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Teaching them Humility

Criminals must learn… Or be punished.

For a long time, everyone considered the streets of Boralus secure: the war with the Horde had died down, and most conflicts reaching Azeroth spared the insular nation.

Often, the people would stroll through Kul Tiras even past midnight, protected by guards who regularly patrolled the streets and ensured the streetlamps remained lit.

Yet. Those times had changed lately, especially with wanted posters posted at almost every artery of Boralus, making it obvious to anyone who was wanted.

Not the Ashvane, ever since they dismantled the betraying house. Nor the many Druskvar or other dangerous creatures that might have dwelled further west, past the mountain ranges.

No, this time… it was different.

Two faces. A Worgen. A Vulpera.

This was an unexpected view, but the hastily printed posters barely honored the two faces as the criminals passed by another of such posters like shadows.

As typical as it was for them, it was the Vulpera who stood in front. Cloaked from head to toe, the waxed canvas hid everything save for his blue eyes and the prominent red-furred ears that swayed and straightened at every sound.

Checking his left, then right, Shadow, or Crimson Shadow, beckoned his partner in crime.

Then, it was the Worgen’s turn to advance, Thunder or Silver Thunder.

Hunched to the point of looking like an old man, the waxed cloak over his body hid his muzzle and ears. His steps were careful… Yet a closer investigation could confirm the presence of golden eyes and a digitigrade gait, which only Worgens possessed.

Thus was the nature of the duo, going from small alley to small alley, eyeing and double-checking whoever might approach.

Guards? They gave them a wide berth, circumventing their presence.

Drunkards? It was a reason for Crimson to stroll out in the open.

His ears dropped and slipped under the cloak; he would walk behind the drunkards like a lost child. Only when he’d secured his prize would he pull a knife out of his cloak and cut the purse loose, snatching the remaining coins that might fall.

An action that was made without much effort, without much difficulty for the rogue as he pocketed the coins and returned to his larger partner.

“See, I told you. Easy like stealing sand,” chuckled the Vulpera, flashing his teeth for a second while listening to the faint, distressed shouts coming from behind.

“We need to go,” replied Thunder, his foot stomping while he eyed the streets: dirty, gloomy, and yet a direct way to their goal.

A remark, a reaction that made the Vulpera’s face turn into a scowl.

He frowned, and he scrunched up his nose. But then, they walked toward the northern district. Potentially the richest in those times of trade, and one of the most secure, unfortunately.

“Why are you so twitchy? You told me you’d planned for this, and we’d had all the night,” huffed Crimson, shrugging with his knife in hand before everything returned under the cloak.

“I’m not sure,” said the Worgen, sticking to a door and grumbling, acting like he was fumbling with his keys while the Vulpera was stuck between him and the door.

“Not sure?” hissed Crimson, his frown obvious and yet missed by the Worgen above. “You said you had a plan for once. That you wanted to prepare it.”

“It’s prepared… It’s good. But I’m not sure,” mumbled the Worgen, eyeing over his shoulder as the Kul Tiran guard yawned and then left, allowing them to continue their progress north to the Boralus harbor.

“You’re not sure,” snapped the Vulpera, his teeth clicking. “Never again am I letting you plan this. You hear me?”

His grumbling was loud and clear, enough for the Worgen to nod as they finally settled back in front of a shop, a tall building, though their aim was the ground floor.

However, despite all the recriminations and frustration Crimson had, some of his worries were eased by the promised backdoor, a mere porch that must be used for breaks.

A door that opened onto a common backyard, unlit and unguarded, hence it was the right passageway for the two bandits.

“I told you. Door.”

“Yeah. You’d better be right about the rest,” huffed Crimson as he approached the door and produced a lock pick.

Usually, it was Crimson’s task to handle everything about scouting and planning, organizing everything down to the many escape routes they might need to use. Their heist at the Proudmoore Keep? His plan?

The ransacking of Fort Daelin?

The crime spree through Brennadam?

All his plans.

“Fucking lock. Better not be enchanted like he said,” grumbled Crimson.

“You said nothing?” whispered the Worgen nearby, his tone genuinely intrigued.

“Nothing. I’m talking to myself.”

Crimson’s ears then pressed against the door lock as he listened to the metal steadily giving way, the pins lifting as he pondered.

If it worked, they wouldn’t be ‘rich’ or any ‘richer’. But an enchanter’s shop was a whole different kind of merchandise to possess. The kind that could be sold easily on the black market, cheaply, or reused. Crimson had always dreamt of a cloak that could turn invisible.

Click!

The sound was like music to the Vulpera’s ears as he grinned, looking over his shoulder at the Worgen on watch. Then, he turned to the door, slowly turned the knob, and… Peeked inside.

Not a lamplight, not a sound, nothing that would tell anyone was around.

And it was right in the workshop, with the purple gems practically beckoning the two criminals. With only moonlight peering through the windows, the shop looked like a trove of resources: crystals, golden-rimmed instruments, gold purses, enchanted trinkets in curios and display cases.

The more Crimson saw it, the more his heart thumped in his chest, almost stealing his breath as he grinned.

“Thunder, let- Uff!”

Without waiting or caring, Thunder pushed Crimson aside, sending the Vulpera tottering and falling on his knees and elbows before he recovered… And watched his partner hastily sweeping the crystals on the table.

“Don’t take that,” huffed Crimson, shaking and dusting himself off.

“We can take everything we want. They’re gone.”

“Even then. Be quiet. And let’s focus on the most important,” said Crimson, ignoring the table to point at the curios and the trinkets inside: jewelry, spyglasses, and compasses were only protected by a fine layer of glass and a measly lock the Vulpera was looking at.

“What’s that?” asked Thunder, stopping his sweeping for a second to glance at the same curios.

“Probably finished work. Either way, they’re the only thing locked here. They must be important,” said the Vulpera, nodding to himself before snapping his fingers toward Thunder.

“Would you?”

“I’m not your slave.”

“And I’m too small. But if you want to do it yourself.”

“You can take a chair.”

“The less we move, the easier it- Uff!”

Perhaps Thunder had relented or been convinced by the same argument: don’t move what’s unnecessary; either way, the Worgen grabbed Crimson by the thighs and lifted him.

Lifted him right so the Vulpera was in front of the lock, the lock pick ready, and his body pressed against the wooden and glass door.

His ears, again standing up, were pressed against the curio, listening to the slight click, to the pips moving up and down as he fiddled with the lock, tried to explore it.

“Be faster. You’re heavy.”

