Jorgen slightly tilted his head to avoid a tangled mass of spider silk hanging from a tree branch. While poisonous spiders suddenly leaping onto his neck were unlikely, he found the adhesive, glistening threads on his shoulders and collar quite bothersome. In addition, the overly familiar crows in the vicinity were quite a nuisance, boldly swooping in during the camp's mealtimes to scrounge for food. Having tasted success a few times, they persisted on the journey, proving difficult to fend off with just a swaying weapon.
In comparison, the dim evening sky of the Darkshire forest was of little concern to Jorgen. The somewhat indistinct transition between day and night was, at worst, leading to some disruption in the soldiers' sleep patterns, which would eventually adjust with time. It was far from the troubles of the Plaguelands, where no matter how long one stayed, the discomfort caused by the miasma would never abate. The journey had been relatively smooth thus far, with only a couple of worgen approaching the camp the previous night, quickly repelled by the soldiers.
He glanced back. The convoy behind was orderly, with a horse-drawn cart guarded by four cavalrymen in the middle. Although the leader was part of MI7, to avoid complications, the convoy was flying the banner of Stormwind. Up ahead, the entrance of Darkshire was looming into view. Jorgen ordered the convoy to halt, and a night watchman approached.
Darkshire had its unique military organization, with its own set of formations, uniforms, and training methods for the Night Watch. Jorgen could tell that the approaching guards were young, and their every movement still retained the stiffness of militia recruits. After explaining their purpose, the guard nodded almost reflexively, confirming that this was the awaited convoy for the Darkshire Mayor. He then stepped aside and scrutinized the group as they entered the town, his eyes busy observing every detail. Two more watchmen emerged to guide the convoy to the town hall.
On the way, Jorgen heard a few barks of a dog. He turned and saw a scruffy, somewhat frail-looking dog trotting alongside the cart, barking intermittently. The barking sounded feeble, making it hard to discern whether it indicated friendliness or hostility. The dog's unsteady gait further suggested it might accidentally get caught under a horse's hoof. Shortly after, he noticed an elderly man, about sixty years old, dressed in robes, chasing after the dog, calling out:
"Pick, come back here. Be a good boy, Pick."
The guard next to the cart waved his spear at the dog a couple of times, and the old man hurried over to scoop it up just in time.
"Is that yours? Take it away quickly," the guard said. "This is a Stormwind carriage. Don't let such a filthy thing come near it. If it's mistaken for a wild dog and killed, don't come complaining."
"I'm truly sorry, sir. It won't happen again," the old man held the dog, which was still trying to stretch forward, attempting to jump out of his arms.
Five minutes later, the convoy arrived at the entrance of the town hall. "I'll go in and inform the mayor first," one of the night watchmen said, then hurried inside.
There wasn't even a stablehand arranged for them. Jorgen dismounted, handed the reins to the guard, and walked to the front of the carriage, opening the door.
"We're here, Dalia," he said, extending his hand.
Dalia grasped Jorgen's hand and stepped down from the carriage. Apart from a sapphire ring on her right-hand index finger, she was dressed like an ordinary merchant's wife. Even so, she immediately caught the attention of many passersby.
"I just dozed off for a bit," she said. "It was the barking of the dog that woke me up."
"You heard a dog barking?"
"Yes, that's right. Is something going on?"
"Nothing much," Jorgen said. "I guessed you took a brief nap. You're looking well."
Dalia smiled. Throughout the journey, she was the one most troubled by the inconspicuous transition between day and night, suffering from insomnia for several consecutive days.
"I just didn't want to appear absent-minded in front of the mayor."
"He won't notice."
They walked ahead to the front of the procession. The night watchman who had been leading them had been staring at Dalia the entire time, only realizing his rudeness as the two of them approached. At that moment, a man in his thirties hurriedly emerged from the town hall's entrance, swiftly descending the steps to stand before them. He looked somewhat tired, and a tuft of unruly hair hung down from his forehead.
"Welcome, both of you," he said, "I am Elro Everlock, the mayor of Darkshire. And you are..."
"Jorgen, a field operative of MI7. This is Lady Dalia Shawl."
Elro extended his right hand and shook Jorgen's hand, only to realize that there was some ink on his palm, which transferred onto the other's hand. He chuckled awkwardly.