Busted

This series of short stories has been written in response to in-game occurrences. A new mercenary company with hot-shot spies has cropped up to threaten Division Eighty-Four as the sole intelligence arm of the Knights of Menethil.

. . . . . "Do you know how loud a heartbeat is in a place that never has one?"
. . . . . Grinning impudently, the petite woman in scuffed grey leathers dropped down off the stone ledge running about nine feet above the floor of the hallway in Acherus. Both her hands were clasped in front of her as she rocked back on her heels and bent at the waist like a schoolgirl with a secret. "Fiiiiine. I know I ent sneakin' up on you f'r nothin' anyway, boss." As inconspicuously as possible, she melted back into an alcove.
. . . . . The death knight whose walk she interrupted paused to press a shoulder to the wall as he adjusted the fit of his pauldron. "There's a reason I have you use the crows."
. . . . . "Aye, aye. But I didn't wanna be tellin' Norm this 'un an' he'd have t' write it up an' everything."
. . . . . "Out with it."
. . . . . "One o' y'r wolves came sniffin' about me earlier today. Saw me send that crow-gram this afternoon."
. . . . . "Did he now?" A gauntleted hand came up as the death knight inspected his armor for - and brushed free - a bit of dark explosive powder.
. . . . . "Knew my name, boss. My description. Now how'd a man o' th' grave be findin' that? You ent sellin' me out, are you, boss?" Instead of sounding threatening, she sounded scared. Small, fragile, and scared.
. . . . . The gauntlet produced a cupcake through some mystical feat of prestidigitation, and just as miraculously, a small hand covered in a fingerless grey leather glove made the cupcake disappear once more. "I assure you, if you cross me to that point, you will be aware of it." The chill in the response brought an audible gulp from the shadows which had nothing to do with the consumption of baked goods. "Have you considered that you gave your name and a description was taken when you signed on at SI:7, and that SI:7 was raided some months back? By now, those files are on the open circuit." Another fearful gulp. Unfazed, the death knight checked the hang of the spines writhing on his belt. "As a strictly undercover operative, your cover is getting thin."
. . . . . "I c'n change th' look up!" came a swift protest.
. . . . . "That is not the issue. I know you are more than capable of that." There was a pause as one of the hapless mooks stuck on foot patrol marched by, his expression speaking of tedium unshaken by the Brigadier standing in the hallway while he adjusted one of the straps on his chestplate. "Who was it that approached you?"
. . . . . Between bites of cupcake, she answered, "Looked li' -mmmf- you a bit, 'e did. Wot with th' -nomm- spines on 'is belt. Ebon -mmfle- tabard, hood up. Right 'bout six tall. -mmwah- Tips of 'is fingers were pale, an' he said 'is spines came from Northrend. Seemed t' imply he an' I shared a home, if you catch my meanin', but he ended up tellin' th' gal - roundaboutly, mind - that 'e was concerned with th' Knights 'Ebon or Menethil' which makes me think 'e's yours. A right wolf though - said it 'imself a few times. In th' business with a brother. I ent knowin' you had brother pairs."
. . . . . "What 'gal'?"
. . . . . She took a breath of still, fetid, chilly air and continued, "He was approached by a gal with a hood, gave a name of 'Esleca Desarc' an' claimed 'Crusade' an' 'Verdict.' She wanted unfettered access to Acherus from him in turn f'r givin' up info on some 'fel friend.' Mentioned problems with someone wot you lot ran into in th' Enclave. Had a fancy paper she said was from th' Highlord wot she gave 'im." There was another breath in the shadows.
. . . . . "Th' dead fella said he'd have an associate send a letter." Her tone was almost despondent, not a far cry from the earlier fear in her voice.
. . . . . "Send up a crow when it arrives."
. . . . . There was a sigh. "Can I 'ave another cuppy-cake?"
. . . . . As if by magic, a second one appeared. "Consider this report paid for."
. . . . . "Of course, boss!"

