Slain by Elf

An invitation to the Alabaster Court, headquarters of the Joyous Choir, is gracefully accepted by the acolytes. The evening's entertainment starts with a play, where an underhiver has been drugged to 'play' the lead role, which culminates with his very real death at the hands of the narrator. The acolytes, naturally, are rather aghast at the man being run through with a power sword receiving a vigorous round of applause.

The narrator sees the look of shock on the acolytes' faces and comes down to mockingly confront them. He picks on Dariel in particular, as he couldn't help but mutter 'but... but... he's dead', in a rare display of compassion for someone not him. The other two acolytes at least recover their composure to maintain the pretence that they are nobles and used to such displays, politely applauding to keep their cover.

Dariel doesn't quite offend the narrator and actor, although he is a bit smug about standing his moral ground. Indeed, his smugness only increases when he is challenged to a duel, looking to Matthias who, pretending to be Dariel's bodyguard, he fully expects to stand in for him. But it's not that kind of duel. This is to be fought for honour, and Dariel will have to do it himself.

The nobles all cheer the continuation of the night's entertainment, and Dariel is led to the bloodsquare, where the narrator has already marched off to. Seconds are decided and the nature of the fight arranged, which will be only to first blood. Matthias and Xerxes, meanwhile, think the duel is an excellent distraction to let them look around the Alabaster Court undisturbed. And seeing the two of them slip away, Dariel thinks that maybe making the duel last a bit longer would be a good idea.

A bit of ducking and weaving from Dariel, whilst the narrator plays both to the crowd and with his prey, sees everyone have a wonderful time. Eventually, though, first blood is drawn, and not by Dariel. By the terms of the duel he must apologise. 'Okay, fine. Your play was acceptable.' Unlike that apology.

The narrator doesn't feel honour has quite been restored. 'And...?'

'It was good.' Still unlike the apology.

'And...?'

'Don't push it.' It is the king of apologies, an apology that leaves no doubt as to who won the duel, the most graceful defeat in the history of Hive Sibellus, without a doubt!

Elfland always had undulating landscape, making it difficult to see over hills and in to dips. There were so many trees and bushes that even when the ground itself didn't get in the way you could hardly see for foliage. The creatures that stalked the land were generally four-legged and keen to flee faster than you could catch them, before your trainer let you in on the secrets to slowing them down. And the long and thin region meant far too much running north and south to collect and return quests, when the proximity of the coast wasn't sending you gasping for breath underwater.

I hated adventuring in elfland.

But with the cataclysm come changes, so surely some of them must be improvements. Or maybe Deathwing took a look at elfland and wondered to himself, 'how can I make running along a narrow road a chore in and of itself, to make it fit better with the elfland experience?

'I know', he answered himself, 'I'll break the road and render autorun useless'.

Thanks, Douchewing.

The acolytes have bargained for a data slate containing what they hope to be relevant information in their investigation in to the Joyous Choir, and are meeting their contact in a busy market square in the mid hive. Xerxes volunteers to make the hand-off, carrying the case containing two thousand Thrones in exchange for the data slate.

Xerxes sets himself up at the designated meeting point, whereupon the contact dissolves out of the bustling crowd and promptly gets shot. The assassin drops down from above, snatches the case, and starts to make his getaway.

The shock quickly dissipates amongst the trained acolytes and the chase is on. The bustling market is mostly too busy and noisy to notice much of anything, creating a mass of bodies to push through to get anywhere. Progress is difficult for two of the acolytes, one deciding to go over to the contact's body instead of trying to force his way forwards.

'I want to make it clear that I am not doing this to check for a pulse', he states, 'I just want to see if he is carrying anything else that may be important'. And, indeed, he picks up a few interesting items before trying to follow his companions.

The others have pressed on, the two from hive worlds nimbly dodging all the people and moving freely, easily catching up with the assassin. But they find that, once in range, they have no easy means to halt the fleeing man. They can't shoot through the crowd easily, and getting much closer simply puts them in point blank range of the assassin's bolt pistol.

