Moonlight intermingled with lamplight in the relatively abandoned cobblestone streets of Stormwind. Occasionally a lone or pair of souls would walk across them, but it was the night, and at night, the city slept. A pair of glowing yellow eyes stared down at the streets from a vantage point high upon the roof of the auction house, a pair of eyes belonging to a lone man wrapped in a cloak, whispering to himself as a pale clawed hand fidgeted with a pair of dice. Each time a person would walk across his gaze, he would roll the dice. He would look at the result and hiss. Skull and six. Two and four. Skull and three. Three and three. He muttered to himself incoherently, tongue darting past sharp teeth and across thin, pale lips.
A woman crossed his sight. He rolled the bones.
Five and two.
He swore quietly at the dice, then again at his stomach, which growled piteously. He picked up the dice once more and rubbed them between his hands, breathing slowly upon them. His eyes darted towards a guard walking with a torch, and his nostrils flared. The man walked with confidence of skill, a wariness of experience. One hand holding his torch high, the other on the hilt of his sword, his armor gleaming from beneath a clean tabard. The guard's eyes darted across the rooftops, and the one lurking there ducked low to avoid being spotted. He cautiously rolled the dice.
Skull and two.
The lurker grunted and gathered the bones up again. He was only partially upset as to the negative result from the dice on that matter. He and the guard had traded blows before, and it had never worked too well for the lurker. With the last light of the guard's torch disappearing around the end of the next building, the lurker resumed a more comfortable crouch and waited. An eternity later another walked past, a woman, her gait slow and a song on her lips. Her hair glittered blonde in the lamp light, and she seemed careless. The lurker grinned and rolled the dice.
Twin skulls.
Without another second wasted, the lurker snatched up the dice, returned them to his pocket, and lept from his hiding place to the ground below, tucking into a roll to break the fall. He stood and dusted himself off, moving like a shadow after the departing woman, matching his pace to hers, hands on the hilts of his daggers.
With her back to him, she was an easy target. He stepped one last time, the shadows carrying him forward from the darkness to beside her. A quick jab with the hilt of his dagger left the woman senseless, song stopped mid-verse. He caught her in his arms and slung an arm over his shoulder, half carrying, half dragging the insensate woman from the light. He set her down in an alley, gently, like a lover might, and began fishing about pockets in his cloak. From within he removed a spool of metal wire, a collection of hooks, a vial, a syringe, and a small box. He set the items neatly on the ground, then recovered the vial and syringe. He tapped the vial, the viscous fluid contained within beginning to glow a light green, illuminating the lurker's dead face. He filled the syringe with a dose of the fluid and pumped it into the woman's veins at the right elbow. Her breathing slowed as spiderwebs of green fluid visibly passed through her veins. He shifted his attention to the box and pressed a small red button on it, and the little box began to hum quietly, of machinery contained within. A barely visible dome of energy formed and expanded, encompassing the lurker, the woman, and most of the alley.
"That'sss better..." he mumbled to himself in common. He returned his attention to the woman, who was just waking from the blow on the head. Her eyes bore confusion and fear. They darted back and forth, but save for the twitching of fingers and the steadily increasing pace of her breathing, she did not move. The lurker smiled and walked around her, twirling a dagger absently in one hand. "Hello, food. Shhhiny night, ain't it?" He cackled quietly and licked his lips. The woman whimpered, unable to scream.
"Let'sss begin, then," he said with a toothy grin that would shame a shark.
It's all fun and games.
It's all fun and games.
"If I can't eat it, ssscrew it, sssell it, or ussse it to blow sssomething up, then what ussse isss it?" ~Inzema
Re: It's all fun and games.
(( Most excellent. Inzema's gonna have some guards on him! ))
Re: It's all fun and games.
(( tee hee, the dice are a great touch and I just noticed you using them in raid tonight, luverly.))
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
Re: It's all fun and games.
You're as good with a pen as your are with your daggers, friend. Though I'm not a fan of lurking in the shadows myself. I prefer direct assaults on outposts and the like. No hiding, no lurking...just killing.
Re: It's all fun and games.
(( Frygyd would so hate this guy. LOL ))
[img]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v483/ryayukou/frybanner2_finalcopy-1.jpg[/img]
How cold ... the Frygyd mage ...
How cold ... the Frygyd mage ...
Re: It's all fun and games.
(( Great stuff this ))
[quote="Greebo"]/em hugs C'tok so he knows he always has a place on the raid team of my heart.[/quote]
Re: It's all fun and games.
Bam bam bam.
Marcus Jaxon stared at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the pounding on the front door. He slipped from the comfort of his bed without a sound, hardly disturbing his wife, who moaned and drifted back to sleep. Marcus pulled on a pair of pants and walked from the bedroom to the common room, and from there to the front door, slipping on a tunic in the process. Light filtered into the room through the curtains. Marcus frowned and recovered his sword from beside the door before opening it a crack. Beyond stood a pale skinned human nervously fidgeting, holding a torch that was almost unnecessary in the bright moonlight. Out of the ordinary was the blood on his gloves and his Stormwind Guard tabard, the blood on the tabard presumably from his nervous habit of wringing it. He smelled faintly of vomit. Marcus still couldn't understand how such a nervous man as Aaron Pomeroy had been accepted as an elite guard. He opened the door farther, meeting Pomeroy's gaze.
"Y-you told me to get you if he st-struck again." That explained everything. It was hard to guess which made Pomeroy more nervous, Marcus or the message. Marcus pulled at his beard for a moment then uttered an acknowledgment. He disappeared back behind the door, reappearing in the process of strapping his breastplate on, sword belt over one shoulder. Pomeroy was already walking away, southeast towards the bridge to the trade district. Marcus followed closely.
Not long afterward, Pomeroy stopped outside an alleyway. Brady, the third to their trio, a powerfully built blond with a keen eye and a sharp jaw, stood outside with a torch. The area reeked with a myriad of smells, the most predominant being that of death, blood, and vomit. Marcus took note of the puddle outside the alley and made a mental note that despite his weak stomach, at least Pomeroy had the sense to not contaminate the scene. Brady nodded a greeting, then once in the direction of the alley.
"He found her ten minutes ago, got me, and went for you. Mages will be down in an hour. You know how those..." Marcus nodded and stepped past him. He knew how very hard it was to get a mage up in the middle of the night. He also knew how worthless it would be, especially if this was like the last three. The scene before him confirmed that it was.
Centerpiece of the alley was the body of a nude and mutilated woman, strung by a spiderweb of wires and hooks a foot from the ground, body in the position of prayer. The serenity of the pose served only to mock what had been done to the woman. Her stomach was slit open and intestines coiled neatly beneath her feet. Shallow cuts covered her body. Chunks of flesh had been bitten from her arms, legs, and breasts. Blood covered the walls in intricate patterns that, if looked at directly, caused dizziness, seeming to swirl and move of their own volition. Marcus took a step closer to get a better look. Her face was calm, though her eyes still bore residual terror. Marcus swore under his breath.
