World of Warcraft®

The Bank of Silvermoon, with its lumbering vaults and anti-magic torches, provided a secure environment for the citizens of the fair city to go about their transactions with peace of mind. Tellers waited with eager smiles behind fortified glass stations, privately contracted security officers stood at attention with arms folded and elbows resting over well-funded blades. Scrying cameras held silent vigil in the corners of the steepled ceiling, turning their heads back and forth with mechanical patience, as though to say 'nope. Nothing out of the ordinary here.'

Fully insured by His Regency, the bank stood as a monument to Sin'dorei wealth and fortification. Only a madman would dare breach it.

At five-past midday, a group of masked men in gold and white strode inside, drew weapons and fired.

Low-velocity, sub-arcane rounds chewed through the scrying cameras, blew AM torches off walls. Swords flew from sheaths, and in a blur of activity, security guards fell to the marble floor. Panicked screams filled the stale air. Orders were bellowed, and shaking citizens dropped to their knees, hands on their heads. Tellers took shelter beneath their desks. A bold manager rose, foaming with outrage and mockery. Do you know -who- you are stealing from? A wave of a gold and white glove, the curt whisper of spell-work and the manager found himself encased in a shell of ice, particles of frost magic flurrying in the air around him.

Masked soldiers occupied every corner of the bank. -He- entered with the imperious swagger of a bastard prince. Dressed in high fashion, a suit of black and teal, a striped scarf fluttering carelessly in his wake; he was not a very imposing blood elf. He was not too tall, or too muscular. His jet hair was long, swept back in the style of the day, goatee groomed impeccably. But there was a slant to his walk that betrayed unnatural purpose, a cold shimmer to his gaze that promised a ravenous appetite. Survivors of the day would remark upon the color of his eyes: the hard, cold sky blue of a highborn.

“Welcome all, to curtain call!” he crowed, methodically plucking off a pair of skin-tight gloves, finger at a time. “I am Asimenios Dies'Irae, glad to meet you, and if you would do me the high pleasure of keeping quiet during my performance-”

Calculating eyes swept the room of terrified nobodies, a frozen manager, groaning security and unyielding soldiers. The men in gold and white gawked at their leader, as though beholding the second coming of some long-prophesied savior.

“You -might- just live to see the finale.”

Asimenios stalked over to the far wall, eyes intent on the vault. A senior teller found her courage, closed her eyes. “You can't just STEAL from people, like an ANIMAL.”

He paused, tilted his head and pinned her beneath a withering appraisal. “Steal?” he sniffed, crinkling his flawless nose in disapproval.

And sat at the seat of the ornamental harpsichord beside the vault's door. It hadn't been played in a decade; but as with all things Sin'dorei, the timeless instrument had been polished and tuned as to carefully conceal mindful negligence.

"Madame I'm just here to play a song.”

And play he did. Masterful fingers pressed perfect, complex chords into the ivory and ebonite teeth, drawing a thread of music through the bank's well-kept interior. Asimenios played and played, rolling his head back and shutting his eyes, flicking his tongue over perfect teeth. The music was beautiful and complex. A curious teller peeked over her station to watch. A gentleman's foot began to tap.

The piece lasted precisely two minutes, forty six seconds.

Asimenios sat for five seconds longer, panting. Drawing his composure. He rose, drew his gloves from his breast pocket. It was a difficult piece to play with broken thumbs. But it was worthwhile, he thought.

“Lets be gone.”

And with no further comment, dark-haired Asime tore open a light-shorn portal to some -other- place, and he and his squadron of brutes stepped through. The single remaining scrying camera witnessed the sudden departure, and the arrival soon after of a dozen City Guardsmen. It shook its mechanized head.

'Nope. Nothing out of the ordinary here.'

((Finnaeus casts crippling jealousy. Finnaeus dies.

MOAR!))

I've never been one to prepare for tomorrow. Each day is sufficient with its own trials, worries. Tomorrow certainly isn't preparing for me; it doesn't even know I'm coming. I've always placed faith in myself, that I will be ready for it, come what may.

I have dreamt of this moment for so long. For these cold years, my body and soul were occupied with rebuilding and fortifying myself with an army of undead. Spreading my wealth, establishing and developing friendships and colleagues. I took to the field, in savage wars and revolutions. While the body pursued one clutch of enemies the mind dealt with another.

