(17) - Stockade Slaughter

The front door to Griffonclaw's house in Stormwind opened, and a lady crossed the threshold with her Imp, striding with complete confidence as if it was her residence, and not already inhabited. Griffonclaw looked up from where he was painting from a sketch reference, and without seeming haste covered the in-process work with a cloth. He put down his tools, smiled, and spoke to the intruder.

"Lady Selvaggia, how good to see you. A shame they don't teach "knock before entering someone else's house" lessons at the Warlock schools..." He accompanied the barb with a grin, to show that there really was no offense... although Griffonclaw was dismayed, privately. She had breezed - apparently without notice - through the finest wards his friends in Ironforge had been able to supply. Such an excess of power made him... nervous.

"I have come, Lord Boogeyman" she began, ignoring his comment, "to see if you are as good as your word; you promised that should I need help, you would stand with me, and I have recently accepted a commission with which I would welcome assistance." As ever, her voice made Griffonclaw self-conscious; she spoke with tones that spoke to him of his family, and the Silverpine desmesnes.

"May I offer you some drink, Lady?" he asked.

"I find alcohol quite distasteful, thank you" she responded.

"I have Moonberry..."

"Thank you, no."

Griffonclaw wondered if she was purposefully refusing any hospitality to see if she could discomfit him... but probably not. That would indicate that she thought much of him at all, and she'd made it very clear at their first meeting that she had little regard for the Light, or those who served it. His own offer of assistance had been in response to that dismissal; it had rankled, to be dismissed as a pompous political paladin, especially since she didn't know his history, and how wrong she was.

What made him even more uneasy was the swiftness with which he had come to care about what she thought of him. She was of average height for a woman, and well-proportioned. Her snow-white skin contrasted beautifully with hair the color of a raven's wing... or warlock's heart. She had the high cheekbones of the nobility, and the grace that made her seem to float, rather than walk. Her eyebrows arched high, in a seeming perpetual disapproval of him... and he found her achingly beautiful. Or only detractor... if indeed, it didn't add to her allure... were her eyes, which were a deep scarlet in color.

"A constant reminder of her temper, no doubt" he thought as he readied himself to act as her living shield.

"Indeed..." he began, beginning the process of putting his painting implements away and donning his arms and armor. "Where are we off to, then..."

"Across the Plaza" Selvaggia smirked. "I have been asked by the Warden Thelwater to put down an insurrection in the Stockade." She smiled at Griffonclaw as he pulled tight the straps of greave and vambrace. "He wants me to take the head of one Bazil Thredd, the instigator and one-time friend of the Defias Brotherhood. He has also made it clear that in so doing, if some of the fiercer convicts, insurrectionists, and insurgents meet their demise... well, it would save Stormwind the trouble of a trial and the expense of a hanging."

Griffonclaw checked his baldric which hung over his shoulder, his new blade hanging comfortably. Doombringer it was called, and he had found it covered with dust in the armory of the Argent Exodus. He had felt... oddly attuned to the blade from the moment he toouched the long two-handed hilt. It was a blade of the Shadows, and its negative energy would often leap from blade to target, eating the very life of whoever Griffonclaw was fighting. A cursed blade. And against the advice of the Holy Father Barri, Griffonclaw had hung up his Truesilver Champion in its favor.

Griffonclaw offered her his arm as they crossed the plaza to the entrance to the Stormwind Stockade... and to his surprise, she took it, her Imp blazing away behind them, mumbling in its demonic tongue.

The Stormwind Stockade was a heavily-guarded prison in the middle of Stormwind, and the home to a large number of the most dangeous criminals in and around the city. Corrupt politicians, criminal masterminds, captured Defias bandits, as well as petty crooks and thieves occupied its cells, although apparently the notorios Bazil Thredd had recently roused them to an uprising. The guards immediately let them though, and Griffonclaw spent a few minutes calling the healing of the Light for some of the recently wounded guards as Selvaggia cleared their entry with Warden Thelwater. The barracades were moved aside, and together Selvaggia and Griffonclaw descended into the dungeon depths.

They barely reached the first landing before being attacked. Five former prisoners, all armed with weapons taken from dead guardsmen, charged them from the hall. Griffonclaw took three steps forward, drawing Doombringer as he moved, deadly grace in his armor. He almost felt sorry for the first one; he had tried to brain Griffonclaw with a makeshift mace, but the paladin had nudged the shaft out of line with the tip of his own sword, passing by the felon closely, and pulling his sword from a high guard block to a forward guard... with the result that the blade cleaved, almost without noticeable resistance, through the felon's neck.