But just as quickly as they catch up, the assassin leaps over a wall and is gone. Scratching their heads at his disappearance the two point members slowly stalk between a few market stalls, whilst the others make their way through the heaving crowds. Matthias thinks he senses the assassin, turning around to see the killer leap from a hiding place and run. But he curiously throws the case away, and towards Matthias.

Despite the death of their contact the case is what the acolytes were after, and now they have it. And Matthias quickly checks and sees that it hasn't been opened, so the assassin isn't making away with the data slate. What he also notices is the melta bomb now strapped to the case, which explains why the assassin is now happy to leave it behind, and to throw it at Matthias.

Matthias quickly tries to open the case, to get the slate out before it, and he, become fused to the concrete, but he can't figure out the sophisticated lock. 'I fail by six. ...margins.' It's not quite enough.

'I have the key', calls out Xerxes, almost catching up finally. But he is too far away from Matthias and the nearby Dariel to get it to them easily. Luckily, Mordecai has found his legs and spotted a gap in the crowd. He nimbly dodges between people and snatches the key from Xerxes's hand, running out of puff just close enough to toss the key down on to the case.

Dariel closes for just long enough to unlock the case and retreat to a safe distance, leaving Matthias to open the case and shake out its contents, before hurling it feebly a dozen feet away. Just in time.

Boom!

The melta bomb all but destroys the case, and most of its surroundings. But the data slate is intact and on the ground next to a scorched Matthias. He grabs it and the acolytes flee the market, regrouping once the commotion dies down. They agree to head to an inn to work out what to do next.

At the inn, a quiet booth is found and the acolytes examine the data slate. Xerxes's technical expertise manages to break the intial software locks, revealing a long list of encrypted data, but he is not able to crack the encryption itself.

The slate is passed around, each acolyte trying their best to understand what the data could be, looking for patterns and trying obvious passwords. 'Oh wow, do you realise what we've got here?', Dariel asks.

'You've broken the encryption? What's on the data slate?'

'What? No. It just occurred to me that we got the data slate without handing over our own case in return. We've got 2,000 Thrones, that people are expecting to be spent, and we're in a bar. Let's party!'

Look at me go, in the Western Plaguelands at 35! The situation is much friendlier than before, with the undead now sharing Andorhal with the Alliance, and all of the wildlife agreeing to drop 15 levels solely to make it easier to reach the Scarlet Monastery.

The Scourge pushed back somewhat, plantlife is free to grow, and the Cenarian Circle are looking after a couple of farms that were once blighted. And this is now apparently a training ground for young druids, Adrine Towhide of the Circle asking me to take care of a troll recruit as I cull sick animals and destroy bad corn around Menders' Stead.

I remember there being a similar request elsewhere, in the Zul'Drak region of Northrend. A servant of the Ebon Blade follows you around, aggresses mobs unnecessarily, and generally makes himself a nuisance until you can't wait to get rid of the quest. As such, I am not looking forwards to babysitting this troll.

In fact, whereas I was going to head back to Stormwind, I decide to get this quest out of the way quickly, and press on so that I can forget about it. As I wander away from the camp, the troll Zen'Kiki follows me around, even helping to attack the bears, wolves, and spiders that I am collecting samples from. He isn't getting in the way at all.

On top of that, he is cheering me up! This troll isn't some dour adventurer with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he's an enthusiastic shapeshifting druid, happy to be out making a difference, and experiencing his new-found powers. He shifts in to the form of a cat and 'Leap! Pounce! Rawr!', he shouts, bouncing around with gay abandon, and even 'come back here!' as he realises his energetic bouncing has thrown him in every direction but towards the target.

But he's not limited to kitty form, and he tries out his other animal shapes. Zen'Kiki shows me his unique form of tanking, not quite understanding that taunting is more than insulting the enemy, as he turns in to a bear. 'No, hit me!', he demands of the mob, desperately wanting to put his growl to good use.