"He is getting more elaborate." The quiet voice behind Marcus caused him to start slightly. He turned back to the grinning face of a man he was becoming far more familiar with, Erik Astav. One of SI:7's agents, the man was quiet and knew far more than he let on, ever. The man was tall and gaunt, and the way he always wore a cloak that shrouded his face in darkness was only slightly less eerie than the way his eyes seemed to glow from that darkness. Marcus nodded. The agent creeped him the hell out. There was something about the way he was never shocked by the gruesome and gut-wrenching scenes, the way he hummed cheerfully as he took notes, the way he would touch things and taste the tip of his finger that just seemed wrong.
"I've got good news and bad news" Erik said, once he had completed his survey of the scene. "What's the good news?" Marcus was skeptical that good news was possible. "Two parts, actually. First is that this was the same guy." Marcus started to say something rude, but Erik cut in. "That is good news. Means that there isn't more than one, or a copycat. Second part is this wire looks like cobalt. Nice strong and malleable stuff. Relatively expensive. Whoever you're going after has money for the good stuff." Marcus nodded, crossing his arms across his chest. "Let me guess. The bad news is there's no clue you can discern, and mages won't get shit again." Erik nodded and patted Marcus on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. He'll slip up." Erik walked past Marcus towards the end of the alley. Marcus turned to walk with him only to find the agent gone. He looked around, found no trace of the man, and muttered to himself, walking from the alley.
Brady stood glaring at a much shorter man in a mages robe. "And I told you, nobody goes in until-" "Until I'm done" Marcus cut in, interrupting Brady. "Go in, run the scene, for all the good it will do." The mage nodded and glared at Brady, siding past the large man. Marcus waited for the mage to be out of earshot before he nudged Brady. "Did you see Astav come through?" Brady's dumbfounded look spoke volumes more than words could have. Marcus grunted and pulled at his beard. "Doesn't matter. You've got things now. Let the mage do his thing, then give the poor woman some decency. Try to do it before dawn." Brady nodded, the two exchanged farewells, and Marcus Jaxon returned to his home, frustrated and confused.
Marcus Jaxon stared at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the pounding on the front door. He slipped from the comfort of his bed without a sound, hardly disturbing his wife, who moaned and drifted back to sleep. Marcus pulled on a pair of pants and walked from the bedroom to the common room, and from there to the front door, slipping on a tunic in the process. Light filtered into the room through the curtains. Marcus frowned and recovered his sword from beside the door before opening it a crack. Beyond stood a pale skinned human nervously fidgeting, holding a torch that was almost unnecessary in the bright moonlight. Out of the ordinary was the blood on his gloves and his Stormwind Guard tabard, the blood on the tabard presumably from his nervous habit of wringing it. He smelled faintly of vomit. Marcus still couldn't understand how such a nervous man as Aaron Pomeroy had been accepted as an elite guard. He opened the door farther, meeting Pomeroy's gaze.
"Y-you told me to get you if he st-struck again." That explained everything. It was hard to guess which made Pomeroy more nervous, Marcus or the message. Marcus pulled at his beard for a moment then uttered an acknowledgment. He disappeared back behind the door, reappearing in the process of strapping his breastplate on, sword belt over one shoulder. Pomeroy was already walking away, southeast towards the bridge to the trade district. Marcus followed closely.
Not long afterward, Pomeroy stopped outside an alleyway. Brady, the third to their trio, a powerfully built blond with a keen eye and a sharp jaw, stood outside with a torch. The area reeked with a myriad of smells, the most predominant being that of death, blood, and vomit. Marcus took note of the puddle outside the alley and made a mental note that despite his weak stomach, at least Pomeroy had the sense to not contaminate the scene. Brady nodded a greeting, then once in the direction of the alley.
"He found her ten minutes ago, got me, and went for you. Mages will be down in an hour. You know how those..." Marcus nodded and stepped past him. He knew how very hard it was to get a mage up in the middle of the night. He also knew how worthless it would be, especially if this was like the last three. The scene before him confirmed that it was.
Centerpiece of the alley was the body of a nude and mutilated woman, strung by a spiderweb of wires and hooks a foot from the ground, body in the position of prayer. The serenity of the pose served only to mock what had been done to the woman. Her stomach was slit open and intestines coiled neatly beneath her feet. Shallow cuts covered her body. Chunks of flesh had been bitten from her arms, legs, and breasts. Blood covered the walls in intricate patterns that, if looked at directly, caused dizziness, seeming to swirl and move of their own volition. Marcus took a step closer to get a better look. Her face was calm, though her eyes still bore residual terror. Marcus swore under his breath.
"He is getting more elaborate." The quiet voice behind Marcus caused him to start slightly. He turned back to the grinning face of a man he was becoming far more familiar with, Erik Astav. One of SI:7's agents, the man was quiet and knew far more than he let on, ever. The man was tall and gaunt, and the way he always wore a cloak that shrouded his face in darkness was only slightly less eerie than the way his eyes seemed to glow from that darkness. Marcus nodded. The agent creeped him the hell out. There was something about the way he was never shocked by the gruesome and gut-wrenching scenes, the way he hummed cheerfully as he took notes, the way he would touch things and taste the tip of his finger that just seemed wrong.
"I've got good news and bad news" Erik said, once he had completed his survey of the scene. "What's the good news?" Marcus was skeptical that good news was possible. "Two parts, actually. First is that this was the same guy." Marcus started to say something rude, but Erik cut in. "That is good news. Means that there isn't more than one, or a copycat. Second part is this wire looks like cobalt. Nice strong and malleable stuff. Relatively expensive. Whoever you're going after has money for the good stuff." Marcus nodded, crossing his arms across his chest. "Let me guess. The bad news is there's no clue you can discern, and mages won't get shit again." Erik nodded and patted Marcus on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. He'll slip up." Erik walked past Marcus towards the end of the alley. Marcus turned to walk with him only to find the agent gone. He looked around, found no trace of the man, and muttered to himself, walking from the alley.
Brady stood glaring at a much shorter man in a mages robe. "And I told you, nobody goes in until-" "Until I'm done" Marcus cut in, interrupting Brady. "Go in, run the scene, for all the good it will do." The mage nodded and glared at Brady, siding past the large man. Marcus waited for the mage to be out of earshot before he nudged Brady. "Did you see Astav come through?" Brady's dumbfounded look spoke volumes more than words could have. Marcus grunted and pulled at his beard. "Doesn't matter. You've got things now. Let the mage do his thing, then give the poor woman some decency. Try to do it before dawn." Brady nodded, the two exchanged farewells, and Marcus Jaxon returned to his home, frustrated and confused.
"If I can't eat it, ssscrew it, sssell it, or ussse it to blow sssomething up, then what ussse isss it?" ~Inzema
Re: It's all fun and games.
