World of Warcraft®

((Based on my tidbit in Echoes of Horrors Past, and giving it its own stage. Relating to the attack: http://us.battle.net/wow/en/forum/topic/11222602628?page=2#31 And Yatiri discovering the scene: http://us.battle.net/wow/en/forum/topic/11222602628?page=2#36

And for what it's worth...I'll offer this for the consumption of the Warcraftiers.))

Patience was a virtue, some folk said; he liked to think he had it in spades. But there were times he just wanted it to be done now, and felt the need to take matters into his own hands. Such as what he had done several days earlier, just outside of Halfhill. The Shado-Pan meddler suspected, but - if fate was kind - the Watch would dismiss his ramblings as just another pandaren being paranoid about outsiders. And if they did find the human alive, he hoped fate would be kind again...and the fool wouldn't remember a thing.

Hope was illogical, some would say, but he sometimes relied on it. Hell, in this day and age, most gnomes did - if they didn't have their head in the clouds preaching "patriotism" and "loyalty" to the Alliance...an Alliance that had made a half-hearted effort to liberate Gnomeregan a little over three years earlier, on the eve of the Cataclysm. The result of Operation: Gnomeregan made him want to break down and cry or laugh hysterically, depending on his mood; it was a colossal failure at best, and a colossal joke at worst, and yet Mekkatorque sat in his "New Tinkertown" on the frozen surface outside the gates, and patted himself on the back for his ingenuity.

Right up to the Cataclysm, while he took the time to fully understand the powers he had gained during the war against the Lich King, he had believed Mekkatorque to be a wise leader for the gnomish people. Now, he saw the High Tinker's utter cluelessness, and it made him sick.

Keeping a fast-port back to the Shrine of Seven Stars (and a trip to the shrine's portal room) ready in case his sentry ward back in Stormwind detected anything, he had retreated to his sanctuary in the Storm Peaks of Northrend; it had been here, about five years earlier, that his damaged mecha-body had been rebuilt by an equally clueless man - a human, no surprise - who used him for menial tasks. Now, he had set up in an abandoned Titan reliquary to take a greater step towards his own destiny as a warlock - the study of fel magic. Rumor had it that a group called the Black Harvest had discovered a means of harnessing felfire...he hoped to make strides in that direction himself.

In a corner of the room was his test subject, floating in a stasis field: a dead orc, emaciated either from decomposition or the effects of the fel magic that burned in his rotting veins. He had been testing theories based on what little he had discovered of the Black Harvest's research - burned by demon hunters or hidden away by the remnants - and testing the effects of the magic on the body...if his experiments proved useful, he would subject himself to the process; conservatively, he thought the addition of fel magic to his considerable arsenal of spells would increase their potency a hundred fold, making him more than a match for the poor foolish Light-wielders. At least, he hoped so.

The orc's body glowed a sickly green in the blue-tinted field, the green fire burning symbols into his body, and great curving horns protruding from his skull. If this works out, he thought to himself, I can always skin the monster and wear him as a robe...and won't that just sicken the Stormwind puritans. I have never denied what I am, or tried to hide it. We are here, and our powers are useful - and indeed, necessary - to the continued survival of these fools in the Alliance. And if people consider me a demon, or at the very least a demon pawn...maybe I should look the part, and to hell with the lot of them.

He smiled as he remembered the slaughter at the gates of Orgrimmar, offering his fire and his limited fel magics as part of the great host of Alliance and Horde marching to take down the tyrant; he had become embroiled in a duel with a particularly persistent "dark shaman" on the surface when Garrosh was defeated. That had been a good war, he thought, a real challenge, like the Cataclysm War, even the war against the Lich King...against powers he, ironically, considered unethical. Even fel-tainted as he was, he wanted nothing to do with Sha or Old Gods. Even demon-corrupted lunatics had standards, after all.

He approached the stasis field controls, a vial of darkly-glowing green liquid in his hand. "So, my dear 'Corruptor'," he said to the corpse, his voice like that of a lecturing college professor as he deactivated the field and brought it gently to the ground. "The initial results have looked promising, but there is still more work to be done. Let us see how you take this sample." He chuckled to himself. "Hopefully you won't look too bad for my wardrobe when I'm done, Makers willing..."

Yatiri Stormwatcher rode once again across the Valley of the Four Winds - this time from the air, astride his black cloud serpent, heading over the site of the crime east of Halfhill and down the Gilding Stream to the Yan-Zhe, then west along the river past the Stormstout Brewery. He had spent the last several days at the Monastery, poring over maps, waiting for word from what people he could find to scour the countryside, but no one had been able to find him...perhaps because none of them knew who it was that he sought. Several times it had been false alarms, just finding random humans exploring the lands of Pandaria.

Seeing him staring intently at a map, Master Puretide - one of Master Snowdrift's colleagues - had come up to him. "The human priest's disappearance concerns you, Blackguard...you have stared at that map for hours, hoping to find something." The old Master had sat next to him. "You consider him a friend? He must have made some impression, to worry you so."

