glenicemorcant

[glenicemorcant]

RIP

“I suppose you’ve come for me now,” said Glenice. She did not look up from her desk. The thud of a body hitting the ground. It was heavy, loud. It had to have been Ramirez’s, the fat oaf. A curtain of blood swept across her hardwood floor. She shook her head. She knew who her visitor was. “Why…?”

“Tell me what you know of our Lady — the demigoddess, Rìona,” replied the hushed voice.

“After all we went through …” she began.

“You stalked me for years!” cried the man.

“Aye. Was my job, Lieutenant,” she said. She quietly unbuckled the holster of her one-shot derringer attached to the underside of her desk. “To find you, to bring you in.”

The man guffawed. “You froze my assets, kept surveillance on my friends. Forced us all into hiding. But we both know that is hardly a reason to kill over.”

Glenice see-sawed her free hand. “I knew I was next. But Ramirez? Ala—?”

“Mister Ramirez,” interrupted the man, “was compromised long ago. By the same people propping Bailey up. Ever wonder why they were ahead of you, always? The Cartel has deep roots, Major,” he said. “The Brothers are everything when compared to your little black market ops.”

She froze. “But Alanna…”

“Alanna? Tell me what you told her. About Rìona.”

Glenice looked up at the man. Lieutenant Brian Wellson, Lord of House Au’llon, appeared remarkably healthy. That surprised her. She kept it to herself. She watched as he wiped blood from his dagger onto her coat sleeve hanging in the coat tree across the room. “Nothing. That part of the investigation—”

He did not hear the rest. She watched him as he approached. Words failed her. She barely felt the slice of the razor sharp poniard as it slit her throat. She grabbed at her neck. He pushed her hand aside and thrust haft of the knife into it. He wrapped her fingers around it.

“Find peace in Elune,” he whispered into her ear. It was the last thing she heard. He let go of her hand. The poniard dropped to the ground.

Wellson ransacked the office. He took formaldehyde from Dusty’s lab, and doused the Major. He struck a match and dropped it on her body. It erupted into flame. Wellson opened all of the file cabinets, strewing pages and pages of investigative notes down the stairwell. Soon, all of the Special Investigations Unit was engulfed. He faded into the shadows, and slipped down the back alley. If he had been paying attention, he could have felt the other pair of eyes on him. But he did not. He retreated to old town, ate a piece brioche with bacon, drank a cup of tea, and slept.

(( @glenicemorcant @dorahtalah // @quai-mason @alanna-macleod ))

[glenicemorcant]

“Why are we meeting out here, Alanna,” asks Glenice. She sweeps her thick brown hair into a ponytail, angular features evermore sharp. Business dress and a sidearm on her hip, she is intimidating. She crosses her arms and pops her hip. “You know I hate it here.”

Alanna nods. She looks around Lion’s Rest, where widows and widowers stand at the wall, weeping for the lost and the dead, their reflections subtly rendered in the gleaming marble facade. She pulls her long dark coat with its upturned collar shut. The winds were biting today. Or maybe it was just this space.

“Tell me about the day Petrel died,” she says.

Glenice stares at her partner. “What? Why?”

Alanna turns her head, scanning the crowd. “There is an inquiry being considered.”

“It was a bad day, Alanna,” she says through clenched teeth.

The Inspector places her hand on Glenice’s shoulder. “Yeah, it was – for me, too.”

Glenice’s lip twitches. She turns away from the monument, looking toward the lighthouse. She shudders. “As soon as I got the call from Ramirez, I geared up and set out for Dalaran.”

“There was nothing that you could have done. Why did you leave.”

Glenice pinches the bridge of her nose. She exhales. “Because if I were the victim of a hit job, I’d want someone to come look after me, too.”

“Fair.”

“I took the portal from Stormwind to Dalaran. I checked in with the Kirin Tor. One of the City guards took me into the Sewers. I called Dusky –”

“Why? Why call Dusky. You know he hates to travel.”

“...I called Dusky to supervise the autopsy.”

“And – to the best of your knowledge – what did they find.”

She dips her head, frustrated. “Why are you doing this, Alanna?”

MacLeod turns to also face the lighthouse. “Someone has complained about malfeasance on your behalf. Dusky is in it up to his neck right now, too.”

“How long –”

“From the moment you stepped through the portal. Someone’s been drafting you.”

“Fuck,” she says, before shouting: “Fuck!” loudly enough to disturb the mourners. Some of them appear understanding, like she is one of them; some of them are angry. Most are unshaken.

“Are you finished, Shadowgrove?”

“I was not careful that day, I know this. But to have been followed from the second I arrived? How would... who complained?”

Alanna shakes her head. “Don’t know. It was anonymous. But there were details about that day which suggests it’s a higher up.”

“Trask was put down two weeks before the Siege. I put the fucking bullet in the back of his head.”

She rubs her face. “...it has nothing to do with him. It cannot. He never talked. The entire time he was with us, he never talked; that was his only trump card – silence. If he wanted to do something, if he had the means to do something, he would have done it before he was executed.”

“That Au’llon woman, maybe...” Glenice’s voice trails off. No, that didn’t make any sense, either. She had no stake in that conflict. Alanna watches her friend put things together in her head. “What was it Bailey had said about Lord White? Trask? They knew each other, but they didn’t interact. She was the go-between for someone.”

“She called them ‘the tip of the spear’.”

“If that’s the tip, what’s the rest like?”

Alanna shakes her head. She stares out over the sea as a Kul’Tiran vessel docks. Transients and vagrants, emigres from Darnassus and Darkshore, rush toward it, begging for money, for bread. “Slave labor from Trask, something else entirely from Lord White. And big enough of an enterprise to funnel all of those herbs and mushrooms to Bailey – the stock came from across Azeroth.”

They fall silent as the bell tolls ten. A moment of quiet reflection for all the mourners. After a minute, Alanna jerks her thumb toward the Cathedral District. They start to walk. Glenice posits the question bothering them both:

“What tipped her off?”

Alanna frowns. “Odds are, whatever it was, it was small, like an incident report or operational notes. Maybe she was meeting a supposed contact in the Sewers?”

“That’s where anything solid about Bailey cropped up – possible, more than possible, right?”

The two women walk up the steps of the Cathedral, kneeling on the long, lush rug. Portions had been worn down over time under innumerable knees and genuflection. The appearance of opulence masks the truth of the matter – it’s all on the verge of falling apart. They start to pray.

(( Mentioned: @alanna-macleod ; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ] ))

[glenicemorcant]

Glenice Morcant knows that shuffling, loping gait all too well. Before the knock even happens: “Come in, Ramirez.” Junior Agent Ramirez, almost always accompanied by at least a few cheese crumbles, enters her office. His face is drawn, his colour drained. He fusses with his uniform jacket. His black hair is damp, stuck to his temples. “Major,” he begins, tugging on his shirt cuffs. He looks off to the side. Glenice frowns. She doesn’t look up, instead working the case file of a small time narcotics ring she’d been tasked with assessing. She waves a well-manicured hand. “Continue,” she says. “News out of Dalaran.” That grabs her attention. Everything else coming across her desk had been about the Pyrrhic victory in Lordaeron, but Dalaran? “Legion resurgence?” “Major...” “Cultist actions? The doomsayers —” “No,” he says. Ramirez crosses the room and plops an official communique from the Kirin Tor Offensive on her desk. She glares up at him for a moment before settling in to read. Her face drops further and further. “This is solid?” Ramirez nods slowly. “Found the body this morning, Major. Down in the Sewers, near the black market.” Glenice furrows her brow. She pulls at her collar. “Any idea why she was down there? Petrel wasn’t exactly the investigative kind...” she muses to herself as she continues to read. “...bullshit,” she whispers. She slams the paper on the desk. “Word from Alanna?” Ramirez shakes his head. “Nothing yet. Comms are down. Too much interference from the blight.” “Fuck all.” “What do you need?” asks Ramirez. “Keep tabs on Dusky,” she replies, standing. She grabs her service sidearm and daggers from her desk. She casts a long eye toward the go-bag beside her desk. “Major?” Glenice shakes her head. “You can use up to category 3 weapons until I return.” “Where are you going?” he asks. “Need to know, Ramirez,” she says, hefting the bag. If her fears were justified, she would need almost everything in it. She starts to disrobe. “Turn around.” Ramirez does what he’s told. As Glenice changes, she tells him where to take Dusky — and how to get in touch with her. She snaps her fingers. He spins about. His mouth drops open. She is clad in tight black leathers, and armed to the teeth. “Keep him safe, Ramirez,” she iterates. She starts toward the door. “And watch your back, too.” He looks at her inquisitively. “...just trust me on this,” she says. Glenice is out the door and melds into the Stormwind crowd within 20 seconds. Someone was making a move — she just had no idea who. (( Mentioned: @alanna-macleod ; Relevant: @blackbay-wra ))

[glenicemorcant]

(( Rarely Offered TW: executions by gunshot ))

“Stand or kneel?” asks Glenice of Trask. 