-----

. . . . . Twilight painted the newly-reinforced walls of Light's Hope in pomegranate and wine, the red haze from the plagued lands to the west deepening the strained sunlight as it slouched on the horizon. Bone-tired and rattled, Ilva finally crawled into the small traveling tent nestled at the base of the southern wall.
. . . . . "Oy, budge over. I need room too, y'know," she groused at her companion, already in the tent. She crawled on hands and knees into the peak-roofed tent, her slim shoulders brushing one of the heavily slanted fabric sides as she tried to find space on the wool-packed sleeping mat she shared with Norm. For his part, he lay on his stomach, ignoring her in favor of some complex wiring diagram. She took care to put an elbow just above his kidneys as she flipped over onto her behind; he grunted and scooted over two inches.
. . . . . "What'cha readin'?" Wiggling and twisting, she began unwinding the mottled gray cloth and leather she used for shadow-work.
. . . . . "High-yield, shaped seaforium charge," Norm muttered absently.
. . . . . "Ooo, talk dirty to me, Badge," she joked, flopping onto her back and lifting her hips so she could peel her tight leather pants off. Something in her left pocket made a crunchy sound. There shouldn't be anything to make a sound like that... She stilled, a frown pulling her brows together as she worked a hand into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled note. "Wot...?" Propping herself on one elbow, she stared blankly at the squiggly lines. There were less of them than in the report she'd sent up by crowgram earlier in the day, and she knew she'd sent that paper up. What, then, was this? She smoothed it out on her thigh, then thrust the paper under Norm's nose, between his eyes and the wiring diagram. "Nooorm! Wot's this say?"
. . . . . With a gusty sigh which spoke tomes upon tomes about annoyance, Norm pulled the note out of her hand and held it farther from his eyes so he could read it. "'Don't take it personally, but I didn't have time to chat.' Chat? 'Meet me for a drink sometime, and I'll explain the particulars that my "knightly" brother hinted at.' A drink?! Signed, 'The Black Wolf.' Wot the-...?" A feral growl resonated from Norm's throat and Ilva stilled on instinct. "You been sniffin' around other men, Ginny?" Her back hit the wool sleeping pad as self-preservation took over and she exposed her belly and throat in submission. A heavy thigh slid over her legs, pinning her down, and a sword-calloused hand spanned her neck. Norm's breath was hot with rage as he bent his head and snarled in her ear, "You smell like cupcakes an' death, li'l Rabbit..."
. . . . . Swallowing hard pushed her throat against his hand, but she couldn't help gulping for air before trying to explain. "It weren't like that, Norm. Honest! There was this stiff - one o' bossman's men - asked a moment o' time. I just put my back to a tree an' heard 'im out." Twelve years of strict training over her body's responses was the only thing which kept her from stiffening in alarm as she realized that someone must have slipped that note into her pocket after she sent the crowgram. She'd not been bumped, felt a brush, or even a breeze. The tree didn't even rustle. No one was that light-fingered! "The stiff must've magicked it into my pocket, Norm. I swear I didn't do nuthin'. I ent into bangin' coffins. I swear it."
. . . . . The hand on her throat didn't move. "You been a doxie before."
. . . . . "I ent been one f'r years an' you know it, Norm." She whined pathetically as he set his teeth on her ear and tightened his hand just shy of enough to make her dizzy. "I wouldn't be givin' you lover's notes t' read me," she reasoned, "I ent stupid."
. . . . . There was more of the wolf in Norm's voice than the man as he growled in her ear, "You gonna meet this man for a drink?"
. . . . . "Ent particularly keen on it, no."
. . . . . "You said this stiff's one o' th' Baker's?"
. . . . . She tried to nod, but stopped when her chin bumped his hand.
. . . . . "I got a plan..." Norm mused.
. . . . . Ilva breathed a deep sigh of relief as the angry wolfish man released her and went back to his wiring diagram.

Site Write Entry #36: The Big Time

Prompt: June 11, 2012 - Your character's greatest accomplishment thus far.

. . . . . Some might call the empty chapel with its smashed pews and old bloodstains creepy or frightening. Were she in her usual frame of mind, Ilva would probably agree with them. But at this moment, just for now, she was sitting in the best place on Azeroth.
. . . . . Because she'd just pulled the con job of her life.
. . . . . It was everything she could do to restrain her giggles as she cradled the hefty sack of coin in her hands. It would not do to giggle and alert the Ebon Blade fellows still searching for her to where she'd skipped off to after speaking to their leader, a worgen she'd started thinking of - fondly! - as Fuzzy. Oh, things were clear now. Fuzzy wasn't the leader; he was under the baker man. The baker man paid her a small fortune for a rush delivery job into the dark recesses of Acherus. Then she'd turned that into double-hazard pay plus bonus with a few empty promises of aid to Fuzzy. So she'd had to sell out the boss...a little. He wouldn't get too upset with her when she told him she'd mentioned that he sent her to Fuzzy. After all, they worked together! When bossman was feeling alright.
. . . . . The wide grin on her face slipped a little, a moment's worry for her now second favorite employer. Something was wrong with him, but it was very hard to worry when he gave her two thousand golds (a sum which took her six months to save up for the parts for that fancy air machine she'd made) to carry a box. She liked that kind of wrong, instead of being paid in cupcakes and sums in the forty to four hundred range.
. . . . . No! She would not allow worry to ruin this moment! Wedging herself further underneath the shattered remnants of the cleric's podium, Ilva dipped her fingers into the pouch - it was nearly as large as a grapefruit! - and petted the gleaming coins within. They clinked. Answering the clink, she heard a faint sigh as a Scarlet Crusader skull under the podium with her finally gave out from the vagaries of time and crumbled into dust.
. . . . . Shrieking would be undignified and get her caught. It was no worse than having a spider crawl across one's nose while hiding in the shadows of a tavern's rafters. Nevertheless, she got as far as opening her mouth before muting the impulse to scream as she darted out of the decrepit old chapel and headed for the hills of Tyr's Hand, money pouch clutched tightly to her chest like an infant.

Site Write Entry #35: A Crying Shame

Prompt: June 10, 2012 - Your character finds someone a crying mess. They explained their life is miserable and they cannot stand the fact someone won't change despite countless encounters to try and help the troubled party. What does your character do?

