Eyes half-open and glazed with tiredness, Kadrian rubbed her fingers wearily across her temple. The barely-hidden stench of rotting refuse lingered in the air, but it was a quiet air, not the stringent, cloying and annoying clatter from the taverns along the main drag of Dalaran. Here, at least: she could handle the smell as long as she could sit in peace.
Well, relative peace. As a whole, the sewers were not the safest place to be, and certain areas not even she would step foot in. But this little corner she’d claimed. Actually, one couldn’t even see it from behind the stacked crates and Ajay’s bar. A stifled splash echoed off the wooden rafters below and she smiled faintly. Having fished once before herself in the sewers, sometimes one could find some interesting stuff. Just don’t try and cook any of the fish you catch. The resulting effect was almost as trippy as the time she’d once tried to snort the Zangarmarsh mushroom powder. She hadn’t been able to see straight for days.
Kadrian took a deep, tired sigh and another sip of the cider before her. For all the good the Criers were calling the efforts of the Argent Crusade up in northern Icecrown, Kadrian found her willingness to continue in the increasingly farcical activities harder and harder. Certainly, as she spent day after day running, for lack of better words, “errands” for the powers that be, her purse was growing fatter-and for a mercenary that was no small pleasure nor goal, but the REASON had long ceased to feel sincere. Kadrian had long abandoned the faction-separate ideologies—indeed, a good many friends in her life had been Horde: Lu’labre, a fellow rogue, whom perhaps she missed most of all up here: the troll had objected (for reasons Kad herself was beginning to understand more fully) to the Tournament as a whole and had insisted on staying in the coniferous Grizzly Hills, fighting against the scourge troll, whom she saw as a personal affront to troll-dom as a whole. Or Kark. An orc warrior, with an unusual penchant (as far as orcs were concerned), with history and lore. He kept it a secret, naturally, but she’d always enjoyed teasing him about it as much as listening to him. Or Patraok. Her eyes hardened as she stared into the scarred table. Her best friend in the world, her mentor…had been a blood elf. She felt the anger beginning to stir within her, coursing in her heated blood, and forced herself to take her mind off the treacherous elf. She took a much larger drink of the cider, scalding the back of her throat in effort to move to a different train of thought.
No, for all the good Fordring claimed it was to sharpen each other against themselves, Kadrian was just about through with it all. She had listened to the Confessor’s sermons, and had been cheered by the ideas, and had entertained the hope that it might stick in the minds of the more stubborn valiants. But for someone already hardened to battle-and personally affected by the Scourge-the entire thing seemed a waste of time. She was ready to move on to a more…well, a real, worthwhile goal. And knocking others off their mounts with a 5-lengh wooden stick was not really one of them, no matter how much gold they prized her battle skill worth. No matter how many cultists she killed, there were always more. One had to cut off the head, not slice off the fingers.
Closing her eyes, she could see the Citadel rising from the glacier like great blades, gilded with grinning skulls and sneering eyes. A hand fingered with a scrap of parchment in the pocket of her vest. It had a single name on it-the name of a paladin who, supposedly, had earned a spot in the vanguard of the attack upon the upper east gate of the scourge citadel. A great number of Light-followers disdained those of her profession, but this particular one had not been so close-minded. And, she noted with a bit of humor, NOT stealing from your companions during campaign does make one go far in retaining contracts for the future.
Apprentice Nelphi had called it the Forge of Souls-the jumping point into the Lich King’s domain. And wonder of wonders, Lady Jaina Proudmoore her-high and mighty-self was leading the attack. Finally, SOMEone was doing something. A satisfied smile slowly creased her face: abruptly she stood, shoved the bench away from the table, and folded, with deft fingers, the piece of parchment back into her pocket. Perhaps that paladin still had a spot open for her. A wooden lance leaned forlornly against the wall opposite the empty table, forgotten.