WTB (Updated again, comments welcome and encouraged!)

[Fynne]

In fancy script, three bold letters adorn the top of a scroll nailed unceremoniously next to countless others in Booty Bay; it would perhaps go as unnoticed as the rest, if it weren't for the line underneath proclaiming ten gold pieces for the price

"Ten gold pieces for a pouch of Bone Dust; an uncommon item, whereabouts of its creation unknown to buyer. Large quantities of sale to be discussed at seller's discretion. Please reply here if interested, or contact a local Goblin Auctioneer."

The Buyer is not named.

Henri would not be so bold as to allow his name, and perhaps intentions, to be known. He took a long moment to ponder his decision - would the Dwarf he trusted such an important dagger to, be safe?

Had he perhaps doomed him, by instructing him to hold it, rather than he, himself? Would the Warlock find him, and torture it from his stubby grasp - carving runes of blood and obedience into him, crushing his will and mind beneath Her own - letting Her succubus have her way with him?

The image of the Dwarf, Ironsoul, shaved of beard, and bloodied with other manners of torture, conjured much guilt in his mind.

Perhaps it was no good at all.

Even having taken the dagger from Her, She had sent Her succubus after him, and even without its power, without the dagger which had cut and carved runes with his and Her own blood into his flesh, Her minion, Cattyla, had been able to bring him to his knees with a bonding word, uttered in Alyiane's voice.

Perhaps, as she had whispered to him as he lay helpless, it was hopeless.

Turning his eyes to another scroll, Henri plotted out a course to safely bring him to the place of ritual, that with the dagger, acid, and peacebloom required to remove Her sorcery, with another Warlock's aid.

Against the wall behind him lurked a shadow belonging to no object visible in the room - bent over his own shadow's shoulder, peering down at the map, at this place of ritual, stood an alluring, bat-winged shape.

He did not count on Cattyla invisibly shadowing him.

[Annabelle]

"What did you say?" Annabelle asked Caelyn, "Ten gold pieces? Who would pay ten gold...." Whatever Annabelle was saying had been lost in the sudden fight breaking out over someone not paying his debt. Caelyn shrugged, always something going on in the goblin cities now a days.

Bone Dust isn't something normally needed, only used by warlocks Annabelle mused, or someone playing in demonic magics

"Anna?!?!"

Annabelle smiled at the slight shock she heard in Cae's voice, "Yes, sister?"

"What do you want me to do about this notice?"

"Nothing for now. I will look into it. Oh maybe slip the goblins a few coin to find out the buyer, we wouldn't want something so powerful to land into the wrong hands."

"You know something," Caelyn said, not asking.

"I might, but I want to see how this is all played out before I do anything. Besides, I happen to know someone who would be more than willing to... donate," Anna laughed wickedly. "But for now, I must be off, meet you for a drink later?"

"Of course. Same place as last time?"

"Yep. Stay safe, Cae." Dropping the hearthstone into her bags, Anna looked over at Vil, "Time for me to stand back and see how things develope. I sence a certain rogue's desperation in this. I won't be able to do anything, for she knows me... well enough, but I can watch and have Caelyn do some work and contact if needed."

((Hurray, I was wondering what happened to Henri Fynne, glad to see your story is alive and well. Post more? please? Oh and I hope you don't mind I butted in, I can always delete if I over stepped))

[Fynne]

Henri's eyes watched Jilliane's hips bounce and sashay as she walked past. It would be too easy to just reach over, under the pretense of a playful, loving tickle, to grab them and lift the pouch of bone dust from her waist. Of course, he might get carried away - but that was the only real danger in doing so.

"Jilli? When we head to," Henri swallowed, before mouthing the word before whispering it conspirationally, "Dreadmist Peak, to have Deebum and Silanthras helping, do you suppose we'll have much trouble? I'd rather not have Her find out where I'm headed - supposing that means I can have a steady supply of Bone Dust-?"

His words were, expectedly, cut off. He knew how Jilliane felt about him using the dust. It was no different than any other trick of Warlock magic. As Deebum had told him, at their secret meeting at the lake hidden in the mountains above Ravenholdt, the only thing stronger than blood... was bone. And so, using this bone dust, Henri had been able to dull the runes in him, and found himself able to resist Her spells for a day.

That had not been Henri, though - that had been Fynne. The very same Fynne that Alyiane had carved and wrought and tortured to become Her darkest, cruelest thrall. Except he was not Her thrall, for one day. And once he had the dagger that he had come to wrench from Her, he had given into himself. It would have been easy to explain, to confess to Jilliane, that it was Her magics that made him that way, that made him torture his former Mistress with his razored blade. But that would not have been a confession.

Jilliane did not believe in torture - in revenge, not even a day's worth compared to the timeless weeks... months?... that Fynne had endured, when first Alyiane had broken him on Her ship. And Henri knew that. Perhaps, so did Fynne - but it did not stop him from breaking Alyiane with torturous screams and stabs and slices and twists. It did not stop Her from falling to Her knees, begging him to stop, and in the end, calling Him "Her Master" instead.

Fynne grinned, ignoring Jilliane's protest, and cutting her off in return.

"You're right, of course. I won't need it, so long as I'm with you. Her succubus won't dare approach, with you or Myri near," his grin widened to a sinister, malicious thing, his eyes glimmering with the memory of Alyiane broken and begging at his feet, "and She won't dare come, with 'me' anywhere nearby, again."

The best course, Fynne decided, would to wait for someone's greed to tempt them to sell him all the Bone Dust he would need. With so much as a vial's worth, he could have another day, immune to Alyiane's sorcery, to break Her again... and again... and again. And that, despite Jilliane's glares, would make it all worthwhile.

Fynne was slipping, becoming more of the creature Alyiane had broken him to be, faster and farther than any of Her own torture could hasten him. And perhaps worse - he didn't mind it at all.

(Oh god no, please, please reply. That's why I used a small title, and not-too-much-to-read, because I wanted people to not feel intimidated, or... bored... or whatever reason it was that nobody ever interacted with me over my last story. ...also why I never post here. The whole, "nobody cares about my stuff thing". ...uh... was all that self-disclosure too emo?)

[Caelyn]

Flexing her fingers, grumbling about her task, Caelyn looks out the window. Quietly she thinks about her conversation with Anna.

I need you to talk to a warlock named Deebum. I would, but I need to stay away from the center of this mess. I’m to closely linked to some of the people involved and I don’t want this to blow up in someone’s face. It is better if I just stay in the background.

Why in all that is holy is it better for you to be in the background?

Easy, my sister’s soul; you see I’m thought to be a total bitch, in league with a bitch. I think I will use this to my advantage. If the object of her attentions hates me, she will not think me a threat, more than she already thinks I am. Give Deebum this letter. I doubt he will trust you, but that is a risk we will have to take.

“We,” Caelyn grumbles, “I don’t see any we in this, it is just me at the moment.”

Looking down at the two letters in front of her, Cae cringes at her messy writing. Again crumpling the paper and throwing it in the fire, she grabs a fresh piece of paper and picks up the quill again.

Greetings Deebum,

You don’t know me, nor do I know you. But we have a common interest; a certain Rogue trying to free himself from another warlock. Seeing as I don’t like idle chit-chat and refuse to have my good works thrown back in my face as this rogue has done a few times in the past, I have asked my friend to write this to you in my place.

