Chapter 6

Returning to the Bay

Booty Bay. Two words that entailed so much history. The centre of a kind of illegality that could put a man's life at risk. For some Azerothians, it was a rush that kept them coming back to the port city. For others, it was a way of life, one they could not escape, yet tried so very hard to. Either way, the reliable patrons have kept the Bay in business, no stem in the flow of money and goods into and out of its generous docks.

Iyana trudged up the stairs, balancing a bundle of cumbersome boxes in her arms. She wondered what kept Stefan coming back. It wasn't the money, and he had proved that he could escape the grimey underworld life. Perhaps it was the thrill. But she could live with that; a man's thirst for adventure was no crime, it was merely in his nature. And she loved Stefan too much to care. Besides, she found it exciting as well.

"Stefan! My arms are full!" she called as she approached the closed door. She leaned on the wooden frame to catch her breath.

"It's open!"

His reply came too late. The door slid free as her weight settled in, and with a squeal of suprise, Iyana toppled into the room, the boxes falling from her grasp in every direction. With a groan more of aggravation than pain Iyana slid a large box aside, directing her gaze toward Stefan, who sat patiently by the bed. He was looking at her, a childish grin on his face.

"I told you it was open," he said.

"Climb a tree and screw a buzzard," she replied, rising to her feet.

As Iyana retrieved the fallen boxes, Stefan buttoned up his shirt. He had dressed in his usual white attire, a mix of casual wear with a bit of fashionable taste. Beneath the finely-threaded shirt and pants was his leather armor, thin enough to conceal effectively beneath a layer of clothing, but thick enough to let a stray blow slide clear. He bent over to check the fastenings on his steel-toed boots, and after a careful inspection, donned his belt once again, the pair of maces strapped to his waist.

"They are beauties," started Stefan. "Fine craftsmenship."

Iyana dropped another box onto a stack in the corner, then turned to face Stefan. She was wearing an elegant, lacy war harness, strips of leather running about her torso and waist. They overlapped in patterns pleasing to the eye, and were not only comfortable but looked exceptionally fitting on her Elven frame. It served as a distraction as well as protection. From her own weapon belt, she slid free one of the two daggers she always carried with her. It glinted purple in the morning light.

"Aye. Too bad he 'ran out' a bit prematurely," said Iyana.

"Come, come! Your blades are still Elementium!" contested Stefan.

"Yes...Elementium tipped."

"Well, look at it this way," continued Stefan, adjusting the buckle of his belt. "If you come across a demon, you need only to stab it in the heart, and the Elementium will do the rest of the work."

"Perhaps, but some demons have their hearts buried somewhere between their belly and their arse," replied Iyana.

"Then I suggest you get to plugging! It doesn't sound the least bit unenjoyable."

"You're sick, Stefan."

"Possibly. Now shall we? Mae's hard at work putting together the supplies. Before we begin our little journey to the Frozen North, we'll need a ship, and in turn--"

"A crew," finished Iyana.

He nodded and winked, then gestured to the door. "After you."

---

They set up shop on the rise where the ferry from Ratchet arrived, what Stefan deemed to be the most populated walkway of Booty Bay, perhaps beside the doorstep of its many bars and taverns. His instinct had not failed him; between that morning and scant hours before dusk, a plethora of strange kinds had visited their makeshift desk.

A Dwarf with three heavy, metal rings clinging to his nose, a Gnome with just as many eyes. A giant Tauren with a row of thumbs on a necklace wrapped about his throat, a Troll waving about shrunken heads without a second thought. One look from Iyana was all it took to move the Troll on, and another to send their next patron away, a Blood Elf with a strange growth running along the right side of her face. Oddly enough, many of the seemingly normal folk passed by their booth without even as much as a glance, yet all the crazies and hoots were drawn to them like a raptor to a stinking carcass. In a brief respite between surges of eager recruits, Iyana voiced her concern to Stefan.

"Perhaps we should change the sign from 'Need Crew for Northrend' to 'Gold Merchant Lost at Sea'? We might draw a better crowd."

"Nonsense! You need only to be patient! We will get a crew, as surely as the sun rises and falls each day," replied Stefan.

"Stefan, it's almost dusk," noted Iyana.

"Ah, bite me," moaned Stefan, rubbing his forehead tiredly. They hadn't drawn much of a decent clientele, and he knew that.

But his eyes brightened. Out of the passing crowd, another figure had emerged. He didn't know why, but something about this newcomer had "winner" all over him. He couldn't see the man's face well, but he could see that he was a Human. Probably not much older than Stefan, if not a bit younger. He waved the man down, who drew nearer.

"See, salvation at last," muttered Stefan. "Hello there! Interested in a trip to Northrend? T'will be a journey you won't want to miss!"

The Human stepped into the light, placing his hands onto the plank and leaning forward into the light of a closeby torch. Stefan saw his face, and for a moment, didn't recognize the eye patch and crooked mouth. But then realization washed over him, and he tensed slightly.

"Sounds like a mighty good offer. When do we leave, Stefan?" said the man in a low, hostile voice.

Iyana looked confusedly between Eye-Patch and Stefan. "Stefan, who is this man?"

Stefan answered with an incomprehensible curse. He lifted the table into the air, sending Eye-Patch sprawling to the floor. Iyana turned to see Stefan sprinting off down the planks. In another moment, the man was chasing after him, swearing and cursing incessantly. Looking between the disappearing figures and the mess on the boardwalk, Iyana sighed in defeat.

"Oh, what the hell," she stammered, and ran off after them.

---

His target whisked by on light heels, followed closely by another Human. He didn't know the second one, nor did he care much. His instructions were clear; the man called Stefan Dreis could not live. And whatever it was the Lich King ordered, Sancristor would carry out. Such was the story of his Undead life for the past decade, an assassin for the True King. Sancristor had been a professional Rogue working under the careful supervision of SI:7, of that he was sure. But the last thing he remembered was venturing into the Western Plaguelands.

He didn't remember completing his mission. Now, he served the remainder of his duty under the all-consuming gaze of the Lich King.

He heard a third set of hurried steps, and watched calmly as a Night Elf female ran after the other two. When he was certain that was the last of his interruptions, he slid away from the mouth of the alley, clinging to the many shadows that mottled the boardwalks. The Rogue pursued the trio at a slow, yet unfaltering pace. Before they knew it, he would be on top of them. Stefan would die first; he was required.

As Sancristor slid a pair of slender, oiled-down daggers out from his black clothing, he contemplated the many ways he could inflict pain upon the other two. They would be his reward, a small sacrifice to his insatiable thrist for bloodshed.