A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

One of the guards rapped sharply upon the office door. From within, the Grand General issued his imperious command: "Enter." As Warwick crossed the threshold, Swain pushed himself to his feet, using the desk as leverage. He capped his pen, took up his cane in one hand, the stack of papers in the other, and began to stride across the office towards his guest. "Good afternoon, Blood Hunter," he offered in hoarse greeting.

"Please," The Master Tactician indicated an austere leather couch upon which the mercenary should sit. "Take a seat. I am indeed in need of something from you. Something that will benefit you, me, and both our nations."

Swain limped over to an armchair beside the couch. Slowly, arduously, he lowered himself into it, teeth grit behind his shroud against the apparent difficulty of such a task. When he had situated himself properly, he leaned his cane against the chair, straightened his stack of papers, and addressed the lupine assassin again, offering a brief explanation in introduction of the plan at hand. "I want you to establish yourself firmly in Noxus, Warwick. I want to work with you towards building a mercenary empire."

Blazing eyes affixed upon the werewolf's form, grim, calculating. "In short, I am going to brand you. I am going to make you a hero. And you are going to shape Noxus' opinion of your country." The Grand General waited for his lupine guest's reaction, the stack of papers clasped firmly in his gnarled hands.

The Grand General watched on in silence as his guest cackled on the couch. When the werewolf had finished his show of amusement, Swain bound the stack of papers in a folder and offered them over the couch. His gnarled hand trembled slightly as he extended the packet to Warwick. Inside, several dossiers and "Wanted" posters had been compiled, some thirty marks: bandits, black marketeers, infamous debtors, all men and women whose names and faces were met with snarls and sneers in the Noxian underbelly, with outright snorts of disgust in the surface streets.

"I am giving you an abundance of work, Warwick. An urban hunting ground, so to speak. You will be an ambassador of Zaun," he paused, lifted his chin, "in the loosest sense. Work through those marks, on contract from the Noxian government. A bit of publicity, and you'll find yourself a celebrated presence in my country in no time." Again, the Grand General paused, this time astutely observing his lupine contractor's reaction to his proposition. "All this, in the name of our countries' newly founded alliance."

A harsh, one-note chuckle escaped The Master Tactician at the mercenary's enthusiasm for the impending bloodsport. "I'm a thoughtful employer, Hunter." He smirked. "I have hand picked each of your marks with thought to how their deaths will be received. With relish, by the many they have wronged."

He cleared his throat with a hacking cough, turned to face his sleeve for the fit's duration. Then he righted himself, crimson eyes returning to the beast's face with grim scrutiny. "I'll have temporary quarters prepared for you here for the duration of your campaign. You'll start at once."

Warwick returned to Darkbourne Hold soon after killing his target. He knew Swain would want to know as soon as possible. He was a man of intense planning and did not enjoy the dawdling of others.

Whatever looks of fear he received last time where now placed with horror as he was escorted through the halls. Fresh blood from his kill still clung to his fur and the bag with his grisly trophy was starting to seep through with blood.

Like last time, a guard announced his presence and was let in on Swain's command. Like usual the general sat at his deck, papers still cluttered around it.

He happily pulled Gayensfords head out of the bag to show him.
"I found you traitor general. He seemed pretty scared when I came to see him. Seems like he angered a few people. Can't imagine why." Warwick chuckled at his snarky tone,

Jay stumbled into the room, his clipboard in hand. Straightening up, he gave Swain a quick bow, snapping back into attention soon after. "You wanted me, sir?"

Still seated at his desk, gnarled fingers pressed together in a star of contemplation, the Grand General commanded, "Have a plaque inscribed this afternoon, to be erected at the display in Warwick's honor." He lifted his chin as though to indicate the start of his dictation. "Hugh Gaynesford, traitor to High Command. Delivered your brothers into the hands Our Enemies and stood against the might of Our Nation. Forever Strong."

Crimson eyes looked Warwick up and down as Swain concluded to his scribe, "You will take a message to Richor Ebony as well. I want an article in The Raven's Watch painting the Blood Hunter as a national hero." He paused a moment before addressing his employee, who still looked exhilarated from the hunt. "Easy enough, I gather?"

The Grand General punctuated McIna's departure with an exasperated roll of his luminous eyes. He then directed his attention back upon his mercenary, folding withered hands over his golden breastplate.