When the day had finally come to confront Him, I found myself heartbroken by these wasteful pursuits. The final, rusted milestones of my life.

I was in Tanaris when I heard of His return, deep in work. I was in pursuit of an Ethereal, name of Rahil Safniya, or rather the network of arms dealers he had single-handed spread throughout the Eastern Kingdoms. For having never set foot on Azeroth, he had established an impressive array of criminal contacts, trading flesh and metal between cartels, flesh and drugs between brotherhoods, flesh and flesh between coteries. Nearly each illegal supply raid executed in the past year and a quarter turned up some thread leading back to Rahil. I had gathered enough of them to give a good yank, see what came stumbling into the light.

While Rahil never met with his clients in person, he employed plenty of middle management, and that would be my in. I just had to hand-craft a reputation in the criminal underworld, intercept a meeting with one of Rahil's mules, impress upon him that his boss needed to have a sit down with this up and coming, and trace him to his contact in Outland.

Simple.

Tanaris. At the ungodly hour where Friday night becomes Saturday morning, the local inn undergoes a devilish transformation. Neon lighting, trunks filled with speakers, strobes. Club night. Drinks, smokes. Factions and clothes slip from shoulders and hips, discarded at the door. There's no room here for your Hordes, your Alliances.

I was slouched against the counter, suffering an over-expensive mohito. The pulsing room vibrated with energy and noise. Decks of speakers blared out the sludgy, metallic bass of a song that had packed the smoky dance floor, bodies pressing and gliding over one another to thick grindstep. The uninitiated might have called it music, but I've been to Lower City. I've heard -real- grindstep.

I'd dressed down, skinny pants and a half-buttoned plaid shirt. Sleeves rolled, half tucked. Just another adventurer from Uldum, looking to get cocked and lucky. I made a big deal about swivelling on my metal stool, making eyes at anything that walked with a waggle. A Kal'dorei pranced by, all long hair and moon-lit eyes. I fired her an acidic wink; she made a sound like a choking frog and found somewhere else to undulate.

It would be another hour before my mark arrived. He was not very subtle. Flanked by a posse of black-shirts, I could barely make his small, green figure as it waddled into one of the VIP booths sectioned off by sheet and velvet. I caught his profile as he paused to glance out at the dance floor, flicking his goblin tongue over moist lips and wriggling goblin fingers together. He disappeared behind a curtain, left two muscular figures standing point.

He was called Nickels the Dime. Made a fortune selling his brother's weapons, on and off the black market. Rumor had it, ducking the authorities for a decade had developed in him a conscience and Greasy Nix was on his way to going clean. His latest deal with Rahil Safniya was intended to be his last. I intended to ensure it.

In the interest of friendliness, I gave him a few minutes to settle in, order a couple drinks. A pair of human girls with empty smiles slithered into his booth. A peal of forced laughter was lost in the throb of cheap music.

Chewing a mint leaf, I pocketed my hands and wound my way through the throbbing crowd. I could see silhouettes through the thin curtain. Two more bodyguards; the other two outside made four, and the fifth had just milled off to take a leak. I straightened up and set my stare on the brutes standing by the booth. A shifty-looking troll and a well-muscled Draenei. Scars twisted the big blueberry's ugly face.

I should note, my eyes have an effect on people. Since Northrend, they haven't been right. In a former life, I would never have wanted to frighten someone away with just a glance. Lately, its proven a very useful tool. The troll couldn't find the will to meet my stare. Big Blue made a big show of not blinking. He'll be my icebreaker.

“I'm here to talk to the Dime.”

“Vhat is elf wort for... pees off.”

“Nickels the Dime? You ever heard of him? Yeah I'd like to talk to him please.”

Blue wasn't moving. He folded twenty-four inch biceps over a barrel-shaped chest. I could have smiled; that little stoic display brought his hands away from the deadly club hanging from his hip.

“I say slower. Geev time to figure out. Pees. Off.”

I sighed and looked down at my feet. And deliberately bent in half, hemming and hawing. “Well that's neat,” I remarked, tilting my head and inspecting my shoes.

When the big Draenei leaned down to look himself, I sprang up and drove my knee into his chin. The troll fumbled with a knife, but a heel to the throat left him bundled on the floor, gasping for air. Big Blue was tough, though. He barely staggered, jerking his head forward and glaring at me with a ribbon of blood trickling from his mouth.

