[A-RP] Twelfth Penal Company - DISBANDED

Argent Dawn
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Kaibyrne Gladstone personal log - First Entry.

I have decided to keep a journal to keep my own inner thoughts documented, things being so busy around here i’m likely to forget them, so while I have a moments peace, here I am. The Twelfth Penal Company has garrisoned Westbrook as per the Major’s orders, it’ll give the lads sometime to feel each other out and to get settled in, if we ain’t redeployed of course.

Shortly after we arrived Thurrius Blackhammer deserted the Company, luckily Modian Goldenfield managed to put him down. Makes me wonder what would have happened if Natascha or Barin was there when I fled, would they have shot me down like Blackhammer was? What would Ted say to me now? Leading men myself? I reckon he would find some amusement in my struggle, that or loosen my jaw, I hope he will forgive me one day. The Kestrels are still in my thoughts, I suspect they shall be until the end of my days, specifically Alifair, ever my shining light in the darkness, the anchor of my faith.

I shall not dwell on the past for long, the present keeps me busy enough. When I accepted the Major’s offer I thought I could redeem these men, show them a better way, perhaps I still can, discipline muddies the water sometimes, often I am forced to choose between what I believe is right and what is necessary, a constant struggle. Some of the lads seem like decent folk, others should never have left their cells. I’ll make a note to ask Jack about them, he is around them more than I.

Its funny, when I left my cell I had hoped to quench the burning feeling of loneliness that clung to my soul, however the men do not and probably should not warm to me. Leaving me no better off than where I was in that regard. Alas I have wasted enough time here, perhaps in time this journal and the Light might be all I need to get me through these trying times.

I must fill out an incident report for the Major regarding Blackhammer, before this fire makes my eyes any heavier.

Signed,

Kaibyrne Gladstone.

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It’s me, Hjelmar Stouthelm.
What do I do? As little as possibly, preferrably. Unless there’s coin in it, of course. This place a great down to earth community with open discussions and quality folks. I hope you come and join us!

(if you do, please try and smuggle in some ale, aye?)

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Kaibyrne Gladstone personal log - Second Entry.

Just finished my custard or what was left of it after Hollins and Sharpie got their mitts on it, can’t leave anything bloody around these days. Sharpie refrained from hanging Hollins out to dry which is encouraging, the whole affair has soured my evening though. Hollins and Sharpie are the first Convicts to pass Basic Training, I’ll have to fish out some tabards from the armory tomorrow, least some of them can learn how to be a half decent soldier. Collins also could have passed but that unrelentless mouth of his caused him to miss most of Campcraft with all the laps he’s been doing, I think he is beating a path into the grass around the garrison. Tomorrow I’ll reveal the details of our deployment, even the mere thought of it makes my feet blister. I wonder if we are ready, probably not but we are needed, we will do our duty, or die trying.

Jack and I have been talking some, seems like an alright bloke, although I’m wary not to get too attached, for now I shall stick to my memories, the Light and my journal. The recurring nightmare that dwells within my head decided to accompany me last night, I felt the cobbled streets of home under my feet, the misty rain fell on my face and the unmistakable smell of fire and smoke filled my lungs. Then I woke up, my bunk was drenched in sweat, I hope then men didn’t hear the screaming…

I thought these nightmares had gone, I thought I had finally forgiven myself for what I had done, seems that these nightmares will plague me forever…

Signed,

Kaibyrne Gladstone.

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He could still hear the war drums beating hypnotically, could still smell the incense on the bonfire as he jolted out of the dream. He was instantly wide awake. His heart was thumping in his chest so loudly that it must have woken up one of the other soldiers too; from one of the bedrolls around him, he heard a confused sleepy grunt. With a whispered “Sorry” Terry slid out of his bedroll. He hadn’t screamed out loud, had he?

Packing up the bedroll only took a few seconds and he fixed it loosely onto his pack, then put his boots on and carried the pack away from their sleeping spot. He was dizzy and his tongue felt like sandpaper.

Few people were up before the sun in Fort Livingston.

Some of the guards’ murmuring chitchat drifted over from the nearest opening in the palisades. Terry hastily walked past, behind them through the dark camp, toward the water storage. He didn’t want to talk. The fear had not left him yet; his limbs tingled and his breathing came as shallow rasps. After throwing his pack down next to the barrel he squatted by the tap, letting a trickle of water pour out into his hands.

Although he felt dirty all over, he prioritised his sweaty face, giving himself a quick wash, then drinking a couple swigs from cupped palms. His fingertips ran into a few bumps of insects bites that weren’t there when he’d gone to sleep. Washing his hands brought him immense relief; it refreshed him and helped him shake off the nightmare visions still lingering in his mind. Using the water sparingly as always, he closed the barrel’s tap and inspected his hands. Clean. Good.

For a moment he stayed down on the ground, pressing the back of his wrist against his forehead. The discomforts of the jungle didn’t bother him much but he feared falling ill, being left behind. As his forehead felt too hot and too cold at the same time, he couldn’t determine whether he was actually feverish. At least it wasn’t just him. He’d heard the stomach gurglings of three other men in the company during the day, and they’d been slipping out of bed for suspiciously lengthy and nearby ‘walks’. The smell of diarrhea had been wafting around camp all evening.

The captain wouldn’t leave them all behind, so as long as he didn’t get himself singled out, he was safe.

After re-rolling his bedroll and attaching it properly onto his backpack he went to sit by the fire, the only source of light. He estimated there was still an hour of darkness left before the sky would start to brighten. The flames’ heat washed over him and he closed his eyes, resting his chin in his hands, his elbows on the backpack.

Hunter appeared before his mind’s eye again, leaning over and speaking to him intently in his gentle but gravelly voice.

Terry only reached up to the man’s waist. He wasn’t paying attention to the words, just gazing up at the brown-skinned man who gestured as he was explaining something. Burn scar tissue gave the adult’s throat a tarlike appearance from beard to collarbone; it moved up and down slightly at where his adams’ apple should be. When Hunter suddenly frowned sharply at him, Terry shuddered, ashamed, looking away.

He pushed the mental image away and made himself focus on Fort Livingston. It’s not real, he told himself.

Birdsong came from the trees all around the palisade; he listened for a while, pleased with himself when he recognised birds by their distinctive calls.

There was enough time to change bandages and repair the cuts and bullet holes his uniform had sustained the day before. Only a few days had passed since he’d received the red tabard, his Wings; already he was attached to the red coat. Already it was ripped, torn, sweaty, muddied, and bloodied – but he’d earned the tabard, so he’d damn well live up to its status.

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The following is a report from Captain Kaibyrne Gladstone to Major Lewis Brant, regarding the Twelfth Penal Company’s deployment to Stranglethorn Vale.

