Liyil

[Liy]

First, let’s get a few things straight. There is nothing special or remarkable about me. I am neither a hero nor the descendant of some noteworthy historical figure. My birth did not fulfill any ancient prophecies, and I have no mysterious birth marks. I have not set out to avenge the death of anyone. I am not the last of my tribe or clan, and I am certainly not on a quest to save any princess, prince, king, queen or other benevolent ruler.

I’m not finished... I don’t channel magical energies, nor do I invoke the healing powers of this or that deity. I don’t morph into a bear, and I don’t have any pet or familiar to fight for me. I’m not even particularly strong or skilled in the arts of combat and war. I don’t care for dramatic confrontations, and have little patience for belligerent bluster. If a gentleman or lady wishes to engage me in combat, I respectfully decline. If they persist, I simply flee and sink into the shadows. There is simply no need for long, drawn out melee combat. Eventually, the uncouth fellow will turn his back to go about his business – at which point I introduce several inches of sharp steel to a specific region between his shoulder blades. This makes the individual far more docile, and the disagreement ends shortly thereafter. So perhaps I do have a specialty. Let’s call it “conflict resolution.”

As for my “story,” I’m just as curious as you are, probably more so. You see, here’s the thing: prior to the last few years I have no memory.

The first thing I remember is waking up just outside the entrance to the Temple of the Moon in Darnassus, with only a vague notion of my own name – Liyil. I must have appeared lost and disoriented, perhaps a little frightened, because a Sentinel took notice and approached. Was I injured? Did I require assistance? For reasons that I am still unable to determine, I refused. I wanted nothing to do with this Sentinel. I was offended by the mere sight of her. Mustering up what pride I could under the circumstances, I boldly pronounced that I did not require the assistance of one such as her. She simply nodded impassively, stating, “May Elune watch over you.” Ha! The notion struck me as absurd. I turned to walk away, but the Sentinel grabbed me firmly on the shoulder. I rounded on her and raised my arm to strike. But she caught me by the wrist, looked me firmly in the eye and continued, “…but if she does not,” and shoved a dagger in my hand. I was speechless. She held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded and resumed her patrol. I have not seen her since.

After that I felt an overwhelming urge to leave the city. As with the Sentinel, the appearance of Darnassus filled me with apprehension, as did every Night Elf I passed. My own people, I could not bear the sight of them! I fled as quickly as possible.

From there, my story has been simple: I have survived, albeit just barely at times. Heh. Did I say that there is nothing remarkable about me? Did I imply that I am pursuing no special quest? My cynical nature appears to have gotten the better of my integrity and given me the lie. I suppose I am on a quest, a quest to – quite literally – find myself. There is more, but that will have to wait for another day…

[Liy]

Part II


After fleeing Darnassus, I mostly hid. I was afraid of everything and everyone. Fine, you may call me a coward. But the next time you find yourself with no sense of your own identity, with no friendly or familial ties to any place or person, look me up and tell me how brave you were.

As for me, I kept to the shadows. Over time, my experience in hiding evolved into a craft of stealth. I became intimately acquainted with the shadows – how they move, how they flicker with the light, how the shadows from several objects blend into one form, and so forth. I learned from them, learned to be more like them, to blend completely into the night. I became so adept at this shadow mimicry, that I was soon able to move unseen even in broad daylight. It is here within the shadows that I first developed a sense of safety and familiarity, a sense of “home.”

This ability served my survival needs well. I could easily sneak up on small game such as rabbits and squirrels and, with a single swift stroke of my blade, render them suitable for culinary preparation. Eventually, I was sufficiently comfortable with my covert skills to emerge from this self imposed exile and foray into civilization once again, if only as a shadow. I spent much time between Auberdine and Astranaar examining elven society with morbid fascination. I despised every Night Elf I saw on some basic level that I still don’t understand, almost as though the feeling were instinctual. But another part of me respected and even revered them, particularly their ancient culture and devotion to the natural world. I also revered the silver in their pockets and satchels, much of which I learned to acquire with five nimble fingers.

I came to regard the Sentinal’s dagger as dead weight, good for nothing more than hunting, skinning, and preparing food. When would I ever need to do anything more than sink into the shadows when confronted with danger, as I had always done? And what did I know of daggers and combat anyhow?

This perspective changed abruptly on a cool night, several days after the new moon. I was lurking in the shadows of Auberdine tracking the steps of a slightly older than middle-aged elf who seemed as though he might have some items of interest in his pockets and satchels. I fully intended to unburden the fellow of some of these when a large human emerged from a nearby alley holding a blunt object. The scene that followed was brutal and unsightly. I was frozen in place, completely taken aback by this unexpected turn of events. When it was all over, the elf lay on the road in a bloody mess, barely recognizable. The human, for his part, crouched down to sift through the belongings of the freshly made corpse. As I observed and soaked in all that had happened I became annoyed, outraged, and disgusted all at once.

Allow me to parse this out for you.

First of all, I was annoyed that the mark I deliberately selected and followed so carefully had been snatched from me. But this emotion was shallow and fleeting. Perhaps to my credit I was more outraged than annoyed, owing to the respect I developed for the Night Elves. To watch some pathetic creature as a short-lived human murder a member of this noble and ancient race for the silver in his pockets insulted all of my sensibilities. It was an act of presumptuous arrogance for a human to assault an elf in such a manner.

But more than anything else, I was disgusted by the debased and brutish sloppiness of the act – not the murder itself, but the manner in which it was done. The brutish knave swung his club randomly at his target relying solely on strength. There was no regard for precision or efficiency, no concept of the importance of striking vital areas. The result, though ultimately effective, was prolonged and sloppy.

I just couldn’t bear the thought of this idiot continuing to live.

What happened next was surprisingly simple. I walked up behind the human and plunged the Sentinal's dagger into the back of his neck. He fell to his knees almost immediately and reached for his throat, only to slice open his hands on the sharp metal tip protruding from it. A moment later he fell forward, completely motionless.

I suppose you want to know how I felt afterwards. Was I frightened, or appalled at my actions? Was I excited and thirsty for more? Were my hands shaking? The answer to all of the above is “no.” What I did feel was a sense of satisfaction, the kind you experience after accomplishing some mundane task or chore, like preparing a fine meal or selling a common item at the auction house.

After the human lay motionless for several moments I sifted through his clothing and removed all money and items of value. Then I turned to the bloody mass that had once been a Night Elf and did the same.

Is the world a better place for my being a part of it? Probably not. But then, it’s not much worse off either.

[Liy]

Part III

For the next several days, I mostly wandered the forest waxing philosophical. I pondered the ethics of murder – not whether or under what circumstances taking another life is morally acceptable. Rather, I reflected on the fact that the ethical problem neither bothered nor interested me very much. Cognitively I knew that it should, and for a short time I even tried to convince myself that it did. But this self deceptive frame of mind dispersed when I noticed a sheet of parchment nailed to a tree; it read “Wanted: Murkdeep.” I did not read the details of this Murkdeep’s crime, and only barely noticed that it concerned a murlock. Instead my eyes instantly settled upon the bottom of the page where the reward was posted.

The details of how I carried out this matter are unnecessary to relate. Suffice it to say that I finished him swiftly and then proceeded to decapitate the corpse, which was an unpleasant and altogether messy affair. Clearly the sentinel’s dagger (which I had finally come to think of as my dagger) was not designed for such tasks.

