Back to part 1…

Part 2 – The Thieves

Feya looked out over Ratchet, as she stepped off the boat, which had just finished its voyage from Booty Bay. The coastal town, a haven for seafarers located in the savannah known as The Barrens, looked busy. Everywhere in the town, merchants peddled their goods from wooden stalls, the sounds of hammering and tinkering audible over the noise of the crowd, who moved from building to dusty building, going about their daily work. This was a town built on trade, and transport. Cargo was being hauled off the boat, replaced almost instantly by more goods, destined for the Eastern Kingdoms and the jungles of Stranglethorn, where they would be carried via caravan northwards towards Stormwind, the city of humans.

Her nose crinkled slightly in her contempt for the humans. Such a temperamental race, she thought, brushing stray strands of black hair back behind her long, slender ears. These protracted ears and her dark blue skin marked her as a night-elf, however, in such a place as this, race was never an issue, although a few short hours up the road in Orgrimmar, she would be attacked on sight simply for being born to her race.

She sighed at the futility of the world, and continued onwards, departing the dock area. She scanned the town, and saw a large two-storey building, with tables and chairs outside it, various people sipping drinks, playing games of chance and eating. The inn would be her place of rest for a few nights, for however long it took to complete the assignment and be off again. As she neared the inn, a familiar voice piped up behind her.

“Not waiting for me, then?” asked the voice.

“Orriel, you are not an elfchild, and I am not your keeper. Does it matter that we arrive slightly apart?” Feya sighed, and turned to her partner. Orriel, like her, was a tall, lissom build, with dark hair that stretched way down below her back. They looked almost like sisters, however Feya preferred tighter, less restrictive clothing, while Orriel wore the traditional robes of her calling, a priestess of Elune.

“Perhaps you are not my keeper, but sometimes I feel like yours.” Orriel retorted, dropping a small brown bag at Feya’s feet. “Forgetting something, perhaps?”

Feya sighed again. Her tools, of course, she had left them on the boat.

“A simple accident,” she picked up the bag, “It happens.” Or was it a simple accident, she thought. Ever since they’d decided to risk coming here for the artefact, something had felt wrong about it all. At every turn they made, Feya got a bad feeling in her stomach, as if she’d eaten too many frostberries, and ended up losing focus. She had to try and ignore those gut feelings, or so Orriel had said. It’s just nerves, she told herself, how can I possibly know if something was going to go wrong?

As they neared the inn, Orriel became seemingly distracted by something, and started walking towards a table, where a rugged-looking orc in a leather tunic was talking to two goblin children, who were giggling excitedly. Feya put a hand on her robe, as if to ask her what was wrong, but Orriel simply brushed past towards the table. Then, a few feet away from the table, Orriel stopped. Feya moved up beside her and started to ask her what she’d seen, but Orriel put a finger to her mouth, indicating she should be silent.

The orc had three cups, upturned on the table, and a round ball. The goblin children squealed at him.

“Go on, mister, we can play a game!” one encouraged, “Show us how to play!”

“Nah,” said the orc, “I don’ fink you’re old enough ta gamble, an’ this here’s a gamblin’ game.”

“Oh, but we won’t tell anyone!” cried the other child, “Please, I have this silver coin, just show us how to play!”

The orc made a big deal of considering the child’s offer, then finally pointed his finger at them with mock sincerity.

“Aight, but, I’m just gonna show you ‘ow to play, no money, okay?”

The orc put the ball under one of the cups.

“Right. See this cup?” The children nodded. “I’m gonna move all the cups around, real fast, an’ you gotta keep yer eyes on this one, where the ball is, an’ then when I stop movin’ em, you gotta say which one has the ball under. Got it?” The children nodded again, eagerly. The orc started to move the cups around and around, sliding them to and fro on the table, slowly at first, but building speed. After a short while, the orc stopped, and lined up the three cups.

“Now, which one is the ball under?”

Both the goblin children pointed at the middle cup. The orc lifted up the cup, and the ball rolled out from under it. The goblin children looked at each other in amazement.

“But that’s easy, missah! People play dat for money?!” one said, in disbelief.

“Yer.”

“We want a go, for money,” said the other child, offering the silver coin.

“I already told ya,” stated the orc, “No money.”

“Oh please! Please missah!” both children pleaded.

