Cornelius Blackwood reclined back in his plush chair and closed his eyes lazily. On his lap a small diary with which he wrote his business musings and transactions rested against his stomach. Opening his eyes, he gazed out across his portico and stared at the beautiful waterfalls outside of stormwind. Running a soft well-manicured hand through his graying hair he allowed the serenity of his position in life to fill him, too course through him.
Grabbing his glass and swirled the bright song wine within. As he watched the legs spindle along his perfectly crafted crystalline wineglass he picked up the worn diary and allowed it too open to a random page. Scrawled in his own messy handwriting he read an entry from just after the end of the second war.
“Always strive to seek the opportunity in every situation, no matter how bad the situation looks, if you succeed you will have complete control of the market”
A grimace, that had nothing to do with the strength of choral of the wine, spread across his face. He had been born to nothing. His father had owned a dysfunctional logging mill. He had been clumsy, disorganized, and just a piss poor business man. When he was 18, his father was killed by a widow maker, as he foolish thought he could bring the clusterf*ck that was the multiple connected trees down safely.
He had mourned his father’s passing; he was a good man, a loving father, but he had no concept on how to run a business. That was his father’s biggest failing, it was the reason that his family had live only at subsistence, he would not make that mistake.
Though he was young, he had an incredibly keen eye for a good deal. He played on his youth, allowing his business partners to think him inexperienced, gullible even; he would make them regret those assumptions. Backroom deal, mergers, hostile takeovers, market manipulation, exploitation, all had made him what he is today, filthy rich. Nothing had stopped him, he sold anyone and anything too makes money. He took advantage of every war, every calamity, everything was just numbers too him.
Sighing too himself he looked out over his portico and something was not right. The silence was deafening, someone was here. His heart began to race as he dreaded what was about to come. All his former sins would now be atoned for. Not daring to turn around, he continued to stare out across the portico. When the finishing blow didn’t fall, he knew what had happened. Letting out a nervous chuckle he turned around.
In the corner stood a man gently resting against the polish maple wall. Dressed from head to toe in black armor, the man was no delivery boy. His relaxed posture belayed his place in life. He was a killer, but he was not here to kill today. “Lucius, you know how much I hate it when you do that…”
In a corner of his retainers foyer Lucius reclined himself in an incredibly comfortable purple satin chair, that was now stained with mud. He has spent the earlier part of the day meeting with an informant of his in the muddy shores of Crystal Lake. A group of bandits had the outrageous idea of trying to set an ambush on him. The audacity of the thought still benumbed him. NO
ONE alive could ambush the legendary, in his own conscious, rouge.
The tussle had left his jet black leather armor filthy. Mud and gore coated his person, a problem that the servants would have to deal with. According to hi informant, the alliance was preparing an invasion. Where they were invading it didn’t matter, what did matter was they would need raw materials; iron, timber, and food stuffs. Soon these commodities would be scarce, and that would be because of Cornelius.
The noise of a courier broke him from his reverie. Signing for his retainer, he grabs the note and made his way to the portico. As visible as a shadow, as silent as death; Lucius “the black” made his way through the corridors. Entering the room where Cornelius rested he found himself a corner and waited. HE loved this game of cat and mouse. The adrenaline gave the master rouge a natural high as he salivated what he could do.