Years had passed and few words of him arose, no sight or sound came from the Stonebridge Estate. The owner and architect had seemingly returned to isolation. Traders wishing to visit were turned away, told of research being done. The grounds were kept by the same man who'd turn those visitors away, a Gilnean man no older than forty who acted as the caretaker. His eyes were seemingly distant, the undead plague having ravaged a significant portion of his body before the worgen curse would “save” him.

The house's exterior had been well cared for, properly prepared for the rain in Gilneas. It's interior was a far different story. The air was stale, as if the house had been left sealed for months. There was not an intact piece of furniture left inside, they lay in tatters and shreds on the hardwood. A mixture coated those walls. His writings were there, acting as a journal. Most of the text was nonsensical, the notes written in ink and poison. Throughout the writings, the words would briefly become coherent, they were written in blood and ink. They told of memories, dreams, hopes and ideals.

The writings were placed along the wall deliberately, looking from afar showed various formations made from the them. Placed in the shape of ritual circles and surrounded by various unrelated images. If it was to distract from the clear signs of practice, they failed miserably, but for an herb addled mind they served as a soothing distraction from the intensity of the execution. The markings seemed to go on  all throughout the house, leading towards a lone wall at the end of the center hall. It looked much like the others, but a single press of the hand upon it's center would cause it to ease open, revealing itself to be a door covered by a simple illusion ward.

In the cold, dark of night

Steel ignites the first light

A brief glimpse of sight

Now your legs can't fight

Part 1 here: https://mrstonebridge.tumblr.com/post/647604388982079488/blood-for-blood

Flames quickly began to engulf the room. The gas was cheap and crude, quickly flaring up against the wooden floors and furniture. Lemar was out cold in that heat, the sudden loss of blood pushing him right under. Birk looked over him as the flames lit his face. It had been so hard to find the man, and it was obvious why. Even since the last time he scouted him, he'd changed so much. His hair had grown so long and there was a healthy beard on his sleeping face.

Birk's hand clutched at the unconscious man's collar, dragging him along the floor before the fires could fully reach him. “Lucky I made a promise t'Roman before he passed.” Birk glared at the man. “Nearly gave up on it when I thought y'killed him, but I get it now.” He smirked before back handing Lemar, his head only able to flop to the other side. “Now I feel better.”

He drug by the clutched collar until he was able to toss the man out into the street, just in front of his steps. “Gunshots, fire. Y'oughta have help soon enough. Be good, Stonebridge.” He cackled, shuffling into one of the many backstreets before he could get involved with whatever trouble the attention brought.

By the time Lemar awoke he was in a much different place. High ceilings and ivory toned stone were brightly lit by so many candles, and the holy light itself. He awoke in the Cathedral, his thighs and shoulders tightly bound in bandages. Sitting at his bedside was a guard, taking notes and filling out paperwork.

“You're awake, good.” The guard stated dryly. “I was hoping you could tell me what you were doing, bleeding outside a burning house.”

Lemar blinked, he was curious to the answer as well. “Well, I opened the door to my flat, got inside and.” As he thought of the scenario, it struck him as odd he was not left to burn to a crisp. “I wasn't able to see, it was dark. Someone was in my house and shot me, I must've passed out after that.”

The guard looked at him briefly, then to his papers. “So you must be Mister Stonebridge then, my condolences about your home, and your wounds. Do you have any clue who your attacker was?”

The thoughts of mercy came to his head, both men had now shot each other and left one another to guards. When he had done it years ago, Birk's lips were sealed tight. “No, I don't sir. I kept a few valuable things in that house, so it was likely me being there at the wrong time.”

“Well, we will look into it all. Your home was a bit too hot to investigate when we found you. The cathedral will allow you to stay overnight, but after that you will have to rent an inn room. I suggest you make a donation later if you can. Blood doesn't come out of their robes easy.” He sighed, lifting up from the seat and departing.

Lemar's eyes softly closed, resting in the cathedral. There was a feeling of resonance there, the sounds of prayer and candle light filling his ears. As he drifted off to sleep he thought to himself.

A sea of leads to follow.

You wanted to waste my time didn't you?

Subtlety was never your strength.

Why hide until now?

Another late night had fallen upon Stormwind, the sun staying for so long now as Spring came into bloom. Lemar enjoyed his late night walks in this season, he hardly even smoked when the flowers blossomed. His sensitive nostrils flared as he walked along the backstreets of the Mage District. He was returning from a trip out to Boralus, taking a portal back to the tower in Stormwind when his business had concluded.