In Dalaran, there is often much activity, even late into the night and early into the morning. The sounds of duels and arena battles echoing from the sewer grates, muted by stone and dampened by magic. Coin passing from hand to hand in exchange for services and goods. Many a sorcerer, both novice and master, poring over books by candlelight or mana-lamp. The teleportation chamber always had someone coming through it, and tonight was no different. Materializing from thin air appeared Inzema, wrapped in a black cloak, hood cast back to allow moonlight to reach his pale face and reveal his slime-green mohawk. His goggles whirred and clicked, glowing green lenses hiding intricate machinery that allowed him to see in a dozen different spectrums. He dug into one of his chest pockets and removed a metal and cloth mask, took the trailing ends of the cloth, and tied them behind his head. He licked his lips and tapped the pocket with his dice in them, assuring himself that they were still safe before leaving the room, allowing the next person in the queue to arrive in the circle.
He walked past the fountain, tossing a couple of coins to the orphans congregated there. He wasn't worried that they would starve, nor did he care if they did. It wasn't an act of kindness, though at first glance it would appear so. Kids were excellent sources of information. Not many people watched all of them, and there were a lot in Dalaran. More than people realized. The coins never hit the ground, of course, and the kids were gone a second later. Inzema smiled, the anticipation of new secrets to me learned too much for him to keep fully contained.
Inzema walked into the library, wandering about for a bit before dropping heavily into a chair beside Qarosimae. The blood elf's bespectacled gaze was focused on a tome writ in Amani, her thin fingers on the table as if touching the book while she read woud damage it, though this was probably true, judging by the apparent age of the tome. The only evidence that she had noticed her undead compatriot's approach was a blink of her felfire-green eyes. Inzema tilted his head, observing her closely. Something was different today, but he wasn't sure what it was. She still was skinny and, well, not particularly well endowed for an elf. Usually they had these nice curves and stuff, probably from magical alteration and stuff, but Qaro's were small in comparison. Still nice, which the incident that had led to him discovering that had cost him fifteen gold for repairs to his armor, just smaller than average. The topic never came up, though, because apparently Qarosimae didn't care much how she looked, save that it was neat. Her robes bore signs of having been pressed, creases visible on the black sleeves, her hair was all neat and...oh, wait. That was the difference. It used to be black and about shoulder length, but now it was white and short, in a cute way, but not Inzema's style. He liked long hair. It was fun to play with long hair, and also provided an excellent handhold.
"So, new boyfriend?" Inzema said, reaching out to bat at her hair. She slapped his hand away, eyes never leaving the page. "No, simply felt like a change." She turned the page carefully, gently, laying it flat upon the previous, then continued reading. Inzema cocked his head the other direction, looking at the page. "Nope, can't read it. What's it about?" "Shaman." "A shaman?" "No. Shaman, plural." "Well wouldn't it be shamansss?" "Not if you ask the Amani." Inzema shrugged apathetically. He really didn't care much about grammar. Can't kill anyone but a scholar with grammar, and to kill a scholar with it, it required a book full of it. That had been fun. Inzema chuckled at the memory. He snapped his fingers, the light going on in his head.
"Oh yeah! I forgot what I came here for!" "Oh?" "Yeah! You should have seen it! Jakkie is pissed! He was like "Braguduh!" and I was like "Omberdom" and he exploded! Okay, that didn't happen, but he still thinks I work for SI:7. No one else ever sees me, so they're gonna think he's hallucinating, and it's awesome!" Inzema flailed his arms wildly throughout the retelling, appearing to nearly fall from the chair at one point before recovering himself. He ended leaning close to Qarosimae, an impish grin hidden behind the metal mask. Qarosimae nodded absently, apparently not listening to him. Inzema frowned, poking Qarosimae in the side. "You listening?" "No." "A-ha! You are!." "I am trying to read." "You're always readin'." "And you're always telling me about Jakkie this and coins that and delicious flesh those." Inzema paused for a moment, thinking of a retort, and when none were readily at hand, he shrugged. "So?" "So I do not care right now, tell me later." The elf returned her attention to the book, her tapping fingers on the edge of the table signaling that the conversation was over. Inzema shrugged and stood. "Alrighty. I'll be around." He disappeared into shadows, leaving Qarosimae to her book.
Outside he walked through the city towards the alliance side of town. Wrapped in his cloak, yellow eyes hidden by his goggles and in the semi-darkness of the mana-lamps, he easily passed for human. He walked past the guards at the enclave entrance without so much as a second glance and disappeared through the portal to Stormwind.
He walked past the fountain, tossing a couple of coins to the orphans congregated there. He wasn't worried that they would starve, nor did he care if they did. It wasn't an act of kindness, though at first glance it would appear so. Kids were excellent sources of information. Not many people watched all of them, and there were a lot in Dalaran. More than people realized. The coins never hit the ground, of course, and the kids were gone a second later. Inzema smiled, the anticipation of new secrets to me learned too much for him to keep fully contained.
Inzema walked into the library, wandering about for a bit before dropping heavily into a chair beside Qarosimae. The blood elf's bespectacled gaze was focused on a tome writ in Amani, her thin fingers on the table as if touching the book while she read woud damage it, though this was probably true, judging by the apparent age of the tome. The only evidence that she had noticed her undead compatriot's approach was a blink of her felfire-green eyes. Inzema tilted his head, observing her closely. Something was different today, but he wasn't sure what it was. She still was skinny and, well, not particularly well endowed for an elf. Usually they had these nice curves and stuff, probably from magical alteration and stuff, but Qaro's were small in comparison. Still nice, which the incident that had led to him discovering that had cost him fifteen gold for repairs to his armor, just smaller than average. The topic never came up, though, because apparently Qarosimae didn't care much how she looked, save that it was neat. Her robes bore signs of having been pressed, creases visible on the black sleeves, her hair was all neat and...oh, wait. That was the difference. It used to be black and about shoulder length, but now it was white and short, in a cute way, but not Inzema's style. He liked long hair. It was fun to play with long hair, and also provided an excellent handhold.
"So, new boyfriend?" Inzema said, reaching out to bat at her hair. She slapped his hand away, eyes never leaving the page. "No, simply felt like a change." She turned the page carefully, gently, laying it flat upon the previous, then continued reading. Inzema cocked his head the other direction, looking at the page. "Nope, can't read it. What's it about?" "Shaman." "A shaman?" "No. Shaman, plural." "Well wouldn't it be shamansss?" "Not if you ask the Amani." Inzema shrugged apathetically. He really didn't care much about grammar. Can't kill anyone but a scholar with grammar, and to kill a scholar with it, it required a book full of it. That had been fun. Inzema chuckled at the memory. He snapped his fingers, the light going on in his head.
"Oh yeah! I forgot what I came here for!" "Oh?" "Yeah! You should have seen it! Jakkie is pissed! He was like "Braguduh!" and I was like "Omberdom" and he exploded! Okay, that didn't happen, but he still thinks I work for SI:7. No one else ever sees me, so they're gonna think he's hallucinating, and it's awesome!" Inzema flailed his arms wildly throughout the retelling, appearing to nearly fall from the chair at one point before recovering himself. He ended leaning close to Qarosimae, an impish grin hidden behind the metal mask. Qarosimae nodded absently, apparently not listening to him. Inzema frowned, poking Qarosimae in the side. "You listening?" "No." "A-ha! You are!." "I am trying to read." "You're always readin'." "And you're always telling me about Jakkie this and coins that and delicious flesh those." Inzema paused for a moment, thinking of a retort, and when none were readily at hand, he shrugged. "So?" "So I do not care right now, tell me later." The elf returned her attention to the book, her tapping fingers on the edge of the table signaling that the conversation was over. Inzema shrugged and stood. "Alrighty. I'll be around." He disappeared into shadows, leaving Qarosimae to her book.