“Rot in hell, bitch,” he spits back.

Glenice frowns. She looks toward Alanna, who merely crosses her arms, nodding. Glenice hits the back of the man’s neck with the butt of her pistol. Trask drops into the warm Elwynnian dirt. He grunts. Quiet descends over the group. Alanna flicks her chin toward Ramirez, who blindfolds the shackled profiteer. 

“Chief Warrant Officer Winston Trask, formerly of the Kirin Tor Offensive,” the paladin reads from a parchment bearing the royal seal. “You have been accused – and found guilty – of numerous charges against the Crown. They are too numerous to name, so you will hear the most serious. Human trafficking, aggravated sexual assault, arms procurement and redistribution…” – she pauses, looking between the rest of the SIU; nothing but birdsongs and the distant whimpering of their second condemned moves through the trees – “…conspiracy to commit sedition, high treason. The penalty for any one of these charges is death. Do you understand this?”

Trask clears his throat, moving his head to worm a peek out from behind his blindfold. “Fuck you.”

Alanna sighs. “This death warrant is to be carried out in Year 33, Month 7, Day 23 at sunrise. Dusk?” she asks, looking toward the chief forensics officer. He nods. “And that time has been reached. Do you have any last words?”

Trask thinks for a long time. He tests his bonds. After a moment he puffs his chest out. “Just end it.”

Alanna nods toward Glenice. She draws her sidearm, chambering a single round. She holds it flat to the back of the man’s head. All is still. She pulls the trigger, and he drops face forward into the open grave they had made him dig earlier. Glenice sniffs, holding her weapon across her chest.

“Dusk?” asks Alanna.

Dusky makes his way to the body, placing his fingers to the man’s neck. He eyes his watch. “Time of death, 6.21 in the morning.”

“Thank you, doctor. Ramirez, secure the second prisoner.”

The oafish investigator wanders over toward the creekside and takes Bailey up by the shackles. He leads her to the second grave Trask had dug. At least this one would receive morning light, she thought. 

“Stand or kneel?”

“Stand,” she says simply. 

“Blindfold?”

“No.”

Alanna cocks an eyebrow. Glenice shakes her head. The young woman stands defiant before them. 

“Miss Bailey Jameson, denizen of Ironforge,” reads Alanna from a second parchment. Glenice places a single bullet into her sidearm. “You have been charged – and found guilty – of, amongst other things, operating a criminal enterprise, illegal armament manufacture, and conspiracy to commit sedition. Your coöperation with our investigation has allowed you to choose between a life in the Stockades, and death in a…” – she gestures about – “…sunny meadow.”

“I like birds,” she mutters.

Alanna stops. “We are prepared to offer you this in exchange for your conscience. Do you have any final words?”

Bailey bites her lip. A lock of her blonde hair flaps in the light breeze. “You won this battle, Agent, but you cannot – you will not – win what this battle will have wrought.”

“We know,” says Alanna. She shakes her head. “But we will try.” Bailey shakes her head with a dark chuckle. Alanna continues: “This death warrant is to be carried out in Year 33, Month 7, Day 23 at dawn.” She nods toward Glenice who works the action. Ramirez looks away. Glenice brings the barrel flush to the back of Bailey’s head. She pulls the trigger, a sharp crack cuts through the morning silence. Birds scatter. Bailey drops into the grave. Glenice holsters her weapon. Dusky checks for signs of life; there are none. He calls the time of death as 6.24.

Alanna summons a footman who had been standing to the side, guarding the proceeding. “Fill these in, and get a priest to bless the ground.” The footman salutes and begins to carry out his duty.

“You good, old sport?” asks Dusky of Glenice. She sniffles. He places his hand on her shoulder, and she asks – 

“Permission to take the day?”

“We all take the day, Shadowgrove,” she replies without hesitation. “I’ll send the drafted communiqué to Captain Mason.”

“Do we tell her the rest?”

Wearily, Alanna shakes her head. She starts toward their carriage. “Not yet. We let them have the win.”

(( Mentioned: @alanna-macleod @quai-mason ; Relevant/Of Interest: @blackbay-wra @brian-wellson @juniper-rose-blower @killerkyara @selene-duskwind @ephriza-dawnblade @vohganthedirtman @mycoronervinny ))

[glenicemorcant]

A Blast from the Past

June picked up a rock to skip across Olivia’s pond. She wound her arm back and lugged it forward.

SPLOSH!

The flat stone landed with a thunk in the water, sinking to the bottom. If there was ever a time when she wished Ky were with her, it was now. Her mind went back on everything said the night before…

June stood at the door of the Stormwind office, hesitating in her attempt to knock.

Malodar wrinkled his nose as they passed through the acrid air of the Dwarven district, waiting behind her patiently when she paused. “Are you alright? Second thoughts?”

The Botanist lowered her hand, shaking her head. “No… just…” she let loose a sigh, “… just remembering what happened the last time we were here.”

The Gilnean gnawed on her lower lip, her hand moving to rest over one of her pockets. She let out another softer sigh, shook her head, and raised her hand to knock on the door. RAP! RAP! RAP!

The little slit near the top of the door made a grinding sound, and a pair of eyes appeared through it. “Can I help you?” a muffled man’s voice drawled lazily.

Mal cleared his throat in a way that vaguely resembled the word ‘rude’.

Juniper glared up at the eyes, sniffing softly before her mouth twitched on one side in recognition. She pointed to herself and then to Mal, “We’re here to see Chief MacLeod.”

The eyes narrowed at June, “Do you have an appointment?”

June nodded, motioning to herself, “Asset Lark for a consult, accompanied by Asset Crane.”

The pupils narrowed more, brow arching, “Anything physical to confirm that?” In response, June pulled the reassignment note from her pocket, holding��it up just enough to show the seal on the paper.

The elven healer folded his arms, quietly staring and lightly sniffing the mixing scents around them. He offered no response, examining the pair of eyes with a serious gaze.

Ramirez scrutinized the paper, examining the seal for several long moments. Then without a word, he disappeared from the slit in the door, its cover grinding back into place as if they were just going to be left on the doorstep. Several moments later, the door opened and the wiry Ramirez waved them in.

The Botanist walked through the open door with Mal behind her, doing her best to steel her nerves as Ramirez motioned lazily up the stairwell, “If you want to see the Chief or the Major - they’re upstairs, as usual.”

To this June bowed her head in a single nod, reaching into her pocket to pull out a folded note, “Thank you. Can you get this to Captain Wren please?”

A quirked brow and a five second silence later, the cheesy-smelling man plucked the note from her grasp and went to go find Quai’s favorite arcane kitten to get the missive sent out.

Once alone, June and Mal headed upstairs. It took several long minutes before June found the courage to knock on the sanded wood door of the office. In response, a crisp voice called out: “Enter!” Exhaling the breath she didn’t know she was holding, June pushed the door open and walked inside, Malodar following behind keeping a neutral but examining expression. He took position at the back of the room, leaning in a corner.

Glenice was sitting in another corner, working at a side-desk, various files and folders spread haphazardly across its surface. Alanna, meanwhile, was standing on the side of the main desk closer to the door, back to June and Mal as they entered. Juniper cleared her throat gently before saying as neutrally as she could: ���You… wished for a consultation… Chief?”

Malodar was brought back to the memories of their previous encounter with the chief and her staff and had to suppress a frown. He remembered his unfondness for her tone and demeanor. She struck him as being quite too fond of her own position of authority.

Alanna lifted her gaze as she turned, irises shifting from June to Mal and back again several times. She gave a curt nod of her head. “I did.” When June held out the reassignment missive, the Chief took it and set it on the desk out of the way, “That was nearly two weeks ago…?” Her tone was far more relaxed this time, though it still held a little formality to it.