Esteemed Major,

We have returned from the homeland of the Gurubashi, with it’s unrelenting heat and incessant insects that sought our flesh. We set out from Westbrook Garrison in the early hours of the morning following me receiving your orders, we marched to the golden plains of Westfall where we picked up the pace, jogging to the dark and desolate borders of Duskwood, where a more gradual pace was required. We skulked through the Light forsaken woodland to Ravenhill where we met Oliver Harris, the Alchemist. Harris informed us that his brother Wulfred had travelled down south to Fort Livingston in Stranglethorn Vale and that the shipment of potions that was due for Stormwind had been lost. Harris supplied us with enough vials for his brother to create another shipment, we just needed to get them to escort them down there.

The trek was rough and dangerous, not two hours from Ravenhill we got attacked by ferals, losing our mare and taking light wounds, after ensuring no one was bitten, we pressed on. We made camp at a Nights Watch camp, at a Crossroads where we met fellow travellers on the road who offered us a helping hand, a knight by the name of Laurence and a lady who lived out in these woods, Evelynn. We camped for the night, dealt with a disciplinary issue and at first light we marched on to Stranglethorn, dragging the cart behind us. We encountered troll corpses along the road, they seemed to have been dead a while judging from the maggots feeding on the stinking flesh. We came across a rope bridge that spanned across the rushing river, it have been cut, trapping us on the northern side of the river. It took us a few hours but we secured a narrow crossing, held off the crocolisks long enough to carry the vials across ourselves. Once we gathered ourselves on the opposite bank, we cut a path through the vegetation and found the road once more and following it south to Fort Livingston. The march was quiet, almost too quiet, save for a humanoid that darted behind a tree we saw or met no one, not even a tiger. My fears were eased once we saw the watchtower of the fort standing strong above the trees, we delivered the vials and decided to await until morning to continue with the operation.

At first light we met with Wulfred Harris, Oliver’s brother who revealed how the first shipment was abandoned due to a group of ogres who ambushed the convoy. He mentioned how he last seen it on the southern road and how goblins have stolen from them before. I decided to we head down south to see if the first shipment could be salvaged from either the ogres or the goblins or whoever got their hands on it while Wulfred spent time creating a second batch just in case the first was compromised. We tracked some goblins to their camp west of the Gurubashi arena, they seemed to be digging for something, no doubt for profit. Without sufficient information I decided to scout out the Goblin Compound, however I was too eager and alerted the camp when I attempted to take out one of their sentries. We pulled back, however they scrambled patrols immediately, getting off a few shots from their shambling rifles, which clipped both myself and Hollins. Carried by both Sharpie and Collins we fled back the path we came, splitting up for a time. We utilised the dangerous environment of the jungle against the over zealous Goblins and they swiftly met their end. With the assistance of Evelynn we patched our wounds in the field and made it back to Fort Livingston, in failure. We took a days rest at the fort, the company was in no position to deploy against the Goblins who most likely would have been on high alert following yesterday’s incursion. Luckily Wulfred handed out some potions that speeded our recovery time, providing us to react quickly to whatever tomorrow holds.

Wulfred had finished the second shipment the next day, he must have worked through the night if the bag under his eyes are any indication. My wounds were still severe and I commandeered a Gryphon to ensure the shipment arrived in Stormwind safe and sound, also to receive first aid about that bullet wound. The rest of the Company followed back on foot, eager to leave the hot, sweaty, jungle and all it’s insects and illnesses behind them. I don’t believe anything of note occured on their way back, Oliver was informed once the Company stopped in Ravenhill for the night, in the Morning we rendezvoused in Westbrook and debriefed on the Deployment.

Onto a few noteworthy actions, Deadbeat Boz Collins and Leon Mckay proved admirable following the scouting out of the Goblin encampment, rescuing myself and Hollins, neutralising the patrols that pursued us and getting us back to Fort Livingston in one piece. Evelynn as I mentioned helped us cross the river with her crossbow and later healed out wounds in the field, for this I gave her some silver from my own pocket, good service deserves good coin.

Overall the Deployment was tough, escorting a fragile shipment through difficult terrain and a hostile environment made for a true challenge, I hope those potions serve the Alliance well Sir.

Light Bless,

Captain Kaibyrne Gladstone.

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Hey Kaibyrne, I was hoping to have a chat with you about the guild and was wondering (mostly due to my erratic sleeping patterns) when would be best to catch up with you in game.
Cheers.

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Can I just say that I love the implication of the term ‘The Stockades Finest.’ Takes away from the fact that they’re murderers, but then you think… STOCKADES. HEY! Bad guys doing what they do best! :smiley:

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You can catch me generally in the evenings, if it makes it easier add me on discord instead! Irishpeacockz#2164

We aint all murderers and scumbags, some of us were just in the wrong place at the wrong time :wink:

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Many thanks to Shellby of the Stormwind Observer for her article covering the latest band of Conscripts to the Alliance Military

https://www.stormwindo.com/single-post/2019/01/14/Stormwinds-manpower-shortage-leads-convict-conscription
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Kaibyrne Gladstone personal log - Third Entry.

My stomach has settled finally after the Valiant finally arrived at the Night Elven bastion know as Feathermoon, one more day on that blasted ocean and I would have thrown up my innards, I threw up everything else inside me. Feralas seems beautiful and untamed, a wild charm clings to this place. Fortunately, unlike Stranglethorn, Feralas seems to be much more hospitable, perhaps due to the Night Elves efforts, which I am grateful for. It isn’t as hot, there isn’t many insects seeking you flesh and there is no goblins, at least so far.

There is a great diversity to the forces here, dwarves, sailors and soldiers all answering the call to arms, makes for an interesting environment to say the least. Notable mentions include Captain Jaggerhawk, Shadow Captain Hawke and Sergeant Seabridge who all seem to be fine folk, no sign of disgust given the nature of the Company, which is refreshing. A reporter from the Stormwind Observer approached our fire last night,asking questions, as reporters are like to do, will have to pick up the most recent edition to see if we made the paper, I wonder what the Major would say to that.

Thornton seems to be settling in just fine, her experience will come in handy and I hope her words inspire the men down a better path, something that mirrors my own life. Hollins continues to impress me, even regaling me of a Gilnean tale about the lady with silver hands, which was quite beautiful yet a certain line caught me off guard. I saw her again, underneath that hood, smiling. I felt her presence, I felt calm, relaxed, safe. Then the harsh reality swarmed my mind and the tears began to swell. It seems that I am being called to report to this new Watcher…

Signed,

Kaibyrne Gladstone.

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The roll and swell of the sea rumbled through the ship, the great boughs of the hull creaked and groaned under the shifting strength of the waters which lapped and broke against the bow.

The days and nights she had spent aboard, most sleeping whilst there was still opportunity, had begun to blur into one another. A career of battle had taught her to rest when she could, wars could rage long into nights, and even when they did retreat, a mender’s work was rarely done.