I returned to Auberdine and sought out the sentinel from whom the “Wanted” sign indicated I should collect the bounty. Finding an especially shadowy crevice about 20 feet away, I tossed the severed head at her feet muttering only, “Murkdeep.” The Sentinel recoiled at first, but then piecing together my utterance with the grotesque object on the ground before her, nodded and smiled saying, “Ishnu allah friend,” and began to walk towards me with her hand extended.

“Do not approach!” I hissed, “You may deliver the bounty from where you stand.”

She stopped in her tracks, looking shocked and maybe a bit hurt, but recovered quickly, counted out a few coins, and dropped them into a small satchel. Then she tossed the satchel about two feet from my position and turned from me. I disappeared.

[Liy]

Part IV

After acquiruing the murlock bounty, I headed straight to a weapons vendor. The Sentinal’s Dagger had served me well to this point, but its limitations were becoming clear to me. Apparently standard Darnassus issue for security was not of the highest quality. The blade dulled easily, the grip had much to be desired, and it just didn’t feel right in my hand. As I browsed through the vendor’s selection a particular item caught my eye. I held it. Much better. The vendor called it a Monkey Dagger, or something like that. I would have walked out of the shop with it right then and there, but the smithy in the back exclaimed that he would never allow any item to leave the shop without undergoing a thorough sharpening, balancing, polishing, and whatever else weapon smiths do to make themselves feel important. The shopkeeper shrugged apologetically, and we agreed to have it delivered to the mailbox later that day.

I killed time by skulking around Auberdine and picking pockets. After a few hours of this, I went to the central mailbox, opened the hatch and found my recent purchase in a cheap leather sheath along with a rolled sheet of parchment and two coins. I reached in for the dagger, thinking nothing of the other objects, assuming it was probably nothing more than a receipt along with some change. But then I noticed the color of the coins – gold. Two gold coins. This was more than I paid for the dagger. In fact, this was more than I ever possessed since waking up in Darnassus several months before.

This made me curious about the parchment. I unrolled it. It was an exact replica of the “Wanted” sign for Murkdeep, with a few significant alterations. First, there were no markings or seals to indicate an official document approved by the governing authorities of Darnassus; second, there was no description of the crime committed by the culprit; third, and most strikingly, the “culprit” in question was a Night Elf named Verderis kel’Trisáe.

Verderis. I knew that name. Where had I heard that name? I mulled this over for a minute before recognition finally struck with tremendous gravity. Councilor Verderis kel’Trisáe was the most recently elected member of the Teldrassil council. His name had surfaced on a regular basis in day-to-day conversation as he was wildly popular among the inhabitants of Teldrassil, and also happened to be a protégé of none other than Tyrande Whisperwind herself. Despite his freshman status on the council, his reputation with the masses and close ties to Tyrande made him a powerful and influential member – and he had no problems with using this influence.

But apparently somebody else did. I looked at the parchment. It was an assassination contract, of that there was no doubt. Granted, it was something of a mockery, but the accompanying gold underscored that this was no joking matter. Besides, fashioning the contract after the Murkdeep posting was also a subtle way to convey that this assignment was intended for the one who brought him down. Clever, I thought. But this Verderis was no renegade murlock; nor was he a common human brigand. This was a highly esteemed government official, no doubt with his own personal security detail. For all I knew, his house was armed with all sorts of traps and alarms, conventional and magical. For all I knew, he was armed with similar surprises, conventional and magical. Besides, what had this councilor done to me that I should pursue his untimely demise? What did I care for politics and government intrigue? And he was a Night Elf. Certainly that should mean something to me…

And what do the Night Elves mean to me? countered something within myself. Nothing! And why should I care why someone wants him dead. The fact is that he is marked; he’s as good as dead already. Whether by my own or someone else’s hand, the job will get done eventually. Security? Heh. Is there any security force in Azeroth that doesn’t have at least one guard who can be convinced through bribery, deception, or threats to look in the other direction at just the right moment? True, this Verderis might be a powerful mage. But my understanding is that casting a spell is very difficult with a sharp metal thing embedded in your throat. As for traps and alarms, it shouldn’t take more than a few weeks of reconnaissance to determine his habits, rituals, patterns, and daily chores. Sometime during his routine, he will need to arm and disarm all or most of these at least once. I’ll know exactly where they are and how to disable them. And also…

And why did I know all of this? How did I know all of this? But even as I stopped to wonder where these ideas were coming from, another part of me continued to plot the details of the assassination.

I need to be clear about something. When I speak in terms of “another part of me” doing something that the rest of me knew nothing about, I am neither speaking metaphorically nor am I employing some literary device to accentuate the drama of my story. This was actually occurring: one part of my mind was laying down elaborate plans to murder someone while the other part was marveling at the fact that I possessed this sort of knowledge. But I was not going insane, developing a second personality, or suffering from any other malady of the mind. In retrospect, I now understand that something instinctual or second nature from my “former life” was asserting itself. But since I had no actual memories of preparing to kill in cold blood, it almost felt as though something or someone foreign was controlling a part of my mind.

You confused? Good. So was I. But I was not stupid. I understood at the time that whatever was occurring, it almost certainly was related to my lost memories and missing identity. My eyes traveled to the bottom of the parchment where it read, “10g (2 + 8),” clearly an allusion to the 2 gold advance plus the 8 gold I would receive upon completing the job. Wow.

I decided to take the job, but not because of the gold. I suppose I had made up my mind well before that. For the past several months I was merely striving to survive, having been thrown into a state of fear and panic over the complete and total loss of self. Never once in that time did I attempt to discover who I was, or anything about myself whatsoever. But now that I caught a brief glimpse of who I may have been, I needed to know more. If merely contemplating a contract killing evoked aspects of myself that I had lost and forgotten, surely committing the deed would reveal even more.

[Liy]

Part V

This segment has been temporarily removed. In working on the animation for this part, I developed a number of new ideas about the direction I wanted to take the story that required fundamental modifications to this part. I will post the reworked narrative when the video is completed. In the meantime, please enjoy the trailer...

[Liy]

Part VI

“Eh, not bad,” I thought to myself counting out 55 copper. I watched a young gentleman, who was now down 55 copper, ride out of town. Although I no longer needed to pick pockets to subsidize my monetary survival needs (I had the 10 gold garnered from Verderis’ untimely death to thank for that), I found that the exercise relaxed me, cleared my head. It helped me to sort out and make sense of whatever was on my mind.

Unfortunately for the good people of Auberdine, I had a lot on my mind.

Verderis had been expecting me. Well, not me personally. His shock at seeing a Night Elf wielding the assassin’s blade established that much. Almost a whole silver. Thank you dear lady. But he was clearly expecting an attempt on his life. And not only was he anticipating an assassin, he practically invited me in. My thoughts turned to the open door and missing tanglevine trap. I could only assume he was responsible for both. But that would mean he deliberately allowed a killer into his home without any protection. That just didn’t make sense. Moreover, there was the matter of the guards that he dismissed. 33 copper. Meh. Could it be mere coincidence that he dismissed his own security detail only days before I was commissioned to terminate his life? Unlikely. But again, why? Unless-

Unless he hired me himself. Right! Perhaps he wanted to foil an assassination attempt on himself. Maybe he thought that doing so would bring him greater political influence. But if this were the case, why did he look so shocked when he saw me? Surely if he were to hire an assassin for a bogus job that he himself would foil, he would want to know the identity of the assassin. Also, I did collect the 8 gold due to me from the mailbox after completing the task. Obviously he would not have arranged to pay me in the event that I succeeded in killing him. Ok, scratch that idea.