The song changed abruptly, shifting from one auditory assault to the next. Blue threw a series of punches, all shoulders and rage. If he had been trained, there would have been a problem. Hells above, was he quick. I weaved under his guard, caught a wrist and side-stepped, bending his massive arm around and behind his back. Closed my fingers over his thumb and twisted. No matter how big someone is, you get their thumb in a lock, and you can drive them around like its a joystick.

So I introduced myself to Nickels the Dime by laying his biggest guy out on the table before him, the thin curtain billowing around us. The goblin didn't even flinch, teeth clenched against a thick cigar. The girls squawked and slid as far away as they could get, the two bodyguards reaching into breast pockets.

“Hold up hold up holdup now,” Nix growled in a plume of smoke. He observed Big Blue's wincing, sneering face and sighed. His guards looked between us, ready to draw and blow my skull off. It was a gambit, but I knew my mark.

“Alright alright,” he chittered at me curiously. “Look pal. You're pretty tough, but nobody's tough enough to take a bullet to the domepiece. Got a lotta nerve. A lotta nerve!”

I shrugged. Blue struggled a bit, and I twisted his thumb til he yelped like a girl.

Nix squinted at me. Looked into my eyes. Traced the everlasting wound torn beneath them, over the bridge of my nose. Recognition dawned on him with the sudden urgency of a man voiding himself. The expensive cigar fell from slack jaws. “...oh no. Oh nononononononononono-”

“Relax,” I assured him as patiently as I could. “I just want to talk.”

With a few curt commands, Nix got us some privacy. We faced each other over the broad surface of his table. He purposefully undid his tie and loosened his fine shirt, making a point not to hold eye contact very long. The brief fight had gone unnoticed; the broad shouldered shadows of his guards stood vigil while the enchanted curtain swallowed up most of the noise from outside.

“Alright, Bloodwing. What the hell.”

“Have we met?”

“Oh hoho. Not on your life, pal. I don't go runnin around with no Inquisition spooks, I gotta reputation to keep up here. You got one yourself. I know a -lotta- guys gone out of business when you some blowing in. Listen guy, I don't know what you'vee been hearin' but I'm goin -clean-.”

I nodded, crossed my legs. The more agitated he became, the calmer I would appear. It would be a reminder of who was in control. “I get it. I get you, Nix. There was a big demand for siege weapons and artillery when the Revolution struck, but now Orgrimmar has been occupied and Garrosh awaits trial. Nobody needs big guns -after- a siege. So now you've got inventory and no place to sell.”

Nix blinked. He seemed hopeful, that maybe I understood after all. And then he remembered that I'd just laid out his biggest man, for the sake of meeting him. I could see the excuses churning in his sad little eyes.

“Look, I've gotta make gold, y'know? I've gotta sell these weapons. I ain't gonna let my kid brother or his little girls go starving. Hell do I care if some turban-face wants to buy 'em. Blue, Red. Black market, gold is gold. You gonna tell me you wouldn't do the same?”

A detached piece of me reviewed the atrocities I had committed for the sake of survival, and deigned not to answer.

“I'm not here to bust you, Nix.” I pressed an elbow to the table, and leaned in. “Rahil is a stingy fellow. He doesn't always like to pay for what he's purchased.”

The goblin blinked at me. “What're you sayin.”

“I'm saying you're in bed with a murderer. He's going to take your goods and leave you in a hole.”

“How do you even-”

“He's done it before. Relic Greybane? Remember Hellias the Stale? Defia'c?”

Nix paled. I've never seen green become pale green before. “No, no. The Inquisition got those guys-”

“All after deals with Rahil's people. They're bad people, Nix. They made it slow. The Inquisition does not torture.” Often.

Nickels was rolling this information over and over. He leaned forward, cursed bitterly, held his head between his palms. “...sheee. I was gonna throw in a bonus flamethrower... just as a last hurrah, you know? I was gonna get clean.”

“I know, Nix.”

“So what the hell. What do we do?”

“-We- aren't doing a damn thing. -You're- going to get out of the continent. Take your brother and your nieces somewhere nice, hole up for a bit. I'm going to go ahead with the deal, and get my hands on the bastard mysel-”

There was sudden commotion, outside. Turns out someone else had the same idea of knocking as I did; Big Blue came stumbling in, colliding with our table and breaking it in half. Standing in his wake, to my astonishment, was Jacques-Markhal Cutter. Captain of the Guttersnipes and what might once have passed for my closest friend.

