Marcus Rosse regarded his underling curiously as she walked into the room. The way she halted just beyond the door, shoulders stooped like prey; her claws clicking at her sides. One thing could always be said about Caeryn Peyton, and it was that one rarely caught her unawares. Even here in his vast Undercity office, she remained alert and suspicious – her head always facing forward, the eyeless face giving away very little. But the constant tension in her bearing, the way she rarely ceased moving, it was almost admirable.

“Sit, Peyton,” Rosse said the order smoothly, watching as the woman slowly walked forward, searching with her hands for a chair. When she finally did sit, she chose the edge of the seat, her gaunt frame dwarfed in the enormity of the chair’s structure.

Marcus Rosse crossed to the desk across from her, shuffling some papers. Caeryn Peyton’s head moving slightly at the sound, “I have noticed that you wish to cease your services at this Tavern in the neutral territory of Ratchet.” His voice carried a tone of boredom with it, “What we want to know is why? Your reports in the past year have been sporadic at best, with very little import.”

The female Deathstalker tilted her head to one side, gripping the edge of her femur with her claws, “Over the last few months,” she began, “I have been called away from the position to tend to specific duties here. Many to which I can lend my particular brand of expertise. I believe my talents in Kalimdor are being ill spent – from a monetary standpoint.”

Rosse picked up a particular long scroll and reviewed it quickly, “It would seem so, your productivity while in Lordaeron far exceeds your output in Kalimdor, and the expense of transport is great,” he paused, watching his protégé’s face with some interest, “However, we are aware of your particular weaknesses, Peyton, and we are concerned that matters of your supposed ‘cold dead heart’ may be hindering your decision.”

Caeryn’s head snapped to attention, “Can we keep this on a strictly business standpoint, Mr. Rosse? There are practical means to keep me within the Undercity’s walls and not have me gallivanting about primitive lands for lack of information.”

There was a sound of something heavy landing on the desk between the two Deathstalkers, “This would be your file, Miss Peyton, and it includes some rather interesting information regarding a Mr. Wilburr – also some witness accounts as to some goings on with a Jeremy Smith? There is also the grey area regarding the Surrey brothers,” Caeryn’s brow furrowed slightly, “What we wonder, Miss Peyton, is exactly whom you are protecting in Kalimdor?”

“I am protecting no individual in Kalimdor,” Caeryn Peyton said, unable to hold back all of her frustration, “The incidents with those mentioned have since passed, and there were no feelings there. If you notice how each of those things ended – if you have such things in your file – they betrayed no modicum of emotion on the part of myself, and they never ended well for the male in question.”

“The fact was that they were allowed to happen, Peyton,” Rosse said, a grin spreading across his face, “Which allows us to understand that some part of you cares for broken things. If there is something all of these cast offs had in common, it was that each of them were unwelcome by their people – is that with whom you choose to associate yourself?”

Caeryn raised an eyebrow, saying incredulously, “Of course not. I serve The Banshee Queen.”

Marcus Rosse flipped through some sections of the file, “And what about this Zephyr Crew with whom you have associated yourself. We know very little of them. You have been amongst them for nearly five years, and yet the information in your reports regarding their roster is nigh absent. Other than, of course, the several reports involving a Miss Maranwe Elensar, all of which proved to be useless; as well as those of quote idiosyncratic unquote behavior from a Miss Feira.”

She nearly spit out the response, “They are a ridiculous innocuous group of fools who run a tavern twice weekly. I have had to take over the managerial aspects of the tavern, as the imbeciles cannot even rub two coins together and make sums. They are of no consequence. The count children among their ranks, Mr. Rosse, surely such a group of babysitters cannot pose a threat to The Crown?”

The Deathstalker Lord regarded Peyton carefully. She was venomous at the best of times, but she was also known as being highly impatient. Assigned to the Zephyr Crew by the Royal Apothecary Society years ago … she did not leave after an incident went horribly awry, and yet a woman with a fuse as quick to ignite as hers remained: to manage their tavern and do their dirty work for nearly five years … for The Crown.

“So you wish to leave your position in Kalimdor, just as easily as it was assigned to you?” Rosse asked, continuing to watch his employee with measured interest.

“Yes.”

It was a pointed answer, delivered in a flattened tone. It satisfied Rosse. Peyton was known for her pragmaticism, and in this it was no different. “I think, however, I will have you remain a member of your Zephyr Crew should we need an occasional Kalimdor Ambassador,” Rosse smiled, “They trust you, these idiots. They will have no qualms if you were to come back to observe some activity at a time when we may require further observation. It would seem odd to place another Forsaken when you have so publicly left.”

“Understood, Mr. Rosse.”

He cleared his throat, closing the file with some fanfare. He leaned in closer, waving her away with one hand, “Go, Peyton. You continue to surprise me – perhaps one of these years you will be of some great use to The Banshee Queen, rather than a plaything for some Argent Crusader.”

She stood slowly, turning on her heel toward the door. Stating clearly in reply, “That wasn’t amusing.”