It doesn't quite work out too well—which isn't particularly effective in the first place—when he shifts in to his aquatic form. 'Shapeshift!', he announces, 'try to swim away now!', before floundering on his back. 'I seem to be stuck.' Well, yes, we never were in the water. And he doesn't quite learn after the first attempt, a little later changing again to his aquatic form, opining 'oh no, not again!'

And it's not just the shapeshifting powers that confuse Zen'Kiki. He is able to assume the form the moonkin with little trouble, but there is still trouble in assuming the power that comes with it. 'Shapeshift! Here comes the moonfire!' Boom, boom, boom! The moonfire spam is like a machine gun, but all he manages to target is himself. 'Oof! Yowch! It burns like the moon!' Poor Zen'Kiki.

I thought this was going to be a tedious quest that sees me dragging a useless weight behind me, and probably having to return to the camp to get a replacement more often than I want. Instead, I get a fabulous companion, one brimming with unbridled enthusiasm and happy to chat about it! I complete my quest easily, but continue with my troll friend for a bit longer, not wanting to go back and have to say goodbye. This is just too much fun!

But eventually I have to move on. I can only encourage his youthful exuberance for so long. It is with a little regret that I return to hand in the best quest I have picked up for as long as I can remember, and a quest that was essentially to kill 10 rats. What a difference Zen'Kiki makes to otherwise mundane adventuring.

I return to the Cenarian Circle druid and let her know that Zen'Kiki was a great companion. 'It looks like he is still having a bit of trouble shapeshifting.' No kidding. Help him out with that, but don't kill his spirit. This is one companion I would really like to encounter again, my new favourite druid.

'Hang on', the dealer is starting to get suspicious of these fancy boys ineptly trying to buy farcosia from him. 'You're not Inquisition, are you?'

'No.' Matthias's reply is firm and clear, there can be no mistaking it for anything other than a denial.

'Really?'

'Yes.' Sticking to his cover like this is genius, almost as if he has had practice in being asked a double-bluff. 'We're from Fenksworld.'

'Fenksworld?' The dealer isn't interested, but more intrigued as to why this detail was brought up at all. 'Really?'

'...no.'

And that's it. The dealer takes the Thrones, shoves some phials in to the acolytes' hands, and gets away from these loonies.

'Maybe we can buy these drugs on our expense account', suggests Dariel, 'after all, we are doing this on official business.'

'Yeah, you're right', Matthias agrees, somewhat mockingly. 'It's not like anyone's going to find out.'

'Exactly!'

'We only work for The Inquisition, who clearly don't have the resources or capability to perform in-depth investigations, or the threat of a crushing hand of vengeance at their disposal that can bring down entire worlds.'

'Oh. Hmm. Do you think he takes cash?'

A couple of the acolytes got hopped up on goofballs. It was at a soiree thrown as a way to get them closer to the inner circle of the Joyous Choir, and the farcosia drug they took is now having an effect. The addicted pair are a little shaky and looking for a hit, and a little distressed that there are no drug dealers lurking in the streets of the wealthy and exclusive upper hive.

Xerxes tries to chivvy them along. 'Even if you're not able to score, we still need to make this meeting with our contact to get the data he has. Are you going to come to the mid hive, or are you just going to sulk?'

'I'm tempted to sulk', replies Matthias. He's welcome to, but it will be sulking at a -10 penalty until he gets his fix.

On the way through the mid hive cogs start working in the acolytes' minds. Or, at least, they try. They are asked to make an intelligence check, to stir the thoughts to the surface.

'I roll a 1!' That's good, as it is based on a D100 roll and aiming to get below the characteristic number. In fact, it's the best roll you can make, so it is a little surprising when Mordecai follows-up with, 'I made it by 4'.

By 4?! He's not even addicted to farcosia, being a psyker himself and somewhat opposed to ingesting a substance made of other psykers, which would make his intelligence a measly 5, where even a particularly stupid beast has a basic intelligence of 8.