A Crying Shame (or Dear God, This One Stumped Me)

. . . . . "Would you like a flower, miss? Free flower for a pretty la-..." The girl with a large basket of flowers on her arm trailed off as her intended vict-...er, giftee looked up from the bench. The 'miss' was actually a 'mister,' though his slight frame and luxurious golden locks were almost as easy to mistake as his lightish red dress-...er, robe.
. . . . . For her part, no one would mistake Ilva for the night elf she was dressed up to be, but that was part of the fun, really. She smeared violet pigment on all her exposed skin, wore what she best assumed those pretty elves would wear, tied long purple feathers on her ears, and skipped about as Thaylidel Florabottom, flower girl extraordinaire. Naturally, it made people smile, and her bright nature led them all to assume she was simple. Miss Florabottom picked up a lot of gossip around the Cathedral this way.
. . . . . The effete fellow sitting on the bench near the fountain squinted at her through puffy eyes set above damp tear tracks on his rounded cheeks. He sniffled a bit and seemed confused by the flower held out to him.
. . . . . "Free flower, sir, to cheer you up?" Thaylidel Florabottom's voice was gentle and her smile sunny.
. . . . . "Er, no. I'm allergic." He bent his head to wipe his face on his sleeve.
. . . . . Suddenly, that purple-smudged face was back in his vision. She'd dropped down into a crouch to look up at him. "Hey. Hey. What's wrong, mister?"
. . . . . For several moments, he blinked dumbfoundedly at the oddity of it all. "No... No one bothers with that."
. . . . . "I do! Here, budge over." The purple girl crowded him until there was space on the bench for her to sit down. "It helps to talk when you're sad."
. . . . . The way she said it reminded him of an eight-year-old repeating adages from her parents in order to sound wise. It was rather hard to turn down. "There's this boy..."
. . . . . Ah, Cathedral District. Most stories started this way, really. Once the man in the lightish red dress had explained about his best friend and said friend's unceasing habit of betting on racing turtles, Ilva - or, rather, Thaylidel Florabottom - grabbed him by the hand and unceremoniously dragged him out to Canal Street for a cupcake and perhaps a contract to rig the turtle races.

Site Write Entry #31: Confessional

Prompt: June 6, 2012 - Confessions. Your character is brought somewhere by or against their will to confess something they are guilty of, carrying in their heart and/or withholding from the enemy. Is the confession simple or did the secrets have to be ripped from your flesh? Explain what happens and whether your character breaks.

. . . . . One of the worst parts of being immersed in life on the streets was being subject to the vagaries of life on the streets. You go and do everything you can to set up your reputation in the proper circles and let it be known that you run with the rest of the gutter-scum, and then some new bucks come into town not knowing the rules and think they'll be Billy Badass and nab themselves a merchant's wife for ransom gold.
. . . . . Ilva blinked several times at the wan torchlight in the dusty cellar. It wasn't so much that it was bright, but that after several hours with her hood over her head down to her nose and her runecloth bandages wrapped over her eyes, the return to vision was eye-watering. The goose egg throbbing on the back of her skull didn't help either.
. . . . . "Oy," grumped one of the looming shadows, "who's yer man? Bet he's gonna pay a pretty peck f'r you, ain't he?"
. . . . . "You can't ransom me, you twit," she groused, still too busy blinking away tears to focus on any of the four shadows in the room.
. . . . . "Cow patties, I cain't!" Her peripheral vision had recovered enough to show her a thick-fingered hand reaching out and plucking up the fabric of her robe over her knee. "I been watchin' you make trade deals all afternoon down dockside. You'll fetch us a right fine sack o' coin. So who's yer man?"
. . . . . "You ent gettin' squat off me, ninny-noggin, 'cause I ent worth it!" Ilva shot back, wriggling her arms behind her as she tested the amount of play in the ropes tying her to the rickety chair. Two of the four shadows around her moved off, clearly taken aback by her street-savvy response.
. . . . . But Thicky here just wasn't all that bright. He set his fingers on either side of her chin and lifted her head. "Mebbe we take our piece outta yer hide first, then we get yer fella payin' f'r his pretty wife back." Although she was taking pains to keep up her blind ruse and not focus on his face, the leer was fairly unmistakable.
. . . . . With a tone usually reserved for talking to the hard-of-hearing, the elderly, or the very young, Ilva gritted her teeth and asked, "Which group you runnin' with?"
. . . . . "Wot?"
. . . . . "Which. Group. Are. You. Running. With?"
. . . . . Thicky - who was less an indistinct shadow now and more a broadly over-fed, slobbery-lipped roller with limbs - dropped his hand from her face and stuck his chest out like the lumps on his chest were muscles; she was very good and did not giggle at his cleavage. "Ain't nobody we answer to in this town! We of the Grey Goose follow our own code!" 'Grey Goose' had to be the stupidest gang name she'd ever heard. What sort of moron named their gang that? "An' as its Upright Man, I say I'm ransomin' you - to yer man or a flesh trader." That answered that question. "Just as soon as you squawk out who."
. . . . . "That ent how it works in a big city like this," Ilva tried to patiently explain. "There's alliances 'twixt parties, affiliates and alliances to be maintained. You don't go nabbin' on another's turf an' expect not to be answerin' for it." Her head rocked to the side as Thicky laid a meaty palm to her cheek with the force of a Tram car. Pausing speech for a moment, she darted her tongue to the left side of her mouth and checked that none of her teeth wiggled. All solid. "Ow," she whined, then went on, "Like here. This is Canal Rats territory. They ent as violent as, say, Sanguines get, but they ent gonna be too pleased at poachin'."
. . . . . "Oy, boss," one of the two who'd stepped back dared to venture, "I don't think she's some merchantman's skirt."
. . . . . "Shut up, Galdir," snapped Thicky. He grabbed her robe again and gave it a good tug, trying to rip the skirt free.
. . . . . "Hey! Woah! Ho there! Ent none o' that!" Ilva protested, twisting in the chair she was tied to. "Look, I'll squawk, alright?" A breeze made one of the torches gutter and she got a whiff of cigar smoke, mint canes, and the faintest hint of fur; in order to cover the inevitable faint clanking, she made more of a show of wiggling in her chair so it creaked and groaned. "I ent wantin' to divulge this, see, and I ent a fan of sellin' out those wot keep me safe, so I'm only tellin' you who my man is...'cause I expect you're 'bout to meet 'im."
. . . . . A heavily-armed and armored brawler leaned a plate-covered shoulder on the doorjamb and tipped an invisible hat at the thief tied up in the chair in the cellar. "Oy, Rabbit, wot'd you get into?"
. . . . . "Just tryin' to get home, Badge." (Eredis's entry #32 immediately follows this incident from Badge's point of view.)

