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Rakeri Sputterspark made his way through the streets of Stormwind, headed for the Deeprun Tram to Ironforge, waiting in the tram station. It was the weekly clinic, if he remembered rightly; he wondered if that fool shaman would be there again, to see if he can push the limits in Ironforge as he had in Stormwind with --

"No...more...."

The professor turned, sword instantly in his hand, as he heard that voice. But it was a sinister whisper, as if more felt than heard. To his utter lack of surprise, he saw the dark-robed figure of the "good" Father Shankolin...but carrying a huge hammer of black metal, with a glowing purplish-blue crystal at its head. The shadow aura was strong, but not showing in its entirety. He could see immediately what he wanted. "Honestly. You really want to do this."

"I want to erase a mistake."

Rakeri laughed. "And what mistake was that?" When he looked up...the priest was gone. Alarmed, he only had a split second to see the hammer swinging at him, taking him in the chest in an underarm swing and sending the gnome flying across the tram station.

Letting you live. The words echoed in his head...as the shadow took hold in him. Rakeri's wrathguard, wielding a pair of pandaren-designed spears, charged at the dark priest. Feeling the cracked ribs, Rakeri stumbled to his feet and added a blast of felfire, followed by several shadow bolts, trying to stay out of the priest's line of sight with his ability to use that basic spell on the move.

He's finally lost it, he thought, and...he seems to be moving relatively unburdened by his frailty. He must be channeling that power to give him strength... He leapt across the empty track to the center platform. Where the hell is the damn train? He shot off another burst of fel-fire just as the priest's mental blast knocked the wrathguard back. The demon warrior did not get up...and soon disappeared in a flash of green light, back to the Nether to recharge, to await his call. Just me, then.

Channelling fel energy, he sprouted green-tinged wings from his back and leapt at the priest...but he saw a shadow of a face as the priest looked up at him. The face of someone clearly not the man he was charging at. It can't be, was his last thought as the hammer smashed into his face, sending his sword flying out of his hand and down into the tracks, and sending him flying across the platform...just as the north-track train arrived. His goggles smashed, he limped his way to the train before the priest could pursue, and watched as the walls became a blur - and he was not entirely certain it was because the train was now moving.

Ironic, he thought. I was planning to go as an observer...and I'm going as a patient...

----

Limping from the tram station in Tinker Town, across the Hall of Explorers and through the Forlorn Cavern to the Mystic Ward, Rakeri arrived at the door to the clinic. He was spattered in very light-reddish blood, his goggles smashed, his nose clearly broken...devoid of sword or shoulderpads, he suddenly looked very weak.

"Is there...a doctor...in...th..." He was not able to finish the sentence as he slumped to the floor, unconscious...

Disgraced. Ashamed. Vilified.

Riding away from the headquarters of the Stormwind City Watch, Battlelord Velenkayn's mind reeled as he took in the enormity of what he had heard. Attacks in the Deeprun Tram. Incoherent rants against warlocks. A good man laid low. He believes he is being influenced by his former mentor, Orwyn's words echoed in his head. The one he absorbed his shadow powers from...

Shadow powers...

Shadow...

And yet, in a moment of lucidity, he had asked for Velenkayn to speak for him. This was not what he had wanted to come off the boat from Darnassus to hear. He would have to defend a man that the public would clearly condemn as losing his mind, and he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

Rakeri Sputterspark was safely imprisoned in the Stockade, but now Father Shankolin was being kept there with him. There could only be trouble from that. And as he had said to Mithara, his worry manifesting as rage, this was what the demented professor wanted. His enemy was now disgraced in the eyes of the Alliance. Public opinion would rapidly go into his favor. The Feltouched had won - and the cost was higher than Velenkayn thought a good man should have to pay.

He dismounted from the armored quilen - a gift from Yatiri Stormwatcher - and walked into the abandoned amphitheater outside the Cathedral of Light, where Genevra usually held her sermons. He had admitted to the priest-turned-paladin two days earlier that Yatiri and Eidan Zherron both sought to use him to assassinate the professor. Though Rakeri's crimes were no doubt legion, Velenkayn could not bring himself to commit murder. The idea bothered him, for some reason; he was a wretched thing, built by the Lich King for battle, for blood and conquest. But he would not sully his honor by murdering his foe. If he was to kill the warlock, he would do it face-to-face, in combat, not skulking like a paid mercenary. To a vindicator, honor was everything, and for Velenkayn, his death and reincarnation as a warrior of the Scourge did not change that.

And at that moment, he realized that was why Saavedro had turned to him, here and now.

Rakeri was well-pleased with himself, waiting for the Watchmen to leave as they held the cursed Father in the cell across the hall. "So, you're finally paying for your crimes after all," he gloated.

The shamed priest did not look at him, instead remaining kneeling on the ground in the center of his cell, murmuring prayers asking for forgiveness. Rakeri found it both surprising and sickening. "Your precious Light can't hear you here, Saavedro," he continued. "You're the closest to Hell you're ever getting in this town. You're a hypocrite. A disgrace to your profession, and to your entire species." He grinned wickedly. "You really thought you could destroy him so easily, didn't you?"

Shankolin now looked up at him. "You knew."

"I saw his face when we fought in the tram station. I knew exactly what you were...Sekhesmet."

"No." Shankolin looked away from his enemy. "I will not let you bait me."

"Oh, come on. It's not like you can do anything to me, or me to you. These cells probably have the most potent anti-magic wards outside of the Violet Hold. They have to, considering how many crazy magic things have sprouted in this place." Rakeri's evil grin did not waver. "All the while, you said you could control it. You were the master. But you seem to have forgotten something. There were six Sha in the beginning of the campaign. Doubt, Despair, Anger, Hatred, Violence, Fear. But there was one that Shaohao could not conquer so easily, and it was awakened by Garrosh while you were opening your brain to another tenant. You know what it was?"

The priest glared angrily, but not at Rakeri; it was a reflection of the self-loathing he now felt. "Pride."

"That's right. The most insidious and powerful of the Sha." The warlock's expression became neutral, his tone more professorial. "You were there at the Vale, and at the gates of Orgrimmar, as I was. You ministered to the troops while I went in and fought what Pride had wrought. We heard the stories of what Hellscream had become in the depths below. Bloated by the power of Y'Shaarj, the Old God progenitor of the seven primes. Blinded by pride, just as you were. You thought that it was done, that he was dead and gone."

"Yes," Shankolin whispered.