As it was she had woken in the bunks in the early hours of the morning. She had retired not long after what would have been the twelfth bell back in the city, but out here exact times meant nothing except to the navigator.

Climbing the steps up onto the deck, she gazed out over the endless ink black sea, the stars beginning to fade into the twilight haze just before dawn. Taking a seat on the deck she leaned back against the gunwale, the banks of cannon rested silently, awaiting any call to action. It had been a pleasant enough evening, discussions had turned to the Light and the Mythology that surrounded the naming of the Silver Hand.

She knew the others questioned her purpose there. Her former Commander had asked the same when she had originally put in the request for transfer. She had an established career, her own small unit as a Captain within the Fifteenth Mounted Infantry, tipped for further promotion. So she understood why her decision seemed entirely baffling.

She’d accepted demotion, not just a few places down to Lieutenant or Sergeant, but right down to recruit, so she could accept a place in the infamous “Twelfth”.

The Twelfth’s reputation was deserved, it’s mere existence marked a grim turning point in the war. “The Stockade’s Finest”, the reforming of the Penal military units. Hardened Criminals offered the opportunity to repay their crimes through duty and service, as ranks crumbled and the kingdoms started to run short of men and women to send to war.

Admittedly those she’d met so far didn’t quite strike her as fitting the preconceived notions she had carried, but that was no bad thing.

The Light had called her to this. Whilst the ranks of most units swelled with brothers and sisters of the church, here she hoped she could offer not just her skills as a medic and on the front lines of the field, but also spiritual guidance, a calling she had lost touch with for every layer of responsibility gained.

War, she knew, showed us at our very best, and very worst. Even the strongest soldiers were affected by what they saw. She would have been more concerned if they weren’t.

Those of the Twelfth Penal Company may have come from the depths of society, but they had pledged their lives to duty and service, just the same as so many others. Did they not deserve the same Compassion? The same support?

The ship rocked on the swell and roll of the sea, the rustle of waves breaking upon the bow carried her into contemplative rest.

The peace shattered with the ringing out of the bell far above her, the crowsman leaning from his perch.

“Kalimdor Sighted!” He called, a scurry of footsteps answered, the ship pitching as the rudder shifted, turning the Valiant to travel along the coast. Anna opened her eyes.

Even from here it could be seen. She had heard the stories of course, but even those could not quite prepare for the sight. The blade that pierced Azeroth’s heart dwarfed the mountains of Silithus that surrounded it, making them appear no more significant than ant-hills.

She had studied the charts before, and since, leaving. She knew their route took them past the cape of Kalimdor, then North alongside the expanses of Silithus and Feralas until they reached Feathermoon Stronghold.

The light rising behind the stern told her they were still South of the cape, even with a fair wind behind them darkness would set in before they made port.

She shunted herself to her feet and climbed the steps to the quarterdeck at the rear of the ship. Behind the helmsman was the rod she had set up the night before, it’s long line trailing into the waters frothed and lively in the ship’s wake.

Slowly she drew the line in and placed the catch into the bucket. Deep sea sagefish saved, monsterbelly used to rebait the line. Behind her the mutterd whispers of the crew continued. She was, she knew, tarred by association. Assumed Convict, murmered slurs, whispers of “Hold onto your coin purses”, conversations placing bets on her crimes that fell silent when she approached, filthy looks, and outright orders to keep her hands where they could see them, had followed her around the vessel. It’s enclosed spaces made all the smaller by distrust and hostility, the proud Alliance Navy displeased with its cargo of criminals.

Recasting the freshly baited line to the waters, she took her catch and headed below decks to the galley. She could, of course, dissuade the crews assumptions about her with little difficulty, declaring herself volunteer instead of convict would spare her that which others among the Twelfth may be subjected to.

Which was precisely why she wouldn’t.

Finding the ship’s cook in the Galley, Anna’s greeting was met with gruff response. The Cook was a burly, grizzled man in his late forties, missing the last knuckles of two fingers of his left hand, he watched her like a hawk, disgruntled and curious to find a small bird had wandered into its domain.

Anna took a cast iron pan from its hook and set it upon the furnace, placing two Sagefish, salt, and the squeezed juice of a sunfruit to simmer within.

She watched patiently as it cooked, the warm inviting scent of the fresh catch drifting above the acrid smoke of the furnace.

The Cook grumbled about the use of supplies, until Anna pressed the pail of the remaining catch into his hands, for use by the crew.

If she had any desire to understand and guide those she worked alongside, she reasoned, then she could not separate herself from the burdens they bore, the speculations and suspicions from civilians and allies, or how could she truly understand their plight?

Lifting the cooked fish into her mess tin she pulled up a seat at the Galley table, and forced herself to become blind to filthy looks shot her way.

Heavy thuds behind her announced the arrival of another. The Bosun growled.

“You’ve got a rat in your galley, cook. Or is this prison witch angling for a career as a bottle-washer?”

“The rat feeds herself. Better here than up where the men would trip over her. Just watch your coin and pull up a chair, fresh catch on the menu.”

A plate of griddled sagefish slid across to the Bosun.

“You are a damned marvel Cook, thought we’d be on that blasted gruel now 'till we made port with the elves.”

Anna glanced up, meeting the cooks gaze. A twisted smirk crawled over the man’s features.

“Only the best for my lads and lasses, you know that Bosun. Was out before dawn to see you’d be fed well.”

“In that you have succeeded.” The man turned his focus on Anna. “You and your kind could learn a lot from my men here, Rat. Through the good Cooks generosity that you’re fed so well. If I had my way the lot of you would be locked in the bilge and fed slop with the pigs.”

Anna scraped the last of her meal from the tin, pushing herself to stand. “Yes Sir. If you’ll excuse me.” As she climbed the steps back on deck, the muttering continued behind her.

“At least the harpy has manners, you still got all your silverware Cook?”

The sun was beating down upon the ship as the prevailing Southern winds filled her sails, speeding the Valliant and those aboard northward, closing in on their scheduled port.

Below the deck, in the reeking, stifling, sweltering heat of the crew’s quarters, Anna packed and repacked her kit. There were fewer supplies than she would have liked, her usual preferred stock of herbs, salves and remedies, not to mention surgeons kit, were not permissible standard kit within the Twelfth, not to mention the small comforts of her preferred rations (always at her own expense) or soap that did not scour the skin.

Fastening the straps once more, she secured her shield into place on the back and hanging it from the hook near the ‘head’, she climbed into her hammock. Most were on the decks above, she had heard the men playing cards and gambling earlier. Here in the strange half-light, she was alone, save for the occasional rattling snores of the night crew at the other end of the quarters.

She rested her hand at her belt, the various pouches and containers filled. Wordlessly she drummed an impatient tattoo on one particular, it’s form misshapen by the crumpled packet within. “Smokin’ Joe’s Finest” each one adorned with a lurid, brightly coloured ‘pin up’ girl, the design changing regularly, the cards with the packets often more explicit, and of course therefore more collectable to their usual target audience. Of which Anna was most certainly not.