June shrugged unapologetically, “Couldn’t find a portal, so we took a ship instead.” She left it at that, waiting for the woman’s reaction.

Mal kept his ears trained on the conversation. At hearing her tone he relaxed, however slightly, and leaned on the pillar with his arms crossed. “My fault, portals do not treat me well.”

Alanna looked back at Malodar curiously, nodding twice. “Yes, that is curious. But not as curious as to why you are also here, Recruit.” She did not wait for Mal to answer before turning to look at Glenice, “Major, do you still have the file for Asset Lark regarding Azurecoast Port’s algae problem?”

The conversation had taken a turn June never expected it to take. Her facial expression changed immediately, brow furrowing as a confused curiosity shined in her eyes. Her lips parted slightly, mouth hanging open in recognition.

Glenice located the file and held it out to Alanna. The Chief walked over to take it, flipping it open to observe a shot taken by a Gnomish camera of a gloomy port town under an overcast sky. She lifted the picture so June and Mal could both see it - the only thing out of the ordinary was that the normally crystalline blue water appeared bright orange from an overabundance of algae-covered kelp.

Malodar tilted his head as he examined the picture, taking in the details briefly. “Looks like a lovely vacation locale,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm, unable to stop himself.

The Gilnean’s face blanched at seeing the picture up close. A lost look shined in her expression, mouth still hanging open. Alanna placed the picture in June’s hand, tilting her head sideways, “Something on your mind, Asset?”

Mal was glad his slip up didn’t seem to interrupt the flow, and stepped up to take a closer look over June’s shoulder at the image.

Juniper blinked as Mal stepped up behind her, and she looked at Alanna with a frown, “They could try freezing it to remove it. But they’d have to dispose of it carefully to keep it out of the soil,” her statement was said rather quickly, ending in an inhale taken to transition to her next, her tone shifting from expository to hopeful, “Do you have an extra picture or two of this place?”

Mal stole a glance to June’s face before moving back to the photograph, trying to gauge the connection between the picture and her tone.

Alanna shrugged gently, “Perhaps. Just depends on what Ramirez took.” She dug through the file and pulled out an image of a large tower in the mountains and a second image of an ornate town with little houses about its body and a great estate house at its head, wreathed in more mountains in the background. She handed both to June, quirking an eyebrow, “You are familiar with these places then?” To this, June said nothing, looking at the two additional pictures with glossy eyes and giving the tiniest of nods.

Malodar frowned more deeply as she examined them and looked up with a deep breath. “Where is this again?”

Alanna pointed to the first image, turning her gaze to Mal to speak to him directly, “Azurecoast Port. In Gilneas.”

Mal face dawned with understanding. He hadn’t recognized the name of the port initially, having never ventured to that particular region. Now recognizing it as June’s homeland, he at least started to get the beginnings of her tense reaction.

The Gilnean gave a slow nod and held the images back out to Alanna. They were taken from her grasp and slid back into the file folder, “Are there any long term effects they should know about in regards to that algae?”

June shrugged, “It’s not exactly my strong suit… but if they bring the amount down a little, it should help the fish population grow.” She shook her head confusedly, “I don’t understand, that port was evacuated after the Wall fell… has Lord Sterren returned?”

To this, Alanna shook her head, “No. It was recently rebuilt with the aid of House Matheredor, from what we gathered. Some sort of trade agreement for stone from House Sterren.” When the Botanist still looked confused, Alanna added, “Headed by a Kaldorei or something… Lady…”

June recognized the race immediately, stopping Alanna, “Headed by the Sentinel Captain… strange… why not Lord Sterren?”

At this, Glenice piped in, “According to intelligence, Lord Ian Sterren, Count of the Blue Mountains, was lost at sea two years ago… no one has seen him. His widow Lady Shadestar has since undergone a name change… twice.”

Alanna inclined her head, motioning to a copy of the Courier over on the desk’s corner, “Didn’t she just have twins or something?”

Glenice nodded, “That’s the one.”

Mal followed along, at quite a loss from all the names and houses being bandied about. If he was generally unconcerned with the trappings of society in his homelessness, he was incalculably uninterested in the goings-on of human nobility, which from his occasional interactions struck him as somehow even more inane and nonsensical than the military. None of which it felt appropriate to express as of now. He let their exchange of information continue, absorbing what he could and cataloguing the rest for June to fill in later, in more amenable company.

June ’s brow furrowed at the mention of Lord Sterren lost at sea. Something she didn’t understand panged in her heart and she looked down at the floor. Alanna shrugged and turned to look back at June.

“Well, that was what we needed consulting about. Since it just needs to be managed, we’ll pass the word along.” She exchanged a glance with Glenice. Her blue irises moved back to June, “Was there anything else you needed?”

The Botanist seemed at a loss for words, standing there in the silence. Malodar chewed the inside of his cheek in the awkward silence, stepping sideways a little to set a hand briefly on her shoulder before retreating back to the wall.

The Gilnean looked between Alanna and Glenice, chewing her lower lip softly. Eventually she spoke, “Would… would you happen to know where Lord Sterren was last seen?”

At this, Glenice shook her head, not even turning around, “That would take more digging to find out.” Alanna motioned to Glenice lightly, looking back at June.

June held her own, unblinking as she stared back at Alanna, “Could you?”

The Chief gave a nod, “We can see what we can find. In the meantime, I’m assuming you want a portal close to where the others are, to catch back up?”

At this June hesitated, brow furrowed again, “I… don’t know that they need me.”

Mal bit his lip, and hard too, though it likely went unnoticed by anyone else. He stayed silent, unblinking.

Alanna looked back at June and shook her head, “Kid, you’re too hard on yourself sometimes. I doubt your Captain would’ve vouched for you as she had if they did not need you.” After a few moments of silence, she added, “It will take time to dig up the information you’ve asked for. And if anything comes up as covert or red-lined, there won’t be anything I can do. But we’ll look into it. You should at least try to rest from your trip.”

At this, June nodded, pale gaze shifting down, “I also will be looking into something… with the monks past the back edge of the District… Do we have leave to leave the city?”

After a few moments of thought, Alanna nodded nonchalantly, “Certainly. Our courier can find you when we have more information.” June nodded in understanding, thinking of Ky playing with the little kitten Quai despised so much.

The elven healer tensed up somewhat as they went back and forth, but slowly eased back down. He put his hands in his pockets, lost in thought for several minutes. But at the last he withdrew his hands again, exhaling slowly.

June relaxed where she stood, shoulders sinking several inches. She looked over Alanna as the woman moved back to her desk and sat down. June bit down on her lower lip hard, looking uncertain about something, but Alanna seemed to pay it no mind. She motioned to the door gently, “Did you need anything else, Miss Blower?”

At the shift in tone and the use of her real name, June shook her head, glancing back at Mal before responding only with, “Just Lark is plenty… and no.”

Alanna gave a nod, lip quirking in the corner briefly, “Well, then, Asset, you and Crane there are on leave until you either request to be sent back or we find another mission that needs your attention. For now, that is unlikely. As long as you keep your armband, we’ll be able to send the courier to your location, so feel free to go wherever you like… assuming it’s not in the middle of Horde territory, if you please. We don’t need to be starting a war.”

June let out another soft sigh, looking out at the lake. Lord Sterren, lost at sea. It just didn’t sound right. She was antsy to get more information from MacLeod and Morcant, but knew it wasn’t going to happen overnight.

“Let me seek out a colleague,” Mal had offered after they’d eaten a decent meal that hadn’t been prepared in a ship’s dirty galley, “I think her opinion on how to proceed with your healing abilities will be invaluable.” His hand on her shoulder was reassuring when she gave him a nod and watched him head toward the Cathedral District.

Things were so strange right now… she’d take any help in direction she could get.

(( so many mentions!!! : @malodarstarstrike @killerkyara @quai-mason @brian-wellson @ephriza-dawnblade @selene-duskwind @alanna-macleod @glenicemorcant @ladysaraholt and so many other supporting characters coming to light as June’s past comes into the light! ))

[glenicemorcant]

Glenice arrived unannounced. Alanna trailed behind. Dusky looked up from the autopsy chart he had been compiling. He stripped his gloves and smock, and dropped them into the bin at his feet:

“My dears, I cannot recall the last time either of you visited me in autopsy.”