"I know what you're thinking: 'This warlock is a proud man too, he has some gall preaching to me'. And perhaps that's true. After all, blind pride landed me in here." Rakeri indicated his cell. "But you know I'm right. You thought you were doing what had to be done, but your pride blinded you to the risks."

"I don't need to listen to this," the priest snarled, looking away.

"Yes, you do," the professor retorted. "Genevra will give you a song-and-dance about the Light's will and how your pride violates your precious Three Virtues, if she deigns to ever talk to you again. Which I doubt. But I tell it like it is, Saavedro. To which all I can say is, I hope your exorcist is more competent at dealing with crazed spirits than you are."

Shankolin looked momentarily confused. "Exorcist?"

"You don't honestly think Orwyn is going to let you walk out of here with the spirit of a plague-crafting Forsaken shadow priest in your head, do you? Uh uh. That shadow crap is coming out of you." Rakeri looked vaguely disappointed. "Pity...I had kind of hoped to take it out myself."

"Which is precisely why I took it, to keep it from scum like you."

"Scum like us, Saavedro," the professor corrected. His grin returned as his fel-tainted eyes stared across the hall...just as the Watch officers returned to move the willingly-incarcerated priest to another cell, away from his diminutive foe. "Have a good night, 'Father'," he sneered.

"Quiet," one of the Watchmen snapped. Rakeri obeyed...but the grin remained as he nestled back down on the floor, lying his head on his folded robe-pillow...sleeping the sleep of the triumphant.

Shankolin did not sleep that night - his mind's eye seeing the warlock's grin...and hearing the laughter of his uninvited guest.

He was seated alone in his study at his family's estate in Silvermoon, reading a missive delivered by Argent courier from Hearthglen.

My dear Master Ketiron,

While tensions between our respective factions have been high since the defeat of the corrupted Warchief, I feel it necessary to request your counsel, one Crusade veteran to another. Saavedro has been imprisoned in the Stockade of his own volition, and he has requested me to speak in his defense. Commander Orwyn of the Stormwind City Watch informed me that he believes himself to be possessed by the spirit of Sekhesmet, which I attribute to hubris in the belief that he could destroy him so easily.

While I am honored by his trust in me, I find myself in a serious predicament. I am left to defend a man who is perceived by the public as a cantankerous malcontent at best, and a battle-crazed lunatic at worst, and I have no real idea of what I am to do. What can I do or say that can assist his cause, when it is clear that the vast majority of people will have made up their own minds on the matter? I do not have the experience of diplomacy or political savvy as you do, being "born to the purple" as the humans refer to the nobility.

The matter is made worse by the fact that he is being held in the same prison as Professor Rakeri Sputterspark, the prominent gnome demonologist, master engineer, and practitioner of inscription. Though I do not believe the professor to be involved in Saavedro's possession - humans are prideful enough to dig themselves into good-sized holes without being manipulated by a madman like that, if I am permitted to be blunt - I do believe he is well aware of it, and has been attempting to, and will continue to, exploit the matter for his own ends, his twisted sense of vengeful justice dating back to the war against the Lich King. Now it seems his victory is assured, and the good man we knew will be destroyed forever.

I understand the risk I take in communication with you at a time like this, Taeril'hane, but my circle of allies in Stormwind is very limited, and you are the only person I know who can be proven to be impartial.

Glory under the Light,
Battlelord Velenkayn

Ketiron rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh, sitting back in his armchair. It seemed that what few allies he had on the "other side" were getting themselves into serious trouble, and he had no way of helping them immediately...both by dint of his being a veteran of the Horde, and the fact that he would have to leave shortly for Outland, praying to the Light that the bully boy's wedding in Nagrand was not a complete and utter disaster. The perils of Thalassian nobility, he thought with a rueful smile.

He folded the missive back up and tossed it into the nearby brazier. As much as it pained him, Velenkayn - and Saavedro - would have to wait.

Eyes closed in meditation, Eidan Zherron knelt in the soft soil of the inner hollow of Tal'doren, a place he had regularly retreated to whenever his mind was troubled. Gilneas was largely abandoned by both its native people and the Forsaken alike, and with the Alliance's focus now on picking up the pieces after the war in Pandaria, there was no real inclination on either side to restart the war...at least, not yet.

Velenkayn, bound by honor as he was, had told Genevra of Zherron and Yatiri's efforts to send him after Rakeri...and in light of recent events, had likely also told the Watch. He admittedly could not hold that against the Battlelord, but it made any continued visitation to Stormwind somewhat doubtful. He thought of probably going back to Darnassus, or perhaps to Moonglade, and focusing on tasks for the Cenarion Circle. Or just going where he pleased, living off the land and wandering the world, as Saavedro had tried to do. Before it had become clear that he was being railroaded to his destruction by that lunatic warlock. It was small consolation to the worgen druid that the professor was rotting in prison, given that Saavedro was right down in the cell block next to him...

"I thought I might find you here."

Zherron looked up at that voice, and saw its owner - a blood elf attired in red and gold armor, with the black-and-red tabard of the Blood Knight Order, carrying an ancient-looking elvish runeblade. He bared his fangs in a threatening snarl. "Ketiron."

"For someone attempting to disappear into nature," Taeril'hane Ketiron said evenly, "you aren't all that difficult to find. Your habits have become as predictable as the rising and setting of the sun and moons. And if Velenkayn and I know you're here, so do the Forsaken. Not exactly a risk I would take, were I you."

"You dare disturb me?" the worgen snapped irritably. "Indeed, you dare show your face to me or to any of his allies at all! You snubbed Velenkayn when he went to you for help. Are you just going to let Saavedro rot in prison while that warlock continues to plot?"

"Yes," Ketiron replied bluntly. That caught Zherron off-guard. "We have our own messes to clean up, Zherron. In case you've forgotten, we just concluded a very bloody civil war, which admittedly we did join with your Alliance to end, to prove that we soldiers of the Horde are not all of the same breed of monster as Garrosh. Or Sylvanas. I cannot come running every time Saavedro gets himself into trouble. He was foolish enough to discount the possibility of Sekhesmet trying to take his body, and now it has happened. I wash my hands of the matter."

"You what?!" Zherron was outraged. "You call yourself his friend, and you're...just going to abandon him?"