He beamed at me, flicked one of his knives back into its sheath, and spread his arms.

“Hey Lio. We've got Him.”

He didn't need to elaborate. Ice water poured through my veins, and something old and frigid coiled like a fist around my heart. My breath hitched, and for a moment all I could see were the hateful blue eyes of Asimenios Dies'Irae.

Snow settled like a curving, twisted blanket of powdered feathers over the barren landscape of a forsaken tundra. The dark clouds that had shed it lumbered on to the south, silent and pensive in the manner of snowstorms. The wind held its breath. It heaved the occasional sigh, scattering plumes of white in clouds of blinding, frigid spores. Weathered stone groaned and creaked. Snapping suddenly, broken before the bitter cold.

The three of them huddled together, inching along step by step. Amberley's optimism was nearly infectious. “Very nearly there, I think!” over the shuddering breath of the frozen wastes, beneath her fur-lined hood and many scarves.

“You've been saying that for an hour, now!” Asimenios laughed into his golden mask.

“It's more true now than before, isn't it,” she huffed.

They looked to Liore, the everlasting tie-breaker. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, equally buried in weather-gear. He leaned upon his spear like some crooked old sage, smirking off to the north. “Why don't we ask -them-,” he smarmed, nodding at the distant flicker of campfire.

“I'm all for the good of the people, and the nobility of the cause and all that... but do you think cultists could pick a sandy beach for these things? How come its never 'oh well, the bad guys are planning to blow up a swimsuit model factory in Saunavale.” Asimenios kicked at a hunk of snow that turned out to be a hunk of ice. His mood degraded significantly.

“Swimsuit model factory...” Amberley repeated.

Liore shook his head. A dawnlike smile spread over his handsome, ice-kissed face. “...in Saunavale.”

Having sated his vengeance by the simple economy of stomping the chunk of ice into oblivion, Asime made a grand show of adjusting his gloves, oozing stylish excellence. “Saunavale,” he confirmed. “Wedged between the Memoryfoam Mountains, fed by the River of Merlot.”

Commotion to the north. A harsh wind funneled in from between massive crags. The trio hunkered down to endure it. “Think those are our boys?” Amberley had a point. There'd be trouble if they'd been on the tail of -normal people- for the past three days.

“One way to find out.” Liore leaned into the cold, stomped his way through layers of crust and fluff. “Come along then, Saunavale.”

~~

Akin to spiders, memories are. Thin-legged and venomous. Some gather in the corners of your head, waiting for an unpleasant thought to flutter into their webbing, to pounce and inject without mercy. Others stalk through the thicket, creeping upon you before you know you're even hunted. We have our means for distancing ourselves from them but lately, I confess, my usual methods have failed.

I believe this is owing, in part, to the slumbering being within me. It stirs restlessly, stirring up old thoughts, old scenes. I will see this world clearly, and suddenly I will see only the past. One such vision claimed me on the flight to Eversong. I slipped from my bat and strode through the Shepherd's Gate before I realized I was doing so. It struck me as ironic, that in these hours where my concentration was MOST needed, I could not rein it in from the very past I was soon to bury.

The bank had been sectioned off by the City Guardsmen; hands raised to pause me, fell away as I flashed my badge. I had seen fit to change my attire; a grey suit, knee-high boots, ornamental shoulders and a dark coat were more befitting an Inquisitor.

“Uhm. Yes, Lord. Right this way.”

Cutter lurked in my wake, wearing his permanent grin. He was sharp, likable. I trusted him, as closely as one can trust a Guttersnipe. The contract I struck with that brigade of Forsaken was a bond of loyalty, until its conditions were met. I wondered, as he hovered beside me, his golden eyes intent on the finer details of the heist scene, whether I would end up more to him than purposeful employment.

I chased the thought away, focused on the task at hand.

The Inquisition normally has nothing to do with public affairs. Murders, heists, missing persons; the Horde Cities have their compliment of guardsmen and detectives for this very reason. It is unusual that one of my caste would appear at the scene of a robbery, even in fair Silvermoon. There was silence where I approached, and murmuring where I passed.

The manager, his teeth chattering still, was a wealth of expletives and outrage, and not much use outside of a cursory description of the assailant. I already know what he looks like, thank you. Moving on.