Yatiri had hesitated a moment before confessing, "Yes, Master. He is a wise voice of counsel, even for those who are reluctant to hear it. When I left Stormwind, thinking I would stay here and not go back, he told me that my duties as a Shado-Pan, working in the defense of Pandaria, would take me well beyond it, into the world beyond...into situations that I may not agree with, or seek to be part of. He said that...good people are needed."

"The human is wise, Yatiri. When you arrived here, another from Shen-zin Su seeking to find his place in the land of his ancestors, you were more of a Lorewalker by temperment; indeed, you had come to us after working with them. You had an eye for exploration, travelling through the continents to the north, and indeed beyond the portal to the shattered world. Yet you saw the tragedy that engulfed us here, and wished to fight against it, setting aside the explorer you wanted to be. Yet the world remains ahead of you, waiting for you to see it...the need to wander, to see more than your own backyard, that marks the children of Liu Lang." Puretide had patted him on the shoulder with a smile. "You must be out there, Yatiri, not sitting here staring at maps."

Realizing what the old man had meant, Yatiri had left Kun-Lai immediately...hoping that he was not too late. His eyes scanned the banks of the Yan-Zhe, and also looked over at the waterwheels of the brewery, which showed no sign of damage. Nothing had been pulled into them, so it looked like he could write that worry off. But that would mean he went over the falls, and Krasarang had its dangers - not the least of which being the remnants of Sha taint around the Temple of the Red Crane, as well as the carnivorous saurok who wandered the jungle. Swallowing nervously, he steered over the Krasari Falls and brought his serpent down into the wilds. The Krasarang River branched from here - seaward to the southwest, towards the Temple to the southeast. He prayed it didn't go seaward...taking a gamble, he headed southeast, towards the Temple.

As the river shallowed in the courtyard of the Temple, Yatiri's eyes caught a glimpse of midnight blue, and swiftly dismounted from the serpent to investigate. "Blood of Liu Lang," he whispered in horror, running to the site.

Father Shankolin lay on his back, his fine blue robe torn and caked with mud, hiding the bloodstains running from his knees and stomach. His white hair was also bloody and caked with dirt, and his face bruised. But to Yatiri's utter shock....he was breathing. He was alive. He was both elated...and worried, because he was alone.

Reaching for his hearthstone, he sent out a call to someone he hoped would be available...

Alive.

He reviewed what the sentry ward had picked up in Stormwind; the Shado-Pan had located Father Shankolin, washed up near the Temple of the Red Crane in Krasarang. At first, anger bubbled up inside him...which was replaced with a feeling of pleasure at the idea that the game would go on. No doubt the Watch would wish to speak to him again; he had heard the bumbling bear spout out every word of what he had found at the true scene of the crime. The feeling now became irritation as he realized his work would be delayed. Again.

Still, he mused, the long game did require personal sacrifices...and he had an idea to soothe Orwyn's suspicions, or at least turn them to an individual other than himself. Misdirection was his favorite game; to be safe, he had staged the scene at the Three Corners to corroborate the story he gave to Orwyn, before reporting the incident - and bringing the staff - to the Watch. That would leave them wondering who to believe - the gnome with a history of service to the Alliance dating back some thirty years (since the gnomish engineers worked with the dwarves to build fantastic devices and weapons for the Alliance army), who just happened to be a warlock, or the "new guy" in town full of accusations and unfounded suspicions, belonging to an order cloaked in secrecy.

It was a risk, but in his line of work, risk was to be expected.

He had to cultivate the image of open-mindedness and friendship with these human scum, he realized...and he knew that the best way to do so was to appear at the weekly gathering of hypocrites and zealots led by someone who had the gall to call herself a seeker of knowledge. Usually, he attended Genevra's sermons to taunt and heckle her. Now, however, he had to play the scholar. Genevra would give him dirty looks, to be sure, but he would attribute that - to anyone who asked - to her ingrained condemnation of the fel arts.

Yes, he would play the long game...and he played to win. By any means necessary.

He paced in the courtyard of Paw'don Village in the Jade Forest, wringing his clawed hands as he waited. He remembered distinctly when the Shado-Pan had arrived almost a week earlier, spattered with mud, carrying a truly wretched-looking man in his arms, turning him over to the villagers to nurse back to health. Despite what he had said to Orwyn, he had done nothing...because he could do nothing. The glare from the man who had called him from Booty Bay saw to that. "We will tend to him and send him on his way, Zherron," the pandaren said bluntly.

It was kind of funny, now that he thought on it. He was a beast, a creature who embodied the fury of nature...and he was powerless. He would have laughed, if he wasn't so worried.

Zherron looked over at where the wounded priest was being tended, and saw that the Shado-Pan was still inside the building, standing near a round bed. Still at that exact same spot, just as he had been when he arrived. He could tell, with just a look, that the pandaren had not slept. Not that Zherron could blame him; he hadn't, either.

