The flame of the lone torch reflects off the stagnant puddles that had settled in the depths of the cave. Pikki holds the torch up briefly to check her footing, just missing the dark hole that looms before her. She steps around and moves quickly toward the designated “room” that is their meeting point when things needed to be “discussed.”

The unit had grown slack. The fact that the spores had been undetected to the point of infecting one of the Clan was unacceptable. This small but significant victory of the alliance would make them bolder, but at the same time more susceptible to infiltration. Pikki knew they had to move quickly.

She enters the room and lifts her torch to see the others had gathered. She places the torch in a holder in the damp wall and settles herself for a moment. None spoke, or dared to. They all knew they had dropped the ball and that there was a possibility one of their numbers would not see the light of day, again. Pikki removes one of her blades, foul colored with the poisons she favors, and sets it for all to see on the rock that protrudes up from the floor in front of her. She looks around at the others, hidden out of habit in the shadows of the cave room.

“I won’t go inta da reason I called dis meet. Ya’ll know wha’ ‘appened. Ya’ll know ya let me down…”

She shakes her head, sadly, and continues. “‘We still don’t know wha da spores are, we’re workin on dat. It should never ‘ave gotten dis far. And et ain’t gonna ‘appen any more”…She paces then walks to the front of the rock, leaning against it.

“Things are gonna change, as of now. We are gonna start pushin farther inta Kalimdor. Da elfs an’ deir 'uman 'ores ‘ave gotten cocky. Dere ain’t been no resistance ‘ere, dey tink dey got et made. No more….Slip ups like da last won’t be tolerated…”

She grins and chuckles… “Actually, dey ain’t tolerated now.”

She stands slowly, and moves around again to the back of the rock platform. She leans over, her hands on either side of the poisoned dagger. She sighs, dramatically and tsks shaking her head, looking down at the blade.

“…a shame et’s gotta come ta dis.”

She stands, and leans back, looking around, again. She can feel, but not see the eyes darting, the imperceptible nervous shifting, the perspiration forming, the scheming begun.

“Ya know what ta do. I ain’t got time for dis. Ya’ll hafta choose. But dere will be one less a yaz, an’ a example dat da rest a yaz’ll remember. I ain’t repeatin myself."

The air in the room grows suddenly heavier as a collective breath is held. Pikki turns takes the torch from it’s holder in the wall and makes her way toward the exit. She glances back briefly, and as if an afterthought says, “Oh, an ef yer would be so kind ta return my blade when yer done, et’s one of my favorites."

With that, the room darkens as she makes her way again to the surface.