The tellers wren't much more helpful. It was too swift, too shocking. Robbery often is. Cutter came siding over to me, that sly grin spread over his handsome, dead face.

“Your man there has a decent sense of humor. Got a manifesto of goods from the senior teller. He didn't take a thing.”

I frowned. I must have flicked my thumb over the wound beneath my eyes, as I spotted a smear of red on the glove. I drew a stained kercheif and turned it over the digit. “Suits him. He always had a flair for spectacle.”

Faint motion caught my eye, in the high, furthest corner of the room. “Lets take a look for ourselves.” I nodded up at the single remaining scrying camera. It shook its head, as if 'uh uh, nope, not me, boss.'

“Guess his crack team of badasses weren't so thorough.” Cutter was trying to line of sight the camera from the entrance, fit facts to his theory. He could see how someone in a rush might miss a camera or two.

“Unlikely. He would have wanted an audience. He would have want-”

He would have wanted me.

((It's only getting better....)) <3

We waited in the manager's office, Cutter and I, exchanging unhappy glances and meaningful shrugs. The room was austere with décor, tastefully furnished in dark mahogany and radiant gold, finished in scarlet curtains and the seal of the Silvermoon Bank. Artfully arranged for the discerning high-society slob currently blowing his nose and nittering on about consequences. A magister was dutifully extracting a fel-green crystal from the back of the undamaged camera. His eyes glazed over with the distant patience of a man accustomed to getting his ears chewed upon.

“-middle of the day. Bloody outrageous. What ARE we paying you people for? Humm?! Do you call this security? I call it a breach in contract. Bloody outrageous...”

And on and on. I heard less and less of his snot-encumbered ranting, falling deeper and deeper into my own dank thoughts.

Asimenios. Gone for years, and you turn up in the middle of Silvermoon. You knew I was watching for you, didn't you? This whole act befits you. What did you want me to see? What was of such deep consequence, you were driven from the hole you've been hiding in? Don't you realize? That I am going to catch you. I am going to end this.

“Boss.”

Cutter nudged me with a bony elbow. The heart-pulse glow of his undead eyes shimmered with concern. The bank's manager and the mage technician watched me with wariness. A thin ribbon of warm moisture dribbled down the side of my face. I drew my spotted kerchief and padded at the unhealing wound beneath my eyes.

“What have you got for me?”

“Well,” the tech stated uncertainly. “Isn't a front row seat, but we can correct for gun-flare. Give me a minute and we can extract audio, too.”

I nodded. “Picture, first.”

The mage tech took a breath, the little green memory crystal in his hands. He pressed his palms together, uttered a whisper of the arcane and flipped the small rock to the floor. It spun and spun, before shooting a thin beam of emerald light to the ceiling. This light spread and grew, until it was a misty screen, shimmering with star-lit motes of light. An image began roiling within its glistening surface; I beheld with a growing frown the poise and antics of Asimenios Dies'irae. Watching from top-down, as though tucked in a corner, we witnessed the robbery that was not in grainy silence.

It is one thing to see him in my dreams, ghostly and unnatural. It was quite another to see him in person. Each confident step, every arrogant slant of him. He was everything I'd remembered, and I found myself watching with bated breath.

The last time I had been this close to him, I had broken both of his thumbs, and he had paralyzed my face.

Jacques-Markhal was utterly focused. He dragged a clawed fingertip through the mystical screen, blurring the image where he touched. “Uhm. Those big guys with him?”

“Nolkai Kinship,” I sighed, by way of explanation. “A guildhood of religious fanatics, believe the One Light will shine upon its faithful with a blessing of spiritual transcendence when their lives have ended.”

“Oh. Well that cleans things up a bit. An army that's in a big hurry to die.”

“Not quite.” I scowled as Asime faced a woman, tilted his head and grinned at her. “They believe they must fulfill the purpose of their One Light to achieve this blessing. Or that of their Prophet. Who hasn't appeared in five hundred years.”

Cutter squinted at the rapt expressions of the soldiers watching Asime's performance. “...you've got to be kidding.”

“Wish I were.”

“You're telling me he's a Prophet?”

“No. But they seem to believe so. Don't they.” One of the soldiers lit up with a radiant smile. I tried not to wonder at what demonstration Asimenios would have performed to convince these people of his enlightenment. I would not have liked to see the bodies.

