((Look! A Jon Chess story without Jon Chess!))
The slender throwing knife tumbled end-over-end and neatly caught the housecat-sized rodent which had just darted out in front of the Magna Alia Atherton, who had been walking to the Pig & Whistle tavern in the bowels of the Old Town section of Stormwind. She jumped back a half-step, glad of the precise aim of the projectile and feeling a moment's twinge of sympathy for the dead rat at her feet. A man - more of an overgrown kid, really, clearly at the last stage of adolescence ran out from the shadows, but noting Alia, stopped his rush to retrieve his blade and bowed to Alia. "Beg your pardon, mum," he said, his use of the Common Tongue having what she recognized as Gilnean underpinnings. He was a whipcord scarecrow of a fellow, wearing a threadbare blue tunic, dirty gray trousers, sturdy boots, and a weapons baldric festooned with small pouches and slots for three throwing knives.. one of which was newly empty. A wicked-looking knife similar to a straight razor hung from his belt; Alia recognized it with apprehension as the sort of knives carried by the Syndicate crime organization.
“It’s- it's alright. You just scared me.” Alia Atherton straighten her suit, turning her attention from the rat to the scrawny...well she wouldn’t call him a kid, him appearing to only be a few years younger than her. Three years at the most, she reckoned. She looked over to the knife, then to him,” It’s a good thing your a good aim, yes?”
"If you miss, you often lose the knife. I can't afford to miss very often, Miss," responded the fellow, who knelt at Alia's feet. She watched, a little fascinated and revolted at the same time as he used the knife to lift the rat corpse and chop off its tail. The tail went into a small pouch at his hip, and the carcass into a larger "kill bag" on his thigh. He stood, cleaning the knife with a filthy rag. "My name is Greyhawk, Miss - please remember me should you find yourself in need of a ratch catcher." He smiled, and his careworn face lost ten years - for a brief second, he appeared to be his age. His eyes remained downcast, and he would not look her in the face. "Nipsy, the gnome what sells the Rat Kabobs in the tramway, can often find me at need; he and his brother always need the fresh meat! 1 CP to the city for the bounty on the tail, and three CP from Nipsy for the body."
A name she recognized with a smile,” I’ve heard of him. Rorik is quite the fan of the Rat Kabobs... but with an aim like that, I reckon this isn’t your... let’s say your dream profession?”
The fellow shrugged, looking away. "Ain't got no family, and what I lost everything I had when Darnassus burned. The other Gilneans... they don't like me, much... they say I don't belong because I don't go furry like they do. Too old for the orphanage... not a lick of talent for the arcane and such, but I'm not too stupid, and not too slow that I can't out-think a bunch of rats. This will do, at least until something better comes along... maybe I'll enlist, I hear there are constant promotions... and if nothing else, someone else would see me buried alright. I don't fancy a life as a lobster, taking the Alliance coin... but if the winter is hard, it beats freezing... of course, then they'd just send me to Northrend, thinking I'm Gilnean and they could save the cost of a jacket... the joke would be on them, eh?" Greyhawk laughed at his bitter joke.
The Magna stood there, reading him with violet eyes. Studying the way he talked, the way he stood. It reminded her of someone.
"Alia. Alia Atherton." She stepped forward to shake his hand, a new, brighter smile on her face.
"The honor is mine, Miss Atherton," said Greyhawk. "Dahn Greyhawk... everyone calls me Greyhawk though," Greyhawk replies, shaking her hand. "So what's a member of the 'White mice and pumpkin' set doing down here in Old Town? I thought all of you lived over by the University or in the Sky or somewhat?"
She laughed out loud, "White mice and pumpkin set? Whaaat?" She covered her mouth, but her eyes were smiling for her, "I'm sorry, that was probably the best thing I've heard all week....and some of us have better things to do than stay up in some fancy floating tower complex." Her smile dropped after the mention of Dalaran. "Why I am in Old Town? Why I'm here to wait for my- ah friend...in fact, you should come with me to meet him, Dahn."
Greyhawk took a step back, looking around quickly as if expecting an ambush. "I apologize for anything I might have said or done wrong, Magistrix... I will leave you on your own." He looked as if he had been caught picking her pocket. He half-turned as if to bolt.
"Light, Fel and- Wait!" She trotted up to him, "You haven't offended me, and even if you had, I'm not so petty as to do anything about it. Both my friend, who is really my fiancée, and I are orphans too. Now I'm painfully aware that if fate had been reversed, I would not be here, and he probably wouldn't be either." If he ran, she'd freeze his feet, "You have great potential, Greyhawk, I can see it. And I don't think you want to spend the rest of your days hunting rats or end up six feet under dying for a cause that you don't really believe in...Correct?"
"....no... no, I don't. And who is your fiancé, Miss, if that isn't too impertinent?" Greyhawk said, his voice a touch suspicious.
"The man who's going to change your life around." She smiled and pulled him from his restraints into the tavern. She was strong, surprisingly so. She sat him down in a chair along the wall and pointed the crystalline end of her staff threatening if he tried to move. "Sometimes the hand of fate must be forced, Dahn. You'll thank me for this one day."
Greyhawk looked at her doubtfully. "We'll see... but it won't do any harm to escort you through the streets to where you are going. Old Town is kind of a bad place at night, what with rat catchers jumping out and all!"
