A Stormwind Conspiracy

## Summary

Something's up in Stormwind, and its up to Spoons, Wrylla and the crew to find out what. This story is ongoing.

## Characters

* Wrylla Reeves
* Gideon "Spoons" Spoonser

## A Stormwind Conspiracy

### Chapter One

The Pig and Whistle was ever a lively and warm place, often wanting of tables to accommodate the high volume of regulars and higher still number of wearied travellers just looking for a drink and a bite to eat. For Wrylla and Spoons, neither type of patron quite fit them. Their stays in Stormwind would be long when they occurred between adventures, but were rare enough that on each occasion they’d step through the tavern’s doors, the regulars at the bar would never be the same.

Drinks in hand and comfortably seated at their usual table beneath the stairwell, Wrylla and Spoons finally had the time to relax after their long and unforgiving journey from the Eastern Plaguelands.

   “I don’t know about you,” Wrylla was saying, “but all I want to do for this week is rest. We’ll need the energy for Northrend.”

Spoons nodded. “Its really cold there, isn’t it? We should buy some warm clothes, like woolly jumpers. And mittens.”

The thought of attempting to use her bow while in mittens made Wrylla smirk. “We’ll make sure to stock up, don’t you worry.”

    “Do we need to get winter clothes for Fleabag and Sandy too?” Spoons asked earnestly. “Like little wolf-shoes! Wait, those don’t exist, do they?”

Wrylla laughed. “I think they’ll manage without. They’ve got enough fur to keep warm, I promise.”

Spoons considered this. Fleabag and Sandy were both very furry, to the point that it made questing in hot areas quite stifling for them. Wrylla had always been sure to take regular breaks in the shade and keep them close to water whenever possible. The wellbeing of her pets was always her priority, so Spoons decided she was probably right that the cold would not be too taxing on them.

Approaching chatter caught their attention before conversation could resume, and a young half elf with glimmering blue eyes and curly brown hair stopped at their table, beaming. In his hands he held a poster printed on parchment, which he held up for them to examine.

   “’Ello there, miss and sir!” he said, his words thickly accented with Gilnean. “You two adventurers look like worthy challengers to take on the Nightbinder Hunting Tourney!” With this, he held the paper in his hand a little closer, indicating its title and then nodding at the bow strapped to Wrylla’s back. “You got much hunting experience then, miss?”

Wrylla gave the boy an apologetic smile. “Some, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on this… tourney. Hunting for sport isn’t really my thing.”

The half elf pouted. “Aw, but it would be nice to get some more humans involved! Nearly all of the big high elven families are participating! Also, the winner gets a prize of fifty-thousand gold *and* a chance to dine at the table of Lady Syralda Nightbinder herself!”

Spoons’ foot nudged Wrylla’s under the table and she turned to him. Again, the earnest look had returned to his face. He was nearly vibrating in his seat.

   “Fifty-thousand gold, Wrylla!” he exclaimed. “Think of all the mittens we could buy with that kind of money!”

The half elf gave Spoons an odd look at that but turned again to Wrylla with a cheeky smile. “Listen to your friend here, miss! He could come with you as part of your party and keep up that enthusiasm.” He held out the poster to her. “All you have to do is take this and read up on the rules. I just need your name so I can sign you up for it all officially.”

Wrylla looked from the grinning elf to Spoons and back again, sighing. “Alright, I’ll give it a shot. Sign me up as ‘Wrylla Reeves’. There’s no entrance fee, is there?”

   “No, as you can see here it says entry is free.” He handed over the paper and looked supremely proud of himself. “Well then, wishing you good luck at the Tourney, Miss Reeves, and, uh…” he looked to Spoons. “And entourage.” He grinned again, bowed lowly and headed off to the next table where he passionately beseeched an elderly and rather tired-looking gnome for her participation.

Wrylla turned the paper over in her hands, reading the rules carefully. “Huh. So they’re doing this tomorrow afternoon in Elwynn forest and have already released a bunch of poor animals into the wilderness for hunting. The winner is whoever kills the one black wolf they’ve put there.”