Griffonclaw saw some of them look past him to where Selvaggia stood, beginning an incantation, and mumbled a short prayer. The ground around him became infused with Light, and shocked the surrounding foemen - not enough to incapacitate, but enough so that they decided to refocus on Griffonclaw. A snap-kick to the unprotected kneecap followed by a stop-thrust of the pointed crystalline pommel to his head as he crumbled dispatched a second enemy. A third tried to parry a teardrop stroke with his iron sword, but the iron was no match for cursed mithril-truesilver alloy, and Doombringer barely paused before slicing deep from collar bone to mid-chest. Again, dark energy crackled along the blade, and it pulled free effortlessly.

In the interim, Selvaggia had invoked her own dark magics, and she and her imp rained down shadow bolt and hellfire on the remaining two. One fell where he had stood, and the other turned.

He made three steps before her final shadow bolt brought him down.

Griffonclaw and Selvaggia moved further into the prison. They found more insurgents, and killed them. Some escaped, and word travelled fast; their journey became a game of mutual stalking. At one point, having dispatched two attackers, Griffonclaw turned to her and quipped "You pick the most interesting places for a first date, Lady Selvaggia."

"Please... I left behind any claim to a title when my family was dispossessed by the Scourge" she reponded. "Just Selvaggia, please."

"One with such an intellect, wit, and grace can hardly be anything but noble, dear Lady" he answered, grinning. "Title in abeyyance or not."

"Hopefully the speed of your sword arm will match the speed of your tongue" she teased in return.

Griffonclaw grinned. "We shall see, Lady"

"Selvaggia" she reminded.

Griffonclaw lowered his sword and leaned forward, kissing her swiftly on the cheek before she could react, and then was aprowl again, her following down a corridor.

"And that was for...?" she asked.

"It is impossible for me to be formal..." he said as two cutthroats rounded the corner and charged them. Griffonclaw barely paused long enough to kill them, his blade and her shadow bolts striking as one. "...with one I've kissed."

She chuckled.

"You call THAT a kiss, Griffon? No wonder paladins have such a poor reputation..."

He turned to her swiftly and took her chin in his hand. His lips parted, and captured hers, a gentle searching, a slight probing of her defenses. A small hint of the passion he was withholding. A far too swift benediction, from his heart to her lips. He pulled away, and he could feel her follow him, reluctant to let it end. He felt a feeling akin to that which he felt when channelling the Light... but new that it was the light from those scarlet eyes, and nothing sacred.

He braced for the anticipated slap, but none was forthcoming.

"Much better" she said softly.

They continued deeper.

They entered a chamber that had several different paths leading away in other directions... and before they could chose a path and continue, each of them erupted with ragged, armed prisoners, howling for their blood. One in particular, wearing armor taken from fallen guards, urged them on.

"Bring me their heads, lads! Teach them not to mess with Bazil Thredd!"

"At least we won't have to go far to finish... " Griffonclaw heard Selvaggia mumble, and he felt a glow in his heart... she was as fearless as she was beautiful, secure in her own abilities, and Griffonclaw found himself strangely proud of this woman, although he had to right to feel such.

He turned his own attention to defense, weaving a ring of death around himself with Doombringer's point and edge. Any specific train of thought vanished underneath his training and the press of combat, ignoring the sounds of screams as he severed an arm here, disembowled a criminal there, shattered a collar bone elsewhere... a woman's scream broke him from his almost meditative state, however... Selvaggia!

He turned, and a wave of anger and guilt suffused his whole being. Her imp had been banished, and she was surrounded. He noted how gracefully she moved, and that someone had taught her the basics of hand combat... but it was not enough. She had cuts and bruises, and her short staff was furiously blocking attacks from three enemies.

Griffonclaw spoke more swiftly than he ever had in his life, pointing at her and praying:

"Light protect and Light preseve
Heal her muscle, bone and nerve!"

Light gathered inside her and he saw wounds heal... but not completely. He repeated it, and was almost finished when he saw a disturbing sight.

A spearhead, erupting from his stomach.

Pain warred with rage, and he roared with agony as he pulled the spear through himself and clear... the surrounding enemies stopped, watching in horror. Griffonclaw stayed on his feet - intense agony was not unfamiliar to him - and invoked the Word of Light that triggered a complete healing of his body... the Laying On Of Hands. He laughed as he watched their faces fall in dismay; they were obviously unware that he could only do that once in a great while.