Outside he walked through the city towards the alliance side of town. Wrapped in his cloak, yellow eyes hidden by his goggles and in the semi-darkness of the mana-lamps, he easily passed for human. He walked past the guards at the enclave entrance without so much as a second glance and disappeared through the portal to Stormwind.
"If I can't eat it, ssscrew it, sssell it, or ussse it to blow sssomething up, then what ussse isss it?" ~Inzema
Re: It's all fun and games.
A tabard stolen from a slain Silver Covenant elf, his blood and seared flesh long since cleaned from the cloth, an illusion to mask the felfire glow in her eyes, and a tight grip on the urge for slaughter and retribution against humans allowed Qarosimae to walk the streets of Stormwind unmolested. Her staff in hand, she walked from the mages tower towards the city marketplace. Despite her average appearance for an elf, her close-fitting white tunic and pants, stitched in black with spells of warding and protection, drew the eyes of men as she passed, though if she noticed, it was not apparent. Her bespectacled eyes focused forward, never altering. She didn't know where she was going, but was certain she would find what she was looking for in no time.
As if on cue, she smelled blood. It was faint, as if from a great distance. Qarosimae stopped, looking around. She was still in the mages district, which boasted no butchers or any other reasons she should be smelling blood, which left several explanations, but with no alarm, one was more likely than the others. Following the scent, she took a turn into an alleyway between an apothecary's shop and a staff carver's store, stepping into the shadows cast by the tall buildings. She felt a tingling sensation cross her flesh as she passed through a shield of sorts, finally allowing her to see what she had come for. Before her, Inzema worked diligently, singing to himself as he set about his gruesome task. The body of a man, still alive, but barely, judging from the pool of blood and the labored rise and fall of his chest. The flesh on his chest had been peeled back like wrapping, revealing the organs within, and held in place by wire connected to the walls of the buildings like a spiderweb. Dozens more snaked around the man, holding him in a pose common in portraits of heroes long dead, standing on the feild of battle, with one hand on his hip, the other holding a sword with its tip resting on the ground, his head towards the left wall as if staring off into the distance.
"Who can take a night elf, fill her blood with pain? Tie her down and cut her up and make her scream again? The Stabby man can!" Inzema sang, a perversion of a child's song, yet somehow it suited him. He pulled the slack out of a wire, causing it to cut into the flesh of the man's thigh, shifting it slightly to the left, and cinched it down tight. He took a step back, admiring his work. "Beautiful, isn't it, Qaro?" he said, somehow knowing it was her without looking. She shrugged apathetically, adjusted her glasses, and leaned against a wall. "Nothing I haven't seen the like of before." It was hard to keep track of the various poses and dismemberments that Inzema had performed over the years of her knowing him. She had long since grown immune to the disgust many expressed for his art, and a small part of her actually enjoyed it. Not the mess, but the passion the corpse showed when getting his "art" just right. The killing itself.
"So, what'd you track me down for? Must be pretty big if you're coming into food central with a disguise and not a blast." The corpse's goggles whirred as the lenses focused on her. She shrugged and adjusted her glasses again, seeming disinterested in the topic. "No reason," she said. She looked past him at the man. She licked her pale lips, bloodlust slipping slightly out of control, causing the illusion around her eyes to fail. She wanted very much to burn this city to the ground. Inzema grinned knowingly, thin lips pulling back to revela blood stained teeth filed to points. "Tell you what. Let's head back to your place and we'll talk about that guy you were talking about the other day." She nodded, watching as the corpse picked up a small device and deactivated it. She felt a tingle on her skin as the energy from the device dissipated, the shield that had disguised the sounds from the alley and hidden the rogue as he created his art. She lifted a hand and brought it down in a slashing motion, rending the physical plane and the distance between here, being Stormwind, and there, being the receiving room in Dalaran. He went through firs, her afterwards, and the portal closed with a pop.
The man, abandoned by his torturer, whimpered from the pain, shuddered, and finally succumbed to death.
As if on cue, she smelled blood. It was faint, as if from a great distance. Qarosimae stopped, looking around. She was still in the mages district, which boasted no butchers or any other reasons she should be smelling blood, which left several explanations, but with no alarm, one was more likely than the others. Following the scent, she took a turn into an alleyway between an apothecary's shop and a staff carver's store, stepping into the shadows cast by the tall buildings. She felt a tingling sensation cross her flesh as she passed through a shield of sorts, finally allowing her to see what she had come for. Before her, Inzema worked diligently, singing to himself as he set about his gruesome task. The body of a man, still alive, but barely, judging from the pool of blood and the labored rise and fall of his chest. The flesh on his chest had been peeled back like wrapping, revealing the organs within, and held in place by wire connected to the walls of the buildings like a spiderweb. Dozens more snaked around the man, holding him in a pose common in portraits of heroes long dead, standing on the feild of battle, with one hand on his hip, the other holding a sword with its tip resting on the ground, his head towards the left wall as if staring off into the distance.
"Who can take a night elf, fill her blood with pain? Tie her down and cut her up and make her scream again? The Stabby man can!" Inzema sang, a perversion of a child's song, yet somehow it suited him. He pulled the slack out of a wire, causing it to cut into the flesh of the man's thigh, shifting it slightly to the left, and cinched it down tight. He took a step back, admiring his work. "Beautiful, isn't it, Qaro?" he said, somehow knowing it was her without looking. She shrugged apathetically, adjusted her glasses, and leaned against a wall. "Nothing I haven't seen the like of before." It was hard to keep track of the various poses and dismemberments that Inzema had performed over the years of her knowing him. She had long since grown immune to the disgust many expressed for his art, and a small part of her actually enjoyed it. Not the mess, but the passion the corpse showed when getting his "art" just right. The killing itself.
"So, what'd you track me down for? Must be pretty big if you're coming into food central with a disguise and not a blast." The corpse's goggles whirred as the lenses focused on her. She shrugged and adjusted her glasses again, seeming disinterested in the topic. "No reason," she said. She looked past him at the man. She licked her pale lips, bloodlust slipping slightly out of control, causing the illusion around her eyes to fail. She wanted very much to burn this city to the ground. Inzema grinned knowingly, thin lips pulling back to revela blood stained teeth filed to points. "Tell you what. Let's head back to your place and we'll talk about that guy you were talking about the other day." She nodded, watching as the corpse picked up a small device and deactivated it. She felt a tingle on her skin as the energy from the device dissipated, the shield that had disguised the sounds from the alley and hidden the rogue as he created his art. She lifted a hand and brought it down in a slashing motion, rending the physical plane and the distance between here, being Stormwind, and there, being the receiving room in Dalaran. He went through firs, her afterwards, and the portal closed with a pop.
The man, abandoned by his torturer, whimpered from the pain, shuddered, and finally succumbed to death.
