“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Andrew Mason lurking around my display on ancient Elven artefacts?” Andrew paused, a hand hovering over an intricately-crafted silver tiara perched on a faceless bust. Straightening his posture, he turned and smiled warmly to the tall, willowy man. 

“Hey, Mads. Long time no—” 

“Put them back, Andrew,” Mads intoned. 

“Put what back?” Andrew replied, brows knit in innocent confusion. Mads gave a weary sigh. 

“The earrings and the pocketwatch in your vest, the commemorative coronation spoon in your shoe, the Zandalari fertility bracelet in your pants, and the raw sapphire you shoved down your shirt,” he replied as he held out a hand. Dutifully, Andrew removed the items from their hiding places and dropped them into the other man’s outstretched palm. 

“That’s all I got,” he said earnestly as Mads gave him an appraising look down the length of his thin nose. 

“Is it? I think I would also like back the emerald ring you’re hiding under your thieving little tongue,” he added. His nose wrinkled as Andrew spat out a ring onto the top of the small pile of goods. “You’re an animal, you know.” 

Andrew shoved his hands into his empty pockets and shrugged lightly. “I know.” 

Mads swept around him and deposited the items into a drawer behind the counter, locked it with a tap of his wand, and turned to face Andrew once more as he used a handkerchief to wipe spittle from his palm. 

“I assume you’re here on business, and not simply to rob an honest shopkeeper of his hard-earned goods?” A snort answered him first. 

“I'm not sure anything in here was acquired honestly, Mads. But yeah— I’m here on business.” 

“And that business is…?” 

“Forgery. I’m looking to pick up some more work— art, documents, whatever you got.” 

Mads arched an eyebrow. “Your cut from the work you did on the Silvermoon job wasn’t enough? You need another cool million?” he asked, to which Andrew waved a hand. 

“I don’t care about the money, I’m just… I dunno. Bored, I guess?” 

“You’re bored.” 

“I know you heard me— look, just give me anything. You got any new rubes you’re looking to fleece? Some competitor you want to embarrass?” he asked. Mads tapped his chin in thought. 

“You know, there is something I've had in mind for a while— it will require the utmost skill and discretion, of course—” 

“Of course.” 

“The benefit for me is that it will finally ruin the shop up the street.” 

“You still got beef with Faustus?” 

“I don’t know what ‘got beef’ means, but if it means he is my sworn nemesis and I wish to see his world crumble around him, then yes.” 

“Wasn’t the Silvermoon job enough? The flack he got when those people figured out he’d sold them fakes, and then they came rushing to you to get the real ones— which Quai made sure you got, of course—” 

“Of course.” 

“Wasn’t that enough?” 

“To put it simply: no. But one more good blunder and in the eyes of the black market art community, he will be dead weight.” 

“And you’ll reap all the rewards.” 

“Or at least his last few high-paying clients.” 

“What, you need another cool million?” Andrew teased. 

“I assure you,” Mads replied haughtily, “the payout will be significantly higher— and made all the sweeter by the professional demise of Mister Faustus.” Andrew ran a hand through his hair. 

“Alright, so what do you need?” 

“Tea first, I think,” Mads replied as he moved towards the back room of his shop. Dutifully, Andrew followed along after him. 

“Just sugar in mine,” Andrew said as he slid into a chair. He watched as Mads lazily waved his wand: a kettle and an old teapot sprang into action at the counter, one filling with water as the other opened its lid to accept a scoop of loose leaves that rose of their own accord from a tin on a shelf. Once two of cups had slid to a stop on the table between them and the kettle had settled itself onto a stove burner, Mads fixed his gaze once more on Andrew. 

“The job I need you to do is in two parts,” he began. He snapped his fingers and a tin of gingersnaps flew across the room to bump Andrew politely on the arm. 

“Cool, two parts,” Andrew replied as he took a biscuit and shoved it into his mouth, then took two more. 

“You are going to reproduce a priceless vase. To do this, you will need clay and water from a very specific spot in eastern Pandaria, and feldspar from the top of Mount Neverest. These are the only two places you can acquire what you need— the water and clay are both found in a specific underground cave through which a spring flows, and though I don’t know if the feldspar from the top of Neverest makes a difference from feldspar found outside of Stormwind, I think it best not to risk it on a job like this.” 

“Mmf— stho those’re—” 

“Chew and swallow, please.” 

Andrew did as instructed, then gestured towards Mads. “So those are the two parts to this?” 

“No. Then there is a set of paints you will need in order to paint this replica— they are only found in one monastery that has been using the same paints for centuries. They produced hundreds of them and they stored them in a guarded underground vault somewhere in the Jade Forest.” 

“So that’s the second part.” 

“No. You will then need to craft the vase—” 

“With the feldspar from the mountain and the clay and the spring water from the cave—” 

“—In one of the monastery’s crafting rooms. You will need to use their kiln to fire the vase and the stamps they have on hand to mark the bottom of it once it comes out— the wood they burn and the temperature at which they burn it is a closely-guarded secret unique to that monastery, and they have been doing it that way for centuries. You can do the painting here, of course,” Mads added. 

“Of course. So that’s the second part.” 

“No. Then, once the vase is painted, you will need to sneak it into the home of its owner and replace it with the one you made. I want the original.” 

“Why not just sell my very convincing fake?” 

“Because I do not sell fakes, Andrew, which is how I keep my sterling reputation. You will be setting the fake in place of the genuine vase, for which I have a buyer."

At that moment, the kettle started to whistle. Andrew gestured with a biscuit as Mads summoned the kettle over to the table.

“I can get the feldspar and the clay and the spring water, no problem— it’s the paints and the kiln and the breaking in stuff I’ll need help with. I don’t even know where we’re breaking into, and d’you know how long it takes to fire a vase? Eight hours at least, for the first firing—” 

“Andrew.”

“— and at least twelve hours for glazing—” 

“Andrew.” 

“Hm—?” 

“I haven’t even told you where you will be breaking into in order to switch out the real vase for the fake.” 

“If it’s the Silvermoon City Met again, I think they might just close up shop after this, none of their art will be real anymore—” 

“It is not the Met.” 

Andrew shoved another cookie into his mouth. 

“Well? Where ith it?” he asked as he chewed. Mads leaned in, long fingers tented beneath his chin. 

“You know Stormwind is currently without its boy king, yes?” 

“Yeah, the uh… what’s his name, the grizzled-looking paladin type is sittin' on the big chair.” 

“Turalyon is currently on the throne, yes. And while he holds young Wrynn’s spot on the throne, he does not live in the king’s chambers,” Mads explained. “Tell me— what do you know about the king’s private art gallery?” 

((Mentioned: @quai-mason ))

Fog had settled low over Booty Bay, blanketing everything in a whitish haze that— coupled with the stillness of the early predawn hour— gave the whole town an eerie, empty feeling as Andrew disembarked from the gryphon. 

A sensation he couldn’t quite place had been tickling the back of his neck for some weeks, ever since his and Quai’s return from Dalaran; it felt as though eyes were constantly trained on him from some unseen vantage point. He tossed a coin to the gryphonmaster and made his way across the rickety bridge to the Salty Sailor, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he stepped into the familiar inn. 