'...a margin of 4.' Oh, so by at least 4 decades. That makes more sense. In that case, he realises that the mid hive, heaving with street scum, criminals, and all manner of illegitimate business, is probably a good place to score some drugs.

Of course, he no doubt doesn't want to share this information, to let his companions drink more ground pysker, but his subsequent failed willpower roll makes him blurt it out anyway. And so our two addicted acolytes get some farcosia and lose the shakes, even managing to bargain an extra hit for buying a week's worth of doses.

Gilneas has opened the Greymane Wall, the scourge invasion finally having pushed us worgen to venture in to Azeroth once more. I find myself getting more involved with the elves and other races as we prove our worthiness to be a part of the Alliance. As my adventuring continues I find new opportunities available. Just as other people are learning to ride horses I am quite spoilt for choice.

I could learn the ability to ride a horse and spend gold to buy one. But I am a warlock, and my mentor has taught me how to summon a dreadsteed, a demon horse that serves as a mount. As if that weren't enough, my own worgen ability is revealed, letting me drop to all fours and speed along as quick as any normal mount. It's quite exhilarating.

I think I'll visit the Deeprun Tram and recreate the classic film A Gilnean Worgen in Ironforge.

A stunning revelation has been made about the new drug being used by nobles in Scintilla and, more specifically, linked to the Joyous Choir. It is strongly suspected that the substance is made of people! Psykers, in fact. This leads Dariel to quip that 'a liquified psyker is the best kind of psyker'.

For some reason, Dariel's comment gets the acolytes' own psyker a little agitated, Mordecai not quite appreciating the wit. Indeed, a repetition of the quip, to see if he gets it the second time, only forces the psyker to make his own joke.

Mordecai focusses his psyker powers and causes Dariel to spasm uncontrollably, falling to the floor in an amusing manner and writhing around for a few seconds.

Revenge would be served, if the angry use of his psychic powers didn't backfire on Mordecai. A psychic phenomenon is caused by the concentration of psychic force, causing a noxious stench to manifest. But everyone simply thinks Mordecai pooed himself a little from the strain. Either way, he may think twice before using his powers out of spite.

The acolytes are, naturally, working undercover. Rather than simply having different names to use, which often causes problems of its own, they are pretending to be noble cousins from a different world. Fenksworld, in fact. Thinking that they are from Fenksworld is causing its own problems, though, mostly them trying to work out if they are actually from Fenksworld or just pretending to be from Fenksworld. It really shouldn't be this difficult.

Their cover is explained more than a few times, somewhat complicated by them having to maintain their cover whilst understanding that it is, in fact, just a cover. The acolytes' companions are taking them to a party with other nobles, and so tests their understanding.

'Oh, you're from Fenksworld?'

'Yes.'

'Really?'

'...no.' Oh, so close. It was a test! He was not being suspicious, merely curious, as so few people come from so far away. Which, to be honest, is the reason why Fenksworld was chosen.

And with this last test explained, if not fully comprehended, the acolytes are taken to the party.

Dariel is posing as a noble, although he'll argue to anyone who'll listen that he actually is a noble, making his cover pretty good, with Matthias in his entourage as his bodyguard. Again, this is just their cover, but it's easy to forget.

The last-minute training is paying off, barely, as Dariel tries to integrate himself with the other nobles, hoping to find out information about the Joyous Choir and maybe get invited to their higher echelons. 'So where are you from, originally', he is asked.

'Venksworld', he replies confidently.

'Sir', his fake bodyguard interrupts, 'I have an urgent security matter', which is pretty much the only way a bodyguard can speak without first being spoken to. Matthias pulls Dariel aside before continuing, 'we're actually from Fenksworld, with an 'f'. I'm sorry to correct you, but if I hadn't I fear by the end of the evening we'd all be from Venezuela'.

The curious pronunciation is put down to Dariel's heavy Fenksworldian accent, and he even passes the 'really?' test, letting the evening continue smoothly.