"If I can't eat it, ssscrew it, sssell it, or ussse it to blow sssomething up, then what ussse isss it?" ~Inzema
Re: It's all fun and games.
(( so many posts in and someone still hasn't lost one? ))
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.
Re: It's all fun and games.
((What?you expect eyes to be lost? Now why would I do that? In theory, it'd likely be Inzema, as he's the only person viewing his play as games, losing an eye, or two, and while that's easily remedied using the magic of modern magical/steampunk technology, I don't like the thought of Inzema losing an eye. Right now, at least. Maybe later.))
"If I can't eat it, ssscrew it, sssell it, or ussse it to blow sssomething up, then what ussse isss it?" ~Inzema
Re: It's all fun and games.
Marcus Jaxon had been at the Blue Recluse for the past two and a half hours. He had spent a gold on a bottle of Brewhard's Best, a high quality Pandaren whiskey released once a year in small batches contained in steel bottles. He had had two glasses on ice, about an eighth of the bottle, and was feeling the effects of a good intoxication, the slight, not uncomfortable, pressure in his skull, the slight, not hindering, reduction in his ability to focus, and the slight, easily overcome, unsteadiness of limb. He waved good night to his fellow patrons and wandered into the night, bottle safely capped and secure in his hand. It was a decent walk from the Blue Recluse to his home near the trade district, but that just gave him time to sober up a little and enjoy the starlight overhead. Marcus was having a good night to compliment a good day. After three months, sixty five deaths, and endless trouble, there had been a break in the case of the Stormwind Slasher. Through the offer of a reward and a bit of "persuasion," a goblin engineer based out of K3 in Northrend had relinquished the information that he supplied wiring of the variety used to string up still-living victims of the Slasher and pose them in a macabre mockery of life. He also was able to provide a list of the regular buyers of quantity, and while the wire was capable of being used for a variety of other purposes, its tensile strength and flexibility were the chief reasons engineers bought the stuff. Saronite was too hard, too brittle in quantities that small, and adamantite was expensive to import from Outland. One could use steel, but steel had less strength and was at least twice as heavy, so cobalt was the best choice.
Soon, the Slasher would be found, ad once he was found, tried and hanged.
Interestingly enough, the killings had reduced as of late. At their peak, about a month and a half, there was one happening every day with multiple victims each, but over the course of the past two weeks, there had on be thee, and of those, the time between had increased significantly. There had not been a Slasher killing in four days, and as they say, "No news is good news." Marcus wasn't often prone to optimism, but he had to admit a certain amount of joy in not having a nightly glance at death in its sickest, most deprived forms, as well as a bit of hope that maybe the end was in sight. Maybe this week all he would have to deal with would be a couple of drunks brawling and a domestic disturbance from the Clarences when they started blowing up their basement lab again.
One could hope.
Marcus inserted his key into the lock of his front door, turned it, and opened the door. He made sure to be quiet so that he wouldn't disturb Sarah, his wife. She was probably asleep, worn out from a long day at the auction house. Marcus peeled off his boots, setting them down beside Sarah's shoes, and made his way to the bedroom. When he reached for the doorknob to the bedroom, the hairs on his forearm stood on end, as if they were reacting to something. Every muscle in Marcus's body tensed, his fear bringing him back to sobriety instantly. The faint smell of blood and ozone was in the air. Blood. Coming from his bedroom. Where his wife should be. Marcus swore and drew his sword, opening the door quickly, anger rushing through him as he prepared for the worst.
Inside the small bedroom, containing a bed, a dresser, a single window looking out at the aqueducts, and a door leading into the closet, there was little in the way of places to hide. The bed, covered in thick blankets, contained one human sized lump with Sarah Jaxon's head emerging from beneath them, resting peacefully upon the pillow. Beside the bed was a chair that belonged in the common room, with the others at the dining table. The occupant of the chair had it balanced on one leg, leaning backwards against the wall. His eyes were hidden behind mechanical goggles with glowing green lenses, his face behind a mask with stitching in the pattern of a fanged, grinning mouth. His hair was all shaved off, save for a green mohawk, spiked upward like a blade. Dark leather armor covered every inch of his body from the neck down, a hooded cloak around his shoulders thrown back and pooling on the floor. Knives of a variety of different shapes and sizes adorned the man's body in bandoleers and belts, and a pair of axes with wickedly jagged blades hung from his waist. One gloved hand stroked Sarah's head, and Marcus had no doubt the man was smiling behind that mask.
Marcus Jaxon had no doubt as to who this man was.
"Evening, Offissser Marcusss Jakssson," the man said, his ess's coming out in a hiss, like a snake. Somewhat fitting in Jaxon's mind. "Don't worry. I haven't done anything to Sssarah...yet." He shifted his balance, returning the chair to all four feet and settling his feet on the ground as well. Marcus's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but for now, he waited. He didn't know how fast this man was, and didn't want to risk his wife's life finding out. "Not that shhhe would have not enjoyed what I thought about doing..." He chuckled and mimed thrusting his hips. Marcus could feel himself growing warmer as he became angrier. The man stood and started walking towards Marcus. "Shhhe would have ssscreamed for me like you can't make her. Ssscreamed in pleasssure like you have never made her." The man was within arm's reach now, well within sword range. Marcus raised his sword, intent on bringing it down on this menace to society, only to watch as the man turned into a cloud of shadow and disappeared, his goggles the last to fade.
"Shhhe would have begged me for more, like shhhe never begsss you," the man continued, this time from behind Marcus. Marcus whirled around, leading with his sword. His arm caught on something he couldn't see in the darkness. It felt like wire. He tried pulling his arm away, but that only caused the wire holding his arm to tighten. He pulled harder and the wire suddenly slackened, and unprepared for the lack of resistance, Marcus toppled to the side, into a web of wires. Panicking, Marcus thrashed, trying to escape the web of wires, to no avail. The more he struggled, the more secure the web of wires seemed. The man rematerialized from the shadow, staring down at Marcus, the grin of his mask matching what it surely concealed. Marcus watched the man, fear in his eyes.
The man leaned down, his face inches from Marcus's, and said "Maybe I'll yet have fun with her. Maybe I'll make you watch. We'll play again sssoon." The man turned around and pressed a button on his belt. A blue portal opened, lighting the room, and the Stormwind Slasher stepped through, leaving behind a blast of snow and cold air from the portal before it closed. Marcus Jaxon stared at the spot that the man who had caused him so much torment and grief, caused the whole city so much grief, for the past several months, had occupied and silently thanked the gods that he and his wife were not yet another pair of names on the list of victims.
Soon, the Slasher would be found, ad once he was found, tried and hanged.
Interestingly enough, the killings had reduced as of late. At their peak, about a month and a half, there was one happening every day with multiple victims each, but over the course of the past two weeks, there had on be thee, and of those, the time between had increased significantly. There had not been a Slasher killing in four days, and as they say, "No news is good news." Marcus wasn't often prone to optimism, but he had to admit a certain amount of joy in not having a nightly glance at death in its sickest, most deprived forms, as well as a bit of hope that maybe the end was in sight. Maybe this week all he would have to deal with would be a couple of drunks brawling and a domestic disturbance from the Clarences when they started blowing up their basement lab again.
