You're sort of freaking out.
Yesterday, you were more concerned with where your next meal was coming from. Today, you're about to come face to face with the Marobashi, leader of the Quiet Hand. To say that you're anxious is an understatement.
You try to go over all the old stories, the legends, surrounding this enigmatic individual, but they're hazy at best. Ruthless to the extreme, willing to toss lives around without remorse, who could see a drop of sweat and kill for less from across a darkened room … these were barely the tip of the iceberg with regards to the legends surrounding the Marobashi.
Of his organization, known throughout the Eastern Kingdoms as the Quiet Hand, you knew only a bit more about. The so called "people's guild" was little more than a front for the extensive black market that was run by the Marobashi, through a series of puppet officials and corrupt statesmen handpicked and groomed by the very rogue you were about to meet, beyond the door before you. Which you were now obliged to open.
You weren't sure how you'd found yourself in this predicament! Why you? Why today, when up until this point, you'd been having such an above-average day? You hadn't even seen it coming, and your brain was now racking through your internal list of people who might have set you up for such a potentially fatal twist in fortune. You weren't kidding yourself. Your chances of surviving this encounter were so admittedly small, that you very much felt as though you might as well ask for the moon with regards to your last request. It would do you that much good.
The guard, cloaked in grey and black and sporting a lean but still dangerous-looking mace, paused his device mid-swing and nodded towards the door before you. You think on this questioningly, but as the guard doesn't seem inclined to elaborate, you have to assume that the subtle command is for you to open the door yourself. It's a testament to your peace with the divine that you even dare to do so. "Okay," you say, taking the steel grip and turning it. As you can imagine, the door gives way without so much as a sound. The black market was a dangerous organism, and permeated virtually every aspect of life within the Eastern Kingdoms. Dealing with any one of its shadowy "Merchant Prince's" was an exercise in social precaution … right down to the oil on the hinges of a door no one knew existed. Except you, today, but then, you didn't really expect to be alive for much longer.
Once again, your frantic mind fights for clarity even as the dimly lit room extends out before you, revealing a small wooden chair, and a bureau, with a boarded up window behind it. One lone lantern sits atop the desk, its glow flickering and feint from across the room. Other than you and the guard, there doesn't seem to be anyone else present. You take a look at the cloaked individual behind you, but as he - if it even is a male beneath the dark material - seems to be using the shadows to good effect, because other than the mace the guard is patiently tapping into the palm of his gloved hand, you can't see anything. You sigh and decide to enter the room. You've made your peace with your Maker.
The room itself is longer than it is wide, with a secondary door - shut - off to the right and behind the desk. The desk itself was impeding your view of a second chair behind it, but then, you didn't think you'd be talking to the boarded window, so the second chair made perfect sense. Whoever intended to join you presently would likely be occupying it. You pull your own chair away from the desk and take a seat, casting a glance behind you. The guard is no where to be found, and the door is shut. You turn to study the lamp, as its the only thing of interest.
The lamp itself is of good quality, if a bit low on fuel. It's hood has been angled towards the door behind the desk, its firelight playfully dancing on the woodwork along the way. You find yourself wondering what this mysterious Marobashi character might look like. You track back over the events of the last few hours in your mind.
It had been morning market in Stormwind. Now typically, morning market was a lively and boisterous affair, but recent events in the southern realms had somewhat stifled the constant braying of the auctioneers, and the bartering of the tradesmen that often filled the streets at these hours. Varian's military presence was everywhere, and even though you yourself never really made a point of being entirely aware of moods and dispositions, it was clear that the city watch was on an unprecedented level of alert. They were on the lookout for someone, or perhaps a group of someones, and market was rather less than it's usual ruckus of commotion as a result.
But you hadn't been in the market to analyze the mood of it that morning. All you were interested in was acquiring some earthroot for your mother, who up until today was the only authority you really feared. So, keeping a quiet profile, you slipped through the streets and found your way to the local apothecary's shop, and dug out what meagre coinage your mother had provided you with, and had been handed a satchel with barely enough root to grind a poultice.
"Is this all you have?" you'd asked, knowing full well that it would not be enough and dreading the tongue-lashing to be expected if this was all you returned with.
"Nay, child," said the surly apothecary, Drudan Pestle, counting out the coinage with a shrewd eye. "This be all yer mother ken afford. Gatherin's been lean an' the king's been buying' up all 'e ken fer 'is armies. Ye ken count yerself lucky tha' ol' Drudan was expectin' ye, an' squirrelled some o' this away."
You remembered eyeing your own contents glumly, not seeing a way out of this unwanted bit of reality. Some of the other patrons, had looked at you sadly, but they themselves were likely no better off, and most of them turned their eyes from you, leaving you feel almost entirely alone. All except for one. A dwarf by the build, but somewhat smaller in stature than most of his kind, with eyes that bored holes into yours as you made to turn away and trudge back to your mother. They'd held you, but not for very long. You'd headed for the door.
Then the dwarf had spoken.
"How much earthroot ye be needing', little one?" the dwarf's voice carried across the room. Most of the other patrons fell silent as the gravelly sound - far too deep to be coming from within that particular dwarf - seemed to encompass the room. You'd stopped and turned. The grey-skinned dwarf's eyes were locked on your own, dark eyes blank and almost inhuman as he waited for you to answer. You held up your too light satchel.
"Mother says I was to return with over half a pack," you say, and your voice, set against this dwarf's, seems small and pathetic. For a moment, the dwarf doesn't move. Then he turns his attention to Drudan.
