Story: The Heart of a Forsaken
Marcus Rosse regarded his underling curiously as she walked into the room. The way she halted just beyond the door, shoulders stooped like prey; her claws clicking at her sides. One thing could always be said about Caeryn Peyton, and it was that one rarely caught her unawares. Even here in his vast Undercity office, she remained alert and suspicious - her head always facing forward, the eyeless face giving away very little. But the constant tension in her bearing, the way she rarely ceased moving, it was almost admirable.
“Sit, Peyton,” Rosse said the order smoothly, watching as the woman slowly walked forward, searching with her hands for a chair. When she finally did sit, she chose the edge of the seat, her gaunt frame dwarfed in the enormity of the chair’s structure.
Marcus Rosse crossed to the desk across from her, shuffling some papers. Caeryn Peyton’s head moving slightly at the sound, “I have noticed that you wish to cease your services at this Tavern in the neutral territory of Ratchet.” His voice carried a tone of boredom with it, “What we want to know is why? Your reports in the past year have been sporadic at best, with very little import.”
The female Deathstalker tilted her head to one side, gripping the edge of her femur with her claws, “Over the last few months,” she began, “I have been called away from the position to tend to specific duties here. Many to which I can lend my particular brand of expertise. I believe my talents in Kalimdor are being ill spent - from a monetary standpoint.”
Rosse picked up a particular long scroll and reviewed it quickly, “It would seem so, your productivity while in Lordaeron far exceeds your output in Kalimdor, and the expense of transport is great,” he paused, watching his protégé’s face with some interest, “However, we are aware of your particular weaknesses, Peyton, and we are concerned that matters of your supposed ‘cold dead heart’ may be hindering your decision.”
Caeryn’s head snapped to attention, “Can we keep this on a strictly business standpoint, Mr. Rosse? There are practical means to keep me within the Undercity’s walls and not have me gallivanting about primitive lands for lack of information.”
There was a sound of something heavy landing on the desk between the two Deathstalkers, “This would be your file, Miss Peyton, and it includes some rather interesting information regarding a Mr. Wilburr - also some witness accounts as to some goings on with a Jeremy Smith? There is also the grey area regarding the Surrey brothers,” Caeryn’s brow furrowed slightly, “What we wonder, Miss Peyton, is exactly whom you are protecting in Kalimdor?”
“I am protecting no individual in Kalimdor,” Caeryn Peyton said, unable to hold back all of her frustration, “The incidents with those mentioned have since passed, and there were no feelings there. If you notice how each of those things ended - if you have such things in your file - they betrayed no modicum of emotion on the part of myself, and they never ended well for the male in question.”
“The fact was that they were allowed to happen, Peyton,” Rosse said, a grin spreading across his face, “Which allows us to understand that some part of you cares for broken things. If there is something all of these cast offs had in common, it was that each of them were unwelcome by their people - is that with whom you choose to associate yourself?”
Caeryn raised an eyebrow, saying incredulously, “Of course not. I serve The Banshee Queen.”
Marcus Rosse flipped through some sections of the file, “And what about this Zephyr Crew with whom you have associated yourself. We know very little of them. You have been amongst them for nearly five years, and yet the information in your reports regarding their roster is nigh absent. Other than, of course, the several reports involving a Miss Maranwe Elensar, all of which proved to be useless; as well as those of quote idiosyncratic unquote behavior from a Miss Feira.”
She nearly spit out the response, “They are a ridiculous innocuous group of fools who run a tavern twice weekly. I have had to take over the managerial aspects of the tavern, as the imbeciles cannot even rub two coins together and make sums. They are of no consequence. The count children among their ranks, Mr. Rosse, surely such a group of babysitters cannot pose a threat to The Crown?”
The Deathstalker Lord regarded Peyton carefully. She was venomous at the best of times, but she was also known as being highly impatient. Assigned to the Zephyr Crew by the Royal Apothecary Society years ago … she did not leave after an incident went horribly awry, and yet a woman with a fuse as quick to ignite as hers remained: to manage their tavern and do their dirty work for nearly five years … for The Crown.
“So you wish to leave your position in Kalimdor, just as easily as it was assigned to you?” Rosse asked, continuing to watch his employee with measured interest.
“Yes.”
It was a pointed answer, delivered in a flattened tone. It satisfied Rosse. Peyton was known for her pragmaticism, and in this it was no different. “I think, however, I will have you remain a member of your Zephyr Crew should we need an occasional Kalimdor Ambassador,” Rosse smiled, “They trust you, these idiots. They will have no qualms if you were to come back to observe some activity at a time when we may require further observation. It would seem odd to place another Forsaken when you have so publicly left.”
“Understood, Mr. Rosse.”
He cleared his throat, closing the file with some fanfare. He leaned in closer, waving her away with one hand, “Go, Peyton. You continue to surprise me - perhaps one of these years you will be of some great use to The Banshee Queen, rather than a plaything for some Argent Crusader.”
She stood slowly, turning on her heel toward the door. Stating clearly in reply, “That wasn’t amusing.”
Rosse grinned, “I am aware.”