The Tech strained with his spellcraft, jaw tightening and untightening. “Here. The best part.”

Asimenios stalked out of sight for almost three minutes. Something off-screen happened. Soldiers swelled with raw emotion, citizens shared confused and exasperated glances. Then abruptly he stepped back into sight, pulled open a portal and walked through, his acolytes with him.

The manager exploded with some unkind expletive and Cutter murmured out a string of theories, trying to find an angle. I couldn't hear any of it, for the blood rushing beneath my ears. Lead gathered around the corrupted cavity of my heart, squeezing like a snake of ice. I physically felt something slithering through my veins, excited and impatient, and struggled not to claw it out of my skin.

I had seen into Asime's portal. I had seen his destination. I had seen the monolithic spires, stretching like bladed fingers to claw at a storm-lit sky. I had seen what he wanted me to.

His invitation to Northrend.

The pieces of me that remained in form stared blankly at the screen, still as a statue. I could command that much of myself. The pieces of me that were not roiled and crawled and buzzed within, laboring my breath and sapping my resolve.

“Ah. My lords, we have audio.” The tech drew his sleeve over his sweating brow, and amended his spell with another verse of arcane potency.

-That song- filled the manager's office. ((http://tinyurl.com/o884eek))

I was still stumbling as I descended the steps leading from the bank. I clutched the soaked kerchief to the bridge of my nose. Pain filled my lungs like saltwater.

I suppose, before we go any further, I must explain to you what I am.

((Yes, yes you must.

NOW!))

A hunch payed off, and they were upon the cultists before robed hands could complete arcane gestures and tattered voices could howl words of power. The fuss from before, as it turned out, was the beginning of a complex series of spells and rituals. For their labor, the deranged assembly had conjured a vast mote of light, too bright to be gazed upon directly. Half were too consumed by the spell craft, toiling insanely over a collective cauldron of madness, to notice the three figures dart out from beneath tree-cover. The remaining half were too absorbed in worshipping their new sun to pay heed to the blades and flames that ended their lives.

It was upon a vast crag that the madmen consorted their unholy deeds. A creek bubbled nearby, powder-clad branches trickling snow between them like sand through fingers. This natural cliff overlooked the borders between Dragonblight and the Grizzly Hills, a river-fed nook where two lands converged. Where, if left to their work, the cultists would have worlds themselves converge.

The trail of devastation that began continents away would end here. Liore vowed it, upon seeing the second sun, roiling and bristling with light. Amberley had vowed it over the broken corpse of a Tuskarr, at a village pillaged and buried miles away. And Asimenios, well. He was always a fan of a good brawl.

No less than fifty men in purple and black robes buzzed around the center of their dark ritual. Voices raised, unspeakable words filled the air. They drowned out the shouting and screaming, raising in pitch and breaking off at an unnatural octave.

Sure-footed, heart heavy with mercy, Liore Bloodwing waded into the congregation. He did not cry out his intentions, he did not brandish the badge displayed on his belt. A devilish spear described masterful figures of eight, bursting flesh from bone wherever it pierced. Half a dozen fell before his first thrust lost momentum. Arms were bared and orders were barked, humans and orcs alike turning to ward this interloper.

They would find a hell of a time of it. Amberley Bloodwing and Asimenios Dies'irae were no less patient, and no less skillful.

He darted off to the flank, bulldozing a path with his golden shield. The arc of his mace left limbs bent and skulls crushed. Where he lapsed in precision, Asime doubled in ferocity. A knot of three robed figures rushed him with daggers and an axe. Twisting, he hurled his shield into the mouth of the axe-man, planting his heels and backhanding the other two with a double-fisted grip. He paused to tread upon the fallen cultist, and yank his shield free from split jaws.

A dark-skinned elf, white hair spilling from a high hood, doubled forth and wretched out a mouthful of acid, nimble fingers writhing up some equally awful spell. Amberley gestured at him with an arcane command; lips clamped shut upon themselves, leaving the mage to the unfortunate ministrations of his still-active acid spewing magic. A fine ear flicked to a wave of bodies gathering behind her, and she spun to meet them.

“Shorel'aran. Leave this place in peace. You've done only what your broken soul demanded.” Fair palms clapped together, and fingers splayed into crooked teeth. A gout of brilliant flame belched from between Amberley's hands, consuming all it touched in twenty yards. Her brilliant eyes shimmered, frigid upon figures dissolving into char and ash.

