In the Darkness: Upon the Crumbling Path Behind the Scarlet Monastery

Two shrouded figures stole silently out of the Scarlet Monastery.

From their broken gait, they seemed undead.

"But how would they know the secret way out of the Monastery - and emerge unscathed?"

The Deathguard edged up over the crumbling wall and peered through his spyglass again. The shadowy figures had gone. He heard the sound of paws fast receding. "In league with Orcs", he muttered. His mouth set in a grim line as he turned.

"Come!",he whispered urgently into the gloom. There was a faint creak of leather, and the slick rasping of a dagger being loosened in its sheath. "Follow them!", he hissed, gesturing after the last echo of wolfpads on the gravel path. "Send word to me by messenger!"

He slid slowly along the wall until he had the edge of the secret door in sight, and there he settled, with the infinite patience of the Forsaken, to watch.

He neither heard nor saw the blow which stunned him, leaving him nodding in confusion with his arms hanging limply at his sides. Perhaps that was a mercy. Before he recovered his senses a dark cloud enveloped him, and darts of pain shot through his sinews and bones. He looked at the ground with a sense of astonishment, as his withered organs were wrenched out and piled up before him.

He was sliced from shoulder-bone to shoulder, across his neck, his waist and his knees. He fell, gasping, as he heard the intonation he'd heard so often from his comrades-in-arms.

Already he could hear the word echoing in his skull....'deathhh'.

"But..you..." he rasped with great effort from a broken throat, "...You are Forsaken, Why...?"

The reply came from the shadows, from somewhere behind. A faint, dry-leaf crackle of a whisper: "Skassax bless ye, brother. You must embrace Her now, and it is better that way."

He saw yellow eyes, glowing. And that was the last thing he saw.

"Murder most fowl." muttered Admiral Cyrus, viewing the slaughter from the Lady's Will.

"Hmm?" asked the Navigator, steering the ship lazily.

"Ha, blitherin' idiots 'dem Deathguards are. Wander to close to 'tah 'moonestarie gain, sir?" asked one of the Forsaken Marines, scoffing at the foolishness of their land-bound counterparts.

"Yes... but I sense something worse afoot. We haven't seen much activity short some unlucky lost pirates the last month. Lets return to dock... something tells me this needs to be investigated." ordered Amiral Cyrus.

"Understood, sir." said the Navigator, the ship steering around. For a moment plainly visible in the eerie light of the moon, but the Forsaken Warship then quickly slipped back into the fog of the North-Sea.

"Shall I send a messanger bat to Queen Slyvanas, mi'lord?" asked the Navigator.

"No... I'll contact one of the Grand Admirals, one death, no matter how suspicious, needs not to go that high up the chain of command." explained Admiral Cyrus,

"Understood, sir. If Grand Executor Marrah is currently located in Northrend, then which one do you plan on reporting too?" asked the Navigator out of curiousity.

"Grand Executor Bellmont, methinks. Haven't seen him since the expedition." said Admiral Cyrus, leaning on the side of the boat.

The navigator shuttered, remembering the chaos of that event.

"Understood sir. We should be docked by the morrow's mid-day." said the Navigator.

Boney fingers gently touched the ground, brushed aside some leaves, and encircled the faint indention in the soil.

Under her breath, the shadow-Sharkfyn cackled softly.

"Yesss, little bruvver. you try to run. Now you pray for the night to hide ya." Then Sharkfyn swiveled her head slightly, dry lids narrowing as her mouth twisted into a thin sort of smile...."but I smell you little bruvver. You are very near. ."

She took a slow step. Then two.

"So near you don't dare to move....."

There was a sudden snap as a throwing knife was pulled from its sheath, and flung into the gloom. Sharkfyn's aim was rewarded with a sharp grunt of pain.

"Gotcha."

And then she was on him, a cyclone of flashing steel and dripping, serrated blades.

The dance did not take long, for Sharkfyn had mastered the steps. She guided her young rogue pupil through all of her favorite moves: the rib-cage hook and rip; the twin-bladed throat shredder; the Achilles-tendon tango. Her student was an enthusiastic subject, his mouth open in a silent scream, and eyes bulging with horror whenever some new body part fell away from him.

When it was finished, Sharkfyn sat quietly on the ground wiping her blades on the grass, as Psylich stepped into the small clearing.

"I see that you found him. Good. But I heard more coming up the path. We must hide the body quickly. And leave"

The bushes barely rustled as they slid the corpse behind a tree, and scraped a few leaves over it.

"Good enough," whispered Psylich. "We'll be well away before they...."

Sharkfyn stared at him, eyes gleaming. "Before tha wut? Find im? Won't take em long ta find im."

Psylich nodded. "Yes, it seems that some of his fingers have gone missing. Would you know where they are, by chance?"

Sharkfyn glanced around, snatched a mangled stump of flesh from the carpet of dead leaves, and slid it into one of the many pouches arrayed on her belt.

"That's one," Psylich nodded. "See any others?"

Sharkfyn shrugged, scanned the ground again, and shook her head. "If I can't, neiver can they."

The priest nodded once. "Very good then. We must go now...if Fairbanks speaks the truth, we have our work before us. We must get back to the cave before we are missed."

The two quickly stood, and slid away into the mist, not noticing the severed thumb laying in the tangled roots of a nearby tree.