"What say you, Pestle? Can you help this child out?" Drudan, you couldn't be sure, but it appeared as though the apothecary had paled at the dwarf's question, but hastily, the larger dwarf had gone into the back room and after a few moments, returned with a satchel burgeoning with earthroot, as well as a few other herbs and leaves. With a shaking hand, Pestle had held the bag out overtop his counter, nodding briskly to your unspoken question. You dared not even meet the apothecary's wild look as you took the weighted sack from his hands. It was so heavy that it thudded to the floor first before you managed to sling it over your shoulder, back bowed with the effort. You remembered turning to thank the dwarf, but he had somehow disappeared during the strange transaction. You then took one look at Drudan, who shook his head fiercely and pointed to the door. Then you'd fled.
And that was how they caught you.
You were a sharp young child, but most of what you'd learned, you'd learned from your mother's stories of your father. According to your mother, your father had been a war-hero reincarnated, or some such strangeness. Why you and your mother should be so broke then, was beyond you, but you did love the stories, so you kept believing them even when raiders had burned down your farm and thrown the bloody sack holding your father's head at the feet of your wailing mother. You knew that you were supposed to destroy these people, even then, but you were yet too young. That had been the Summer of Patience.
It was difficult, in those first few months. You wanted so badly to ride out after them, hunt them down to a man and slay them, but if you hadn't done it then while they'd stood before you, then you likely weren't going to do it several minutes afterwards. But you never forgave the world that took your father away, and every moment of every day that you had spent doing chores was spent devising ways to get out of the community shelter, to keep your eye out for the man who had held your father's severed head, and so ignobly dropped it at your mother's feet.
So when opportunity presented itself, you'd volunteered to take to the road each day, to fetch your mother her herbs for her practice. You'd come to know Goldshire and Stormwind very well.
It wasn't easy being obscure, but for some reason, being a child made it easier. There had been a couple wary guards and none too few run-ins with the brigands and thieves you kept close tabs on, trying to avoid being overly scrutinized. Granted, a child slipping in and out of the bowls of the Cathedral of the Light was not uncommon, but a child following the same path as a cluster of robed individuals - in an alter server's getup - was often times grounds to be apprehended just out of habit. You'd learned just how separate the entities of church and state truly were.
But you never ran. That was the first lesson you'd learned from your father's death. You might find yourself scared, but you never ran. Running was admitting that they were right, and you were wrong. So even in the face of being caught in an outright lie, you never ran. You just twisted the truth in such a way that only an interrogator with an extraordinary amount of patience would be able to find their way through the labyrinth of honesty woven with bent truths in the form of childlike enthusiasm. And you could be a drippingly sweet kid when you wanted to be. Yet another trait you'd inherited from your father: charm.
You'd run today, though. You'd just seen real terror in the man that you counted amongst one of the shrewdest in Stormwind, and you'd bolted without even questioning it. You weren't afraid, but the dwarf had commanded that man to fill your herb sack to the point of bursting, and had then simply … disappeared. You didn't need to ask any more questions.
And by breaking that cardinal rule, you'd gotten caught.
The guards that had caught you were off duty. Their names were Lucas and Brade, and both were genuinely strange soldiers. Silver-white hair, both men were built slimmer than most of their contemporaries, and appeared younger. Everyone knew they were brothers, and they fought like it virtually every time the breeze blew, but they were not the most aware of the city watch when they were on duty, let alone off. You'd been almost embarrassed to have drawn their attentions so ineptly.
Of course, that had been this morning. A lot had happened to change your mind, since.
Lucas and Brade were not amiable brothers. As it turned out, they weren't even related, nor did they share a common ancestry, save by accident of their birth. You'd run in the city before - all children were expected to run in the city at some point, it seemed part of the curriculum, so you'd gotten in the habit of running pell-mell through the most crowded places. You didn't even have to fake urgency. You could see adults doing it all the time, too! For you to run past these two was a habit as old as the hills now. Except today when you were suddenly obstructed by them, with looks of grim purpose on their faces. Grim purpose you had never seen before today, even when you'd believed they must have felt alone. Your first emotion was confusion, so you'd quickly quelled that and tried to confront them.
"What do you two want?" you'd asked with an edge of hostility.
"Perhaps the rumours are more true than we thought, Brade," Lucas had replied. Brade's expression never changed.
"What might those rumours be, Sergeant Lucas?" you'd fired back, unperturbed.
"That you are one we have been looking for."
You'd had about a million questions burst inside your head at once, but then the world had tilted, and you'd blacked out.
When you'd come too, you'd found yourself inside a small room, unbound but flanked by Lucas and Brade, who's arguing had woken you up. Your head had a bump that was swollen to the size of an apple on the back of it, and as it turned out, the two men had taken you to meet the Marobashi. The two men who's names were decidedly unpronounceable, and who were a half-elf, and a half-dwarf. It was easy to see why they fought as they did.
As it turned out, Lucas and Brade were far more aware of your going's on than you believed possible. They knew where you lived, who your mother and father were, how you lost your home. They knew the few shops you frequented, the havens you haunted to "train", and they, as it turned out, knew who had killed your father. They also valued their lives, so any questions you'd asked them regarding Marobashi were quickly and pointedly redirected.
Yourself, you had been terrified, very nearly as bad as your fear of sharks, although you'd actually met a shark … you hadn't yet met the Marobashi.
And now, it seemed you were about to.
You are broken from your reverie by the sound of the door opening, and you find yourself holding your breath. Okay, this was it. What were you going to do?