Cult members fell by the dozens. They could not have withstood three agents of the Horde Inquisition, untrained and nearly naked as they were. The final chanter plunged to the blood-melted snow with a vast smile. “Cachoregarde. It is done,” he sighed in satisfaction. Though he shivered at that first, long word, Liore felt no compulsion to impale him a second time.

“Are we well?” he asked, gazing over the slaughter. Regret welled in him as he surveyed their work, lives stripped and stories forever untold. Death is the ultimate penalty, robbing you your chance to become better than the sum of your sins. Amberley nudged his hip with a private, tender smile. Her fingers coiled gently over the curve of his gauntlet, murmuring soft words of encouragement.

Asimenios strolled over, shouldering his weapons. He nudged a robed body with his golden boot, frowning. He'd worked with the Bloodwings long enough to know the drill. “Sure. Hey, look. They made their choices. The lives they've taken? Who knows what we prevented here. Amber, help me out here-”

But she was frozen where she stood, gawking artlessly at the nimbus of light that had been the focus of the cultist's efforts. A tiny, pink tongue flickered out to moisten lips, suddenly dry. “Uhm,” she responded intelligently, starting toward the glowing object.

“Boys? You're going to want to see this.” Mechanically, she found a small, stylish case and drew out her round glasses, perching them on her small nose.

Liore and Asime shrugged at one another and followed, the one frowning savagely and the other fussing over the new stain on his boot.

The object of the cultist's conjuration was losing its luster. No longer blinding, its shape could be discerned, stark and unnervingly perfect. Unnatural, considering what it was. The three stood before it, silent.

“Its-”

“A door.” Liore leaned on his spear, his brilliant blue eyes snaking over the door's surface with naked mistrust. It was taller than any he'd ever seen, dark and ornate and covered in thousands of odd, thin slits. There was no handle, and it hung upon nothing. It overlooked the valley from its cliff-top perch. A cold wind issued forth from it.

“Grand. JUST grand! A door! These people. They rob an imperial library, assault the Royal navy, lay waste to half a dozen villages, and set up shop out in the middle of East Bumhump, Northrend, to practice their exterior décor?!” Asimenios was not impressed. A nearby corpse was awarded a vengeful punt.

Liore couldn't quite find a chuckle this time. There was something utterly wrong about this. “We should be gone from here,” he decided, unable to pull his eyes from the monolith.”Let Guiltenstern's nerds come look this over.”

“A bit out of my league,” Amberley agreed. She simmered with curiosity, studying its dimensions, puzzling over those thousand-fold slits. But something primal refused to let her approach.

“Wins -my- vote,” Asime rumbled. But then he started towards it at a trot, fists clenched at his sides. “But first, I'm gonna kick it.”

“Uhm. Hey. Hey! What are you-” Liore lurched after him, a few steps behind.

“You touch that strange door, Asimenios Dies'irae, and I'm going to turn you into a penguin.” Amberley marched after them, flipping her glasses back into their case.

“Pshspsphtphp. You couldn't turn water into piss.”

They were twenty paces away from the door when it bellowed horribly. The thousand slits opened, and a thousand eyes looked upon them at once. And then the dark came.

These wayward visions of mine have become more and more frequent. A therapist, Inquisition-ordered mind you, had suggested to me that my mind is not yet willing to reconcile these events. That until I have resolved the truth of what had occurred, I will witness it again, and again. And again. My hands shake and my heart stumbles on. Reason enough to end this.

I spent some hours in my private study at the Cathedral in Lordaeron, or more accurately the ruins thereof. I had appropriated the vast, abandoned place of worship for my own services some years ago; the Guttersnipe Brigade has settled in the nearby residences, and its seclusion and sober architecture have served me well in times of study and tactical arrangement. Silent wars are not won on fields of battle, but behind closed doors, and in hushed whispers over paper lit by candle.

The rain had picked up since I left Silvermoon, and had not ceased. Its mournful patter against the steep, stained-glass windows made a comforting tempo for my work. The finality of this operation demanded accuracy and documentation; it was not comfortable, putting to paper the exact, excruciating details of what had occurred over the last four years. More than once I considered my words, staring unhappily at the fireplace across the room. I might have considered hurling my table at it and storming off to Northrend. But there were dues to be paid, before so cathartic an act.