“Claire,” the two women said at the same time. Alanna shook her head, bemusedly; Glenice just kept going forward.

“…right then,” he said.

Dusky walked toward the sink. He swashed his hands up to the elbow.

Glenice looked down at the body of the teenage boy. She ran her fingers through her hair. “Intentional?”

“Oh, no, old sport. Well…” – he started to dry his hands – “…not on behalf of your people.”

“Our people.”

“Whomever,” he said. Dusky raised a finger and crossed the room. “No, no. This was accidental where that chemist is concerned. I was here when she made the mixture, anyhow. It was all by the book.”

Alanna leaned against the door frame. “So it was a competent attempt at resuscitation?”

“Oh, of course. Even administered in one of the blood vessels of lesser volume to help ameliorate the shock to the circulatory system, and –”

“Common, please?” Said Glenice.

“The shot was given in a smaller vein, as opposed to the jugular or the femoral artery. To help guard the heart.” Dusky chuckled to himself. “Glenice, darling, you simply must come over at some point. Perhaps we could set you up with one of my daughter’s friends…”

Glenice brushed the comment aside. “So what do I tell the drug dealer?”

“Honestly, Shadowgrove, getting out might do you a bit of good,” said Alanna. Alanna of all people.  “You know, to feel something other than this job.”

Dusky nodded along.

“Ugh, what is with you people and your fucking relationships? You’re all as bad as that willful Gilnean piece –”

“We only want what’s best for you, dear.”

Glenice pointed at the autopsied body of the boy. “Not seeing shit like this happen in the future is what is best for me. Work stays at work. Home is a place away from work,” she said. “Respect the mission and the rest follows.”

“Glenice, we’re not in a war zone,” said Dusky. He finished drying his hands and dropped the cloth into the same bucket with the bloodied smock and gloves. She glared at him. He shook his head. “…but to the boy. He had a congenital heart defect, a weak spot on the right ventricle. I imagine he would have died within the next two years, anyhow. No hemorrhaging in the brain, nor the sclera. He just… died.”

“That’s what I came down here for,” said Glenice. She did not catch the worried look her partner and the forensic examiner exchanged. “Alright, finalize the report, Dusk, and get in touch with the manufacturer. I’ll reach out to the family.”

“Shadowgrove,” said Alanna. Glenice turned. “You can take a break you know – Dusky’s right, this isn’t a war zone.”

Glenice pointed to the body. “You sure about that?”

Silence hung in autopsy. Glenice frowned. She looked at her feet. She dropped her arm. “Alanna, let’s do the house call together. Ok?” She banged the door open and stormed through.

Alanna nodded. It was all she could do.

(( Mentioned: @alanna-macleod, @isablackwave; Implied: @juniper-rose-blower; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @quai-mason, @brian-wellson, @killerkyara ))

[glenicemorcant]

“What’ve you got, Dusk?” Asks Glenice. The forensics investigator picks his way through the white string grid he had imposed after he had uncovered a mass grave in the field behind the compound’s comm building. He and Ramirez had been digging through it for a couple of days. “My dear,” he calls, arm raised. “We have another.” Glenice wipes her neck with a black kerchief. “Sex?” “Female,” he says, joining her and waving Alanna over. “Late teens, early twenties, judging by the skull. Human, just like the rest. Single gunshot —” “Single gunshot to the back of the head,” says Alanna. She fiddles with her camera as she joins them. Dusky nods. “How’d you find her,” asks Glenice. “Face down, I’m afraid. Likely lined up along the trench lip.” His voice drops off. He dusts his hands on his white pant legs, stained brown and red from the Azsunan soil. “I have seen this type of treatment before, but only in the internment camps, or areas with a high rate of organized crime.” “Thrown out like trash,” mutters Alanna. She slings the neck strap over her head and adjusts her white poncho. “Same with the smaller site we found down by the water, though that still looks like it’s filled with the locals.” Glenice taps her lip. She thinks back to what Trask had called that woman. ‘0510336’. She had glimpsed that number, too, tattooed on the woman’s inner forearm the night they were captured. She looks over toward the grid of white rope, where Ramirez is snapping photos. “Any mummified remains, aside from those two women you dug up yesterday?” Dusky shakes his head. “Just those two ladies, though I wouldn’t rule anything out.” “Let’s take a look,” says Glenice. Starting toward one of the evidence tents they had erected, she smears a dab of camphor under her nose. Dusky and Alanna follow, doing the same. Fourteen victims so far; she expected that number to rise. She pushes the entrance flap aside and steps in. “Subjects...” — Dusky grabs his clipboard from one of the metal tables, and adjusts his reading glasses — “...8 and 11.” “What’re we looking for?” asks Alanna. Glenice shakes her head. “Not sure yet,” she says. “Something’s just not...” She slips a pair of gloves over her fingers before unzipping number 8’s bodybag. Alanna does the same for number 11. That woman had a serial number, thinks Glenice. She pauses to look at her own arms — no numbers. She gently turns the arms of number 8 over. No number... “Hey, Alanna — Any tattoos on number 11’s arm?” Alanna takes a moment, running her finger along the dead woman’s skin. After a moment: “Doesn’t look like it... why?” Glenice strips her gloves off while Dusky zips the bodybags. “That woman, the one who called herself Death, The Shade, whatever?” She sniffles. “She was a human trafficking victim.” “What makes you so certain,” asks Alanna. “Her arm — it was tattooed with that number. It’s how trafficking rings keep track of their inventory.” “Trask is a war profiteer, Shadowgrove,” says Alanna. She strips off her gloves and rubs her forehead. “Everything — everyone — is salable to him.” “I think that’s her point, my dear,” says Dusky, “Profiteers do not brand their merchandise, such as it is. It lowers the value.” Glenice nods. “This wasn’t Trask’s ring to run. Profiteers — they acquire, they sell, they’re conduits. Middlemen...” she thinks aloud. “Say, Dusk — you said Ramirez found a grave moss hoard, yeah?” “Mm,” he says, flipping through his clipboard. “Secure vault under the main building — high grade titansteel, arcane locking system, gnomish alarms... the biggest cache I’ve ever seen outside of Duskwood. You know,” he chuckles, “I once knew a lass —” “Didn’t the Doctor say that there’s a shortage?” Asks Alanna, looking for that part of his interview in her notebook. “Let’s see... According to him, supplies began drying up maybe eighteen to twenty months ago. These Broken Isles have practically been denuded if it.” She stops turning pages, studying something she had written. Her handwriting is terrible, she thinks, squinting. Glenice paces a narrow row between groups of bodies, pinching her lip. “Trask — he’s an opportunist. His endgame was never about attaining power, per se, but assets. Money. Think about it: trafficked people? herbs used in illicit narcotics? Do you see a brothel here? A lab? Any of the things you’d expect given the means?” “No,” says Dusky. He returns his clipboard to the metal table. “Pardon the language, old sport, but to whom was he bloody selling?” The three investigators look over the bagged corpses of the victims and the perpetrators and the local elves who had just been in the way. There were more than fifty bodies, in total. It was, quite literally, an atrocity. Clicking her tongue, she shakes her head: “I have no idea.” (( Mentioned: @alanna-macleod @brian-wellson @selene-duskwind ; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @juniper-rose-blower @killerkyara @isablackwave ))

[glenicemorcant]