One could hope.
Marcus inserted his key into the lock of his front door, turned it, and opened the door. He made sure to be quiet so that he wouldn't disturb Sarah, his wife. She was probably asleep, worn out from a long day at the auction house. Marcus peeled off his boots, setting them down beside Sarah's shoes, and made his way to the bedroom. When he reached for the doorknob to the bedroom, the hairs on his forearm stood on end, as if they were reacting to something. Every muscle in Marcus's body tensed, his fear bringing him back to sobriety instantly. The faint smell of blood and ozone was in the air. Blood. Coming from his bedroom. Where his wife should be. Marcus swore and drew his sword, opening the door quickly, anger rushing through him as he prepared for the worst.
Inside the small bedroom, containing a bed, a dresser, a single window looking out at the aqueducts, and a door leading into the closet, there was little in the way of places to hide. The bed, covered in thick blankets, contained one human sized lump with Sarah Jaxon's head emerging from beneath them, resting peacefully upon the pillow. Beside the bed was a chair that belonged in the common room, with the others at the dining table. The occupant of the chair had it balanced on one leg, leaning backwards against the wall. His eyes were hidden behind mechanical goggles with glowing green lenses, his face behind a mask with stitching in the pattern of a fanged, grinning mouth. His hair was all shaved off, save for a green mohawk, spiked upward like a blade. Dark leather armor covered every inch of his body from the neck down, a hooded cloak around his shoulders thrown back and pooling on the floor. Knives of a variety of different shapes and sizes adorned the man's body in bandoleers and belts, and a pair of axes with wickedly jagged blades hung from his waist. One gloved hand stroked Sarah's head, and Marcus had no doubt the man was smiling behind that mask.
Marcus Jaxon had no doubt as to who this man was.
"Evening, Offissser Marcusss Jakssson," the man said, his ess's coming out in a hiss, like a snake. Somewhat fitting in Jaxon's mind. "Don't worry. I haven't done anything to Sssarah...yet." He shifted his balance, returning the chair to all four feet and settling his feet on the ground as well. Marcus's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but for now, he waited. He didn't know how fast this man was, and didn't want to risk his wife's life finding out. "Not that shhhe would have not enjoyed what I thought about doing..." He chuckled and mimed thrusting his hips. Marcus could feel himself growing warmer as he became angrier. The man stood and started walking towards Marcus. "Shhhe would have ssscreamed for me like you can't make her. Ssscreamed in pleasssure like you have never made her." The man was within arm's reach now, well within sword range. Marcus raised his sword, intent on bringing it down on this menace to society, only to watch as the man turned into a cloud of shadow and disappeared, his goggles the last to fade.
"Shhhe would have begged me for more, like shhhe never begsss you," the man continued, this time from behind Marcus. Marcus whirled around, leading with his sword. His arm caught on something he couldn't see in the darkness. It felt like wire. He tried pulling his arm away, but that only caused the wire holding his arm to tighten. He pulled harder and the wire suddenly slackened, and unprepared for the lack of resistance, Marcus toppled to the side, into a web of wires. Panicking, Marcus thrashed, trying to escape the web of wires, to no avail. The more he struggled, the more secure the web of wires seemed. The man rematerialized from the shadow, staring down at Marcus, the grin of his mask matching what it surely concealed. Marcus watched the man, fear in his eyes.
The man leaned down, his face inches from Marcus's, and said "Maybe I'll yet have fun with her. Maybe I'll make you watch. We'll play again sssoon." The man turned around and pressed a button on his belt. A blue portal opened, lighting the room, and the Stormwind Slasher stepped through, leaving behind a blast of snow and cold air from the portal before it closed. Marcus Jaxon stared at the spot that the man who had caused him so much torment and grief, caused the whole city so much grief, for the past several months, had occupied and silently thanked the gods that he and his wife were not yet another pair of names on the list of victims.
"If I can't eat it, ssscrew it, sssell it, or ussse it to blow sssomething up, then what ussse isss it?" ~Inzema
Re: It's all fun and games.
Inzema watched, wrapped in shadows as the death knight sorted through his safety deposit box. It had been a long time. His tongue darted past blood stained teeth to bloodless lips as he waited for the room to empty. He touched his dice to his chest. The knight ran a hand through his white hair, blue glowing eyes focused on his task. He finally finished what he was doing and began to place the box back into its place. Inzema cast his dice.
The first clattered across the stone, landing finally. Skull.
The second bounced, rolling towards the death knight. It stopped at his feet. The death knight looked down, pausing in reshelving his box to see what it was that had rolled to his feet. Inzema slipped forward, still wrapped safely from sight in shadows, to see what the dice had called for.
Skull.
Inzema smiled. The death knight never had a chance to scream before his throat was shut with a garrote.
-~-~-
It had been a long time.
Marcus Jaxon looked at the corpses strung together with wire in the bank with disdain. He recognized the style immediately. He knew what he was going to be dealing with even before he had seen the carnage first hand. It had been too much to hope that his nemesis had been killed in the Shattering. His fist closed tightly around the hilt of his sword and he stormed from the bank, past the investigation team that was just now filing in to try and determine anything they could about the killer. He knew how worthless it had been the last time, and he knew how worthless it would be now. Marcus strode with a purpose, ignoring Pomeroy and Brady as they approached, ignoring them still as they fell into step behind him. He walked into the Trade District Guard Station, to his office. His office was small, uncluttered, and neat. The oak desk had no decorations, save his name on a simple folded piece of steel. The walls had no decorations, simply several cork boards with wanted posters and persons of interest in crimes. Marcus walked behind his desk and sat down. Pomeroy fiddled with his tabard nervously while Brady watched like one of the marble statues that greeted all who entered Stormwind by the gates. Marcus unlocked the bottom drawer in his desk and began flipping through folders until he found the correct one. He opened it and took out the wanted poster within.
Wanted: Dead or Alive
Stormwind Slasher
Reward of Five Thousand Gold for information leading to the positive identification, capture, and prosecution of the person or persons involved with the tortures, rapes, and murders associated with the Stormwind Slasher.
Beneath the words was a space for a picture, but it was left blank. There had been a wanted poster issued with a description of the man, (average height, black cloak, black hood, green glowing eyes, possibly lenses, hissing speech) but that had led to the capture and eventual release of half a dozen of the rogues and cutthroats of an equal number of adventuring guilds. Not only had there been no evidence to support their apture, but there also had been no evidence that any one of them, most of whom were engineers, had any alchemical expertise, which would have been necessary for the poisons that had been left in the bodies of most of the victims.
Marcus placed the wanted poster back on his bulletin board, beside the picture of Ranavos Dryandson and Inzema of the Grim.
"H-he's back? Oh Light..." Pomeroy sounded like he was going to be sick. Brady didn't look surprised at all. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "We had better get out there. Hopefully this time we can catch the bastard."
The first clattered across the stone, landing finally. Skull.