He idly watched as the prey left the room, as stalked as when she entered it. She’d never let down her guard for a moment. He shook his head, opening up the file. He thumbed through it a moment longer, clicking his tongue in disapproval as he read, “The woman has a heart. What a foul thing indeed.”
“Sit, Peyton,” Rosse said the order smoothly, watching as the woman slowly walked forward, searching with her hands for a chair. When she finally did sit, she chose the edge of the seat, her gaunt frame dwarfed in the enormity of the chair’s structure.
Marcus Rosse crossed to the desk across from her, shuffling some papers. Caeryn Peyton’s head moving slightly at the sound, “I have noticed that you wish to cease your services at this Tavern in the neutral territory of Ratchet.” His voice carried a tone of boredom with it, “What we want to know is why? Your reports in the past year have been sporadic at best, with very little import.”
The female Deathstalker tilted her head to one side, gripping the edge of her femur with her claws, “Over the last few months,” she began, “I have been called away from the position to tend to specific duties here. Many to which I can lend my particular brand of expertise. I believe my talents in Kalimdor are being ill spent - from a monetary standpoint.”
Rosse picked up a particular long scroll and reviewed it quickly, “It would seem so, your productivity while in Lordaeron far exceeds your output in Kalimdor, and the expense of transport is great,” he paused, watching his protégé’s face with some interest, “However, we are aware of your particular weaknesses, Peyton, and we are concerned that matters of your supposed ‘cold dead heart’ may be hindering your decision.”
Caeryn’s head snapped to attention, “Can we keep this on a strictly business standpoint, Mr. Rosse? There are practical means to keep me within the Undercity’s walls and not have me gallivanting about primitive lands for lack of information.”
There was a sound of something heavy landing on the desk between the two Deathstalkers, “This would be your file, Miss Peyton, and it includes some rather interesting information regarding a Mr. Wilburr - also some witness accounts as to some goings on with a Jeremy Smith? There is also the grey area regarding the Surrey brothers,” Caeryn’s brow furrowed slightly, “What we wonder, Miss Peyton, is exactly whom you are protecting in Kalimdor?”
“I am protecting no individual in Kalimdor,” Caeryn Peyton said, unable to hold back all of her frustration, “The incidents with those mentioned have since passed, and there were no feelings there. If you notice how each of those things ended - if you have such things in your file - they betrayed no modicum of emotion on the part of myself, and they never ended well for the male in question.”
“The fact was that they were allowed to happen, Peyton,” Rosse said, a grin spreading across his face, “Which allows us to understand that some part of you cares for broken things. If there is something all of these cast offs had in common, it was that each of them were unwelcome by their people - is that with whom you choose to associate yourself?”
Caeryn raised an eyebrow, saying incredulously, “Of course not. I serve The Banshee Queen.”
Marcus Rosse flipped through some sections of the file, “And what about this Zephyr Crew with whom you have associated yourself. We know very little of them. You have been amongst them for nearly five years, and yet the information in your reports regarding their roster is nigh absent. Other than, of course, the several reports involving a Miss Maranwe Elensar, all of which proved to be useless; as well as those of quote idiosyncratic unquote behavior from a Miss Feira.”
She nearly spit out the response, “They are a ridiculous innocuous group of fools who run a tavern twice weekly. I have had to take over the managerial aspects of the tavern, as the imbeciles cannot even rub two coins together and make sums. They are of no consequence. The count children among their ranks, Mr. Rosse, surely such a group of babysitters cannot pose a threat to The Crown?”
The Deathstalker Lord regarded Peyton carefully. She was venomous at the best of times, but she was also known as being highly impatient. Assigned to the Zephyr Crew by the Royal Apothecary Society years ago … she did not leave after an incident went horribly awry, and yet a woman with a fuse as quick to ignite as hers remained: to manage their tavern and do their dirty work for nearly five years … for The Crown.
“So you wish to leave your position in Kalimdor, just as easily as it was assigned to you?” Rosse asked, continuing to watch his employee with measured interest.
“Yes.”
It was a pointed answer, delivered in a flattened tone. It satisfied Rosse. Peyton was known for her pragmaticism, and in this it was no different. “I think, however, I will have you remain a member of your Zephyr Crew should we need an occasional Kalimdor Ambassador,” Rosse smiled, “They trust you, these idiots. They will have no qualms if you were to come back to observe some activity at a time when we may require further observation. It would seem odd to place another Forsaken when you have so publicly left.”
“Understood, Mr. Rosse.”
He cleared his throat, closing the file with some fanfare. He leaned in closer, waving her away with one hand, “Go, Peyton. You continue to surprise me - perhaps one of these years you will be of some great use to The Banshee Queen, rather than a plaything for some Argent Crusader.”
She stood slowly, turning on her heel toward the door. Stating clearly in reply, “That wasn’t amusing.”
Rosse grinned, “I am aware.”
He idly watched as the prey left the room, as stalked as when she entered it. She’d never let down her guard for a moment. He shook his head, opening up the file. He thumbed through it a moment longer, clicking his tongue in disapproval as he read, “The woman has a heart. What a foul thing indeed.”