Site Write Entry #29: Drive

Prompt: June 4, 2012 - How does your character push forward?

. . . . . It was everywhere - dripping from necks, sliding on wrists, dangling from ears, even jangling around ankles. Some digging company had a fancy gala ball celebration and if anyone knew how to do fancy, it was folks who pulled things out of the ground and shined 'em up. Everyone was dressed in their shiniest finery, and Ilva simply could not take her eyes off the glitter as she walked around clustered groups of laughing people with a tray, offering them drinks.
. . . . . Ordinarily, she avoided Ironforge. It was a touch warm and the enclosed, underground city reminded her uncomfortably of a jail cell - not, that is, that'd she'd ever been nabbed and forced to endure one. In addition, if the bossman got word of her pulling any work around these folk, he'd slice her ears off, feed them to her, and then start on the torture. This company had been expressly forbidden to her for any work - for or against - when she hired on.
. . . . . But the lure of the glitter was too much.
. . . . . There. That group was on round six. They had to be feeling pretty darn good by now. A giggling young human lady lurched as she reached for one of the drinks Ilva was serving, knocking into the "waitress." Ilva caught her, though the drink spilled on her dress. An earbob ended up in her pocket.
. . . . . A particularly spry dwarf caught her around the thigh and grinned; Ilva wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she saw a wink somewhere in that beardy mass. As requested, she gave him a dance - whirling on the floor like waltzing with a partner some foot and a half shorter was not a challenge at all. (Not that anyone else recognized it as a waltz, as neither party actually knew how to dance.) It was six hours later that he noticed he'd dropped his coin pouch somewhere.
. . . . . Several older ladies - though still far from matronly - stood in a circle on the side, gossiping and chattering like a flock of birds. Hands waved and fluttered, curls were fingered, hair was tossed, laughs were faked (or not). Somehow in the melee, one of the waitresses handing out some delightful pomegranate and Dreaming Glory mixed drinks slipped in a joke which had the whole sewing circle doubled over in laughter. She slipped out with a necklace up her sleeve.
. . . . . The Rush suffused her and she grinned broadly, setting down her fifteenth empty tray and becoming suddenly quite scarce down a service hallway to the Tram. Weighted by her newest acquisitions, Ilva felt light as a feather as the Rush lifted her spirits and her heels with the pure fuel of adrenaline and accomplishment, driving her forward.

Site Write Entry #18: Demiurge

Prompt: May 25, 2012 - Demiurge http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/demiurge

. . . . . It was four bells past midnight, not quite shy of morning - the sort of hour which peeks blearily out at you from under a wooden crate in the alley and shushes you for thinking too loudly. In short, it was a terrible hour to be out and up to mischief, which is precisely why Miss G. Ulricson, the blinded trader's wife, was doing no such thing. She was simply returning home in her terribly unfortunately slow fashion from a late night of negotiating silk deals with her factor down at the harbor and had miscounted her doors. Truly, she wasn't trying to break in to someone else's house. She even had the key! It was simply hard to put in properly when one wasn't able to see the slot.
. . . . . Magistrate Harvel Taybor had been hauled out of bed in his longjohns by the Stormwind City Guard for a little blind trader's wife who'd miscounted doors? He scowled at the guards behind her, and his scowl was made all the darker for the four a.m. shadow growing on his face. The runecloth bandages over her eyes were barely visible beneath her hood, but the way she kept reaching out to touch things around her - as if reassuring herself of the limitations of her space by feel alone - was clearly the behavior of a woman truly blinded. Besides, he knew Factor MacMillan as a right upstanding fellow who'd be quite put out if one of his deals went sour because Magistrate Taybor jailed his buyer...
. . . . . Twenty minutes and two gold coins later, Miss G. Ulricson was escorted back to her door by the guards - who carefully checked to make sure the number matched her key - and left to her evening. Knowing they were still watching, she fumbled the key into the lock, but managed it and then slipped inside.
. . . . . "Oy," came a soft hiss. "Wot kept ya?"
. . . . . "Guards almost nicked me f'r suspicious behavior tryin' t' get in me own damn door." Ilva pushed her hood back and began unwinding the bandages over her perfectly functional eyes. "Light bless tired public servants, though."