“Shush. I’m not that heavy.”

The growl that followed was certainly an attempt to counter that argument. However, Crimson barely heeded it as he focused on the lock.

One pip. Two pip. Three.

Clack!

“… Clack?”

That wasn’t one sound he was used to. The instant after, Crimson recoiled, bracing himself for an explosion, for fire. For a booby trap that might eat him.

Instead… A blastwave hit both him and Thunder.

Both were hit by the sheer shock that sent them falling and rolling while the workshop dust was lifted from the rippling shockwave.

“WHAT WAS THAT?!” shouted Crimson, holding onto his head. His ears and brain were ringing, each to a different tune, and a mind-splitting headache added to it.

“WHAT?!” shouted Thunder, holding onto his ears.

“WHAT?!” repeated Crimson.

They looked at one another, surprised and yet… As the ringing in their ears stopped, another sound took its place. Shrill, high… Loud. So loud and only now were they hearing it.

“ALARM!” shouted Crimson.

“WHAT?!”

“ALARM!” repeated the Vulpera, almost shouting to his partner’s ears. Partner who looked back, then nodded before trying to stand up.

Yet the result was that the Worgen stumbled and fell on all fours. Even Crimson, rushing to help him, felt his balance sway under him.

Their world began to whirl and twist and turn and roll.

“Fu-fuck,” groaned Crimson, fighting the nausea as he went up on his wobbly feet. “We…. Need to get out.”

“WHAT?!”

“OUT!” repeated Crimson, grabbing Thunder and halfway pulling, halfway dragging the Worgen toward the back door.

They needed to escape fast… Fast enough to avoid the Guards.

Crimson’s mind raced despite the pain, the feeling of needles planted through his brain. His blue eyes looked around, at the now-lit windows and the disquiet. Even the distant lights were coming closer from one of the paths leading to the shared backyard.

“Come. Where’s our exit?” said Crimson, shaking Thunder as he groaned and grabbed his head. “Where?”

“Uh… left! Right! Somewhere!”

“Somewhere?” squealed Crimson, grabbing Thunder by the hand and rushing ahead.

The big lug was now capable of following; his balance had recovered. But in his state, holding onto his head and surely suffering the same splitting headache as Crimson, he’d be of no use during combat.

Their solution was to escape and run.

“HALT! WHO ARE YOU?!”

The shout came from behind, almost nothing but a whisper compared to the ringing. But Crimson looked over his shoulder, seeing the old Kul Tiran holding up his lamp and his pistol in the other hand. Aiming.

“Crap! MOVE!” shouted Crimson, shoving Thunder just enough to get the big lug to avoid a clean hit in the shoulders. And then… It was a run.

A rough run through the Harbor as the shots and cries were alerting all the guards beyond the shop’s alarm. A ragged and difficult run, with Crimson often yanking on Thunder’s cloak to force him to take a turn with him as they went right, then left, then left again, then right… Circumventing guards, districts, all in a mad dash to get through the northern city doors. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be locked.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” shouted Crimson all the way, almost going on all fours whenever he nearly slipped, solely to return to bipedal run… Likewise to Thunder as they avoided the Kul Tiran shooting at them.

They were approaching the doors, and they could see the canal, dark as oil, and the lights from the former Ashvane docks. They could see it, the reinforced portcullis as well as the towers on either side, forming a fort-like structure. Recent… But highly efficient when the grille dropped and locked their path forward.

They couldn’t escape by the main door, and as Crimson turned, looking at the canal on their left, practically a jump away-

“HALT!”

“Crap.”

“Crimson?”

Crimson turned slowly, raising his hands as he listened to the unsheathed blades and the pistol's safety. He gulped, too, as he watched the advance of a Worgen clad… Not in the coat of Kul Tiras, but the Alliance.

Likewise, his cohort, composed of other Worgens, Draeneis, and… Well. Even two Pandarens were holding pistols.

“Shit… Huh…”

“Crimson? What should we do?” whispered Thunder, his hands raised and eyeing the Vulpera.

“I don’t know. Huh… Talk to them, they’re doggies like you.”

“I’m not a doggy, you little rat,” huffed Thunder, eyeing his partner while the Alliance commander approached, his bastard blade pointing at the two.

“You. You are the Crimson Shadow and Silver Thunder,” said the Commander, his diction impeccable. Much like his armor, pristine and clean… And extra blue for the virtue of flashing his colors.

“No. I’m… I-“

“Silence,” snapped the Commander, both in words and actions as his fingers spoke… And his crew followed, approaching and circling. “You pests. You’re only criminals, nothing more.”

“Hey!” shouted Crimson, both insulted by the ‘just criminals’ and fighting as his cloak was yanked away, same for Thunder and his bag filled with gems.

“It’s the bait. Just as we thought.”

“The… Bait? As we thought?”

Crimson’s eyes widened, and he turned to Thunder, who shook his head in denial.

Even when the Commander grabbed the bag from his subordinate and pulled one purple gem out of it.

“Do you know how many problems you have caused? Men. Check their clothes.”

Visibly frustrated, the Commander turned, looking right at the Kul Tiran guards that had been swarming from all the neighboring districts. However, Crimson and Thunder had little care for the squabble that was starting further away.

No, the two were… Forcefully examined while held at gunpoint.

Silver Thunder was the first to be examined. His tottering balance had recovered, a bit. But not enough to resist as he was forced to his knees, while a Draenei patted him down despite Thunder wearing nothing but a harness and baggy pants. The soldier took away the Barbarian’s knife and bastard Blade. But not without smacking the Worgen’s posterior, making him yelp and growl.

“What was-“

“Clear!”

“What was that?” whispered Thunder.

A question that went unanswered as the Vulpera was patted down, too. By a gray-furred Worgen who did pat him down and check inside the Vulpera’s jacket and pants… And then… As the Vulpera gear had been thoroughly checked, a clawed hand groped the Vulpera’s groin and squeezed it.

“Clear!” shouted the Worgen over Crimson’s yelp, right before the commandant returned, this time followed by Kul Tirans.

“They’re clear? Good. Strip them.”

“Wait? What! You can’t do that!” shouted Crimson, pouncing forward only to be grabbed by the shoulders and arms. There, much like Thunder, he was forced to kneel while the Soldiers went over his gloves, jacket, belt, pants, and right to his foot wraps.

“Yes, we can,” retorted the Commander, pulling out a flask from his belt and taking a swig. “Do you know how long we’ve been waiting to catch you? You’re pests who have been messing with the Alliance and Kul Tiras’ interests for too long. We’ll be leaving you no chances to escape.”