Again, the orc seemed to be thinking. Then he flipped out a silver coin similar to the goblin child’s, and placed it on the table.

“Alright, just once then, I don’ wanna lose all me money.” The goblins shrieked in delight, and the child with the coin put it on the table. “Winner keeps both,” the orc continued, “Are you ready?” Both the children nodded, so the orc did the same routine, placing the ball under the cup, and then moving all the cups round and round with the same rhythm as he had before. Again, the cups came to a rest, and again, the goblin children pointed at the middle one, giggling to themselves.

“Sure?” asked the orc.

“Yes!” cried both the children, gleefully.

The orc lifted the cup, only to reveal a distinct lack of a ball. The children’s happy faces dropped into expressions of shock instantly. The orc stretched out a hand towards the coin.

“Bad luck this time, kids, but I-“ he was interrupted as a thin set of fingers closed over the hand he was using to hold up the cup, pushing it down to the table.

“Show them where the ball is, then.” Orriel’s voice, speaking in a sharp, authoritative tone, made the orc gulp.

“No offense, miss elf, but what business is this game of yours?” he asked, defensively.

“Kids,” said Orriel, smiling sweetly at the bewildered children, “Lift up the other two cups.” The children did as was asked, while the orc looked on in horror. Neither of the other two cups had a ball under it. Gently, Orriel shook the orc’s hand, and from his tunic sleeve, out rolled the ball. The goblin children looked at the orc, horrified, and then one pointed at him with a spiteful look on it’s face.

“Cheater! Swindler! I’m tellin’ ma!” The goblin youngsters jumped down from their seats at the table, and began to run away, however the lyrical voice of Orriel stopped them.

“Wait, kids!”

Orriel released the orc, and walked towards the cheated children, taking the coins with her as she went. The orc, fuming, began to rise, reaching one hand into the inside pocket of the dirty tunic. Not finding what he was looking for, he began patting the insides of all his filthy clothes anxiously. That’s when he felt a short sharp prick of pain on the back of his neck, and another set of slender fingers grasp his hair.

“You’d do best to get out of Ratchet before those goblin’s parents,” Feya paused dramatically “or I, find you again.” With this, she released the orc, who practically jumped away from the table, scattering his cups, and ran away as fast as he could.

Meanwhile, Orriel had conjured up some simple magical illusions for the children, entertaining them greatly while Feya dealt with the would-be thief. After she had finished making two shadowy goblinoid figures dance in mid-air for a few moments, she patted each of the children on the head, told them they had the blessing of Elune, and given them a silver coin each. The children, looking extremely happy, pranced off down the street, hand in hand.

Orriel went back to Feya, who looked at her with a shake of her head.

“What?!” asked Orriel, “What have I done?”

“You are such a hypocrite,” remarked Feya, “And you know it.”

“Just because I live my life the way I do, doesn’t mean I can’t teach others the right path,” retorted the priestess.

“Yet it doesn’t make you any less of a hypocrite. Anyway, come on, if we’re going to pull this off, we’re going to need as little attention as possible.”

“No, quite the opposite this time, in fact.”

“Oh by the moon… you better tell me inside.”

————-

They had tracked Kilgran by boat for a very short period of time. Two days after the incident with the Bloodsail fleet, they had found the remains of Kilgran’s schooner washed up on the beaches of Westfall. From there, all three of the group had used their tracking skills to easily find his trail. He was running south, that was for sure, and the group had to maintain a swift pace to keep within a few hours of him. He had evidently stolen a horse from a nearby farm, which was making keeping track of him easy, but keeping up with him a different matter entirely. A few days later, the trio had arrived in Booty Bay, where the trail went cold.

Nysk surmised that he had crossed the sea, probably on the anonymous ferry between Booty Bay and the town of Ratchet, nearby which was a known Bloodsail base. Tri’ka and Kal were keen to catch him before he could reach reinforcements, so they went to catch the very first boat to Ratchet. However, as they were on the docks ready for boarding, Nysk spotted something.

“Tri’ka, Kal… hold,” said Nysk, stopping in his tracks, “We may have a bigger problem than Kilgran.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kal, halting. Nysk nodded his head towards a pair of night elves who were currently walking up the planks to the ferry.

“Those two,” said the human assassin, “I know them, and I know what seeing them travelling to Kalimdor means.”

“What?” asked Tri’ka, “Are they bad news?”