Finally, fed up with standing around and doing nothing, he approached. The Shado-Pan looked up at him; he had removed his order's signature headgear, and the worgen could see his face clearly - and he knew right then that it mirrored his own, no matter how the green eyes tried to glare. "Anything?" he asked, keeping his growling voice low.

"The healers say he will live, but he will be very weak; the warlock's attack has done serious damage to his knees. That is the injury that concerned me, even more than the head wound from the bridge, or the stab in the gut."

"He won't like that. He likes his walking."

The pandaren smiled sadly and nodded. "Yes, he does." He was silent for a moment. "Any word from Stormwind? Have they found the little wretch?"

"Found him? He's based out of the Gilded Rose Inn. He leaves on occasion to do his own thing, but nothing that would tip off the Watch."

"And they haven't arrested him?" The pandaren was aghast. "What kind of law does Orwyn enforce? The fel-scum nearly killed him, Zherron!"

"I know that. But you're up against a slick and cunning mind. You told them the truth about what you saw, what you believe happened; if he was the one who delivered the staff, he probably told them some fantastic lie and set things up to back his play. He's very good at that." Zherron gently grasped the Shado-Pan's shoulders. "Orwyn is good at what he does, Yatiri. Take my word for it. He'll bag the scumsucker."

"I pray for the commander's sake that he does," Yatiri replied darkly. "Because he will not like the alternative."

Oh, balls, not again. Zherron's amber eyes threatened to roll backwards into his skull. "First you blame Genevra and Saavedro, and now you want to go after Orwyn? I offered to help, Yatiri, but I'm not going to sit here and listen to another fel-damned paranoid rant. He is not trying to sandbag you, dammit, he's being pragmatic. He doesn't have an army at his disposal, just a few good officers...and a hell of a lot of ground to cover."

"Good people...can't always make it in time."

Druid and monk turned as one at the sound of that voice. Weak, but slightly amused. "Worgen...pandaren...squabbling like an old married couple." He looked around... "Where...?"

"Blackguard Stormwatcher brought you to Paw'don Village, Father Shankolin," the healer replied gently. "You are under our care here."

"What do you remember?" Yatiri asked him.

The healer gave him a pointed glare. "He needs to rest, Blackguard," she replied bluntly, in the pandaren language. "And so do you. You've hardly been out of this room for four days. Go eat and sleep."

Yatiri glared back at her. "I need to know so we can find the one who did this to him," he replied in the same tongue.

"It sounds like you already know who did this, Blackguard, so let the human be, so he can rest." Switching back to Common, she turned to Zherron. "Take him back with you, Master Zherron, and please make sure he at least eats something...perhaps even get a little sleep. And be sure to do the same for yourself, hmm?"

The worgen nodded, a smile curving his lupine snout. "I will. Thank you, madam." He firmly turned Yatiri out towards the door. "Come along, then."

As the two walked out towards the portal to Stormwind, Yatiri shrugged his shoulder free of the druid's touch and glared at him. "What are you doing? He needs to be able to answer --"

"And he will," Zherron interrupted, holding up a clawed hand to silence him. "And you should be ashamed of yourself, Yatiri. As you said, the warlock nearly killed him; what good will it do to interrogate a wounded man lying in bed?" Yatiri had the good grace to look abashed, and the worgen smiled as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "He's still lodging in Stormwind. If he's staying put here, he must think he's safe. Let's prove him wrong, hmm?"

It was time.

Following what little remained of Kanrethad Ebonlocke's formulae - hidden or destroyed by his surviving apprentice, or by foolish puritans - he had gathered samples of fel magic and demon's blood, and tested their effects one by one on the corpse in his laboratory, seeking to duplicate the effects. He had seen the results of what had happened to Kanrethad, and what his associate had been forced to do. And though he knew he had been walking a fine line for years, he was not inclined to become so imprisoned himself. The report was that a little bit of Kanrethad's essence had been enough to do the job, but how was he going to do that? Go up to the rotted witch and ask?

No, he had to figure a way himself, using the same formulae...and now he had an idea. He couldn't take Kanrethad's essence, but he could take someone else's...and they'd be too busy being dead to care. Mostly. If his estimates of the human-turned-demon's power were accurate, he had just enough accumulated fel energy to supercharge the body...and then take the power within as his own.

Retreating back to his laboratory in the Storm Peaks, he opened his rune-covered tome, written in what he called "gnomeredar" - a melding of the gnomish and eredar languages he used for his spells. He examined the ritual, then looked up at the thoroughly corrupted body. He lowered the stasis field around the corpse and released the last accumulated fel essence into it --

-- and was knocked backwards across the floor by the sudden rush of power. Looking up, his fel-tinted eyes suddenly went as wide as hen's eggs. "Gears of Gnomeregan," he whispered.

The corpse hovered above the floor, aglow with a sickly green aura. Patterns of green magic stuck out of his chest like glowing tattoos, making complex magical patterns. Great green-veined wings sprouted from his back...and with a slight flap, he elevated himself higher to look down upon his summoner. The great horned head remained downcast...until suddenly it looked up, its eyes open, burning with bright green fire. Then the corpse....not so much spoke, as "expressed itself". What...who...