"He is my friend, Zherron," the Blood Knight Master admitted, his expression pained. "He has been a friend of my family for more than thirty years, even in spite of the fact that we are on opposite sides of the battlefield now. But so was Sekhesmet - and you know what happened there. Whether he intended to or not, he has allowed himself to fall in the same fashion as his former master. The best way I can help him is to do what Kel'theris, Ordevaas and I all did with Sekhesmet."

"Turn away from him," the worgen said bitterly.

Ketiron nodded sadly. "Yes. Only Saavedro can save himself now. He created this problem. He must find a way to fix it. I asked Velenkayn to meet me in Hearthglen upon my return from...the event I attended in Outland, and I told him as much. He was angry, just as you are. But I am not going to lie to soothe your feelings, or his." He sighed. "Or mine."

"Then what can we do? Saavedro has asked Velenkayn to be his voice in whatever legal proceedings Orwyn intends to hold."

"Saavedro must be his own voice," Ketiron replied firmly. "He has hidden behind others for too long. Sekhesmet, Kordrion, Genevra, me, you - he has expected us to take the blows for him. Kordrion, I hear, wants nothing to do with him. Genevra has done what she can, as have I...as have you. It is on him now."

"You may well condemn him to death, Ketiron. Is that what you want?"

Ketiron bowed his head, pain evident in his expression and his voice. "If it is the Light's will."

"Damn you, you smug sack of crap!" Zherron raged. "Do you feel no shame?"

The sin'dorei nobleman glared icily at him for a moment before turning to walk back to where his Thalassian charger waited. "More than you know," he said grimly, before stepping up into the saddle and riding away.

Though he was safely rotting away in prison, Rakeri Sputterspark and his heinous crimes against all common decency remained foremost on Yatiri Stormwatcher's mind. Though not as experienced with the foul arts practiced by his kind as most of his contemporaries, he had seen enough to recognize its dangers...and to wonder exactly what the professor was planning.

Zherron had destroyed Rakeri's previous base of operations; the worgen druid now maintained a watch on Saavedro himself, as did Battlelord Velenkayn, who was his advocate in the Stormwind courts. But Yatiri was an investigator at heart. He knew that the professor was not one to give up so easily; he would have a new base established somewhere. And given the gnome's recent display of spells infused with fel energy, he knew that there was only one place where that energy was so predominant as to make the Felwood look like a specimen jar: Outland.

Keeping his black cloud serpent hovering above the Stair of Destiny, gazing across the arid, lifeless landscape of Hellfire Peninsula, Yatiri considered his options. His first instinct was to look towards Shadowmoon Valley as the location of Rakeri's new laboratory, as the very land and sky were saturated with pure fel magic from the Hand of Gul'dan. But it was also home to small and formidable garrisons from both the Alliance and the Horde, as well as from the draenei of the Aldor and the blood elves of the Scryers. The Black Temple, which dominated the entire eastern edge of the valley, was also patrolled heavily by Broken warriors who had been former servants of Illidan, and now sought to restore the temple to its former glory; they would have no truck with any warlocks experimenting in their lands.

He remembered from his maps that there was a gnomish outpost in the Blade's Edge Mountains to the northwest...perhaps someone there had seen him.

----

"Yeah, the prof's been here," the gnome engineer said. She was speaking to the pandaren outside the small inn at Toshley's Station. "He comes in, summons his demon horse, and rides off without a word. I think he headed up towards the east, towards Netherstorm. Never comes back this way - he probably uses a hearthstone back to wherever he came from, only coming through our transporter when he makes his way up here."

Yatiri thanked the engineer and returned to his cloud serpent, flying north and then east, into Netherstorm. The first landmark he saw was one of Kael'thas' manaforges, built using salvaged naaru technology from Tempest Keep, and left abandoned after the keep fell. On a hunch, he went to the nearest of them, dismounting and sending his cloud serpent to circle the forge. The stench of rotting corpses was overpowering, and he pulled his Shado-Pan mask a bit tighter over his face. They were all blood elves - the former servants of Kael'thas killed years earlier during Sha'tar-sanctioned attacks against the manaforges.

Entering the manaforge itself, he extended his wrist-mounted blades with a slight squeezing of his fists. The lighting inside the building was the eerie green aura he had seen around the professor himself, as well as permeating the air of Shadowmoon Valley. He could see several work tables, as well as what appeared to be a goblin shredder of a design similar to the ones he had seen in Orgrimmar during the siege. In the center of the room was what appeared to be a robe...fashioned of some kind of skin, with a great horned helm of similar origin. The Shado-Pan was sickened at the sight...so much so that he didn't notice the deformed imp carrying a bag of spare parts on its back. But it noticed him, and started chattering.

Yatiri was knocked forward by a blow from behind. Regaining his footing, he beheld two demons - an eredar wrathguard armed with two spears of pandaren make, and a shivarra carrying poisoned blades. "Well, well," the latter said in a seductive tone, "look who it is - that meddling pandaren. Lord Rakeri will be pleased."

"Lord Rakeri rots in a warded prison cell, where he will hopefully stay until he dies," Yatiri replied.

"He is imprisoned for now," the shivarra purred in agreement, "and you too will share in that experience. You should mind your surroundings..." The six-armed demoness cackled.

Yatiri realized too late, as he looked down on the floor, that he had stepped into a Titan-made stasis cell - the kind found in the vaults beneath Mogu'shan Palace, and just like the one where Rakeri had held Zherron in Northrend.

And it had just activated.

He would be left here to wait until someone found him - and he hoped that someone would not be the professor...

Velenkayn approached the entrance to the Stockade, where he was halted by one of the warden's guardsmen. "I am Father Shankolin's legal advocate," he said to the human. "I wish to speak with my client."

The guard nodded. "Follow me." In silence, the two men walked past the cellblock where the professor was held, and Velenkayn caught a glance out the corner of his eye. The gnome seemed to be sleeping, but no doubt he would awaken and hear what was being said soon enough. He had the uncanny knack for picking up on things. I must ask him to counsel me for this, he thought. Find a way where everyone leaves alive. Even that odious warlock. He sighed. May the memory of K'ure forgive me, if I fail...

Heading down the adjacent block, the guard indicated the cell. Though seated in silent meditation on the floor, his robes folded and set aside on the floor, Shankolin looked awful; his eyes were sunken, his beard raggedy and his hair unkempt...much like that of the warlock down the hall. They had been here for a considerable time; the difference was, this one was here of his own volition. "Saavedro?"

Shankolin's eyes opened, and he smiled warmly. "Good morning, Battlelord." He stood, approaching the barred door to his cell. "Any news?"