70 copper.

Perhaps it was a political opponent, then. Certainly a young councilor ascending to power as quickly as Verderis had would ruffle a few feathers along the way. But I knew next to nothing of Darnassus politics, and so wouldn’t have the first clue as to which of the myriad heads on the council may have wanted him out of the way.

13 copper? You gotta be kidding me! I scowled at an extravagantly dressed elderly woman, the bottom of whose purse I had just scraped.

Finding myself at the edge of town with almost no one else around (no more pockets to pick), I relaxed and sighed out loud. The bottom line is that I didn’t know who wanted Verderis dead. I hadn’t the first clue as to how he knew to expect me when he did, and no idea why I was permitted entrance into his house before he acted on preventing me from killing him. And while I’m on the subject of perplexing mysteries, who the hell am I? Why do I have a knack for murder, and how did I learn to face off against a trained swordsman? It was all enough to make me want to scream. But instead I settled for picking the satchel of a particularly large and muscular Night Elf with long stark white hair, who I spotted walking along the edge of the forest.

Even before retrieving my hand from his satchel, I knew I had snatched something remarkable. It was a gem encrusted ring – truly the most extraordinary item I had procured in this fashion. It pulsed with energies that even the most arcanically inept furbolg would have been able to identify as an enchantment. I slid the ring into one of my pockets to inspect it closer in the privacy of the shadows. But after walking several paces away, I noticed that something was horribly wrong. At first I panicked, thinking the ring was cursed and that I was bound to undergo some horrible transformation or drop dead on the spot. But this notion passed as I identified the actual cause of my anxiety. The Monkey Dagger was missing! I turned every which way patting my sides frantically, checking and double checking its now empty sheath. I thought back to the last time I remembered having it. It was only a few minutes ago! How could I have lost something like that by just walking around town!

Then I spotted it, attached to a hand. The hand belonged to the long white haired elf who, until a few seconds ago, was the owner of the enchanted ring in my pocket. He just stood in place, holding my dagger at his side. His eyes appeared to fix on nothing in particular, but I had no doubt they were targeting me. With a less than successful attempt to suppress the rage that suddenly erupted in me, I jabbed a finger at the dagger. “That’s mine,” I said, my voice tense.

He responded only by nodding towards the pocket holding the gem encrusted ring. Although completely silent, his meaning was unmistakable: And that’s mine.

“Fine,” I replied and took the ring out of my pocket. “Take it back,” I said, punctuating the last word by throwing the ring at him. It bounced off his chest and fell to the ground. He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. I may as well have tossed it at a stone wall. “Well?” I demanded, not exactly sure what kind of response I was expecting. Then he threw the dagger at me full force. It struck me square in the chest, hilt first, and landed in the ground. I gasped, and my hands reflexively shot to my chest. I fell backwards, partly from the impact of the dagger, but mostly from shock.

“Son of a bitch!” I was no longer in control. Fury brought me to my feet, and I lunged at him with animal ferocity. But he vanished. The next thing I knew, a sharp metal tip lightly pricked the skin of my throat, and I felt a large presence looming at my back. My breath became rapid and shallow; my heart felt as though it were trying to pound through my chest. I suddenly thought of Verderis and how matter-of-factly I took his life. Now I was at the mercy of someone whose property I had recently stolen, and whom I affronted immediately afterwards. If he were anything like me, I had approximately seven seconds left to live. I waited helplessly. And then I continued to wait. How much time passed? 15 seconds? 20 seconds? A full minute? I don’t know. But after some time I realized that if this large white haired elf had any intention of killing me I would already be dead.

“What do you want?” I asked, doing my best to sound defiant. Unfortunately I couldn’t muster quite enough breath to keep my voice from shaking. He said nothing, but continued to hold the tip of his dagger steadily at my throat. This was actually quite impressive. His hand never wavered or moved even slightly, but remained suspended in mid air perfectly frozen, ready at any moment to sever my windpipes.

Well, if he wasn’t going to kill me, and he refused to talk, then what? How long could we remain here like this on the outskirts of town before someone took notice? I became irritated with this oversized deadly mute and demanded, “Who are you and what do you want!”

Finally I received a response. “Tsk, tsk.” It came not from behind me but off to the side, just outside my peripheral vision. I started to turn my head, but a quick scratch at my throat conveyed in no uncertain terms that this was not permitted, Very well. I would wait until the speaker decided to enter my line of vision.

“How do you have the audacity to demand the identity of others,” the speaker paused to step in front of me. He was an unremarkable looking night elf: average height and build, dark blue hair pulled back, but with the most brilliant silver-blue eyes. He continued, “When you don’t even know who you are…Liyil.”

No! Not possible! I had never spoken my name to anyone. For that matter, I could not remember ever speaking my name out loud. His words struck me in the gut like the clenched fist of an ogre. I thought of how my comfortably anonymous life was now crumbling away. My shock and dismay must have been apparent. Although my interlocutor’s expression was outwardly impassive, his silver-blue eyes were laughing. He was enjoying my discomfort, and it was pissing me off. But what could I do about it? Nothing. So, I waited until he was finished playing whatever game he was playing and graduated to the reason I was being restrained at the point of a knife.

After a few moments of watching me with amusement, he spoke again, “You have been annoying a lot of people recently, Liyil.” I inwardly cringed at the sound of my name once again. I also noticed that he was pronouncing it correctly (“Lee-ill” as opposed to “Lie-ill”), for whatever that was worth.

“I can’t see how,” I replied. “The only people I’ve spoken to are shop keepers and the two of you.”

“You misunderstand. It’s not so much your mouth that’s been causing all the trouble as your hands.”

I had an idea of what he was referring to, but decided to play dumb. I shrugged. At this, his demeanor suddenly changed from casual to caustic, “Did you really think that you could pick the pocket of every elf between Teldrassil and Auberdine and go unnoticed?” he snapped.

Actually, I did. But I just shrugged again.

“Between this outbreak of theft and the recent murder of Councilor Verderis kel’Trisáe,” he paused here and looked at me intently, “Darnassus has dispatched half of its Sentinel force to apprehend those responsible.”

A disheartening thought occurred to me. These are agents of Darnassus. By Elune’s bony ass, I’m screwed! But that didn’t mean I was about to start whimpering and begging for mercy. “Then maybe the Sentinel’s should go do that,” I replied coldly.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he smiled with genuine amusement, “We appear to have recently apprehended the culprit.”

My mouth and throat were becoming uncomfortably dry. I spoke not a word, pressing my lips together tightly. There was little point in my continuing this conversation, this coy game he was playing. The ending was a foregone conclusion. I would be bound and brought before some magistrate, then tried and sentenced. The remainder of my life would be spent in some dark, isolated prison cell.