“Perhaps…” Nysk paused, pondering, “Let me tell you when we are aboard the boat, and none can hear.”

Tri’ka had come to respect the mysterious human Nysk over the last few days. After his initial deceit, in the week that they had spent together tracking Kilgran, he had proved to be a good companion to have. His tracking skills were nearly equal to Kal’s, his movement and agility were incredible, and while he wasn’t nearly as strong of shoulder as her or Kal, his swordplay outshone any she had seen, and in the short sparring session they had while on the boat he had disarmed her in seconds with a deft flick of his blade. Yes, the human was impressive, and friendly enough, although something about this whole experience unnerved her, an almost suffocating feeling that the three were on an uncontrollable journey towards… what? She bit her lip pensively as the three took a seat in the comfortable cabins of the ferry.

“A little bit better than what we’re used to, eh?” joked Kal, light-heartedly. Tri’ka giggled, and Nysk cracked a smile, but then he leaned in towards the two friends, and spoke hushedly.

“Those two are known amongst the circles I travel in as high-profile thieves. They specialise in stealing holy and magical artefacts, usually very valuable ones,” he explained, “They were exiled years and years ago from Kalimdor by the night-elves themselves, and were forbidden to enter the lands again, on pain of death.”

“So why would they chance it?” asked Tri’ka, “Why risk that much?”

“For something particularly special, perhaps,” suggested Kal, the tauren shifting forward in his seat so much that one of his horns rested lightly on Tri’ka’s shoulder.

“Exactly, Kal,” Nysk went on, “And I think I might know what. Have either of you heard of the Hand of Cenarius?”

“I have,” whispered Kal in awe, “But I thought it was all lost or destroyed!”

“Apparently not.”

Trika interrupted, “You mean there’s a part of the forest-lord still in existence?!”

“Perhaps,” Kal turned to face Tri’ka. “My people and the night-elves tell tale of a tree, which grew on the battlefield where Cenarius fell. Just hours after he perished, under full moonlight, this great oak appeared, fully grown. My people and the night elves took steps to ensure the protection of this tree, believing it to be Cenarius’ link to this world, for we believed then, and still believe, that one day the Lord of the Forest will awaken. The tree was called the Hand of Cenarius, always reaching up towards the Mother Moon, the last act of a loving son, desperate to remain in this world, defending it.”

Trika took a deep breath. “So what happened to it,” she asked, “Is it still there?”

“Alas, no… like all things sacred, it was a target for those who would watch this world burn. Satyr raided the tree, cut it down, and burned it with spells of shadowflame. Since then we believed it gone, although rumours did circulate that parts of it still existed.” Kal turned to Nysk. “If what you say is true, and there is a living part of the tree… it’s priceless. It may be Cenarius’ last tie to this world.”

“So what does this mean, then?” enquired Tri’ka.

“It means,” sighed Nysk, “That we have a bigger problem than Kilgran.”

————-

The caravan rolled westwards, its goblin driver shielding his eyes from the sun with a large straw hat. He didn’t have the luck of the other drivers of the small, three-caravan convoy, who had the shade cast from his vehicle, and would be shielded somewhat. Being up front meant the full heat of the sun bore down upon him mercilessly, making him hot and uncomfortable. He sighed and whipped the reins lazily, keeping the two horses that pulled his cargo along at a gentle trot.

Further down the road, next to a ‘crashed’ carriage, Feya checked herself. She had to hand it to her priestess partner, this plan was amazing. They had stayed in Ratchet for a few days, and during this time had set themselves up in the seaside town as friendly healers. Orriel had disguised Feya as an apprentice priestess, and together they had gone through the town, curing ailments with potions, giving people the blessings they wanted, and generally giving off the general impression that they were Elune’s disciples, passing through. None of the simple merchants here knew that these two were wanted exiles on their way to the biggest, and hopefully final heist of their careers as master criminals. They had been well received, and then, the day before, had said their goodbyes, and left, purchasing a carriage and two fine young horses.

Of course, about half a day’s travel into the plains of southern Kalimdor, they had stopped. Feya had released the horses, while Orriel used some of her magic to propel the empty carriage into a tree. Then they had dirtied themselves up, and waited by the roadside. No-one would suspect the friendly priestesses, and the merchants carrying the artefact to the tauren city of Thunder Bluff would gladly agree to take them on board. At a certain point after they had conned their way on board, they would steal The Hand of Cenarius, and make haste for Darnassus, to barter with the night elves in exchange for the removal of their status as exiles. Feya longed for her old life back, longed for the hospitable elven lands, her home for so many years. She sighed, and readied herself for the impending job.

