Amavia is thankful for her thick cloak; the inner layer a soft fur that tickles her skin where it touches and brushes against lightly. It’s almost cozy beneath the wool and fur she enchanted to give off a warmth it wouldn’t possess on its own. But not quite. The winds that snap through the mountains of Alterac manages to still find a way beneath her cloak and the long outer coat and to chill her in occasional sharp gusts. Snow crunches beneath her boots in patches that have spilled onto the time worn road. None of this appeals to her. Wheat and sunsets over baked earth are what she desires. Not this cold and white wasteland.
All of Alterac isn’t like this though! She’s seen maps that show where Dalaran used to be and the pine forests there! But she and Raoul are not beneath the boughs of green pines now. The sparse trees are small and stubborn things that have refused to be bent flat by the wind. Their needles are coated with frost so thick one can barely see the green that surely must be hidden beneath. The same as she’s heard of the Alterac people’s spirit, these trees are indomitable.
Sadly the lands were not and her fingers in her warm gloves - treated the same as her cloak - twitch near her wand. She’s felt out of sorts since her latest visions and the snow and the cold remind her of being strung up in the one and the dead doe of the other. It’s hard not to linger in those thoughts but she tries to keep them at bay and instead keep her eyes on the lookout for ogre threats or any Horde patrols.
In Raoul's own pathetic pack, he had a map of the outposts. He guides them along quietly, occasionally pausing to kiss her or playfully toss snow. It's clear he doesn't take this assignment very seriously.
The first campsite has a few tents and the same magical wards to keep out intruders that are basic at most Kirin Tor outposts. Raoul deactivates them with the code George had given, and the clear shield flickers out to let them in. He waves Amavia to follow him.
The tents are round with high peaks, not unlike a circus tent. They're bare of decorations, though they are the classic violet with gold ropes. No one seems to be there. In fact, the only signs that this site was ever used is someone's vomit by one of the smaller tents and a knocked over black cooking pot.
Handfuls of snow and kisses are happily returned till the the campsite is clear to them. Then it is business and she narrows her eyes as they flit from one thing to another. The vomit is curious to her and she cringes to think they may have to touch it. But it is a clue and whether or not it’s appealing in nature is irrelevant.
“It really does look like they went to grab something and just never came back. How odd.” She slowly approaches to cooking pot and leans to look inside. Perhaps poison? Maybe they were drugged and one of the mages tried to expel it from their system but failed before he or she could? “What are your initial thoughts?”
The contents of the cooking pot might have been a stew once, but its weeks in the open have turned it into a moldy haven. The strong, overwhelming scent of the mold rolls up in waves when she leans towards it.
Raoul folds his arms behind her and then turns in a circle. "Well if it was Forsaken, the wards wouldn't have still been up. The Ogres would have knocked it all down too. Unless it was an inside job, I'd say A.W.O.L."
“I’m inclined to agree. How many mages were posted here? Did George include that in the file?” The stench is foul and she pulls her scarf to her nose to hold it at bay as she steals a quick look at the once stew contents. Gross. But even more foul, she takes a few steps to peer at the vomit puddle and sighs heavily. So gross.
“We should look around for journals, notebooks, what have you too. See if they noted anything out of the ordinary.”
What was once vomit is now just a half-frozen spattering. It too has some mold, though the acidic nature made it less hospitable than the stew.
"You're not going to taste that or something out of the books, right? Because I still enjoy kissing you." Raoul whines behind her even as he's walking towards the closest tent. "There were eight mages at this one. Twelve at the next. I think the last one only had four though. Maybe five. The number was smudged." He shrugs and slips inside where she can't see him.
She laughs at his comment and shakes her head before following him in and continuing their conversation. “I didn’t lick it. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t plague green or full of needles or reeking of poisonous things. Mold and ick only.”
Once inside the tent she glances around and purses her lips. To live on the fringe like this would be a punishment. What were these camps even for?
“Raoul, why were they sent here? What purpose did these mages serve here?”
"Uhh..." He rakes his hand through his hair and scratches his head, trying to remember. "George said they were just here. Leftovers from the city's move. The Kirin Tor left behind a lot of mages just to hold Alterac and Lordaeron as long as possible. And to battle the arcane elementals that went crazy, but these guys were pretty far away from that."