I will never claim to be innocent of much; I have done too much to ~be~ innocent. But the one thing I do claim innocence in, is the accusation that I am “helping Her to enslave me again.” I have never wanted him to be taken in with that woman, then, now or ever, which is why I set out to help him. I will say no more on this matter in a letter, if you require more… details as to my claim of innocence feel free to contact my friend who will pass along the details.

I can already guess that you are very distrustful of this letter and as a show of good faith I will send along a small sample of Her blood. Something I have kept safe for a very long time now because as my Grandmother used to tell me, “keep a little bit of everything, girl, for eventually it all will help you.” This isn’t by any means the last of my supply, for the warlock bleeds a lot, but it is enough for you to use in what ever it is you are planning.

I wish you luck and success where I have failed; I hope that you can save him.

May the Darkness guide you on this dangerous path.

Annabelle Turner

Looking over the letter once more, a small satisfied smile pulls at Cae’s lips. “Well,” she said to herself, “this is the best I can make it. I hope this Deebum understands what she means, for I surely don’t.”

Carefully rolling the letter, Caelyn places a small vial into the very center before sealing the whole thing away in a cylinder. Picking up the quill again, she carefully writes: Handle with Care on the outside, next to Deebum’s name.

Walking slowly with her package in hand, Caelyn gives it to one of the local goblins with the instructions to have it sent to the warlock and “if it arrives quickly and without being harmed I will triple your price.”

Smiling at the speed and care with which the goblin ran Caelyn took a deep breath, looked over the pink tinged water, watching the sun rise and wondered what new adventures today would bring.

[Deebum]

The same goblin returns bearing a rolled parchment, tied with a blue ribbon.

Dear Ms. Turner

Be warned, the threat of the Yeti is greater than most can possibly imagine. Do not fall under the spell of the Demon Yeti, lest you find yourself no longer the master of demons, but the slave of same.

If your intentions are benevolent, then I beg you remain apart from this affair. His hope lies in willpower, and he will not benefit from unplesant reminders, be they true or false impressions. The taint of the Yeti is strong here, and there is little room for error.

Also, please, in the future, should you choose to correspond with me, please refrain from including your little manipulative gifts. I could smell the Yeti from three blocks away, and was quick to take the necessary precautions. I have destroyed the blood, and I heartily recommend you do the same, lest it overwhelm you further.

His condition is small in the grand scheme, but it will be the small victories against the Yeti menace that will decide the fate of Azeroth.

If you would care to speak further, then I will gladly meet you at the Slaughtered Lamb at a time of your choosing, should it be so convenient to my schedule of Yeti opposition.

--Deebum Felsprocket

[Annabelle]

Quickly reading the letter Caelyn had just handed her, Annabelle sits back and sips some wine.

Remain apart from all of this? she thought, I will do as he wishes, for now. Taking another sip of her wine. Manipulative gifts, hmm... shaking her head sadly, Anna continued to sip her wine, thinking of Deebum's words.

On unsteady feet, Annabelle walked over to the window and looked out at the stars. "For now, I will leave everything be. Good luck.. you will need it."

Turning, she picks up the bottle and shakes it a bit; finding it empty, she walks over to the door. "I need more wine. There is no point in thinking tonight, and maybe... maybe tonight I can keep the nightmares at bay."

[Fynne]

Henri stood before the pool of holy water, the bustle of Ironforge echoing distant through the cavern behind him. He was speaking, confessing, to Myridian, when Her minion approached him. At first, it was just the warm tickles of long, seductive nails on his back and his neck, then his arms, and then came the whispers, and the promises; before he knew it was not his own thoughts, but Cattyla’s, whispered into his ears and across his neck with warm breath, he was no longer near the pool, but had retreated with slow staggering steps back into the shadows – her shadows.

“You want to go back to your Mistress… you need to beg Her forgiveness… you can’t resist. You won’t,” purred Cattyla into his ear, and he almost fell. Or rather, he almost didn’t get back up, again. He whispered something through his hearthstone, likely the very thing that Cattyla asked… no – ordered him to do. The first problem with succubi, insofar as it related to him, anyway, was that their particular brand of magic and coercion had little or nothing to do with the runes binding him. With Cattyla, it was all a matter of training. Carrots and sticks. Or lashes, as it were. The second problem, however, was that she had no way of knowing who he was speaking to, through his stone-shaped trinket.

With a sudden blast of holy light, Henri broke Cattyla’s dark spell, and she recoiled from him. Myridian’s holy words and quick action had given him immunity to her dark, seductive words. For a moment – he gave into the rage that had been so carefully crafted into him, and lunged at the bat-winged seductress lying wounded against the wall. He would pin her wings with his blades, and torture her until she dared not approach. He would. Fynne would. But this was not Fynne, not anymore. This was Henri. Smirking, he sheathed his blades and offered the banter that had always tempted his tongue, made him feel like the dashing swashbuckler, the hero of stories and tales.

“You almost had me, you know?” he grinned, baiting Cattyla with praise, he knew just how to offend a creature like her, “I think I might have fallen for it, but you’ve since lost some of your seductive charms. I would have, if it weren’t for your wings being uneven, and all.”

Cattyla spat and cursed in her demonic tongue as Henri grinned, stepping back and leaping atop the banister with a graceful flip of his cloak. The succubus turned and glanced at her wings, they were most certainly not uneven… were they? Her Mistress’s pet was bowing now, a mocking gesture, before he would leap from the balcony down into the bustle of the city, no doubt. What were those words? She coolly gathered them, and with perfect training in her craft, imitated Alyiane’s voice perfectly, offering Fynne a simple Demonic word.

All of his world melted away. There was nothing to him except this succubus, and he could not tear his eyes from her lips, watching as they curled into a cruel, victorious smirk. She would say something to him, some command, she must, and in turn, he must obey. That was all there was to his existence, for that single moment.

”You will not try to break your Mistress’s bonds. You will go to Her, beg Her forgiveness, and you will mean it.”

With that, Fynne’s world flooded back to him, and he stumbled backwards off the balcony, slamming his head sharply against the stone street, collapsing into unconsciousness as the crowds of Ironforge bustled around him.

[Alyiane]

*Bandages still wrapped around her arms and side, blood stained and gasping for breath every few feet, not the picture of someone who would be out adventuring let alone even moving about, but there she was, business as usual. She wouldn't let any pain or injury, no matter how bad, stop her from obtaining the power that she once had known, which was rightfully hers before the betrayal and the ultimate demise of her Blood Pirate crew and ship. Nothing would stop her.*

Such a problem little Henri Fynne had become, not only had he become more powerful with his craft than she had with hers...but he had made some powerful friends as well; one of them had given him that cursed bone dust. Not only did it make him immune from the runes she had carved into him, it gave him an opportunity to get back at her.

Oh, how proud she was of the way her pet tortured her that day. Using his dagger that stole the very life from her blood, keeping her alive and awake to feel every stab and tantalizing cut through her flesh; yes, she had taught him well. He had become, if just for the one day that the bone dust worked for him, her pet, the Blood Pirate Fynne, once again.

Torturing her, his Mistress, could not go unpunished. His torture that day couldn't even begin to compare to the year she had him in her grasp on her ship, not only destroying his body on many occasions but much of his mind as well. Still, it would not be allowed for him to even have one moment of satisfaction for doing anything against her. Even as much as he deserves it.

It was time to play a little game, and see how her pawns moved.