————-

They rode swiftly, Tri’ka and Nysk on chestnut brown horses, Kal on a gargantuan kodo, a native resident of the barrens. So focused were they on the road ahead, that they didn’t see a telltale cloud of dust on the road behind them.

Beady eyes focused on the trio on the horizon, eyes narrowed in hatred. Kilgran looked at the larger shape of the three, licking his lips in anticipation of murdering that beast. Behind him, ten other riders spurred on their horses, the Bloodsail taking to the desert on a mission of vengeance. The fat slaver grinned viciously, never taking his eyes off his targets.

————-

The sun was beginning to set over the Barrens, casting a red glow over the savannah, when the convoy rolled to a halt to assist the two priestesses and their crashed carriage.

“Oi!” yelled the goblin driving the first caravan, “What happened here?”

Orriel stood up from her seated position, giving a dramatic, albeit false tale of how the horses had gone wild, running them off the path and into the tree, then escaping. The goblin smiled, trusting the priestess, who had earlier helped his daughter with a conniving orc outside the inn.

“Well, we can’t leave you out here on the road to be eaten by some pack of fanged beasts in the dark, can we?” The goblin motioned to the middle caravan of the three. “There’s no room in my caravan or the one at the back, but feel free to sit in the middle one with the guards.”

Hearing this, Feya rose from her sitting position, and whispered in Orriel’s ear.

“Guards?!”

Orriel responded angrily under her breath. “Did you think possibly the most valuable treasure we’ve ever gone after would be unguarded?”

“I thought you said no fatalities this time!”

Orriel ignored Feya, striding towards the goblin. “Thank you so much, master goblin. We’ll just fetch our things.” Then walking back past Feya, she snapped “So I lied. Do you want to go home or not?!”

Feya nodded, and helped Orriel with the bags. The bad feeling in the pit of her stomach returned, and she scowled even as they climbed into the caravan alongside five heavyset orc guards.

It was barely ten minutes down the road, before the caravan stopped once again. Feya looked nervously over at Orriel, who seemed surprisingly calm, her hands in her lap, her eyes closed. The border between the grassy plains of Mulgore and the great expanse of the Barrens was the marked zone to steal the artefact, and Feya swallowed nervously as she now realised that entailed a lot more violence than she had previously thought. Is it worth it, she thought, staring round at the orc guards. Five lives for two? She felt a sudden pang of guilt, but ignored it, trying to think of the great and wonderful trees of the forests outside the great city of Darnassus, where white marble pillars contrasted gnarled, rich brown oak trunks, and where elf lived side by side with nature. She would be a hero when she returned the Hand of Cenarius, she reminded herself, and if her kind didn’t know how she got it, it couldn’t hurt them, surely. The sudden awareness that there were raised voices outside stirred her from her daydream.

“I’m telling you, you have thieves on board!” a strangely familiar voice was saying.

“There’s nothin’ but five guards, the two other drivers and a couple of stranded priestesses! Now go about your way, human, afore I call the guards!”

“Please, sir goblin,” a deeper, rumbling voice continued, “Believe us. You don’t know what you are carrying back there.”

“Guards!” called the shrill voice of the goblin.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said a female voice, “Shut up!”

There was a brief thud, and a small cry of pain, and the orc guards were suddenly on their feet, rushing out of the caravan.

“Was that entirely necessary, Tri’ka?” asked the deeper voice.

Feya stood up, and peered out of the front of the caravan, lifting a canvas flap to see better. The only thing she could see past the merchant cart in front was the goblin driver, unconscious on the floor. She turned to look at Orriel, but the other night elf was already leaving the caravan. Feya shook her head, and reluctantly followed her. Rounding the caravan, looking past the advancing orc guards, Feya did a double take and went pale as she saw the three travellers that had stopped the convoy. It wasn’t the fierce looking orc female, wielding the small club, or the huge tauren with arms wider than her waist that unnerved her so, it was the small, thin human male stood between them that scared the wits out of her.

“N-Nysk?!” she shrieked, scarcely believing her misfortune. Even as the assassin turned to face her, another nightmare came at them from behind.