My first letter was to the Lord Inquisitor himself, detailing my resignation from office. I had served this Horde since its founding, I had served Lordaeron for centuries longer. I rooted out infection from both, an antibody, pursuing all that was toxic and harmful and purging it. For the good of the good, I have bleed and lost and wept, and I have done so gladly. As I detailed my letter, I emphasized this would be my final act in the name of the Queen of Lordaeron, for what was to follow could never be smiled upon by royalty.

My second letter was to be copied and delivered to my estates in Winterspring, Gilneas, Kun-lai and Vashj'ir. In the likely event of my death, each home was to be converted into a font for the charity of each head manservant's choice. Old Kressher, brooding over his morning paper in distant Winterspring, would be impressed, I think. Needling me on and on about doing tangible good, opposed to the theoretical my life-work has meant. The tavern in Kun-lai would return to its original owner's hands. I do not foresee old Mekong suffering any further financial crises, particularly with the funds I intend to divert from my personal coffers.

The Coterie had grown to bursting. I had assigned enough officers to allow it to run itself. Where the hungry and the hurt came to find shelter, doors would open. They would see to it.

My final letter had started as a neutral report into the case of the death of Amberley Bloodwing, the disappearance of Asimenios Dies'irae, and the crimes committed by Liore Bloodwing. But as I began, I found I could not stop. The case letter had become a confession, and I found myself sealing it with as many tears as strokes of ink. I had not allowed myself to mourn, I realized as I wrote her name and mine, again and again, and something inside me broke with a tinge of pain and leaked warmth.

I sealed all three, called Curly in and instructed him to see them mailed when I departed come morning. He rubbed his bald head with a crooked frown, nodded eagerly.

I found a chair and a bottle of something as old and seasoned as myself, and set to watching the trees shudder. The visions and the memories gathered like jackals in the night, descending upon me as one.

That darkness swept over us like a tide. The last I saw, before nothing at all, were those eyes. Piercing me with judgment. Finding me unworthy, and submitting me to oblivion. Something washed over us; I was last to fall. It crackled with laughter and victory, revelling in its freedom. All I saw was black, and felt the sensation of falling, and falling and falling.

Some thing, some unnatural being, entered through my head and heart, hollowed me out as though I had never been. It poured into me like magma into a paper cup, boiling away the core of me and leaving the rest crumpled and scorched. I glimpsed a consciousness vaster and more ancient than my own, I peered into the insights of a being whose presence my mortal body could scarcely contain, and it was -horrible.- It revealed to me its history in one, terrible flash.

Its name was Cachoregarde, and it was the God of the demented cultists we had slain on that day.

As the Titans made their way from world to world, shaping and ordering each planet as they saw fit, their words of creation left behind echoes that reverberated through the universe. These echoes spread and journeyed through the vast reaches of the cosmos, and when they reached the ethereal limit of reality, they returned. Some of these echoes gained sentience on their billion-year voyage, and willed themselves to life.

One such echo had struck an Azeroth of old, but found too frightening, had been cast into another plane by unknown hands. Sealed behind millennia of ritual and unseen glyphs, carved into the fabrics of reality. Time had eroded the fabrics of the echo's prison, and it called out. Madmen answered, as madmen often will.

But we lowly three had interrupted the final unbinding of this vast, cosmic sentience, and for that it was very displeased.

Consciousness returned to me with a gasp, to the howl of my greatest friend and the dying cries of my beloved.

Asimenios Dies'irae claimed I had killed her. He vowed he would punish me, for murdering my wife.

The image will forever haunt me. My spear, pierced through her chest. The barbs bit into the bones of her. My quailing fingers could not pull it out. They could not close the horrible wound. Her blood, my darling woman's blood, gushed all over us. The strength left my legs and I collapsed with her. She was so light, so fragile. Asimenios watched on. How he howled.

Blood stained her perfect teeth. The life flickered out in her sapphire eyes, fixed on me as she died in my arms. My mouth worked, but nothing came out. Amberley did not speak any words of departing. She heaved, labored with breath, and she cried. In her final moments, she was terrified. In her final moment, she dragged her thumb over the bridge of my nose.

“You are so beautiful please don't leave me here, please don't-”

((Excellent, excellent, excellent as always.

MOAR!))