Site Write Entry #17: Here Comes the Sun

Prompt: May 23, 2012 - Describe your character's favorite weather.

. . . . . Today was perfect, absolutely perfect. The blue sky was cloudless and sparkling from a lemony-yellow sun, glistening on the cobblestones freshly washed by four days of downpour. There was a faint breeze which did not chill in the slightest because of the warm, early summer air, and everyone was in a fantastic mood to finally be out after the rough summer squall of the last several days.
. . . . . Naturally, Ilva didn't whistle as she went about her work, but the urge was certainly there. After all, it was the kind of day absolutely everyone - and the contents of their pockets - was out for a walk.

Site Write Entry #15: Itchy

Prompt: May 21, 2012 - Itch, itch. Your character has an itch in the most impossible place to scratch. Where is it and how does your character dramatically solve the problem?

. . . . . Swathed in mottled, dark grey cloth from head to toe, Ilva crept along the roof line in the near total darkness of a new moon. Below her, pacing the cobblestone streets with a clank and clatter which announced his presence even before the light from his unshuttered lantern was visible was a Stormwind City guard. His plumed helmet bobbed comically as he walked from shop to shop down Forge Street in the Dwarven District. Ilva made not a sound and barely a visible motion as she flitted from chimney to chimney, minimizing the time she spent profiled against the night sky.
. . . . . The guard stopped in front of the darkened windows of a bakery and lifted a hand, pressing his helmet against the window as he peered in. Slowly, Ilva dropped down the tar paper roof until she was almost near enough to grab that ridiculous plume. Time stood still as she waited for the guard to set his lantern down on the bench next to the window. Without the lantern shining glare off the glass, he would be able to see better. Sure enough, he set the lantern down. Then he lifted a hand gloved in plate and blue leather, two fingers pointing left briefly.
. . . . . Ilva grabbed the lip of the roof - no gutter to speak of - and flipped herself over it, landing lightly on the padded balls of her leather slippers on the ground just behind the guard. He never heard her drop down.
. . . . . "Nooooorrrm," she whined. "Scratch my back. I ent able t' reach there."
. . . . . The guard turned, scowling through his helmet. "Oy. Get lost, Rabbit. This ain't a jobbie here."
. . . . . "I know we ent knockin' this place." She danced in place on the cobblestone, fidgety as she tried to get one arm behind her back, then switched, then back again. "Norm! Scratch my back!"
. . . . . The Stormwind City guard sighed heavily and pulled his right glove off, reaching out right between Ilva's shoulderblades to give a good skritch. Pity it stopped her sticking her chest out and dancing in place, though.

Site Write Entry #10: Ahn'Qiraj

Prompt: May 17, 2012 - On your character's second adventure, you are transported to the sands (also known as the wastelands) of Silithus. From there, you are brought to the gates of the fallen kingdom and forced to make it all the way to the room where the Old God once thrived. What is it like in there after all this time? Does it feel eerie or just plain nothing? What does your character do while spending time in this room?

There's Girls, There's Tentacles - We Know Where This is Going

. . . . . This was the last blessed time she was letting Badge convince her to do anything involving deserts. Ever. Again.
. . . . . "It'll be easy," he said. "Just nip in there, nick me a few pieces o' obsidian glass, an' Professor MacGillycuddy's Dark Scryin' Mirrors is in business!" Ilva had nodded her empty blonde head, set her transporter to Gadgetzan, and promised him she'd be back in a day - two if the ships were behind.
. . . . . But no. Noooo. Here she was, ankle deep in a sand that felt more like walking through nettles, trying to find her way down to the ritual room the Tanari guide had told her was lined with obsidian tiles after having gotten off course. She blamed the dog. In her defense, however, it had been a very large, mostly person-shaped, black dog which really seemed intent on keeping her out of the courtyard she'd been trying to cross.
. . . . . Unfortunately, that meant she was now lost. Whatever had gone on here, it was long over with now. A few broken weapons stuck out of the sand, some quickly covered up by the next gust of scouring wind. The landmarks were few and far between, and the guide didn't mention anything about giant person-shaped dogs.
. . . . . Trudging aimlessly, she began to consider firing up her transporter again. But the last time through, she endured an hour-long jag as a gnome with a lisp. It was bad enough being short for a huma- worgen. A worgen. Eventually, she'd change the way she thought of herself...
. . . . . There was a quiet swishy whisper, a gentle sucking sound, and woosh! she was falling through a hole in the ceiling of a very large room, accompanied by a great deal of shifting sand. Luckily, Ilva had quite a lot of experience in tumbling and acrobatics so she landed neatly on the cushiony pile of sand under the hole. All around her gleamed black glassy walls. "Victory!" she cried, leaping off the pile of sand.
. . . . . Squish, came the response. "Squi-...? OH LIGHT!" The sand flew every which way as Ilva dove back into it, scrambling to get away from the rotting, foul, disgusting, slimy, reprehensible thing she'd stepped on. It looked like a draenei's face tendril, but as she followed it back with her gaze, she realized it led to a giant, rotting...eyeball?
. . . . . "Badge, you are so on your own f'r this'un!" Trying hard not to inhale the sharp sand she'd surrounded herself with, Ilva yanked her transporter out of her hip satchel and smacked the big red button - hard.