Kilgran’s men bore down swiftly on the convoy, with a fierce yell. Three riders rode at the convoy, while the other seven men and the savage slavemaster dismounted a small distance away, preferring to fight on foot. They charged at the caravan, a secondary attack after the initial surprise. However, the riders only fared so well. The first rider, the element of surprise on his side, swung at an orc, severing its throat. It fell down with a surprised, gargled cry, clutching at the air. The first rider let out a small snorting laugh, riding onwards and circling around for another rush.

The goblin driver of the middle caravan moved swiftly into action, prepared for raider attacks after several years of being a merchant. He kicked out at the second rider, who rode close to the caravan’s side, knocking the surprised man off his horse. The Bloodsail corsair landed directly on his head, and the crack made the driver wince as the raider met his end via a broken neck. The third mounted pirate also perished, not counting on the reflexes of the small, dark-haired human, and as he swept a vicious axe towards the man, sure of his kill, he noticed a sharp pain in his chest, and he was dead before he even noticed the sword sticking through his chest. Flat to the floor, Nysk yelled.

“It’s Kilgran!”

The remaining four orc guards, still unsure of who to trust, rushed out to meet Kilgran and his men. The slaver captain, using his girth to swing a heavy-looking mace, swept aside one orc, who flew a few feet and lay very still on the floor. The other three orcs fought the seven Bloodsail pirates, their sizeable war axes parrying and deflecting attacks from cutlasses and shortswords.

Tri’ka, focusing on the first rider, felt her blood begin to boil at the death of a fellow orc. As the rider swang round, Tri’ka began to sprint towards him. The raider saw the charging orc, and grinned evilly, his horse pounding towards the agile female. Tri’ka snarled and hurled her small club at the steed’s feet with ferocity, the hard wood smashing against its legs. The horse stumbled, and the rider realised with a yelp that he was no longer mounted. He smashed into the floor, tumbled over a few times, and regained his senses just in time to see a ferocious orc stamp her foot into his throat.

Kal set his eyes on Kilgran, hatred emanating from the usually peaceful tauren bull. The slavemaster moved towards him, and the two began circling each other, Kal unarmed, Captain Kilgran wielding his bludgeoning mace. Kal silently prayed to his ancestors to lend him strength, dropping to his haunches and eyeing up his enemy. Kilgran smiled evilly, waiting to smash the impudent slave into oblivion.

————-

Orriel ran past Feya, and headed into the first caravan. Feya followed, darting to the shadows of the convoy.

“Do you have it?” asked Feya, watching her partner scramble through the various chests and boxes. Orriel said nothing, continuing to search. After a few hurried seconds, Orriel paused, and lowered her hands into a metal chest.

“Finally,” the priestess said, bringing out the small wooden branch. “The Hand of Cenarius.”

It was tiny, barely more than a twig, but it had an odd green glow to it, and emanated a power like Feya had only felt in the deepest groves of the forests as a child. A single pink bud sat at the thinner end of the artefact, a brilliant, bright colour that reminded her of spring blossoms in Teldrassil. The presence was overpowering, and yet comforting. Not knowing her own actions, she reached out for the object, brushing it lightly.

“It’s beautiful. Can I hold it for a second, Orriel?”

Orriel snatched it back.

“Certainly not! I was going to destroy this in front of their treacherous faces, but since we seem to be under a lot of stress, I’ll just do it now!”

Feya looked up at her partner as if she’d just turned into a ravenous worg. “What?! We’re going to take it to Darnassus! What are you talking about, destroy it?”

Orriel laughed, a bitter, cynical laugh that rattled Feya’s nerves.

“You think they would care about us? They who exiled us? No, this was never about redeeming us, you foolish girl. This was about destroying something they love, about vengeance.”

Feya reached out a hand again. “Give me the Hand, Orriel. I think you’re about to do something very wrong. It belongs to the earth, not the night elves. Please.”

“NO!” Orriel reached out a hand, and a wave of shadow magic knocked Feya backwards out of the caravan into the dirt, rendering her unconscious. The cackling priest placed the branch on the caravan floor, and knelt over it, closing her eyes and preparing the spell she’d memorised.