Unbelievable, he thought. I used his corpse believing his spirit to be banished...but the accumulated fel energy has brought his soul back to its host. I have to act quickly. "You know full well who I am, Corruptor," he said without preamble. "You made me."

Sputterspark...the gnome who seeks Saavedro's blood. Has he eluded you as he did me?

"He won't after this."

Ah...I see what you're up to now. It's as clear as the nose on your face. You didn't expect to see me again, did you? You believed this to be just an experiment in fel magic to enhance your powers. Based on a ritual conducted in my...absence...in Outland. Noticing his summoner's surprise, he laughed. Oh, don't be so shocked. A disembodied spirit has a great deal to look over.

"But...I thought your spirit destroyed. Scattered to oblivion when you were defeated."

Unlike with Sekhesmet, he was not that smart. He was content to see me dead in body. The burning green eyes locked with his. You, on the other hand... Cackling, the demonic creature lashed out with bursts of fel flame. Ducking under the blast, he felt a mixture of elation and irritation. Elation, that it had worked and empowered the body as he had hoped...and irritation at the fact the body was now trying to kill him. But though the reborn demon creature was immensely powerful, he could see that his movements were still...somewhat sluggish. Like a freshly raised corpse, he realized.

He leapt nimbly along the walls of the Titan reliquary and charged at the demon-orc, stabbing the fel-charged elementium spikes of his staff into the creature's chest. Keeping a tight grip on the staff, he hung several feet off the ground as the red crystal focus began glowing brightly as it sapped the fel energy from the body.

The demon-orc began babbling in panic. I cannot...what are you...

"I am sending you back to Hell, where you belong," he replied. "Taste my magic, fool!"

The staff suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces, releasing the accumulated energy. The released soul shrieked futilely as oblivion ripped it from its host, and the powers released began swirling around him, lifting him once more off the ground. Flames erupted around his hands and arms, and throughout his body. Flames of bright green...

Just as suddenly, it was over, as gnome and demon-orc fell heavily to the ground. He didn't move for a long moment...then, finally, he brought himself unsteadily to his feet and approached the fallen corpse. The glow had dissipated, as had the wings. All that remained were the horns and patterns...and an expression of shock.

With a cruel smile, he unsheathed the ritual dagger from his belt. "Yes," he said, "I think you will look nice in my wardrobe..."

An hour into the officer briefing, Orwyn came to the Father Shankolin case.

"Ok, Stormwind officers...here's the case file for this one." Orwyn took a stack of folders and gave them to Officer Torix to start passing around the room. "So far as we know right now, this is an attempted murder case. The victim, a Father Shankolin, was recently discovered, still alive, in the Krasarang Wilds in Pandaria. Once he's healthy enough to be brought to Stormwind, we'll have an opportunity to speak to him. As you can see from the file, we also already have two individuals who have given us information about the case. One of them, Professor Sputterspark, I would like to have brought to headquarters for further questioning immediately. He's staying at the Gilded Rose here in Stormwind, so this should not be hard. Any questions?"

Seeing none, Orwyn moved on to the next item on the agenda.

As he stepped into his room at the Gilded Rose Inn, he heard a familiar and surprising voice say in gnomish, "Hello, brother."

He turned to face her, hand going to the Titan-forged knife he wore at his belt as he replied in the same tongue. "Renni. I figured if someone would murder me, it would be you. Don't think I'm not prepared, even for you."

"If I wanted you dead, Rakeri, you would have been the moment you came back from Northrend after consorting with demons." Marennia Sputterspark held a sword-like weapon with a glowing energy blade, a gnomish invention. "You're up to something, I know you are."

"I always am. We are an ever-moving, ever-curious people - or at least we would be if we had common sense. Of course, you choose to shackle yourself with false hope, believing that the great Gelbin Mekkatorque will save us in the end, when in fact he's off running at his master's beck and call, fighting against the savages and leaving our people to shiver in the snow, unable to even clean up our own backyard."

"I don't see you doing anything about it. In fact, I see you running off to fight just as the High Tinker does. But at least he comes home. What about you? Northrend, the Elemental Planes, Pandaria - how often do you come back to New Tinkertown, hm? You're more content to sit around here and spout hate about humans just because one man didn't realize what you were when he made you into his 'Jeeves'. Have you considered simply asking the man for an apology?"

"Apologize? Saavedro?" Rakeri laughed bitterly. "Humans don't apologize for their crimes. You should know that by now, Renni...or are you so blinded by your love for the tall folk that you have forgotten what you are? You call yourself a protector of Gnomeregan - I call you a willing slave."

"If I'm a slave to humans, better them than your demon masters, Rakeri. You wonder why you are not given the respect you think you deserve? Because you've become the evil people like me fight against."