[Fynne]

(EDIT: Disclaimer at the top for succubus-related naughty bits)









Henri’s dreams were torturous. Jilliane watched with sad, judging eyes as he slid the razored point of his blade into Alyiane’s side. He couldn’t help but twist his wrist to screw the dagger through Her flesh. She screamed, and it excited him. He pulled the blade from Her side, wrenching it suddenly, and savored another of his Mistress’s screams. He did not, could not, draw his eyes away from Jilliane’s disapproving glare. Not even when he raised the blade to his mouth, licking Alyiane’s fresh blood from the flat of it, could he tear his eyes away from her withering gaze. He was guilty. That’s what her eyes told him. He had fallen to the Shadow, and the thing that he had become was no longer the man that Jilliane had loved.

That shook him. It shook him to his very soul – even in his sleep, in his dreams. But the succubus keeping watch over him would not let it shake him to waking. Not until she was finished. And maybe had a bit of fun. Wings uneven, indeed.

“You are not the Henri I Loved. Go give in to your Mistress, Fynne,” Jilliane commanded, her eyes growing cold as she delivered her judgment.

Who was Fynne to disagree? Jilliane’s words, puppeteered by Cattyla in his dream, gave way to the hopelessness of his situation. As Jilliane faded from his sight and mind, he focused his attention to Alyiane once more. If Jilliane wouldn’t Love him – if he had become this thing, this Fynne, that was so undeserving of her Love, then why not seek it from his Mistress instead? He licked the rest of the blood from the dagger, losing himself for a moment to the mind-numbing bliss it brought.

“Forgive me, my Mistress,” he whispered, in both wake and dream, murmering into Cattyla’s clawed fingers around his jaw, “I am only as cruel as You have taught me to be… this torture is a testament to Your power.”

He drove the dagger into Her arm, staking Her to the ground through it. From there, Cattyla filled his dreams with his darkest fantasy: beneath him, tortured, bleeding, and broken, Fynne made Alyiane beg.

“Fynne, my Master, you’ve sheathed your daggers in your pet’s flesh – now let her flesh sheathe you!”

Again, beneath Cattyla’s dark, weaving dreams, he was helpless to resist. But she knew her craft – and it was not her intent to satisfy the lusts of this defiant pet of her Mistress. She leaned her unnaturally warm body down against Henri’s slumbering form, pressing and molding herself against him. Lost her touch indeed; he certainly felt as though he were getting into it. She leaned her head to the side, running her nails along his neck, smirking as he helplessly craned and bared himself to her. Leaning her warm lips against his ear, she purred in an altogether different voice: a pure, tinkling voice, belonging to none other than Henri’s Love, Jilliane.

“Fynne, my Master,” she began, snaking her other hand up into his hair, lustfully letting her nails crawl through it, “you’ve sheathed your daggers in your pet’s flesh – “ she stifled a cackle as the form beneath her let out a moan, “now let her flesh sheathe you!”

The succubus pulled Fynne’s head to the side, her fingers entwining themselves in his hair, and she bit suddenly into his bared neck. As she sank her pointed Demonic teeth into his neck, he predictably began to buck beneath her. She knew what he would see, and do, in his dream. Oh – sure, he would try to resist, to stop, but she wouldn’t let him. He was too weak a thing to resist her skilled, refined craft. She ground herself down on him as he finally stopped writhing with a defeated grunt, and lay upon him for a long moment, gloating and glowing silently.

When Henri finally awoke, sweaty and…?...sticky?...from, err, terrible dreams, he brought his hand to his head – it throbbed with pain. So did his neck – he must have twisted it when he fell. His dream haunted his thoughts, fresh and clear, unlike some dreams – it refused to fade. He remembered Jilliane’s judging eyes, and her dismissal, as though it had been real, and knew what he must do. He set off to find Alyiane, preparing an apology in his mind.

[Caelyn]

"He wants how much?!?" Annabelle gasped.

"He said enough for a week, seven vials," Cae replied calmly.

Shaking her head, Anna began to pace. "That is a lot of dust. Most only need one vial to last the week. What else did he say? How did he seem? What are your impressions of him?"

Smiling at the worry she heard in Anna's voice, Cae began to tell Anna her thoughts on the conversation.

"He can be very charming, when he wants something. He seemed very concerned when I informed him you would require no payment."

"Why does that concern him?"

"I think may be because I told him that you believe all good deeds should be their own reward. That in time they are all rewarded. He then told me that he doesn't want an unpaid good deed on his mind, so I'm to tell him the price he is or should expect to pay."

Nodding, Anna stopped her pacing just long enough to open a bottle of wine and pour herself a glass. Taking a large drink, she walked over to the balcony of the tavern and looked over the people. "What price should I ask my sister's soul?"

Walking over to Anna and gently placing a hand on her shoulder, Cae answered, "I think money would be the easiest, gold is always considered clean. A gift is slightly harder, but still can be done. And if you don't need it, you could always sell it. Asking a favor is... well the most difficult of them all. You don't want to be known, so that makes it worse. And if he finds out who is my friend it could be even worse. He doesn't trust you and may again find a way to blame you if this all fails."

With a sigh, Anna drains her glass of wine and places her empty glass on the ledge in front of her. "Tell him this, that nothing is required of this good deed. That I do it in hopes of having some of my many sins pardoned. If he requires too much dust at one time, though that may change. Although I have a fairly large supply, finding... people willing to donate is difficult. But for now, this is a gift freely given."

With a smile that reached her eyes Caelyn nodded. "I will tell him. And I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm proud of you." With a final look at Annabelle, Caelyn jumped over the balcony's ledge and landed with a graceful thud.

"Bah, why should you be proud of me? I've done nothing," picking up her glass, Anna started to pour herself another glass of wine. Then as if struck by shocking idea, she stopped, looked at the bottle then drank straight from the bottle. "Now to find a new... person to donate to my supply. I'm afraid I'll need it." Steeled by alcohol, Anna went to the gryphon master, in search of her latest.. "friend."

[Fynne]

Henri had been making his way to the Gryphon Master, a bulky folder stamped SI:7 held under his arm, when Caelyn had thundered past on her steed. Stormwind was a busy place, and this wouldn’t have been an uncommon event, if it weren’t for recognizing her face by an eloquent goblin description.

”Hey, wait up!” he called, his voice lost to the crowds. He pushed through them after her, and it seemed she was headed to the same place as he, “Her. I want a griffon wherever she’s gone off to.” The man shrugged, collected his coins, and with a screech, his feathered steed tore into the sky after Caelyn’s.

He followed her for some time. He had no illusions of catching her, or beating her to her destination, so he drew forth his folder, popping the seal with the tip of his dagger. Bending low to the gryphon’s back, casting his eyes into the wind and sky before him, he was sure to gauge the distance of the mage’s mount before returning to study the contents of his folder.

Caelyn Hackney… the report began. Henri looked over it, and for a moment, his eyes grew dark at some of the details. He shook his head, grinning. He knew his purpose today. At least – his other purpose today; after he had made words with the mage, he would see to the next business. He let the file slide slowly back into the folder, flipping past a few more; sketches, documented skills and spells, preferred tactics. SI:7 was good to him. The sketch very closely resembled the face that he had seen atop that horse, riding through Stormwind, but it was the second set of files he had paid favors for.

He checked the name at the top, the meticulously imprinted A had been enough to set his mind at ease. He would get to her, next. For now, it remained to speak with this mage. He tugged gently at the feathers of his gryphon’s neck, easing it into another slow circle before descending after the mage. Thanking the flight master, he peered around, and found the mage checking her belongings. Or reagents. Or whatever it is that mage women find themselves checking, once they land from a long flight.