Glenice looked at Selene for a long time. The half-elf was unusual to her. She seemed to have her shit together, and it was vaguely unsettling. She had undergone torture for months, rendered illegally in subhuman conditions — out of the sun, out of the moon, unable to pray. And yet, she had barely spoken a word, taking the time instead to clean her armor and service her weapon between the watch shifts. Glenice stood and crossed the common space: “May I?” She gestured toward the bench across from her. Selene nodded. She didn’t look up, choosing to work on her crossbow. “You... you’re different than the others,” said Glenice. May as well go for it, she reasoned. “I am a sacred arrow of Elune, a Sentinel. You think I wouldn’t be different from the others, friend Major?” Glenice tapped the table with two fingers. “Even arrows need to be flexible,” she said. “What makes you think I am now?” “You’ve yet to deviate from your routine. To take a moment to reflect.” “Reflect on what, Major? My captivity? My rape? You think I wish to reflect on that time spent?” Selene set her crossbow down. “You humans — feeling everything. Never having faith that what has happened was supposed to happen from the moment we were motes in Her eye. It weakens you. When I get back to Silithus, to my sisters, then I can ‘reflect’.” “You don’t... deal with it now...?” “Do you, Major? Or will you drink your tears?” Glenice studied the Sentinel’s hands. They were scarred, pale from her captivity; bony, malnourished. They took up her crossbow and resumed their delicate manipulations. After a moment, she cleared her throat: “And what do you do with your tears, then?” “I fuck them away,” said Selene. She stood. Glenice stared, slack-jawed, as she picked up her weapon and situated it on her back. Selene studied Glenice. “You should try it — fucking — it’s better for your body.” Glenice was at a loss for words. She hadn’t expected such a blunt answer, not one that hit so close to home, anyhow. No one since her husband, and that was years back. Of course she ached, yearned for connection, but the mission was what mattered. Wasn’t it? “I’ll remember that,” she said. She cleared her throat after an uncomfortable silence. “Let’s finish this up at the office, yeah?” Selene gave the Major a once over, and left. Apparently, she had found a cache of perfume; cherry blossoms were left in her wake. The door closed. “...the fuck was that...?” Glenice muttered to herself. She wasn’t sure about whom her question had been posed — the Sentinel or herself. (( Mentioned: @selene-duskwind ; Implied: @alanna-macleod ; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @quai-mason @juniper-rose-blower @killerkyara ))

[glenicemorcant]

“Captain on the bridge,” announces Glenice.

Selene nods. She leaves the bridge for the mess. Glenice grimaces. The woman is painfully thin. She frowns. Her face throbs, her eyes, black-rimmed.

“You really don’t need to do that,” says Quai.

Glenice shakes her head. “Captain, if your crew cannot learn to respect the chain of command, to respect you – if they have nothing off of which to model respect, I should say – then what good are they in the long run? That Sentinel might be good for that. Plus she’s a damn good shot.”

“That she is,” says Quai, continuing to look out across the open sea. She taps her lip. “My crew is fine, thank you... just... mouthy.”

Glenice agrees. “Your crew is good – very good, honestly. Were that just Alanna and me…” – she gestures toward the grummle mopping the deck; he pauses to adjusts Trask’s nickel-plated sidearm he had slipped behind his waistband – “…well, we wouldn’t have made it out alive. That little one – he stepped up.”

“Birdhat is a good guy,” says Quai.

“And he follows orders,” says Glenice

Quai cannot argue with her. “He is… loyal and trusting.”

Glenice locks the ship’s wheel into place. She turns and faces Quai. “Captain, I want you to know that you have my respect.” She catches her gaze. “Have you thought about my offer?”

“Now’s not the time, Major,” she says.

“Fair…” Glenice crosses the deck. She opens a footlocker. “Look what I found.”

“Is that a ship-to-shore…?”

“It’s not secure, but it would make life easier.”

Quai inclines her head. “Does it work?”

“I wouldn’t have shown you otherwise,” she replies. Glenice squats down and picks up the mic. She fiddles with a dial. “Shadowgrove to SIU, over.”

They wait for several seconds, a seeming eternity. After a moment, another woman’s voice answers. Quai recognizes it immediately:

“Go for SIU,” says Alanna.

“What’s the word on Trask’s file, over.”

They can hear paper shuffling in the background. “Nothing you didn’t already know. Hold.”

“Holding,” she replies.

“Nice radio,” mutters Quai. “Better than that fucking mewing beast.” She massages her bruised neck. Glenice chuckles.

“SIU to Shadowgrove.”

“Go for Shadowgrove.”

“Yeah, looks like he had a wife once. Disappeared. A son…” – Glenice and Quai exchange a glance – “…who’d be 10 or 11 by now. Last known address was with an au pair. Get this – Stormwind. Over.”

Quai breaks into a devious smirk. Glenice nods:

“Get us the address,” she replies.

Alanna replies. She doesn’t ask any questions. The rest of the call was brief. Ramirez had bumbled in at some point, though he had been shooed away.

“You can’t tell the rest of the crew about this,” she says.

“I hate keeping things from them,” says Quai.

“They’ll kill the boy outright. You know I’m right.”

Quai’s silence is the only affirmation Glenice needs.

Glenice points toward Birdhat; he is situating his yellow toque. “Put him on it. No contact, just a couple of snapshots,” she says.

“Pretty shrewd… we’ll have to alter course,” says Quai. She crosses the deck, wincing. She takes out a navigation chart. “And let Brian know that we’re going back to Stormwind.”

(( Mentioned: @quai-mason, @selene-duskwind, @alanna-macleod; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara ))

[glenicemorcant]

“You... came for me...” the halfling said. She sounded injured, though Glenice wasn’t sure.

“...yeah...” she said. It was all she could manage. Her nose had almost certainly been broken. Her face throbbed. The doctor had given her pain meds, not like it mattered. They were short acting. A low dose opiate, she thought.

“We’ll get out of this,” the Sentinel whispered. She pushed herself up, using the wall as support. Her body swayed.

“Eat... my meal, Sentinel,” groaned Glenice. She pushed her half-eaten breakfast toward her cellmate. “I don’t need it now.”

The half-elf placed her hands on her knees, holding her head between them. She waited until the stars cleared. “Selene,” she said, drawing a shaky breath. “My name’s Selene... Duskwind. The Circle… calls me Nightblade…”

Glenice nodded. She looked at the woman’s threadbare civvies. She pulled at the woman’s long t-shirt, tearing off part of the bottom. “Major Glenice Morcant,” she said.

Selene fell to her knees. She ate the eggs and bacon slowly with her fingers. “Why...?”

“I came... for you... now, you have to save us all.” Glenice wrapped the torn cloth around her wrist. She watched the Sentinel eat. After a time, the doctor returned to administer another dose of narcotics.

“You, doctor...” said Glenice after he had given her the shot. “You believe in doing ... no harm, don’t you.”

The doctor slipped the needle guard into place. “Mm. I took that oath,” he said. He put the needle away, and examined her face.

“Look at... what he’s done...” she mumbled.  Selene looked over toward the doctor. “...to her... to us. To your ethics. Why...?”

The doctor grimaced. “It didn’t start like this, Major...” — he glanced toward the malnourished Selene — “...Sentinel. It didn’t. I needed supplies for my operation in Talador. He helped me out. Now he owns me.” He shook his head.

“...you... want to make it... right?”

“He’ll kill me,” whispered the doctor.

“He’ll kill you… anyway,” grunted Glenice.

The doctor considered this for a moment. He appeared troubled. He looked between the two women, rubbing his temples. Somewhere else on the cellblock, a woman was screaming. He grit his teeth and pushed his spectacles into place. He leaned in and spoke quickly:

“Your weapons are stored in a chest at the end of the hall. I’ll unlock it. That’s all I can do. The rest is up to you.”

Glenice sniffled. She nodded. And then: “Give me another shot, fucker!” She shouted. “Hurts… like a bitch…”

The doctor crossed his arms. The muffled screams in the distance continued. He drew the syringe and gave her a second dose.

“Keep me out of this,” he whispered.

Selene followed him with her eyes when he walked to the door. He banged on it twice. “Light’s blessings,” he said.

The door opened. Trask stood outside. His face had been splattered with blood.

“Everything alright, doctor?” He asked.

“Stupid bitches tried to come at me. Had to sedate one of them,” he mumbled. “The other one…” – Selene collapsed to the floor – “…well, she’s no trouble.”

Trask nodded. “Good enough.” He peered into the cell. “Major, I am sorry. The buyers have passed – you have until sundown.” And to Selene: “We need you alive – no one knows Un’Goro like you. Don’t worry,” he said, slamming the door, “You’ll die soon enough.”

Glenice tightened the rag about her wrist. No way she was dying tonight. No fucking way.