   “One wolf? That sounds easy!” said Spoons.

Wrylla nodded. “It does. I’m not sure I like this setup, but fifty-thousand gold is a *lot* of money. Oh, for my party I can have up to three people, three animal companions, and three horses. So I can bring you, Fleabag and Sandy, and we can both be mounted for this. That should make things a little easier. Hmm, what’s this?” She squinted at a tiny line of text near the bottom the poster, printed in font so small and fine it was almost illegible. “…House Nightbinder will not be held responsible for any injury, loss of life or personal items that might occur, blah, blah, blah… yeah, that’s more or less a given.” She folded the poster up and tucked it into her pocket. “We won’t need to worry about that. Even if someone took a shot at Fleabag or Sandy they wouldn’t land it. And I highly doubt anyone is going to shoot at us.”

Spoons nearly choked on his drink and waved his hands about, making shushing noises. “No, don’t say that! You’ll jinx it!”

### Chapter Two

The day of the tournament followed a largely sleepless night for Wrylla, and a morning spent fretting over hunting tools to pack. Knives, traps and spare arrowheads weighed down Wrylla’s bag, and she was grateful that she could fasten it her horse. The great tan mare, who Wrylla had named Clover, swished her tail about impatiently as Wrylla secured the bag and then hoisted herself into the saddle, setting off into a trot before Wrylla’s feet even reached the stirrups. Clover had a sort of third sense when it came to competitions and would never allow her rider to be late.  Spoons lagged behind on his own horse, Patches, a tan-and-white young steed with a mischievous streak and a large appetite. Twice on their short journey from the stables to Elwynn the horse deviated from his path to steal fruit from market stalls.

Despite Patches’ interruptions, they reached the tournament in good time. High elves dressed in the layered finery of their respective noble houses sat atop gleaming white steeds and looked down their thin noses at Wrylla and Spoons imperiously. Quite a few eyebrows were raised at the beasts that accompanied them— Fleabag was particularly scruffy and excitable today, while Sandy kept her head low, clearly spooked by the elves’ big horses.

The tournament attendants took Wrylla’s name and herded her to the far edge of the hunters’ lineup. Her vision was almost completely obscured by a mounted high elf wielding a beautifully carved bow with matching arrows plumed with the feathers of exotic birds. He wore silks and leathers of differing purple shades which immediately marked him as a member of the Nightbinder family. His hair was thick and dark and hung loose, reaching down to his hips. As with most of his kind, he was impossibly handsome with a sculpted face and an impeccable figure. He sat atop his horse proudly, back rigid as he inspected his competition. His blue eyes swept over Wrylla and Spoons and his pretty nose wrinkled. He turned to the elf lined up at his other side with a sneer.

   “Look at this, Valancia! These commoners brought us some more mutts to hunt.” He looked back at Wrylla, who met his gaze placidly. “Couldn’t afford to put them down yourselves, is that it?” he jeered.

Wrylla shrugged, looking at the well-groomed mastiffs being tended to by the Nightbinder’s team. They looked to be made of pure, compacted muscle, and would be very effective hunting companions. But she kept her composure nonetheless. “Never cared for purebreds. They’ve got too much attitude to compensate for weak, watered-down genes, and it doesn’t appeal to me.”

The high elf’s eyebrows shot up and he barked a short, mocking laugh. “This one knows some very big words! Ooh, I suppose you can read too?”

Spoons piped up at that point, his voice trembling slightly but very indignant. “Hey! Stop being mean to my friend— and she can read! Most humans can read!”

The high elf’s entire team erupted into laugher at that. Spoons tucked his face further into his rogue’s mask ashamedly. Wrylla steered Clover back a few paces and put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “Ignore them. They won’t be laughing so much when we win this and go home with the prize money.”

Spoons nodded at that, but now kept his gaze firmly averted from the elves at their flank. He had to focus on the mission ahead— to find and kill the lone black wolf that would be prowling the forest. Or at least, to do his very best to help Wrylla hunt it.