The second bounced, rolling towards the death knight. It stopped at his feet. The death knight looked down, pausing in reshelving his box to see what it was that had rolled to his feet. Inzema slipped forward, still wrapped safely from sight in shadows, to see what the dice had called for.
Skull.
Inzema smiled. The death knight never had a chance to scream before his throat was shut with a garrote.
-~-~-
It had been a long time.
Marcus Jaxon looked at the corpses strung together with wire in the bank with disdain. He recognized the style immediately. He knew what he was going to be dealing with even before he had seen the carnage first hand. It had been too much to hope that his nemesis had been killed in the Shattering. His fist closed tightly around the hilt of his sword and he stormed from the bank, past the investigation team that was just now filing in to try and determine anything they could about the killer. He knew how worthless it had been the last time, and he knew how worthless it would be now. Marcus strode with a purpose, ignoring Pomeroy and Brady as they approached, ignoring them still as they fell into step behind him. He walked into the Trade District Guard Station, to his office. His office was small, uncluttered, and neat. The oak desk had no decorations, save his name on a simple folded piece of steel. The walls had no decorations, simply several cork boards with wanted posters and persons of interest in crimes. Marcus walked behind his desk and sat down. Pomeroy fiddled with his tabard nervously while Brady watched like one of the marble statues that greeted all who entered Stormwind by the gates. Marcus unlocked the bottom drawer in his desk and began flipping through folders until he found the correct one. He opened it and took out the wanted poster within.
Wanted: Dead or Alive
Stormwind Slasher
Reward of Five Thousand Gold for information leading to the positive identification, capture, and prosecution of the person or persons involved with the tortures, rapes, and murders associated with the Stormwind Slasher.
Beneath the words was a space for a picture, but it was left blank. There had been a wanted poster issued with a description of the man, (average height, black cloak, black hood, green glowing eyes, possibly lenses, hissing speech) but that had led to the capture and eventual release of half a dozen of the rogues and cutthroats of an equal number of adventuring guilds. Not only had there been no evidence to support their apture, but there also had been no evidence that any one of them, most of whom were engineers, had any alchemical expertise, which would have been necessary for the poisons that had been left in the bodies of most of the victims.
Marcus placed the wanted poster back on his bulletin board, beside the picture of Ranavos Dryandson and Inzema of the Grim.
"H-he's back? Oh Light..." Pomeroy sounded like he was going to be sick. Brady didn't look surprised at all. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "We had better get out there. Hopefully this time we can catch the bastard."
"If I can't eat it, ssscrew it, sssell it, or ussse it to blow sssomething up, then what ussse isss it?" ~Inzema
Re: It's all fun and games.
Marcus Jaxon was enjoying dinner at home for the first time in a week when his communicator bleeped. Instead of paying attention to the gnome-crafted makertech device, he took another bite of roast beef and corn. Sarah looked past Marcus to the communicator, sitting on the table by the door with Marcus' swords and breastplate. She shook her head and continued to eat as well. The device bleeped again, static noise following the bleep. The static resolved into a fuzzy voice, indistinguishable and incomprehensible. Marcus resolutely ignored the device, shoveling more food into his mouth. His brow furrowed, however, as agitation began to build up inside of him. The communicator bleeped a third time, and this time an understandable voice came through. "Jaxon, you there?" A man's voice, though the distortion of the communicator made it so Marcus could not identify it. He set down his fork and knife slowly, deliberately, controlling his temper at being interrupted for something likely trivial and on his night off, to boot. Pomeroy was covering part his patrol today to give him time to have his anniversary dinner with Sarah. There was no reason anyone should be interrupting. Marcus stood and walked to the communicator. He keyed the device, listening to the feedback as it synchronized frequencies and security, and when it did, he spoke.
"Officer Jaxon here. Who is this?" He was unable to keep his irritation entirely out of his voice, and hoped that it wasn't his boss or someone else up the chain of command. The communicator bleeped and crackled again before resolving into a more distinguishable voice. "Jaxon, it's Astav. I've got another on the Slasher." Marcus clenched the controller in his fist and carefully keyed the device again. "I'm off tonight, Astav." "Maybe you are, but do you think Brady and Pomeroy can see what you can?" Marcus thought about it for a moment. Pomeroy still had too weak of a stomach to be able to handle any of the Slasher killings, and Brady's eyes weren't as sharp. Astav was a clever investigator, but the SI:7 agent had produced as few leads as the others. Marcus sighed and looked back to Sarah. She nodded grimly. "Go, love. Keep the city safe." Marcus nodded and slipped the communicator into his belt, not giving Astav a response out of spite. In seconds he had strapped on his breastplate and swords. Sarah came behind him and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against the enchanted steed encasing him now. "Be careful out there," she said, worry seeping into her voice. She had seen his face often enough after going to one of the Slasher's crime scenes that she knew enough to hate it without having ever truly seeing the aftermath.
Marcus slipped from her arms and turned around, pulling his wife close and planting a kiss on her head. He held her like that for a long moment, memory slipping back to the time he had met the Slasher in this very room. "I will. Lock the doors while I'm gone. Don't let anyone in." Sarah nodded, tracing a finger across the lion etched into his chest. Marcus kissed her one more time before breaking the embrace, collecting his cloak, and marching resolutely out into the night.
-~-~-
Elsewhere, Erik Astav smiled as he stared at the scene before him. A gaunt man, nude above the waist, stood atop a mound of people supporting him, smiling and posing heroically with his hands on his waist. The people supporting him were all in poses of submission and strain, pain on their faces. Fifteen in all. If it weren't for the spiderweb of wires holding every detail in place, including facial expressions, of the sixteen dead, it could have been mistaken for a piece of art. One would have had to ignore the blood as well, which due to the quantity and variety of the killed had been quite impressive and mixed, blue and purple blood mixing with red. After a bit of looking, Astav spotted the Draenei, source of the purple blood. A fully nude female, atop the pile and holding onto the man atop the pile's leg as if it was her only hope of survival. Unlike the rest of the bodies, hers was marred nearly beyond recognition from the waist down with cuts, bite marks, and literal chunks of flesh ripped from her calves, thighs, and hips as if she had been savaged by a dog or some beast. The walls of the alley were spattered with blood, and while the uneducated eye would not see the pattern there, Astav could see it, and was sure that Jaxon would see it when he arrived. It was a map of the sewers of Stormwind, with the center of the drawn map, the location of the pile of bodies, being the exact sewer entrance the bodies were placed upon.
The clomp of boots from behind caught Astav's attention, and he turned to see Jaxon walking into the alley. Jaxon seemed to have a sixth sense about where to find trouble, which was why Astav hadn't felt the need to tell him where the scene was. Jaxon's face was grim, but Astav noted anger, disgust, and fear on his face, strictly schooled into a mask of professional indifference. Astav tapped his forehead as a salute to the guardsman, who ignored it, stroking his beard as he took in the scene. He dared not enter the alley further, for fear of disturbing the scene which had been meticulously prepared. Astav crossed his arms and waited while Jaxon looked, waiting patiently. Jaxon finally broke the silence.