Still, everyone had a vice, she reasoned, this might as well be hers, or at least the only one she considered a vice. The rest she considered to be career skills.

Slowly her mind wandered and in the warm half-dark, the rocking of the ship and hammock lulled her to sleep.

A sharp knocking roused her. Blinking in the darkness she shoved herself up to look around. A hand lamp was swinging, throwing harsh shadows around all it touched. Captain Kaibyrne Gladstone stood framed in the doorway.

“Sir?”

“Get your things, Thornton. We’re here.”

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15th of the first month of the year.
Writer, Modian Goldenfield.

We´ve been for three days in location “zero” , the weather here is abit more pleasant than I remember from my last visit. We´ve settled in and fought our first battle, abit of a mess, but what can one expect when deal with other companies and units.

The soldiers and “regulars” seems to be battleharden folk, beside the fact that they seem less regulated than a bunch of mercs, but a few good old companies seems to have come aswell, a former well known NCO “mister sergeant” of my former company, is here aswell, it´s good to see him, it´s been a while.

Foods good, moral could do better, but such is always the case deployed on a warfront. Our rations are as always less than enjoyable, but if it aint poisonious it´s free food. I still miss hunting for my own food, but not all can be as in the old company.

Private “junior” is acting abit up, feeling that his personal ideals and the training are abit in conflict, but not of any harm. Private “senior” is as always a bedrock of grumpy remarks, a bedrock of some normality. the deadbeat steadfast in his poor manners, bad habits and neverending arseholery, only to be exspected.

Recruite “Tomb” are a good adding to our unit, abit snarky or simply needing to remember she´s a recruite and not an CO any longer, but a good soldier, might wanna get to know her abit better, perhaps if we ever get leave get her a drink.

I´ve not written home for a couple of months now, my grandpa and friends might be abit nervous, or just enjoying themselves, hopefully the last.

personal status, fresh, healthy and combat ready.

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Darkness swamped her senses, her body heavier than lead, weighed down as if sinking in tar. No matter how she struggled for the surface her body would not, could not, obey. Her eyes could not even bring themselves to open, not even a flutter disturbing them.

She was aware of voices, some murmured, some harsh. Cries of pain mingled with conversations she could not comprehend, yet they clawed at her mind as if she should, as if she was missing one small yet vital piece of herself.

When she twisted, the sheets pulled taught across her, a quiet groan of aching bones and pained frustration slipped past her lips.

She couldn’t tell how long had passed, perhaps moments, perhaps hours, time meant little, sheltered and trapped within herself like this.

Gradually she became aware of a presence near her, one, maybe two, she couldnt say for sure. Her head swam sickeningly when she tried to think too much, it was exhausting. She just wanted to sleep, to rest, was that too much?

Someone came closer, their voice lowered. Not someone speaking near her, but to her, gently and patiently, as if asking a question that had been asked over and over in moments before.

“Anna?”

The caves echoed as the clashing of steel and shouts of battle ricocheted off the walls until this vast cacophony of noise, this all-consuming beast that feasted upon the senses, caused it to seem that there was nothing, had never been and would never be, anything but the stifling darkness and sickening sound of battle.

The dark clawed at her mind, visions and memories twisted and jumbled.

The trials.

Part of her training.

She had been so much younger then.

Before her on the table sat a box. Around the room examiners stood behind shimmering shields of light, protecting them from the effects of the artifact sealed within.

“Welcome Thornton, you understand why you are here?”

Every student of her cohort had faced the trial today. All had gone in, one by one, and left by another door so that warning or hint could not be given.

She was the very last.

“To attempt the Trial of Conviction.”

“Exactly. Can you tell us, Thornton, what do we mean by the ‘Pact of Conviction’?”

“To give ourselves, to the final falter, for the protection, preservation and survival of one’s colleagues, for the success of the cause.”

“Word for word from the texts. Tell us Thornton, what happens when someone has given all they have, in the terms of the pact, to reach their final falter.”

Anna’s brows knit together as she found her gaze transfixed upon the box.

“They enter the state of Forbearance, Ma’am.”

“Indeed. The act of Forbearance is the body’s last defence, it allows us to push ourselves to the point of collapse if necessary, safe in the knowledge that should we be so spent, we will cannot, and will not, bring about our own demise through the depletion of our own life force.”

The examiners regarded her steadily.

“That is not to say that you are not extremely vulnerable in this state, no you are at the mercy of those around you, so this must never be a situation entered into Lightly. Others outside you can still gutter that flame of life that burns within your chest if they wished, and you would be powerless to stop them.”

“Yes Ma’am”

“And thus we come to the Trial of Conviction. This trial is quite simply to bring you into the state of Forbearance, so that you may experience it. To allow you to understand and discover where your limits are, the symptoms and warning signs to watch out for, all within this safe, secure environment. This way you can learn to recognise this process, not be blinded by fear of the unknown.”

The instructor paused, waiting for Anna to look up before continuing with her full attention.

“All knights of the Holy Light must undergo this trial and experience the Pact. If you choose not to, your training will stop until you are prepared. I shall ask you three times, as is customary. Do you wish to continue?”

“I do.”

“Are you resolved in your choice?”

“I am.”

“Will you stand Steadfast in the face of the task before you?”

“I shall.”

“Very well then. You are to summon the light as your shield, and set loose the relic from its coffer. Friends. Colleagues. Strengthen our protections.”

Anna’s gaze flit to the shield shimmering around the collective members of the staff. It shifted from deep gold to harsh, cold silver, runes and symbols brightening over the floor beneath each pair of feet.

Except hers.

The Aura of Devotion, the Lights strongest defence.

She closed her eyes, focussing within to draw upon the Lights blessings, the aura of gold shimmered around her, gleaming across her armour, lining every strand of hair. She stepped forwards, and opened the clasp on the top of the box.

The four sides slammed down, flattening against the table. A dark, void filled sphere hovered in the air above. With a sickening shift, shadows began to reach outwards. It latched onto the only energy source it could overwhelm, the only one weak enough to be harvested.

As her Light was ripped from her, she crashed to her knees.

In the otherwise silent hall, Anna began to scream.

She saw the flicker. That flash of tell-tale green. Time seemed to slow as she turned, the bolt of felflame arcing into view towards the three of them atop the ridge. She heard herself shout, throwing both hands forwards. The blast of Holy Light that left her, encased Sevestra and Modian, shielding them within the twin blessing of the Light’s divine interventions. Saving them from the worst of the impact.

But in doing so she had left herself exposed. The cost of defending the others saw her caught by the blast. Her armour seared with the heat, flames swarmed over her, finding gaps between the plates, skin corrupted, cracked and blistered beneath.