“Oh, there’s trouble,” a waitress remarked with a smirk as he shut the door behind him. Andrew tore himself away from his thoughts and grinned at the woman. The upstairs lounge was otherwise deserted, as the pub had been closed for an hour or so already.

“You’re one to talk, Maisie,” he replied as he stepped across the sea of empty tables to her. He lifted a hand and raked his fingers through her curls to expose a cheek, upon which he planted a kiss. “Been good?” he asked in a low voice. 

“Dunno, have you?” she replied cheekily as she swatted away his hand and continued to wipe down tables. Andrew’s expression turned to one of affront and shock. 

“Me? Never!” 

“Good, that’s the way we like ya,” Maisie replied, nudging him away with a hip. “Off with you, now. I’ve got stuff to finish up before I get outta here,” she added. Andrew gave her shoulder a little squeeze and flopped down into an empty chair. 

“I actually wanted to ask you something, Mai.” He glanced around at the sea of deserted tables and looked back to her. Maisie stopped what she was doing and tucked the rag into the pocket of her apron. 

“Go on, then.” 

Andrew leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped lightly together. 

“It’s about Adam.” 

Maisie’s expression darkened. 

“Adam ain’t welcome here anymore, you know that. Why’re you asking about him, anyway?” 

“Because I think you know more than you’re letting on, darling,” Andrew replied with an easy smile, though there was a bit of an edge to his voice. “Now tell me… when’s the last you saw Adam Blake?” 

Maisie pulled out a chair and sat opposite Andrew, and folded her arms across her chest. 

“It’s been a bit. He was in here a month or so ago, settling up business with a few locals— paying off tabs, bets, what have you.” She shook her head. “Kicked him out myself, you know,” she added. “Anyway, he’s gone now.” 

“Gone where, exactly?” 

Maisie lifted her chin towards him. 

“Why’re you asking? You got some business with him? I thought you didn’t do business with him anymore.” 

“I don’t.” 

“You’re lookin’ awful hard for someone you don’t do business with,” she pointed out. 

“It’s not your business why I’m looking for him, Mai. I just need to know where he is.” He paused. “Please.” After a moment of consideration, Maisie leaned in. 

“After I kicked him out, I went out the side door to take my ten, and I saw him meet up with a couple Orcs nearby. He gave ‘em a little bag full of coin and all three of ‘em walked down the dock and got on the Kalimdor boat.” 

Andrew nodded slowly. 

“Okay… one of these Orcs, did you happen to notice if he was missing an ear?” Maisie raised a brow, apparently surprised. 

“Yeah, one of ‘em was— how’d you know that?” 

Andrew stood up and reached into a pocket, pulled out a couple of twenty-gold promissory notes, and pushed them into Maisie’s hands. 

“Don’t tell anyone I was here, and don’t tell anyone I was looking for Adam or the thing I said about the Orc. In fact—” he said over his shoulder as he made his way towards the door, “you’ve never met me in your life.” 

With that, he stepped back out into the early morning mist and shut the inn door firmly behind him. The docks were still deserted, though the sky was a little bit lighter as the sun started to poke over the eastern horizon. As he leaned against the outer wall of the inn, he reached up with one hand and tapped the comm stone that had been set into a silver stud in his ear. 

“Quai?” he asked quietly. It was a moment before the reply came. 

“Andrew, it’s… five-thirty in the morning. What are you doing up?” 

“Haven’t slept yet.” 

“There’s a surprise.” 

“Listen— I have something to tell you.” 

There was a sigh and the rustling of blankets as Quai rolled out of bed. 

“One sec.” Through the comm, he heard the shuffling of slippered feet and the sound of a door being gently closed. “Alright,” she said after a moment, “go on.” 

Andrew was suddenly unable to speak: he leaned his head back against the wall and took a steadying breath. 

“Andrew?” Quai asked. 

“Yeah, I’m—” He raked his fingers back through his hair and closed his eyes. “Okay, so you remember how when we started off down here— after Gar died? And we worked with that guy— Adam. The undead dude?” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me… he was an asshole.” 

“Well, yeah. He was. But he was also real good at—”

“Gods, I haven’t thought about Gar in ages,” Quai interrupted. “I should find out where they laid him to rest and go pay my respects one of these days. Oh, he would’ve liked Corban—” 

“That’s not important!” Andrew said sharply. There was a beat of silence, then: 

“Andrew, what’s wrong?” Quai’s tone had shifted from one of sleepy interest to something altogether more concerned. He sighed before he spoke again. 

“I have some suspicions, and I think I might be right.” 

“About?” 

“Adam Blake. Or—”

“Ansel Blackwood,” Quai interrupted. “Shit…you think he’s Ansel?” 

“It fits, doesn’t it? The accent, the job—”

“Westfall,” Quai added. “He always used to hate Westfall, wouldn’t go there, which made absolutely no sense for someone who claimed he used to be an SI:7 agent—” 

“He avoided the North, too.” 

“Where’d he say he was from? Brill, right?” 

“Yeah… okay well, maybe I’ll ask Gwen if she’ll fly over there?” 

“And do what, see if there’s a grave marked ‘Adam Blake’? He was turned, the grave wouldn’t be there anymore.” 

“The stone might, though.” 

“Do they hold onto those?” 

“I don’t know, Quai. But I know Ansel’s your only living relative—”

“Poor choice of words.” 

“—and he’s the only one who can confirm what all went down with your mother and aunt and grandmother.” 

“Why wouldn’t he come forward, though?” 

“Well right now he’s fleeing the continent,” Andrew pointed out. 

“Fleeing—?”

“Maisie said he came into the Sailor and settled up his tab and paid off debts and stuff last week, then met Drog—”

“There’s trouble.” 

“—down by the boat dock. As far as she knows, he got on the boat with Adam—”

“Ansel.” 

“Whatever! Drog got on the boat with Adam-or-Ansel and they took off to the Barrens.” 

“And they went from the Barrens to…” Quai ventured. 

“Probably someplace you couldn’t track him down. Orgrimmar, maybe.” 

“As if we couldn’t get into fucking Orgrimmar,” Quai replied with a snort. “They probably haven’t even closed up those old tunnels, I bet we could—”

“Quai, no. Come on, we’re not sneaking into Orgrimmar just to ask some undead dude if he’s actually your uncle. You don’t even know it’s him, yet,” Andrew pointed out. 

“Okay, so we do our due diligence. We see if there’s any record of an Adam Blake in Brill or the surrounding area— Gwen can check on the stones, I’ll get my contact in Silverpine to look up area records of the name. If there’s no Adam Blake, it’s probably safe to guess that he’s actually Ansel Blackwood.” 

“And then we get him.” 

“Well, no. As fun as sneaking into Orgrimmar seems, you’re right. I don’t think that’s the way we do this.” 

“Oh?” 

“No. We’ll need to get to him through his people. Through—”

“Drog.” 

“Drog,” Quai confirmed. Andrew smiled to himself. 

“That’ll be easy, Drog’s a moron.” 

“Heck of a gardener, though.” 

“Heck of a gardener,” Andrew echoed. “Anyway. I’m gonna head back up North, I’ll stop off in the Wetlands and talk to Gwen, see if she’s up for a little reconnaissance.” 