"Yes. That seems really weird, doesn't it? Why leave groups of five or eight or twelve just lingering in the mountains and at the borders? Surely they could be put to better use if they were closer to where Dalaran was. Though, have you ever heard mention of the desire to bring it 'home'?" This is not home to her but it was for the spires and pretty light purple bricks and sparkling golden accents of Dalaran. Her home now as much as she may yearn for Westfall.
"It seems like a punishment to me." As she speaks she moves around the tent, looking for books or items such as those she mentioned to Raoul moments ago.
This tent is among the smaller ones, but it looks like it belonged to an officer sort. It has a small wooden desk with chair, and an actual bed as opposed to just a cot. Raoul sits down on the plain bed, devoid of trimmings and comforts except for a caseless pillow and a thin hospital blanket, and rises up and down in a small bounce. Just enough to make the springs scream.
There is a book shelf beside the desk. It has mostly arcane tomes. Not a single leisure book. Even the desk has no baubles or decoration. A ledger is open on the center of the desk, but some of the pages have been torn out.
"They guys must have gone crazy here. All work and no play."
“Makes for a very dull boy.” Amber eyes flicker to him and she grins, one thin brow quirks. “I prefer your play myself.” Flirty and scandalous even on the clock, for shame Amavia! But it’s just a playful tease as she leans over the ledger and looks at the pages before and after the torn out ones.
“Whatever they were doing I’m going to guess they wanted it off the record. It only serves to encourage the A.W.O.L theory.”
The most recent entries are the ones torn out, but the last one left was dated all the way back in August.
"August 23rd. - John. A. Sternam was killed by an ogre patrol. He was our best hunter. Our food supplies will dwindle unless we can recruit from surviving locals or establish trade with another outpost. Conjured food should last us the month, but I fear without real nourishment we will be too exhausted to summon anymore."
"Maybe they ate each other." It sounds like something out of a newsprint novella. Something disgusting and horrid Shepard would write for a ten silver thrill paper. Her fingers trail beneath the date and she folds the ledger closed, shoving it in her bag. If there are any drawers in the desk she tries to open them now, being careful to check for wards or magical traps first.
Kára Wyrmrest Accord: "Why would they eat each other?" Raoul boggles behind her and snorts a bit in surprise.
There is one drawer, a long one that goes across the entire desk. It has no locks or traps, but inside is nothing but unimportant letters from home and pictures of this particular mage's family. Unless the mage is the woman in the pictures, he isn't in any of them. It's just a woman and children doing various, mundane things.
"Their hunter died and it they could have ran out of food. If you were eating other sentient beings wouldn't you destroy the shame? Though, we never would do that." Her nose wrinkles and a shudder tears down her spine. She can easily recall the vision now. The knives, the cuts, the feeling of being prepared for a meal. It doesn't make her feel any better and saps some of her humor.
"I'm going to scope out more of the camp? Do you want a nap?" She tries for a wink and nods at the bed. Could she blame him if he did? It's not like this really seems like a case that is more than crazy absent mages.
"A nap would be great, actually. Just don't leave the camp without me, okay, Apple blossom? It's not safe out past the wards." He yawns and folds his arms behind him, before leaning back on to the bed.
She pauses before leaving to kiss his forehead and smile at him. Her darling. Her fiance. Her lazy butt partner. "Sweet dreams, White Knight."
The tent flaps are closed behind her and she sighs. This is going to be another headache of a case. Likely assigned to them because rather than doing better and better they are doing worse and worse. It irritates her to no end; she was going to be a famous investigator. Now she will be infamous as the girl who had success and gambled it all away because she lost her mind and common sense..
Still chastising herself, she moves to another tent to go inside.
The next tent over doesn't seem much different than the other on the outside. Within however, it is packed with cots and hammocks. There is no other furniture. It looks like most of the other mages were crammed in here together for their sleeping quarters. Clothes are disheveled and strewn out in the corner, and one of the hammocks has a rusty red smattering of vomit staining the side. Someone was sick in bed.
jade: Her nose wrinkles and she wishes she was curled up next to Raoul now. Napping away rather than prodding at old vomit. He owes her a back rub or something for her tenacity.