“No chan-Gnghhf!”

Crimson cried or tried. But a clawed hand locked on his muzzle, locking his jaw and forcefully closing it while the Vulpera’s ears dropped, feeling the Kul Tiran icy air rush against his fur.

He was stripped naked, publicly, in front of a commander who looked pretty chuffed to have captured them, enough to drink in public as the two criminals were exposed.

Their bodies, refined by years of banditry and limitation, were thin and dry. Their muscles were visible under the fluffy and colorful coat, crimson for Crimson and livid for Thunder.

Bodies that were fit, to a fault, and yet forced to endure the assault as the Soldiers’ hands often drifted and hit their bellies, sides, back, or even face.

‘Sorry.’ ‘Oops.’ ‘My bad.’ ‘Watch it’

All were offered as the two were hit, their faces soon hurting. Crimson, in his case, was feeling his guts and abdominal muscles throbbing after a clenched fist collected him there. However, it didn’t end there. Not at all. Not as the Soldiers, observed by their commandants and the Kul Tirans, produced… Cuffs.

“HGnhfhhh!” cried Crimson, his eyes bulging toward the Commander, who chuckled and raised his flask to one of the Kul Tirans.

“Thank you for cooperating and preparing for the operation. You’re a lifesaver.”

“No, you are. They’ve been a danger for Kul Tiras for far too long,” said one Guard, receiving the flask and drinking. “What will you do?”

“We’ll leave them in your capable hands,” said the Commander, one hand on his hips. “We were here to help. But the rest is up to Kul Tiras. Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

A celebration.

Perhaps too early, too jovial, too happy.

Yet, before the drinking Guard and Commandant, the two criminals were hit. Kicked. Pummeled. Manhandled.

Crimson was even thrown on the floor like a doll before they grabbed his legs and cuffed them. They were hobbling him, and Thunder was the same, though he was on the floor; one hoof accidentally hit him in the face.

“You… Can’t do that!” cried Crimson between the holding, before a hand locked his jaw.

“We can’t?” asked the Commander in retort, raising a quizzical eyebrow to the Guard.

“Technically, you can’t do that to Kul Tirans. But they’re clearly not citizens.”

“Ah… Laws.”

Laws that were bent and abused.

Right, so the two bandits were rightfully hobbled, their hands cuffed, and then linked to their legs thanks to a metal bar. Likewise, a chain joined the cuffs to a collar cinched around their neck. A tight collar linked to a small chain… itself linked to that bar that pulled and forced them to keep their hands low and their heads even lower. Especially Thunder, as he was forced to stay hunched due to those cuffs that were digging into his ankles and wrists, making him wince even as he was forced to take one step.

Crimson was certainly not as limited, but the short distance between his legs made balancing difficult, and advancing almost impossible, as he, too, was forced to take steps. The Guards pushed them forward, leaving them no choice but to face the rather proud Commander… And yes, the Guards they’ve been avoiding, threatening, and joking about for the last few years.

“Not so proud, criminals,” said one of the older Kul Tirans.

“You… Can’t do that. You-“

“Wait,” interrupted the Commander, raising one hand and snapping his fingers at the Pandarens. “Do not forget the muzzles.”

Crimson’s eyes widened. His teeth clenched before he opened his mouth, ready to shout. But no, again, hands locked him.

His cries became a muffled huff, certainly the same for Thunder as the two were forced to wear one of those disgusting, small, and certainly limiting metal muzzles. Not like a gag, a true muzzle that would have befitted a dog. And certainly not… someone capable of speech.

Yet, Crimson and Thunder whined as the muzzles closed on their faces, locking their jaws, silencing them, while the metal grid dug into their fur and skin. Straps were passed around their heads, around their ears, to secure the muzzle.

Worse, the Soldiers were not kind in adjusting the straps, securing them at the limit of hurting. Not enough to draw blood, but sufficient to chafe whenever the two try to shake their heads.

“Hmph!” shouted Crimson, trying to voice his displeasure.

“Much better. I will let you handle them, then? My men would rather enjoy our barracks than… This,” said the Commander, though his grin seemed to tell a different tale.

One that almost made Crimson recoil as he watched those flashing teeth and those eyes focusing on him, looking at him: up and down. The Worgen was sizing him up, looking at Crimson like a slab of meat.

It was almost with a hint of gratitude that he was pulled away by the Kul Tiran. Stripped and exposed to the chilly temperatures… Almost grateful.

Almost as the two were not only dragged toward the nearest keep, no. It would have been too easy. Instead, the Guards had formed a cohort, a fanfare, that was waking up the entire town.

Around them, as the boots stomped and the Captain of the Guards shouted orders, lamps were lit, and windows opened. Swollen eyes were rubbed before they looked at the strange procession with the naked criminals at the center.

“What is this?! Captain Anders! What’s happening?!” shouted one tired human at his window.

“We captured the Crimson Shadow and the Silver Thunder! Rest well, citizens! The city is safe now!”

“Thanks the tides! May they rot in prison!”

“May the Sea devour them!” shouted another Human, located further.

And soon, what started as a procession turned into something different. A show as the Guards were not taking the direct route. No, they were definitely walking by the wide arteries, clamouring and shouting while the city was slowly waking up to the boots or the cries.

By the vindicated cries of the ‘good’ people who were having a kick at mocking the two criminals.

Crimson’s face burned. And as he looked at Thunder, both had their ears low. Both had shameful expressions. And the Vulpera’s tail even remained between his legs as they had to walk ever so slowly. Ever so difficult.

The hobbles forced Thunder to bend, and the posture certainly looked painful.

But the small chains between each leg, or the tightness of the cuffs, made it so every step ended with Crimson hissing… And feeling the metal digging further into his legs, further into the fur, further into the flesh.

He wasn’t bleeding, but it certainly felt so as they walked by the Unity Square, practically a show by then… Right before they turned north again. Instead of walking directly from the former Ashvane docks to the Proudmoore barracks, they went through the dull effort to circumvent the entire district… To take the principal streets to drum up attention.

And then they went north, on a walk of shame that didn’t even stop once they were inside the newly rebuilt keep.

The two, already humiliated by their walk in the dirty streets, stepping in whatever soiled the cobblestone, were then grabbed by the arms and forcefully dragged down the fortress, forced down a few flights of stairs, before they were thrown into the coldest and dampest cell that might be found.