A long, piercing note from a horn signalled the start of the tournament. Clover immediately broke into a canter, with Sandy and Fleabag diving into the undergrowth to catch scents. Patches whinnied and stomped his hooves about a bit in protest, only trotting off after the rest of the team when Spoons fed him a carrot from his bag. Within moments the forest was cacophonous with the sounds of guns firing, bowstrings snapping and high elves tittering in Thalassian. Wrylla watched them all through the trees, noticing how whenever one elf would discover a lone wolf, about ten would converge on it, eager to take a shot. It made identifying the real killer an almost impossible task. As several elves squabbled, a small fight broke out between two trying to drag a wolf’s carcass onto their horses. Wrylla winced at the sight and turned Clover around, paying close attention to where Sandy and Fleabag were heading.

The first few times they found cow and deer carcasses picked completely clean of flesh, a worrying sign that the creatures released for this event had been intentionally starved to make them more vicious. Wrylla made a mental note to keep her pets away from anything they found and intercept it herself. This idea only became more attractive as they began to find dead mastiffs and hunting dogs kicked haphazardly into bushes.

Wrylla was examining one when Spoons spoke up for the first time since the tournament began. He had dismounted from Patches and was standing at the foot of a large tree, running a hand over gouges in its bark. “Um, Wrylla? What sort of animal do you think did this?”

   “Probably a bear or a—” the words died on her tongue when she looked over, slipping off of Clover to get a closer look. The gouges were from a set of claws with great strength behind them, but they were simply far too deep to be from any ordinary animal. Whatever did this had raked through the wood like a knife through butter. The marks were jagged, languidly filling with sticky tree sap.

   “These are too big for a bear or a wolf,” Wrylla murmured. She prodded a dribble of sap, paling a bit. “Sap’s really fresh. Which probably means our culprit is nearby.” She whistled Fleabag and Sandy over and beasts set to work sniffing the tree. Wrylla knelt and brushed some leaves away from the mud, surmising a creature large enough to make marks like that must have left some tracks. She found half of an enormous paw print— or at least, it *looked* like a paw print. Most of it was obscured by Spoons’ own prints. He had clearly shuffled about nervously while looking at the tree, squishing up some evidence of what had been there before him. But it was no matter, for there would be other prints to find.

Fleabag suddenly began baying, an action Sandy copied moments later. They ran away from the tree, heading further into the forest. Wrylla abandoned her tracking and clambered back onto Clover to follow them. Apparently even Patches was a bit unsettled, because he offered no resistance when Spoons climbed on and tugged his reins to make him trot. The wolf and the coyote had all but vanished into the thicket, their panicked yowls the only indication of their whereabouts. Wrylla followed as closely as she could manage, ducking under branches and steering Clover until she finally found them pacing around—

—Nothing.

Well, not really *nothing*, but nothing that could be hunted. Her pets had stopped in front of another tree, this one coated in something dark and red. Wrylla knew it would be blood before she rode up closer, frowning. This didn’t make sense. There was blood, but no fur, no claw marks. Its scent was oddly strong— no wonder it had caught Fleabag and Sandy’s attention so wholly.

    “Is that… is that blood?” said Spoons, peering over.

Wrylla nodded. “Not human, though. Some kind of wolf, I think—”

    “It’s called a *warg*, dear,” drawled the silky voice of the dark-haired Nightbinder. He stepped out from the trees into view, smiling condescendingly. His entourage waited beside him with his horse. “A warg,” he repeated. “But I wouldn’t expect you to know that, seeing as you haven’t hunted a single thi—”

   “No wait, shut up,” Wrylla said, brow creasing. “A warg, huh? That’d be about big enough.” She jerked a thumb at the blood on the tree. “So either you or one of your friends slapped a load of warg’s blood on this tree to throw people off. I bet you thought that was a smart idea.”

The high elf had purpled at the interruption. He snorted derisively. “Well, it worked, didn’t it? Your mongrels lead you all the way here because of it.”