"Nothing as yet. Orwyn's men are caught up in dealing with this plague business. It seems to be spreading."

The priest's smile faded, and he nodded grimly. "Proof that our friend in the next cellblock is not the plaguemaster, or at the very least not working to spread it himself. He is still there, yes?" At Velenkayn's nod, Shankolin stroked his beard thoughtfully. "His crime is relatively minor, all things considered."

"Minor?" Velenkayn was astounded. "Saavedro, he attempted to murder you, and you call that 'minor'?"

"I also attempted to murder him, remember," the priest replied, remorse in his tone. "You can argue Sekhesmet's influence all you want, Velenkayn; no one will believe it. They see me as simply the insane old fool, brain turned to mush by years of war."

At the mention of the Forsaken high priest, Velenkayn's expression became concerned. "Has he...?"

Shankolin shook his head. "He is there, I can feel him. But he can do nothing here. As our...comrade so tactfully reminded me, these cell blocks have warding comparable to the Violet Hold in Dalaran."

"And yet there have been a number of jailbreaks there, not just Malygos' forces," Velenkayn pointed out.

"True...the fact that no one has come for him seems to indicate that his allies have abandoned him." Shankolin looked contemplative. "In fact, he may be the only solution to this little problem. For me, anyway. This is payback enough for him; now he wants me to owe him."

"Has he said as much?"

"No, but I know his kind."

Velenkayn snorted. "Fair point...and what exactly are you advocating, Saavedro? Having him suck Sekhesmet's soul into a shard for you?"

"That is exactly what I am advocating, my friend."

The Battlelord was taken aback; his comment had been sarcastic. "You can't be serious."

"I have never been more so in my life," Shankolin replied grimly. "His spirit could not be destroyed, not even by me...only contained. If it is to be contained, I'd rather the vessel not be me, you know?"

"But...asking Sputterspark to do it? You took Sekhesmet's powers within yourself expressly to avoid him, or someone like him, getting a hold of them! This whole...farce will have been for nothing!" He gripped Shankolin's arms through the bars, careful not to squeeze his metal-clad hands too hard. "Saavedro...you can't."

"What choice do I have? Wait on my hands and knees in the stew of my own madness for Orwyn to remember I'm down here, when he has a city to protect?" Shankolin was adamant. "No! The only other alternative is my death, and praying to the Light that I somehow take him with me, and I know you don't want that! If the Light wills it, that is what I will do - but if you want me to live, then make the arrangements. Go to Orwyn. If Rakeri removes Sekhesmet from me, and has the shard locked away, he can be released with a full pardon."

"Saavedro, please, you can't ask me to sell you to a warlock!" Velenkayn pleaded. "It's madness!"

"This is my decision, Velenkayn!" Shankolin angrily retorted. "I want him out of my head, so I can live my own life again!" Shaking the Battlelord's grip, he stepped back into the middle of his cell, and sat back down. "Now will you speak for me, as I asked you to do," he continued calmly, "or will you do as all others have - turn your back on me, and let me rot here? It's your choice." His eyes closed once more.

Velenkayn was astounded. Had Saavedro truly gone insane? Asking a warlock to help him - a warlock! Hands shaking, he all but bolted from the cell block and made his way out of the Stockade.

Listening with one ear against the wall, Rakeri grinned. "Checkmate," he whispered.

Shankolin looked up as the cell door was opened, revealing Velenkayn flanked by two Watchmen. "What news?"

"I've spoken with the King's Prosecutor, one Foravin Nash," Velenkayn said. "He's agreed to have the professor aid you...with a number of conditions. Firstly, we're moving you out of here."

"Where?"

"There's a place near the Cathedral, run by a Doctor Tinkerbean - the 'Stormwind Home for the Mentally Interesting'."

Shankolin raised an eyebrow. "Guessing it's run by a gnome."

"Yes," Velenkayn replied. "The Prosecutor will speak with Professor Sputterspark down the hall here momentarily and get his agreement on the matter. The professor will remove Sekhesmet's essence from you, and he will be held here one more week, with an extra two weeks' parole, restricting him to Stormwind. Then there will be a restraining order that will be enforced for the next two years."

Shankolin laughed bitterly. "As if it will matter. His actions will take place outside of Orwyn's jurisdiction."

"Perhaps, but this fellow seems to have considerable connections. His authority comes from the King, as does Orwyn's; he will likely find a means of ensuring that the professor is kept under tight scrutiny. This man is smart."

"And so is Rakeri, remember. This is not over, no matter how we wish it to be so. However...we have no choice." Shankolin stood. "I'm ready."

"I will have new robes brought to you at the Home," Velenkayn said, putting an armored hand on his comrade's shoulder. "And I will inform Genevra. She may not be pleased that Sputterspark will be the one who conducts this ritual, but she will be relieved to see you well again." He frowned as he saw the priest shake his head. "What is it?"

"Once it is done, and Orwyn or the Prosecutor gives me leave to go on my own...I intend to leave Stormwind. There will be those who will not be happy to see me walk free."

"You cannot allow them to determine your fate, Saavedro. Where would you go?"

"Back home, to Lordaeron. I will ask Highlord Fordring and Sepha Gentyl if I can remain in Hearthglen from now on. That way...I can at least be somewhere close to home again."

Velenkayn stared at him for a moment...then, sadly, he nodded. "Perhaps it is best. But first, we must take you to your new lodgings."

"Lead on."

----

Lying on the floor of his cell, Rakeri watched Velenkayn and Saavedro exit the Stockade with two Watchmen escorting them. After a moment, he heard footsteps coming back down the stairs. He smiled to himself, looked back up at the ceiling, and closed his eyes. The Watch thought they held all the cards...but they would soon find their bluff had been called. He would force them to accept a new narrative.

One of his devising.

At sunrise the following morning, Rakeri was awakened by a gruff-sounding Stockade guard. "Hey, Sputterspark. Wakey wakey."

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the gnome rolled over and sat up. "Is it time?"

"No, I'm just here to bug you for giggles." The Stockade guard snorted. "Yeah, Father Shankolin's risen early, he's raring to get this over with."

That makes two of us, he thought. "Alright." He stands and pulls on his robes, now stained with several weeks' worth of grime from the damp conditions. He was careful not to show as he felt power return to him as the guard led him out of the warded cell, but...it felt good. He'd missed it, he had to admit.