Only then did their humiliation stop. Stop… But for a day.

It was only then that Crimson could rest and breathe, pressing his back against the cold stone behind him as he took slow breaths, all the while seeing Thunder in the adjacent cell, separated by mere bars.

Naturally, the Worgen was looking much worse for wear, more so as none had removed the hobbles or the bars, forcing him to sit and then drop on his side.

“Ffrhing hmmans,” huffed Crimson between his teeth, hitting his head against the stone and sighing.

“Frhing Thnnger,” he added, too, as he saw those golden eyes looking at him with pity.

If it weren’t for Thunder’s plan, if he hadn’t followed it… It wouldn’t have ended there.

Crimson’s plans were meticulously crafted so there would be no fault. Tips would be double-checked, plans for escape assured.

But Thunder? He didn’t even check if that tip wasn’t a trap from the Alliance. And it was. It obviously was! A rich enchanter leaving his shop unattended for days?

What enchanter would leave their places? Enchanters would order everything and getting it delivered; only crazy mages would dare to go out in the wilds. That was stupid!

“Grnghffff!” raged Crimson, trying to raise his hands further. But the bar joining his hands and legs stopped him from even reaching his head. His chin even… His head dropped.

-

‘Thieves!’ ‘Cunts!’ ‘Molluscs!’ ‘Bottom feeders!’

The shouts were coming from all sides this time, not only from above, but from the security of the windows.

No, this time, the cries were coming from everywhere. They surrounded Crimson and Thunder as they were forced to take that walk of shame.

Yet, their steps sometimes slowed as they stepped into something rancid. Tomatoes, eggs…. Sometimes, cabbage or whatever rotten enough to be at hand.

It was certain someone was making a killing selling rotten vegetables to throw at them.

And so…

That was why Crimson received a rotten egg in the face, snarling at the smell while the yolk soaked in his fur.

It was disgusting. It felt disgusting. It smelled disgusting. But whatever the Vulpera could do, it was to shake his head a little. Nothing more. Not even his hand could reach his face to wipe whatever had stuck to his fur.

The same was for Thunder, though the Worgen looked much worse.

After a week of captivity, forced to walk with those hobbles and stay hunched, Thunder certainly must be in pain. He had bags under his eyes from not sleeping, and even the slightest touch on his back made him flinch.

So… Thrown potatoes, fruits, vegetables, or whatever must be like a pelting rain.

A pelting rain.

Something Crimson desired as he looked up to the sky… Only to see the bluest, cleanest, and cloudless sky he’d seen in his last few years in Kul Tiras.

Only mischievous spirits could have that kind of humor as the Sun burned Crimson’s eyes after days spent in the dark. And so, he looked down again, enduring a rain the Guards wouldn’t stop.

No… They were far too busy maintaining a security perimeter and poking at the criminals’ backside whenever they were too slow. Even if the two were walking as fast as they could despite the binds.

“Faster!”

‘SON OF A WHORE!’ ‘BASTARD!’ ‘BRING ME BACK MY LOCKET!’ ‘WHERE’S MY FATHER!’

The shouts and cries continued, with Crimson huffing and breathing slowly. One glance up and he could see a change in the buildings' architecture. Once more, they’d taken the ‘grand road’, going through the principal streets, though they approached the Harbor where they would take a small boat before their next destination.

Even then, it only meant for the rain of trash to take a more exotic form as scorned Alliance citizens, of all races and shapes, replaced the Kul Tirans.

Even a mug was thrown at Crimson, almost stunning him, before one guard quickly took the Dwarf away.

Yet, with his head ringing and his balance failing… Crimson still had to walk, pushed and egged on by the Guard forcefully dragging him by the arm, even as the solid ground beneath their feet became wood and then the quays.

The marine air would have been welcome, but the trash sticking to them made every breath turn toxic… And nauseating as the Criminals were dragged and forced to board one brig.

One… Brig. Only for them, and yet they were not brought under the bridge but tied to the mast as the Guards were replaced by the sour figures of Tol Dagor’s ferrymen.

Humans who looked older, worn down, and yet grimly taking the task of checking the Prisoners, even grabbing Crimson and Thunder by the muzzles to examine them.

“They’re the two?” asked the Captain, wearing a gray tricorn.

He had calloused fingers and a rough way of handling the prisoners, almost snapping their necks by yanking left then right.

“They’re the two,” confirmed a Guard, drumming his fingers on his armor. “You can take them.”

“We’ll throw them with the others. They’ll probably…”

“They’ll probably?”

“You know.”

Whatever they exchanged or meant, the grim tone certainly didn’t make Crimson feel much happier. No. The Vulpera grunted and then eyed the Worgen, looking at him again.

If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t be there, reeking like a dump. Their furs were covered with trash, even with a banana peel stuck on the Worgen’s shoulder.

Worgen, who didn’t even try to shake it away, merely huffed and shook his head when faced by the glare.

In return, Crimson nodded and then pointed at Thunder with his chin twice, his mouth tight.

A silent exchange, another accusation.

And again… The Worgen tried to shrug, wince, and finally dislodged the peel that slipped and dropped on the board floor while the Kul Tirans raised the anchors… And set sail.

“MAY TOL DAGOR EAT YOU!” shouted one last citizen, way of a send-off. Finally, the two criminals left the mainland, forced to endure the marine wind while the Kul Tirans were taking on the grim task of guiding them to Tol Dagor.

It was only after they left Boralus’ bay that the two were unchained from the mast and then brought inside the ship, but not for their comfort.

Instead, their muzzles were hastily removed, leaving behind sharp red marks that could be seen despite the fur… And then, they were thrown into tight cages.

Tight enough that Crimson was still comfortable enough… But not Thunder, as he was still hunched, and yet his back had smacked against the bars.

He yelped, he huffed, he grunted…

And even Crimson was starting to feel bad for his partner, a bit. A bit that died as he sat down and winced from the pressure the cuffs exerted on his legs and arms.

“We’re done for,” he said… Eyeing the other cage that housed Thunder, then the dangling oil lamp attached to the wooden ceiling.

“My… My back,” mumbled Thunder, huffing and grunting.

“That’s on you. You should’ve checked the tip.”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t shut up,” huffed Crimson, raising his nose. “That’s your fault we’re stuck here. You had to lead us into a trap!”

“I… Fucked up. Stop,” huffed Thunder, turning his back to the Vulpera.

“You fucked up? That’s not a fuck-up! That’s the worst fuck-up of the story of fuck-ups!” shouted Crimson.