Though she doesn't actually poke it she goes to that bed and tries to locate anything that would give her an idea of the identity of its once occupant.
There doesn't seem to be any sign of who was in what bed. Especially with the clothes all piled in the corner, it's next to impossible to tell where everyone slept, or if they even stayed in the same bed every night as opposed to sleeping in just whichever one was available.
With a sigh she goes over to the pile and prods it with the toe of her heavy boot. As long as it doesn't lash out at her in some horrible manner she leans down and begins to sort through the clothing. She's looking for anything curious not just fashions they wore here.
The clothes are all filthy. This certainly isn't becoming of trained battle mages. Everything is stained and soiled in one manner or another- Light please let those just be spills?- but none have that same rusty vomit look as the one at the hammock.
They just look equally bad in different brown shades and sometimes bile yellow. Sticking out of the pocket of one particularly disgusting shirt is a crusty, stained paper folded up. Its edges are darkened by Light only knows what.
Amavia could weep. She's a clean girl and to sort through this filth revolts her. The gloves are going to be pitched later. They cannot be saved after touching all thest foul things. With eyes narrowing in disgust she extracts the paper carefully as to not rip it.
Though the paper gets stuck, matted to the pocket by the crust of whatever this disgusting liquid once was, it can be twisted and unfolded without having to detach it from the shirt. In large bold letters it reads,
"EMERGENCY QUARANTINE NOTICE. ALL CLOTHES ARE TO BE BURNED. ALL INDIVIDUALS THAT HAVE COME INTO CONTACT WITH OUTPOST KHADGAR'S BREATH MUST REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE SICK WARD TENT. CURFEW IS IN EFFECT.
Amavia swears under her breath and then once more as she drops the clothing. A sickness? If that had killed them where were the bodies? She shudders again and quickly scribbles a copy of the note into her own book.
The large tent she is saving for last. If the bodies are here she half expects to find them there and so she heads to the third smaller one before that leads to quite possible disappointment.
The third small tent seems to have been the sick ward mentioned. It is a disaster area. Though there are no bodies, a severed finger is on the ground, half hidden by an empty cot that has collapsed. It's possible the initial messenger missed this vital clue.
The finger seems to be a woman's, and it has a large, cold ring with a signet of the Church of the Holy Light on it. The ring is made of gold and probably once looked rather lovely on the fair-skinned finger before it blackened, bruised, and started to rot there. It has a small dried pool of dark blood at the detached end, but any large spills from the hand it came from are nowhere to be seen.
Amavia pulls her scarf up and ties it to hide the lower half of her face. It isn't going to save her from catching whatever is here if it still lingers in the air but it gives her some piece of mind. Take the ring or leave it? She is striken by indecision and then sighs.
The evidence box she used in Surwich is removed from her bag and with the long tweezers she tries to slip the golden signet ring off and into one of the small boxes inside before looking around further.
Raoul owes her two backrubs and a nice warm bath after this.
Every cot is empty. There are only three of them, but it looks like they had two people to a bed if the depressions are any indication. That or conjoined twins. There is a medicine chest with glass case broken, but nothing has been stolen. Maybe the desperate person didn't have time to take anything?
There is no notebook or record of patients.
With a final sigh she peers at the cabinet for anything that seems out of the ordinary. Any medicines or vials that strike her as odd.
The medicines are all basic. They're really more towards convenient things like settling fevers and easing upset stomachs. Nothing to handle what seems to have happened here. It's possible at this point they had to rely on the healing Light alone.
That noted she leaves the sick bay tent before inviting any illness on herself anymore than she already has. The larger tent is all that's left and she stomps through the snow there now.
Though she didn't enjoy the Mirror Man case at least they had more to go on. This feels like a wild goose chase to her.
The larger tent is... surprisingly empty. It has a few target dummies and weapon stands for staves, but that's it. The rest is just open... frustrating space.
And in frustration she stomps her foot. A perimeter is taken and she walks around the edge of it just in case there's something amiss. More procedure than anything.
On the outside perimeter of the tent, on the back side, there is grave. It looks fairly new. The soil is in a pile and there is a Light marker in white painted wood. There's no name.
"Hnngh." Amavia groans and clasps her hand to her head. She can't defile a grave and honestly what would it tell her? That they were dead? Great. It's not like she can pry information out of a corpse.