The slender throwing knife tumbled end-over-end and neatly caught the housecat-sized rodent which had just darted out in front of the Magna Alia Atherton, who had been walking to the Pig & Whistle tavern in the bowels of the Old Town section of Stormwind. She jumped back a half-step, glad of the precise aim of the projectile and feeling a moment's twinge of sympathy for the dead rat at her feet. A man - more of an overgrown kid, really, clearly at the last stage of adolescence ran out from the shadows, but noting Alia, stopped his rush to retrieve his blade and bowed to Alia. "Beg your pardon, mum," he said, his use of the Common Tongue having what she recognized as Gilnean underpinnings. He was a whipcord scarecrow of a fellow, wearing a threadbare blue tunic, dirty gray trousers, sturdy boots, and a weapons baldric festooned with small pouches and slots for three throwing knives.. one of which was newly empty. A wicked-looking knife similar to a straight razor hung from his belt; Alia recognized it with apprehension as the sort of knives carried by the Syndicate crime organization.
“It’s- it's alright. You just scared me.” Alia Atherton straighten her suit, turning her attention from the rat to the scrawny...well she wouldn’t call him a kid, him appearing to only be a few years younger than her. Three years at the most, she reckoned. She looked over to the knife, then to him,” It’s a good thing your a good aim, yes?”
"If you miss, you often lose the knife. I can't afford to miss very often, Miss," responded the fellow, who knelt at Alia's feet. She watched, a little fascinated and revolted at the same time as he used the knife to lift the rat corpse and chop off its tail. The tail went into a small pouch at his hip, and the carcass into a larger "kill bag" on his thigh. He stood, cleaning the knife with a filthy rag. "My name is Greyhawk, Miss - please remember me should you find yourself in need of a ratch catcher." He smiled, and his careworn face lost ten years - for a brief second, he appeared to be his age. His eyes remained downcast, and he would not look her in the face. "Nipsy, the gnome what sells the Rat Kabobs in the tramway, can often find me at need; he and his brother always need the fresh meat! 1 CP to the city for the bounty on the tail, and three CP from Nipsy for the body."
A name she recognized with a smile,” I’ve heard of him. Rorik is quite the fan of the Rat Kabobs... but with an aim like that, I reckon this isn’t your... let’s say your dream profession?”
The fellow shrugged, looking away. "Ain't got no family, and what I lost everything I had when Darnassus burned. The other Gilneans... they don't like me, much... they say I don't belong because I don't go furry like they do. Too old for the orphanage... not a lick of talent for the arcane and such, but I'm not too stupid, and not too slow that I can't out-think a bunch of rats. This will do, at least until something better comes along... maybe I'll enlist, I hear there are constant promotions... and if nothing else, someone else would see me buried alright. I don't fancy a life as a lobster, taking the Alliance coin... but if the winter is hard, it beats freezing... of course, then they'd just send me to Northrend, thinking I'm Gilnean and they could save the cost of a jacket... the joke would be on them, eh?" Greyhawk laughed at his bitter joke.
The Magna stood there, reading him with violet eyes. Studying the way he talked, the way he stood. It reminded her of someone.
"Alia. Alia Atherton." She stepped forward to shake his hand, a new, brighter smile on her face.
"The honor is mine, Miss Atherton," said Greyhawk. "Dahn Greyhawk... everyone calls me Greyhawk though," Greyhawk replies, shaking her hand. "So what's a member of the 'White mice and pumpkin' set doing down here in Old Town? I thought all of you lived over by the University or in the Sky or somewhat?"
She laughed out loud, "White mice and pumpkin set? Whaaat?" She covered her mouth, but her eyes were smiling for her, "I'm sorry, that was probably the best thing I've heard all week....and some of us have better things to do than stay up in some fancy floating tower complex." Her smile dropped after the mention of Dalaran. "Why I am in Old Town? Why I'm here to wait for my- ah friend...in fact, you should come with me to meet him, Dahn."
Greyhawk took a step back, looking around quickly as if expecting an ambush. "I apologize for anything I might have said or done wrong, Magistrix... I will leave you on your own." He looked as if he had been caught picking her pocket. He half-turned as if to bolt.
"Light, Fel and- Wait!" She trotted up to him, "You haven't offended me, and even if you had, I'm not so petty as to do anything about it. Both my friend, who is really my fiancée, and I are orphans too. Now I'm painfully aware that if fate had been reversed, I would not be here, and he probably wouldn't be either." If he ran, she'd freeze his feet, "You have great potential, Greyhawk, I can see it. And I don't think you want to spend the rest of your days hunting rats or end up six feet under dying for a cause that you don't really believe in...Correct?"
"....no... no, I don't. And who is your fiancé, Miss, if that isn't too impertinent?" Greyhawk said, his voice a touch suspicious.
"The man who's going to change your life around." She smiled and pulled him from his restraints into the tavern. She was strong, surprisingly so. She sat him down in a chair along the wall and pointed the crystalline end of her staff threatening if he tried to move. "Sometimes the hand of fate must be forced, Dahn. You'll thank me for this one day."
Greyhawk looked at her doubtfully. "We'll see... but it won't do any harm to escort you through the streets to where you are going. Old Town is kind of a bad place at night, what with rat catchers jumping out and all!"
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