“SILENCE INSIDE! OR WE PUT THE MUZZLE BACK!”

Crimson’s ears dropped, and then… he fell onto his posterior, sat, and checked the cuffs.

He certainly could feel the burn around his wrists and ankles, even at rest. Unless they were removed soon, he’d be bleeding. Nasty kind of bleeding.

However, he’d been stripped naked. And now, he had nothing. Not even a tiny lock pick to open the dull lock.

“… And you’re totally a doggy,” he added.

“FUCK YOU!” roared Thunder.

“FUCK YOU TOO! DIE IN YOUR KENNEL!” roared back Crimson, turning his head to the Worgen.

“DIE EATING SAND!”

“DIE EATING SHIT!”

“FUCK! I’M COMING!”

Crimson was sour. Definitely sour.

Meanwhile, Thunder looked almost happy, though his expression sometimes shifted.

The reason? Well, the muzzles were back. But the hobbles had been removed. Sure, they still had the cuffs, but the Worgen no longer had to hunch over and narrowly break his back.

So, he was happy. No… To Crimson’s mind, the Worgen was almost rewarded while he’d been a cunt through and through.

“Barshad,” he said through his teeth.

An insult rewarded by the Worgen’s leg narrowly sweeping him before the two were yanked and forced to advance by the Ferrymen, stepping on firm ground after a few hours of glaring at one another.

Firm, stony ground as Tol Dagor wasn’t… The most homey Prison on Azeroth.

Built on a rocky island, practically inhospitable except for the few pine trees popping up here and there, it looked like a sourpuss on the face of the world.

Tall walls atop tall cliffs, complete with tall towers, formed a sort of humongous complex they were led to.

It wasn’t a mere Prison. It was the boogeyman of all criminals on Kul Tiras, the worst place you’d like to be in. Stories of massacres, mutiny, and torture were legion. And that was from before Ashvane had turned that prison into a personal fortress.

Nowadays, the Prison was no longer manned by the Kul Tirans only, but by the Alliance folks too, ever since they needed another prison that wasn’t Tol Barad, the little sister of Tol Dagor on the continent.

Therefore… It wasn’t surprising that a group of Dracthyrs, their scales black and their faces tense, welcomed the two. Clad in the Alliance’s blue, they held their shields high and nodded to the ferrymen before opening the front gates and letting the Criminals enter with the Ferrymen, though the progress was slow.

“This is not the usual schedule,” commented one Dracthyr.

“No,” confirmed a Kul Tiran, clicking his tongue. “But they’re a special case. The Warden must have received the information.”

The Dracthyrs raised an eyebrow but nodded, closing the door behind the group and then opening the front door to enter the prison itself.

A structure of harsh stone and rusty steel, built and stacked upon one another. Even with the lamps on and the wide entrance, Crimson certainly felt like he was suffocating.

Guards were stationed at the entrance, Humans and Dwarves, though they looked bored or wary.

Either way, Crimson didn’t have the time to pay them heed before he heard the hooves stomping closer. Hooves… And then, in the form of a wide Draenei, his blue face split into a grin. His frontal crest was normal, but he had three horns, one like a rhinoceros’ horn.

And he had four sets of tendrils atop the armor he wore, blue plates with a mix of blue from the alliance and the coat of arms of Kul Tiras.

“Our two esteemed guests have arrived finally!”

His cheery attitude was completed by his arms, which opened wide as if to embrace the prisoners, while the Guards seemed to keep their distance.

An action that stopped as he ended, but a few feet away, he clasped his hands together.

“So… What is this? The Crimson Shadow? The scourge of Kul Tiras, the shadowed blade? Yip would be adequate,” said the Draenei, tilting his head forward and winking.

The reaction did not take long as Crimson’s eyes widened, and he almost recoiled.

“Wh-“

“And you… Silver Thunder. Or should I call you, Nestor? I imagine your journey has been quite a pain,” said the Draenei, reaching for the Worgen’s ears… And pulling his hand back when Thunder tried to bite. Alas, the muzzle stopped that mouth before it could do any damage.

“Ouch. Very aggressive. This is why you have been treated so poorly. But fret not,” said the Draenei, turning on his hooves and holding his index finger up. “Warden Ashav will take care of you.”

Thus, the Worgen and Vulpera were grabbed by the arms and pulled further into the prison, surrounded by walls that were recent and repainted. Kul Tiras' coat of arms was everywhere.

Once past the security post, Crimson and Thunder were shown the center of the prison: a wide atrium with several walkways spanning over it, and it repeated for each level up and down.

From there, the chill Kul Tiran air ran down, brushing the two criminals’ fur.

“Tol Dagor is not only a facility made to hold the criminals from the Alliance and Kul Tiras. This is a facility that, we hope, you shall hold in your heart after you’ve made long-lasting memories!”

Ashav’s speech continued as the Warden led the way, then bowed while extending one hand toward what looked to be… Communal showers.

“Let’s proceed with your proper introduction. This is your first day with your fellow prisoners, so you must be presentable, wouldn’t you think?”

Crimson certainly raised an eyebrow at the remark, only for it… To devolve into utter dissatisfaction.

Bound and limited, the Vulpera was sprayed with icy water. Buckets were thrown at him, the water leaving him gasping for air and hissing while the icy touch seeped inside his fur.

And this… Was only the beginning.

“We host many prisoners. Thieves like you. But not only: murderers, psychopaths, sociopaths, terrorists. We even housed one or two warlocks before the Alliance saw fit to repurpose their talents,” explained the Draenei with a confident smirk and rogue charisma.

Ashav spoke, his voice having a calm sonority… That certainly opposed the gasps and gargles from the two furred individuals as they were roughly handled. Once the muzzles were removed, the two were fitted with collars. An ugly mismatch of leather and carved steel that somehow made them feel heavier. And yet, allowed the Guards, a mismatch of Dracthyr and Kul Tiran, to ‘clean’ them.

“I… Feel like a pooch,” gasped Crimson, his arm lifted against his will while his pits were scrubbed. Same with his torso. Same for the Worgen.

The Guards were relentless, waving the scrubbing brushes against their coats, while also rubbing bars of soap until the two’s fur was bubbly.

It could have been a satisfying clean, going so thoroughly, down to the undercoat. However, the applied strength, the disregard for the two’s comforts, or even the constant yanking made the experience less than desirable.

And the brush? Well, the boar fur certainly was rough on the more delicate bodies, making Crimson wince whenever it passed on his thighs or near his groin.