Chattering at the top of the stairs was his mutant imp assistant, Twitch, still lugging the sack of spare parts on its back. It held up its master's spellbook and chattered something else - a report on an interesting turn of events in the manaforge lab. There was a guest, a fat bear man. Stormwatcher, he thought. He smiled thinly. "Thank you, Twitch," he said as he took the runic tome. The mutant imp followed him, the Stockade guard, and three more nervous-looking Watch officers as they headed over to the Cathedral.

Rakeri squinted slightly as the sunlight peeked over the rooftops, having been kept in the torch-lit gloom of the Stockade for nearly a month now. And after this, he would be confined for a week more, before spending two more weeks trapped in Stormwind. The arrogant prosecutor had said the plague issue was dealt with; Rakeri mused that it probably was, but if he knew Grim - or whatever the hell his name was - he had other ideas lined up to keep Orwyn busy. And he would look to his new ally to help him have his revenge against these puritans for this insult...

Finally, they entered Cathedral Square and headed inside the Home for the Mentally Interesting. Inwardly, the professor repressed a sigh; he'd heard of the eccentric Doctor Tinkerbean, one of those gnomes who gave the rest of the species a bad name through cutesy nonsense like this. In the room waiting for him was Shankolin, flanked by his hypocrite lackey Velenkayn. Rakeri was slightly surprised to see the human looking so debilitated, and it was not entirely from the period he'd spent in the Stockade.

Shankolin stood, nodding to the warlock. "Professor."

"Holy Father," Rakeri replied, returning the same courtesy with a slight smile behind his scraggly beard. "Are you prepared?"

"I am."

Rakeri nodded and opened his spellbook, the runic key coded to him and him alone; anyone else who attempted to open it would be subjected to a lethal warding spell. "I must warn you now," he said for the benefit of the guards as for the possessed priest, "that this will be very painful. The ritual calls for removing the unwanted soul from your body, but it may well feel to you that your own is being taken as well. I am not so foolish as to suck you dry in the middle of five armed men in a crowded city, but I want to make clear that this is part of the spell."

"You can't do anything without inflicting pain, can you, demonspawn?" Velenkayn snarled.

"Vel." Shankolin put a hand on the Battlelord's arm to silence him. After a moment, he lowered his hand back to his side and nodded to Rakeri. "Proceed."

The professor held his spellbook in one hand, raising the other palm up, fingers cupped, and began chanting. It was in not in the devised "gnomeredar" language he used to write notes, but in the pure demonic language of the Legion. Shankolin's body began to glow with foul purplish energies as the soul stream began to pull away from his body. The human visibly clenched his teeth, tensing for the agony to come.

"Put a stop to this at once!" came a shout from outside. The three Watch guards, joined shortly by Velenkayn, had to restrain Zherron, as he came running into the place, trying to stop Rakeri's spell.

Shankolin screamed and slumped to his knees as the warlock's spell continued. But another scream came as well - the scream of an unwilling soul being imprisoned. For a moment, the scuffle in the doorway turned to see a sunken face pockmarked by maggot holes cry out as it was involuntarily pulled into a gem that began to gain solidity. Finally, the foul light faded, and the gem floated serenely above Rakeri's hand as Shankolin slumped unconscious to the floor. "It is done," the professor intoned. He closed the spellbook and handed it off to Twitch, who disappeared once more through a nether-portal. He placed the gem into a warded chest one of the officers held, and left with them without another word.

As the Watch officers escorted Rakeri back to the Stockade, Zherron knelt next to the unconscious human, his clawed hand gently touching his forehead. He was alive, and intact. He glared up at the towering draenei. "I hope you're proud of yourself, Velenkayn."

Velenkayn found he could not reply.

Patience. That was Rakeri's watchword; he had waited for more than four years, and victory was as sweet as he could have hoped. As he sat once again in his Stockade cell, counting the days until his one-week "post-ritual enforced residency" was over, he realized that he had finally turned the tables. Because though he had removed Sekhesmet from Saavedro's body as promised, he had done a little bit more. Sekhesmet's mind was safely trapped in a soul shard, and held in a sealed chest at Watch headquarters.

But there was the matter of the High Priest's formidable shadow magics. And that...was Rakeri's payment. The fine print that no one thought to read.

Rakeri didn't think it would cause an issue. Everyone had what they wanted now. Saavedro was his old, terrible, egotistical self again. The dead man who had tried to possess him was contained. The shadow power that Genevra had so feared in him was taken out of him. He could be happy, she could be happy, the Watch could be happy...and Rakeri reaped the benefits. The "restraining order" was a joke, as the Watch couldn't enforce it outside of their jurisdiction. A jurisdiction that would rapidly shrink. But Saavedro was no longer an issue. The human had said he took Sekhesmet's powers to keep them out of the hands of someone like Rakeri. He had failed. Publicly and spectacularly. Rakeri had won the game. Vengeance had been satisfied.

Once he got out, and once the two-week parole period that kept him restricted to Stormwind expired, he knew that the slimeball prosecutor would likely find a way to keep tabs on him, though he wondered just how he intended to convince Orwyn to give up an officer. Then again, as a sanctioned officer of the King's law himself, Nash could easily call on other means. But so could Rakeri; he was an engineer by trade, of course, with decades of technical know-how at his disposal...and as a gnome, he knew how to hide in plain sight. He would find a way to put in a discreet word with Alexithima, whose organization he had allied with before his incarceration. Plus, if Twitch's chattering was any indication, he had a guest at the manaforge laboratory in Outland...a guest that could become an ally, if the cards were played right.

He decided to take the slow approach, unlike what he had done with Zherron...he could keep for two weeks easily in the stasis chamber, with the immense energies still contained in the abandoned manaforge. Besides, the pandaren could prove useful, if properly educated in the truth of things. Yatiri was embittered enough against the Alliance by what had happened of late...enough to possibly be suseptible to suggestion. Turning a Shado-Pan would be tricky, but unlike the native pandaren who were trained from childhood, Yatiri was not a "tried-and-true" Shado-Pan, having only been a member for about a year...around the same time Saavedro disappeared after slaying Sekhesmet. Having someone to spot for him in Pandaria would prove to be a benefit, as long as that land had any significance...

Rakeri would be patient. With the deck stacked in his favor, he could afford to be.

Seated alone in his room at the Gilded Rose Inn, Rakeri felt free again. He decided to restyle his hair and beard as they had been before his confinement, and had been somewhat perturbed to see signs of gray in the goatee and sideburns. Soon enough, he figured, his hair would go totally white. And probably fall out, either mostly or completely. With gnomes, one could never be sure.

