Sugar And Spice... And All Things Nice

The snow had turned a brilliant crimson. Like the petals of some murderous rose, spilled across the icy floor. There the body lay, bent and broken. And in more than a few pieces. Or chunks. Chunks was a much more fitting description. Gristle and gore spread from the centre of the corpse. The point of impact quite apparent even to an untrained eye. But these were the eyes of a professional. The professional.

Da Dok adjusted his goggles and rolled up his sleeves.

“Whut az she been doin now mon...”

He sucked in cold air between his teeth, thinking. Kneeling down he poked with his cleaver at the bits of quickly freezing matter at his feet.

The troll on guard adjusted her cloak and nodded into the distance. Three robed figures approached through the icy darkness.

It was time to do some explaining. Or at least some lying... for now.

The figures stop abruptly. The wind whipping at their robes and trailing snow across the corpse. In turn they spoke, voices caught on the breeze. Unthinking he shuddered, but did not look up.

“You ensured us”
“Your work was safe”
“You ensured us”
“It was under control”
“You ensured us”
“But, you failed”
“Your way”
“Not ours”

The snow blew strong then, masking everything in white. They were gone as quickly as they arrived. He didn’t need to look up to know that.

He poked at the broken body once more. And spat into the dark. Chewing his lip he turned to the troll.

“Bollox”

“I expect the mages of the Kirin Tor won’t be too happy either”

She said in reply, as he took her hand and stood up. Throwing her cloak around his shoulders they departed.

The snow was already covering the body quickly. Upon the robes (or what was left of them) the brilliant Eye of Dalaran was soiled by blood and frost, fading as they went.

Scavengers come quickly in the dark. And teeth and claw would soon destroyed what was left of the poor unfortunate. But out there, in the cold North, something skulked and stalked.

And he had to find it, before that door was closed.

He shivered and cursed. Sometimes even a genius was a fool.

The Great Zapini. That was his stage name. The Great Zapini. Not “Magnificent”, not “Wonderful” and definitely not the thoroughly foreign “Uber”. No, he was “Great”. just “Great”. But it was a start.

And what a start! His name had topped the bill in the Elwynn and Goldshire Spring Fayre for the past two years running. He’d been runner up in last August’s Faces of Stormwind talent contest co-hosted by the Mucky Duck Inn and Hairy Fig Food Emporium. His local Dalaran Digest had interviewed him for an upcoming article. Though this had sadly yet to be published - as he was reliably informed by the journalist, due to “breaking and important news regarding a case of Piles by Proxy that had afflicted a number of well- to-do mages”.

Never fear, for the time was ripening for his triumphant one man show at the Ironforge Apollo. And with it, he knew (or at least surmised from reading his tea leaves every morning), would come his fame. As such he’d spent months perfecting his routine, and perhaps just as importantly, his costume.

The finest waxes had been ordered, hand crafted from the resin of Tanari desert palms, used to shape and hold his elaborate moustaches. A thick, foul smelling tincture had been applied daily to his scalp to encourage his drastically thinning hair to sprout forth in lustre. And he’d mastered the arts of small talk, polite laughter and feigned delight, all in anticipation of his propulsion to high society. A wondrously charming and brilliant man.

The Great Zapini, Wizard of Wonder. It had a nice ring to it. A fine moniker. And it was with that thought Huthbert Crotchbottom set forth to find Max “Good News” Whizzspin (Printer, Journalist, Editor In Chief and Proprietor of the Dalaran Digest). If he could get that piece altered, suggest a personal endorsement of his upcoming show...

No longer would he be mocked for his fumbling card tricks, or his unfortunate personal mishap with a tophat and a rabbit. Huthbert Crotchbottom would be no more. Nothing so base and lowbrow for such a great artiste. Nothing so measly. From this day everything would simply be great. The Great Zapini.

But that was yesterday. And today all that remains of Huthbert Crotchbottom, or even of The Great Zapini, is a ruddy stain in the snow, and a tattered scrap of purple cloth, flitting in the breeze.