“Now, now. This is about caring for our prisoners. See. Life must have been harsh for you, Yip,” said the Warden, earning a chuckle from Thunder. “You hide yourself behind that stone-cold mask. But I am sure, somewhere, there is someone who yearns for such care.”

“Keep searching-GAH!” replied Crimson, before gasping when another bucket of icy water was thrown at him.

A similar gasp was repeated from Thunder as he whined, and yet… The scrubbing continued, the brush going over their bodies, scraping away the juices or whatever had been soaking in.

They were even grabbed by the feet, wrestled against the floor, while the brushes went on their tender soles, making them laugh and whine at the same time.

“S-Sto-hoho-Hop! Stop!” cried Crimson, his breathing ragged.

“Now. We will clean you, make you presentable for your fellow,” said Ashav, stepping around before leaning forward, his hands behind his back. Even his smile was grating. “There are years of inadequate hygiene written all over your fur.”

A remark that was completed when a Guard, without asking, grabbed Crimson’s lips and yanked on them. Sure enough, the Vulpera tried to close his jaws and hiss. But the Guard was quick and stuck two thumbs in the right spots to lock Crimson’s jaws. Then, Ashav ungloved his hand and passed an index against the Vulpera’s teeth, poking the serrated fangs.

“My, my. I do think you have not brushed your teeth in a while. Is that… A cavity?”

The Draenei’s interest was unfeigned as he passed his fingers against the gums, even pulling on them.

“Plus a certain deficiency. You must have been surviving on a meat diet, my poor little thing,” said Ashav. Then he patted the Vulpera’s cheeks, watching the Guard release that mouth.

Crimson spat and gargled, feeling certainly displeased as a guard yanked his tail to scrub it. But his eyes remained fixed on the Draenei, who wasn’t even looking sorry for what had happened. No, he still snickered.

“You sick bastard,” grumbled Crimson, spitting on the tiled floor. “I’m a Vulpera. My kind eats meat. Not… Whatever you want.”

“Oh, sure you do. But you must have been using cooked meat instead of raw meat. It destroys-… Oh. Well. This is early for a dietetics lesson. Men. How is Nestor faring?”

“Same sign of deficiency, Warden. We also got a few old scars and badly healed bone fractures.”

“What a shame. Perhaps we shall… Fix it?”

The way the Warden said the last two words made the Vulpera shiver, and yet, it wasn’t only the cold water.

Those eyes, glimmering white, had something else in mind. An unctuous attitude that was… Displeasing. Yet, it went to the background when one of the Guards grabbed the Vulpera’s posterior, and another opened Crimson’s legs on the floor.

“Wh-Wait! Watch it! What-! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

Crimson’s eyes widened as he observed another Guard approach, carrying a vial containing something cyan, something that oozed and moved and rolled within the vial before it uncorked. And… Poured it between Crimson’s legs.

Yet it didn’t stop the hands from going to his posterior, spreading it, making that icy-cold water run against his pucker as it closed and ached.

But it continued to worsen. The Guards were dedicated to torturing Crimson as they used that rush to scrub the Vulpera’s testicles, making him scream briskly. And much like the Worgen, to Thunder, as he, too, was subject to that treatment.

“I understand, Nestor, you are not keen on studies and scholarly advances. However, even a Worgen like you must take care of himself,” said Ashav, certainly focusing on the screaming and gargling Worgen.

Crimson could partially see through the bodies, but he saw the Barbarian fight and thrash against the Guards as they kept him pinned on the tiled floor while…. Something happened. While he was being scrubbed.

Crimson, too, was fighting. But his own weight category made it easier to pin him down… And soon, the Vulpera sensed it. As the ooze had been rolling on his thighs, it approached… His buttcheeks.

It explored his red fur, tickled it, and pressed against the glutes. And then, as the muscles were forcefully spread by the Guard’s gloved hand, the ooze approached the only thing left.

A tiny, slightly musky, and untrained orifice. Virgin to a fault, unused.

And… That orifice was forced on, penetrated by that ooze that forced against the sphincter.

Even if the rim closed and the muscles formed a wall, the ooze’s flexible presence only needed the smallest crack, the smallest of openings to slip inside.

And it did.

It pushed, squirmed, wiggled until Crimson felt that minty and icy sensation in his asshole, progressing within it… Invading him. Invading his ass. Invading his guts. Invading something he'd never given to anyone else before.

He was… Raped. Taken. Abused. Violated by something that didn’t speak or think, something that pushed further, spreading his entrance.

“Stop it! Stop it! PULL IT OUT!” cried Crimson, thrashing and babbling. No, even salivating all over himself while he could sense that cold touch go all over his orifice… Go against his inner walls, drum against a spot that made him feel queasy and not only.

He cried and… Worst of all, the scrubbing of his genitals continued, with the Guards even grabbing his uncut cock to peel the foreskin back and scrub the tip.

The sensation at his cocktip was a burn, an itch.

It was like his skin was being ripped off by the brush, not. And worse was when the strands went over his urethra, sometimes making it poke inside. Sure enough, the mere touch made the inside of that soft cock itch… And burn, as if he’d been peeing acid.

A sensation that definitely made the Vulpera scream, his ears standing up.

“I imagine this must be a torment,” said Ashav, standing right by Crimson.

“Make… MAKE IT STOP! SANDS! THAT… THING! My-MY AHH!”

Crimson thrashed further, enough that another Guard joined, practically making it six of them working in tandem. Certainly much less than Thunder, and even despite those strange collars, which glowed a bright red.

“Make it stop? No, no, no. We must clean you. You have been… Oh, so mistreated outside. But we will clean you.”

“CLEAN ME? IT’S-GAH! TOO! MUCH!” cried Crimson, kicking and spitting.

“It is certainly difficult to endure. Do you feel it, that freezing touch on your insides? The little squirmy moves? The skittering?”

Crimson grimaced as he was feeling it now, forced to feel by the prodding of the Draenei kneeling by him, and stroking his forehead.

“Sands… Take you.”

“Shhh. It is fine. This is an ooze cleaning your insides. We don’t want you to be disgusting for your new friends,” said the Draenei, smiling.

“What… Kind of cleaning is that?” barked back Thunder in the distance.

“Please. Keep our friends silent while I explain. And prepare the cages,” said Ashav, putting his hand on Crimson’s mouth, closing it. Forcefully.

“Here in Tol Dagor, we promote a new method of incarceration. Ever since we retook the prison from the Ashvane, we decided to reinstate it properly. New methods, new environment. We are promoting collaboration and love. And care between the prisoners.”