Discouraged she drags her feet as she leaves and searches the edge of the camp too. She stays inside the wards but she's just making sure there's nothing else to see before tackling Raoul.
Raoul cuddles the hell out of her when she gets back.
All of Alterac isn’t like this though! She’s seen maps that show where Dalaran used to be and the pine forests there! But she and Raoul are not beneath the boughs of green pines now. The sparse trees are small and stubborn things that have refused to be bent flat by the wind. Their needles are coated with frost so thick one can barely see the green that surely must be hidden beneath. The same as she’s heard of the Alterac people’s spirit, these trees are indomitable.
Sadly the lands were not and her fingers in her warm gloves - treated the same as her cloak - twitch near her wand. She’s felt out of sorts since her latest visions and the snow and the cold remind her of being strung up in the one and the dead doe of the other. It’s hard not to linger in those thoughts but she tries to keep them at bay and instead keep her eyes on the lookout for ogre threats or any Horde patrols.
In Raoul's own pathetic pack, he had a map of the outposts. He guides them along quietly, occasionally pausing to kiss her or playfully toss snow. It's clear he doesn't take this assignment very seriously.
The first campsite has a few tents and the same magical wards to keep out intruders that are basic at most Kirin Tor outposts. Raoul deactivates them with the code George had given, and the clear shield flickers out to let them in. He waves Amavia to follow him.
The tents are round with high peaks, not unlike a circus tent. They're bare of decorations, though they are the classic violet with gold ropes. No one seems to be there. In fact, the only signs that this site was ever used is someone's vomit by one of the smaller tents and a knocked over black cooking pot.
Handfuls of snow and kisses are happily returned till the the campsite is clear to them. Then it is business and she narrows her eyes as they flit from one thing to another. The vomit is curious to her and she cringes to think they may have to touch it. But it is a clue and whether or not it’s appealing in nature is irrelevant.
“It really does look like they went to grab something and just never came back. How odd.” She slowly approaches to cooking pot and leans to look inside. Perhaps poison? Maybe they were drugged and one of the mages tried to expel it from their system but failed before he or she could? “What are your initial thoughts?”
The contents of the cooking pot might have been a stew once, but its weeks in the open have turned it into a moldy haven. The strong, overwhelming scent of the mold rolls up in waves when she leans towards it.
Raoul folds his arms behind her and then turns in a circle. "Well if it was Forsaken, the wards wouldn't have still been up. The Ogres would have knocked it all down too. Unless it was an inside job, I'd say A.W.O.L."
“I’m inclined to agree. How many mages were posted here? Did George include that in the file?” The stench is foul and she pulls her scarf to her nose to hold it at bay as she steals a quick look at the once stew contents. Gross. But even more foul, she takes a few steps to peer at the vomit puddle and sighs heavily. So gross.
“We should look around for journals, notebooks, what have you too. See if they noted anything out of the ordinary.”
What was once vomit is now just a half-frozen spattering. It too has some mold, though the acidic nature made it less hospitable than the stew.
"You're not going to taste that or something out of the books, right? Because I still enjoy kissing you." Raoul whines behind her even as he's walking towards the closest tent. "There were eight mages at this one. Twelve at the next. I think the last one only had four though. Maybe five. The number was smudged." He shrugs and slips inside where she can't see him.
She laughs at his comment and shakes her head before following him in and continuing their conversation. “I didn’t lick it. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t plague green or full of needles or reeking of poisonous things. Mold and ick only.”
Once inside the tent she glances around and purses her lips. To live on the fringe like this would be a punishment. What were these camps even for?
“Raoul, why were they sent here? What purpose did these mages serve here?”
"Uhh..." He rakes his hand through his hair and scratches his head, trying to remember. "George said they were just here. Leftovers from the city's move. The Kirin Tor left behind a lot of mages just to hold Alterac and Lordaeron as long as possible. And to battle the arcane elementals that went crazy, but these guys were pretty far away from that."
"Yes. That seems really weird, doesn't it? Why leave groups of five or eight or twelve just lingering in the mountains and at the borders? Surely they could be put to better use if they were closer to where Dalaran was. Though, have you ever heard mention of the desire to bring it 'home'?" This is not home to her but it was for the spires and pretty light purple bricks and sparkling golden accents of Dalaran. Her home now as much as she may yearn for Westfall.
