The Hand

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Blood.

It is the true currency of this world.

Wars for a purpose beyond our understanding are paid in full with blood.

Amidst a dying people, blood dictates lives. Greed permeates even in the hearts of those who would claim to lead to betterment. A bloody greed that can easily be manipulated. Set so the actions of one trickle down through all, and all are awash in blood.

It is Sickening.

It is Horrible.

It is Vile.

Cruel.

But most importantly,

It is Glorious.

-Nathanos Blightcaller

The Hand

Andaril was short for an elf, but thicker than many. He prided himself on his physical condition; in a city of magic, he was a hardened warrior. Muscular yet lean. An Orc could out match him, but he'd be on par with at least Humans, probably even nearing the level of strength shown by the Night Elves. Though not as rare as most non-Elves believed- many saw them as exclusively casters or archers- they had no official position in Blood Elven society. During the time between the last war against the Orcs and the Elves secession from the Alliance, many elves had become foot soldiers along side the Humans. In fact some High Elves- Andaril scoffed at the thought- still were. As he reminisced, Andaril recalled that he had done similar, had trained in the use of weapons and armor heavier than the Elven norm. Most of his kind had blended into the Farstriders, and most had gone on from there to become Blood Knights. But that wasn't for him. He'd adapted to a bow fairly nicely. He wasn't the best, but he preferred the feel of the bow in his hands to any spells the Paladins could use. The Farstriders were a lighter organization- spies, scouts, and archers mostly. To make up for the loss of his heavily plated armor, he'd wear multiple layers of chain or scale mail.


But not today. Today Andaril wore a rather casual outfit- knee high leather boots and an olive green long-sleeved outfit of nice cloth- and walked the streets of Silvermoon. Today was Veridas- the Elven word for Friday, once the Human calendar had been adopted- and it was his day off. He'd wanted to spend it visiting with and chatting up a pretty barmaid he had seen working at The Goblet. It was an older restaurant on the far side of the Bazaar, but it had just closed down within the last few days, after the owner had turned up dead in the back room. The death was ruled as mana overdose leading to paranoia and suicide. Those like Andaril, who had known the owner for years, didn't believe it. Yet no one would question it. Not in today's society. Half the employees had gone missing as well, without a trace it seemed. Andaril shook the thoughts off and sighed to himself. He'd have to find some other way to waste away his free hours.




Devon shook her head slowly, gently opening her eyes. She was greeted by a blinding light and her lips began to curl into a smile. As soon as it had appeared it was gone. A torch on the brick wall opposite from her was the source of the light. She had hoped it was perhaps the sun greeting her. She reprimanded herself for holding on to the false hope. Her eyes traveled to various spots around the room, the torch light let her see spots that were normally shrouded in complete darkness. The torch was a precursor however. Devon knew that it marked her turn next in what she had grown to know as the “Blood Room.” It was one of the many torture chambers around here where prisoners- Devon shook her arm, rattling the chains and reminding herself that she was indeed a prisoner- were taken on a fairly usual basis.


She couldn't recall how long she had been here. She didn't even know where “here” was. She wasn't sure what her captors were after either. The only times she'd been moved from her cell was to be dragged to the Blood Room, and even then she was usually half conscious. She was usually tended by a tall blonde man with spiked hair. He'd never questioned her, he hadn't so much as really spoke to her. She be given food by him daily, never much more. Save for when he felt the need to have his way with her. She'd fought it at first, but Devon had never been a fighter. She'd be subdued quickly, knocked out cold. All she knew upon waking was pain. Pain across her chest and between her legs. She had been saving herself for love, it was the last bit of herself she still held on to. And this evil man had taken it. Now she'd take it in stride, accept that she couldn't change it. And sometimes enjoy it. She hated herself for that. It was how they worked though. They… she chuckled silently. Demons they should be called. She'd heard what they called themselves, if only once. Sound echoed throughout the dungeon, to scare other prisoners, she assumed. The Hand. Who's hand she couldn't say, but she had a hunch. She'd think more on it whe- A sharp blow to the stomach brought her out of her thoughts.




Vanikos hated dealing with prisoners. He knew Kelios enjoyed it, but he also knew Kelios to rape the females as well. Vanikos wiped an elegantly crafted dagger on an equally elegant piece of silk. He glanced over his shoulder at Kelios.