------

. . . . . Geordi Lapforge grinned lasciviously as a tall, gorgeous, stacked draenei lady stepped out of the teleporter and bent over to cough up sand. "Wot th'-...? BAAAAADGGGE! I want hazard pay!" She shook a blue fist at the sky and stalked off for the tavern, tail swaying.

Site Write Entry #7: Marriage

Prompt: May 13, 2012 - Marriage http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/marriage?s=t

. . . . . The village of Hanglington-on-the-Rocks in the Headlands of Gilneas wasn't actually marked as such on the maps. In fact, it wasn't marked at all. Some forty or so adults and children hardly made up enough of a settlement to warrant notice from the cartographers of the nation. Hanglington-on-the-Rocks had but two claims to fame: it was a half-hour's ride from Gilneas City proper if you crossed the bridge, and there were a fair amount of potatoes there.
. . . . . Mister Derian Baxter, a middle-aged man with sun-leathered skin and work-roughened hands, was just returning home from a visit to the big city on his chestnut mare, Fairflight. His modest home on his modest farm had a barn just big enough for Fairflight and the plow horse, Whomper. It was just short of three bells past midnight, and he rather imagined the missus - Goody Matilda Baxter - hadn't waited up for him to return home. That was fine by him, meant the bedclothes would be nice and warm and he could wake her up gently with snuggling. It also meant, at this hour, that his blessed little scoundrel of a son, Ryule, was also abed.
. . . . . After tending to Fairflight and locking up the barn, Mister Baxter thought fondly of his evening with his favorite gal. She looked right fantastic with all that tumbling and flipping and backbends. He had to adjust the fit of his britches as he crept quietly into the house. After all, the type of mood he was in, the last thing he needed was to wake the little scoundrel and have him wanting to crawl into bed with his parents because he was afraid of harpies on his bedposts again. Like a mouse on farmer's feet, Mister Baxter crept into his own bedroom and peeled off his market-day clothes, carefully hanging them up lest the missus get irate with him in the morning.
. . . . . A bit of moonlight from the window fell on Matilda's round face. Dark brown hair curled across her cheek and her pillow both, and one hand was curled up under her chin. Mister Baxter smiled like a lovestruck fool at his wife. Then again, he rather reckoned he still was, even six years into marriage. Her chair was at the foot of the bed, and he took care to avoid knocking into it as he rounded the bed and climbed in as lightly as possible on his side. Despite the chill on his body from being outside the warm blankets, she mumbled sleepily and snuggled back against him, pressing her back to him. Knowing she'd appreciate it, he curled a hand over one of her thighs and pulled her backwards until her legs pressed against his too. She couldn't feel it, of course, but he could and he knew she'd appreciate the cuddling in the morning.
. . . . . Contented and warm, Mister Baxter smiled as he closed his eyes. In his dreams, his Matilda was laughing and carefree again, without the pain creasing her brow when she was awake. She did cartwheels in the grass and balanced on fence rails like they were broad walls. In his dreams, his Mattie was free again to tumble and play, no longer confined to the wheeled chair at the foot of the bed. His visits to watch Miss Treelily's tumbling girl always helped him keep the memories of how Matilda's body used to move fresh. Watching some other girl do the acrobatics his Mattie used to cheered him up, reminded him of how much he loved his wife - even if she couldn't feel her legs anymore.

Site Write Entry #6: Warlocks

Prompt: May 12, 2012 - Warlocks. Your character comes across one being very obvious and stupid with his magic. What do you do? Do you walk away and pretend it wasn't happening or do you say something, perhaps do anything, to stop and/or encourage it?

(Warning: Graphic violence.)

. . . . ."Ooo, girls, lookit that one! Ent he a fine figure?" Giggling, Hettie nudged her elbow into Ilva's side, hitting the steel reinforcement of her pale blue corset. Behind Hettie, Rowena and Myrtle were trying to crawl up onto the other girls' shoulders just so they could shove their heads down and see through the horizontal crack in the wall the girls of Miss Rivanna Treelily's establishment used to spy on the guests in the lobby.
. . . . ."Let me see," hissed Myrtle, climbing Hettie like a tree. Then again, Hettie was one of those stout, fine-figured ladies with curves like an oak tree - that is to say, not many of them. She was sturdy, healthy for her profession, and easy enough for a waif like Myrtle to climb. Hettie grunted as a knee pressed into one of her kidneys and she ducked so that the girl climbing on her could get a gander at the man in the lobby.
. . . . .And what a fine figure he was. The man was somewhere in his mid-twenties, dark hair cropped close to his well-formed head and covered by a slim top hat with not even a hint of rakish tilt. His face was elegant and refined, not quite as fey as one of them high elves, but clearly the face of gentry. As he handed his greatcoat to the boy who lounged around the lobby expressly for that purpose, a dark purple silk waistcoat over a trim, fit torso covered in a white silk dress shirt was revealed. Myrtle sighed wistfully and Hettie shoved her out of the way so she could get another look.
. . . . ."Light, I hope 'e picks me," Rowena whispered, fanning her cheeks - which had gone a pink visible even under her thick makeup.
. . . . ."Pff, he's probably just here t' collect protection coins," Ilva mused, though she wasn't immune to the fancy man's charm either if her own pink cheeks were a hint.
. . . . .Miss Treelily came into the lobby and had a discussion with the man; the girls never could hear those, and couldn't hear this one either. But when she came into the side room and barked, "Ladies! Line 'em up!" she was more than audible. Like soldiers in a military drill, the girls fell into formation, each displaying a length of stocking-clad leg or a forward-bend for cleavage as her best assets required. The handsome fella came in the room and looked over the girls. It struck Ilva that brown eyes were usually warm...except on this man. His smile was genial, but his eyes were cold. She shivered and was oddly grateful when he crooked a finger at Hettie, who squealed girlishy and skipped off after him.