“And I’ll go back to sleep, because I still have another hour before I need to be up and we got in late last night.” 

“Ooh, got in late, did we? Out with the man? Gettin’ your fr—”

“Goodbye, Andrew.” 

With that, the comm clicked off. Andrew snorted softly and then pushed himself away from the wall. Hands shoved into his pockets, he made his way back towards the gryhponmaster, his mind racing over the mystery of Adam Blake. 

((Mentioned: @quai-mason))

“Are you sure you don’t want to share, Andrew?”

A bit of ash fell soundlessly into the yellow glass dish. Andrew gave a sniff and looked out the window, chin propped in his other hand: outside, the sky was pale blue, flecked with wispy bits of white cloud.

“I don’t know,” he replied dully.

“This is the first time you’ve been here in a month.”

“I know.”

“Andrew… this only works if you make the effort. We had a couple of hard sessions, and you stopped showing up. I can help… but I need you to want the help.” There was a slight pause, then: “Do you want the help?”

A few long beats of silence met the question. Andrew regarded the cigarette between his thin fingers and turned his hand this way and that to examine his nails.

“Yes,” he finally replied as he focused on picking at a cuticle with his other hand.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want the help. I’m not— it’s… hard,” he said with some difficulty.

“I know.”

“People don’t just ask for help, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s hard to ask for help.”

“It is, I agree. Admitting that you need help is a hard first step, and now you’ve taken it. So let’s take the next one.”

“What’s the next step?”

“Telling me what happened after our last session.”

A humourless chuckle drifted across the open space between them.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m a good listener.” Christine smiled briefly— but genuinely— across the coffee table at him. Andrew heaved a sigh.

“Well, after I told you to go fuck yourself— sorry about that, by the way,” he added as an aside, “I went to a pub down the street and drank until I ran out of money. Then I insulted a guy so maybe he’d kill me, but that didn’t work… so I went home and took a bunch of pills.”

Christine’s expression remained one of detached concern as she made a few notes. Andrew would call it ‘therapist face’.

“It would seem that didn’t work, either,” she pointed out. Andrew stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and pulled another from the tin in his pocket and stuck it between his lips.

“No, it didn’t,” he said around the cigarette as it dangled from one side of his mouth. He rummaged through his pockets until he found a lighter, and paused briefly to light it.

“Anyway,” he continued as he took a long draw and exhaled through his nose, “Quai got home and found me.” He flicked the lighter shut and lapsed into silence. Christine waited patiently and watched him as he slid down a bit further in his chair.

“I don’t remember much,” he said after a minute. “I remember everything going dark, and I remember feeling like I was heading for a really solid high… and then Quai was there, sticking her fingers down my throat.”

“What did you feel when you came to?”

“I dunno, what do you mean?”

“I mean, did you feel relief? Remorse? Anger? Resentment towards Quai?”

“I dunno,” he repeated.

“I think you do.”

Andrew reached out and rolled the cigarette gently along the edge of the ashtray.

“I was mad at first… she called me a dumb bastard,” he added. Christine, to her professional credit, wrestled down the slight smile that threatened to show itself.

“Anger towards a loved one who has made an attempt on their own life is quite normal.”

“Yeah, well, she was mad. Real mad. And she asked me why I did it, and I...didn’t have an answer.”

“Sometimes an answer isn’t immediately clear, even after you’ve taken action. But,” she continued, “you’ve had some time to think on it. Has anything become clear in the time you’ve been away?”

Andrew took another long drag from the cigarette, his brow knit as he looked across the table at Christine.

“It sounds stupid,” he began.

“I doubt that.”

“I mean even for me, it sounds fucking dumb.”

“I’d still like to hear it.”

“Fine,” Andrew said as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “Fine. I missed him, and I wanted to see him again. But I know I can’t,” he continued quickly, “it was just… I just…” he tried to find the words. “I just missed him. I miss him.”

“That’s normal, you know.”

“I know that. It’s just… hard, you know?”

“I know.”

“How do you know? Have you lost a loved one?”

“We’re not talking about me, Andrew… and deflecting and redirecting like this is what got you into that situation in the first place. You haven’t been talking about this to anyone, I’m guessing?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“I never say all of the details, y’know? Change things up a bit,” he tucked the lighter back into his pocket and gestured vaguely with his free hand. “The only two people I told the almost truth to were Quai and Red.”

“Who is Red?”

“Someone I work with, she’s cool. She was there around the same time as me.”

“Someone you bonded with over the war?”

Andrew held up a hand.

“Easy there, we didn’t exactly bond. But…” he paused. “Yeah, we bonded, I guess,” he amended. Christine made a few notes, then looked over at Andrew again.

“Talking to people is important. Those friends, those connections, your sister— they’re vital. They help you put things in perspective, so you’re not living alone in your own head, building up everything to a breaking point.”

A nod and another plume of smoke came from Andrew. He propped his chin in his free hand and looked out the window again, his eyes glazing over slightly as he lost himself in thought.

“You want to tell me what’s on your mind?” Christine asked gently. After a moment, Andrew shook his head.

“No, it’s… I was just thinking about him.” He tore his gaze from the cloud-streaked sky, a faint smile on his face. “Outside of that night, I mean— in basic, before we were first deployed…” he trailed off. Christine smiled gently and gestured to him.

“Take all the time you need.”

She got up from her chair and walked over to her desk, and started to copy her shorthand notes into a book as she sat down. Occasionally, she glanced over at Andrew, who had finished his cigarette and was in the process of lighting another as he gazed out the window, a faint smile on his face.

((Mentioned: @cycaria​‘s alt))

“I’d like to ask you more about your physical scarring.” 

“Okay, shoot.” 

“Why did you leave that little bit above your eyebrow? Why not have your friend remove it entirely?” 

There was a beat of silence before Andrew replied: 

“I don’t know. I’d say ‘chicks dig scars’ again, but you didn’t like that last time.” 

“Because your feelings aren’t a joke, Andrew.” The woman slid her pen through the back of the metal clamp on her clipboard and looked at him. “You’ve been through so much: two wars, a marriage, a divorce—”

“Two,” he interrupted. 

“Two what?” 

“Two marriages, one broken engagement, and a divorce,” he listed off. “And yeah, two wars.” After another moment’s thought, he nodded. “That about covers it.” 

The woman nodded slowly. 

“That’s a lot to handle,” she noted aloud. 

“I guess.” 

“No, that’s an objective fact, Andrew. It is a lot for any one person to go through in their life. You know that, right?” 

“Well I do now, doc, thanks for the wisdom.” Andrew lit a cigarette and reclined on the lounge chair. “Does every shrink’s office have a chair like this, by the way?” he asked, glancing over at her. 

“I can’t speak for everyone else,” she said, ignoring the term, “but I find people can be more open and relaxed when they’re in a comfortable position. Sometimes sitting upright and facing someone feels an awful lot like being interrogated, and that’s not what this place is.” 

Andrew hummed an interested note and blew smoke rings up towards the ceiling as she talked. 

“Neat.” 

The woman smiled briefly. 