“Truly a shame, my old friend.” He nudged the body with his foot, examining the face. Examining the surprised expression that would forever be present. He gently sheathed the dagger and stepped over the dead Kelios, heading out of the room entirely. Vanikos shook his head as he walked up the high street, winding his way through the crowds of people and merchant carts bound for the Bazaar. His thoughts went back to Kelios. Some of the more recent additions to their organization saw their new status as a free pass to doing whatever they damn well pleased. It wasn't. Kelios had learned that the hard way.


Vanikos turned on to a side street and from there on to another. There were less people here, but those that were looked rather important in their own ways. And none of them seemed to pay attention to anything beyond their current conversations. This was one of the dark corners of Silvermoon. It had no official name, most places didn't, beyond the general district names. To many it was known as Murder Row. Aptly named by businessmen of old for the dagger-to-back dog-eat-dog business deals that happened there. For that was what it was, a place of business. Most these days thought of it as a place full of muggers and murderers. A place where you'd be killed for so much as looking at someone wrong. In truth it was no more dangerous than anywhere else in the city- Vanikos admitted to himself- but the general thoughts acted as a good way to keep every day citizens out. This was the fastest route from the high street to the Court of the Sun- the heart of politics in Silvermoon- and so was mostly used as a meeting grounds for business owners and politicians. And everyone knew how politicians were.


Vanikos chuckled silently- he'd not let that emotion show here of all places- and pulled back a curtain leading to a building known as The Sanctum. As he stepped over the threshold the change was immediate, cold autumn wind was replaced with calm warmth. Only the best to keep those who lived and worked here comfortable. He had stepped into a large circular room with a high, domed ceiling. Along the sides were doors leading to offices- and beyond that, doors leading to private quarters, he knew. In the middle of the room sat a circular reception counter with three female assistants talking to clients through scrying orbs. One of them looked up to Vanikos and nodded, pointing to the far side of the room, all while not interrupting her conversation with the orb in front of her. He gave a little bow and headed around to the back, where a staircase spiraled down out of view, in place of the doors present elsewhere. It led down to a second circular room, filled with low tables, cushions, smoking pipes and a myriad of food and drink options. This was the Lounge, and only employees were allowed down here. Vanikos smiled at that.




They were the Hand of Rommath. An organization established to offer aid to those citizens who needed it. Be it financial, the most common aid, or otherwise. They were also protectors. Sworn to protect the interests of Silvermoon from threats. Both foreign and- only trusted employees knew this much- domestic. To many they were the sign that Regent Lord Rommath truly was dedicated to getting his people back on their feet. In truth they were the sign of change.




Vanikos proceeded on from the lounge into a long hallway devoid of any doors beyond the one he just came through. He waved a hand in the near total darkness. Flames flickered to life in torches lining both sides of the hallway, yet even with their light the end of the hall lay out of view. This place was a trick. He could walk down the hall for hours and never get any farther from the door behind him. It was were they kept their prisoners. A dungeon that couldn't be found unless you knew where it was. The Blood-Magi had out done themselves on this one. Vanikos could use it, of course, he had after all been the one to suggest creating it.


He lifted his left hand and extended the arm, then turned the palm toward himself and pulled it back to his chest. The far wall seemed to drag itself from the darkness, stopping before him. An arched stone doorway and a solid wooden door pulled its way open in the brick. Vanikos stepped through without another thought about his brilliant architecture and spell work. Now he was in the dungeon proper, and the arch closed behind him. He passed various prison cells, which were actually more like rooms than barred cells. The dungeon was huge, hundreds of cells and rooms of differing purpose stretched out for hundreds of yards. They had carved an elaborate tunnel system hundreds of feet below Silvermoon's sewers, so the walls were dark, even with the many torches, as opposed to the nice white marble of the city itself. Vanikos estimated a fourth of the populace could be crammed down here. He flexed his fingers. It could be expanded if eventually need be.


He stopped outside of one of the cells and read the name magically carved on the door. He brushed his fingers on the letters, leaving a faint trace of blueish fire over them. He knew that just inside this room a torch had lit. Soon he'd have to get his hands dirty. Soon he'd have to start the new experiments. He left with good thoughts however. Thoughts on how not a single person outside the Blood-Magi knew about this place.