“Indeed,” he continued, “We found the assassin lurking around a Draenei encampment to the East – a young blood elf, probably trying to make a name for himself. Of course, he denies ever having set foot in Teldrassil, but since we found the murder weapon on his person,” he bent down and picked my dagger off the ground, placing it in a leather bag with official looking marks and inscriptions, “I have little doubt that his trial will be swift and tidy.”

I didn’t know what was going on. My head was swimming with confusion. One minute ago I was headed to imminent incarceration. Now…well, now what?

The elf with the silver-blue eyes directed his attention over my shoulder, “Steathi, bring this bag to the authorities in Darnassus. Tell them we have apprehended Verderis’ killer and that I will personally deliver him by th-”

“You’re…” I interrupted, “You’re not Darnassus agents?”

I heard a grunt behind me, while the one with the silver-blue eyes grinned widely and burst into laughter. The dagger was removed from my throat and the enormous white haired elf (whose name I assumed was Steathi) stepped out from behind me. He took the bag with my Monkey Dagger and disappeared into town. The other slapped his hand on my back and led me away from town. “Come Liyil,” he said jovially, “We have much to discuss.”

[Liy]

Part VII

The silver-blue eyed gentleman and I walked in silence through the forest, long enough for me to feel awkward and uncomfortable. I toyed with the idea that this was all some elaborate plan to kill me after all. But then he stopped at a clearing and lazily sat on a log, looked up at me and stated, “You have questions.”

Damn right I had questions. I had so many, in fact, that I had trouble figuring out where to begin. I started simple, “Who are you?”

He smiled at my abruptness, “My name is Darael.”

Alright, how about this one, “Who am I?”

“Your name is Liyil.”

“I figured that out already. What else?”

“That’s all I know.”

I looked at him incredulously. His expression remained steady. “How did you know my name, then?” I asked, “I never told anyone.”

“I learned it from a certain sentinel in Darnassus. I believe you met her.” His gaze settled at the dagger at my side.

“That only answers half my question. I never told the sentinel my name, so how did she know?”

“What’s the first thing you remember, Liyil?”

I didn’t like that he was changing the topic. But I suspected this would turn into a round about way of answering my question. Even so, I did not enjoy divulging too much information about myself. But if there was even a chance that Darael had some answers to my personal mysteries I was willing to indulge his inquiries for a little while. What did I remember? “Nothing to speak of,” I said, “I woke up on the stairs of the Temple of the Moon and then I saw your sentinel.”

“Stay. You mean you had no memory at all?”

“None.”

“None whatsoever?”

“None,” I repeated impatiently.

“And yet, you remembered your name,” he spoke as though he had solved some long standing arcane puzzle.

“Fine, I remembered my name. Get to the point.”

“The point, Liyil,” I was becoming increasingly irritated at his constant use of my name, “is that were it not for certain circumstances, you may not have even known that much.” I waited for him to continue, which he did, “The sentinel first noticed you not merely unconscious at the Temple of the Moon, but accompanied by another cloaked individual – likely a man – attending you while you were unconscious. Apparently he was leaning over you for some time, doing what I don’t know. He was speaking in hushed tones, but the only word the sentinel could understand was your name. When your companion noticed the sentinel approaching he disappeared, probably ported. You gained consciousness shortly afterwards.”

“And you have no idea who this person is?” I asked now genuinely interested.

“Other than a few strands of blonde hair blowing out of the hood of his cloak, we haven’t the slightest clue who this person is, or what he looks like. The sentinel only guessed it to be a man by the timber of his voice.”

On the one hand I was discouraged by how little information this amounted to. That some unknown man with blonde hair spoke my name brought me no closer to any meaningful answers. But on the other hand, it excited me. I finally had concrete evidence that someone knew who I was pre-memory loss. The fact that I had no idea who this person might be did little to dampen my enthusiasm.

I noticed Darael watching me process all this, and kicked myself for letting my emotions show. “What does any of this have to do with you,” I asked rudely.

“Directly? Nothing.”

“Fine. How about indirectly?”

“Your skills and overall behavior place you into a broad category that some in the civilized world, particularly outside the Kaldorei domain, consider to be anti-social; some would say roguish.

I blinked. “I don’t know wh-“

“Yes you do. And by now you have figured out that I know as well. So you can dispense with the ignorant and innocent act.”

There was no response to this, so I allowed him to continue, “I oversee and organization known as the Cenarion Shadow. You might say that we are to Darnassus what SI-7 is to Stormwind. There is a small but important difference, however. SI-7 is an official branch of the Stormwind government; whereas the Cenarion Shadow has no official connection to the Cenarion Circle. But since our goals have coincided for the past several hundred years, it often appears that we are a branch of the Darnassus government. Thus we continue to offer our services.”

“And what services are those?”

“Pretty much anything that Darnasssus does not want to take responsibility for: gathering intelligence on enemies and allies alike, reconnaissance, espionage, and other activities that you are already familiar with.”

I was about to protest as reflexive response, but stopped myself. Darael noticed and attempted to suppress a smile. “As the head of this organization,” he went on, “I make it my business to track Kaldorei that operate outside of our organization who appear to possess these skills.”

“Why?”

“Recruitment.”

“Ha!” The outburst of laughter erupted before I could prevent it.

Darael’s eyes narrowed, “You find the prospect of joining an association such as ours to be entertaining?”

“I see little point in it,” I said matter of factly.

“You have myopic vision, Liyil. This is the first thing we shall correct. Let us use Verderis’ killer as an example,” he paused here for emphasis. We both knew who he was talking about. There was no need for the melodrama. “Let’s pretend that the assassin were Kaldorei and not a Blood Elf,” he began, “If I were impressed with her- excuse me, his – work, I might begin by presenting him with a generous gift. Perhaps I could arrange for someone else to be convicted of the murder. No doubt after such an act of generosity the fellow would immediately understand the advantages of the Cenarion Shadow. But if I thought he weren’t interested in my offer, there would be no reason for me to spend the precious capital I’ve garnered with certain Darnassus officials and bureaucrats on his behalf.” He looked at me straight in the eyes, “Would there, Liyil?”

The smug bastard, I thought. He was going to coerce me into joining his little group. This was more a conscription than recruitment, and I had no intention of volunteering my services so easily. “Well, it’s a moot point anyway,” I crossed my legs and tried to look casual, “As you said before, the assassin has been apprehended and the murder weapon confiscated. The case seems pretty closed to me.”

“Not necessarily,” he said with a smug smile. I can’t describe how badly I wanted to stab him. “You see,” he continued, “the murder weapon is soulbound to the assassin. So, if by some chance the Blood Elf in custody was mistakenly arrested, an investigation of the dagger will bear this out. Moreover, it will tell us the true identity of the wielder. But a full investigation is a long and arduous process, and no one wants this to drag out longer than it needs to. With the people demanding justice for the death of their hero, the authorities will be under intense pressure to wrap this up quickly. Given this state of affairs, it would be a simple matter for me to encourage them to expedite the process. But if I don’t intercede,” he paused for effect; he liked doing that, “who knows what they’ll find?”

There was nothing I could say. I could only glare at him, hatred behind my eyes. But I had to maintain a cool head since there was still much I needed to know. Did this Darael really carry as much weight with the Cenarion Circle as he claimed? He could very easily be bluffing. He did know of my memory loss, and could be trying to use that to his advantage. But he also knew of the job I did on Murkdeep and Verderis, even my pickpocketing habits. This suggested that he did have a capable intelligence network. The only questions remaining were whether his influence truly extended to the highest levels of the Darnassus government, and whether I was in a position to risk calling his bluff. Unfortunately I had no way of answering the former, which meant that I had to play it safe for the latter.