Stepping from the shadows as cautiously as he could, hands raised to show no weapons, wrists bared, Henri immediately regretted the decision. She’ll think I’m coming to assassinate her, no doubt, like this.

“A little green friend of mine mentioned you were looking into one of my auctions,” Henri grinned, trying to toss a disarming smile Caelyn’s way. He could recover from his first mistake, he just had to prove that he wasn’t this creature, this Fynne, that he had once been. It wouldn’t be so hard, he realized, as the conversation turned from wary, guarded remarks, to open trading. He just had to be honest.

“And the, err, same to you,” he stammered sheepishly at Caelyn’s parting remark, the well-wishing of fortune onto each other. That had gone well enough. He’d managed to secure, he hoped, an ally to trade with. He had little doubt as to whom Caelyn’s well-supplied friend was, but that was Fynne’s enemy, not Henri’s. The mage had made that clear enough when she spoke of good deeds being their own reward. He was on the right path again.

Realizing that he was but one flight away from SI:7’s last known location of the warlock Alyiane, Henri found a table to spread his documents out upon. He knew well enough of her spells and tricks and trade, and even her allies; he buried those beneath a more recent account.

She had been admitted into the Cathedral of Light? Well – that was news, for certain. Oh – only the medical ward. Well, that made sense too. Regret and sorrow tinged at his stomach, pulling it into a knot.

You will go to Her, beg Her forgiveness, and you will mean it.

He had done terrible things to her, when last they had met. The torture he had inflicted had surprised even him, when he had woken from his cloud of revenge. He would apologize to her. Show her that he wasn’t this thing. He wasn’t Fynne, he wasn’t her blood-pirate pet. He wasn’t bound to her will so strong as she thought he was. She had used him, the own shadow in his heart, to work against him, and it had worked for a time. But that time was long-since-past.

He could prove it, too. But there wasn’t any point in proving it to anyone else. He would go to her without any of this bone dust, without coating his blood-carved runes with it. He would stare into the face of her magic, his heart filled with light and forgiveness, and he would apologize to her for what he had become, though it was her, herself, that had helped make him into it. And he would go alone. He would go alone to apologize for what he had done, what he had become, and he would forgive her for what she had done, what she had try to make him become. And then they would go their separate ways.

He smiled to himself, the knot in his stomach dissolving away. He was Henri, not Fynne. He was a good man – a guilty man, yes, but he knew what path to walk to ascend above the shadow again. And that was one – no… many steps in the right direction.

Shuffling the papers back into the folder, he failed to take note of a particular account.

Surgeons removed a large shard of metal from subject’s arm during her stay at the Cathedral. Subject requisitioned blacksmith to forge a dagger with the shard.

…it probably wasn’t important anyway.

[Deebum]

A torn page found lying in the gutter of a Stormwind side-street:

Deebum Felsprocket's super-secret journal
Date: XY76G234

Silanthras came to me today. Apparently he got the Yeti's dagger from some dwarf. It took me a minute to figure out what dagger he was blathering on about. I was glad to finally be able to put this business away, but then he told me that apparently one of Fynne's women had been taken, and now she didn't remember him or something, and that Fynne was acting very strangely.

I'm really very confused by it all. Silanthras really needs to learn to enunciate better. Still, I think I got the gist of the tale. I harvested some Yeti to get more bone dust, since I figured Fynne would find solace in having some more, but by then Silanthras had lost Fynne.

Gah. Never send an elf to do a Gnome's job.

These people really need to open their eyes and realize how large the Yeti menace actually is. They can't just go running around blindly, expecting that the Demon Yeti isn't planning to destroy Azeroth one soul at a time.

I went to Dreadmist to prepare things. That's always fun. Zhaatom ran around eating the faces of all the Yeti minions while I prepared my ritual. I'm always amused at the way they scream when Zhaatom starts chasing them.

Hopefully Fynne will get ahold of himself long enough that we can get our business done.

[Fynne]

Henri bent down close to his dark steed, Shari’lo Terro, as they thundered across the foothills far to the distant south of Hammerfall. It wasn’t such a dangerous thing for him, really, to ride so near. But if he were spotted, they might decide to send out some patrols, and that wouldn’t be very convenient for Her; Henri urged Shari’lo to a stop, and peered out at the robed warlock making Her way past the blatant view of the wooden walls without caution or care.

Alyiane. You might be unable to die, but not for lack of trying.

She disappeared into the gorge on the far side of the outpost without fanfare. Dismounting, and whispering to his steed, Henri continued after Her with much more caution. The going was slower, to be certain, but he wouldn’t risk having five or six of Hammerfall’s best come after the two of them.

Something caught his eye as he slipped into the gorge after the warlock; an Orc was bent to a low knee, drawing thick green fingertips across the gravel below him. He was barking something to his two companions in his guttural tongue, and while Henri couldn’t make out the precise words, he did get the jist.

“Human footprints,” the Orc had meant, maybe not in so clear of words, but as he stood and pointed to a cave at the end of the gorge, the rest of his intent was clear, “leading over there.”

Henri couldn’t make out the tracks himself, but he did have a guide, of sorts, now. Alyiane wouldn’t be too hard to find. Still, having three of the brutes wouldn’t do. Darting behind rocks and slipping between shadows, Henri stalked after the Orcs. One had been bold, or clever, enough to set a concealed trap at the mouth of the cave. Not clever, or concealed enough for Henri, but it was enough to slow him down; after all, it wasn’t very easy to hide encased in ice.

When he caught up with the hunting party again, they had paused at a junction in the cave. The same Orc as before had knelt to the ground, but he grumbled something quietly and stood almost immediately. Without the tracing of fingertips as before, Henri could only interpret that to mean one thing.

The ground’s too rocky in here to leave a footprint.

This was good for him. Three didn’t divide so evenly into pairs as Orc-logic might otherwise suggest. As two took the left passage, and the burly, green-fingered tracker took the other, Henri slipped after the lone Orc, wary to watch for traps. The Orc had been clever, but not this time; perhaps it was a stroke of luck, or insight, or wisdom, the first time he had laid a trap. Nonetheless, he wasn’t very lucky, insightful, or wise, or even alive, for very long. The first bend he round, he was tugged into the shadows of the cave, and with a silent scream into Henri’s cloak-wrapped arm, he fell to the ground, slain from the vicious life-stealing blade thrust through his back.

Body placement wasn’t such a terribly important thing as it were, perhaps, in stalking a city, or even an encampment. While he was reasonably sure there wouldn’t be too many guards patrolling this cave in the near future, there was a perfectly good spot for the Orc over next to that kobold corpse in the corner.

Henri looked down, dragging the body for a moment before glancing back up at the kobold’s corpse. As it were, corpses. A line of slain kobolds, burned, lashed, and otherwise showing faces of torture and pain before their deaths led deeper along the path before him. Dropping the corpse, he clung to the shadowy wall along this new path. Alyiane had to be this way.

She turned out to be much closer than he expected. After a sharp rise that cut back very nearly the way he came, he could hear Cattyla’s whip crack as a kobold screamed out. Just ahead, Alyiane murmured the demonic words of a spell, and the snarling thing collapsed to the floor, twitching in agony a long moment before falling stiff and silent. Henri made his way behind Her, stalking silently before leaping at the warlock and cupping his hand over Her mouth.

“I’m not here to torture You,” Henri whispered hastily, feeling Alyiane curse Her foul demon words into his palm without effect, “I came here to apologize.”

