnicence.”
As usual, the gnome’s speech almost made sense…but at the last
second wavered into a completely undiscovered area of the common
tongue. Feldspar knew the powerful warlock disliked speaking the
language, but they had no other grounds of communication, except
dwarvish and the gnome refused to speak even that. The rogue had
never bothered with gnome-speak.
“Why are you here Bajjim? Are you a part of the meeting with
Magni’s man?” Feldspar snapped.
“Er, once in the moreness I must be about explinating good
rogue…you see...I am Magni’s Man, as you so bodaciously
verbicated. You are to be meeting myselfness”, the gnome replied.
“Great” thought Feldspar. “Now I have to decipher what he’s
saying in order to understand what Magni wants.”
“Ah, yes…well…as you most assuredly will be of the
understanding”, began Bajjim,” the Guild is currently in the
matter of counting of the coupness against those vile creatures
called of the Grim. Though it has been ocularized with humorness
and hilarioutiness by the teeming massness, those in POWER took a
different obtuseness to the angle of the action,” said Bajjim.
“Get to the point Warlock,” growled Feldspar.
“Hmm..ahh…yes….you are of the seeing then. Well…we have been of
the giveness from King Magni…to…ahh…target individualized Grim
Officers,’ stated Bajjim. “Of the specificness, we must targetize
Abric, Pincus, LaughingCrow, Frain and Lascivious. We must…at all
costliness...umm…punchicate them...err..well...you..that
is...must be of the pugalisticism, in regardness to the Grim,”
replied Bajjim.
“Why me?” asked Feldspar.”Yes I enjoy killing Horde, but I am not
in the habit of stepping naked into the lion’s den. I would much
rather have my weapons and armor on, thank you very much.”
“Yes..ahh..well…it seems your…ahh….delicateness has been of the
mentioning to…ahh..the King,” said Bajjim. All of the sudden, his
manner changed abruptly and he began to speak coherently.
“My experiments have included mixing various blood types of
nether tissue and creatures, I am in need of specific Horde
DeeInAy combined with the sweat you secrete which contains high
dosages and concentrations of Swift Thistle and blinding agents,
in order to further develop a time release toxin that may be
applied to weapons for battle against the Horde armies.
Ahh..err...I am in needingness of you pugilating the
officers…err…nekkid…so that I can extracticate the skin they are
of the leaving in the behindedness on your knuckles.”
“Oh, fragging wonderful” thought Feldspar. “Now they want me to
play footsy with the bloody Grim. I guess I could just send a
note to Lascivious…hey you sexy freak…wanna wrestle? Gahh…maybe
its time to fly this Juicicle Stand before a rogue gets hurt…”
Bajjim stared at Feldspar with trepidation. He had teamed with
the rogue on several occasions and had begun to count him a
friend. It was a shame the Seventh Void required such a
sacrifice. He could see the decision warring across the face of
the embittered rogue and for a second it seemed as if he would
say no.
“All right you damned Warlock, let’s get skinned and hunt some
Grim,” muttered Feldspar. “Next stop...the Gallows End Tavern.