Gradually the flames died. Anna opened her eyes to find Sevestra stood over her, Modian leant back against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Get me - to him.” Her own voice hoarse and weak. She could feel the sickly cold sweat forming over her skin, the way her hands shook, legs trembled. She didn’t have much more, but perhaps enough, just enough for this.

As she fell to her knees before him, she braced her hand against Modian’ s shoulder. Stumbling, stuttering prayers tumbled from her lips as the last ebbs of the Light sought to find and cleanse his wounds.

Then it struck.

She reeled in agony, darkness tightened in her heart, seizing her breath within her lungs, silencing her prayers. Slamming her other hand against Modian’ s chest, she battled to keep conscious.

It was too much.

Clawing darkness wrapped itself around her senses, rending her cold, blind, and locked within herself. Her mind screamed in protest, but it was too late. As her hearing faded, a harsh, guttural laugh rolled around the cave, and Anna crashed down onto the stone.

She awoke.

Crisp white sheets pinned her to the bed. Bright sunshine gleamed from the Northshire infirmary’s stone walls. Nearby a healer turned and smiled.

“Welcome back, Miss Anna. They’d begun to worry when you didn’t surface after the second day. Theon! Will you tend Miss Anna please, I need to inform the Masters.”

Anna tried to speak, her lips parted, cracked and dry, her parched throat unable to find a sound.

The Quel’dorei mender presumably named Theon bustled over. Slipping his hand beneath her shoulders, he cradled the back of her head in the crook of his arm, lifting the canteen of water to her lips.

Anna stared up at him. His brown hair the shade of leaves in autumn was held back in a long tail. Pale blue eyes, as mild a pigment as a portrait left too long in the sun, shimmered with a golden hue. Everything about him seemed washed out. Everything except his aura. The light radiated from him, it’s presence calming, warm, and unwavering. When she had drunk enough he set the canteen aside and lowered her back into the fresh white pillows, offering her a kind smile.

“Congratulations Miss Anna. You passed the trial.”

Anna lay in the bed, the Feathermoon inn repurposed as infirmary. She surmised it had to be not long before dawn, the darkness to the west turned from black to darkest indigo.

It had been several hours since the others had retired, Hollins seemingly left at some point after she had fallen asleep.

A twitch of a smile danced on her lips as memories of the night before replayed. The Captain sat upon the locker at the end of the bed, regailing them with tales of Papoose and Clyde, a pet marmot and Gryphon battle brother respectively. Anna had answered with memories of her dappled grey mare from the Fifteenth Mounted Infantry.

Hollins had ventured that people bonded best with creatures similar to them. Anna smiled. Perhaps she had bonded with the wild, fearless horse because she was all she -wished- she could be. In reality she had been terrified of the beast, all teeth, wild eyes and temper.

Anna leaned over the edge of the bed, reaching for her water canteen. Her arms trembled with the effort of lifting it. Quenching her thirst she closed it and sank back into the pillows.

She smiled softly, eyes closing as she began to drift off to slumber, thoughts of an unusual Kaldorei, uncontrollable laughter, and unexpected blushes swirling in her minds eye. The words of a request that she could never fulfil repeated over and over until they faded to nothing.

“Don’t push yourself this far again…”

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If I ever get locked up, I know who I’m joining to get out :cowboy_hat_face::smoking:

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Up to the Captains discretion :wink:

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The gnome sat across the table from the manacled void elf and flicked through the papers, pausing every so often to peer over the top of his glasses at the elf sitting opposite before licking his finger and scanning the collection of documents again.

The elf waited in silence, casually playing with a stray thread on her shirt sleeve as the gnome continued to rustle the papers and tutted every so often.

Finally he looked back up at the elf, once again lowering his glasses to peer at her.

“So….Miss……um…Duskraven”

The elf stopped playing with the stray thread and looked up at the gnome, flashing a smile at him “Yes that’s me, although I am happy if you want to call me Nith, that’s um short for Nithsethel…umm my first name”

The gnome nodded briefly before clearing his throat “So Miss Duskraven, let’s go over this one more time, because I am finding it somewhat difficult to understand how you came to be on a known pirate vessel, and associating with wanted and known pirates and yet claim you are not in fact….in your own words…a pirate”

Nithsethel, moved her hands against the table causing the chains of the manacles to clunk loudly in the small room “Well that’s right, I was just a passenger on the ship, I was transporting some cargo for a group that employed me and they had asked me to book passage on the vessel. I mean I’ve never been to Booty Bay before and I am certainly not aware that pirates operate from there or that the vessel I was getting was associated to pirates”

The gnome, flicked through the papers a little “I see….so….and I state again in your own words, I was introduced to the captain of the vessel by the first mate and shown to my cabin, the captain introduced himself to me as Captain One Eye Pete”

Nith nodded “Yes that’s correct”

The gnome rubbed at his nose briefly before continuing “Right, and the fact that he called himself One Eyed Pete and was on a ship with a non-uniformed, and again in your own words, a somewhat ragtag looking bunch of rascals, didn’t at any point raise your suspicions that the ship and crew may not have been part of a fully legitimate merchant operation?”

Nith thought a moment before replying “ Hmmm well I did think it was a little odd, but not having been here…umm and by here you know I mean in Alliance areas and around humans , I thought maybe that that’s just how merchant ships were run”

“Hmmm I see” the gnome spent more time flicking through the papers before continuing “So Miss Duskraven…”

“Nith if you like” Nith smiled at the gnome in a cheerful way

“Yes…so Miss Duskraven, let’s go forward a little to the point at which the naval vessel approached the known pirate ship you were on and boarded it and you during that process shot and killed naval officer Briggs, by lodging an arrow in his left eye…and another through his windpipe…and yet and again I stress in your own words when questioned you stated that you killed him by accident and not by intention and didn’t know he was a naval officer at the time you shot him….and had you known you probably wouldn’t have done it”

“Yes that’s correct, it was dark at the time and I wasn’t aware he was working for the navy, I assumed he was boarding the vessel to attack it when I shot”

The gnome, flicked his finger slowly down the page… ” Now the captain of the naval vessel when questioned about the incident clearly states prior to the boarding of the vessel it was very clearly being shouted by the boarding party that they were acting on orders of his Majesty King Wrynn for all on board to surrender and prepare to be boarded, can you confirm how you failed to hear this warning and subsequently claimed you thought the boarders might have in fact been pirates”

“Well I was in my cabin resting I think at the time, I only really woke up when I heard musket fire, which is when I came out on deck and saw quite a lot of chaos and what I assumed was a pirate boarding as he was you know wearing a fancy hat, which from stories I read is what pirates tend to wear to make themselves look more dashing and piratey”

The gnome paused a moment before gathering up the papers and placing them in a small bag “Well thank you for your time Miss Duskraven, I will have to get back to you after I have returned to my office and consulted with my associates over your case”

Nith Smiled again “So does that mean you will take the case on and get me off the charges, because I’m really not a pirate and don’t really think I should have been locked up in the stockades like some common criminal”

The gnome paused at the door to the cell for a moment before knocking to be let out “Well Miss Duskraven I have to say I don’t think things look overly good for you at the moment, but I am sure we will be in touch again soon, good day to you”

And with that Nith was left alone again in the damp, dark cell, waiting on the return of the gnome to deliver more news.