"I don't have time to listen to another puritanical lecture," Rakeri said, sounding bored. "Now either kill me, or leave. Of course, if you kill me, it will be you who has to speak with the Watch, not me. Renni the Respectable would never violate the law."

Marennia felt anger rise in her as she indeed wanted to kill him...but the compassion in her spirit still remembered that this was her elder brother. "Why have you become...this, brother?" she asked him, anguish in her voice. "Why do you seek to do harm to those who only wish to do good?"

Rakeri did not answer her for a moment. "These puritans still speak slanderous lies against me, just as you do. They do not see the engineer, the scribe, the war veteran; they see the dark magic and the demon minions, and judge me by them, just as you do." He turned to face her, his fel-shadowed eyes showing surprising pain of his own, though his voice remained level. "I am more than my powers, Renni. If you had ever cared for me as a sibling ought, you would know that. But you chose to follow weak-willed leaders and human philosophies that condemn people like me as evil because we do what they cannot - what they will not - in our duties to Azeroth. You call me evil, you call me a demon-pawn, you call me insane. Do you not wonder how I feel about the horrible things you say about me?"

Now it was Marennia's turn to look away from him. "The truth hurts, Rakeri," she said after a moment. "I will not spare you from it. That is what I must do. As a gnome, as a warrior...as your sister. If you cannot bear it, that is your problem, not mine." She put away her weapon, and walked sadly down the stairs and out of the inn, back out onto the streets of Stormwind.

When he was sure she was gone, he smiled coldly. "Then you will die with the others," he whispered without hesitation. "I will see to that."

Taking the form of a swift bird of prey, Zherron sat perched on the roof of the Gilded Rose Inn, his baleful gaze looking down at the street below as Rakeri left the inn, stepped up to the controls of his flying shredder and blasted away...heading for the dock. Heading for the Kraken, which still connected to Valiance Keep in the Borean Tundra.

Flying swiftly, he landed atop one of the steam-powered ship's masts and perched there...his gaze not leaving the deck, and the vile creature in his vile machine who stood upon it. His mind went to the weak but still "game" priest who had arrived in Stormwind late last night, having seen him leaving the Blue Recluse. Zherron had wanted to question him immediately, but knew he would have to leave the questions to Orwyn; perhaps then they could finally put this disgusting demon-slave in a cold, dark cell - or in the grave, preferably.

Saavedro would be safe in Stormwind, he knew. Men of good health had to undertake this particular quest...

----

Northrend. It had been almost an eternity since he had been here, and the chill of the place still ate at his bones. He had chased Sekhesmet to this place once, he remembered; now he chased another practitioner of evil.

The golem had lifted off from the dock with a burst of retrofire and headed northeast. Knowing what he had heard of the pilot, Zherron guessed that he was headed somewhere in the Storm Peaks. A vast complex of Titan temples, reliquaries, and vaults of various types were found all over the northern mountains, patrolled by mechagnome guardians and the remnants of Loken's iron constructs, doing the tasks their programming instructed them. Is that why you are going there, warlock? he wondered to himself. Does your memory still return to the place where Saavedro found you?

Flying over the tundra, crossing over Lake Wintergrasp, skirting the edges of Icecrown, and passing the floating city of Dalaran above the crystal woods, Zherron was careful to remain far enough behind the golem to not attract the professor's attention. It appeared he was headed to the southeastern temples...along the Valley of Ancient Winters, the domain of the sons of Hodir. He saw the golem take a sharp turn to the left along the base of the mountain. Curious, he passed it by and saw it was a massive porthole of sorts in the side of the mountain, possibly leading into an interior vault.

Wheeling around, Zherron flew into the chamber and landed nimbly on the sloping floor, which looked to him like the grooves of a massive door mechanism. Charging himself with astral power, he walked silently into the abandoned chamber, seeing the crushed remnants of stone protectors within...and feeling the foul presence of dark magic.

As he reached the end of the hall, he saw a gruesome sight - the withered remnants of what appeared to be an orc corpse...with every inch of skin flayed from its body. Next to it, as if on an armor rack, was its skin...being stitched and branded with dark runes, massive horns from the skin that had formerly covered the skull. The smell of death, decay and fel taint was overpowering. Raising his dragon-headed staff, he moved to call on the wrath of nature...and roared in agonized rage as a burst of felfire knocked him forward onto his face.

"Packleader Zherron, I presume. Though now you have no pack to lead." Rakeri descended like a demonic cherub, grinning evilly, his eyes glowing with felflame. "What luck it is that you've joined me here. As you can see, I've lost my...assistance here, and I need more."

"I would rather die...than help you," the worgen druid snarled.

"Oh, don't be so boring. Everyone who says that dies." With demonically-granted power, he placed Zherron into the stasis chamber he had held the corpse of the Corruptor in. "In time, your unwillingness to help me will be the least of your problems."

Zherron's amber eyes glared with hate. "I...will...kill....you..."

"Perhaps. Everyone dies eventually, after all. But for now, Zherron, relax...and don't go anywhere."