Then another thought occurred to me. If Darael had been tracking me as early as my awakening in Darnassus, he may have a good idea who hired me to kill Verderis. But as I was about to ask, I realized that the answer was literally staring me in the face: Darael himself did. The fact that he was tracking me beforehand, pointed to him as the most likely candidate, combined with the fact that his organization traded in assassination anyway. Also, he wanted to recruit me and had no assurances that I would accept his offer. What better way to ensure my cooperation than to create a problem for me that was in his power to resolve? If my sheer gratitude was not enough, then he could use it to coerce me. The clever bastard. Another question answered.

But this led to several other unanswered questions. “Why did Verderis have to die?” I asked.

If Darael was surprised by this question, he did not show it. Nor did he deny the underlying assumption that he was the one who wanted him dead. Of course, he didn’t affirm it either. “Verderis spent many years among the Eastern Kingdoms, particularly in Stormwind where he trained as a warrior among the human armies. Over time he acquired peculiar ideas that are particular to the human race, such as the notion that those of us whose skills center on subterfuge, initiative, subtlety, and stealth are somehow dishonorable. As a member of the Teldrassil Council, upon learning of the Cenarion Shadow he lobbied Darnassus officials to disassociate with us entirely. He believed that such a relationship would ultimately lead to government corruption. Unfortunately for him he was also charismatic, persuasive, and determined.”

“You mean he was concerned that someone might be able to influence the government to frame an innocent man for a crime he didn’t commit while the real culprit roams free, for example?”

For the first time Darael had nothing to say. I noticed with no small degree of satisfaction that he was becoming uncomfortable with this discussion. I decided to push it a bit further. “So you had him killed,” I baldly stated.

He shot up and glared at me, his silver-blue eyes reflecting tenuously controlled outrage. “I did not mourn his passing,” scorn dripped from his voice. I was cherishing my small victory, as the cracks in his cool and collected façade became gradually more pronounced. But this was short lived. He regained his composure quickly and said with a sinister grin, “It would seem that you did not mourn his passing either.”

I sighed inwardly. That I correctly deduced Darael’s involvement in Verderis’ death did not change the fact that he alone had the power to exonerate me of the murder. Furthermore, although he never explicitly said it, he seemed vindictive enough to ensure that my involvement would be exposed if I refused his offer to join the Cenarion Shadow. Joining an association of Night Elves… a repulsive thought. I still harbored ill feelings for my own people.

I briefly entertained the idea of threatening to bring him down with me if I were convicted of the crime. But it seemed unlikely that my word would carry much weight against someone as well connected as Darael. Furthermore, more than anything else I really did not want to be convicted of murder. As unappealing as hanging around a bunch of Night Elves seemed to me, the thought of a prison was far less enticing. Darael was obviously betting on this.

I reconsidered the offer. As much as I continued to despise Night Elves, the Cenarion Shadow hardly stuck me as a guild where members regularly interacted. It was more likely a loose confederation of agents who acted autonomously unless called upon by the leadership for one or another assignment. Also, it couldn’t hurt me to have connections with people who affected Darnassus policy.

I joined with a simple nod, at which point he explained the Shadow’s only rule. No member is permitted to act against the interest of Daranssus and its citizens or that of the allied governments. The sole exceptions to this rule are in cases where the interests of the Shadow conflict with any of the aforementioned governments. “This means,” he explained sternly, “That your days of pickpocketing your fellow citizens are finished.” I almost changed my mind right there…almost. Instead I acknowledged his instructions with a grunt.

Other than this, I was bound by no laws, rules, or standards. I was simply expected to complete the occasional assignment passed down by the Shadow leadership, for which I was promised to be highly compensated.

Several weeks later, I heard reports of the official investigation into Verderis’ murder. The process took longer than many hoped, and was certainly more involved than Darael anticipated. A full investigative committee was assembled, comprised of two representatives from Darnassus, Shadow Glen, Rut’Theran Village, Auberdine, and Astranaar. Lastly, Tyrande Whisperwind herself insisted on overseeing the proceedings personally. The composition was to ensure that the investigation would be completed thoroughly, and the inclusion of Tyrande guaranteed legitimacy.

The committee found that the injuries sustained by Verderis were consistent with a style of knife fighting known to be common among Blood Elves. Furthermore, an examination of the soul binding on the murder weapon suggested that a Blood Elf possessed it for a brief period of time. But the weapon also had traces of binding to a Night Elf. Apparently this was the cause of substantial debate and turmoil. An enchanted weapon, after all, cannot be soulbound to more than one person. The weapon was tested and retested, each time with the same results. There was some suggestion that the assassin was a mix-breed, a tragic union of Kaldorei and Quel’dorei. But the results of the soulbinding test revealed that the two essences were from completely different people. The investigation was complicated further by the fact that the Blood Elf essence did not match the one in custody.

For the majority, however, these were inconsequential details. The Blood Elf was found with the murder weapon (so they believed) and the soulbinding was that of a Blood Elf, even if the binding did not match. Most argued that since someone clearly figured out a way to tamper with soulbinding, then there was probably a way to mask soulbinding identity. As Darael said, there was enormous pressure to render a guilty verdict among the people. Tyrande alone insisted on resolving all the anomalies. But as powerful and well respected as she was, she was not able to overcome the overwhelming movement insisting on swift justice. The Blood Elf was found guilty.

Upon learning these results, I gained enormous respect for Darael and the Cenarion Shadow. Apparently the group wielded so much power and influence as to sway the outcome of a full investigative committee headed by no less a figure than Tyrande Whisperwind. More impressively still, somehow they laid the soulbinding impressions of a Blood Elf on to my dagger, which, to my understanding, is impossible. I asked Darael about this, but he dismissively rattled on about not divulging Shadow secrets to everyone who asks. I did, however, notice Steathi, the enormous white haired mute who was always at Darael’s side, staring at me intensely when I asked. Darael noticed as well and snapped his fingers in Steathi’s face. “Settle down,” he said, “You’ll have plenty of time to gawk at our fascinating new acquisition on the journey to Stormwind.”

“Stormwind?” I repeated.

“Yes,” Darael replied, “Your first assignment is to become less of a mediocre killer and more of a competent assassin.” I almost moved to demonstrate just how mediocre of a killer I actually was, but decided that would be impractical with Steathi steadfastly by his side. “You leave immediately,” he continuede, “Steathi knows the way and will be your companion.”

With that pronouncement, Steathi the enormous white haired mute and I set out for Stormwind.

[Liy]

[Hi everyone! Sylaurn caught me lurking around the other day and suggested that I pop in to say “hello.” I just might do that. But I’m not entirely sure yet. RL might start to get real busy for me again, so I don’t know if I want to get involved with everything only to have to drop it again. In any case, since my departure last year I never stopped developing Liyil’s story in my head. (Guess you can remove the kid from WoW, but you can’t remove WoW from the kid). The result is that I have a whole lot of material to hammer out. And since this forum is a fantastic creative outlet, then you all will be subjected to my periodic bursts of imagination. ]


Part VIII

Steathi and I traveled by boat from Darkshore to Menethil Harbor. Not long after disembarking, we approached a flightmaster where I paused momentarily, expecting that the remainder of our trip would be in flight. But my companion did not stop, did not even look back to notice that I had stopped. So I jogged to catch up.