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Anna scowled into the firepit. The harsh words had stung when her offered solace had been rebuffed. Fierce embarrassment burned through her veins, and her wounded pride rankled. She knew her breathing had become ragged as she fought the urge to cry, or scream, or punch someone until the frustration faded away.

The men slumbered nearby, the snores and groans rattled and pitched like a three-wheeled cart full of swine tumbling down a hill. Picking up her Libram, and swinging her pack over one shoulder, she paced over to the others.

Unceremoniously she put her boot into the ribs of the first one she found. The groan of pain and muffled curses could have been any of the men, save for one. Her eyes flashed to an empty abandoned bedroll and pack, her scowl darkening. Using her boot to roll the protesting Soldier onto his back she snapped down at him. It was Hollins.

“It’s your watch. Get up.”

He swiped at her foot, knocking her away.

“I know. I know! I’m up!”

In her ears, words rang mockingly.

“You’re not a Captain any more…”

They stung, because they were true.

Stepping past Hollins to the empty bedroll she snatched up the forgotten pack, and pulled it over her other shoulder.

“Thornton?”

A grunt of effort expelled from her lungs as she found herself bearing twice the weight any soldier would be permitted to carry.

“Thornton, who’s pack is that?”

Hollins was getting to his feet behind her, still holding his kicked ribs.

"Thornton! Where ya going?”

Without a backward glance she straightened up and stalked off into the darkness. Hollins calling after her until she disappeared from sight.

Nearly an hour. Almost a whole hour it had taken her, slowed, her spine screaming from the weight, boots slipping and sinking into mud and wet sand, following the rivers course until she could fjord it at the river mouth.

She’d chosen her spot well. From here she could see all who approached her from the stronghold. Unceremoniously throwing the spare pack into the mud, she sat atop it, and placed her own pack in front of her.

Cigarettes were quickly found, setting one between her teeth she lit it and counted the others. She would have to be more careful with them.

Rummaging deeply she found a leatherbound notebook, the wrappings made to keep the parchment dry, ink and Quill. Opening the Journal, and by the glow of her lit cigarette, and the waning crescent moon she began to write.

Journal Entry One

I have found the… transition more difficult than I anticipated. Drops before of one or two ranks when changing between deployments, in truth made little difference except for official levels of responsibility. My knowledge, understanding, tactics and experience were still valued and appreciated.

But here? I have fallen from a Captain of a Unit of my own, to a recruit, on near equal footing with that of a convict straight from the Stockade’s. My advice or suggestions go unwarranted, not due to falsity of logic or flaw within, but because I am a recruit. ‘Untested’ and ‘Unproven’.

My last Commander believed I had lost my mind when I requested this dispatch and official transfer. I am beginning to think now he may have had a point.

In truth not all are as difficult as I feared. Hollins and Goldenfield are both pleasant enough company. However I am still perplexed by Goldenfield’s choice in… personal partners, and I remain sceptical about his assurances that the Captain’s decree (which is that no member of the company is to engage in relationships) only extends to meaningful relationships. After all, he reasoned, surely they wouldn’t forbid us from indulging in the frantic need for physical comfort when the following dawn is accompanied by the fear that it may be the last one you’ll see?

Many marriages emerged from those frightened trysts, with many good soldiers retiring for “Family Reasons”, before announcing not long after a sudden engagement, and birth not usually beyond 6 months after the wedding.

I officiated more than a few myself on the fields, although mine were carried out when one had reached deaths door and wished to see their spouse provided a Widow or Widower’s pension.

The Deadbeat will prove to be substantially more of a challenge, if I can find some way to distract himself from his wandering gaze, and earn his way back to Convict, I shall consider it a personal triumph.

As for the Captain, he is…

Anna paused, the ink drying on the page. Tapping the ash from her cigarette she sought the words. She had not known him long. A week? Two at most. With the blended days upon the ship, it was hard to count accurately.

Words and memories blossomed in her minds eye, pleasant conversations, moments she had thought she’d seen a glimpse beneath the armour. The horrors of surgery the night before, and the harm, pain, and frustration she had caused him.

But those memories crumbled, bitter and twisted as the bile and vitriol rose in her throat once more.

As she had sought to help him, he had turned on her, his mocking laughter still rang in her ears, his contemptuous sneer as if she was naive and foolish. She could see that he so clearly needed to share the burdens he carried but refused to let anyone close enough to help.

His words that had clanged with the finality of a heavy, solemn church bell. Words that had cut her so deeply, and yet she could not reason why they caused in her this repulsive visceral reaction.

Her breath caught and she slammed the Journal shut. Stuffing the quill and ink back into her bag she wrapped her arms around the leather wrapped notebook, pinning it to her chest. Curling into a ball, her head lowered and her shoulders began to shake.

Over and over the words echoed in her head. Over and over and over again, overlapping and repeating as if a thousand voices clamoured until they morphed into one unintelligible roar.

“Remember your place, Thornton. You are a Captain no longer.”

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A sudden prod in his ribcage woke him; instinctively he pulled away and swiped at the hard pointy object to protect himself. Bayonet? Shotgun barrel? Just someone’s boot; the accompanying female voice helped him identify the threat.

It’s safe - this is camp, there’s no attack, just my time for a watch, Terry realised. Anna-Bellise looked and sounded impatient.

He sat upright and squirmed out of the bedroll. Although the night felt warm and humid, he was fully dressed and wide awake. Thornton rummaged around nearby in the darkness.

"Thornton?"

Anna answered only with a grunt. She struggled to lift something bulky and heavy; for a moment he thought she held a sleeping child in her arms, then he saw it was a second backpack. Why wasn’t she getting ready for sleep?

Ignoring his confused questions, Thornton strode off with the pack, leaving him the only person awake among the sleeping Twelfth. He rolled his eyes skyward in irritation.

It was only yesterday that she’d tried to saddle him with looking after her own backpack, too - that might’ve had something to do with her recent injuries but still didn’t give her the right to tell a Private what to do. She was not an NCO.

In the time of one exhale Terry completely erased the frustration from his thoughts and feelings.

Pride didn’t matter, didn’t exist here. He was a soldier.

And re-enlisting had been like flipping a switch. From the second he’d set foot in the building, he’d taken on a soldier mindset. For him, being a soldier meant you should hold your tongue, carry out all orders and punishments without a second thought, and abandon the concepts of fairness, personal pride, and wanting or disliking things.

