[Story] Perhaps a Move is in Order

[Juzmik]

((A bribe is offered and I have no clue as to the ending. Possibly part one of two or three.))

She appears at his table with the slap of a thick stack of parchment against wood grain. Sarjen inclines his head ever so slightly, misty-blue taking in the situation. Athena, to his left, faded hair pinned tightly to the back of her head, a look of consternation on her ever-masked face. Straight ahead of himself, the pint that he had ordered for the boy. Chair opposite, empty. Straightening his shoulders, the knight drew himself to his full height as he picked up the pages, glancing through them with a casual air, taking in every word.

“Tell your boy that I need the Warband to move.” She said, crossing her arms, a bone finger tapping at her elbow. The knight said nothing, gave no indication that he had heard. Instead, he focused on the pages, mindful of the time, mindful of Juzmik’s impending arrival. The drink shifted, the head deflating as the pint sat untouched.

The pages were covered in words scrawled by an elegant hand, a slight tilt to the curvature of the words. Presumably the words of the priestess; Athena had noted down the movements of... He spared her a glance, then, briefly. She returned his gaze, the sickly yellow in her eyes drowning out everything else. The last official sighting of the Orc, the bane of the boy’s breath, lay in Pandaria; the thread, she noted, dried up in Draenor. If the warlock had not perished, if he had not risen from below the ground in the year since, he had done an apt job of remaining undetected by his closest friend and follower.

“Tell the—“ She paused, effort in her words. “Tell General Juzmik that we need to move closer to Silvermoon.” Sarjen set the pages down, folding his hands neatly upon them. The knight twisted his head toward her, his rusted hair catching in the firelight, casting shadows across his rough face.

“Why?” He asked, simply.

The priestess leaned forward, gripping the edges of the table with her fingers. “Nang is…dead.” She stated, plainly, no little hint of struggle in her voice. “Or disappeared. Departed, at the very least. Better your boy live in the knowledge that he won’t return…especially with such impending events.” A smirk, now, mingled into her cadence. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, and don’t think I do not wish a word in when it suits the…interests of the Warband.” The forsaken priestess turned, slipping into the general’s reserved chair, steepling her fingers in time with Sarjen.

“Deliver this to your boy, he’ll never forget it. We both know how he tortured the poor dear.” She paused. “If you’d rather not, I’m sure I could do the deed myself, but, ah.” She twisted Juzmik’s stein with her hands, slowly, idly. “Well, which of us needs the "ace in the hole", so to speak?” She leaned back in her seat, arm thrust over the shoulder. “A Warchief doesn’t go without suitors, after all. Especially one as handsome, or so I’m told.” She slides the stein back toward the knight. “All you need to do is tell him to move the Warband to…ah, what about Light’s Hope?”