He watched the gnome enter his foul machine and fly away just as everything suddenly went blank.

Keeping an eye on things in Stormwind as usual, he slipped away to his lab in the Storm Peaks to find the stasis cell active...and empty! Impossible! he thought, as he lowered the field to investigate. There is no way he could have gotten out of that cell!

"Thank you," came a voice from in front of him - as out of nowhere, a huge felinoid creature pounced at him. Rakeri rolled to evade - too slowly, as a claw grazed his face. Yellowed blood, tainted by the fel essence in his system, ran down his cheek from the scratch. Screaming in rage, the demon-corrupted warlock let loose bursts of fel-fire. Zherron, switching to his astral form to enhance his offensive nature magics, leapt nimbly to avoid the warlock's blasts, while unleashing his own - the natural green fire of nature against unholy flame, smashing the stasis chamber and destroying countless artifacts.

Realizing the danger, Rakeri activated the translocator on his wrist, shrinking down the valuable materials - including the flesh of the long-dead orc, which he intended to "fashionize" - and storing them in his toolbox, kept in the control cabin of his golem. Then he leapt into the machine himself and activated the retrorockets, heading up the Titan-forged tunnel. Taking his raven form, Zherron gave chase. The lunatic had a headstart, but he had the wind on his side.

Rakeri blasted out of the Titan vault and headed southwest, for Dalaran. If he could get into the city and escape to Stormwind, Zherron would not dare to attack him. Here, though...

His console computer informed him in very calm, precise gnomish, "WARNING. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS TO FUEL LINES. WARNING. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS..."

What?! As he thought that, the armored canopy was wrenched back with a screech of resisting metal as claws swiped at his face. "Get off, you idiot!" he shouted. "If I can't stabilize this thing, we'll both die!"

"Then that is how it shall be!" Zherron replied. Desperate, Rakeri rolled the machine so that its back was skyward, hoping the worgen would be thrown off...but the machine was still dragging, and also losing altitude. He was still attached - and he could see the tops of the crystal trees now. The magic here was almost overpowering...

Keeping himself focused on the moment, he opened the cover of the large red button in the center of his console and pressed it. The computer once again kept up the calm, precise gnomish. "SELF-DESTRUCT ACTIVATED. DEPLOYING EMERGENCY CONTROL CABIN CONVERSION TO GYROCOPTER ESCAPE MODULE. DEPLOYING GYRO ENGINES..."

The explosive bolts broke open the shoulders of the golem as the already-shaky fuel tank exploded. Grasping the controls as a desperate lifeline, Rakeri shot away from the descending golem at full speed, hoping that Zherron would be too surprised by the action to realize how close the machine was getting to the ground before it crashed...

Zherron lifted the damaged leg of the destroyed mecha from on top of him, tossing it aside with a crunch of metal. He staggered to his feet, shaking his head to clear his foggy brain, and looked around to get his bearings. He saw he was surrounded by...crystals? No...crystal trees. He was in Northrend, in Crystalsong Forest, right in the shadow of Dalaran. He was surrounded by burning wreckage, but he saw no signs of tainted blood, shredded robes...or even part of the machine itself. Then he remembered: The little toad had an escape module of some sort, which converted into a gyrocopter that blasted away from the golem before it crashed.

He must think me dead, he thought.

Feeling a sharp, throbbing pain in his left leg, he sat on the mana-blasted ground and looked; a good-sized piece of shrapnel was stuck through-and-through. Steeling himself, he held one end of the fragment in the claws of one hand, and used the other to push from the other side of his leg. His pained growling became a roar as he pulled the shrapnel free, and tossed it angrily aside. Closing his eyes to center himself, he called on his limited abilities to help heal the wound, or at least close it to stop the bleeding. He'd return to Stormwind to have a real healer go at it.

Taking his raven form, he flew up to Dalaran, trying to ignore the pain. No longer so certain that the Watch would be able to put the warlock in his place, he had to think of an alternative - one that would not result in anything worse than what had happened in the recent days...

Shankolin sat alone in meditation after sending off his dispatch to Orwyn, kneeling before the altar in the empty Cathedral. He doubted that the information Somayla had given him was anything the commander didn't already know; he was a good man, even if he was horribly understaffed and overworked. Still, as he had told the nervous night elf, any hope was better than none.

"For someone who seeks knowledge as readily as you do, you are truly, TRULY clueless."

Shankolin came unsteadily to his feet at that voice, turning to see the familiar, mocking visage, attired in pandaren-designed robes of rich blue with violet gems in the shoulders, and a jeweled sword worn at his belt. "Professor. I trust this is a social call this time."

"For the moment, at least," Rakeri confirmed. "I see you don't need my help in torpedoing your own case." His eyes went to the rather purplish color of the left side of the priest's face. "By the Nether. The little brat must have done a number on you. Did your feet come off the ground when his fist crunched into your face?"

"How did you -- are you spying on me?"