He opened his watch; nearly eighth bell. Odd that no one had called on him, save for the daily check-in he was to have with the Watch's parole officer, and he had left ten minutes ago. But as he went to select a book to read to pass the time before he slept, his eyebrows rose slightly as he detected a familiar scent - moonleaf, both intact and burnt. "Zherron." He turned to the door, and sure enough, the worgen was standing there, attired in richly-embroidered leather robes, with metallic eagle-head spaulders. A rather handsome outfit, Rakeri had to admit. "Saavedro can't come near me for the next two years, so he sends you instead."

"I am here at my own volition. He knows nothing." The Gilnean druid glared at him. "What did you do with his powers, wretch?"

Rakeri elected to admit it. "I think you know the answer to that. I could kill you with a word, Zherron - I owe you that much for destroying my expensive machinery and damaging my lab. However," he continued, before the brute could speak another word, "I am willing to let that slide. For the nonce."

"And I'm expected to be thankful for your good graces?" Zherron snorted.

"Get over yourself, Zherron. He claimed to take Sekhesmet's powers to keep me from getting them. He failed. Rather spectacularly, if I might say so. But contrary to this monster you make me out to be, I do not intend to cause any further harm to you or anyone else." Yet, he thought. "In fact, if they'd deign to show up...a deputation from the Watch, or the Presidium, or some such should be here to call on me to assist them."

"You. Help people." Zherron laughed. "The only person you help is yourself."

"And in helping them, I help myself. That has not changed. You see, public perception changes when you offer your skills to save lives. Though personally, I prefer to destroy them. If a man devotes his life to helping others, he dies unthanked and unremembered. But bringing misery and death to the masses...his name will be spoken like a curse to the end of time. Infamy over ignominy. I may well die unremembered, but this fellow...doubt anyone will ever learn his name, but no one will forget him."

Zherron was aghast. "You're bloody enjoying this, aren't you?"

"I admire the tenacious nature of our plaguemaster," Rakeri admitted. "It was a brilliant plan, executed perfectly, and anticipating every contingency. I wish I had thought of it myself, to be honest. Something to put you damned puritans in your place." He smiled coldly. "But I occasionally like being around people, and that's kind of hard to do when they know you tried to wipe them out, you know?"

"You're a madman."

"Thank you." Rakeri inclined his head. "Now, was there anything else I could do for you?"

"You can go to Hell," Zherron snarled. "Think you can arrange that for me?"

"Let me think." Rakeri made a show of considering it. "Oh, sorry, I'm afraid I can't. Too much to do. Now then, I'm sure Genevra wants you to go pick flowers for her, or maybe find crazy priests."

Zherron felt his blood run cold at that last remark. "How did you know...?"

"I didn't. You just told me." Rakeri grinned. "This Conclave doesn't seem to be a safe place for a good priest to be, does it? The unholy arts seem to find a way into the hearts of its members...including its leaders."

Zherron left without another word, trying not to run away like he was fleeing from the warlock, but making it clear he no longer wanted to be under the same roof. As the bells tolled the hour, Rakeri shook his head, closing his watch and returning it to its pocket. "Such a shame," he commented to the empty air...then he chuckled and selected one of the books from the shelf to pass the time.

Shankolin seethed with rage as he walked across Cathedral Square, having given the slip to the lunatic asylum's keepers earlier that morning. His standing had all but collapsed...and now that damn warlock was the hero of the hour. Rakeri had somehow found the cure to the plague, and had been down in the Cathedral's basement all night administering it with the Presidium apothecaries, healers and Watch officers. The Cathedral quarantine had been opened. Which meant that with public opinion rising in his favor, Rakeri would be able to petition for a reprieve from his enforced residency, or at least a reduction - and that he would accompany the Watch healers to Moonbrook to perform his "miracle" there. The Watch would have no choice.

Shankolin suspected that this had been Rakeri's plan all along. He had been in cahoots with the plaguemaster, he just knew it. And he knew that Rakeri, while removing Sekhesmet's influence from his body, had also taken the powers that had driven Saavedro of Stratholme to destroy what he had been in order to keep such individuals as the professor from gaining it. Now Rakeri was more powerful in the dark arts than ever before, and Shankolin...could only stew, his reaction to his failure not shame, but anger.

It was time to say goodbye to Stormwind.

Entering the Cathedral, he handed a rolled scroll-case to the priests, instructing them to deliver it to Genevra. Afterwards, he posted another letter at the nearby headquarters of the Stormwind City Watch, addressed to its commander. Then he stepped into the saddle of his white-and-gold "horse of Light", as he called it, and flew off, leaving Stormwind behind.

To Orwyn, Commander of the Stormwind City Watch

With respect to the officers of your organization and the sentence of residency at the Tinkerbean facility imposed by your King's Prosecutor, I have elected at this time to permanently sever my ties to this city and its inhabitants for the good of my own health and that of others. I am instead travelling to the Argent territories of northern Lordaeron, the closest I will ever come to being at home again in my own land, as my birthplace and my home city both remain in ruin.

I cannot remain in a city where all that I know to be good and true is set aside to appease the court of public opinion, where warlocks are treated with deference and respect for fixing an issue that they themselves created, and where the truly guilty are allowed their freedom while those who serve the Light and the Alliance willingly and without hesitation are punished like common criminals or treated like lunatics. I had believed you to be a good man, a smart man, one who would not allow such obvious grandstanders to pull the wool over his eyes. I am ashamed and angry to see that once again, I have judged wrongly.

The matter is done, however, and so, I depart. I do not think I will return again. Therefore, I bid farewell to you and to your city, and return to the land of my birth...likely to die alone as a bitter and broken old man.

May the Light be with you. You'll need it.

Father Shankolin

Master Wan Snowdrift
Head of the Blackguard
Shado-Pan Monestery
Pandaria

Dear Sir,

I am writing to inform you that the suspect in the attack on Mr. Shankolin in the vicinity of Halfhill, Professor Rakeri Sputterspark, has completed the imprisonment portion of his punishment for related crimes committed within the Kingdom of Stormwind. He will remain within the Kingdom for a further two weeks on parole. I suggest that if the Shado-Pan has an interest in placing him on trial for the assault in your jurisdiction, you send one or more agents to collect him prior to the end of his parole period, as afterwards he will again have freedom to come and go at will and as a result will be more difficult to locate.

