Story: Inception
- 8 months prior to the present -
“Do come in, my dear man,” Anthony Olin’s voice dripping as darkly as his black teeth. “I have prepared beverages for our little chat, would you care to partake?”
Montgomery Pyre surveyed the room. It was sparse enough in its opulence; curtains hung mockingly over absent windows, framed silhouettes of native Tirisfal birds on the walls, “Cheery place you have here, Mister Olin.”
“I do enjoy it, I do enjoy it,” Olin continued in his ichor-sweet voice, “Now, come. Take a seat, pull up a drink. We have so much to talk about.”
Pyre sat in the threadbare upholstered chair opposite Olin, a small table between them. He raised his glass, “Cheers.” Pyre threw the whiskey down in one gulp, “Now, I came here to talk about the Peyton Proposition.”
Anthony Olin set down his glass on the table, “Ah yes, the Education on Peyton. I would very much like to start this little … project of mine. As, you see, the other Deathstalker Lords find her indispensable, while I find her a waste of space,” he licked his teeth, “Unfortunately, the others have convinced those in power that she is of value. This, my dear boy, is where you come in.”
Montgomery Pyre took a more comfortable posture in his chair, “I am intrigued. How do I fit into this plot of yours?”
“You are friendly with this Caeryn Peyton. You have had several conversations with her in her office. You have a camaraderie with her that none of the other Deathstalkers seem to have obtained,” Olin leaned in closely, “For what small amounts of trust the woman doles out to her colleagues, Mister Pyre, you seem to have gained it all.”
Pyre smirked, “For whatever that’s worth, the woman is a veritable frozen fortress.”
The Deathstalker Lord clucked his tongue in disapproval, reaching out a long claw toward Montgomery Pyre, “I have more faith in you than that my young Forsaken. I see in you more analytical prowess than you show your compatriots. I have read your deliciously thorough dossiers, your fastidiously detailed field-work documentation,” Olin snatched his finger away, curling his hand around his kneecap, “You, my lad, are a true professional in every sense of the word.”
“Unlike Peyton.”
“Unlike Caeryn Peyton, exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself. So how better to render the fall of such a fraud than with a professional whom she trusts so implicitly? Than by making her trust them without question?” Picking up his drink, Olin watched Pyre carefully over the rim of his glass for the Deathstalker’s reaction.
“I don’t really follow, sir.”
Montgomery shifted in his seat. He could feel the springs in the cushion. The whiskey he drank so swiftly, was it going to his head? He could feel the burn on his throat. Bravado was the wrong move there, perhaps. He adjusted his posture, leaning forward onto the arm of the chair, to look more intent. Olin’s grin showed through the bottom of his glass, horrifically magnified into a grotesque horror of black teeth and tongue.
“Oh my dear boy, I should have explained,” Olin put down his glass, “I am dispatching the two of you to Alliance territory as two members of a six-man strike team. She will be the commanding officer, and you her second,” Olin cleared his throat, “This is where you will guide her, to fall for you.”
Pyre blinked, “You must have missed the part where I said she was a frozen fortress? A dominion of solitude?”
“We have documentation and proof to suggest otherwise, I suggest you take the file on my desk out for some light reading before you leave tomorrow evening,” Olin stood up, “She will be easily manipulated, Monty. I can call you Monty, yes?”
Pyre sat there, mouth agape, in shock.
“So Monty, are you prepared to have Caeryn Peyton fall head over heels for you? You won’t be the first. But come felfire or high water, you will be the last.”
Montgomery Pyre creaked to a stand, and walked in a daze over to the file on the desk. It was substantial, marked: “C.P. Deathstalker Official, Undercity.”
“I dare say you’re ready, have fun, Monty! We will have a chat again soon,” Anthony Olin seemed to brush Montgomery Pyre out of the room with his long arm like so much rotten debris, and the door shut behind him, with a sound of finality.
“Do come in, my dear man,” Anthony Olin’s voice dripping as darkly as his black teeth. “I have prepared beverages for our little chat, would you care to partake?”
Montgomery Pyre surveyed the room. It was sparse enough in its opulence; curtains hung mockingly over absent windows, framed silhouettes of native Tirisfal birds on the walls, “Cheery place you have here, Mister Olin.”
“I do enjoy it, I do enjoy it,” Olin continued in his ichor-sweet voice, “Now, come. Take a seat, pull up a drink. We have so much to talk about.”
Pyre sat in the threadbare upholstered chair opposite Olin, a small table between them. He raised his glass, “Cheers.” Pyre threw the whiskey down in one gulp, “Now, I came here to talk about the Peyton Proposition.”
Anthony Olin set down his glass on the table, “Ah yes, the Education on Peyton. I would very much like to start this little … project of mine. As, you see, the other Deathstalker Lords find her indispensable, while I find her a waste of space,” he licked his teeth, “Unfortunately, the others have convinced those in power that she is of value. This, my dear boy, is where you come in.”
Montgomery Pyre took a more comfortable posture in his chair, “I am intrigued. How do I fit into this plot of yours?”
“You are friendly with this Caeryn Peyton. You have had several conversations with her in her office. You have a camaraderie with her that none of the other Deathstalkers seem to have obtained,” Olin leaned in closely, “For what small amounts of trust the woman doles out to her colleagues, Mister Pyre, you seem to have gained it all.”
Pyre smirked, “For whatever that’s worth, the woman is a veritable frozen fortress.”
The Deathstalker Lord clucked his tongue in disapproval, reaching out a long claw toward Montgomery Pyre, “I have more faith in you than that my young Forsaken. I see in you more analytical prowess than you show your compatriots. I have read your deliciously thorough dossiers, your fastidiously detailed field-work documentation,” Olin snatched his finger away, curling his hand around his kneecap, “You, my lad, are a true professional in every sense of the word.”
“Unlike Peyton.”
“Unlike Caeryn Peyton, exactly. I couldn’t have said it better myself. So how better to render the fall of such a fraud than with a professional whom she trusts so implicitly? Than by making her trust them without question?” Picking up his drink, Olin watched Pyre carefully over the rim of his glass for the Deathstalker’s reaction.
“I don’t really follow, sir.”
Montgomery shifted in his seat. He could feel the springs in the cushion. The whiskey he drank so swiftly, was it going to his head? He could feel the burn on his throat. Bravado was the wrong move there, perhaps. He adjusted his posture, leaning forward onto the arm of the chair, to look more intent. Olin’s grin showed through the bottom of his glass, horrifically magnified into a grotesque horror of black teeth and tongue.
“Oh my dear boy, I should have explained,” Olin put down his glass, “I am dispatching the two of you to Alliance territory as two members of a six-man strike team. She will be the commanding officer, and you her second,” Olin cleared his throat, “This is where you will guide her, to fall for you.”
Pyre blinked, “You must have missed the part where I said she was a frozen fortress? A dominion of solitude?”
“We have documentation and proof to suggest otherwise, I suggest you take the file on my desk out for some light reading before you leave tomorrow evening,” Olin stood up, “She will be easily manipulated, Monty. I can call you Monty, yes?”
Pyre sat there, mouth agape, in shock.
“So Monty, are you prepared to have Caeryn Peyton fall head over heels for you? You won’t be the first. But come felfire or high water, you will be the last.”
Montgomery Pyre creaked to a stand, and walked in a daze over to the file on the desk. It was substantial, marked: “C.P. Deathstalker Official, Undercity.”
“I dare say you’re ready, have fun, Monty! We will have a chat again soon,” Anthony Olin seemed to brush Montgomery Pyre out of the room with his long arm like so much rotten debris, and the door shut behind him, with a sound of finality.