"This is the most elaborate to date. Unless he now has accomplices, which I doubt, this must have taken him four hours at least." Astav nodded his agreement and pointed to the man atop the pile. "I think that is supposed to be a representation of himself." Jaxon grunted, narrowing his eyes at the corpse. "There's something in his hand...We'll need a mage to get it before we disassemble the pile." Astav grunted a negative. He drew a small mechanical device from his cloak, a box about the size of his head with a mechanical hand on an extendable arm. Astav worked the device carefully, directing the hand towards the gaunt man's hand. It took several tries, but he was able to get whatever it was free and back without losing it. He took it from the device and put the device away before taking a moment to actually look at what he was holding. It was the Bounty section of the Violet Eye, the new paper that had been circulating from Dalaran. Scrawled across the page was "Hahaha!" with an arrow pointing to the bounty on the Stormwind Slasher. Jaxon grabbed the page to look at it himself, cursed, and threw it to the ground. "He's fucking with us! Laughing at us! It's not even full night yet, which means that if he started this about four hours ago, the sun would have been up. How did nobody see him?" Astav shrugged, his expression unreadable in the shadows of his hood. Jaxon stopped his ranting for a moment before looking squarely at Astav. "How did you find this first?" Astav shrugged, then pointed to one of the buildings. "My apartment is in that building. I was coming back from the compound when I smelled the blood. When I got here, it wasn't visible from the street, but if you walked into the alley it suddenly appeared." Jaxon calmed slightly and went back to stroking his beard. He looked towards the pile again. "You called the mages?" Jaxon asked, a sound of defeat in his voice. Astav grunted an affirmative. Jaxon nodded to himself and turned back to Astav. "I'm going home, then. This creature knows where I live. I'm making sure my wife is okay." Jaxon pushed past Astav and out of the alley. Down the street he saw a pair of blue robed men approaching, probably the magi, and ignored them. He went back home.
"Officer Jaxon here. Who is this?" He was unable to keep his irritation entirely out of his voice, and hoped that it wasn't his boss or someone else up the chain of command. The communicator bleeped and crackled again before resolving into a more distinguishable voice. "Jaxon, it's Astav. I've got another on the Slasher." Marcus clenched the controller in his fist and carefully keyed the device again. "I'm off tonight, Astav." "Maybe you are, but do you think Brady and Pomeroy can see what you can?" Marcus thought about it for a moment. Pomeroy still had too weak of a stomach to be able to handle any of the Slasher killings, and Brady's eyes weren't as sharp. Astav was a clever investigator, but the SI:7 agent had produced as few leads as the others. Marcus sighed and looked back to Sarah. She nodded grimly. "Go, love. Keep the city safe." Marcus nodded and slipped the communicator into his belt, not giving Astav a response out of spite. In seconds he had strapped on his breastplate and swords. Sarah came behind him and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against the enchanted steed encasing him now. "Be careful out there," she said, worry seeping into her voice. She had seen his face often enough after going to one of the Slasher's crime scenes that she knew enough to hate it without having ever truly seeing the aftermath.
Marcus slipped from her arms and turned around, pulling his wife close and planting a kiss on her head. He held her like that for a long moment, memory slipping back to the time he had met the Slasher in this very room. "I will. Lock the doors while I'm gone. Don't let anyone in." Sarah nodded, tracing a finger across the lion etched into his chest. Marcus kissed her one more time before breaking the embrace, collecting his cloak, and marching resolutely out into the night.
-~-~-
Elsewhere, Erik Astav smiled as he stared at the scene before him. A gaunt man, nude above the waist, stood atop a mound of people supporting him, smiling and posing heroically with his hands on his waist. The people supporting him were all in poses of submission and strain, pain on their faces. Fifteen in all. If it weren't for the spiderweb of wires holding every detail in place, including facial expressions, of the sixteen dead, it could have been mistaken for a piece of art. One would have had to ignore the blood as well, which due to the quantity and variety of the killed had been quite impressive and mixed, blue and purple blood mixing with red. After a bit of looking, Astav spotted the Draenei, source of the purple blood. A fully nude female, atop the pile and holding onto the man atop the pile's leg as if it was her only hope of survival. Unlike the rest of the bodies, hers was marred nearly beyond recognition from the waist down with cuts, bite marks, and literal chunks of flesh ripped from her calves, thighs, and hips as if she had been savaged by a dog or some beast. The walls of the alley were spattered with blood, and while the uneducated eye would not see the pattern there, Astav could see it, and was sure that Jaxon would see it when he arrived. It was a map of the sewers of Stormwind, with the center of the drawn map, the location of the pile of bodies, being the exact sewer entrance the bodies were placed upon.
The clomp of boots from behind caught Astav's attention, and he turned to see Jaxon walking into the alley. Jaxon seemed to have a sixth sense about where to find trouble, which was why Astav hadn't felt the need to tell him where the scene was. Jaxon's face was grim, but Astav noted anger, disgust, and fear on his face, strictly schooled into a mask of professional indifference. Astav tapped his forehead as a salute to the guardsman, who ignored it, stroking his beard as he took in the scene. He dared not enter the alley further, for fear of disturbing the scene which had been meticulously prepared. Astav crossed his arms and waited while Jaxon looked, waiting patiently. Jaxon finally broke the silence.
"This is the most elaborate to date. Unless he now has accomplices, which I doubt, this must have taken him four hours at least." Astav nodded his agreement and pointed to the man atop the pile. "I think that is supposed to be a representation of himself." Jaxon grunted, narrowing his eyes at the corpse. "There's something in his hand...We'll need a mage to get it before we disassemble the pile." Astav grunted a negative. He drew a small mechanical device from his cloak, a box about the size of his head with a mechanical hand on an extendable arm. Astav worked the device carefully, directing the hand towards the gaunt man's hand. It took several tries, but he was able to get whatever it was free and back without losing it. He took it from the device and put the device away before taking a moment to actually look at what he was holding. It was the Bounty section of the Violet Eye, the new paper that had been circulating from Dalaran. Scrawled across the page was "Hahaha!" with an arrow pointing to the bounty on the Stormwind Slasher. Jaxon grabbed the page to look at it himself, cursed, and threw it to the ground. "He's fucking with us! Laughing at us! It's not even full night yet, which means that if he started this about four hours ago, the sun would have been up. How did nobody see him?" Astav shrugged, his expression unreadable in the shadows of his hood. Jaxon stopped his ranting for a moment before looking squarely at Astav. "How did you find this first?" Astav shrugged, then pointed to one of the buildings. "My apartment is in that building. I was coming back from the compound when I smelled the blood. When I got here, it wasn't visible from the street, but if you walked into the alley it suddenly appeared." Jaxon calmed slightly and went back to stroking his beard. He looked towards the pile again. "You called the mages?" Jaxon asked, a sound of defeat in his voice. Astav grunted an affirmative. Jaxon nodded to himself and turned back to Astav. "I'm going home, then. This creature knows where I live. I'm making sure my wife is okay." Jaxon pushed past Astav and out of the alley. Down the street he saw a pair of blue robed men approaching, probably the magi, and ignored them. He went back home.
"Perfection is my goal. Stand in my way if you dare."