    “They did,” Wrylla said. She was no longer watching the elf, but the darkness of the forest behind him. “So did you just come here to brag, or are you going to kill us or something?”

Again, her words irritated the elf. He ground his teeth together and drew his bow and a few arrows from his quiver. “I am a hunter, not a murderer. But I will kill your dogs.” He nocked and arrow and aimed for Fleabag. Spoons made a horrified squeak, but the wolf was not watching the arrow.

He, Wrylla and Sandy all looked to the darkness beyond. Wrylla slid off of her horse and nocked an arrow of her own, aiming about a metre above the elf’s head.

The high elf raised a brow quizzically. “You can’t possibly expect to hit me like that. Are humans really so incompetent?”

Wrylla shrugged, adjusting her aim carefully. “Not nearly as incompetent as the idiot that mistook a warg for a black wolf.”

The high elf blinked and lowered his bow, a glimmer of understanding coming to him. “…What?”

   “Ooh, that’s one big dog! Here, girl!” Wrylla loosed her arrow, sending it plunging into the forest. A guttural howl of fury sounded, shaking the very trees. The high elf was backing away now, his face as pale as his steed, which was retreating along with the rest of his entourage.

A great black beast picked itself out from the trees, its eyes red and gleaming. Its maw frothed and dripped, its whole body packed tight with ripping muscle and tattered fur, scarred from a long history of fighting. Its head was too wide to be a wolf, and much too large. It looked as if it could eat a toddler in two bites. Wrylla’s arrow stuck out from its shoulder, looking so obscenely tiny next to its huge teeth and knife-like claws. Faint yellow stains of tree sap glistened against the off-white of the nail, confirming without a shadow of a doubt that this was the beast that made the marks Spoons found. Its nostrils pulsed, its gaze moving to the blood on the tree. Its growl was a low rumble, like thunder.

   “Oh…oh, by the Light, the warg blood!” the elf stammered, backing away. He fumbled with his bow again, but dropped his arrows when he reached for them. He gaped at them for a moment, then turned on his heel and ran for it into the forest.

Wrylla nocked another arrow and loosed it instantly, striking the warg in the jaw. The beast roared and leapt for her, teeth snapping mere centimetres from her face. Wrylla dropped into a roll, dropping her bow and hauling herself onto the warg’s back. It snarled and shook, twisting its head back to bite and spit in a hunger-fuelled frenzy.

    “Spoons!” Wrylla shouted, lurching forward and digging her nails into the beast’s eyes. “Your daggers are poisoned, right?”

Spoons nodded, catching her meaning instantly. He unsheathed his daggers and threw one to her, holding on to the other one in case she dropped the first.

But luck was on Wrylla’s side today— she reached up with one bloodied hand and caught the blade hilt-first. She held it aloft, struggling to keep her grip on the now-blind warg, and plunged the knife down through the back of the warg’s neck with as much force as she could muster. Warm blood sprayed from the wound when she tore it free, and the warg convulsed beneath her. It shook violently and howled for all it was worth. But it succumbed to Spoons’ poison and sank to the ground, tongue lolling in the mud. Sandy and Fleabag left their defensive position by Spoons and came to sniff the warg, visibly relaxing now they knew it was dead. The starting horn sounded again, a garbled announcement stating the so-called “black wolf” had been slain, confirming Wrylla and her team as the winners. Spoons all but bounded off of Patches and ran to Wrylla, clapping excitedly.

   “We won!” he exclaimed. “We actually won!”

Wrylla smiled at him, climbing down from the warg once she caught her breath. Her knees wobbled when she stood, the physical toll of the tournament finally hitting home.

   “Yeah,” she said. “First thing I’m doing with that money is buying some really fancy soap to get all this blood off me.”