The walks were always longer when Spring came around, looping around the district a few times. He was busy mulling over his thoughts, everything that had transpired lately. The suits coming in one by one, then the note. The words on it were both personal and impersonal, it made it hard for him to truly narrow down. His youthful days were spent firmly driving knives into backs, both physically and metaphorically. It meant that “Blood for Blood” was more ominous than helpful.

He shook his head, the city streets were not going to clear his thoughts any time soon. After his last round he slipped out into the canals, making his way for an old flat he still had ownership of in the Dwarven District. More backstreets were taken, this late at night it was best to avoid unwanted eyes. He had no desire to be social in public, not with a possible revenge plot looming.

An old brass key was pulled from his pocket, quietly pushing it into the door's lock and turning. Despite how quietly he had entered, the old door unlocked was a pleasing 'clack' that resonated inside the house. It didn't matter, he swiftly moved around the door and closed it behind him. As he locked the door, his nostrils softly flared.

Why do I smell..

(Content: Lil bit of violence and smack talk. Mostly just cutting to save on a long scroll)

I hate that I thought of you in my unconscious moments.

You are a blight within my mind.

You'll be seeing me soon.

And the only one having the nightmare, will be you.

Cold rain beat a top that Gilnean jail. In this end of town the cells were a much lower quality, leaking water in nearly every cell. It pooled in the corners, making the entire square reek of mold and the filth of the others locked inside. Dried alcohol sweats, blood and all other sorts of unholy thing lined the walls. He hated it.

The gruff man sat in his cell alone, quiet, pensive. Another hour had gone by and another guard came by, tapping their nightstick along the old iron bars, it hardly had the resonance it once had in it's tone.

“I mean y'show up with a gun that was stolen” The guard began almost immediately. “Over a dead body with what was likely his money in your hand. Y'can talk about y'pals and where y'got them, or y'can rot here. Up to ya, I just want to know what key y'might sing for me in, lovely.” The likely drunken guard cackled, he wasn't paid enough to guard the slop.

“Never fuckin' met the guy. He shot me with that fuckin' gun so I choked him out. What more is there to know? I defended my fuckin' self.” James scoffed, resting his head back against the stone with an angry look in his eyes.

“Then why did he have a weapon out? Y'gonna tell me that was y'coin he was taking and y'just got that good upper hand on him? Y'look barely scratched, just like y'brain.” He tapped his helmet mockingly.

“He shot me in the thigh and I tackled him, I got lucky. What can I say?” A simple question and scoff was returned.

“Anything believable, would be ideal.”

(More below the cut, saving your tumblr from a few paras. No heavy themes here, just boring backstory)

Why am I here again?

The alleyway where I lost a friend.

The road and tale of our end.

Autumn's rain battered down on the old cobble of Gilneas's backstreets, flowing through the cracks like blood through veins into the canals below. The whole neighborhood had been tense in the recent weeks, words of a group of smugglers in the city getting their hands on a military transport. A week of silence followed it, official reports only offering vague descriptions of cloaked men riding off with their loot through the Blackwald, where few were likely to follow.

The silence was broken as one man cracked, the pressure of what they had done, what came next. It was far too much for him. No one knew exactly who was responsible, but the group's leader was slain in cold blood. Right in the center of the guild hall, a single bullet sent through his skull. The man who was once a father figure to a gang of criminals was found by them. Fears of betrayal ran hot in the group, without their leader there was little hope of reuniting.

(minor cw: a bit of killing, small amounts of gore.)

It was another late night, not that one could tell. Duskwood shrouded everything in a ceaseless darkness. The outskirts had become a dangerous place where only beasts thrived, alone in the dark driven purely by their senses. There's where the man had been tracking Lemar as of late. To some tucked away forge in the middle of nowhere, before leaving on numerous hunts. Eventually his mark had stopped coming, but his eye had already been drawn.

So many nights spent watching, and when he wasn't the man had been gathering local rumors in Darkshire. There were mixed tales of large wolves and a man who hunts them. Some locals even mentioned a lone blacksmith who took favors and jobs in exchange for the blood of a worgen. There was likely something to that, given what he saw.

There was a leather pouch hanging from the man's belt, jingling every step he took. It was liable to attract a few dogs, but he didn't care. He approached the forge, his leather and chain mail clad form less than subtle. The sounds of a hammer striking against an anvil was heard, the man was greeted to the sight of a sword being made, the brightly lit metal so malleable under the hard strikes. The smith was a very large human, it was clear that his time without the sun had paled his skin, the hulking form told many tales through it's scars, the scar tissue still holding some of his old tone.