“You know, we just passed a few hippogryphs back there,” I remarked. Steathi said nothing. I shrugged. Maybe Stormwind was closer than I thought. After all, I had never been there, at least not that I could remember.

Several hours later Steathi had led us through the darkest and steepest crevices in the Wetland hills. On a few occasions we had to fend off Crocolisks and Raptors. The terrain was rocky and slippery, and I was not exactly what you would call a surefooted huntress.

After stumbling and falling behind my seventh or eighth time, I called after Steathi, “Hey, do you even know where you’re going?” He did not respond, slow down, or even look back at me. When I caught up, slightly out of breathe, I suggested that we head back to Menethil Harbor and pick up a hippogryph. He ignored me.

“If you’re short on silver, I don’t mind paying for both of us,” I offered. No response. “What, are you afraid of flying?” I inquired with a teasing smile. Nothing. How irritating. Well, if this giant mute was going to make me trek through unmanageable terrain for Elune knows how long, I at least needed to find a way to amuse myself. I decided to play a game called How-Long-Can-Liyil-Talk-About-Hippogryphs-Before-The-Giant-Mute-Finally-Breaks-His-Silence.

The game lasted just over an hour as I prattled on about everything I knew about gryphons, which turned out to be very little. So I started to make things up “...Granted, Menethil Harbor isn’t exactly the transportation hub of Azeroth. But I find that their hippogryphs are far superior to the ones at Stranglethorn Vale. Dear Gods! What they must feed those poor creatures there to make them smell like that. Now, of course, as everyone knows the Auberdine hippogryphs are far superior to all others, both in terms of general husbandry and-“

“Shut up Liyil,” Steathi spoke matter of factly in a soft baritone voice.

I feigned astonishment and exclaimed, “It speaks! I didn’t realize you were able!”

“I am,” he affirmed without acknowledging my sarcasm, or acknowledging me at all for that matter. He continued to walk, looking straight into the distance.

“And yet you are always so quiet,” I marveled with a healthy dose of irony. He didn’t reply. I found myself wanting a response from him, so I rephrased the statement as a question, “Why are you always so quiet?”

“Conserving words.”

I thought about that. What in the Abyss does that mean? How does one conserve words? Words are limitless. They can’t be exhausted. I mentioned this to Steathi, to which he replied, “Speech requires thought. Thought requires energy. Energy is limited, and should not be wasted.”

“You consider words spent in pleasant conversation wasted energy?” I asked.

“You consider vein attempts at conversation pleasant?” he replied without skipping a beat.

Ouch. That stung. “Well you’re talking to me now,” I said defensively.

He nodded. “Talking to you requires slightly less energy than killing you.”

I didn’t know whether this was a threat or an insult. Was he remarking on how little exertion it would take to kill me, or that carrying on a discussion with me was only slightly less taxing than melee combat. Either way, I didn’t like it. Instinctively I measured him up, trying to determine if and how I could overcome him should I decide to take his terse remarks personally. Then I remembered our first encounter, when he appeared at my back seemingly from nowhere. I was outclassed.

“You must be pretty quick,” I said trying to change the subject, “I mean a few weeks ago you pulled that neat little springing up behind my back trick. Just wondering how you did that without me noticing.”

“Shadowstep,” he stated.

“Oh, right,” I said hesitantly, and then, “What’s that?”

Steathi sighed deeply, as though he were about to undertake some tedious and pointless task, “You are skilled with a dagger and seem to have keen instincts. This is probably the only reason you are still alive, for you know nothing of Shadow.”

“So?” I became defensive again, “I just joined your little club a few weeks ago. How do you expect-“

“I am not speaking of the Cenarion Shadow. I speak of the realm where you found solace while hiding from the world. I speak of your mentor, the one who taught you to move through the forests unseen, undetected in the streets of Darnasus. I speak of the cosmic force that is Shadow.”

I glanced behind myself at my shadow on the path and shrugged. “I don’t get it,” I said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Educate me then, since you know so much,” I said snidely. I was growing weary of his condescension, and wished that I had let the arrogant mute remain silent.

“I cannot teach one who is incapable of learning. You believe Shadow is nothing more than a phenomenon that occurs in the presence of illumination, the void that results from material objects blocking the sun’s rays. You arrogantly benefit from the gifts that Shadow bestows without honoring its beneficence. You welcome its embrace but eschew its power at work within you.”

“Shadow…within me,” I repeated dubiously.

“Shadow is not an abstraction, nor is it the mere silhouette cast by the absence of light. It is real. It is tangible. It is powerful.” An awkward silence followed these profound claims – well, awkward for me at least. Perhaps it was awkward for Steathi too because he resumed speaking unprompted for the first time, “When you move about unseen, what do you believe you are doing? How is it that others do not see you?”

It took me a second before realizing this was not a rhetorical question. “Shadow mimicry,” I suggested, “I observe the motion of the shadows around me and imitate their movements.”

Steathi grunted humorlessly, “You have no sense of how absurd you sound, else you would stop speaking altogether. How do you think shadows move? They move in the exact same manner as their source. The shadow of a tree moves as a tree. The shadow of a dwarf moves as a dwarf. The shadow of a bear moves as a bear. Do you really mean to say that you move unseen by mimicking the movements of trees, bears and dwarves?”

“Fine,” I snapped, “You tell me how I move in stealth.”

“I will,” he said simply, “You are communing with Shadow. What you erroneously believe to be physical mimicry of shadow movement is actually a basic form of communication with a cosmic, living force.”

“That makes no sense. Imitation is not communication,” I said irritably. I was in a contrary mood, goaded by my companion’s pompous disposition and patronizing attitude. I also had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

“Consider a newborn girl,” he looked down at me, both literally and figuratively, “She spends the first part of her life observing and becoming familiar with her parents. This is how she learns to communicate. She mimics the sounds she hears from them. Eventually she understands that these sounds have meaning and purpose, and uses them to achieve certain ends. So now have you, Shadow child, begun to commune with Shadow by imitating it. You spent months hiding among the shadows, and then tried to imitate their motion in an attempt to remain unseen in movement. You were successful in this. But make no mistake, little girl. Your limited ability in stealthy movement is not the product of your impressive shadow mimicry,” he spoke these last words with scorn, “In your ignorance you beckoned Shadow to wrap you in its cloak, and Shadow responded.”

I felt myself becoming more irritated, not simply by his continuing scorn and arrogance. Parts of this insanity were actually making sense to me. I tried to affect a sound that resembled laughter, but for the lump in my throat which made it sound more like a cough, “Sure Steathi. You go right ahead and enjoy your life talking to shadows-”

Steathi disappeared right before me. Almost at the same moment the tip of a sharp steel blade pricked the skin of my throat and slowly scraped a shallow cut up to the bottom of my chin.

“Have a care girl,” a soft baritone voice snarled in my ear, “The balance of energy between killing you and enduring your snide drivel is beginning to tip. Don’t push it.” At the word “push” he shoved me to the ground. I looked up at him, frightened and shocked, “How did you do that!” I blurted out.