“Indeed. So. Why don’t you tell me about your first marriage?” 

“Pass.” 

“We’ll circle back to that. What about your second marriage?” 

“That one was a mistake. We weren’t meant for each other, we both knew it. It was just a drunken night on the Speedbarge,” he replied, waving a hand. “We’re still friends, it’s fine.” 

“Was this Emily, or Gwen?” “Gwen.” 

“What do you think pushed you towards a marriage you knew was unfit for you?” 

“I dunno, tequila? Some drugs? Heat of the moment?” 

“People don’t get married in the heat of the moment, usually, do they?” 

“I don’t know. People do a lot of stupid shit. I mean, we’re constantly fighting some kind of war, there’s always some world-ending shit going on… why shouldn’t we do whatever we want?” 

The woman scribbled a few notes onto her notepad. “Go on,” she said. 

“So I married my friend. So what? We divorced, she’s doing her own thing now.” 

“Tell me about the...engagement,” the woman suggested. 

Andrew fell silent again. He turned his hand with the cigarette in it this way and that, examining his bright red nails. 

“D’you think red’s really my colour?” he asked, holding up his painted nails for her to look at. 

“It’s a nice colour, though I think you’re more of an autumn. You might want to tell your manicurist try a deeper shade next time.” 

Slowly, Andrew turned his head and looked back at her. She smiled from her chair. “We’re allowed to joke, though only sparingly,” she said to his incredulous look. With a chuckle, Andrew turned away again. 

“You’re full of surprises, doc.” 

“You’re stalling, Andrew. Why do you think you’re hesitating at telling me about your engagement?” 

“It’s… I don’t like to talk about it.” 

“If you don’t talk about it, you can’t heal from it.” 

A bit of ash was flicked into the ashtray, then Andrew took another deep drag from the cigarette. 

“We were going to wait until after the war to get married— Joey and I. He was sweet… too sweet for an asshole like me,” he said with a humourless snort. 

“You’re undervaluing yourself. You know that.” 

“Sure, sure,” he replied, waving a hand. “Anyway, the night it— the night he—” Andrew cleared his throat. “That night, we’d been up talking about… our future, I guess.” His lips formed a brief smile before he took another drag from the cigarette. 

“We didn’t have engagement rings out there, y’know? So one of the guys put his name on my arm, did it with a needle and some ink— that’s why it looks so janky— and did the same for him with my name. It was kind of sweet, if painful.” He flicked some ash into the ashtray and fell silent. 

“How did you feel when the camp was attacked?” 

“We’d… I told him I didn’t want to share a cot with him, because they were too small, y’know? He thought it would be romantic, us sharing this tiny little bed, but I sprawl and roll around when I sleep, see,” he explained, “so I said I’d push my cot next to his and it’d be as good as sharing one, only better because I’d be able to roll around without bugging him.” 

The woman remained silent, waiting for him to continue. 

“At one point I got up to take a piss, and when I came back to the tent I moved my cot away from his,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t for anything, I just moved it because I’d bumped my toe when I’d gotten up because I wasn’t used to going around the other way to get up… and I got back into bed, and… it… I— I looked over at him and he was awake, just laying there smiling at me, and I smiled back, and this… this thing burst through the tent and got him, this fel shit just falling from the fucking sky, and I—” his voice hitched in his throat. He took a breath and closed his eyes before continuing. 

“He was screaming, everyone— everyone was fucking screaming, I was probably screaming… he was burning and dying and I…” he dropped the cigarette into the ashtray and rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. “I didn’t know what to do, so I grabbed him and got under my cot, and that shit on him burned me but I didn’t let go, I couldn’t,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by his hands. 

“Eventually he stopped screaming— everyone stopped screaming after a little bit, and I think I probably did, too.” He flung his arms down to his sides and stared up at the ceiling as his heart cracked wide open all over again at the memory of it. 

“Do you blame yourself for his death?” the woman asked. 

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” he demanded sharply. “Of course I don’t blame myself for his fucking death, who the fuck would think that? I blame the fucking Legion for his death, and for the deaths of everyone else in my unit who fucking kicked it that night.” 

“Why do you think you’re turning your anger inward, then? Why do you think you’re punishing yourself?” 

“I don’t fucking know.” 

“I think you do know, Andrew. It’s okay to say things here… this is a safe and private place.” 

“I know,” he mumbled. The woman waited patiently, seated in her chair a few feet away. 

“I should’ve died there,” he said at last. 

“Why do you think that?” 

“I should’ve fucking died with the rest of them that night. I wouldn’t have— I wouldn’t have fucked up so much if I’d’ve just died like I was fucking supposed to.” He lifted a hand to his hair and raked his fingers through it. 

“Why do you think you were supposed to die that night?” 

“Because everyone else did. Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” he said peevishly. 

“Do you think that’s why you held onto Joey’s body, even though he was burning you?” she asked. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“Do you think that’s why you didn’t respond when the men from the army came looking for survivors?” 

“Probably. I don’t know.” 

“I think you do know, Andrew. You know more than you give yourself credit for.” 

Suddenly, Andrew sat up and looked at her: his hands gripped the edge of the chaise and made a quiet squeaking noise against the leather. 

“Fine. You wanna hear what I think? What I know?” he demanded. The woman watched him, her expression impassive. 

“Here’s what I fucking think. One—” he held up a finger, “he died. Two—” another finger, “I should’ve died there too. Three—” another finger, “yeah, I was hoping it’d happen before anyone found me. And four— here’s the bombshell, doc, here’s the fucking stunner—” he held up a fourth finger, “I’m still hoping it’ll happen. Every day, every fucking day, I get up and I look at myself in the mirror and I see the reminder that I failed to do the one thing I was fucking paid by the army to do: I didn’t fucking die. And they gave me a medal for not fucking dying, did you know that?” he asked. “They sent me home to a hospital and gave me a medal and a bunch of money and an honourable discharge and a pat on the fucking back and a ‘thanks for serving the Alliance, son’, and then nothing. There’s just NOTHING!” he said, his voice raising. 

“There’s nothing now! There’s no fucking point to any of it because he’s gone, so yeah— yeah, I married my friend later on. And I drink, and I do drugs, and I have sex with inappropriate people because yeah— I’m not over this. I’m not over him, or what happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” he said as he rose to his feet, “except drink and do drugs and fuck inappropriate people and make myself look like a fucking clown. So if you’ll excuse me,” he added as he crossed to the door, “I’m going to go do those things now, and you can go fuck yourself, Christine.” 

With that, he wrenched open the door and stormed out of the office: pictures on the wall rattled as the door slammed shut behind him. After he’d ran down the short flight of stairs, he pushed through the front door of the building and stumbled out into the street, a hand shielding his eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight. A sharp pain ripped through his head as his eyes adjusted, and he squinted up and down the cobblestone street until he found what he was looking for: a pub with grimy windows and a name he would never remember. 

Perfect, he thought as he pushed through the crowd towards it. A sweet, smiling face flashed briefly in his mind, and he clenched his teeth as he shouldered open the door to the pub. There was no one inside, save for a barkeep who was wiping the rim of a beer mug with a dirty rag. 