Andaril clicked open a golden mail slot positioned about shoulder height on the wall next to his front door. He procured a rather nice scroll of parchment, on which was printed the tri-weekly news. He watched a man on the front page present a woman with an expensive looking ring- rather gaudy too, he thought- then scanned the rest of the articles and watched a few more pictures go about their business. “Slow news day,” he said to himself as he swung open the door and stepped into his home. He tossed the paper onto a table and draped his coat over the back of a chaise as a young lynx rubbed up against his legs. His fingers found their way behind the cat's ears- he didn't have to bend far, the lynx was almost above his knee and would grow larger still. It let out a playful growl and began purring, then leapt up onto the chaise. “Oh, really?” Andaril asked as he sat down next to it. “Is that so, El?”


El glanced back at him out of the corner of her eye. “Place is still closed.” he told her. “Probably will be for a while. No word on the other employees though.” The lynx growled again and put her paw on the back of his hand, her claws slowly moving across his skin. “Liadrin?” Andaril blurted suddenly, raising an eyebrow at El. The movement had caused her claws to sink into the back of his hand, he rubbed at it. “I don't know, she's a busy woman.” El narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay, I'll write her in the morning.” Andaril glanced down at his hand and added, “And clip those damn things. That hurt.” El pretended not to hear.




Devon pulled her head up, her vision swam wildly before her. She blinked a few times, letting her eyes adjust. Nauseous and disoriented, it took her a few moments to realize she was back in her cell. She also noticed she was hanging off the edge of a bed, as opposed to being magically chained to the wall. The torch signaling company wasn't lit, but the usual darkness wasn't present. A small candle hovered in each corner of the room. As Devon wondered why the sudden change, the side wall suddenly became a door and creaked itself open. A figure entered the room and Devon subconsciously brought a hand to her chest, earning her a glimpse of a smirk from this man that she'd never seen before. He wasn't all that frightening to behold. Slick, shoulder length, black hair framed his face, upon which nothing seemed to immediately catch the eye. No strange nose, no overly large ears. His eyes seemed normal, albeit always half open, like he was bored. He looked ordinary. A bit too ordinary for her comfort. Everyone else she had seen in here had something or other that set them apart, made them look distinct enough that she could tell them apart easily. Yet this man was uniquely not unique. Devon's mind was jumbling and she couldn't word it right. Whatever it was, it was unsettling.


“There is no need for that,” the man indicated to the hand covering her chest. “Kelios is dead, and so his prisoners fall to me.” Devon took it to mean that Kelios was the man who had had his way with her. She gave silent thanks that he got what was coming to him. But what would this new captor do?




She didn't look half bad for someone who had been badly underfed and regularly beaten for the last two weeks. He wondered if she had suffered any mental hardships yet. Probably had. Of the fifteen prisoners he had newly acquired, ten were in varying stages of sanity- physical and mental conditions brought on by Kelios' firm hand. If Vanikos was to spend his days around these people he'd appreciate if they at least made sense. Or kept their mouth's firmly clamped. “I am Vanikos,” he told his prisoner, “and as you can see, I take a bit more care with those placed under my watch.” He indicated to the new bed and lighting. “If I find you to be cooperative you can be rewarded. Better accommodations, fewer excursions from the safety of your room, etcetera.” His expression darkened, as did the light from the candles. It cast an eerie glow across his face, making his expression look that much more grim. “But keep in mind, you are mine now. I can take it away. Everything.”




Devon knew he had just threatened her life. “I'll be checking in.” he said as he turned away from her and left the room. The door was gone as soon as it shut, leaving a flat wall. She wasn't sure what to think of this new “master”, but he scared her more than the last had. She tossed herself back on the bed, resting her head on a pillow for the first time in weeks.




Vanikos still stood outside Devon's room. His hands worked their way through the air in front of him, as if he were shaping the air like clay. He knew that Devon now slipped into sleep. He'd made it so. He'd also made sure it wouldn't be an enjoyable sleep. Kelios had been a weak spell caster for a Blood-magi. These prisoners were in for a surprise. “Enjoy the stay.”