During a successful attack on a Forsaken-occupied area in the war zone a few days ago, the Alliance forces including his company had come upon a large cache of weapons and armour. When they’d returned it to Feathermoon, his captain had asked Terry whether he wanted to have any of the weapons for himself.

The question had confused him to the point where he couldn’t come up with an answer on the spot, so he’d dodged it, like he dodged most of the captain’s questions.

So far, it worked, but he reluctantly awaited the moment the captain’s curiosity would outweigh his respect for Hollins’ privacy.

Terry made himself comfortable by the fire, squatting behind his backpack with his forearms resting on it. The constant nagging pull of the stitches down the back of his legs meant that sitting down fully would be out of the question for at least a few more days.

Breakfast consisted of the same bread and nutri-paste he’d been eating every day for five weeks straight. The paste came in a tube. It had an unappetising greyish-brown colour and smelled weirdly meaty and salty, like marmite. It contained all the nutrients the body needed and stayed good for a long time – he would recommend it to anyone, if it weren’t for the downright nasty flavour. He squeezed it on his bread and started eating quickly, trying not to notice the repulsive taste.

He wondered what was going on with Thornton.

She came across as caring, competent and experienced, and he’d seen no major indications of rebelliousness or irresponsibility in her behaviour. Stomping off for no reason didn’t make sense. And who had been so stupid to leave their pack and bedroll unattended and sneak off in the middle of the night, especially after someone in their own company had been robbed right inside the camp?

He ran the most plausible explanations through his mind, mainly to keep himself entertained during his two hour watch. Terry didn’t put much stock in speculations and guesses. Facts usually beat instinct, and moreover, if you acted on a guess and turned out to be wrong, you could get in big trouble.

Life is all about avoiding trouble, he mused – it put a song in his head that he hummed to himself under his breath. When Old Man Trouble knocks on your door, don’t give him no key, he just wants more. So if you made a mistake you were best off hiding it, and if you got injured or sick, you should downplay the severity, because otherwise your superiors would find out and possibly leave you behind or kill you.

In the 33rd, the 2nd, and now in the Twelfth, they’d all been trying to tell him differently. Neglected wounds will get infected, they explained. It had puzzled him – didn’t everyone know that? – and he’d reassured them that he was aware. He took the risk of illness so seriously that he washed his hands up to twenty times a day, wore warm clothes and scarves year-round, and avoided eating food prepared by other people.

He had reluctantly confessed about most of the injuries he’d sustained so far with the Twelfth, and to his embarrassment, someone had noticed that he downplayed the severity. It earned him the warname Stitches. But when push came to shove, he would still rather catch an infection and secretly receive treatment from a medic friend, than give a superior a clear picture of his medical status if it was dire.

After all, if you were a burden, why should they keep you around?

He also believed that if someone else screwed up or got themselves hurt, you shouldn’t draw NCO attention to it. He had done exactly that only yesterday, though; when Thornton had wanted to leave her pack behind with him, he’d chased her down and told her to take responsibility for her kit. Right in front of the captain. He felt a little guilty; although that kind of carelessness shouldn’t be acceptable from any Recruit, it wasn’t his place to pull her up on it. She was not an NCO, but neither was he.

One of the sleeping men shifted around in his bedroll nearby, exhaling deeply. Hollins snapped his gaze over to the sleeping spots and recognised Modian’s long ponytail. He smiled. He got along with Modian – Sprinter as he was called now – and thought back what he’d said to him earlier in the day.

Since it had been just the two of them, Terry had been more outspoken than in a group. He had called Sprinter out on what he saw as a tendency to make a big deal out of a wounded ego. It was that soldier mindset again. If you’re a soldier, you’re immune to insults, name-calling, and all other provocations.

Such mocking was a daily occurrence at the Feathermoon stronghold. The Twelfth’s nature as a penal company had been the hot topic around camp for the first few days, and then the mild curiosity had made way for derision. He’d heard conversations go quiet when he approached groups of people, he’d seen the shifty glances and the feigned polite smiles and nods. Some had mumbled, too.

They all looked down at the convicts. Terry suspected that some pitied them, too, and believed that that was worse.

Taunts were easy to ignore, but it was trickier if somebody claimed to feel sorry for you. That pitiful expression meant they saw you as weak and helpless, so you should naturally expect some kind of cruelty or betrayal very soon. So when people confided in Terry about their personal hardships, he always took care not to show much sympathy. It was good manners. But in the rare moments he shared something personal himself, most people responded by staring at him, while saying ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that’ with an intensely sorrowful expression. Then they got confused when he suddenly clammed up. He scowled; picturing those faces left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

Didn’t these people understand how friendships worked?

True friends trusted each other without needing to know each other’s personal stuff from the past. As he waited for his watch to pass, he thought of every friend he’d ever had. First, the Rovers: Artemis, Sarae, Gilead, Ingvild, Vassandra, Pipsqueak, even Muffin.

The seven of them had been his best friends and companions practically all his life. They’d taught him about peace and freedom, about trust – not by telling him, but by treating him with infinite patience and forgiveness while he was at his worst. He missed the Rovers. Seeing them during Winter’s Veil had boosted his spirits for weeks.

Since leaving the Rovers, he’d forged a similar true friendship with Evelynn. She had issues, and he had issues, and to his great relief and gratitude, neither of them ever pried. Sometimes one of them shared something, but only if they felt like it – and it was always received respectfully and kindly, without pity or doubt or judgement.

More than anything, it was Evelynn’s gentle and unassuming support that had helped him get through the past half year. Sometimes he’d been a soldier, other times he’d been a free man – and she knew how to roll with that.

Terry smiled to himself as he recalled a different life, a life of pride and brazen opinions and standing up for yourself. With the Al’Saqr trading company. He’d carved out a reputation for himself there - the Caliph had praised him for his intelligence and boldness, and Terry had been pleased, not intimidated. He didn’t mind the Caliph’s attempts at friendship; he was a superior, yes, but not an NCO.

That concept had puzzled him for weeks when he’d first joined Al’Saqr. In his mind, there were only five kinds of people: strangers, companions, friends, NCOs, and parents. Zayid, the Caliph of Al’Saqr, was possibly the first person in his life who did not fit into any category.

Nothing like his current Captain, who was clearly an officer.

And when you were dealing with an NCO or officer, you had to avoid and obey them, because otherwise they’d use their power to hurt you.

He couldn’t grasp why anyone in the position of Convict would take on the attitude of “I’m not putting up with that” - Stoutie in particular seemed to think that Feathermoon sentinels and other people would give a damn about his personal boundaries, which Terry believed to be a nonsense concept anyway. If you’re a soldier, it doesn’t matter what you want.