“What d’you want?” the mustachioed man asked as Andrew fairly threw himself onto a stool at the bar. He looked up at the barkeep, his expression drawn.

“I want to forget.” 

“This is our fourth session in as many days, Andrew. Do you think you’re going to say anything today?” 

Andrew rolled his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray: a bit of grey ash tumbled into it. He lifted the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag, and flicked his gaze toward the woman in the chair opposite him. 

“I don’t know.” 

“That’s a good start,” the woman replied with an encouraging smile. Andrew gave a non-committal sniff and looked out the window instead: outside was sunny and cloudless, the sky a brilliant shade of azure. 

“How much time is left?” he asked. 

“Forty-five minutes.” 

Andrew raked his fingers back through his wavy hair. 

“I’m only here because my sister is paying for this, you know. You don’t have to take notes or whatever, just hang out— I’m not here for therapy.” 

“I know,” the woman replied. She leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Do you do everything your sister asks?” 

“Pff, no. She just thought this’d help or something, I guess.” 

“Help with what?” 

Andrew waved a hand. “Oh, no. You think I’m gonna fall for your psychiatrist tricks? She said it was this or rehab, and this is the less painful of the two options. I said I’d go— I didn’t say I’d participate.” 

“Rehab… Do you do a lot of drugs, Andrew?” 

“I do enough.” 

“Enough to…” the woman trailed off. 

“Look, just...stop, okay? Just stop. I don’t need this, I’m fine.” 

“Your intake form—”

“Which was filled out by her, by the way.” 

“— said you were likely suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress. Did something happen that might have caused that?” 

The cigarette was angrily stubbed out into the ashtray. Andrew pulled another one out of the tin in his vest pocket, along with his lighter. 

“No. Maybe. I don’t fucking know!” he said as he tried—and failed— to get the lighter lit. The woman leaned over and gently took it from him, dragged her thumb across the strikewheel, and waited patiently with the glowing orange flame between them. After a moment, Andrew leaned in and lit his cigarette, then took back the lighter and flipped the lid shut. 

“Did you serve?” the woman asked, a curious note to her voice. 

“Did she put that on my forms, too?” he asked peevishly.

“Your lighter has a Stormwind Army crest on it. I was just wondering...I counsel a lot of veterans, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“Your intake form also mentioned you’ve been having nightmares?” 

“One. One nightmare.” He held up his index finger and puffed on the cigarette. “It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“On the contrary, Andrew...it means a great deal. If you’re still having trouble coping, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. That’s what I’m here for— to help.” 

“I cope just fine,” Andrew mumbled. 

“Yes,” the woman said as she leafed through her notebook. “Hard drugs, drinking, blacking out, copious amounts of sex with strangers, inappropriate behaviour—”

“So I have a bit of fun. So what?” he asked defensively. 

“It goes well beyond a bit of fun, Andrew. People usually only turn to things like that when they’re having trouble coping with something in their lives, and they don’t know how to make sense of it. I think you know that, deep down.” 

“I think you’re a bitch,” Andrew fired back. He sighed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

“It’s fine. Do you have outbursts like that a lot?” 

“I don’t know. No.” 

“Would you like me to stop asking you questions?” 

A sigh. 

“No, it’s fine.” He flicked the end of the cigarette and some more ash tumbled into the ashtray. 

“Would you care to tell me a bit about your time in the army?” 

“I don’t know, sure. Fine. Uh,” he scratched his chin with his free hand. “Let’s see. I was drafted after I ran into some army goons on the road outside of Stormwind… they gave me a sword and some armor and this lighter and a carton of cigarettes and sent me to basic. We were deployed after that, sent on a boat to the Broken Shore, and basically set loose. We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing, we were… cannon fodder, for all intents and purposes. A distraction, I guess. Didn’t know that at the time, by the way,” he added with a dark look.  

He took another drag from the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke from his nose. The woman sat and waited patiently. 

“Anyway,” Andrew continued, “we got there right after Wrynn’s big flying boat thing went down. Place was a clusterfuck, you couldn’t spit without getting attacked by something. So we’re there...I don’t know, I lost track of time...eight weeks?” he ventured. “We were ambushed one night… the whole camp wiped out in the blink of an eye…watchers didn’t even have time to raise the alarm, y’know?” He glanced at her; she nodded. He puffed on the cigarette.

“...Everything was just gone. One minute I was asleep, and the next minute this green shit burns through the tent and lands directly on my— on my…” he trailed off, his voice momentarily caught in his throat. 

“Your friend?” 

Andrew let out a sharp laugh. 

“I didn’t even think about him ‘til the other night, y’know…” he dropped the remainder of the cigarette into the ashtray. “People were talking about the war, and… all I could see was his face… I tried to drag him under the cot, like it’d do any good… held him til he died, even though that shit on him burned me…” 

He cleared his throat and looked away. 

“Andrew,” the woman said gently, “if you don’t want to keep going, you don’t have to. You’ve talked about a lot for today—”

“No, I’m in it now, doc,” he said with a heavy sigh as he raked his hands back through his hair. He fell silent again. 

“Is that how you got the scarring on your forehead?” she asked in the same gentle tone. Andrew turned his gaze back to her again. 

“Trust me, I used to look a lot worse than this,” he said with another humourless laugh. “My whole left side was burned up bad— face, neck, arm… looked like a melted candle on one side.” 

“What happened to your scars?” 

“Friend of mine took care of ‘em for me.” 

“And the little bit left over?” 

Andrew suddenly grinned. “Well, chicks dig scars—”

“Andrew,” she interrupted, “there’s no judgement here, you know that. I’d like you to share your truth with me when you feel like you can. Can you do that?” 

His grin faded: he nodded and heaved another sigh. 

“Yeah, I just…” he trailed off again, then took a breath and closed his eyes. “I laid there in the dirt with him for two days,” he said slowly. “Couple of army guys came by looking for survivors, and I just… laid there with my face in the mud and blood until they went away again…” 

“Why didn’t you alert them?” 

Andrew responded with a shrug; she switched to another question:

“The man you were holding onto...what was his name?” 

Andrew licked his lips. “Joey Price.” 

“Did he also go by ‘Joseph’?” 

“You saw that, eh?” Andrew glanced at his right bicep. “Yeah… that was him. Guy in our unit did it for me, just a few days before… everything.” 

“What about the other names? Who is Emily? Or Gwen? Were they also friends you lost—”

Andrew clapped his hands to his knees. “I think that’s enough healing for today, doc,” he said as he rose from the chair. His gaze flicked to the clock, then back to her. “I’ll make sure you’re paid for the full hour, don’t worry.” 

“Andrew, I think—” 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he interrupted as he pulled another cigarette from his pocket. 

“You will?” she asked, sounding more than slightly surprised. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and looked at her. 

“Well, yeah. Quai paid for ten sessions, might as well get her money’s worth, right?” he asked as he flicked the lid open on the lighter. “Lookin’ forward to it, doc!” he called over his shoulder as he pulled the door open and strolled out of the office. 

A chill had descended over the harbor: heavy clouds hung low in the sky, obscuring the moon and stars as a sharp breeze whipped across the bay. Andrew ducked down a narrow strip of dock between two buildings and stepped through a back entrance to the building. 