Rosse grinned, “I am aware.”

He idly watched as the prey left the room, as stalked as when she entered it. She’d never let down her guard for a moment. He shook his head, opening up the file. He thumbed through it a moment longer, clicking his tongue in disapproval as he read, “The woman has a heart. What a foul thing indeed.”

Caeryn the character will be IC'ly available for the next fortnight to twenty one days (extension only per required need) for role play.
Should you have any specific RP scenes which need to be done outside of the Drunken Kodo, please contact me via PM on the TBDF.

After the fortnight to twenty one days (see above), the Caeryn character will go dark.

Pun intended.

I have been in another state and computer-less since mid-September and have seen the Memetastic fun that has been had, but have been unable to participate ... until now.  So I throw my hat into the ring initially with my own post:

Take five random integers from this particular site, and then I will do the legwork to answer the corresponding questions for either Audre Day or Caeryn Peyton from here.

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Begin recording fifty five.

There is a thing said about pride, and how it cometh before a fall. Is it the exhibition of pride and hubris and the parading of such what precedes the fall, or the very possession of it which causes one to tumble into obscurity?  One can only wonder.

History can teach us much about the races of the Horde and their boastful beginnings before bumbling into this burdensome bastion of Buffoonery.  

The orcs and their playing with the fel magics, their drinking of demons blood and likening themselves to gods before falling into nothingness .... following a young slave aptly named Thrall into a wasteland to build a camp called Orgrimmar. Thrall only half jokingly naming his hodgepodge collective of followers after what used to be - what once was.

The trolls have never had a united front against anything - but they used to have ownership over all. Their constant bickering and infighting has cost them much, including their own land of Azeroth. I suppose that much can be said for diplomacy, it keeps one's land under one's own feet.

The sin'dorei come crawling back to the Banshee Queen they left for dead out in the Dead Scar begging for mercy after their addiction had cost them too much, "Take us back!" they said.  And she capitulated. The power of memory is terribly strong, and the power of allegiance even stronger - no longer cast out as a monster, she took them in.

The Bilgewater goblins lose everything they have save for whatever cans of that foul drink they can conjure up ... come sailing here and terraform a land for our new Warchief, and they are pardoned all due to saving the Diplomatic Thrall. As stated above, diplomacy will gain one the land beneath one's feet - modeled in one's own image at times.

The shu'halo remain as they always were. Honorable and just - with a few exceptions in the name of the Grimtotem, but they can be cast aside.

The discretions of my people are well noted, and we are still cast out as outlaws and outcasts. Our pride still held in esteem, our fall still spoken about widely amongst our so called brethren. Such things are not easily forgotten.

So what then are we as Forsaken to do? Us unforgiven sods of Lordaeron? 

We soldier forth, as quietly as we can, playing the tune as best we know how ...

End recording.

[END RECORDING]

Druids do not understand the value of a market economy.
I swear, if they could fucking live off of LEAVES they really would. But no: 

Dear Mount Flyjal Tree Huggers,

I am not your flipping forest savior.
I am just here for the free pants, dirty elves who will do anything for a 'hero,' and the cash you're handing out.
If you want my honest opinion, I'll solve all your problems with a match and some volatile rum.

- Audre Day, Super Genius

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Begin recording fifty four.

There is a thing to be said about granting second chances; that it takes a certain amount of compassion to allow for someone to be graced with the willingness of another to give another go at whatever it is they wish to do - whether it be a relationship or employment. However, I must be painted as quite the fool as I now have granted Miss Elensar her FOURTH chance. What has become of me? Have I grown soft? Am I slipping into mindlessness? Or have I spent too much time amongst the shu'halo?

She speaks of me being heartless and cold - and yet I have capitulated to her needs and wants, put up with her attacks upon my person, and given her far more leeway than I would give any person outside of the Zephyr Crew.

Her actions are that of a child; a spoiled brat. Someone who has always received that which they desire without consequences for their poor behavior.

Heartless, indeed. I suppose my reputation precedes me. 

End recording.

[END RECORDING]

 Heroism is not an easy vocation. Each day, the hero wakes up and must look for a heroic deed to perform in order to continue to prove themselves worthy of the title of hero. In Azeroth, this is rather simple – there are countless humans and orcs looking for a few good gnomes and goblins to fetch them some wolf hides or tallstrider beaks. Do this enough times, and silver will drip through the fingers of our greedy little heroes’ hands, and we’ll have an opportunist on our hand – one who may turn from a life of heroism to … villainy.

( It's Miss Peyton, if you're nasty ... )

 In the wake of HBO’s rendition of George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones, I come to you, my role players, about the concept of good role play.

I come to you not about the written characters in Martin’s prose, but – instead – the television renditions thereof, presented in an episodic manner. Easily digestible tidbits, masterfully eked out hour by hour in a way that kept the characters compelling and watchable for an entire ten episodes where the ratings climbed to over three million viewers for the season finale.

( More exposition under the cut .. )