His laughter turned to a fiery hot berserkir rage when he say Selvaggia on the ground, unmoving.

Doombringer sang with an eerie wail as Griffonclaw shouted "Havok!" and let loose any semblance of self-control. Selvaggia was wounded, perhaps unto death... but if she was not completely dead there was a small spark that he could nurture back to life, Light permitting. But to do that, he could not be surrounded by axe and mace. From Bazil to the pettiest criminal, all those standing before him needed to die... and now.

He fought his way to her body and stood over it to prevent them from any desecration, although in his mind their rough treatment of her was defilement enough to warrant their slow, torturous death. They came, and he sheathed his sword in visceral and bone, flesh and ichor... "Selvaggia would have been amused to see me like this" he thought savagely, "And dispel that all paladins are pompous and powerless..."

Finally, he was the only one standing, in a chamber of horrors. He had not given them easy deaths, but had struck with brutal, mechanical efficiency. Thrudd's head lay at Selvaggia's feet as he knelt next to her, taking her in his arms.

"From spark to flame, Light I plead
Here me now in time of need
Restore this woman to vital life
Torn apart in violent strife
Bring her back from Endless Night
To walk once more under fair sun-Light"

He felt the Light gather, but from inside himself... the force of Light that kept the Darkness at bay and fanned the mortal flames of life could not be invoked from the Light directly, but had to come from within. When someone died, their spirit did not immediately flee to whatever heaven or hell awaited it; rather, it could be enticed back into the body, and the body healed, if there was something so attractive to it that it could not resist... like a small piece of the invoker's soul. It hurt, and he would feel... disjointed until some time had passed, but it was the only way.

And Selvaggia was worth that, and more.

She woke in his arms, only to find him mumbling the healing charm again... restorative didn't mean fully restored - and this time she leaned up to stop his prayer with a kiss... Griffonclaw thought perhaps that it was merely a kiss of gratitude, but she moaned into his mouth as the kiss lengthened and because more passionate. He stroked her raven tresses, and felt her tongue dance against his lips erotically, giving him little dount that his earlier interpretation was quite mistaken.

Finally, she broke the kiss and stood, with Griffonclaw helping her to her feet. They were both perhaps a little shakey, as much from the passion shared in the kiss as from their own efforts. "If I choose strange places for dates, Griffon, you pick odd gifts" she said as she lifted the gruesome trophy and placed it in a canvass bag.

Griffonclaw had the grace to blush.

As they made their way out, their conversation turned to other things.

"Griffonclaw... I must ask. Are you feigning your feelings?" she questioned, her voice deceptively calm and conversational.

"No, Selvaggia... I am quite sincere. Why do you question?" he responded.

"Well, I thought perhaps you were trying to bed me so that you could get information from me..." she answered, feeling a little foolish.

Griffonclaw spoke, his voice dropping with gravity. "I kiss you because I... am attracted to you. Who would not be, after all - you are a woman of exceedingly rare qualities... power, education, beauty, wit, charm, grace... taken all in all, I suspect that you conquer hearts wherever you go." He stopped, and turned to her. "If you consent to let me court you, Lady Selvaggia, I will forsake all others until we resolve matters."

"And as for the Scions, I already have a spy. Var...the spy tells me that Keruptis plans something for Catrionae's wedding on Saturday. "

"Surely you are mistaken; I cannot believe he would be so petty."

"Indeed? Then perhaps you will do me the honor of being my date to the occassion? Perhaps even stand beside me and against the Scions should they attempt a mischief?" he challenged.

"I would be honored to attend" she replied, smugly sure of herself.

He turned away, leading again on their way out. "I will not ask the same of you as regards courting, as I do not know your temperment. But I pledge that, on my part."

Finally, they found themselves at the first landing from where they had entered the dark prison.

He turned to her, and pulled her close, his hands resting on her waist. Wordless, he kissed her again, hungrily, feeling her respond in kind. His hands stroked the small of her back, and his lips traveled across her face, tracing her jawline, nibbling on her ear. She moaned, and arched her back, presenting her shoulders and chest, and he bit her neck and shoulders while his hands slid up to cup her breasts through the soft, delicate material of her robes. He found her lips again, and sucked on her bottom lip, his tongue teasing. He could feel her nipples, hard beneath the material, and he longed to strip her bare, and take her... but she was a gentle lady, noble born.

He broke the kiss... "This is not the right place... the right time... to take things further.

She leaned back, and her look became cruel and mocking "How like a paladin, to always seek the Right place, and the Right time..."