Inside was much warmer and infinitely more pleasant: a Gnomish jug band played a lively tune in one corner while a crowd of regulars slumped in their seats at the bar, nodding along to the familiar music. Sailors flirted with the local prostitutes at cramped tables and in private booths— and did far more in the shadowy corners and darkened hallways after agreed-upon sums had openly exchanged hands. 

Home, he thought, smiling faintly as he pushed through the crowd towards the stairs. 

The second floor was far more quiet, save for the occasional noises from the private rooms, and a lone drunk who sat on an upturned barrel, hiccoughing as he slurred out lines from an old sea shanty. Andrew ran a hand through his wavy hair and stopped before a nondescript door at the end of the hall. He tapped lightly on the worn mahogany. 

“Mason?” a voice called from within. Andrew turned the handle and stepped in with a smile on his face, which widened when he saw the crestfallen look upon the face of the Goblin who was seated behind a large desk.  

“One of two,” Andrew replied, fingers wiggling as he spread his arms wide. The Goblin rolled his eyes. 

“Why’d she send you? She said she’d be back for the names herself.” 

“Oh come on, Fitzhammer—”

“It’s Fitz. Just Fitz,” the Goblin interrupted. 

“Fitzy m’boy, I’m just here for whatever she needed from you, I don’t want to get into it tonight—”

“It’s just Fitz,” the Goblin interrupted again, through gritted teeth. “Not ‘Fitzy’, not ‘Fitzhammer’, not ‘Fitzerella’, and not ‘Fitzy m’boy’. Just. Fitz.” 

Andrew’s smile never faltered. 

“Alright, Just Fitz. So what am I bringing back?” 

“I’ve never liked you, you know,” Fitz remarked. Without breaking eye contact with Andrew, he opened a desk drawer and pulled out an envelope, and pushed his chair back.  

“I know,” Andrew replied as he watched Fitz get up and bump the drawer shut with his elbow. 

“And I know you went out with my sister,” the Goblin continued as he stomped towards Andrew, whose smile twitched slightly in one corner. 

“I...did,” Andrew replied carefully. Fitz poked him hard in the stomach with two green fingers. 

“You took her out and you never fuckin’ talked to her again,” he growled up at the raven-haired man. Andrew, to his credit, at least had the decency to appear ashamed of himself. 

“Well, I’m a lout. A ruffian. A hooligan, a boor, a hoodlum and an oaf,” he said as he backed towards the door. Fitz continued to advance on him, the envelope still clutched in one hand as he poked Andrew again in the stomach with the other. 

“You’re gonna apologize,” poke, “and beg her forgiveness,” poke, “and then you’re gonna...you’re gonna…” he spluttered. 

“Stay away from her forever?” Andrew suggested. He reached out, plucked the envelope from Fitz’s hand, and slid it into his inner vest pocket while still moving backwards through the door. Once he was in the hall, Fitz stopped and balled his little green hands into fists. 

“And I’ll fuckin’ know if you ain’t done it,” he said, then kicked the door shut in Andrew’s face. 

Andrew rocked back on his heels for a moment and stuck his hands into his pockets. Then, after a pause: 

“Are you still coming to the poker game next month?” he called hopefully through the door. “I’ve got you down with a plus one.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he heard the muffled reply. “See you there, asshole.” 

Andrew smiled to himself and turned on a heel, whistling quietly to himself as he made his way back down the dim hallway towards the stairs. 

((Relevant: @fragments-of-fortune​))

About ten years ago...

The cicadas were droning loudly outside in the soupy jungle heat, their calls punctuated by the voices of merchants and travelers on the docks below. Andrew stood behind a long table in a room with tiny windows, his linen suit damp under the arms from sweat in the sweltering southern heat. A black duffel bag sat on the table before him, secured shut. Sunlight streamed through the gauze curtains and lit up the scene with a cheerful, midday light: he looked over to the door as he heard voices and footsteps approaching in the hall. 

“... and then some,” he heard Quai finish as she stopped outside the door. She knocked twice, then turned the knob and stepped in, followed by a tall, unsmiling man in a battered fedora and a suit similar to (albeit less sweat-stained than) Andrew’s. He gave the room a once over as he removed his hat and held it with both hands over his stomach. Quai stepped towards Andrew and gestured to him to open the bag. 

“We have a range of new pieces that my associate will be happy to show you. If you don’t see what you’re looking for, just ask us and we’ll see what we can do about procurement,” she said as she stepped aside and gave Andrew a subtle nod. The man looked at him, his expression unchanged. 

Andrew looked at the man, smiled crookedly, then opened the bag and pulled out a smallish handgun, holding it up as he talked. 

“Nine-millimeter, semi-automatic Gruder Mark IV with a cherry wood inlaid grip and a beveled—” he stopped short as the man raised a brow and shook his head. 

“Too simple, too common, I getcha,” Andrew said with a smooth wink. “You’re a man of taste, I can tell…” He set the pistol down on the table and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. 

“410-bore pump action sawed-off shotgun. Expanded magazine so you only have to reload half as often. Blow the face off of anything within ten feet of y—” The man shook his head again and stopped Andrew with a wave of his hand. 

“Bigger,” he instructed gruffly. Andrew glanced at Quai, then looked back at the man and gave an oily smile. 

“Not a problem,” he said as he set the shotgun aside. He pulled out a larger, bulkier-looking automatic rifle and hefted it into his hand. 

“This,” he said with a dramatic pause, “is the Shark-219, direct from our contacts in Ratchet. This is a beautiful machine, I’m telling you. I’ll even include the bump stock, because I like you. Its fully automatic action ensures that you’ll decimate almost any— really?” he asked as the man shook his head again. Andrew gave a shrug and tossed it to the table, then used both hands to heft something much larger from the case. 

“Grizzix Special grenade launcher, with a range of six hundred—feet—and—” he faltered as the man shook his head again. Andrew stared at him. 

“Quai,” he said calmly, “get the case.” Without a word, Quai walked around the back of the table and picked up a hardshell case, and with no small amount of difficulty, heaved it onto the table. The latches clicked open loudly and she stepped aside. 

“You’re gonna like this,” Andrew told the man. “This one’s one of my favourites, my baby, daddy’s little bundle of joy,” he said as he carefully peeled back a layer of cloth to reveal an enormous, bulky minigun. 

“This,” he continued, “is a special find, all the way from Orgrimmar. It’s the BoomBoom-1790, and it’s capable of reducing a ten-story building to a pile of little bitty rocks,” he said as he used both hands to lift the gun to show their prospective buyer. “It’s got nine barrels, it’s got multi-launch mode, it’s got space to mount a second BoomBoom-1790 on top of it, if you really wanna have some fun. If you want, there’s even optional padding in the shoulder harness so you can wear this puppy til you run out of shit to shoot. I’ll throw in a case of shells for this bad boy with every purchase of two— you can’t get these babies in the Eastern Kingdoms,” he added. The buyer took a step forward and leaned in slightly to get a closer look at the gun, then shifted his gaze to Andrew. 

“I came here because I was told you were the best, that you could get anything,” he said quietly. Andrew dropped the minigun unceremoniously back into the case. 