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. . . . .Miss Treelily always shut the place down right around two bells past midnight. That was when Ilva patted dear old Mister Baxter on his middle-aged hand and led him to the door. Arching her back for a moment after she shut the door behind her regular, she groaned happily when her vertebrae popped in short succession at the small of her back. Light, but Baxter liked some odd things... Never got handsy, just liked to watch her do tumbles and acrobatics. It always left her with a right awful crick in her back. Maybe when she got back to their room, Hettie would be a dear and rub her back for her.
. . . . .But the room she shared with Hettie was empty. Frowning, Ilva pulled her linen bathrobe off the wall hook and wrapped herself in it, then went back into the main house to see if perhaps Hettie was still busy with that fancy man.
. . . . .The door was the first give-away. Instead of the door knob turning, it spun idly as if the mechanism had been broken. One good thump to the doorjamb had it free and she pushed the door open. It squelched.
. . . . .In the center of the room was something that used to be a working lady of the night, something that used to laugh and breathe and stand up and offer back rubs and smile. Now... Now it was merely... Ropy strings, glistening dark red, were arranged in a circle around a heap of raw meat. Parts of bone stuck out at odd, incomprehensible angles which no longer had any relevance to how a body was put together, many of the visible ends chewed flat by something serrated which left grooves in the finality of termination. One particularly broad expanse of raw muscle was almost recognizable as a torso - or at least, the inside of one. Outside the circle of innards, a circle had been drawn in more dark red, and horrifying runes she couldn't understand even if she could read were patterned regularly around it. Somehow overwhelming what should have been the smell of charnel house was the smell of brimstone. The fancy man was nowhere to be seen.
. . . . .Ilva's scream brought the entire house running, as well as two night watchmen four blocks away.

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. . . . .Warlockery, they said it was. Dark magics meant to mutilate human souls and make contracts with demons. The fancy man was caught, arrested, tried, and convicted. He was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in the city prison for killing one girl - but rumor held he was responsible for ten more. The rumor seemed proven when the killings stopped after he was locked away. It wasn't until after she saw him led away in chains that Ilva felt she could sleep again.
. . . . .The riots in Gilneas when the curse broke out, naturally, ended up destroying the security of the prison. What prisoners weren't eaten by feral worgen or killed each other escaped. After the riots, she hoped - she prayed to the Light - that he'd been eaten by a feral monster. It would only be just.
. . . . .Last Tuesday, Ilva smeared violet pigment over her skin, glued the purple feathers to the tips of her ears, put on her green robes, picked up a basket of flowers, and headed to Cathedral Square to hand them out for free. She liked the smiles she got for her efforts. And the gossip. The gossip never hurt.
. . . . ."Pretty flower for a pretty lady?" She bounded up to a draenei female with a sunny smile and flower outstretched. A smile and a murmured blessing was her thanks.
. . . . ."Pretty flower for your lady, good sir?" She turned and bounded up to a well-dressed man in a dark purple waistcoat over a white shirt. His dark brown hair brushed his collarbone, but looked neatly kept. There was no return smile. He didn't even reach for the offered flower. Just a flat, disapproving stare from those cold brown eyes.
. . . . .Ilva bolted. She ran like the rabbit Norm sometimes nicknamed her. As she ran to ground, she prayed the odd disguise was enough, that he'd never paid enough attention to the rest of the girls in the house, that for the love of all that was holy, she would never, ever run across a warlock again.

Site Write Entry #5: Alive

Prompt: May 11, 2012 - Alive http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/alive?s=t

