This 'book' is sealed and well maintained. It reads "The Deathstalkers" on the frontpage, but no author is stated.

You break the seal and open the book. It's stuffed with detailed stories, revealing how named people was murdered in cold blood. Half the pages are blank...

You should probably close this giant tome and put it back where you found it.

The Deathstalkers, Prologue
Understanding The Deathstalkers is no simple task, and I do not claim to know their secrets. I simply recited the words from the mouth of a Deathstalker. He considers this book a trophy and emphasises:

My words mean nothing; their death is my testimony. Consider this tome a message and let it spread fear at the speed of blight. Let it torment the souls of those who does not ally with The Forsaken. Understand that there is no catharsis in death. King or peasant. Your tomb awaits you.

Signed
Deathstalker

You turn the page...


Contract: Tyron Goldwig, "Why dwarves are hard to kill and why eating them is a cunning feat"...
Some people say it’s impossible for anyone to break into Stormwind. I agree. Stormwind is an impenetrable fortress surrounded by monumental stone walls, jam packed with armor-clad, heavily armed soldiers, cunning criminals and intelligent races, all of which, just by the mere thought of ​​an undead within their beloved city walls, will break into a foaming blood frenzy, chase you to the end of Lordaeron, tear the skin from your bones and pulverize your residues with gold-encrusted morning stars and a plethora of foul and destructive magic.

Luckily I’m not anyone. To enter Stormwind, without notice, you simply need three tools: Stealth, underwater breathing and luck. Dive into the canals and follow the routes on this map.

On this rainy night, it took me four and a half hour to get to The Dwarven District. I had done it before, about eight times as quickly, but several drunken Stormwind City Guards were brawling outside Old Town. As I swam slowly, with my naked chest sliding on the sand of the bottom of the canal, a fully armored guard splashed into the water a few meters in front of me. I instantly popped my vanishing powder by reflex and hid behind a wooden bridge pillar.

A few seconds afterwards a bunch of completely naked guards followed into the water to save their comrade. They didn’t seem to sense my presence at all, although humans have an incredible perception. I guess I could thank both the ale as well as the several women who had gathered near to watch the naked soldiers rescue their drunken pal, ignoring the virulent weather over Stormwind. They clapped their tiny hands, whistled and ended up spending an eternity of time on the bridge. Only a few feet above me. I was about to say I had all the time in the world, one of the perks of being undead, but if I didn’t get a move on I’d end up with my target dead from aging before I could kill him.

Exactly as it was written on the contract, the fat dwarf was recognizable by his size. He lay sprawled on his back, in bed, with one arm swayed back into a half-empty mug of ale on the floor, while drool stood in a steady stream from his mouth. His beard was yellow like a Tel'Abim banana, and despite its abnormal length, it only reached his navel. His snoring was ear deafening and his gigantic belly looked like a ticking saronite bomb, ready to bathe all his luxurious digs in dwarven intestines within seconds. I thought for a moment it exploded, as the whole loften vibrated as if someone was about to mow the building down.

— Tyron, you fat, snoring pile is shit! Close your mouth, damn it!, shouted an angry woman voice, while gold coins tumbled down from Tyrons bedside table.

I had per reflex pulled myself halfway back out the window into the violent weather that ravaged the night, but then I glanced back to the dwarf. He had not moved a millimeter, and snorted undeterred, still drooling.

The entire apartment was littered with ancient fragments, statues of gold, bone-dices, broken sword scabbards, skulls, weapons and petrified fossils. The dwarf was obviously wealthy. It was tempting to list a few gold coins into my pocket, I thought to myself, but the order was that Tyron would disappear with no suspicion of murder. Every low-life assassin would obviously loot all he or she could, but I needed to prove my worth. Not for money, for now, but for honor and for myself. For the Banshee Queen. And only an amateur would steal when the murder was carried out in the target's own home.

I drew my dagger quietly out of the leather holster, and was careful not to touch the blade. The poison on the blade would not affect me much, but it would etch my suede-like skin, and I would be forced to repair it to avoid the well-known opulent mildew-smell from broken skin. Again. It costed a fortune to get repaired when it wasn’t at the warfront, and it is necessary avoid such smells, easily recognized by humans, when you have to utilize stealth. Luckily I know a few forsaken healers worthy of their greed, like Gl... [the rest of the letters are scratched away].

Slowly I slipped across the floor, like a hovering shadow, with the dagger to my side, away from my hunched body as I approached the snoring dwarf. Then, without hesitation, I drove my knife into the side of the throat of the dwarf, who opened his eyes wide open, staring with retracted lips and distended nostrils, raised his mighty arm and hammered it into my head. I lost balance, fell on my knees and attempted to cut down to the cervical on the dwarf, wanting to interrupt the central nerves. Usually the poison was good enough to paralyze a target, but the dwarf seemed unaffected. He had now got hold of the throat of me, and he slowly crushed it with his iron grip, still having the same facial expressions, still lying on his back, but filled with horror.

I had to pull a throwing knife with my other arm, and then I quickly drove it deep into the ear of the dwarf, but I had little to no strength. He was squeezing the life out of me and blood sprouted from his ear in a pulsing rhythm. I reached for my blinding powder, but the dwarf slammed me into his bedside furniture so silver cups and jewelry noisily fell to the ground. He couldn’t breathe, I could see that, and more importantly no voice came from his mouth. It would only take a few more seconds. Then he’d be dead or we’d both be dead. But I couldn’t reach neither blinding nor vanishing powder and it was then I heard my neck do a crackling sound. Then I blacked out.

When consciousness came back I was badly hurt. The dwarf was dead, but still held a tight grip around my neck. I grabbed a blood-soaked knife from the floor and cut the hand of the dwarf off to get free from his grip. Now to get rid of the corpse.

The dwarven body was short but so heavy I could hardly drag it to the window. I was quick and agile, but had no strength. Time to pick up a new habit - I started chewing his limbs off. But it was necessary; otherwise there was no way I would be able to remove the corpse.

I pulled out a wineskin with a mixture of ice cap and sorrow grass to remove blood and body fluids from the wooden floor, to erase every track of Tyron Goldwig, whose remains I had laboriously crushed down into a huge sack. I dragged the sack over to the window, drank a so-called Potion of the Tol'vir that would surely cost more gold on the market than the reward for executing the murder perfectly. It gave me a moment of strength. Enough to lift Tyron and throw him out the window, down the street, where rain and mud struggled to cover the sodden stone paths in The Dwarven District. I then jumped out the window and overheard the hidside upstairs neighbor in the rain.

— I do not think he’s has been this quiet since the third war?, said a female voice. I expect them to discover his disappearance very soon.

I dragged his corpse to the forest and guarded it till the ravens and boars ate every last bit of it. Well, I helped some, because I’m busy. Next.

Signed
Deathstalker