My understanding is that Yatiri Stormwatcher has been investigating Prof. Sputterspark as part of the Shankolin assault case. Before he is sent to collect Prof. Sputterspark, if that is your wish, I must comment that he seems to know the suspect personally and is possessed of an intent dislike of the suspect. In the best interests of all involved, it may be wise to send other officers along with Stormwatcher.

The Stormwind Watch will of course be happy to assist with whatever course of action you decide upon. As our judicial interest in Prof. Sputterspark is concluded, we shall be happy to provide the Shado-Pan with any of our collected evidence that you feel may be useful in your own case. I believe much of it would prove highly relevant. Please feel free to contact me personally in regards to this matter.

Respectfully,

Lt. Commander Orwyn
Stormwind City Watch

The following message arrives in Orwyn's office. The letter is unsigned, but the scroll case bears the seal of the Shado-Pan.

Lieutenant Commander Orwyn
Commander of the Stormwind City Watch
City Hall, Cathedral Square
Stormwind City

Sir:

Master Snowdrift wishes to inform you that Blackguard Stormwatcher has not reported to the monastery in some considerable time. He did say that he intended to keep watch on the actions of Professor Sputterspark, and that this task would take him beyond the borders of Pandaria.

That said, however, the Shado-Pan looks upon Blackguard Stormwatcher's investigation as a purely personal venture, based on his interactions with both men in your city of Stormwind. The incident involving Father Shankolin and Professor Sputterspark on the outskirts of Halfhill, as he reported to us, was investigated only by him, and not reliably witnessed by anyone in the village. While we do not dismiss the Blackguard's concerns regarding the Professor's motives, we ourselves have seen no evidence of his perfidy; and the fact remains that there was no harm committed to the citizens of Halfhill, or any form of property damage to the village or any of the surrounding farmsteads, nor has Professor Sputterspark committed any crime against a citizen of Pandaria.

Therefore, we see the matter merely as a personal dispute between two members of your Alliance, and from your message, the matter has been settled. That has been deemed satisfactory enough. However, we wish to emphasize the wish that such displays do not become common while your people are within the jurisdiction of the Shado-Pan, and place our people in danger.

In confidence, Master Snowdrift wishes to emphasize that Blackguard Stormwatcher is not a native of Pandaria, but a member of the Liu Lang diaspora from the Wandering Isle, and perhaps - despite his role as a member of our organization - his greater connection to the world beyond our borders has influenced his judgment and left him prone to "invention". Professor Sputterspark has interacted with members of our organization during the recent conflicts with the yaungol and the mantid beyond the Wall, and we have not seen this "monster" that Blackguard Stormwatcher believes him to be. What he does outside our purview is his own affair, but we see no reason to pursue the matter further if justice has been met, as indeed it appears to be.

White Tiger watch over you.

Ketiron slammed the missive from Velenkayn down on the table. "What the hell does he expect me to do, conjure a miracle?!" he raged. "What part of 'his path is set' or 'his choice is made' is not clicking in his rotting undead draenei brain?"

"Sounds like somebody's trying to keep seeing the world as sunshine and rainbows, when we all know it hasn't been like that in close to thirty years," Guard Captain Kellik, head of Ketiron's personal guard, replied. "There's gonna be another fight coming. Pandaria couldn't contain the Sha when all hell broke loose - at this point, a loon with a box of matches could probably spring Garrosh."

"My brother, the optimist," Kitrik, Ketiron's personal assassin, commented with a snort.

"Says the guy who ran home to Kezan before the war in Northrend was over," Kellik retorted.

"Enough!" Ketiron's mailed fist banged on the hardwood table, startling both goblins to silence. "Kellik, hold down the fort here with Lady Areinnye. I'm going to Hearthglen. I need to find out what the hell is going on here." He stormed out.

"Fordring is probably not going to know diddly," Kellik commented.

"Fordring's not the only one there with some kinda pull," Kitrik reminded him. "There's this 'Pia Presidium' crowd too. Enemies of Sekhesmet and the Modas, back in the bad old days of the Cataclysm. They've been sharing quarters with the Argents since they moved into Hearthglen after Northrend."

"They're also staunchly Alliance," Kellik pointed out. "They're not just going to have a chat with a blood elf who shows up in 'their' city. No matter how distinguished, or how morally opposed he was to the old regime."

"Then that's their problem," Kitrik replied bluntly.

----

Ketiron rode out of the Thalassian Pass into Lordaeron, riding the mechano-hog he had built during the war in Northrend. He, Saavedro, and the two goblin brothers had worked together as engineers and as warriors of the Argent Crusade for that war, along with the death knights Artimus Devaneaux and Velenkayn, who stood with the Argent Crusade and the Ebon Blade as they formed the "Ashen Verdict". As he rode out past Northpass Tower, one of the Argent guards - a female dwarf - spotted him. "Oi! Master Ketiron, a moment, please!"

The Blood Knight Master halted and disabled the roaring engine of his chosen mode of transport. "Yes?"

"Funny thing, sir - we saw Lord Saavedro in these parts 'bout a day ago. Back in priest robes, like he was during that weird ride he took through here over a year back. But his hair was the right color, anyway."

Ketiron nodded; he had heard of the gnome warlock's effort that had temporarily swapped Saavedro with his past self, in the years just before the Scourge. "Where was he headed?"

"Corin's Crossing, looked like. Said hello to him, he didn't say a word. Served in the Crusade with him in Northrend, I did - and you too, that's how I knew ya. Didn't think I'd be doin' sentry duty in this pit, though."

The Master smiled. "We serve where the Light wills, my friend."

"Aye, true enough that," the guard agreed. "And I figure if we work hard enough 'ere, this place'll look like the west. Lotta work to do, though. Gettin' rid of those, for a start." She pointed in the direction of the Plaguewood, to the west. "Anywho...dunno why anyone would wanna sit in Corin's Crossing, it's still a ghost-haunted pit."

"I'll find out. Thank you for the heads-up."

"Go with the Light, sir."

Restarting the engine of his hog, Ketiron rode down the road until he reached the edge of Corin's Crossing before he dismounted, unsheathing his ancient elven rune-blade - an heirloom of his wife's ancestors, brought with them during the long voyage from Kalimdor millennia earlier, and given to him by her grandfather, Lord Kel'theris, when Ketiron became lord of their combined houses. He knew this town well, having visited in happier times, before the Scourge...and knew exactly where to start. The old magistrate's house.