"It seems like a punishment to me." As she speaks she moves around the tent, looking for books or items such as those she mentioned to Raoul moments ago.
This tent is among the smaller ones, but it looks like it belonged to an officer sort. It has a small wooden desk with chair, and an actual bed as opposed to just a cot. Raoul sits down on the plain bed, devoid of trimmings and comforts except for a caseless pillow and a thin hospital blanket, and rises up and down in a small bounce. Just enough to make the springs scream.
There is a book shelf beside the desk. It has mostly arcane tomes. Not a single leisure book. Even the desk has no baubles or decoration. A ledger is open on the center of the desk, but some of the pages have been torn out.
"They guys must have gone crazy here. All work and no play."
“Makes for a very dull boy.” Amber eyes flicker to him and she grins, one thin brow quirks. “I prefer your play myself.” Flirty and scandalous even on the clock, for shame Amavia! But it’s just a playful tease as she leans over the ledger and looks at the pages before and after the torn out ones.
“Whatever they were doing I’m going to guess they wanted it off the record. It only serves to encourage the A.W.O.L theory.”
The most recent entries are the ones torn out, but the last one left was dated all the way back in August.
"August 23rd. - John. A. Sternam was killed by an ogre patrol. He was our best hunter. Our food supplies will dwindle unless we can recruit from surviving locals or establish trade with another outpost. Conjured food should last us the month, but I fear without real nourishment we will be too exhausted to summon anymore."
"Maybe they ate each other." It sounds like something out of a newsprint novella. Something disgusting and horrid Shepard would write for a ten silver thrill paper. Her fingers trail beneath the date and she folds the ledger closed, shoving it in her bag. If there are any drawers in the desk she tries to open them now, being careful to check for wards or magical traps first.
Kára Wyrmrest Accord: "Why would they eat each other?" Raoul boggles behind her and snorts a bit in surprise.
There is one drawer, a long one that goes across the entire desk. It has no locks or traps, but inside is nothing but unimportant letters from home and pictures of this particular mage's family. Unless the mage is the woman in the pictures, he isn't in any of them. It's just a woman and children doing various, mundane things.
"Their hunter died and it they could have ran out of food. If you were eating other sentient beings wouldn't you destroy the shame? Though, we never would do that." Her nose wrinkles and a shudder tears down her spine. She can easily recall the vision now. The knives, the cuts, the feeling of being prepared for a meal. It doesn't make her feel any better and saps some of her humor.
"I'm going to scope out more of the camp? Do you want a nap?" She tries for a wink and nods at the bed. Could she blame him if he did? It's not like this really seems like a case that is more than crazy absent mages.
"A nap would be great, actually. Just don't leave the camp without me, okay, Apple blossom? It's not safe out past the wards." He yawns and folds his arms behind him, before leaning back on to the bed.
She pauses before leaving to kiss his forehead and smile at him. Her darling. Her fiance. Her lazy butt partner. "Sweet dreams, White Knight."
The tent flaps are closed behind her and she sighs. This is going to be another headache of a case. Likely assigned to them because rather than doing better and better they are doing worse and worse. It irritates her to no end; she was going to be a famous investigator. Now she will be infamous as the girl who had success and gambled it all away because she lost her mind and common sense..
Still chastising herself, she moves to another tent to go inside.
The next tent over doesn't seem much different than the other on the outside. Within however, it is packed with cots and hammocks. There is no other furniture. It looks like most of the other mages were crammed in here together for their sleeping quarters. Clothes are disheveled and strewn out in the corner, and one of the hammocks has a rusty red smattering of vomit staining the side. Someone was sick in bed.
jade: Her nose wrinkles and she wishes she was curled up next to Raoul now. Napping away rather than prodding at old vomit. He owes her a back rub or something for her tenacity.
Though she doesn't actually poke it she goes to that bed and tries to locate anything that would give her an idea of the identity of its once occupant.
There doesn't seem to be any sign of who was in what bed. Especially with the clothes all piled in the corner, it's next to impossible to tell where everyone slept, or if they even stayed in the same bed every night as opposed to sleeping in just whichever one was available.