His eyes darted around, wary for the other Orcs’ approach, and he brought Alyiane silently back with him into the shadows, keeping an eye trained on the tunnel from which he came.

“Look. I’m sorry for what I did,” he whispered, still not releasing the warlock’s mouth, “but not for why You think… or command. I’m sorry, Alyiane, because that wasn’t me that did that. It wasn’t becoming of me, and I’m sorry for giving into that shadow – that creature You’d make me be.”

Henri paused, hearing some pebbles scuffle in the shadows nearby. Quieter, he continued, “I never should have given into that revenge, Alyiane, and I would hope that You would forgive me, if only that what I took was to even our tables.”

Something was definitely nearby. Backing Alyiane farther into the shadows, moving his eyes to peer into the darkness beside him, Henri saw nothing. Cattyla, after all, was invisible. “I want you to know… I forgive You, though.” Henri swallowed, embracing the Light in his heart that Myri had spoken of, finding the good man that he once was.

An Orc burst through the passage, eyes darting about. Releasing Alyiane, Henri leapt forward, gouging his green-skinned foe in the eyes. As the Orc staggered about, stunned and blinded from the pain, Henri darted behind him and drove his dagger between his shoulders. A black-feathered arrow whistled past him, and it brought his attention to the third Orc who had decided, upon the miss, to hastily move away.

Henri sprinted after him, and managed to stumble on a carelessly set trap. He watched helplessly from behind a wall of solid ice as the hunter escaped into the winding tunnels of the cave, and heard a voice call out from behind him.

“[Demonic] Melarorah!” the voice called, and a chill colder than the ice surrounding him shivered down his back. The rune, carved with the same name, tingled with a tickling pain as he resisted the call.

Attention.

The ice broke around him, and he turned to look Alyiane in the eye, as he had so many times before when She had uttered that word. She was speaking, saying something… he should pay attention, but for once, it was different. He didn’t feel the need to obey, that Her every word was all that there was to his existence. He could resist.

“Alyiane,” he interrupted, and the look of shock and anger upon the warlock’s face would have been enough to melt his trap ten times over, “don’t. Don’t waste your breath. I came here to apologize, to set us even, and now I’m going to leave, and be with my Love.”

Henri drew his gaze down from the comical features of Alyiane’s face, Her mouth hanging open while Her jaw worked, trying to bring words to express Her fury, to Her hands clutching and wringing themselves in the air just above Her dagger. He could feel it’s power, and understood why he had been able to resist. The poor thing hadn’t the power of the dagger he had stolen from Her; that was why his resistance had conjured a tickle, a mockery of the obedience-forcing pain that he would otherwise feel to disobey Her demonic words. With a shrug, he turned to leave, shaking his head at Alyiane’s pitiful grasping of straws.

“Fynne, my pet,” Alyiane cooed in a voice altogether lacking the sweetness that She would otherwise present, “one more thing.”

”[Demonic] Theramas Rethule Kirasath Melarorah!”

The words hit Henri with a force rivaled by perhaps only the Deeprun Tram itself. His mind reeled, and though he thought of resisting, he only dared think it for a moment, before the runes on his back exploded into searing pain, forcing him to submit. He stared into Alyiane’s eyes, waiting for Her command, needing to hear it, hinging his entire existence upon Her next words.

But no command came.

Alyiane stalked forward, hellfire burning in Her eyes as She incanted again, “[Demonic] Theramas Rethule Kirasath Melarorah!” Henri buckled to one knee before Her, and stared helplessly up into Her eyes, obedient and attentive, waiting for Her words, but She would not be content; She would not leave any room for Her pet to escape this command, not with will, nor blessings, nor his precious Jilliane’s love. She stood before him, and leaned down as though to whisper into his ear, “[Demonic] Theramas Rethule Kirasath Melarorah!” She howled, screaming again and again until Her pet did not so much as flinch to the words.

The string of spells was too much for Henri’s mind, and he thought- or would think, if his mind had not been utterly beaten back in the face of Alyiane’s power, of the strength Her full incantations would hold, if She had Her true dagger, and not this shard-forged thing. There was nothing in his world, save Her. It was only Her will, and Her commands, that he ought know, and helplessly, he waited for them.

“You will NOT try to break my bonds, Fynne,” Alyiane spoke, Her voice boomed with such command that it would threaten to shake the very cavern to crumbling rock around them. But there was no cavern, no rock; there was only Alyiane and Her commands.

“And you will remember who it was that commanded you, my pet, to give Jilliane this potion,” Alyiane smirked, seeing no defiance, no question in the kneeling man’s eyes, “and you will give her this potion, won’t you, my pet?” It wasn’t a question, nor did Henri interpret it as one; he couldn’t, “You’ll give it to her, and you’ll see that she drinks every last drop.”

Alyiane smirked, sliding a vial into Henri’s pouch, patting him mockingly on the head. Casting a triumphant smirk to a bat-winged shadow on the wall, the warlock finished, “And Fynne? Cattyla’s wings aren’t uneven.”

[Caelyn]

Silently as she could, Caelyn walked over to one of the goblins, careful not to wake some of the drunken people around.

Reaching into her backpack pulling out a smaller bag. A quick glance into the bag showed that none of the crystal vials were broken and were still carefully wrapped in silk, with a small piece of paper wedged in the middle. Satisfied that they were as safe as she could make them, she walked up the goblin.

Carefully placing the bag in the goblin's greedy hands, Cae gave him some coins, with the instructions that this package is not to be harmed and delivered with all haste. "And when you return you will receive the rest of your payment."

Watching him walk away, as if he were carrying his weight in gold, she smiled and quickly whispered a spell that sent her across space back to Iron Forge.

Walking up to the nearest mail box, she wrote three simple words and sent the letter on its way.

A woman smiled as she opened the note. Nodding at the simple message, she throws the note on the table and picks up her glass of wine.

[Fynne]

He had to give Jilliane the drink. Had to.

Henri took another sniff of the vial, letting the aromatic scent flood his senses for a long moment before replacing the stopper. It smelled like cherry grog; stronger, maybe. Maybe Alyiane was just giving him something for Jilli, a drink to her health, a congratulatory gift for finally getting her Henri back. For a moment, he even did believe that; the mind bends in funny ways, when the will is broken.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find out what exactly it was he was giving her.

He shook his head, clearing the scent and foggy thoughts from his mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t alchemical; he had measured a few drops from the vial, testing them against his own samples of herbs, powders, and suspensions with the very best equipment that SI:7 had to spare. Henri knew little of magic, spells, and sorcery, but he was familiar with alchemy and poisons.

Growing up in Goldshire, he had spent the better part of his youth working in the Lion’s Pride; bussing tables, serving the adventurers that passed through, but most important to this regard, working in the kitchen. He had learned the finer points of applying herbs to draw out the flavors of meat and stews, the importance of carefully measuring ingredients to create a perfect meal. It was no great leap for him to take up alchemy when he set off into the herb-rich world, and a smaller stretch still for him to apply that trade to crafting poisons under SI:7’s tutelage.

It wasn’t a poison, and it wasn’t alchemical. After long hours in that timeless basement, Henri was absolutely sure of that. But that meant it was something else; either it was sorcery, or it was harmless. Henri refused to believe the latter.

“My Love,” cooed a mockery of Jilliane’s tinkling voice, “won’t you be joining me at the Deepwater for a drink, when you’re done?”