“Bullshit!” groaned Crimson.

“Please. I ask that you not use this language in front of our Taurens inmates. Sensitivity is very important. I did not raise such concerns when you used the term pooch, but we need to be careful.”

The Draenei even shushed Crimson, patting him while the ooze continued to squirm and jolt. It pushed, too, poking around and prodding until the Vulpera’s cries grew in pitch and frequency. Until Crimson craned his neck and shook his head while the scrub passed underneath the corona and against his frenum.

Only then… As his posterior clenched and his bowels moved, did the ooze… Exit.

An alien, disgusting sensation that made Crimson’s brows furrow… And his fingers clench into tight fists. That ooze, that presence, was disgusting.

But it was slowly, steadily, coming out. The minty sensation it left behind was grating. But once that ooze wasn’t inside Crimson, he felt… Lighter.

And… His asshole was greasy or sticky, whatever it was.

Then, one guard produced the open vial, and the Ooze squeezed itself through before it was taken away… Leaving Crimson gasping and gargling before the Warden took his hand away.

Even the scrubbing had stopped, allowing the Vulpera to breathe, his bloodshot eyes looking around.

“You are… Crazy,” coughed Crimson, only to feel something cold and strong press against his cock. His eyes widened as he could feel his brutally handled cock being forced into something sterile and clean and… Invading.

“No-No, No!”

“It is important to enforce the rules of society. Alas. Masculinity has an impact on… Our inmates' mindset. Perhaps the chastity cage experiment shall improve on this issue,” said the Warden, chuckling.

And then, Crimson winced. His balls were grabbed, the cage fitted all in one, instead of being set with the ring first. It was like all the guards were fighting to get the cage on with no coordination, leading to Crimson’s balls being squeezed, to his cock being pushed at angles it wouldn’t take if it were erect. Or the pressure on his cocktip growing without being pleasant at once.

Only… Only after a while, after a moment, was Crimson allowed to breathe… To gasp. To huff as he was on the ground with the Guards leaving him be.

He was allowed to look at himself, to see that his grimy fur had been cleaned through. No juices, no trash… Only… Damp fur that was sticking to his body, making him feel smaller and thinner.

Even Thunder looked like a wet dog with the coat sticking to his body as he was let go.

Though for the Worgen, it changed quickly as he shook the water off, taking some payback as the Guards huffed and protected themselves.

But indeed, they looked like pooches that had been groomed. Disgusting little things that were cold and shivering as they stood up.

Thunder certainly held onto his arms, shivering and shaking while his legs were squeezed together, his knees almost pointing inward. He huffed and whined. His ears, too, were low as he kept repeating the same word: ‘small’.

“You certainly look much better than before,” said Ashav, joining his hands behind his back while looking at them. “You are almost ready for this. But now… I shall explain the rules.”

“The… Rules? Ugh,” grumbled Crimson before he sneezed. “Wasn’t it enough?”

“Not at all,” replied the Draenei, the index raised before pointing at his neck. “You’re currently wearing an enchanted collar. As you might have guessed, they are made to weaken your bodies and restrain your magical abilities. Though I am sure you possess none.”

A strange chuckle went over the guards, almost like an insult, before Ashav lowered his hand and hid it away.

“Firstly, you cannot remove those collars; otherwise, you will die. Second, do not think about escaping because we can track the collars. Third… We shall begin.”

Ashav snapped his fingers and…

Crimson’s body stiffened. His fists unclenched, his stance widened against his will. And he bent forward while his hands grabbed his posterior, his right cheek, to pull on it. It hurt, the posture being indelicate and difficult to hold.

But right down his neck, Crimson had no control.

And a glance left confirmed it was the same for the whining Thunder.

“What’s happening?” mumbled the Worgen.

“It’s those enchants!”

“Correct!”

Ashav's satisfaction was all the more gratifying as around, someone lugged something. Something that was warm and smelly… And definitely not something Crimson wanted to see.

“Yip. Nestor. Today. You are our esteemed guests. And what would be an esteemed guest without… A token of our appreciation?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Perhaps,” said the Draenei, grabbing the white-hot iron with his ungloved hand.

He held it, with the coat of arms of Kul Tiras… And then. He smiled at the duo.

“I’ll be gentle.”

He was not gentle.

Crimson’s eyes almost bulged out when the white iron was pressed against his buttcheeks, burning the fur. The smell was terrible; the sizzling, though, was forceful. And the tinge of burnt, gamey flesh?

Oh, Crimson began to tear up and retch. His abdomen clenched, his stomach ready to push out whatever he still had in his system. But… He did not throw up.

Instead, the retching only led to Crimson’s throat burning while his right buttcheek was branded, right to the fair skin beneath the fur.

He cried, he snorted, he shouted as his body was controlled.

For someone who’d been on the streets, ready to throw hands, it was degrading to be so worthless, so powerless. And the Draenei seemed so jovial in it, cooing about the right angle and method while some guards nodded with their arms crossed.

Even the Dracthyrs were part of it while the Draenei stepped away from the shivering and tensing Vulpera before there was a yowl. A cry. A shout. A howling from the Worgen who got branded as well.

The same anchor, on the right buttcheek, practically an insult to them. Another humiliation was added after their walk of shame.

Even the smack on the buttcheeks did little for the Vulpera and Worgen as their bodies straightened up and walked despite how tired, sickly, or… Broken their faces were.

Crimson’s eyes were opening and closing, barely capable of focusing. Thunder’s expression was of abject disgust and fear.

And yet, like two little puppets, they followed the Warden as he walked, nodding and talking all the same.

“This is the ground level, as we call it now. Inmates, processing, administration, weaponry, everything is handled here. Above are the guard and officer quarters. You don’t need to acquaint yourself with it unless you desire to shorten your stay. But below this level? This is where you will live… Are you listening to me?”

Crimson yowled when his own hand pinched his cheek, same for Thunder.

And so the two nodded as they descended the stairs. The stone was the same, though there were traces of former battles around every corner. Dents in the walls, chipped walls, broken steps.

That prison indeed had seen better days. But this didn’t deter Ashav from perorating before they touched down and… Advanced. Same old stone, old rusty metal. They passed through another security post, two sets of doors, to arrive in the atrium. Instead of rooms, the central structure was lined with cells and with a plethora of faces stuck to the bars.

“Warden! Let me-“ cried a poor soul before being yanked in the back by the crowd of prisoners rushing to get a view of the new prisoners.

