Friends in High Places

[Follows on from]
It wasn’t particularly hard to shuffle out from underneath the Orc female who lay practically smothering the Sin’dorei only moments before. Unsurprisingly, Dendera had plenty of experience slipping out from between bed sheets without waking their spent occupant. Razor Hill was quiet, as it should be at this hour directly between dawn and dusk. Not quite midnight, slightly after. She crossed the inn, stepping into her clothing and attatching her daggers to her belt as she went at a brisk pace, on silent bare feet. The leather armour fit like a glove, sticking to slightly moistened skin, with studs glistening in the mixed light of the glowing embers and the high moon over Durotar. She paused for a moment, peering back at the Orc breathing slowly. For a change, Dendera’s face did not register even a smidgen of emotion as she regarded the tastefully covered form of Kruss. Re-tailing her hair in one fluid motion, the Sin’dorei stepped out into the cooling night, feeling the cracked earth with each footfall. This was a ravaged red land, but oddly beautiful when cradling the inky blackness. The sighing of the tide was a distant caress against long, elegant ears that twitched ever so slightly as if struggling to hear something important.
Standing in the middle of Razor Hill, the Sin’dorei watched as the Grunts continued their vigil, eyes peeled for Quillboar, Centuar, Raptors or even Human forces. Now they had something else to worry about too. Something potentially more dangerous than all of those things rallied in one inexplicable war band. That thing was a strange Troll and his entourage of bloodthirsty visceral thieves. Sometimes, Dendera questioned herself as to how she got tangled up investigating these sorts of things. She’d been specifically spoken to by the Chieftain of Dagger and Totem to look into this problem, but she couldn’t remember what her motivation was supposed to be, conventionally speaking. Dendera was the kind of girl who didn’t do anything for less than the going rate. Yet, here she was, doing something out of the goodness of her own heart. Or, maybe the threat of bodily harm bothered her slightly? It didn’t matter at this juncture. She had the Chieftain’s favourite in the palm of her hand. Under her fingertips, lips and tongue too, to get specific. This thought did manage to extract a small smirk from her expressive face. Still, though. Onward she went, slipping around the back of the inn and quickly scaling the wall of the ravine that Razor Hill was lovingly constructed within. Once situated high above the settlement, Dendera looked out in the direction of Sen’jin village.
Just yesterday she’d delivered the news to the Warlock, whose name he still refused to give. If not for Kruss, he’d likely not know Dendera’s real name either. She’d taken to calling him Warmrock around Orgrimmar, thanks to a faux pas on Kruss’ part (again) when she proclaimed him as a Warlock right on the edge of the Valley of Wisdom. This Orc Felweaver had been of much use to them, most recently co-conspiring with the Sin’dorei for what actions to take next. He didn’t seem worried about getting his hands dirty, either. He did most of the legwork when it came to torturing information out of the Troll they captured, thanks to Irritant’s fast thinking. Even if all they learned was that he served a powerful master, Dendera felt it had been worth it. The poor Grunt they’d seen, likely hired as protection for the wagon they’d been tracking, had been disembowelled and sliced into ribbons. He wasn’t the only recent victim. Dendera had word from one of her contacts travelling from Sen’jin that the daughter of one of the village Elders had been grabbed and torn open even as she danced for the other Trolls. They’d not managed to quite get there yet, but Dendera did not expect they’d find very level-headed people. Might be better to circumvent the town all together and try to pick up the trail later on. It showed they were getting desperate though, but to what end?
Three shrill whistles to imitate a nocturnal bird of prey, then one more after a short pause. That was the signal Dendera gave. A minute went by, and then a figure crept to the meeting point overlooking Razor Hill. Rotten, dead hands clutched at noxious green tome with all the ferocity of a Raptor seizing its prey, and similarly noxious eyes fixated carefully on Dendera. The Forsaken that approached appeared studious, frail and not at all the powerful occultist that Dendera knew her to be. Her teeth chattered slightly as she came to a standstill beside the Sin’dorei, though not likely with the cold. Opening the book to a predetermined place in, the Forsaken placed her small hand on the pages and grinned sheepishly.
“You’re late, Sin’dorei.” 
“Aren’t I always, sweetness? What’ve you got for me?”
The Warlock giggled slightly as she felt Dendera’s warm hands descend upon her shoulders and squeeze gently.
“True. I have information. Information about this Troll of yours.” 
“Oh, lovely!”
Dendera sighed the words next to her friend’s cheek, causing the Forsaken to shudder slightly once more.
“Th-this Troll. You see, it’s quite obscure.” 
“Mm-hmm…”
“And… its power is not of this pl-plane of existence.” 
“Tell me more, darling…” 
“Mmh, you’re distracting me slightly…” 
“Just carry on.” 
“Okay… W-Well we think that, perhaps, it might be something to do with a Troll God. More specifically, something to do with Stran…glethorn V-Vale…” 
“Really? Now that’s interesting…”
“Why?”
“Just because the people who’ve hired me were traipsing off to Stranglethorn themselves. Is there anything else?”
“J-Just one more thing.”
“Spill.” 
“Ahh! That hurt!”
“Spill, please.”
“Nnh… It’s the Troll’s skin. It’s covered in… b-blue crystals. You mustn’t touch them.” 
“Oh?”
“We th-think they might grow on organic m-matter, perhaps. Think that it might grow inside living and dead matter...”
“So don’t touch the crystals. Square enough. Off you go, cutey pie. I’ll call you when I need you.” 
“Ah! My payment..?”
The Forsaken set Dendera with a slightly worried look, like as if she didn’t expect the Sin’dorei to actually pay for services rendered.
“Awh, Sefiya, I thought my presence would be enough. Alright, alright, don’t get upset. Here.”
A small bag with a square object within passed between the two, and the Forsaken quickly hurried away with a dream-like grin plastered upon her face. Dendera’s face, on the other hand, returned to a plain mask. She slowly made her decent, crawling down onto the roof of the inn, before slipping back inside the building. Thankfully, nobody had noted her absence. Performing the dressing ritual in reverse, Dendera peeled each layer of clothing off, until she was bundled up in the covers again, smothered by a larger body once more.
[Leads to]
Category:Story