(( Mentioned: @selene-duskwind; Implied: @quai-mason; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @brian-wellson, @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara ))

[glenicemorcant]

“I know who you are,” says Glenice from her cell. She watches as the man on the other side paces. He is pinching is bottom lip. “I know what you are,” she says. “Yup, you got me,” he says. The man stops. He raises his hands in mock surrender. He moves to the arcane-shielded window; his face and hands fall. “You know nothing, Major.” Glenice snickers. “What happened to your eye? Did your little serial killer take it?” The man draws his baton, extending it with a series of snaps. He smashes it against the door. The metal sings out, loud and obnoxious. Glenice grimaces but otherwise does not react. “0510336 is none of your concern,” he says., turning his back to her. “She’s endured far worse than you can imagine, you spoiled bitch.” “Like those blood elf kids you put down?” counters Glenice. The man pivots slowly to stare at her. “Oh, I know exactly who you are: Chief Warrant Officer Winston Trask of the Kirin Tor Offensive. Received disciplinary act—” Trask smashes the baton into the door once again. “Shut it, Major. You have no authority here.” Glenice’s upper lip quirks. “You have undermined the military. You have taken an officer of the Grand Alliance Navy hostage. My jurisdiction is absolute, Chief.” “The Kirin Tor, not the Navy,” Trask sneers. He leans in close. “And you have no claim to jurisdiction without witnesses, hm?” “What do you think is going to happen here? You kill us, and ... then what?” Trask flips his chin toward an underling. The man unlocks one of the cells across from them; he drags out an emaciated kal’dorei-human halfling, stripped down to her threadbare civvies. “Stand away from the door, Major.” “I’m not doing shit,” Glenice says. Trask swipes a card to the wall. A soft beep is all that she hears before the metal door crashes into her face. She stumbles backward. The halfling is shoved inside. She skitters toward Glenice, cradling the injured woman’s head in her lap. “Go to hell,” spits the Major. Blood streams down her face and onto her white tabard. “Ask her what’s going to happen to you. You’re already on a speaking basis, remember?” Trask slams the door shut. “I’ll have the doctor visit. I am not without mercy,” he says. “Fuck your doctor,” says Glenice. She can feel the halfling running her fingers through her hair. But she can’t see anything. A horrid ring pierces her consciousness. “Fifteen minutes,” Trask says to someone outside the door. His voice is muted. The door creaks open. The doctor slips past him. The halfling grabs a pillow from Glenice’s prison cot. She slips it beneath her head and pushes herself away, hugging her knees. “Good talk,” shouts Trask. His footprints echo throughout the cell block. He stops. And then: “Doctor! Look over the halfbreed while you’re in there. We need her in good shape for tomorrow.” “Y-yes, sir,” calls the doctor. The footsteps resume, fading away. A heavy door is shut; the lock clangs into place. Glenice brings her hand up to her head. “...fuck,” she says. (( @the-shade-wra @selene-duskwind @blackbay-wra ))

[glenicemorcant]

Quai is alone at the ship’s wheel when Glenice approaches. She glances up at her, studies her for a moment, and returns her gaze to the open sea. Above them, the sails they had salvaged from Caldwell’s ship rustle in the seabreeze.

“Captain Mason,” says Glenice. She stands at attention and waits to be acknowledged.

After a few, long moments: “Major,” she says. Glenice doesn’t move. Quai rolls her eyes: “…at ease.”

She relaxes and crosses the deck to stand next to Quai. “You’re not used to it, hm? The formality?”

Quai scoffs. “We rarely have time for all of that…” – she gestures with her hand – “…besides, it’s not exactly important.”

The Major clasps her hands in front of her. “Permission to speak freely?”

“You’re the one leading this…” – Quai stops herself when she sees Glenice’s disapproving scowl – “…permission granted.”

“I outrank you, Captain, but this is your ship. You command me. Once we make landfall, that changes.”

Quai frowns. “Your formality – it may work in the city, but –”

“Because it enforces respect,” she says.

“No one can force another to respect them,” says Quai. Her gaze remains fixed on the horizon.

“Did I say ‘force’?” Replies Glenice. She doesn’t move. “Enforcing a chain of command – and the respect for that chain of command – is what makes a unit operate cohesively.”

“We do,” says Quai. She catches Glenice’s eye. “More or less.”

“I would rather it be more,” says Glenice.

Quai faces the Major. “Why do you have an investment in us? You’re just going to lock us all up anyhow. You’re going to kill –”

“It doesn’t need to be that way,” she says, approaching the wheel. “You’ve been exonerated, sure, but we can fully expunge your record of offenses related to the military. We have the ability to do it” she says.

“You don’t speak for the King,” says Quai. Her tone is bitter.

“True. But I do not work solely for the King, do I?”

Quai locks the ship’s wheel in place. “Continue.”

“The Grand Alliance Navy is comprised of more than just its human contingent,” says Glenice, naming off a number of squadrons and names of which Quai had both heard and only spoken in whispers. “If you wish to work for the Navy, then an arrangement can be made.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Quai thinks about it for awhile. The boat rocks and the wind continues to rustle the sails. She taps her lip. “What’s your mandate? Kill demons? Deliver goods? All of that is getting rather tiresome.”

“What would you like it to be?”

She massages her forehead. “This is all a bit much. We killed one of yours. No… I killed one of yours…”

Glenice grits her teeth. “You did… yes. Agent Johnston. A… friendly fire incident.” She hates saying that.

Quai chuckles. “And you think I can trust you? I killed your man – your friend – outright.”

“You didn’t mean to,” says Glenice.

“How do you –”

“Our medical examiner, at autopsy. He determined that it was a freak accident,” she says watching the woman’s face, “And, as much as I hate to admit it, your own Lord Wellson is … a good man.”

Quai feels her mouth drop open. She cannot help but stare at the Major. “You’ve hunted him like a fucking dog for more than a year and that’s what you’ve come up with? ‘A good man’? He’s not a fucking war criminal – why can’t you say that to the press?”

Glenice clears her throat. “We are not prepared to say that officially.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Dalaran. The purges. His name came up. As did one ‘Justine Grotius’.” She clicks her tongue. “We have exonerated her, we know she tried to stop one of the massacres in front of the Hold. Numerous eyewitnesses have corroborated that story.” She shakes her head. “But for the Lord Doctor, things are…”

“…things are more complicated. Because everyone from his unit is now dead.”

“Based on what we know of his activities on that day, we want to rule him out. But we cannot … yet.”

“I’m sorry? It’s not like you are going to bring the members of his squad back from the dead.”

“Winston Trask,” says Glenice simply. She unclasps her hands and approaches the ship’s wheel. She holds Quai’s forearm. “I knew that name was familiar. Alanna, my partner, she’s looked through our tribunal’s interviews – he was one of the ones we had investigated. We were going to move on him before he… vanished.”

“And then the Legion invaded.”

Glenice nods. “Now. We get Trask, we question him, we can put that Dalaran issue to bed.”

“What about the Silithus Incident?”

Glenice furrows her brow. She lets go of Quai’s forearm. “If you want to clear his name – if you want to clear his bodyguard’s name, Ariadne Liam … or Lady Starbreeze or even your sister, then you have to get down there, into Un’Goro. Find out who commissioned Lord White to do whatever it was he was doing down there. You do that – everyone walks. We don’t have the firepower or personnel for that.”

“Are you giving me a directive?”

Glenice straightens her posture. “I am ready to commission you, yes.”

“Commission…” repeats Quai. The word feels foreign in her mouth. “I don’t know…”

“It would be a joint commission – the Grand Alliance Navy and the Kirin Tor. Broad latitude. But so help me: you will be courtmartialed if your people step out of line.”

Quai frees the ship’s wheel. “Let me think on it,” she says. “Say – could you give me a bearing…” – she juts her chin toward her brass sextant – “…we’re coming up on a cloud bank.”

“Yes, Captain,” says Glenice. She takes up the sextant and makes a series of notations. She glances over toward Quai, who seems to be deep in thought. Good, she thinks.

(( Mentioned: @quai-mason, @brian-wellson; @ariadneliam, @ladysaraholt, @monettemason;  Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[glenicemorcant]

Glenice crossed her arms. “What do you mean I can’t see him?” She asked Quai. “I came up here to replace him. I need to know why.”

Quai looked across her shoulder, smelling very much like whiskey. “He’s injured,” she said.

Glenice waved her forward. “I took care of partisans when I served in the Plaguelands. You think an injury is going to bother me? Or did he escape.”

Quai ground her teeth. “He didn’t escape, he’s… elsewhere.”

“Now I’m demanding that you take me to him,” she said. She placed her hand on her sidearm.

Quai stalked down the stairs of the bunker. “Well, come on then,” she said. She lifted her flask and went to take a drink, only to find it empty. She made an ugly face and slammed it next to the decanter on the small table in the commonroom. She gestured toward the sickbed. “Well, here he is.”