Without looking down, he stepped over me and said, “I’ll not waste another word on you.”

Pulling together what little dignity I had left, I stood up and brushed grass and dirt off my knees and elbows. I stared intently at Steathi’s back as he walked away with murderous notions racing through my mind. I gripped the hilt of my sheathed dagger and walked after him. Rational thought was consumed by a passion for blood. I was almost upon him. My pace quickened, as did the pounding in my chest. The knuckles of my hand gripping the dagger turned white.

Then reason asserted itself. Steathi walked calmly at an even pace, apparently not bothered in the slightest that his broad back was an open target for me. This gave me pause. He was arrogant and perhaps somewhat overconfident, but not to the point of stupidity. He would not turn his back on me if he believed doing so would pose a credible threat, which meant that if I tried anything I would be dead shortly thereafter. I allowed this realization to sink in before swallowing my pride and matching his step.

Then a thought occurred to me and before I could stop them, the following words slipped out of my mouth, “You know, we would have conserved far more energy if we just took a hippogryph.”

I saw the muscles on the side of Steathi’s neck stiffen, and had just enough time to regret that I had spoken at all before he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. This visibly relaxed him, and I resolved not to say another word for the remainder of our journey, which ultimately concluded without incident.

[Liy]

[Damn, almost 2 years since my last post, and since last logging on for that matter. I have some catching up to do. Here is the 9th installment of Liyil's backstory. Although, if you're going to read this at all, I highly recommend reviewing at least the last two installments as a refresher.]

Part IX

After almost half a day trekking through the Wetland hills, and then into the snowy mountains of some other godforsaken region of the continent, we eventually reached our destination – only, it didn’t seem at all like Stormwind. We walked through a large ornate cave embedded in the side of a huge mountaintop, with several dwarves standing guard. Although I knew next to nothing about the city, I understood enough to know that it was the human capital and that humans would almost certainly not choose any such habitat as the focal point of their civilization. I looked inquisitively at Steathi.

“This is Stormwind?” I asked.

“No,” he replied.

“We were supposed to go to Stormwind.”

“You are supposed to go where I bring you.”

“But Darael said-”

“Darael is not here.”

That’s interesting, I thought. Although his remark was implicitly insubordinate, there was no trace of resentment. Nor was there the kind of strain or bravado in his voice that one might expect when listening to a subordinate openly defy his superior. He simply stated Darael’s absence as though I had asked, “Where is Darael?” I briefly considered probing Steathi about this, but then recalling that he almost killed me when I tried to make casual conversation, thought better of it.

The cave entrance opened up into a massive complex of streets and domiciles carved out of the mountain side, all populated by dwarves and gnomes. At that point, I understood immediately where we were. Ironforge. Steathi and I walked along the massive circular perimeter of the city, receiving the occasional suspicious glare from a passing dwarf. We passed a group of young gnomes, one of whom ran up to me and exclaimed, “My! You’re a tall one!” He then returned to his group of friends who started laughing hysterically, obviously sharing some bizarre inside joke. It was all surreal, but also entertaining. The edges of my mouth inched up to form a smile. I noticed Steathi looking at me, his gaze stoic and impenetrable as usual. My smile vanished.

Our route took us to what appeared to be an enormous warehouse. The room was easily one hundred yards in length, and maybe fifty feet wide. There were four aisles of three-level shelving units each about my height. Each aisle was broken down into several sections, with two attendants assigned to each one. The sight of the entire operation probably would have impressed me, except that I was overwhelmed by the horrible stench that struck me the instant we entered the warehouse. Rotting meat, I thought, and wondered who in their right mind would purchase food from such a place. I resolved only to eat fruit, grain, and vegetables for the remainder of our stay at Ironforge.

Then I saw the “inventory” contained on each shelf, and realized that we were not in a warehouse at all. We had entered an infirmary. What I mistakenly thought were shelving units were actually crude utilitarian beds, each holding a wounded or sick patient recovering or dying (depending upon the eventual outcome, I suppose). The attendants were medics, none of whom even noticed me and Steathi as we walked passed them. The place was relatively quiet, considering the hundreds of patients and medics that it contained. With the exception of the occasional groan of pain, there was only one other sound, originating from the very back of the room – a high pitched, incessant chatter. As we reached the rear of the room, I saw that the source of this chatter was a smaller than average gnome, bustling back and forth from patient to patient at a frantic pace. Steathi stopped a few steps away from him and bid me to do so as well. There we waited in silence for several minutes until he happened to face our direction and focused on Steathi.

“Shady!” the gnome’s eyes beamed. He jumped up and down, clapping his hands excitedly. His mouth parted in a big open grin. Steathi’s response almost knocked me down. He smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, barely noticeable in fact. It seemed a little reluctant too. But there it was, unmistakable, conveying genuine warmth and affection. What followed was a long and drawn out period of two old friends catching up with one another, the details of which consisted entirely of the gnome speaking and Steathi occasionally nodding.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, amid a monologue about an experiment involving Tauren flagellation, the talkative little fellow turned to me. “Shady,” he said referencing Steathi, “you haven’t introduced your friend. Though I suppose if I were to wait for you to violate your self imposed covenant to save words, or store up energy, or whatever it is you do, then all my patients here would die of old age. He didn’t make you walk from Menethil, did he? Shady! You take this shadow stuff way too seriously, and way too literally. He thinks that flying is an insult to shadows or something because there is no shade in the open air. Use the damn birds next time, you oversized lout! If you expect me to…”

If you are a little confused by now, then you have some notion of my state of mind at this bizarre interaction. I marveled at how anything resembling friendship could transpire between two such individuals as Steathi and this gnome. One regards speech as a drain on personal resources; the other seems to build steam with every spoken word. After I have no idea how long of uninterrupted speech, the gnome grabbed one of my hands with both of his and shook mightily, “The name’s Dr. Wratchet. I run the sick house here. You know, they say that we’re not at war with the Horde. Ha! Have you seen my beds? Not one of them is empty. I’ve even gotten to the point where I have to triage my patients and euthanize the ones who have a lower chance for survival in order to make room for new arrivals. Like this poor fella.” He knocked on the bed frame of the dwarf he was attending just before our arrival with his clipboard, “This guy might live, probably not though. Out of the 423 patients I have, he is the 37th least likely to walk out of here alive. Now, normally that would mean he’ll either die in the next week or he will defy my expectations and make a miraculous recovery. But if there’s a massacre at Arathi Basin tomorrow and I need to make room for 38 new arrivals with a better chance of recovery, you’re outta here buddy! Ha!”

I noticed with a certain degree of surprise and discomfort that the Dwarf to whom he was referring was not only conscious but, judging from his nervous countenance, was able to hear perfectly well.

“Oh listen to me, I’m boring you with the mundane details of my work,” Wratchet continued with a slap to his head, “Please let’s all head to my office in the back, away from all this death, disease and melodrama. I’ll brew us a pot of Thistle Tea so Shady here can replenish his energy.”

I began to walk after Dr. Wratchet, but Steathi turned and extended his hand, expressing in no uncertain terms that I was to remain where I stood. I was more than happy to oblige, since I found the Gnome doctor to be more than a little disturbing. The prospect of lounging around sipping tea with him was less than appealing. Hopefully Steathi would conclude whatever business he had here quickly and we would be on our way to Stormwind.