### Chapter Three

The first half of Wrylla and Spoons’ prize was greatly enjoyed, with the two spending a little of
their new fortune on a day in a small spa in Stormwind and decking themselves out with brand new adventuring gear. Wrylla had her bow restrung, and took Fleabag and Sandy to a groomer’s very popular with visiting hunters. The second half o
the prize, however, was proving to be a hassle. Dinner with the Nightbinder family, it was, and the invitation they were subsequently sent firmly stated that formal dress was required. That meant finding a suit Spoons would feel comfortable in, and the equally-difficult task of finding a dress Wrylla felt suited her. Neither of them were particularly excited about the dinner, but at least it would be free food. Free food that was probably very good quality. Putting up with a household of noble elves for a night would be worth it for that, right?

Wrylla certainly hoped so, but within minutes of arriving at the palatial Nightbinder Manor was already having doubts. Heavily-armed guards took her and Spoons’ bags to be searched thoroughly, and many eyebrows were raised as an increasingly ridiculous number of knives were retrieved from Spoons’ bag.

“Oh, I forgot those were in there...” he mumbled, looking guilty.

The guards ignored him and whispered to one another in Thalassian, making Spoons
nervous. Wrylla’s hand found its regular spot on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. No words were exchanged, for they did not need to be.

Finally, one of the guards cleared her throat and spoke Common to them. “We can’t let you bring weapons into the Manor, guests or not. Anything that could be used to harm Lady Nightbinder or her heir is strictly forbidden. This includes any keys, quills, or other sharp objects. We will need to temporarily confiscate those while you dine.”

Wrylla grimaced. She didn’t particularly want strangers keeping her things, nor did she expect Spoons was so keen about them taking his knives from him. She
wondered what the point of all this was. Were nobles really the targets of that much violence? She didn’t really know.

The guards suddenly snapped to attention when a petite elf in an opalescent floor-length gown and matching gloves stepped past the front door, examining Spoons and Wrylla with eyes that sparkled with blue brilliance. Her hair was dark and curly, worn half-up with long wavy tendrils of shiny black falling over her pale shoulders. Her features were a classic definition of beauty, resembling the princesses of old whose portraits lined the walls of dusty museums. Wrylla was quite sure that this quick glance alone would be enough for her to remember this woman’s face for the rest of her life.

The elf smiled at them, turning to look at her guards. “You needn’t take their belongings. It would take more than a bagful of knives and a set of keys to harm me. Come, come. Wrylla and Gideon, was it?”

Spoons stiffened at the use of his first name, and he shuffled on the spot uncomfortably. “Um, most people call me Spoons.”

“Spoons? Unusual, but memorable,” she replied, accepting the correction. “Do come in. I am Lady Syralda, matriarch of our little noble house.”

Syralda clasped each of their hands as they entered, and Wrylla wondered how she could hold her smile in place for so long like this. It must be hurting her face.

“Congratulations on your tournament win,” Syralda said as she led them through the maze-like corridors of the manor. “You are the first humans to do it. Usually we see elven rangers claiming victory. So nice to see some change once in a while.”

Wrylla wasn’t sure how to reply, so made noises of agreement when needed and nodded her head. Truth be told, she was really quite distracted by the lavish decor of the place. Arched windows with detailing in stained glass filtered in the evening sunlight, casting colourful shadows across the stern features of the stone busts of elves that stood proudly upon pedestals in the halls.

They came shortly upon the dining room, both Wrylla and Spoons all but gaping at the enormous dark wood table laden with exquisite crockery and sorcerous candles. A crystalline chandelier cast shards of rainbow light over the room. Syralda moved to sit at the head of the table, and gestured for her guests to seat themselves. They did, and no sooner had they taken their places did a small group of manor staff enter to fill their glasses with wine. Wrylla took a cursory sniff of hers-- she wasn’t much of an expert on wine, but this stuff certainly smelled fancy. Across the table, Spoons copied her. His nose wrinkled--it was strong.

“If you would prefer, we have a variety of non-alcoholic drinks,” Syralda said, making them both jump. She was smiling sweetly at Spoons, clearly
noticing his reaction to the wine. “Would you like some juice of some sort instead?”