Glenice sucked in a breath. Wellson – barely clothed save his boxer-briefs and tactical undershirt – was sprawled on the bed. All of his veins had greyed, and he stared at the ceiling from behind black eyes. His face was swollen and bruised. He was breathing slowly; it was raspy and took effort. Even as his eyes were open, it was obvious he was not present, not mentally. A tube attached to two different IV bottles – Morphine and Saline – had been threaded into his arm. A grummle scrambled this way and that, preparing a final sponge bath before he joined the rest of the crew.

“What’d they do to him?” She whispered.

“Beat his face in,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. She turned and refilled her flask with whiskey. “His body – it adapted, shifting to a full on Shadow-form.”

Glenice sighed. “Is this what he was like after he’d been shot?”

“I’ve never seen him this bad,” she said. She paused a moment to swallow the lump in her throat. She took one last look at him, mouthed something no one could hear, and started back up the stairs.

“I am sorry,” said Glenice. She turned on her heel, adjusting her rucksack. “I’m looking forward to seeing the cutter he wrote about yesterday.”

Quai pinched the bridge of her nose. “About that…”

“You let it get away.”

“Not exactly…” said Quai. When they reached the top of the stairs, she picked up the duffle she had left outside – the duffle, navigation charts, and Justine’s spyglass and sidearm. “There was a mutiny aboard. All hands were lost, but the ship couldn’t be salvaged.”

“Please tell me you at least know where we’re going…” said Glenice. She was shaking her head. “I thought this group was more competent than to let a cutter get away.”

Quai did not argue the point. “We know where the base is, yes.” She produced a few rolled up pieces of parchment. “And we have the charts to get us there.”

Glenice stopped her. “Let’s get one thing straight, Captain,” she said, all business. She looked up at the ship’s colours: black and red. “Your ship is your business. When we are aboard, I follow your orders. But when we’re on the ground, that’s my jurisdiction. Understood?”

Quai sniffled. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, offering a naval salute.

“Good. Because the last thing I want is to get down there and have someone take out our man,” said Glenice. They continued walking toward the gangplank of the Screaming Harpy. “There will be no deals for him. You have my word. But you must give me yours that no undue harm will come to him. Don’t … force my hand. I’ve no desire to execute anyone.”

Quai nodded. “You have my word.”

“Good,” said Glenice. As the stepped off the gangplank and onto the boat, she dropped her rucksack. She stood at attention. “Captain on the deck!”

“Mister Wyatt!” hollered Quai. “Prepare to disembark.”

(( Mentioned: @brian-wellson, @quai-mason, @alastar-wyatt; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ]: @juniper-rose-blower, @killerkyara ))

[glenicemorcant]

When Quai and Justine’s commstones had crackled, they had thought it a mistake. When Glenice’s voice followed, they knew it wasn’t:

“You violated our agreement,” she had said.

An hour later, Glenice met with Quai on a bar’s patio in the Mage District. The sun had just set, and it was cold. The Major was certain Justine was on some rooftop somewhere, watching over everything; she was equally certain that her chest was in the sharpshooter’s crosshairs, a thought which sent a bitter shiver down her spine.

“Thanks for meeting,” said Glenice. She nodded toward Ramirez and a far more fit-looking man ten paces away, clad in black body armor, sidearms hanging from their hips. “They know what they’re supposed to do.”

Quai nodded once. She lifted her wrist and spoke quietly into it. A bright flash shimmered from a distant rooftop, a flickering white point against the dark sky. “So does she,” she said. “Why are we here?”

Glenice pulled a manila envelope from her messenger bag. She handed it over to her. Quai opened the envelope; it was filled with several black and white photographs – Justine and Juniper dancing, Quai and Wellson holding hands on the Cathedral steps, and –

“Tell me he had a key,” she said.

Glenice shook her head. “Picked the lock.”

Quai’s eye twitched. She once again spoke quietly into her wrist – Copy that, said Justine; she sounded pissed – and turned the photograph over. It had been dated not two days prior.

“Who’s space?”

“Some doctor, Selise Graves. Name mean anything to you?”

Quai shook her head. “You want these back?”

“We have the negatives.”

“Right.”

Quai stuck the photos back in the envelope. “What was he doing there?”

Glenice crossed her arms. “I was hoping you could tell us. Must be pretty damned important to put you all at risk of imprisonment.”

Quai ground her teeth. “He has… discipline issues,” she said. Her thoughts in that moment were tinged with red. “He is young, and…” She shook her head. “Are you sure it was a B&E?”

“Can’t say for sure. But who uses a lock pick set to visit a doctor?” Glenice sighed. She waved the two men back. They withdrew another ten paces. “It’s only because of that uncertainty,” she said, her voice laced with a hushed intensity, “that you’re not in prison right now. You need to get your house in order, Miss Mason.”

Quai’s lip quivered. She restrained herself. “My house is fine,” she said.

Glenice pulled her scarf tight to her throat. “Clearly, it’s not. With that in mind… I’m giving you a pass, simply because no one has reported this. How you discipline your little group of bandits is up to you. You are the captain, after all. My advice,” she said starting down the stairs. “Put a leash on that … mongrel before he gets you all thrown in prison.”

Quai watched as the Major disappeared into the crowd. She withdrew a small mirror from her pocket and flashed it in the gaslight. Justine did the same; she would be going back to the safehouse. Quai pulled a waitress aside and asked for a stiff shot of whiskey. She opened the envelope and flipped through the photographs as she waited.

(( Mentioned: @quai-mason, @justinegrotius, @selisegraves; Implied: @alastar-wyatt; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ] ))

[glenicemorcant]

Wellson watched as Glenice swept her black hair back into a tight pony. The question and answer sessions had been going on for days, and his story had not changed. How could it? It was the truth. Besides, he wasn’t about to throw Ariadne under the bus. He cleared his throat:

“Have you ever been married, Major?”

Glenice approached the cell. Her face was almost as red as the ugly Winter Veil sweater she had chosen for the SIU’s office party. “What does that matter?”

“I was,” he said. “I’m guessing by your reaction, you…” – he glanced down at her ring finger – “…I’m sorry.”

“It was years ago,” she replied.

“Why did you marry?”

She exhaled through her nose. “…love,” she allowed.

“I married out of obligation,” he said. Wellson thought back to that rainy day in the Cathedral – the choir, the honor guard, the cigar he had shared with Quai beforehand – and frowned. He started to pace; Glenice followed him with her eyes. “An order.”

“No one can order you to marry, milord,” she said.

“Please. Do not call me that, Major.”

Glenice waved him off. “To what end? It’s not as if you were anyone beforehand, just some… mercenary with an education. You had nothing to offer someone with a title.”

He did not reply.

“I’m cynical about love, but I can’t imagine how anyone could …” she started. Glenice cut herself off when a look of sad resignation spread over Wellson’s face. “Continue.”

“It was her idea,” he started. “Chancellor… Crysen… Jackson. Well, her and the Grand Marshal, both. Venifica was pregnant by that time, you understand. I had to do the right thing.”

“For her … or for them?” She asked. Glenice pulled the stool toward her and sat. She spoke quietly into her wrist.

“For her,” he said. Wellson stopped pacing when she spoke. He waited for Alanna to arrive – with three cups of kafa – before continuing. He took an offered paper cup, and held it beneath his nose, the scent warm and bracing. Alanna leaned against the wall.  “…and for me. The Chancellor and the Grand Marshal, they had the most to lose, you see. I had volunteered to face a tribunal and the squad, and –”

“…I’m sorry, you volunteered to face corporal punishment?” Alanna asked, her own cup of kafa cradled in her hands.

“I volunteered, yes,” he said. Wellson took a long sip. He noted that she had even added sugar and cream.

Alanna raised a brow when Glenice shushed him: “You volunteered to stand trial…” – the Major gestured toward his leg with her free hand – “…and you count your mistakes. This isn’t…”

“I know,” said Wellson. He set the cup down. “But they insisted that we do things like this. I had recently become one of the overseeing officers, and while I did vote against it, at the end of the day, it did not matter. Marry into nobility, pledge fealty, act like nothing happened.” Wellson sighed. He watched as the cream swirled in the hot kafa. “So we made it a state affair – the wedding, the acceptance of my lordship by acclamation, all of it. And, you know what, combined with whatever the two of them had done, it worked. Until he came along.”