Several minutes passed and the only sounds I could hear behind closed doors was Wratchet’s incessant cackling (who knew Steathi was such a riot?) Eventually the door opened and Wratchet poked his head out. “Oh Li-Li,” he called out melodically. He motioned me inside and I followed. I think I was expecting this room to resemble a study, or some place where paperwork would be sorted and filed away. It was not. The room was fairly small and tight, with three wooden surgical beds arranged in a “U” at the periphery of the room. I am guessing that these were surgical beds judging from the myriad unidentifiable sharp metal instruments that were attached to arms and various extensions protruding from the sides. All three had a full compliment of thick leather straps, although I noticed the straps on the bed at the far wall were tattered and ripped from the bed.

Wratchet caught my eye and tsked, “Tauren,” he said matter of factly.

“Hmm?” I asked.

“Tauren,” he repeated, “Big, tough fellas can’t be restrained by leather. But I can’t very well use chains and shackles in a surgical setting, now can I? It’s a shame. I had to put that poor guy down this morning. He just wouldn’t cooperate.” He tsked again.

“You bound a Tauren with leather and wondered why this disturbed him,” I marveled. “Maybe if someone bound you in gnome-skin straps you would understand.”

By this time Wratchet had completely disengaged from the conversation and was sorting through piles of cotton bandages, “Yes, right. Gnome skins…” he spoke absentmindedly, “I’ll definitely need to get some of those.”

Then I realized something.

“Where’s Steathi?” I asked.

“Oh, uh… he’s not here,” Wratchet replied unhelpfully, as he lifted an enormous pile of bandages and dropped them on one of the surgical beds.

“Where did he go?” I asked trying my best to remain patient.

“He didn’t say,” Wratchet responded, again unhelpfully. Steathi never says anything.

“I didn’t see him leave. How did he-“

“Now you listen to me Li-Li,” he snapped, his demeanor shifting suddenly, “You think I have time to stand here all day entertaining absurd questions? Perhaps you didn’t notice the hundreds of bodies outside. Perhaps you didn’t notice that I have more work to do in one day than one gnome can handle in one week. You see the people out there? People coming in missing this arm or that leg, or half their face blown off by arcane magic, or a crossbow bolt right through the stomach, or a bullet in the eye. Hacks!” he screamed, “Hacks, all of them. Sloppy work. Li-Li, if you’re going to start a job, then you damn well better finish it. The last thing I need is for you to botch a contract and send me another injury. If you’re going to pursue this profession, you’d better learn to do it right. Now go change everyone’s dressings.”

With this pronouncement, he picked up the pile of bandages and shoved them into my arms.

I was speechless and frozen in place, dumb struck by this peculiar sequence of events.

“Dressings, Li-Li, dressings. Remove the old bloodied bandages and replace them with new ones.

I responded with a blank stare.

“You do have a basic grasp of medic skills, right?”

Did I? I didn’t know. But the scolding shift in Wratchet’s tone started to bother me just then and I decided to become contrary. “No,” I said, dropping the pile of bandages to the floor at my feet, “I don’t know anything about medic skills, and I don’t much care to learn either.”

“What?! Insubordination! And what will I tell Steathi when he returns to find that you have learned nothing?”

“I don’t really care. Tell him that I didn’t walk through the mountains of Dun Morough to become a nurse.”

“No,” he replied, “You were brought here to me to learn to become a more efficient killer.”

At the pronouncement of the last word, I flinched a little. Although I had no shame about who I was – or who I was discovering that I was – I found it unnerving to hear matters spoken so plainly. I didn’t respond, but I didn’t need to. When identified as an assassin, a silent response is regarded as a confirmation.

“Fine,” Wratchet tossed his arms up in the air, “Have it your way Li-Li. You want to know about killing, I’ll teach you all about killing. But after that, we’re doing some healing. Deal?”

I shrugged, “Sure.” I was beginning to regard all of this as a complete waste of time. But I would indulge Wratchet’s instructions – which I was sure would be completely pointless – and then look for an opportunity to slip out without being noticed.

“Good,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s get right to it then. I assume your weapon of choice is a dagger, yes?” I affirmed that it was, to which he replied, “Good. Show me your primary dagger hand, palm up.” I did so, as he reached for a pair of goggles and fastened them to his head. He took my hand in his, and looked intently at my palm through the lenses, which were so filthy I wondered whether he could see anything through them at all. After a few moments of silent inspection he spoke, “Right. Rule number one: You can’t kill anyone if you’re dead.”

Blood splattered all over Wratchet’s face, although it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. I started to wonder whether someone could actually have snuck in, assassinated Wratchet, and snuck out without my noticing. But this thought was overtaken by an intense shooting pain in my arm. I reflexively tried to pull away, but Wratchet held on to my hand firmly. In his other hand, he held a scalpel that was plunged into my forearm. Then rapidly, but with a smooth, surgical precision he cut at an angle all the way down to the bottom of my palm.

It is impossible to describe the agony as the blade of Wratchet’s scalpel slid through my veins and tendons, and scraped past my bone. I let out a piercing scream, and at the same moment Wratchet released my hand. I stumbled wildly backwards and slammed into the wall behind me and fell to the floor, blood gushing from my arm at an alarming rate. Wratchet, for his part, walked calmly to the other side of the room and wiped his scalpel clean. “Something really must be done about these Kaldorei suicides,” he muttered loudly to himself, “But then what should we expect from a nocturnal race? Night Elves indeed! They should have considered the adverse effect of sunlight deprivation on their mood before deciding on such an absurd lifestyle…”

He continued in this manner elaborating on theories of correlation between depression and depravation of sunlight. But my attention was focused on the blood pouring out of my wrist. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop the bleeding. The wound was too deep, and I was losing blood too quickly. But I instinctively pressed my arm hard against my side, probably owing to some basic drive to survive. It was this same impulse that brought me to my feet again, despite that I was becoming increasingly lightheaded and weak. I looked towards Wratchet, my sight going in and out of focus. He in turn, was looking back at me as though he were waiting for a kettle of water to boil.

“You!” I blurted out, “Do something!” My speech slurred and fell off towards the end of this brief pronouncement, and my consciousness was becoming less consistent. The gnome just continued to regard me impassively, saying nothing, doing nothing. He was just waiting for me to bleed to death. I had every intention of lunging and squeezing the life out of him with my bare hands before I momentarily lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I was laying on the ground with Wratchet kneeling over me applying pressure to a point just below my armpit and rubbing some kind of ointment over my wound. Despite my semi-conscious state, I was lucid enough to understand that I wanted nothing more than to impale my dagger into the side of the head of this little bastard. I could do it too. My off hand dagger was still accessible. Then I had a second thought. Wratchet may be the way I get out of this alive, which occurred to me as he began to lap several layers of bandages around my arm. But this was quickly interrupted by a third thought, which demanded that my own life was a poor substitute for seeing the hilt of a dagger protruding from his temple.

I willed my hand and arm to unsheathe the weapon, but what little strength my body had left permitted only two fingers to caress the dagger’s hilt.

“Not yet Li-Li,” Wratchet said warmly and patted my head, “There will be plenty of time to kill me after we’ve concluded our first lesson in healing.”