“O-Oh, uh, no this is okay! Thank you!” Spoons stammered. It was largely on reflex, and a few moments later he was regretting his decision. Juice did sound nice.

Wrylla watched the servants lay out dish after dish, wondering just how much food they would be served tonight. Her gaze fell to the empty chair next to her as a human woman in a tidy smock leaned across to fill the glass with wine as well. Wrylla frowned-- another place? Who else was dining with them?

Syralda’s smile faltered momentarily as she noticed Wrylla’s look to the empty chair next to her, set up with a plate, glass and just as much confusing cutlery as she and Spoons were given. She sighed, and tapped a fork against the fine crystal of her glass.

“Solath!” she called. “The guests are here!”

There was a deliberate grumble from nearby, and what sounded like cursing. Slow, annoyed footsteps made their way to the dining hall, and the sight of the man that stepped through the doorway made Wrylla’s skin crawl.

It was that damn high elf from the tournament! What bad luck-- she knew he was a Nightbinder, but hadn’t expected to see him tonight. She held back a glare, instead turning her attention to Spoons. He looked similarly disturbed to see the elf here.

“Solath, please, take your seat,” Syralda said, something stern hidden in
her sweet voice. “Wrylla, Spoons, this is my son. You might have seen him at the tourney-- he attends each year.”

Wrylla said nothing, sparing Solath only a quick glance as he took the seat between her and his mother. She was a little perturbed to find him staring at her with a smile, though his eyes betrayed his utter rage at seeing her again.

“Yes, congratulations on your win, Miss Reeves. Quite impressive,” he said, tearing off a chunk of bread and dipping it into a bowl of broth that had
not been served yet, earning him a sharp tut from Syralda. “Such a *pleasure*to dine with you tonight. I’m sure you’ll find the food here to be a very different fare to what you are used to.”

It was a thinly-veiled insult, Wrylla knew. But Spoons didn’t pick up on it, and took the opportunity to ask about the feast being set up at the
table. “What animal is that?” he said, pointing across the table to a large roasted carcass smothered in herbs and gravy.

“It was a deer,” Solath replied, still smiling. His tone was overly friendly and sounded mocking. “But when cooked, it is called “venison”. You must be excited to try to many new things tonight.”

Spoons nodded a bit uncertainly, knowing something was off with Solath’s behaviour but not quite sure what. He stayed quiet after that, holding back the other questions he’d hoped to ask. Maybe he would ask Syralda if Solath left the room. He liked her a lot more than her son.

The last few dishes were brought out and set down, and the servants tipped their heads in a bow before leaving the room. Syralda raised her glass, holding it there in silence until everyone else at the table copied her gesture.

“As the draenei say: “Good health, long life!”” said Syralda with a chuckle, promptly downing her glass. Solath scoffed, holding his glass higher.

“Mother, please, I think our guests deserve an *actual*toast,” he sneered. He made long,
uncomfortable eye contact with both Wrylla and Spoons before speaking
again. “To the hunt!”

\*\*

All things considered, the meal wasn’t half bad. The food tasted as incredible as it looked, and Wrylla quickly learned how amusing it was to torment Solath by deliberately using the wrong cutlery, or licking sauce from her fingers when it spilled. The elf went almost as purple has his finery, and it clearly took all his control to hold back an outburst. Syralda was far more relaxed in comparison, going to far as to pinch food from the plates of her guests, occasionally talking with her mouth full, and playfully flicking a pea at Spoons. It deliberately missed, and bounced off the far wall, rolling away.

Syralda’s antics coupled with her surprisingly heavy drinking inevitably led to her needing to excuse herself from the table to take care of a spatter of gravy staining her beautiful gown. She breezed out, wobbling on her feet, taking the scent of expensive wine and perfume with her.

And then there were three, and it got awkward fast. Solath leaned back in his chair and stretched, bemused at the silence now fallen over Wrylla and Spoons.

“Cat got your tongues?” he drawled. “Or was it a warg?”