It was McCoy. She smirked down at the toiling man from the stairs, cackling as she ascended them again, “She said she’d be waiting for you tonight. Don’t stay down here too long, Henri!” The SI:7 agent burst into another fit of laughs, echoed by several more at the top of the stairs.

With a grumble, Henri returned to his tests. Two hours later, the result was the same. He would need the help of an enchanter, but he couldn’t keep Jilliane waiting…

He had to give Jilliane the drink. Had to.

The warm night air brushing calmly past him as he soared into Menethil Harbor atop his Griffon was no consolation to his thoughts. He couldn’t resist, his mind refused even to think those thoughts, to mount a resistance in the first place. Henri clutched the vial Alyiane had given him, slipping it into his sleeve and positioning it. He strode into the tavern, throwing a charming smile at the beautiful blonde-haired lady-knight waiting for him, his stomach in knots as he wrapped his arms around her and gave her a loving kiss.

Let her feel the vial in my sleeve!

She didn’t. And her wonderful, melting, passionate kiss did little to comfort Henri; perhaps he would have savored it more if he knew it would be the last.

“What kept you?” Jilliane asked, smirking, “I’ve already had to push off two men, and the sun’s barely set!”

“They haven’t bought you drinks yet, have they,” he observed dryly, a twinkle in his eye, though he’d rather not have it there, “The trick to wooing beautiful women is to buy them drinks.” Finally parting from the hug, he walked hand-in-hand with Jilliane to their table, a practiced deception forcing a perfect smile to his face. He wished he weren’t as good at what he did, as he was.

“Not that they didn’t offer,” Jilliane teased, poking Henri playfully in the ribs, “how many drinks have you bought recently, oh master of wooing beautiful women?”

“Let’s see about getting you a drink, first, miss!” he winked and squeezed her shoulders as she took her seat, “I’ll be right back.”

He stepped away, slipping over to the bartender to purchase two tall mugs of strong-smelling ale. With a deft motion, he let the vial in his sleeve pour its contents into Jilliane’s mug. He prayed for someone to trip him, for someone to just accidentally knock into him, tipping Jilliane’s drink to the floor. But no-one did.

Let her see it in my eyes. Let her see my deception. Don’t drink it, Jilli, don’t!

He set the drinks down in front of them, taking his seat across from the beautiful, trusting Paladin that he Loved so dearly. Smiling across at her, he leaned back in his chair, taking his mug and raising it before her.

“To the death of Fynne. Let that creature be buried from our minds forever, and only your Loving Henri remain,” he toasted, pleading with Jilliane behind his mirthful eyes.

She didn’t see it. She raised her glass, smiling lovingly at the charming rogue in front of her, and downed her mug. Henri was impressed; he thought it would take the better part of the night to get her to finish the entire mug, but Jilli, as it turned out, was quite the accomplished drinker.

As soon as she had finished the drink, “every last drop,” Henri burst into an excited apology, knocking Jilliane’s mug from her hands, staring angrily at it as it shattered against the wall, “Jilli! Jilli, please forgive me – I couldn’t help it!”

The Paladin licked her lips, the drink having tasted exceptionally potent tonight, and raised an eyebrow at Henri, “What have you gone and done this time, my Love?”

“She made me, I couldn’t resist. I tried, but I couldn’t resist. I went to Her to apologize, and She made me do it! She made me, Jilli!”

”I warned you not to go back to her alone.”

”I know you did. But, I… needed to go alone,” Henri plead into her eyes, growing concerned at the glazed look washing over them, “I didn’t want it to seem like I was going there for show, with someone as my witness.”

Jilliane sighed, leaning back into her chair. Now she really could use a drink. Fixing Henri with the judging eye of a Paladin, she whispered, almost hesitantly, “What did she make you do?”

“She made me give you that drink, and see to it that you drank all of it,” he quickly confessed beneath her judging gaze, “but that was all! She didn’t say anything about trying to fix it, as soon as I had!” He stood, suddenly, looking at Jilliane as ideas for righting his betrayal flooded his mind, “Quick! Summon the Light to cleanse yourself, Jilli! Whatever foul poison you drank will be purged from you!”

The knight stood, and all the light in the room seemed to grow brighter as she summoned its holy power to cleanse the shadow of the warlock’s magics from her.

“It doesn’t seem like poison; I don’t think any harm has come from your deed, Henri,” she smiled down at him, licking her lips again, “it just tasted a little bit funny.”

Jilli let out a giggle, staring past Henri, perhaps not seeing him at all, “This is strong stuff, tonight,” she stared at him, trying to stand for a moment before thinking better of it, “where did you get it, again?”

Jilliane burst into another fit of giggles, something about what she said seeming terribly amusing to her; to Henri, it was not, “Jilli – that’s some powerful liquor She-… I’ve given you. Let’s get you to a bed, I’ll let you forgive me in the morning.”

As Henri moved to lift Jilliane, she seemed to fall asleep for a moment, slumping back in her chair and drooping her head. Gently wrapping his hands around her waist, he cast a glance behind him at the flight of stairs, and grunted to try and lift Jilliane and her armor; this was perhaps one of the downsides of falling in Love with a knight in shining armor. It was worse than dead weight – she was actually resisting.

With a grunt, he paused his efforts and knelt beside his Love, looking up at her slumped head and her slowly opening eyes. Reaching out to gently squeeze her side, Henri stood and tried to help her to her feet once more, but rather than the struggle with before, Jilliane quickly stood to her full height and let out a squeal, pushing him away.

Must have hit a ticklish spot, Henri grinned to himself, offering his hand to the lovely woman before him, once more. She stared at it strangely for a moment, then looked up into his eyes, her own clear and blue, all of the glaze from before having vanished. She smiled, somewhat nervously, and offered her own hand shakily towards him.

“Pleased to meet you, sir. My name’s Jilliane, and you are-?”

[Jilliane]

Another one!

And this one had the gall to grab her waist! The men, the boys of Menethil, they were all alike – always going out of their way to treat her to this or that, trying to win something from her. Not that Jilliane had a problem with being fawned over, but the nerve of this one! To try and touch her without at least buying the drinks first.

Pushing the man away from her waist, she threatened to twist his fingers, but he was swift and escaped her grasp. She stood, eyeing the man as he changed tactics, offering her his hand instead. What was he thinking? Offering her a dance? No… he must just be introducing himself. Not to be outdone with the… charm in the air that night, Jilliane offered her own hand, speaking before the man could, himself.

“Pleased to meet you, sir. My name’s Jilliane, and you are-?”

The man sighed, seeming less than impressed with Jilliane’s introduction, and brought a hand to his temple, rubbing it to help alleviate his annoyance. Speaking as though playing a child’s game, he replied, “Right… of course. And I’m Henri Fynne.” With an out-of-place, extravagant bow, he nodded to the stairs behind him, “now let’s get up to bed, miss.”

Jilliane’s eyes narrowed angrily, “To bed!? And who do you think I am, sir Henri Fynne, that would even make you think for an instant that I would be going to bed with you?!” Still, that name did sound familiar.

“Alright I deserve that,” replied the man, a look of guilt washing over his face, “but I still think you’ve had too much to drink; let’s get you to lie down some.”

Her ire towards this brash man rising, Jilliane snapped, “I haven’t had anything to drink tonight, thank you very much. Perhaps it should be you who’s getting off to bed,” She paused, then pointedly finished, “alone.”