“I don't have many strangers enter my workshop, you best explain yourself.” The smith spoke firm, a deep voice rumbling from his chest.

“Aint important, I've got work for you.” The gruff man simply replied, the forge illuminating his thick black locks, the coarse hair pulled back behind him and tied. He pulled the leather pouch from his hip, tossing it onto one of the man's work tables.

As they talked, the smith had quenched the metal by dunking it into a vat of water, moving to open the pouch. Inside were at least a dozen silver, compassed shape stars. “This is my payment?” A thick brow raised in question, then a chuckle.

“No, I would like you to make them into bullets for me. I have a favor to repay someone.” The gruff man fished out a crude schematic from his pocket for the exact caliber of bullet he needed. “I only need the head to be made out of the metal, these aren't to kill. It's to send a message.”

The smith simply laughed. “I can do that for you, kid. But silver bullets are a myth. You can't get the edge on a worgen with them.” He collected the stars anyhow, bringing them to his station. “Return tomorrow, and bring me a worg. If you found me, then you know how I operate.” He looked back to the man who entered his shop, inspecting him closely.

I awoke deep beneath the sea.

Wondering when I'd be surfacing.

Certainly it never occurred to me.

How urgently I felt the need to breathe.

A gasp to wash my lungs clean.

Is this real?

Lemar recanted to himself, stuck beneath the surface of dark waters. He seemed to be floating indefinitely, the wreckage of many ships surrounding him. The only lights that could possibly guide him now were the shimmering silver stars in the night sky, dancing upon the water's reflection and glimmering like diamonds. It all looked so beautiful. He thought to himself as he slowly closed his eyes.

How long have I been here? He pondered, he didn't even know where “here” was. His icy blue eyes felt so minuscule compared to the cold embrace of the waters. His body slowly rose to the surface, able to finally see the shimmering stars with his own eyes. As he rose to the surface, he found so many of them simply be gone. Had it been a trick of the water? He couldn't help but wonder.

Then more faded away, right before his eyes. The shining stars slowly died out, dark clouds slowly shrouding the skies. They shrouded the moons light, save for single crackle traveling through the suffocating haze. The moonlight shimmered through that crack, providing light for the floating man. When he managed to raise his head, he saw that the light guided him to an island with a lone figure standing in it's center. It was impossible to make out anything, but the silhouette in the night.

Mister Stonebridge.  The voice spoke across the water, a gruff tone full of anger calling out. It's time to wake up.

Lemar awoke in his workshop, his eyes slowly blinking. The sun had begun to rise and the candle illuminating his night's work had long since melted down to the counter top after spilling over it's holder. He fell asleep in front of a black dress, chuckling to himself. “You would call to me.” He spoke, disconnected from the fact his assistant was standing at his side.

“You fell asleep here again, regardless it's not important now.” Lemar's assistant was a much older man than he was. He found he often needed the more matured guide in his life, someone far more grounded than he was. “Another suit got dropped in your box, pin and radio are both gone once again.”

Lemar's fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, a hangover and bad news were not the ingredients he needed to get the hair of the dog. “The suit? Where is the wearer?” Lemar grumbled. “Security detail is light these days, they're probably resigning and sellin' the shit worth while.”

As Lemar rambled on about his own gripes, his assistant retrieved a note from his pocket. He handed it over to Lemar, it was clear that it had been opened just enough to peak inside, then quickly shut. When he opened it, he found a letter stained in blood, Lemar's nostrils flaring up as he recognized the scent. His eyes whipped over to the assistant, then to the letter.

Written plainly in the center were three words.

Dust had gathered in the old office. No one was being paid for it's upkeep, and it was kept behind a door that few had the key to. Cold February moonlight glimmered through the window overlooking the canals. It brought a soft blue lighting to the room, vaguely illuminating the various shelves and paintings that lined the walls. The night's blue tint on it all felt appropriate, all these material things kept in the shadows.

The last time he came to these offices, a gun was placed right in his face. He made sure his footsteps were light this time, approaching the desk that sat below the window. It was the only thing lit by the night sky. Calloused fingers reached down for the drawers, tugging them open so he could retrieve the papers inside. They were the last thing of value in those offices for him.