Wrylla rolled her eyes. “Or, could be that neither of us are all that excited to talk with you. You’re a real prick, after all.”

Solath’s eyes widened, but his smile didn’t falter. “A prick? Ah, it has been a while since I last heard the simple, glottal insults of the lower classes. Can you not think of a word with more syllables?”

“I think ‘prick’ does the job just fine,” Wrylla muttered. “I could extend it to ‘prick who swallowed a dictionary’ if that makes you feel better.”

Solath smirked. “Why, I hadn’t expected you to take mind of my feelings. How sweet.”

Something in Solath’s demeanour changed at that point. He sat up straighter, and his gaze on Wrylla became more weighted—pointed, almost. Wrylla turned away, immediately uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure what emotion was glimmering in the high elf’s eyes right now, but she did know she didn’t like it one bit. It reminded her of how some hunters looked at trapped
prey they were about to kill. Fascinated, bloodthirsty, and somewhat pitiful.

From Solath’s perspective, something had sparked a sort of perverse interest in this scruffy human woman. She had a backbone in her and had no problems talking back to him. Aside from perhaps his mother, she was unique in that regard. His hunting partner and eventual wife-to-be, Valancia, was as passive and pliable as a doormat, so much so that she had become boring to him years ago now. Was he longing for something new, perhaps? Or did he relish the idea of breaking down the human’s resolve until she too couldn’t muster the courage to speak a word of harm against him? He was a hunter at heart, after all.

That must be it, then. The thrill of the hunt, the excitement of a new challenge. Wrylla was wilful, but he was *irresistible*. So he had been told hundreds of times, anyway. Solath pondered his interest in her, paying close attention to her physical features. She was smaller than average and so dreadfully plain-faced. Her eyes were too far apart, he thought. And her teeth—those teeth! Solath wagered his horse had straighter teeth than Wrylla did. Crooked little things, with a prominent gap between the front ones. At least they were clean, he supposed. And the plainness of her face was almost a pleasant contrast to her bright red hair, still pulled up in the same loose bun he had seen her wear on the tournament.

*She looks like a peasant*, Solath mused. *Am I really thinking of pursuing a peasant? My, how charitable I am! To give such an ugly girl the time of day— I must have my bard write a poem or two about this.*

Syralda returned at that moment, settling back down in her chair and yawning daintily behind a lace-gloved hand.

“My apologies, everyone. The dress I intended to change into was made a little too big, so we had to improvise.” She gestured sadly at her new ensemble, much to the confusion of Wrylla and Spoons. It was another silk and lace piece, opalescent and ethereal as the other. An intricately-patterned neckline climbed to Syralda’s slender throat, and both shoulders were left exposed. It was no less beautiful than the last one, but the Nightbinder matriarch clearly did not think so for how she complained about
it for the rest of the evening.

Wrylla eventually had to re-seat herself, no longer wanting to be near Solath. He had been steadily shifting closer to her, and when their knees brushed just for the barest moment that was the final straw. Wrylla moved next to Spoons, earning a dark look from Solath. Syralda seemed blind to it all but, in all fairness, that was likely due to the alcohol.

\*\*

Once desserts were had, the Nightbinders bid their guests farewell. Syralda embraced each of them in a hug, while Solath merely tipped his head in their direction. It was dark now at the doorway, so Wrylla could have been mistaken, but she was quite sure Solath *winked* at her. Spoons said he hadn’t seen anything when she asked him about it, so perhaps it had been a trick of the light.

Either way, Wrylla and Spoons were thankful for the food but eager to be rid of the company. They would have quite the time explaining their visit to the Nightbinder manor to Wirneth later, as she was endlessly fascinated by the nobles of Stormwind—particularly the elven ones. Once a noble herself, Wirneth was slightly obsessed with this sort of gossip. It made talking to her about it a little arduous.

Still, it wouldn’t hold up to the even worse time Wrylla was set to have the next morning when she would open and read the beautifully-penned letter slipped beneath her door as she slept.