The strange man before her, Henri, he called himself, opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His eyes grew wide and alarmed, and he stared for a long moment into hers; perhaps he finally realized just who he had the nerve to talk to like that. As he stared, shocked, a lithe, bat-winged seductress slinked her way over to them from the shadows, walking her way to the stunned man, she draped her arms lovingly around his neck, mockingly cooing into his ear.

“There you are, Fynne. I was wondering where you had gotten to,” the succubus looked to Jilliane with a seductive, teasing smirk, “I’m sorry, dear. Fynne here is always trying to woo pretty ladies to his bed. It seems, though, that he’s… losing his touch.”

Jilliane finally recognized the man for who he was as he grabbed the succubus by her throat, bringing his dagger to bear against her shapely neck with the haste of an assassin. He was Fynne, she had heard that name before; Fynne was Alyiane’s lapdog. Alyiane, of course, was the warlock that she had been warned about from a friend; she knew to be wary of her tricks. Jilliane gripped her mace tightly, she hoped that this angry blonde man had not been sent by his mistress to deal with her.

“Your Mistress wants you to know, Fynne, that She has the antidote, and She has an assignment for you,” whispered the succubus, casting a nervous glance to Jilliane as she writhed in the man’s grasp.

“I remember you now,” interrupted Jilliane, looking triumphantly at the man, Fynne, Henri, whatever it was he called himself, “You’re Fynne. You work with that warlock.”

Henri tossed the succubus aside, looking searchingly into Jilliane’s eyes, almost pleadingly that she take back what she had just said. He had such a familiar look, the same look she had seen on countless faces that she had revived from the very clutches of death. She knew that look, the look of someone who had very nearly stared into the maw of the twisting nether itself, and had been brought back to look upon the world of the living once more. The look made no sense to Jilliane, why would this man be so stunned by her pronouncement? Had he thought her that ignorant that she wouldn't realize who he was?

“If you’ll only remember me as Fynne, then let me remind you of the Henri that I am!” he strode forward, covering the distance between them in an instant, and wrapped strong arms around her, pulling her into a sudden and altogether unexpected kiss. She was helpless but to swoon into it -it was perhaps one of the best she had ever had; it was like she had known him before, and their mouths had practiced this dance of tongues so many times before that there was nothing but perfection; her arms tingled to their fingertips, and then she screamed.

She broke away from the man, and what was very certainly one of his warlock mistress’s spells; she knew the touch of shadow magic when she felt it. And she had felt this particular touch very strongly. It was as if her mind was on fire, burning and torn; she clutched at empty memories that weren’t there, and she shook for the pain that it brought, spitting taunts weakly at this warlock’s assassin.

“Keep your mistress’s magic from me, lapdog!”

Her taunts, no matter how weak, seemed to have touched a nerve in the man. Or perhaps he was simply disappointed that she hadn’t succumbed to his kiss, although, secretly, she very much had. The look in his eyes was worse than before, and it moved her to stop her taunts. It wasn’t a look of anger, or retribution, or revenge; it was worse than a man who had stared into death, it was the look of the nether itself. Empty nothingness.

He looked as though everything he had loved and treasured had been wrenched from him in an instant. Even the look that came into her Paladin mentors’ eyes when they spoke of the coming of the scourge, or friends they had once held close met again, twisted as undead on the battlefield, paled in comparison to the pure sorrow she suddenly felt in this man’s soul.

Even the lustful succubus was moved by Fynne’s eyes; her wings drooped to her sides, threatening to drag along the floor, and she whispered in a quiet, defeated voice that seemed to match the man’s mood perfectly, “Come along, Fynne. Your Mistress has the antidote.”

She watched the man go, that look gnawing at her, beckoning her to help him, as if in some way it was her fault.

[Fynne]

He had felt like this, somewhat, before. Long ago, when he had first set away to adventure, he had had loving, wonderful dreams of Jilliane, only to wake alone and crushed as the fresh memory of her turning him away flooded back to him. Those had always been terrible to wake to. But, too, he had terrible nightmares even after he had found Jilliane’s Love again. Falling asleep in each other’s arms, it had always seemed to Henri that nothing the world could harm him with his lovely Lady-knight there to protect him.

And yet, once he fell to sleep, his Jilliane could not protect him until he woke. It was not every night, nor even often, but when the nightmares would flood his dreams, taunting him of the time he had gone without her Love, or of the tortures he had endured, and the hopelessness of living a life without her, he would always wake to find her there, loving him and laying beside.

But it seemed to him now that the hopelessness sinking around him would not lift – as if he had woken from the nightmare to find that Jilli was indeed gone – that she had never found her Love for him, and never warmed that bed beside him.

Or perhaps he had not woken at all.

The hopeless terror threatened to overtake him once more. It felt as though it was choking him, surrounding him, and he began to draw shallow, haunted breaths. Dropping to one knee, whether from the dizziness or to show subservience to one of Her minions, Henri asked in a quiet, breathless whisper, “Where does She want me to meet Her?”

Cattyla stood tall, her chest thrust forward and her shoulders thrown back to bring the full length of her wings to bear. Despite the intimidating gesture, her eyes were reluctant, and her voice was fangless, “She doesn’t. Your Mistress wants you to wait a few days, to let what you’ve done to sink in.”

“What I’ve… done?” Henri repeated, less of a question than a defeated acknowledgement.

The looming succubus nodded with a condescending sigh and threw her hands to her hips, seeming suddenly bored with the situation, “She’ll summon you when She’s ready to talk to you.”

Henri simply nodded, turning his head to stare longingly through tear-blurred eyes at the tavern. A warm, clawed hand woke him from his longing, and with a sweetness in her voice that rang against his very soul, Cattyla whispered, “I know you want to go to her, Henri, but you can’t. Anything you try to remind her of, she’ll forget. And it’ll hurt her.”

Cattyla’s voice was sweet, and her warning seemed kind, and though Henri knew that such were the tricks of succubi, he couldn’t help but take the bait, “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, letting himself fall into her trap of emotions.

But Cattyla did not spring her trap, she squeezed Henri’s shoulder reassuringly, and cooed her reply, “We succubi know much of Love, and when I look into your lovestruck eyes, Henri Fynne, it breaks my heart to see yours broken.” And with that, Cattyla did something altogether unexpected; bending over, she planted a warm, soothing kiss on Henri’s cheek.

As Cattyla melted invisibly back into the shadows, Henri brought himself to his feet and staggered his way to the Griffon master. Slumping atop his winged steed, Henri sobbed into the beast’s feathered neck, wanting for all the world to hold his Jilliane, if only to sob into her instead.

(Sorry for the late update, everyone. I haven't been in much of a writing mood, but I'll try to catch everyone up, err- everyone who cares- on what's going on in the, uh, "marvelous tale of Henri Fynne" - on that note, comments are very welcome!)

[Fynne]

She was beautiful. Beautiful is, in contrast, too ugly a word to dare describe her. Her long, golden hair fluttered and cascaded loose around her shoulders. Her eyes, bluer and clearer than a summer’s sky, darted around the room, growing moist with fear. A jagged knife trembled against her fair, pale neck; perhaps it had once been a wicked-looking thing, but age and rust had dulled it.

“I’ll have the first go with her, then,” snarled the burly man who held the trembling, exquisite woman in his arms, “and you leeches can decide who gets seconds.”

“Leeches!?” cried out a second thug, drawing his sword, “I paid twice into this venture that you did, and I’ll not have half the treasure that you’d try to steal!”