. . . . . This last job had made her a fortune. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that she'd ever tell Badge exactly how much - even half of how much - because he'd roll it into a marketing scheme for khorium-enhanced belt buckles or something like that. She'd play it way down, very under the table, and simply make quiet sure that whenever he needed the coin for something, it was somehow always in his pocket. This sort of fortune could last her a few years if she played it out right.
. . . . . But there was...one...indulgence. At the noisy claims room of the auctioneer's house in the Trade District, the plain trader's wife with the hood over her bandaged eyes handed over her claims chit and then a sack of coin which would make Badge's neck veins pop. It wasn't receipt of the crate which had her smiling as she placed her heavy burden on the wheeled cart so thoughtfully provided, but the mental image of Badge's face turning purple in anticipation of a very long shouting match. It was a very silly mental image which rarely failed to make her smile - and therefore crossed from mental image to physical reality quite often.
. . . . . The trader's wife navigated her cart out and to a secluded alleyway near the Mages' District with surprising deftness for a supposedly blind woman. Once she was well-assured of her safety and relative solitude, she shed her disguise of Miss G. Ulricson and stuffed the robes and runecloth bandages behind the newly-acquired crate. Ilva tugged at her leathers until they resettled comfortably on her frame, then plucked her gnomish army knife off her belt to pry off the top of her purchase.
. . . . . Nestled in a bed of straw was the final component, its aphotic gleam smooth and even, sixteen slender bars of obsidium ready to be worked into bolts and plating. Now, she just had to call in that favor Lilliam owed her for a workspace.

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. . . . . Working obsidium was a right pain in the arse. Too cold, and it snapped - brittle. Too hot, and it flowed - amorphic. One entire bar was wasted in learning the precise shade of cherry red the metal needed to be heated to in order to be formed.
. . . . . Once she had it, though, the plates moved fast - it took her about a day. The schematic was good, entirely images and arrows. Her talent for letters might be lacking, but mimicry was her bread and butter, so the designs were quickly transferred and the plating formed, cut and shaped. The bolts took a little longer - about three days, but she wanted each one to be as precisely functional as she was capable of crafting.
. . . . . Assembly took her a further day of work. Any burrs on the articulation had to be filed smooth, any irregularities of form had to be carefully reheated and corrected. The bezels for the jasper took an hour apiece to grind out, file, and set. The innards were leather tubing lined on the inside with embersilk for fire-hardiness. A trap door with protected hinges allowed access to the simple two-button controls and the socket for the energy source - volatile, expensive, dangerous when tightly compressed, electrified ether.
. . . . . As a final vanity, she broke out her expensive metals paints, usually reserved for the top disguise jobs, and she painted a delicate, sunny yellow design on the lightless metal, utterly ruining it for any possibility of stealth. The hinges loosed the trap door. Eight vials of tempered glass with time-delay enchanted wax seals lined up in the chamber. A pop as the first timer expired. A hiss as the electrified ether sped through the innards. A glow from the energy indication chamber on the posterior.
. . . . . Its nose wrinkled. Wire whiskers twitched. Cli-click - obsidium plating painted yellow blinked over sightless green jasper. Another hiss as the pistons engaged and Ilva's brand new mechanical rabbit hopped off the table into her lap.
. . . . . It worked! It was alive!

Site Write Entry #3: Worthless

Prompt: May 9, 2012 - Worthless http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/worthless?s=t

. . . . . Behind number eight Foxfield Lane, Gilneas City, there was a monumental crisis. This just would not do! If someone were to catch her out here with this distasteful mess, there would be all manner of unseemly fuss... But it was a back alley, the rear entrance of the townhomes so upper crust that to get higher one would be licking off the whipped cream, and so there was no one here to see the well-dressed noblewoman and her heavy burden.
. . . . . With quite the unladylike grunt, she heaved the onerous load off her shoulder and into the trash-can. The noblewoman looked left and right warily, still expecting someone to spy her. But it just had to be done! Someone had to take care of the unfortunate incident before the night watch was called in. The dinner party had been going so swimmingly until her reprobate younger son had showed up at the door with a pistol in hand, and her hot-headed elder son had started with the name-calling and oh, it was such a disaster!
. . . . . She wrung her hands and stared down at the abominable failure resting in her garbage bin. Someone would see. Biting back a sob of panic, she shoved her bare hands into the bin and pushed the evidence down farther. That would do. Dusting her hands on the edge of the cloth shrouding her calamity, the noblewoman squared her shoulders and went back inside to calm her guests.
. . . . . Someone had seen. Two muddy green eyes set in a round, cherubic face blinked from the shadows of the retaining wall on the far side of the back alley. From here, she could see a leg still peeking out of the top of the trash-can. Something dark and viscous pooled on the ground at the bottom of it, the color indeterminate now that the lady's lantern was gone. Fear tasted acrid in the back of her mouth, but avarice was sweeter. She wanted to go through that bin. There might be something good still in those pockets!
. . . . . Tiny child's feet wrapped in rags carried her across the alley as fast and noiseless as one of the fat rats which occasionally ended up as her dinner. The liquid pooling on the ground outside the bin stained her foot rags, but she didn't care - new ones weren't hard to find. This shroud might actually serve, once it was pulled free and cut up; it was what was wrapped in the shroud she was after. It was heavy for so small a girl, too heavy for her to lift. Cautiously, using her own little frame to counterbalance it and muffle sound, she laid the bin on its side so she could pull the lady's disaster free and go through the pockets.
. . . . . Sadly, there was nothing of use in them. But even stained with wine and olive oil, it looked like seven-year-old Ilva Swift had her very first pair of pants. And a broken toy pistol to play with! There were even the remains of a cake of some kind wrapped up in the smeared tablecloth.
. . . . . "Mooom," came a wail from the backyard of the fancy townhome, "this birthday party is worthless!"
. . . . . Perhaps for some! Ilva Swift made like her chosen namesake and hurried off with her treasures.