And Modian had claimed that officers couldn’t force enlisted men to do anything like kissing them. Clearly Modian was naive or lucky to think that you could get away with rejecting an officer’s advances. If you got chosen, then so be it. What did Modian think was going to happen if you’d tell an officer “no”? The thought made Terry shudder.

There was the argument that not all officers are like that. Captain Gladstone had dropped a few hints that he wanted friendship; that he had a sensitive side, that he was gentle. He had struck up conversations with Terry, asked him about his personal opinions such as his spiritual beliefs and experience as a private, and gave him the impression that maybe one day they could be friends.

He scowled as his chest tightened and his breathing hitched. What if the captain wanted to be friends with him? Or worse, make him an NCO some day?

Out of the five kinds of people in the world, NCOs were the ones he hated the most. But saying “no” to an officer who wanted to promote you, that would be much worse than brushing off their friendship.

He would rather become an NCO and hate himself than get killed by the captain’s hand.

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Date, 19 of the first month.
writer, Modian.
location, zero.

I´m laying in bed, my right arm hurts like fel, apperently it got a fracture in it. My heads covered in bandages from fragments, dosent hurt as much as the arm, so it aint no bother.

Last nights, that was a hell of an experiance. First of having to ride a saber, through the forest of Feralas and then unto the plains of Desolace, it´s nearly worth this bedrest. We got to location “four” where we got to face off against and army of rotter deckers, decked out with cannons, a ship and a admiral…

Charging into battle ontop of a saper is special, heck Private “junior” darn right loved it, he was grinning from ear to ear… well not like when he gets into a battle, less morbid and psychotic.

The first mounted charge did serve rather well, we got the worse of the rotters away and siege the cannon, second round of the fight were the problem. As we took cover near a clutch of tree´s, we were bombarded by cannon balls. The tree I sat behind got cracked into two, I flew off and landed hard.

I remember a priest running up and tending to me, dealing up the wounds, sadly also fusing som darn wood fragments into my forhead and my right arm. I´m happy I was running on Adrenalin, or else that would had hurt more than it did. It was about there I lost sight of Private “junior”.

It was abit of a mad storm, after I got treated I crawled over the battlefield, remembering hearing cannon fire over my head, seeing an rotter admiral getting all sick with dark energy and controlling other rotters. When I collected myself, I was at nother patch of tree´s with my rifle, good vantage point down on the rotters.

After a Single shot I passed out, I dont know how long I was out, but at one point some elf druid, I think, had pumped me up with some magic of hers and I felt like I was running on the fumes of a titan, darn well could have been.

After that I got a ride back to location “zero” for surgery, by a new friend of mine, Captain “bird”, she rode me there, while I was doing my best to keep my big boy face on, as the magic started to wear off.

When we got back to base, she handed me some painkillers and I forget what happen afterwards. when I got to myself again, I got told I might need to rest for a week to heal the bone fracture, darn medics, we got a war to win, but then again… I´ve been wounded more on this deployment than any others, with this rate I might have to get a bigger self for my service medals for all them wounds I´ve gotten… if I get any.

for now… I´ll take it easy, so I can get back out there.

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The gnome had returned after a number of days, or maybe a week, the passage of time was hard to measure , days blending into each other.

Nith once again sat opposite him , her hands once again chained.

She smiled at the gnome, who once again had a bundle of papers that he was flicking through. After a time he once again looked up and peered at Nith over the top of his glasses.

“Hmm Miss Duskraven… I have consulted with my associates over your case”

Nith smiled brightly, although felt somewhat annoyed by the time it had seemingly taken the gnome to return to deliver the news.

“Now obviously there is the matter of payment for our services, it seems you were somewhat lacking in coin when you were arrested, but we have looked at your assets and decided they should be enough to cover the costs”

The gnome pushed a piece of parchment across the table along with a quill

“If you could just read down the list and sign your name at the bottom, then we can get down to business”

Nith peered down at the parchment, reading down the list

One black war courser, with battle armour.
One full set of used sentinel mail armour
One Pendant, Gold Chain, and Dragonfly Pendant, semi precious gemstones.
One Elven Recurve Bow, Possible enchantment/curse

“Hmmm surely the horse alone is worth the fee, it wasn’t cheap, the pendant is precious to me, it was my mothers… And the bow is useless to anyone but my sister or me”

“Well the problem is Miss Duskraven that we would get a fraction of the cost for the horse at auction and used armour is always hard to find a new owner for…made to measure and all that. And yes we did note the issues with the bow, but it may be of interest to a collector rather than someone who would actually like to use it, but it does somewhat lower its value I am afraid”

“What about the pendant, it has little actual value, apart from to me”

“Hmm well Miss Duskraven, you have the choice of not signing but then of course our offer would not still stand… unfortunately our services have a cost attached and we feel it is a very fair offer”

Nith took the quill and slowly signed her name across the bottom, pushing both back to the gnome, her heart feeling heavy as she signed away the pendent that her mother had entrusted to her when she had come of age.

The gnome peered at the parchment , nodding and then rolling it up to place in a pouch

“Excellent that all seems to be in order Miss Duskraven”

“So what now, you get me off the charges and I can get out of this place?” Nith queried , trying to sound happy still.

“Hmm well let’s not get ahead of ourselves Miss Duskraven, the charges against you are after all rather serious, you are charged with Piracy and the Murder of a naval officer, they are by no means small charges I regret to say”

“Yes but I said I wasn’t a pirate and the killing was an accident”

“Sadly Miss Duskraven most criminals when asked if they meant to do it also deny it, I am afraid your word will count for little and hmmm lets see your previous employment was in a mercenary company, not the most respectable of positions”

“So what is the plan then? To get me out of here I mean” Niths voice was starting to sound a little irritated

“Well Miss Duskraven I believe the best course of action would be for you to plead guilty to both counts, at best you would escape the noose and the sentence if you looked and sounded remorseful enough would most likely be maybe fifty to seventy years, which in your terms would still give you a reasonable amount of years left when released”

“What…wait, You said you could get me out, you never mentioned after fifty years!, how is that a good deal?”

The gnome tutted a little, then spoke slower as if to a child

“Miss Duskraven, the charges against you carry the death penalty, you were caught on a pirate ship and shot and killed a naval officer, you have no witnesses to call to clear you, and the Crown have a number of very upstanding witnesses to call against you, including the captain of the said naval vessel that boarded yours. The chances of being found innocent are I am afraid to say, very improbable and if found Guilty you would be sentenced to death, so better that you just change the plea and save yourself by doing a longish sentence. At least once its done you will be able to carry on with you life”

The gnome was packing away the papers as he finished speaking and then jumped off the chair to bang on the cell door.

“Well good day to you Miss Duskraven, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you”

The cell door opened and the gnome was gone, leaving Nith alone once more

The elf slammed a fist against the table, the chains clanking hard as she did, then she placed her head into her hands and sobbed quietly “Duvain, Sister….Where are you, I need help”

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