The quaint proposal.

[Yurrechire]

((Set directly after the first failed shattering of the Bell)).
===

A brown robed figure watched the tail end of the cleansing from her customary shadowed doorway. The last of the zombies fell, overwhelmed by the blazing light of a dozen rumpled priests; the final escaped peco was netted and returned to its stables. Mutilated bodies were dragged off, blood and ichor - washed off the streets by the cadre of janitors, pulled out of their beds for just that reason. It was business as usual in Prontera, after an unholy invasion.

What boiled in the soul of the silent witness was not new: behind the uncharacteristically blank expression, the woman was wrestling with an unhealthy dose of anger. The mission that seemed simple and straightforward (get a blessed item, shatter the Bell, ???, sane employer!) from the start turned into a muddled mess, complete with a petulant mage’s rampage across a heavily populated area. The loss of lives was quite acceptable; it was the unplanned and futile nature of the act that made McWren want to grab a certain Rachel-based professor around the neck. To shake him, perhaps, until some sense tumbled out.

Violence against superiors was considered deplorable behavior by any civilized henchman, and so other measures would have to be taken in order to deal with the swiftly derailing train of Ciar’s mind.

A great bronze bird lifted its head from the exploration of a cat-filled ditch, glancing first at the priestly convention over the last zombie corpse, then - at its sulking mistress. In the right saddlebag, currently carried by Cookie, nestled a certain folder. Within it, neatly filled out forms W-G11© (request for disciplinary action against a commanding officer) and W-T201(a) (request for examination of mental capabilities in a non-combat situation) were coupled with a number of newspaper articles, hand-written account of the Bell saga, and half a dozen notarized witness testimonies as to Speir’s ongoing inability to function.

In the best interests of discipline, common sense, and all things unholy, McWren would file the fore-mentioned forms with the local union office, and wait for results. Bureaucracy of the Dark Legion worked slowly, but when hammers of retribution fell, they fell hard indeed.

There were a few bits of other unfinished business, ones that she’d have to get out of the way. The second half of the payment to the idiot kid for his assistance in the temple fiasco had to be delivered still, the Rachel manor-shuttered and the servants-let go, for their owner’s extended leave of absence.

The current employer's instructions had been- ‘lay low’; despite filing complaints against the man, the not-quite-a-knight intended to obey these to the letter. In the list of Speir’s properties, there was a particular tiny cabin. Barely more than four walls and a roof, situated near one of the many streams running down mount Mjolnir, it was as good of a place as any.

McWren would finish the errands, inform Reilinn about her future where-abouts, and go wipe out several generations of small woodland animals for pleasure, if not profit.

Eventually, the marching orders'll come again.
They always did.