Nothing felt more silent than that single clack of the refined cedar pressing back into it's rightful slot. Glossed over eyes looked about the room. “Aint a thing for me here.” His feet slowly found themselves wandering. He heard no one in the offices at this hour, so early in the morning. Outside the birds began to sing, bringing noise to the lingering darkness that surrounded the dim streetlights. He moved to the office next door, pulling a cigarette from the tin tied to his chest straps.

He approached a couch he sat on many times, falling back into it while producing a silver plated lighter. The orange tinted light shined upon the shiner that resided on his cheek, a deep brown and purple stinging his skin. The fire was put out as quickly as it was lit, the cherry of the smoke burning smoothly as he leaned back. He saw the accolades of his friend, a man who had started from nothing and become something much greater in the scheme of things.

His eyes closed, finding the same rest he always found near his friend, even if he wasn't there. 

The minutes and hours had become a jumbled mess in the recent weeks. The overbearing anxieties and constant fear of death looming around any corner of civilization with the new threats entering Azeroth. The scourge were a threat that remained close to the heart of Mister Stonebridge. Having lost his home to the undead at a younger age, he had internalized a lot that fear unintentionally. This new uprising was a time for him to face those fears, long nights spent furthering his training and taking little rest in between.

His body had bruised almost entirely over, only to be treated by his close friends. Potions and salves had mended the bruises, but he remained unsatisfied. He was determined to cover his body once again in those wounds, running through the Elwynn Forest in a bestial form that was fitting of a hunt. It was hard to tell how long he had been ripping through the scourge, the sun and moon seemed to come and go so many times. It was hard to be certain what was even real to him at that point.

Leather armor had been coated in the gore of the undead, bits of their limps hanging from the blades on his stained pauldrons. The end of his hunt had left him nearly broken from the stress he put himself through. Stumbling back to the home and office of his personal doctor. He hardly remembered walking in the door, even less the removing of his armor. At some point it had been cleaned, as not to track it's mess on her pristine floorboards.

So many nights he had spent without lights in the room he was given. Wanting to hone his senses in the darkness. Of course it wasn't entirely possible, the room wasn't airtight after all. Light shimmered through the cracks of the door, and in certain hours of the morning the sun beat against the face of the home in such a way that the light provided sight of the floor from under the door's bottom.

As the sun brought light to his floor on another day, it had broken it's pattern in a much different way. Thirteen pairs of feet stood in defiance of the light, casting long pillars of shadow that all met at Lemar's beaten body. It drew his attention, tired eyes looking up to the figure that stood in front. It was the only one he could make out any details on, the other thirteen seeming like shadows that stood in the darkness, even their feet were the color of the midnight sky.

The leading figure was frail, his build suggesting that he was elderly until a hand lifted into view and slowly upturned. The veins of his wrist began to shine with a soft purple light, flowing into a small orb within the hand before flame quickly engulfed the arcane being held. He wore a suit fitting of his final day, all black tailored perfectly to his body, made of a fine runecloth. A tie was far too formal for the figure, opting for a dark green button up with it's top button undone.

There was no color in his face, skin that looked like ash and soot only being granted a hue by the soft flame that rested in it's hand. Short, neatly cut hair was as white as the snows of Winterspring, having an almost ethereal quality to the locks. Hard lines and sunken cheeks were distinct features of the face, causing shadows to drape over the skin below his cheek bones. The creases of age were present all over the face. The tired eyelids seemed to struggle in their attempts to remain open, blood red eyes dimly glowing from under them.

“What is it you seek by running yourself so dry, Stonebridge?” It was hard to tell where the voice had come from, each figure seemed to contribute to it's tone, low and high ranges of the words coming from the various figures at different intervals, lacking any logic in how they'd sound. “You cannot protect many as just one, you will bleed yourself dry of lifeblood continuing as you are. Does your ceaseless rage help you conquer your fear.. Or does it continue to rule you?”

One of the shadows stepped forward, but it halted at the hand of the ashen figure. “We must not interfere..” The figure had started to speak a name, but the sounds of wind flooded Lemar's ear, not allowing him to make out the title of the shadow bearing a head of thick hair. The only other thing he could make out was a rifle strapped on the figure's back. It nodded firmly with respect however, taking a step back.

The hand that had halted came up to the gray face, running dry fingers along the skin. As they came down the ash ripped away from the bone and black blood oozed from the wounds, dripping down onto the floor with a consistency as thick as tar. Those peeling wounds did not reveal bone or muscle however, but the beginning of another face.

