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| - A blond man in silver-trimmed purple robes, with the hood pulled up to conceal all features save his protruding facial topiary, made his way through the streets of Dalaran. His movements were measured, careful, sudden streaks of unfollowable motion between half-minute periods of nonchalant lounging. As he approached the wall surrounding the floating city, he faded from sight entirely, light passing through his very flesh without the slightest alteration of its course. So hidden, he reached his peculiar destination. Not all of the great city of Dalaran was successfully extracted from the foothills near Hillsbrad. The surviving buildings upon the floating island had been walled in for some additional protection, and of course, to reduce the risk of someone taking a habitual path from days of old and finding it now a long walk on a short path, made easy by an unprecedented downhill component. Those few scraps of city that were outside the wall, those for one reason or another not included in the new city, were usually ignored, like scabs at which one is terrified to pick. This man made his way to one such now, one of the great houses of Dalaran had all but died out well before the third war, and their manor had crumbled into the abyss. But one piece of their property remained, in the provenance of the last descendant, as did the building upon it. On a tiny corner of the island sat a neglected outhouse, and this was the target of the seeker’s pilgrimage. He entered. He pushed back his hood to peer more carefully at the wooden seat. Some mischievous trap would be eminently expectable from his host. He sat. He remained sitting. “Damn. Does this thing have a password?” The floor unlatched, and he found himself now to be seated upon an elevator whisking him downwards. Logically he knew that the only feasible destination, unless he was about to be ejected into the upper atmospheres of Northrend, was somewhere in the Dalaran Sewers. As a result, when it came to a stop, he was surprised to find himself looking out into a significantly well-appointed workshop and domicile, in which a firey redheaded woman wearing a heavy grey robe with an upturned scarlet V on the back sat at a table with her back to him, poring zealously over some notes. Normally in such a situation his first response would be to criticize the lack of security in putting one’s back to the entrance, but for the looming presence of the felguard standing just to his left. He tried to ignore the fact that the felguard had saluted him. He didn’t really know what to make of it. He got off the crapper, and strode forth, “Well,” he began, “when you said you’d secured facilities on your family’s old property, I can’t say I expected this...” The woman put down her papers and turned towards him with a whimsical smirk and raised eyebrow, “What, Rohnin? You expected a distillery mounted in a closet and a pocket notebook again?” He suppressed a sigh. There were a very small number of people who got away with addressing him so informally these days, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted this woman on that list. Still, there were... considerations. “No Bernita, I suppose not, though how did you manage to get all this set up?” “Magic,” she grinned. Then before he could work himself into a fit interrogating her as to what sort of spells, she relented, “Specifically, the sort of magic performed by wandering into the engineers’ crafthall and speaking the incantation, ‘I have a large bag of gold of which the future owner is yet to be determined.’ “ Rohnin frowned briefly, then rallied, “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve been spending gold quite freely of late. This,” he gestured expansively around them, “cannot have been cheap, and the battlemaster tells me you recently bought a set of Gladiator’s Plate? Are you considering a career change back away from magic?” He tried not to let the hope show through in his voice, she’d been an excellent fighter in her youth, and she was a better warlock now, but she’d come to that path by a dark route, and obsessed with vengeance was hardly the safest mindset in which to consort with demons. “Nah, they’re for Otto once I figure out precisely what measurements they need to fit.” Rohnin blinked in shock, “You put that much gold into getting armour for your felguard?” “I take care of my team, and they take care of me. Why wouldn’t I want the one who’s going to be taking the pummelling for me to have the best armour I can get them?” “Because they can’t actually be killed, just kicked into the twisting nether until you resummon them?” “Most of my teachers at this stuff would agree with you. Which is why they have to deal with being constantly on the lookout for struggle against their control and betrayal, and I can give a fairly vague order and expect the intent, rather than the specific verbiage, to be understood and acted upon.” She paused, looking briefly thoughtful, “Most of the time, anyway. I like my way better.” “Regardless, how are you funding all this? Though I reinstated your employment with one of the Kirin Tor’s research subsidiaries, we haven’t-“ She cut him off, “Given me any work?” He blanched, “That... isn’t how I was going to put it, but yes.” “Partially the fact that my family had a fair amount squirreled away in one of this city’s bank vaults before we got blown up, but also an independent grant. Attempting to increase the caramelization component of fire magics for some reason. The writ showed up in the mail with a sizeable amount of gold and the mild ultimatum of ‘the chezburgar is watching you.’ “ “Outside grants are a violation of your contract, you know.” “Yes, but I wouldn’t have to if you’d even look at my proposals. I really think that they would prove to be formidable weapons against the Forsaken.” “Scourge.” “Them too.” When he sighed she moved to change the subject, “I’m going to have some tea, would you like some too?” Rohnin grimaced briefly at the sudden shift and the gnashing gears in his mind trying to keep up. Tea would probably be a good thing. “Yes please, no sugar though.” And of course when Bernita got up, maybe once for old times’ sake... She waved one hand in the felguard’s direction, a glowing circle of the mystical equivalent of fine print encircling it’s feet, “Otto, kick Lamaar in the face until he spills the beans on what he’s planning this time, then put a stop to it.” Rohnin had been discomfited by the salute before. It was nothing in comparison to the felguard’s disappearance being preceded by a gaudy bow and a huge, ‘I’m going to love this’ grin. The circle, however, remained. “That doesn’t sound much like