With a sigh she goes over to the pile and prods it with the toe of her heavy boot. As long as it doesn't lash out at her in some horrible manner she leans down and begins to sort through the clothing. She's looking for anything curious not just fashions they wore here.
The clothes are all filthy. This certainly isn't becoming of trained battle mages. Everything is stained and soiled in one manner or another- Light please let those just be spills?- but none have that same rusty vomit look as the one at the hammock.
They just look equally bad in different brown shades and sometimes bile yellow. Sticking out of the pocket of one particularly disgusting shirt is a crusty, stained paper folded up. Its edges are darkened by Light only knows what.
Amavia could weep. She's a clean girl and to sort through this filth revolts her. The gloves are going to be pitched later. They cannot be saved after touching all thest foul things. With eyes narrowing in disgust she extracts the paper carefully as to not rip it.
Though the paper gets stuck, matted to the pocket by the crust of whatever this disgusting liquid once was, it can be twisted and unfolded without having to detach it from the shirt. In large bold letters it reads,
"EMERGENCY QUARANTINE NOTICE. ALL CLOTHES ARE TO BE BURNED. ALL INDIVIDUALS THAT HAVE COME INTO CONTACT WITH OUTPOST KHADGAR'S BREATH MUST REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE SICK WARD TENT. CURFEW IS IN EFFECT.
Amavia swears under her breath and then once more as she drops the clothing. A sickness? If that had killed them where were the bodies? She shudders again and quickly scribbles a copy of the note into her own book.
The large tent she is saving for last. If the bodies are here she half expects to find them there and so she heads to the third smaller one before that leads to quite possible disappointment.
The third small tent seems to have been the sick ward mentioned. It is a disaster area. Though there are no bodies, a severed finger is on the ground, half hidden by an empty cot that has collapsed. It's possible the initial messenger missed this vital clue.
The finger seems to be a woman's, and it has a large, cold ring with a signet of the Church of the Holy Light on it. The ring is made of gold and probably once looked rather lovely on the fair-skinned finger before it blackened, bruised, and started to rot there. It has a small dried pool of dark blood at the detached end, but any large spills from the hand it came from are nowhere to be seen.
Amavia pulls her scarf up and ties it to hide the lower half of her face. It isn't going to save her from catching whatever is here if it still lingers in the air but it gives her some piece of mind. Take the ring or leave it? She is striken by indecision and then sighs.
The evidence box she used in Surwich is removed from her bag and with the long tweezers she tries to slip the golden signet ring off and into one of the small boxes inside before looking around further.
Raoul owes her two backrubs and a nice warm bath after this.
Every cot is empty. There are only three of them, but it looks like they had two people to a bed if the depressions are any indication. That or conjoined twins. There is a medicine chest with glass case broken, but nothing has been stolen. Maybe the desperate person didn't have time to take anything?
There is no notebook or record of patients.
With a final sigh she peers at the cabinet for anything that seems out of the ordinary. Any medicines or vials that strike her as odd.
The medicines are all basic. They're really more towards convenient things like settling fevers and easing upset stomachs. Nothing to handle what seems to have happened here. It's possible at this point they had to rely on the healing Light alone.
That noted she leaves the sick bay tent before inviting any illness on herself anymore than she already has. The larger tent is all that's left and she stomps through the snow there now.
Though she didn't enjoy the Mirror Man case at least they had more to go on. This feels like a wild goose chase to her.
The larger tent is... surprisingly empty. It has a few target dummies and weapon stands for staves, but that's it. The rest is just open... frustrating space.
And in frustration she stomps her foot. A perimeter is taken and she walks around the edge of it just in case there's something amiss. More procedure than anything.
On the outside perimeter of the tent, on the back side, there is grave. It looks fairly new. The soil is in a pile and there is a Light marker in white painted wood. There's no name.
"Hnngh." Amavia groans and clasps her hand to her head. She can't defile a grave and honestly what would it tell her? That they were dead? Great. It's not like she can pry information out of a corpse.
Discouraged she drags her feet as she leaves and searches the edge of the camp too. She stays inside the wards but she's just making sure there's nothing else to see before tackling Raoul.
Raoul cuddles the hell out of her when she gets back.
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