“A new way will open for you soon, Stonebridge. You will find your answers there.” Only the figure spoke now, the voice holding a vague familiarity that caused Lemar to perk. Of course, in his tired state that perk meant he came crashing to the floor. Raising his head from the cold ground only to find that the figures were no longer there, tired eyes looked around the room before he muttered to himself.

Ever since that night, the Stonebridge residence seldom held light. The man inside feared that it would draw in more unwanted visitors, so he had taken refuge in a storeroom that had been filled with rations for the approaching winter. Shelves of dried food and several tanks of water were illuminated by a single candle's orange light. The melting wax dripped down onto the table below, an open journal sitting below that the man wrote in.

It has been a full week since these monsters came. I have seldom found time to rest with how they tread on my grounds. The first dawn I had began to clean my grounds of their filth, only to find that more of them approached through the trees. I went to my stables only to find that both my gryphon and my horses have been slain by these foul creatures. The smell of their fresh blood must be the attracting force..

The gryphon had managed to mutilate a couple before it met it's end, the horses fared even worse I fear. My hopes of flying and surveying the area are less than ideal now. I figured it would be safe to rebuild my home with Lordaeron becoming abandoned by it's rotten queen. There are far too many of them to be hold outs from even the battle. I must make it to Stormwind, I fear for my friends and those close enough to call family.

They will be safe here with me, I will have to embrace my bestial form and make the trip on my own feet once I rest, I cannot afford to collapse on the journey, especially if these monsters lies outside the Greymane wall.

A splotch of ink had ended the journal entry. It was due to a voice cutting off his train of thought.

“Do you think you can make it there in time? What will you find when you go to the city?” He heard the voice ask him from the corner of the room.

Standing there was a figure obscured by the dark edges of the room, standing at an average height for a human. His face was unseen, but the portions of skin that were visible in the candle light appeared to be gray. This sudden guest caused a quick stir from the sleep deprived man, a quick hand on his revolver drawing the weapon and taking aim at the figure. He did not fire yet however, he still had questions.

“Who are you?” Lemar asked, his thumb drawing back the hammer on his weapon, ready to fire.

The answer was given in the form of the figure stepping forward. Particles of ash fell from the bared skin as he moved, fading into the air instead of touching the ground. There was a scar along his arm that bled a void influence, black tendrils slipping from inside and licking at the ashen skin, consuming the skin and slowly sucking it into the old wound.

As the figure stepped forward his face was revealed, made of the same ash the rest of his body was. The eyes were as black as the ink that stained the journal page, oozing with the void's influence, it's tendrils poked through other portions of his face, gliding along the dried flesh in hopes of wetting it, only to have the particles disappear into the air of the dark room. A head of black and gray hair rested a top his head, neatly trimmed.

Freezing drops of rain beat down on the recently shingled roof of a manor like bits of kibble flooding into a dog's bowl, the resonating taps filling the air of not only the home, but the land in close proximity. It was the usual weather that came at the end of the year in Gilneas, when it was still warm enough to not snow, but cold enough to make nature feel like a harsh mistress.

Lanterns illuminated the grounds in front of the manor, waist high stone walls projecting shadows out into the surrounding woods before disappearing into the chilling night. Moths desperately striking against the glass chamber in hopes that they could find not only the light, but the warmth away from the cool drops that stung their wings.

Warm smoke billowed out from the brick chimney set at the back of the manor, the smell of smoking meat joining the scent of wet soil and trees outside. While it was a common scent in any city, to find it in the nearly abandoned city was an oddity. It was not an oddity to the man who inhabited the home, of course.

Living the life of a hermit in recent months, Lemar had finally returned home for dinner in the evening. His days had been spent climbing the mountains near his home to be up further in the altitude. Where the air was as clear as the sky when it chose not to rain. It was the perfect place to clear his mind and train, setting up in a small cave that broke the cliff side.

He stood in the kitchen, preparations being made. The chopping of vegetables that were going to be stewing in just a few hours for the coming days. A quick hand collected one of the portions of hanging meat, his hungry maw ripping a chunk of the hickory flavored meat from the bottom before he set it aside on a fresh plate.

As the firm chops of his cutting board filled the kitchen, another sound resonated from the outside. At his gate was a bell that would move whenever a guest entered his front yard. It was not odd to hear such a sound at any given hour, the wild life would ring it indiscriminately before fleeing it's unexpected noise.

What was odd to hear however, was the bell ringing twice, three times, then four. It must have rung a good seven times, drawing the man's attention. A brow perked as his left hand set down the onions he had been chopping up. He thought to carry the knife with him, but if this was an unfriendly visit of seven, a knife would do very little.