The third drew his stubby, chipped shortsword, late as usual, but not wanting to be left out. Licking his lips hungrily, he surveyed the trembling woman, drawing his gaze slowly up from her writhing feet and shapely legs, lingering for a moment on her full, heaving breasts, “I wouldn’t mind having half the treasure,” he grinned as the woman broke out into sobs, “as long as I can choose which half.”

“No!” screamed the second man, leveling his sword at the burly thug that held the treasure, “I paid for the carriage, bribed her coach; I planned this whole venture! If you’ll not let me have my way, then none of us will!” With that, he drove his sword forward in a swift arc to lop off her head.

The sudden clang of steel against steel echoed throughout the dark room. The long, thin blade of a rapier had come forth from the shadows of the rafters above, driving the thug’s sword away from the woman’s tender, bared neck, and had found itself nestled harmlessly in the flushed, fleshy cleavage of her bosom. The angry swordsman and the burly thief both turned their gaze upward to follow the thin blade to the man that wielded it.

A thick spurred boot darted forth from the shadows above, striking the burly man who had been staring up to meet it square against his forehead. Letting go of his rapier, the shadowy swordsman tumbled down from the rafters, cloak swirling and black hair tumbling around his shoulders. Grabbing the beautiful woman’s arms just below her shoulders, he squeezed them toward her chest and pecked her on the cheek.

“Hold onto that for me, dear.”

She blushed, but kept her arms pushed tightly around her bosom, the man’s sword held sheathed in the cleavage of her supple breasts.

“Gilette!” the hot-headed swordsman snarled.

“The very same,” grinned the famous swashbuckler, stepping atop the burly man beneath him to strike a pose; one spurred heel firmly crushed against his throat, and the other finding its way to tap against his wrist. He twisted his heel, causing the man, expectedly, to loosen his grip on the dagger he had held, before lifting his foot entirely, smirking into the angry thug’s eyes.

Suddenly, Gilette stomped his foot down, driving his heel into the man’s weakened wrist, forcing him to fling his dagger up into the air. Wasting no time, Gilette grabbed it and tossed it expertly by its blade into the angry swordsman’s forehead. The third thug hadn’t even drawn his eyes from Gilette’s sword, so deliciously placed between the beautiful woman’s full, heaving breasts – oooh! Now she was squeezing them! He never did look away. Gilette drove the hilt of the angry thug’s sword against the back of his head, collapsing him to the floor with the others.

“My lady,” Gilette bowed, offering his hand to the trembling woman, “would that you’d bow to your rescuer?”

She flushed, and bent low to mimic his bow, casting her eyes embarrassedly to the floor – after all, bowing in a dress like this would surely expose her! But Gilette had perhaps planned it that way, for as she bent, his extended hand caught hold of the hilt of his blade, and drew it forth from its fleshy sheathe. In the barest of a moment it took her to glance upward again, the shadowy swashbuckler had disappeared out the now-unlocked door to her freedom.

Henri smirked as the adventurer finished recounting the tale. The soft clinking of mugs accompanied applause as most of the patrons, and even Henri, clapped their hands. He loved to hear tales of Gilette – and this one he would remember the most.

The tale was nothing terribly special; it had a swordfight, a beautiful maiden, and Gilette saving the day. But just as the tavern was quieting down, and Henri was slipping back into the kitchen for the dishes that awaited him, a quiet, tinkling voice made itself heard.

“So you mean to say that her breasts alone hold the weight of his sword?”

Henri peered into the crowd, looking for the owner of this voice so sweet, that even if elven harps and gnomish music boxes had been playing, could not rival the beauty of its tinkling sound. It blessed his ears again, “Was she an Orc?” it asked, “my breasts are full enough, but I have yet to find a sword light enough that they would hold it.”

Henri stared at the beautiful young girl who had thrust her budding chest out to punctuate the sweet song of her words. He fell instantly in Love. The girl’s beautiful siren’s voice seemed to him like the rasp of a hag compared to the pure loveliness of the rest of her.

“Jilliane,” reprimanded the Paladin behind her, laying a plated gauntlet on her shoulder, “speak not of such things. It does not become a student of the Light.”

Jilliane, that was the name of this loveliest of girls, who stood in this very room with him, clad in pure white robes with the tabard of the Silver Hand draped over her shoulders. The Silver Hand! And the Paladin behind her! It meant she was coming here – well, to Northshire Abbey – but she would come to Goldshire, often enough, wouldn’t she? And even if not – well, Northshire wasn’t but the barest hop away!

It wasn’t until Tomas, the kitchen master, threatened him with the flat of his knife that Henri would be pulled away from the doorway and the sight of this beautiful goddess of a girl. Even still, late start and all, Henri had never washed dishes faster. He burst to the door of the kitchen, trying to calm his breathing and his beating heart before poking his head around the corner.

It was for nothing.

As soon as he caught sight of the blonde-haired girl, he melted anew, and watching her toss that lovely head back and bless his ears with that lilting, tinkling laugh, his heart raced faster than before.

He began to make his way to her, skipping past the Innkeeper, Farley, and dodging the drunken adventurers who had begun to push their chairs away from their table. He even risked the wrath of old Nevershave, the beady eyed dwarf who was more beard than body, pleading that he couldn’t refill his ale because he was off for the night.

With horror, he watched the Paladin Jilliane was squiring lay her played gauntlet on her shoulder once more, nodding to the door.

”Mightn’t I have one drink?” she plead quietly in her musical, lilting voice; Henri’s knees went weak, and he would have given her the key to the cellar itself if he’d had the power, “just one, before I’m to go off and grow Holy?”

The Paladin, who Henri was convinced must have a will of thorium, and a heart wrought from stone colder than the snows of Dun Morogh itself, shook her head and tightened her shield to her back, tugging Jilliane to her feet.

She turned, just as Henri burst through the crowd, and began to follow her Paladin charge to the door. He raced across the short distance, knocking over a chair noisily as he came upon her, calling out, “Jilliane!”

Surprised, she stopped and turned to look at this strange, out-of-breath boy who had called her name. He was kind of cute, short blonde hair matted messily to his head with sweat.

Henri gazed into the gorgeous woman’s strikingly beautiful clear blue eyes, suddenly lost for words. He stammered, blushing a deep red under that melting gaze – he felt utterly bared in the face of it.

“I… uh,” he stammered, learning how to speak again as he went, “thanks for coming to the Lion’s Pride, I – we hope to see you again!”

She smiled, her beautiful red lips tugged into an amused smirk, and the freckles dotting her face seemed to wink as her cute, tiny noise wrinkled just a bit with the movement.

”Jilli,” she said cheerfully in her magical, tinkling voice, and Henri was confused at her words – but truth be told, he probably would have been confused by anything she said at that moment, “I’ll be glad to come back! But call me Jilli!”

With a wink, she turned and pranced out the door, leaving him dazed and blushing. He let out a long, dreamy sigh as she disappeared out the door, and was broken from his thoughts by the firm, angry grasp of old Nevershave’s stubby fingers on his shoulder. He shrugged, still grinning; whatever came next, it had all been worth it.

Henri woke from the dream, smiling for only a second as he rolled to face the other half of the bed - it was empty, and realization flooded back to him as he remembered why. Jilli no longer remembered him; he had betrayed her - and why? Because he had been too weak to resist Alyiane's magicks. And he had dared to try and take revenge upon her. But he was no warlock - he couldn't summon a revenge as despairing as this.

For a moment, he wondered - did Jilliane dream of him, as well?

[Caelyn]

(( :( How sad. I really missed lots while I was.. err never mind. Wonderfully written. Keep them coming))