“Lord White, you mean…” said Alanna.

“That shady motherfucker,” he muttered. Glenice and Alanna exchanged a look as Wellson took up his cup and sipped from it. “He dogged me from day one, visiting my office, running my financials, confronting me in the street. I had only agreed to meet with him that night because he had mentioned Veni.”

“The night you were shot, you mean,” said Alanna. “Any idea what he wanted to tell you?”

Wellson studied Alanna’s face; she held his gaze. “I remember you, you know. You saved my life…” He sipped from his cup and looked up toward the door where Ramirez stood guard. He was talking with an old man, someone who he had not seen before. Ramirez let the old man downstairs.

“…sorry, my love,” he said to Glenice. He dusted his jacket off with a worn file folder; snow drifted to the ground. And to Wellson: “Dalton Thomasson – everyone calls me me Dusky,” he said.

Wellson greeted him before continuing. “Veni and I had been arguing about the proper use of funds for months… I was so focussed on building the School…” – he clicked his tongue; Dusky dug through his file folder and passed a piece of paper to Glenice – “…and she wanted to keep the money to herself, for her child.”

“Her child, old sport?” Asked the old man.

“I’ve reason to believe it’s not mine.” Agog, the three investigators focussed on him. Glenice passed the paper to Alanna. “…anyhow, I wanted to know what he knew,” he said, voice quiet. “When the killings started – that ‘Scorpid Killer’, Claire? – White got really nervous. I suspect he thought we – the Conclave of Azorea – was behind it, the picking off his cohort one person at a time. Taking him out was something Lady Starbreeze and I had discussed, though the idea was a non-starter.”

Glenice finished her kafa. “Why did he have people in Silithus?”

Wellson stared at his feet. “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I’ve wondered that for years. The troops… they weren’t outfitted for the desert.”

“Un’Goro?”

“It’s all I’ve got,” he said.

His three interrogators huddled together. Wellson watched. They spoke in hushed tones. They glanced toward him several times. He ran his hand over his face, tired. After awhile, Alanna passed him the keys to his belly chain. “We need to see what your Commander says. Corroborate. We’re people of our word, and you’ll be released by the end of the day. Quai will be informed of your release – but hear me, Lord Wellson, you work for us now. And we need to know what was happening in that that part of Kalimdor. Clear?”

He handed the keys back. “Crystal.”

(( Mentioned: @glenicemorcant, @alanna-macleod, @ladysaraholt, @quai-mason; Relevant: @thalsianiii, [ @blackbay-wra ]: @justinegrotius, @killerkyara, @alastar-wyatt ))

[glenicemorcant]

Glenice shuts the door to Alanna’s office. Alanna looks up. Glenice removes her sidearm and cycles through the action: “Petrel’s given us the green light.”

Alanna sits back in her chair. She crosses her feet. “Where?” Glenice hands off a short note dictated by Ramirez. She waits for Alanna to finish. “We should expect resistance,” Alanna says.

“Should we?” Asks Glenice.

Alanna shrugs. “Johnston —”

“Based on their file, that was never part of their plan.”

“And you believe the file?”

Glenice frowns. She slides a clip into her sidearm. “The motherfucker apologized to me, you know...” she shakes her head. “We stick to the deal. We get what we want. That’s all that matters. They’re not so careless to start an open war in the middle of the streets. They’ve no protection here. Besides,” she added, “this is your play.”

Alanna chuckles. She stands. “Wear body armor, class three. The last thing we want is a knick from that Mason woman’s blades,” says Alanna. She crosses the room, pulling a key from her pocket. Glenice joins her at the wall-mounted armory. They insert and turn their keys at same time, opening the stout door.

“This is the right thing,” says Glenice.

“You telling me that — or trying to convince yourself?”

Glenice pulls her key from the lock. She opens the long, tall cubby door labelled with her name. She selects the right set of body armor.

“Both,” she says.

(( Mentioned: @alanna-macleod, @quai-mason; Implied: @brian-wellson; Relevant: [ @blackbay-wra ] ))

[glenicemorcant]

“Major,” calls Ramirez’s soft voice from her doorway. Glenice ignores him, choosing to focus on work instead. She can hear him chewing. She sniffs the air — Darnassian bleu. Lovely. “Major,” he says again.

She gathers her papers and stacks them, shoving their ends against the inkblotter. Still chewing. Oaf, she thinks.  

“What is it, Agent?”

Ramirez pops another piece of cheese into his mouth. He wipes his sausage fingers on his stained blue oxford.

Ramirez steps aside. “You’ve got a visitor.” A woman in rather skimpy, purple plate armor steps through the door. She is short, quite petite, with slender yet powerful arms.

“Commander Petrel, Kirin Tor Offensive,” says the woman. Glenice cracks a knuckle. She taps a tiny button affixed to the underside of her heavy desk. She stands. Petrel doesn’t flinch. “And you are —”

“Pissed,” says Glenice. “The last time one of you stopped by, I lost a material witness. That fiasco with the Cenarion Circle, wondering where one of their Sentinels had gone? Still straightening it out.”

Petrel walks in. Alanna, who had been alerted by comm, comes down the hallway on soft feet, gun drawn. She ushers Ramirez aside. The fat man looks between the three women with a shrug. He returns to his desk, sitting with a loud –oof!– as he picks up a pen. Alanna shuts the door, her gun pointing toward the ground.

“I don’t know anything about that,” says Petrel. She calmly unsheathes her sword and lays it across a desk chair. “But I know who very well might. Bottom line? The three of us? We need to talk.”

Glenice nods toward Alanna, who holsters her weapon. She continues to watch the woman across from her carefully, drumming her fingers on her desk.

“About...?” Asks Alanna.

“Silithus,” says the Commander. She sits in the other desk chair, easing her fingers across the arms. “And a certain Doctor.”

Alanna stands next to Glenice. “You’ve known about this for how long?” She asks.

Petrel winces, an almost imperceptible motion. “Since it happened.”

“Two years!?” Glenice hisses. “We should lock you up, right now. We can —”

“No, you shouldn’t.”  Petrel pulls an ID card from her small satchel. She slides it across the table. “You shouldn’t because you can’t.”

The Major picks up the ID card. “Don’t pull that diplomatic bullshit on me,” she says. Alanna whispers something into her ear. Glenice sits back.

“I’ll give him to you,” says Petrel. Her voice is colder than the tundra she had served in years prior. She snatches her ID from the desk. “But we need to talk terms.”

Glenice starts to speak, but is interrupted by Alanna:

“What is it you want?”

“A rogue cell needs to be eliminated,” she says. Petrel folds her hands neatly in her lap, red fingernails gleaming in the dim gas lighting. “But I can’t do my job if our hands are tied.”

“I’m sorry – ‘our’ hands?”

Petrel nods. Alanna and Glenice trade a look.

“Keep talking,” says Glenice; she takes a small notepad and pen from her desk drawer, and begins to write.

“There’s a reason why they were in Silithus,” says Petrel.

“The Doctor, that Star– er… Holt woman, and their cohort, you mean?”

Petrel shakes her head. “Oh,” she tuts, “No, no. Were it only so simple – no. The Black Lotus. Scorpid Unit. Lord White. All of them.”

Glenice stops writing mid-sentence. She looks from behind a darkened brow. Alanna’s mouth drops ever-so-slightly. “...what?”

“You’ve been on the right track, from what I’ve read in the papers. You’re right,” Petrel says as she sits up. “It’s all connected.”

Glenice and Alanna look on as the Commander outlines her proposed terms. The two investigators reluctantly agree.

“Johnston... how can I let his death slide? Hm?” Asks Glenice. Her tone is hushed. “He was one of the best.”

“And so are our Assets,” says Petrel. “Are we in accord?”

Glenice and Alanna speak in whispers. Each give Petrel — unnervingly cruel and calm Petrel — a long, hard look. Like they are judging her. After several tense beats:

“We are,” they say.

Petrel removes a thick file folder from her satchel, an observant eye cast toward the evidence board behind the desk. She spreads the documents across it. Alanna rubs her face, incredulous.

(( Mentioned: @alanna-macleod @brian-wellson ; Alluded: @quai-mason ; Relevant: @ladysaraholt [ @blackbay-wra ]  ))