"Nothing so arcane, Saavedro. I have eyes to see and ears to hear; I see the damage done to your face, and I hear about the crazy old priest picking on the poor girl who happens to be tied to Kordrion. Who also happens to be a warlock. For somebody saying he wants to avoid witch hunts, you're certainly starting up on one!" The warlock laughed. "This is actually quite good. This works out better than what I had in mind, in fact."

Shankolin's eyes went wide. "Then it was you. But...where? I've heard Three Corners, I've heard Halfhill."

"Let me keep some secrets...and besides, does it matter? I can claim self-defense based on an incident on my way to Dalaran from the Storm Peaks. That mongrel Zherron attacked me and destroyed my sky golem in Crystalsong Forest. That was not a cheap piece of hardware. And now I have your pet Shado-Pan persecuting me as well, telling atrocious lies about me to Orwyn. Zherron, Yatiri...who next? Are you going to sic Velenkayn on me too? Or maybe call your friend Ketiron, which would be evidence of high treason against the Alliance - calling a filthy blood elf to murder a gnomish veteran in good standing?"

"Good standing? What about what you did to Genev--"

"Genevra is a babbling lunatic," Rakeri replied cheerfully. "Just like you. No one believes hypocrites in this town; and I admit I'm a selfish, cold-hearted being, but I am under no illusions about what I am. You, on the other hand....your standing in public is dropping fast, Saavedro. You pick fights with innocents, and your associates are out-of-control lunatics. Oh, I admit I can be vitriolic in my opinions, but...I have worked for the Alliance for nearly three decades, and for the good of my people for several decades more. Warlock or not, I will be better believed than you."

"And when Orwyn discovers you lied to him?"

"About what? An attack outside Halfhill they can't confirm; an attack at Three Corners they can. Who do you think they will believe, me or the paranoid pandaren? And even if he does discover my hand in it, I can easily divert the blame to you, and claim I was too afraid for my life, believing you had allies in the Watch who would imprison or murder me." Fel-fire flashed for a moment in his eyes. "No, Saavedro. Once again, you are in check - and mate is within my reach."

"We'll see about that once I'm done with you," Shankolin snarled.

"Why, 'Father Shankolin', that sounds suspiciously like a threat." Rakeri's grin widened. "You should be careful with your temper, or Kordrion is not the only one who will be socking you in the face." He bowed mockingly. "Light be with you. You'll need it."

With a cackle, the warlock departed, headed for Booty Bay for the tavern, leaving the priest shaking with rage...

Dissheveled and slightly aching, Rakeri made his way out of the Blue Recluse on his way to the little open-air amphitheater outside the Cathedral for Genevra's weekly expulsion of lies. Stormwind was rapidly beginning to lose its charm, and Saavedro had now pushed his patience to the brink. Or so he had said in public. Privately, however, he was strangely cheered. His idea could work after all.

It was unlikely that the fool was directly involved; plenty of people were rabid daemophobes, believing that summoning imps or channeling fire from the Nether was the last step before becoming a full-fledged demon themselves. And he privately doubted the crazed human would be kept in the Stockade for very long, if at all...he would have to be wary. In his own case, however, he had to admit the nut's rantings were not too far off the mark. He could display demonic attributes, as he did - briefly - during the confrontation. But he still considered himself a gnome of Gnomeregan, and - for good or ill - a member of the Alliance. For the moment, anyway.

Now he had to play the part. To tone down the vitriol...to "play nice". Starting with Genevra - he would ask her questions about her topic not as a warlock mocking the "poor blind fools of the Cathedral", but as a scholar who just happened to use fel magic, wishing to know exactly how she could claim anything she said could work. After all, lie to yourself enough, and you believe it unconditionally...lie to others who don't buy it, and the seeds of self-doubt are sown. Rakeri was under no illusions; he walked a tightrope that was fraying with each fel-empowered step. But he would not turn back.

As he turned past the Cathedral, walking past the door to Watch headquarters at City Hall, he smiled coldly to himself. They will find out exactly who they are dealing with soon enough, he thought, as he put on his "game face" to listen to Genevra's latest lie...

Kneeling in meditation in the woods just outside the Exodar, Battlelord Velenkayn felt the approach of his visitors before they could even speak a word. "Eidan. Yatiri." He stood to greet them. "What brings you to me?"

"Something has to be done, Velenkayn," Zherron said without preamble.

"About?"

"About that damn warlock, what else? The Watch hasn't even bothered to arrest him - they go after the good people who try to bring him down, not the man himself! This can't go on like this. Saavedro is practically crippled and tormented by the scumsucker, and no one is stepping up to help him."

"And what do you expect me to do, Eidan?" the death knight replied calmly. "Cut off Professor Sputterspark's head and parade it, impaled on a pike and dripping with fel-blood, through the streets of Stormwind? What good would that do? He is powerful, manipulative, and clearly insane, and has committed acts of violence against people that I - that we - hold dear...but he is only one. And if we have people parading about in public hunting for a warlock, it could lead to civil uprising. I thought Father Shankolin knew this." His death-glowing eyes narrowed. "Did he put you up to this?"