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll see what I can dig up for you.” 

The man righted himself. 

“I want the Prophecy.” 

Andrew glanced at Quai, who raised a brow and looked over at the man. 

“The—”

“The Prophecy Maker 7000,” the man clarified. “I want enough firepower to level a city block.” 

Andrew chuckled. “That’s the stuff of legends, friend. You know that, right?” 

“That’s why your associate here said I should come to you,” the man countered. 

Andrew leaned forward and placed both of his palms on the table. When he spoke, his voice was lowered slightly: “Well you’re in luck, bud, cuz we’re in the business of making legends.” Without looking, he reached back into the duffel bag, unzipped an inner pocket, and took out a squat object no longer than his hand, painted yellow with a red tip. It had a round base with a button on the end, and emitted a faint humming noise as it was held. The fainly glowing shell was roughly the shape of an armor-piercing bullet, but a few times the size. 

“The Prophecy-Maker 7000,” Andrew said in a reverential tone as he held the device in his palm. “This is a stylish piece, my friend— you’ve got great taste,” he said as he flashed the man a grin. “This’ll level a city block and then some, if you ask it nicely.” He turned the PM-7000 over in his hand as the man watched intently. “You drop this little terror from a chopper, and you’ve got twenty seconds to clear the area before it blows. Your hair’ll fucking turn white if you look directly at the blast. You’ll piss blood for a week if you’re within shockwave range. Your enemies? They’ll be nothing but memories by the time the dust settles.” He held the PM-7000 upright and clicked the button with a finger: the device started to beep. “This is elegant, streamlined, sexy, and very, very expensive,” he continued as the device started to beep faster and faster. The buyer backed up a few paces, looking a little uneasy. “So. Is it everything you came here hoping for?” he asked. The device started to emit a single, long whine, louder and louder, until—

Click. 

The noise stopped as Andrew pressed the button again to disarm it: he set the Prophecy Maker on the table between him and the buyer, who now had a visible sheen of sweat on his face. Everyone was silent for a few long moments. Finally, the man spoke: 

“I’ll take ten,” he said, still looking visibly freaked out. Andrew smiled happily. 

“Excellent. Cash or note?” 

((Mentioned: @quai-mason​))

“Pull!” 

A disc shot off into the air, out over one of the fields used for target practice. Andrew had a bead on it almost immediately and pulled the trigger just as the little disc reached the apex of its curve. A split second later, reddish debris rained down on the empty field. 

“Killed,” said Quai. 

“Set up a following double,” he said as he loaded the gun once more. Quai loaded one disc and kept another ready, waiting for his signal. 

“Pull!” 

She let another one fly, then another immediately after— he got the first before the apex of its trajectory, and the second just after it started to fall. 

“Killed and killed. You should switch it up soon,” Quai advised, “you just did a straight hundred on the right, none lost. How’s your shoulder?” 

Andrew nodded and broke the gun down, emptied the chamber, and used one hand to unbuckle the straps to a leather pad that was secured over his right shoulder. “It’s fine, thanks to this padding you picked up for me. Absorbs a good bit of shock,” he remarked as he set the gun down and began to buckle the pad over his left shoulder. “Start with doubles, move to singles, then switch it up with the multi without telling me, yeah?” 

“Sure,” replied Quai as she dragged another box of clay discs over to the trap. “Two arms, or following for your doubles?” 

Andrew glanced down at her as he picked up and loaded the gun. “Whatever you want,” he said with a grin. “I won’t look.” 

“Sure you won’t,” Quai muttered with a small chuckle to herself. They’d been at this game for a long time: the banter, the shooting, the practice. It wasn’t always in such good conditions— there was a time where they could be found on a beach in Stranglethorn, shooting at anything from chipped plates to bottles to moldering shoes that had washed up on the shore. Actual clay pigeons and working traps were a luxury neither of them had seen in years. 

“Remember when we got our hands on that crossbow down in Duskwood, and you split an arrow?” Quai asked as she loaded up her first set of discs into a double-arm trap. Andrew laughed. 

“I’ll never do that again, thanks for reminding me,” he said as he flipped the barrel up and cocked the gun. “Pull!” 

Without another word, Quai let a pair of discs out of the trap and they flew out in opposite directions. With a smooth swing, Andrew took out both before they even reached the midline of the field. 

“Two killed,” said Quai as she loaded up two more. Andrew cocked the gun. 

“Pull!” 

She released two more— one slightly after the other. With another smooth swing, Andrew took them out. 

“Two killed,” she said again. 

“Forty-eight more doubles, yeah?” Andrew asked as he reloaded. 

“Yes,” replied Quai. 

“We should get out into the woods sometime,” said Andrew. “Pull!” 

Two more discs flew out—following, that time— and two more showers of brick-red clay fell to the field. Quai reloaded. 

“Sure,” she replied. “What kind of game are you after?” 

Andrew shrugged as he chambered two more rounds. “Any moose up here?” 

“Some. More bears and wolves than anything...some owlbeasts, but that’s pretty stringy meat.” 

“We’ll find some moose, then. Pull!” 

Quai let another pair of discs fly off over the field, which Andrew took down with ease. 

“I’m sure the Dwarves in the kitchens will be pleased,” she said as she loaded another pair. 

“That’s what I was thinking—they can make stew. Ready?” 

Quai nodded. 

“Pull!” 

((Mentioned: @quai-mason​))

(Art by Thomasz Chistowski)

The others had long since passed. Six other soldiers— far tougher and more well-trained than he— had succumbed to torture and injuries at the hands of Thurg and his worn billy club. Others had come and gone, but Thurg was the main instigator of pain.

He wasn’t a complicated orc. He liked simple things: hitting soft, human skulls with his club; watching humans bleed out and die; pulling human teeth out; extracting information from humans; getting revenge for the death of his parents in the place that used to be an Alliance internment camp but was renamed Hammerfall after the Third War and recently rebuilt with Horde buildings to show the true might of the conquering Horde.

A simple orc with simple pleasures.

So you can imagine his displeasure when he encountered not only a fel-scarred and ugly human, but one who stood up to weeks of torture at his hands. A human who talked about his sister and his favourite soufflé recipes, but seemed to completely ignore the fact that he was actively being detained and tortured. This upset Thurg, and he’d finally decided he’d had enough.

Andrew looked up at the ceiling of the hut. Rough-hewn boards had been lashed together to make the base of the roof, and he could see red dyed leather peeking through the gaps in the wood. Thurg pulled his head back by the hair and held a blade to his throat.

“Useless human doesn’t talk,” he growled to Andrew. “Useless humans die.”

This is it, Andrew thought, almost happily.

He didn’t intimate to Thurg that that was his goal— that he was, in fact, a good soldier who didn’t give up his fellow comrades-in-arms just because some over-muscled hunk of green flesh smacked him around a bit.

That he was willing to die so others might not have to.

He looked up into Thurg’s snarling, green face and smiled placidly. “Have I told you about my sister?” he asked.

Thurg grimaced and sliced across Andrew’s left cheek with the blade. “She’s a Capricorn!” Andrew hissed through gritted teeth.