taking care of your team to me.” “Lamaar isn’t part of the team, he’s barely useful enough to avoid a de-beaking. The circle flared, ribbons of purple light dancing in the air briefly before opening and vanishing, leaving one of Bernita’s other familiars behind. “Companion, be a dear and get two cups of tea on, and fetch those biscuits as well.” He stared. And stared. “That...” he trailed off, and then rallied, trying again, “That is...” he fumbled for words, eventually finishing ineptly, “That is not armour.” Bernita practically purred, her eyes turned firmly towards the small kitchen, “No, it’s much more useful than that.” “I’m worried about you, Bernita. You know how risky fel magic is ordinarily, and you’re getting far too deeply... involved with your familiars. Don’t forget what they are!” “What they ARE is my team. They trust me, and I trust them, each with good reason.” “Right until that succubus you’re so casual about rips your soul out!” “No, she can’t do that. Or any number of... other things, without my express, and explicit instruction. Which reminds me...” Rohnin watched in fascination and horror as Bernita rummaged in one of the bags near her chair and withdrew a purple crystal which contained a sickly, pulsing glow and looked at it carefully. He closed his eyes when she drew back her arm and lobbed it across the room, “Eat the scarlet crusader, dear.” He kept his eyes closed, though the soft sizzling sound was enough for him to visualize the crystal becoming naught but dust, as what was once a living soul, oh fine, a soul enthralled by Mal’Ganis, but still a human soul ceased to exist upon landing in the succubus’s gloved palm. “You go too far, Bernita!” he shouted. “How so? Even you, when you go into the field anymore these days, strip any valuables from those you kill to line your own pockets. He tried to stick an axe in me, I think that frees me of any obligations to the sanctity of his person.” He forced himself to try to calm down, “Bernita, please, I know I’ve made... concessions in allowing you more free reign than I really should in the name of our friendship, but you really need to take serious consideration on what you’re doing, or you’re going to force me to do something I don’t want to do.” He missed the hardening of her voice, “I don’t recall anyone ever being able to stop you from doing whatever you wanted, Rohnin, and our friendship mostly consisted of you trying to pinch my rear through platemail while I escorted you on inspection tours.” He backpedalled, “There, there was more than that...” “And the real reason for your ‘concessions’ is that you don’t want to explain to the rest of The Six the utter fiasco of the Greymountain complex, and don’t want me to have any incentive to talk about it.” “Even if that were true, there’d be more than one way to silence you!” Though he shouted this, he quickly quailed, as the succubus was suddenly standing right beside him. Even though all she was holding a silver tea-tray, it was reminder enough that while he could certainly overpower Bernita in a straight up fight, his magery against her skills as a warlock, the last thing she would permit him was a straight-up fight in her own house. “I’m not the only survivor, Rohnin.” “Yes, but the former Janice Lichen doesn’t remember any of it.” She laughed, spilling her tea, he noted idly that the succubus cleaned it up, then gave Bernita the second cup as well even though it was going to be his, “You’re slipping, Rohnnie. I’d never call THAT a survivor. I killed her myself, even if she did get back up later.” “Then who?” “Do you remember Gor’Dahn Freewind? The shaman from the internment camps? Used to beat you consistently at Three-Card Alterac when you weren’t cheating?” “Shama- you mean the orc?” She rolled her eyes, “Yes, ‘the orc.’ Who you might recall was actually a senior researcher in his own right by the time things went critical.” “What about him?” He was more than a little irritated with Bernita’s games by this point. “My sources haven’t found anything to indicate he’s around.” “He’s known as Gor’Dahn Barfist now, he’s one of Thrall’s advisors, having won a great deal of respect from Oggrimar’s diplomatic community when he replaced his severed hand with a tool rather than the more traditional route of putting axes on his axes. We keep in touch regularly. One might almost go so far as to say... scrupulously.” Rohnin was capable of taking a hint, “In short, if communication from one of you does not occur, the other will make... difficulties?” “He offers me a shade more protection in that regard simply because Warchief Thrall would be... upset to lose one of his advisors.” “That’s a very paranoid arrangement.” “I spent the seven years working security for my great uncle at the complex, and most of the Third War guarding Southshore. I like things,” he’d have missed her brief, lingering glance over the succubus if he wasn’t watching for it, “secure.” Rohnin sighed, he knew he wasn’t going to make any progress in this arguement today, “You’re absolutely sure of their loyalty then?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Overall? They get more of what they want. More chance to cause pain and death, more spirits to devour, and for the most part, I treat them better than the Legion ever did or ever would have. They’d always have to obey someone, why not me?” “For the most part?” “Lamaar. He fails to be pragmatic enough to cooperate willingly, so why should he have the privileges such would earn?” “So that’s all it is? You think that you’re perpetually secure as ‘the high bidder’? Don’t you realize they’ll betray you as soon as they get a better offer?” “I concede that’s a bit of a risk with Wrench, or possibly Sonic Bomber,” Bernita paused, noting Rohnin’s confusion, “my voidwalker, and felhound, you haven’t been introduced yet. But Otto absolutely adores me, apparently to them the function of armour is entirely a display of rank, and as far as he’s concerned I’ve appointed him grand highlord over my armies.” “Your armies.” Rohnin said it flatly, in an almost unfriendly tone. “Don’t give me that. Mostly it just means he bosses around Wrench and Sonic Bomber in my void pocket, and kicks Lamaar in the face. Which is exactly what I want him to do, so it all works out.” He sighed, “And the succubus?” “The name I chose for my Companion has proven... precise. I will never be in danger from her. Really, Rohnin, is this necessary? You used to trust me with your life, can’t you see to trusting me with mine?” “Just be careful, Bernita. Fine, yes, part of it is about wanting Greymountain’s secrets to stay buried, but I do consider you a friend.” “Always.”
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