"We are here of our own volition, Battlelord," Yatiri replied. "You yourself warned me of his ability to manipulate people, and he is rapidly turning public opinion against us. Even the Watch, now. He is playing the victim, but he must have provoked the outburst in the Recluse." The Shado-Pan Blackguard explained what rumors he had heard about the human with the paired hammers who assaulted Rakeri and some of his colleagues the other day - as well as the reports of Kordrion Stoneheardt assaulting Shankolin. He was careful to leave out the rumors that the priest had been ranting like a madman against a woman he believed to be a warlock, and ignored Kordrion's warnings.

Velenkayn, however, could sense the lie of omission, and was not convinced. "Professor Sputterspark will pay for his crimes when his day of judgment comes," he said after the pandaren had finished. "But you have both blinded yourselves with hate, not realizing that you are swiftly turning into what you rail against." As both worgen and pandaren protested, he held up his hand curtly, glaring at both of them. "You're ranting like madmen yourselves, seeking to call on the death knight to slay him. Is he a murderer, a slave of demons, a liar, manipulator, lunatic? Almost certainly. But there is no solid proof. You, Yatiri, reported an attack in Halfhill based on events well after the fact, and the villagers cleaned up the scene before it could be thoroughly investigated."

"Do you call me a liar, dead man?" Yatiri demanded. "You choose to defend this warlock? Another draenei who defends war--"

"I did not say that," Velenkayn interrupted him coldly. Not difficult, considering the air about him dropped several degrees by dint of his undead state and the powers he wielded. "I am simply saying that you are rushing ahead and destroying your credibility by ranting and speaking slanderously about those who do not act quickly enough for you. And you claim to be of the Tushui philosophy, Yatiri! Your people claim to consider alternatives carefully before taking action, and yet I see no evidence of such moderation in you. And you, Eidan..." His eyes met Zherron's amber ones. "Worgen already have a bad enough reputation as being feral animals...I heard the talk in the streets in Stormwind of a crazed worgen with a limp ranting and screaming in the Recluse and in the paths leading out of it."

"Just Mithara not minding her own damn business."

"No excuses, Eidan! You're a druid of the Cenarion Circle - start acting like one."

Zherron bared his fangs in a snarl. "Don't lecture me, you Scourge-loving freak. I --"

The worgen did not have a chance to say another word, as Velenkayn's armored hand shot out like lightning, grabbing him by the throat. The undead draenei's expression was one of sadness mixed with determined anger. "Have a care for your next words, Eidan. Friend or not, I will make sure they are your last if you push your luck..." The Battlelord released Zherron, gasping, to the ground. "Now, unless either of you have something constructive to contribute, I ask you to leave me in peace."

"But, Battlelord," Yatiri replied through clenched teeth, "the professor --"

"Please, leave me in peace," Velenkayn repeated, not sparing either one of them another glance as he knelt once more on the grass, seeking solitude within his own mind.

Outraged, Yatiri stepped forward to give the draenei a piece of his mind, but Zherron grasped him by the shoulder. "No." He stared at Velenkayn in contempt. "He is of no use to us." Without another word, he led the Shado-Pan back to the dock, where the ship to Teldrassil was just arriving.

Outland. A better place for a warlock to have a lab...in this case, in one of Kael'thas' abandoned manaforges in Netherstorm. The magic saturation was almost intoxicating.

Striding into the center of the room, Rakeri set down his toolbox and opened it, taking out the transmatter storage cubes and placing them carefully on the floor. Once he was done, he stepped back, and pressed the transmatter reversal control on his wrist. The cubes shattered, and the surviving bits of his equipment were restored to their normal sizes, including the improvised armor rack with the ragged skin of the Corruptor, still dripping with tainted blood. I have to do something with this eventually, he thought. He had already experimented with the flesh he had taken from the head, combining the massive horns with a skullcap and a modified pair of goggles, to grant him infrared and zoom capability, as well as joining with the entire outfit to channel the fel-flame he could now call on.

Doubt I'll be able to wear it often in public, he thought ruefully. Good thing I have a few options.

Developments were going better than he had hoped. Saavedro was destroying his own credibility, both through his own actions and those of people who were associated with him. He was still awaiting a meeting with Orwyn, but their paths had not yet had an opportunity to cross. And Rakeri had ammunition at his disposal now to bolster his cause - the ineffectiveness, some might say condescension, of the Watch officer who responded to the assault against him and his colleagues in the Recluse. An embarassment, he mused, that the good commander would not be able to ignore.

I have Saavedro by the balls now - and soon, Orwyn will feel that vice-grip too.

He would continue to foster the impression of being the cooperative witness, as well as the other "good qualities" that humans were prone to over-emphasize, if they look the other way about the whole warlock thing. And the others, he knew, would oblige him by acting like the raving lunatics they were.

Not how he'd planned it, of course...but if it was going his way, who was he to complain?