(53) - Dance of the Dead

Griffonclaw was bored watching the goblins and other patrons of the Salty Sailor. The tavern was approaching full; he had arrived early for his appointment, and gotten a corner seat, his back to the wall, as was his standard preference. He was not too concerned over safety; the Bruisers generally did a good job of keeping the peace.

On the other hand, why tempt fate?

He had been gotten a note from Grelix Coinclipper, one of his not-so-upstanding agents in Ratchet, saying that a certain Forsaken of his acquaintance would have words with him, at his near convenience. Griffonclaw had responded, making arrangements to meet them at the tavern in Booty Bay; of all the neutral Goblin trading cities, it was the most comfortable.

They were late.

The paladin was just about to call it a day when they appeared, the goblin chattering away endlessly, as was his habit, leading a tall, hunched figure, his face obscured by robes.

"Master Griffonclaw! Abjectly apologize do I! Late we are, late, but not too late, eh?" said the goblin. The robed figure sat opposite Griffonclaw, and the goblin on the side, between them.

"This is Master Mordread, a mage of some power," flattered the goblin shamelessly. "He wants to engage your services." The mage pushed his hood back, and Griffonclaw studied him carefully. Mordread had a tattered, matted sheaf of jet-black hair that came down to his shoulders. His ocular sockets were as empty as his soul. His lower jaw had long since fallen off, and had been replaced with a thorium jaw, complete with individually sculpted teeth, chiseled to sharp wedges.

The mage spoke in a clear, even voice, although often punctuated with clicks from his mandibular prosthesis. The goblin translated from the harsh tones of Orcish.

"As I said, he wants to hire you, Master Griffonclaw. In older days, the Lord and Lady of Caer Darrow held a great gala to celebrate the harvest season. Since the fall of the once great castle and city, the Forsaken and others have gathered once a year to celebrate as well. As with the cycle of the seasons, so too have the Forsaken died only to return renewed, and all that, yadda yadda. But they're paying well."

"Well, they are having a Wild Hunt... and they want you to be one of the Hunted; apparently you have quite a reputation, and there are some grudges... "

Griffonclaw's first impulse was to refuse, but as he thought upon it, he realized he had no choice. "Very well... with two conditions. First, if the hunted make it to Southshore, they are free. Second, the bodies of the slain are to be unmolested, unpillaged, and uneaten. Third, they must, after the festival, allow the bodies to be recovered for proper disposition."

The goblin translated the terms to Mordread, who barked a loud laugh.

"He agrees," confirmed the goblin.

**************

"The Paladin is unsufferable!" Noctarre thought as he droned on at her; it was all she could do to stay awake. "Enough!" she finally said. "I know what you want, and I can do it. How many?"

"A dozen" Griffonclaw replied. Noctarre rejoiced; he had given a direct, simple response for once!

"I can do it... the question, Paladin, is whether or not you can meet my price..." the warlock purred, enjoying having the upper hand.

"What do you wish?" he replied.

She told him.

"Agreed" he said, clenching his jaw.

**************

Griffonclaw stumbled up the hill, the manacles on his wrists pulling him relentlessly forward. He had surrendered to Mordread's forces just north of the ruins of Andorhall, clad only in simple steel plate armor, as per their agreement.

Tonight was the hunt, and Griffonclaw was to be hunted.

Banshih, the Queen of the Hunt, was waiting for Griffonclaw, and the other "rabbits", at Hearthglen, and Mordread, mounted on a swiftly-flying broomstick, virtually dragged the paladin there, where he was put with the others who had been captured and stripped of their gear. Griffonclaw grinned as he saw Maglas of the Audentes Fortuna Iuvat, also captured and clad in simple clothes. Maglas caught his eye, and nodded. All was arranged.

The Argent Dawn had been alerted, and their patrols would be out in force, attempting to seek and rescue those that had been captured for the Hunt. Some of the Horde hunters were due for a rude suprise, if tey anticipated a swift victory.

Griffonclaw slowly passed among the prisoners, surreptitously handing them small, rune-enscribed rubies. "Swallow these, and all will be well," he instructed each of his fellow captives. "Head for Southshore," he advised.

Soon enough, the "rabbits" were separated into two groups, and released.

Ironically, Griffonclaw made it as far as Andorhall, where he had been captured, before feeling the touch of hellfire blast him from two sides. He stumbled forward, the steel of his armor a tormenting sheath under the relentless bombardment. He would later find that two Master Warlocks, Pyrope and Kuroihasu, had flash-fried him until he fell dead, to rise no more that day.

**************

The first things he heard upon waking was Noctarre's taunting voice.

"Ahh, the Paladin rises from the dead, once more. Do this often, and perhaps the Church of the Light will declare you Forsaken..."

Kestralil shot the warlock a dirty look, to which the warlock just chuckled in her deep, husky voice. The temporary death of her husband was nothing she found even remotely amusing.

Although when he told her what he had planned, she had almost killed him herself.

"I had to take the offer, love...." he had explained, reasoning that the Horde were going to capture people and hunt them whether or not he was part of it. He had explained how he had conferred with Maglas, who had already learned of the Wild Hunt and had begun making arrangements with the Argent Exodus and others to rescue the prisoners.

Maglas had let himself be part of the hunted, so he could direct those likewise captured to Southshore, and the rescue parties. Griffonclaw had made arrangements to protect those who would fall. Noctarre had provided, at great expense, small soulstones, charged to capture the souls of the living when they died; swallowed, they could not be taken or captured by the Horde.

Spennig, of the Awakened, with her Horde contacts, had guarded the fallen corpses in her feline form, ensuring that they remained whole and unconsumed. Kestralil had recovered the bodies of the fallen, including her husband, after the celebration, as per the agreement. They had been taken to Uther's Tomb, where a cadre of healers had healed the flesh, and Noctarre had restored their souls.

Of the six hunted, three had fallen; Griffonclaw, Kauli of the Awakened, and Mefysta of the Arquen Indo. Maglas and the other had made it safely to Southshore and freedom. Griffonclaw looked over to where Mefysta and Kauli sat, their gear recovered from the festival as per the agreement.

The Dance of the Dead was over... at least for this year.