————-

Tri’ka rushed towards the two remaining orc guards and the goblin driver, who were slowly being pushed back by six Bloodsail pirates. One more orc had fallen to a grievous stab wound, taking a corsair with him with one final, desperate swipe. She let out a battle cry, the distinctive high-pitched wail of her clan, and pressed herself into the fray, her sword flashing as she charged in from the side. One pirate span to parry her, leaving one of the orcs to swipe open his stomach. He keeled over, and the odds were evened further. The hardy orcs, used to fighting in teams, formed a line and pushed the four remaining pirates back, their swords no longer outmatching the heavy, expertly wielded axes of the two orc grunts. The goblin driver took swipes at their legs with a short dagger, leaving long trails of red. Finally, breaking, the pirates turned and fled, but full of the bloodlust, Tri’ka and the two guards chased them down, slaying them as they ran in the name of their fallen orc comrades.

Kal’s fight against the tyrannical pirate captain turned out to be as short as it was brutal. After sizing up his opponent, and praying for strength, Kal charged, and as Kilgran swung his mace at the huge tauren, the proud bull merely sidestepped,, taking the inertia out of the swing, and smashed his hand down atop the warmace like it was a toy, forcing Kilgran to the ground, the weapon no more use against the determined tauren than a needle against an elekk. Unarmed against the furious Kal, Kilgran began to back off, but strong arms wrapped around his neck, and lifted him from the ground. A moment passed between the two enemies, and then Kal squeezed as hard as he could. There was a sickening crunch, and the grotesque corpse of the captain fell from Kal’s hands.

————-

In the caravan, Orriel chanted, working the shadow magic she had created for this purpose through her mind. Tendrils of shadow magic started to unfurl from her hands, long sinews of darkness that began making their way towards the Hand of Cenarius, when suddenly a raspy voice cut through her concentration. The tendrils disappeared.

“You really don’t want to do that, priestess.”

Her eyes snapped open, to see a familiar human standing in front of her, by the entrance to the caravan.

“I will not be stopped!” she screamed, hurling a bolt of shadow at Nysk. The quick human dodged most of the force, however the dark magic singed his shoulder.

“You lost your sanity a long time ago, didn’t you, Orriel?” Nysk took another step towards the priestess and the branch, taunting the wild elf as he did.

“Come no further, wretched assassin! I do not fear you as she does!” Another shadowbolt screamed towards Nysk, but the rogue’s eyes were promising nothing but death as he closed in to the frenzied Orriel, raising an arm to block the magic. The shadow magic burned a dark hole in the assassin’s clothing, and the flesh underneath started to burn as well, but still the man came.

He took another step down the caravan, towards Orriel, who stood now, her body quaking with rage. As she started to speak the word to cast another spell, Nysk dashed to her, muffling the priestess’ power word. Her eyes finally gained a hint of fear, as he put a hand around her throat and stared her down.

“You don’t have to fear me, witch,” he said, his voice icy cold, “But you do have to die.”

She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable, but the strike never came. It was many seconds before she opened her eyes again. She saw Nysk, at the other end of the caravan, grinning madly.

“Why did you spare me?” asked the elf, breathless.

“Spare you?” laughed Nysk, “Oh, get over yourself. You were not my target. This was.” he held aloft the familiar shape of the Hand of Cenarius. “This will make me many friends among the tauren, priest. Many powerful friends.” The human chuckled. “For you see, when you’ve been in my business long enough, you realise that the most valuable commodity is not artefacts, or money, or information, but people you can call upon for favours. Friends, if you like.”

The priestess was stunned. “So what will you do with me?”

Again, Nysk laughed.

“Oh, I’m not going to do anything. However, I do believe you’re about to find out what happens when ‘friends’ betray each other.” And with those words, Nysk walked out of sight, leaving Orriel shaking in the merchant caravan. She breathed a sigh of relief, and then she was again paralysed by fear as she felt a sharp prick of pain on the back of her neck, and slender elven fingers grab her shoulder.

“Feya…”

And then she was dead.

————-

If, as some say, life is a journey with a predetermined outcome, and those who believe in co-incidences and choice are wrong, and that the gods or some other unseen force are forever guiding our hands, then I offer to you that do not feel ‘god-touched’ a thought; if our choices are the doings of fate, intertwining to force someone else’s destiny, would we not be able to do whatever we liked? What sort of world would that be? I am the master of my own destiny, and the gods can rot.

(Ezekiel Nysk, of House Ravenholdt)