The orc drove the blade down into Andrew’s right shoulder; he let out a pained yelp and struggled against the orc’s grip.

“That reminds me of the time she knifed me on my birthday!” he shouted.

Thurg shoved Andrew’s head forward and kicked him in the middle of his back: the breath sucked out of the chained man’s lungs and he gasped.

“F—f—f—!”

“No more talk!” Thurg screamed. “You die now, useless human!”

He pulled the notched blade roughly from Andrew’s shoulder.

There’s an awful lot of red on the floor, Andrew thought as he struggled to catch his breath. Is that mine? Thurg unchained Andrew’s wrist and shoved him face-first into the bloody dirt, then drove his boot into the middle of Andrew’s back.

Andrew let out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a squeak as his spine fractured; like a mouse being trodden on. He couldn’t move.

“Wh—wh—WHAT— does a b—bee comb its hair w-with?” he yelled into the dirt. He coughed; everything hurt. His vision blurred. Thurg, who was about to kick him somewhere around his left kidney, stopped his leg mid-swing.

“Bees?” he asked. Andrew went limp on the ground, but he couldn’t move his head to look at Thurg.

“What d-does....a bee...comb its hair...with?” he slurred.

Thurg was silent. It was just them, there in the hut: Andrew with a broken back, sprawled on the floor, and Thurg with a bloody blade clutched in one hand, about to finish the job he’d just started.

A shadow passed across Andrew’s increasingly blurry field of vision.

“A honeycomb,” said a familiar voice, matter-of-factly.

He could hear sounds of a struggle, then another familiar voice: “I was just going to say that. Snap his neck.”

A dull crack met Andrew’s ears. “A h-honeycomb,” he gurgled into the floor. Little bubbles of blood popped at the corner of his mouth and splattered his cheek. A hand touched the back of his head, and he felt a wave of dark energy pass through him. He finally allowed his body to lie limp.

“Don’t move me,” he mumbled. “...broke m’back…” he said as the edges of his vision faded and everything turned black.

((Mentioned/relevant: @ephriza-dawnblade @quai-mason @mycoronervinny ))

Something smacked him hard in the side of the head.

“Wake up,” growled a deep, male voice. Andrew blinked a few times and raised his head: an orc stood before him, clad in rough, dyed leather and boots with spikes on the end. He held a wooden billy club in one hand, worn smooth— no doubt from being smacked against so many soft, human heads. Andrew’s right arm was chained above his head: he waggled his fingers at the orc.

“Wasn’t asleep, shit-for-brains,” he mumbled, then ducked his head to the side as the orc swung the club as his head a second time.

“You’ll pay for your lip,” the orc growled in accented common.

“Okiedokie,” replied Andrew. He spat some blood to the ground. It was curiously quiet in the room. “Where’re the others?”

The orc laughed. “You talk to much. Maybe you tell us something today?” He smacked the club against the palm of his gnarled hand.

“Oh, maybe,” Andrew said amiably. “Want to hear about my sister? She’s a real piece of work, I tell you,” he babbled. “Shot a kid in the face— in the face— and now she’s in military prison. Not even one of yours! One of ours that was tortured by some of yours. Wild, eh? Anyway, she’s a Capricorn—”

He was cut off as the orc shoved the end of the billy club into his mouth. He sputtered and drooled as the orc held it there.

“No more about family!” the orc ordered. After a few seconds, Andrew looked up at him and nodded. The orc removed the billy club.

“That was rude, you don’t know where that thing’s been,” Andrew chided him. “Well, I guess you do, but I don’t… anyway. What do you want to know, Thurg?” He coughed a couple of times and spat a bit more blood onto the dusty stone floor.

“Stromgarde,” Thurg replied. “Forces, numbers, defenses.”

“Aw, you know I don’t know that,” Andrew replied. He scratched his cheek with his free hand. “I told you, I’m not even a soldier, I’m a con-sci-en-tious ob-jec-tor,” he sounded out the last two words slowly. “I just went along with the team because they found out I could invisible myself, and I wanted to see if any troll women wanted to get freaky with a burn victim. You know anyone for me, Thurg, ol’ pal?” he asked hopefully.

Thurg appeared to only be loosely following along. “Freaky?” he asked. Andrew nodded.

“Y’know—” he mimed fellatio with his free hand and his tongue pressed into his cheek. Thurg squinted at him, then frowned.

“YOUR TEAM IS DEAD!” he yelled at Andrew.

“I’M AWARE!” Andrew yelled back. He heaved a sigh. “You’ve never had your cock sucked, have you?” he asked.

Thurg recoiled and held up his hands. “Me not that kind of orc!” he said. Andrew rolled his eyes.

“No, I don’t want to suck your cock, I was asking—” But Thurg had, seemingly, had enough: he swung out with the club and smacked Andrew in the side of the head once more.

Oh, goody, Andrew thought as he slipped into unconsciousness.

((Relevant: @blackbay-wra @quai-mason))

Memories

Andrew Mason Stranglethorn Vale Age 28 Colorized

BODY

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Toned thighs. Skinny arms. Soft arms. Toned arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Voluptuous frame. Curvy frame. Petite frame. Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Small waist. Average waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Narrow shoulders. Broad shoulders. Average shoulders. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180 cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2 m.

SKIN

Pale. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Moles. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Freckled. Scars. Birthmarks. Burn marks.

EYES

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Violet. Pink. Green. Gold. Yellow. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Deep-set. Squinty. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned. Dark sclera. Dark Iris. Light Iris. Shaded Iris. Dark Pupil. Light Pupil.

HAIR

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Afro. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Past hip-length. Buzzcut. Bald. Weave. Hair extensions. Jaw length. Mohawk. Dreadlocks. Box braids. Faux locks. White. Platinum Blonde. Golden Blonde. Dirty Blonde. Ash Blonde. Honey Blonde. Blonde. Ombre.  Light brown. Mouse brown. Almond brown. Golden brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Raven black. Ginger. Red. Auburn. Dyed. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows. Shaped eyebrows.

TATTOOS / PIERCINGS

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Neck tattoo. Chest tattoo. Back tattoo. Shoulder blade tattoo. One tattoo. Face tattoo. Hand tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Cupid’s Bow piercing. Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercings. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Top of the ear piercing. Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretched out ears. Navel piercing. Chest-bone piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

COSMETICS

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red Lips. Pink Lips. Nude Lips. Dark Lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears war paint from time to time. Wears make up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Rarely wears make-up.

SCENT

Floral. Herbal. Earthy. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer.Shampoo. Tobacco. Leather. Fur. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana (bloodthistle). Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Metal. Rain.

CLOTHES

Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/Form-fitting dress. Cardigans. Tunic. Blouse. Button up Shirt. Band-Shirt. Sports-Shirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop.  Cut off Shirt. Designer. High street. Leather jacket. Thrift.  Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sundress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Waistcoat. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harem pants. sport shorts. Boxers/Boxer-Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sportsbra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt.  Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Cotton. Linen. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Light colors. White. Black. Dark colours. Fur/Fauxfur. Revealing clothing. Heavy armor. Medium armor. Light Armor.

SHOES

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Cat heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Knee-high. Platform heels. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers. Oxfords. Gladiator shoes.