“Fresh meat! Fresh meat! Fresh meat!”

“Calm down, my friends!” shouted Ashav, smiling. “Our two esteemed guests will discover their new homes. Then, we will reopen the cells. The food delivery will be delayed by five minutes.”

Booing followed, though the Warden acted less like an authority figure. And more like a politician enduring the crowd’s constant chaos before he stopped before an empty cell.

One he bowed in front of, like before, while Crimson and Thunder entered it, like puppets.

Their steps were heavy, tenuous.

But once they were inside, the Draenei snapped his fingers, and the metal grate closed on the cell, locking the two inside.

“Have a pleasant stay. And I am sure your friends will take care of you,” said Ashav, nodding and humming as he stepped away, his hands behind his back.

One step, two, three.

Meanwhile, the prisoners were roaring, crying, and shouting.

“That’s Silver Thunder!”

“That’s Crimson! That bastard owes me gold!”

“They threw me here!”

The inmates definitely looked less than satisfied to see the two individuals around. Of all races and classes, even former nobles, were pressed against the bars and clawing at the air.

People, Crimson, and Thunder were forced to face their bodies still locked, watching those ahead. From the glares to the insulting signs, many hated their guts.

And… Crimson gulped before he gasped once his body relaxed.

No, he cried when he fell back. His senses, his control, everything was back. But after a brief moment without any control, the return was less than seamless.

He had to get used to adjusting his balance, to minding his steps, to straightening his spine.

Thunder? He dropped on his posterior, on the brand, without much more fight, and he yelped.

Crimson soon followed as he dropped, too. And the contact of his buttcheeks with the stone was less than ideal: it definitely felt like someone had stabbed him in the ass with a heated knife. Again.

Thunder rolled and coughed, groaning while holding onto his posterior. Crimson did the same, though he had one fist clenched; he bit into it while tears were coming.

“M-fucker,” moaned the Vulpera, his face scrunched up.

“My… … My everything,” whined Thunder, rolling and curling up.

Laughter echoed their reactions.

“The fresh meat is cooked! I can smell it!”

“I always wanted to eat fresh Vulpera meat!”

“Let us beat him first!”

The cries continued, with the foot stomping on the ground, the prisoners roaring, chuckling, even fighting.

Meanwhile, Crimson was still heaving from the pain of the fall. His eyes were bloodshot, and though they were not wet, he definitely felt like he could cry some more.

Instead, the Vulpera gasped on the ground, the eyes on the stone ceiling of that dingy cell: no window, only a cot for a shared bed, a bucket… And nothing more.

Nothing more for the two as they gasped together for what was again… Five more minutes.

Five. Then ten. Then fifteen minutes of hisses and suffering that slowly ended with the two dragging themselves onto the cot, their backs pressed against the wall… And their teeth clenched, while they were shivering.

“Fuck… Fuck you,” moaned Crimson.

“Wh-What?”

“Fuck… you. That’s… On you,” grumbled Crimson, craning and straightening his back. “Sands… I don’t… Deserve that.”

“Nor do I. I don’t- I didn’t ask for this,” whined the Worgen, bending forward and hugging his legs. “My- groin hurts.”

“Sure. It does,” nodded Crimson, eyeing down. He didn’t have to look much, but the Worgen had been fitted with a cage. Quite a nice cage, except that it wasn’t fit for him.

Of the two, Thunder was the bigger. His testicles were massive, and his cock was a third bigger than the Vulpera. But it was in a cage similar to Crimson’s.

And if for Crimson it was tight, it had to be worse for the Worgen as he groaned and huffed.

“I need it out.”

“We need to get out. We need a plan,” whispered Crimson as he looked at the grate. With no evident mechanism, no levers on the way in, everything was controlled remotely. Probably from above.

“We need to get out. Did you see a mechanism? A lever?”

“Hurt. My… Groin hurts too much.”

“Get a grip,” huffed Crimson, trying to move his posterior, to lift it despite the searing pain. “We have to get our plan ready, or we won’t survive.”

Alas, the Worgen whined.

The Vulpera had to watch, to observe. At the same time, the screaming continued, and the inmates pointed fingers at one another. The Taurens, Worgens, Draeneis, Dracthyrs, Humans, even Elves were snarling at them.

“How… Many people did we fuck over?” asked Crimson, shaking his head and turning to the Worgen.

“Too… Many,” huffed the Worgen. “Too many- Yip.”

“What did you call me?”

“Yip. Is that- Your name? Nestor was mine.”

“Never call me Yip again,” grumbled Crimson, his ears dropping. “How could that Spooky ass space-goat know this?”

“Mayb-“

“He’s a creep. Shut up,” grumbled Crimson, cutting through the Worgen, glaring at him, and watching as Thunder’s mouth closed.

Only then did the Vulpera sigh and press his hands against the cot, trying to stand up. His legs were trembling. His feet were unsteady. Worse, after sitting for so long, his legs were screaming in pain from the strain of holding the posture.

But he did it, standing on his feet and looking ahead, at the horde of naked inmates.

“What are you doing?” asked Thunder, poking at Crimson’s leg.

“We need… We have to face them,” said the Vulpera, snapping. “Come on. Stand up.”

“I hate this.”

Thunder groaned; he even hissed as the shift forced a pull on his genitals, right to his sensitive and taut testicles, thanks to the tight ring around them.

But the Worgen went up, and unsteady, leaning against the wall behind the Vulpera.

Just in time to hear the grates shaking and a horn being blown.

“FINALLY!” shouted one inmate, followed by cheers from others.

Even Thunder and Crimson’s grate was shaking, making them tense up. The Vulpera scowled, ready for a fight.

His legs were wobbly, his stance unsteady. He didn’t have a shiv or anything to fight, so he’d have to use his fists. He wasn’t used to that, preferring to stay in the shadows to backstab. But Thunder was ready, too.

The Worgen’s muscular body was much more impressive, and he’d been in enough brawls to have calloused knuckles.

“Fuck. I think we’re gonna die.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“Sorry for the shitty plan. I… Should’ve prepared better.”

“Don’t go all sweet on me. Fuck off, Nestor.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” huffed Crimson.

Then, with a squeak, grating and painful to the ears, the grates were lifted.

Altogether. The prisoners fell, dropped, and stomped on one another.

Many ran away in the direction of their probable meal.

But a large group beelined to them. Old allies, old partners, old acquaintances. All those they’d wronged.

“Sands… I hope they’ll be quick.”