Entering the house, he was struck by the eerie silence...and felt a chill in his spine that had nothing to do with the unnatural chill of death that permeated the Plaguelands. Not even a creak as he walked carefully up the stairs...in fact, the only sounds he heard were his own respiration and the gentle jingling of the chains that ran down the length of his robed armor. Finally, he saw a man standing in what used to be the master bedroom - wearing richly embroidered red and gold robes, ethereal wings protruding from the shoulders, and a ghostly halo above his head.

The man did not turn, but knew that he was there. "Taeril'hane."

"Saavedro?" Ketiron lowered his sword to his side, confusion crossing his face. "Saav...what are you doing here?" The human did not answer. "Come on, I'll arrange to fly you home."

He turned then...and Ketiron took a step back at the cold smile he saw. "I am home."

((cont'd))

"What are you talking about, Saavedro? This place is a ruin."

"This is my house," the priest corrected. "As it was my father's, so now is it mine. Its condition matters not; intact walls, clean windows, furniture, that makes not a home. Home...is where the heart is."

Ketiron was utterly baffled. "But why?"

"You know why, Taeril'hane. The Alliance has sold its soul to evil, just as the Horde did in years past - as Kael'thas, Arthas, Garrosh, and countless others did in more recent times. Even Hearthglen is touched by the taint, the corrupted order that is the Pia Presidium. They claim to uphold the Light, and do not allow warlocks to serve in their ranks...but they will willingly enslave themselves to warlocks when they refuse to trust in the Light's will that commands their own to die."

The Master was horrified at what he was hearing - but was careful not to let it show. "You mean the fel plague that hit Westfall, and a case reported in Hearthglen. You consider that divine retribution? Punishment by the Light for this 'embrace of evil' you spoke of?"

"Yes, Taeril'hane! Ah, my friend, I knew you would understand!" Shankolin approached him, arms outstretched as if to embrace him, and Ketiron raised his blade in a defensive stance. "Why do you react so to me, Taeril'hane? We are brothers in the Light, you and I! We choose not to allow petty politics, this foolish 'Alliance' and 'Horde' business, to separate us. Why then do you move against me, as if I seek to attack?"

"You are my brother in the Light," Ketiron agreed, "but clearly you are not well, Saavedro; I know not if it is your hate towards the gnome, your imprisonment, or residual effects of Sekhesmet --"

The human's face suffused with rage. "Sekhesmet! Always with Sekhesmet! Genevra, Velenkayn, Orwyn, Rakeri, you! You throw him in my face, as if I am complicit in his crimes!"

"You've become him, Saavedro!" Ketiron shouted, taking an awful risk. "You're utterly mad - you believe the suffering of innocents to be justified!"

"Innocents?" The human began to glow as Light magics charged through his body. "A strong word to use for the vermin who crawl in the cities of the world today, Taeril'hane."

"The man I knew and called brother would have struck down the man who spoke as you do now." Ketiron raised his blade in an offensive stance. "As now, clearly, I must do to you."

"So be it," Shankolin replied, as with a burst of Light, he knocked the Blood Knight against the wall and down the stairs, sword clattering from his grasp. Hovering above the floor and down the stairs, he picked up a wicked-looking warmace, one used by the priests of Northshire in ages past. "For your heresies against the Holy Light, Taeril'hane Ketiron, the penalty is death," he intoned. "Confess your crimes to me now, and your soul may yet be redeemed in the Light."

Ketiron picked himself up off the floor, and then turned to face his erstwhile friend, swinging his blade - knowing it would slice easily through his opponent's weapon and then into his neck. But at that last second, he realized he could not do it. Light forgive me, but I cannot kill my brother, he thought as the sword twisted in his hand, and the flat of the blade struck Shankolin in the face. The human's eyes rolled back in his head as the levitation faded and he collapsed in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs.

Satisfied he would be out for a while, he headed outside, seated himself on his mechano-hog, and rode eastward to Light's Hope Chapel. He would have a word with the holy church's keepers and explain what happened...and have the unconscious priest brought here, to be cared for on holy ground.

Sitting outside in the Halfhill Market, Zherron struck a match and lit his pipe, puffing it to life as he waited...and thought in silence. The Shado-Pan in their monastery reported he was on "long term assignment" outside of Pandaria as part of his investigation against the warlock, with no idea where. The Shado-Pan had also reported they would not pursue any further charges, believing that the conflict was a personal squabble between two members of the Alliance, and had been handled by Orwyn and the Watch. That was enough for them.

Even wreathed in moonleaf smoke as he was, he detected the familiar scent. "I didn't think you would show, Ketiron." He turned to the Blood Knight Master. "How is he?"

"Sedated. The priests at Light's Hope are tending to him...but I don't think this is anything as insidious as possession, black magic, or other external influence."

Zherron nodded grimly. "He's snapped."

"Yes, he has. He's turned into a damn Scarlet zealot now. Utterly devoid of reason, fuelled by hate." He walked over to the stoves, cooking up a pair of wildfowl roasts - having spent a great deal of time camped out in the field, the Master had become a proficient cook - and sitting down with the worgen druid, eating as they spoke. As he pulled out his travel utensils - also crafted by his own hand - Ketiron asked, "He remains in Stormwind?"

"Another six days," Zherron replied, knowing who he meant. Unlike the Master, he ate with his hands, but not rabidly so; he tore easily edible strips from the meat with his hands, with a careful precision - the same he applied to picking herbs for his potions. "But I don't think he'll go after Saavedro."

One of the Master's antennae-like eyebrows rose. "Why not?"

"He already has what he wants. Saavedro took Sekhesmet's shadow magics to keep them from the fel-tainted wretch. Didn't work; he has them. Saavedro's reputation is destroyed; he is clearly the villain in the battle between them. And now he's clearly gone insane - war stress, effects of the dark magic or Sekhesmet's possession, whatever. Meanwhile, Sputterspark's the hero of the hour. He worked out a cure to the fel plague. This is all better than having Saavedro dead. He's 'proven' that being a warlock isn't so bad now. They don't all want to kill us and steal our souls, and use our bodies in profane demonic rituals. In fact, their powers can succeed where the Light, nature, and the arcane cannot." Zherron snorted as he sipped a hot cup of tea, offered by the pandaren cooks. "Disgusting, isn't it?"

"Desperation drives people to extremes, Zherron, you know that." Ketiron took another bite of his roast, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. "I don't like it any more than you do - I didn't like it when Kael'thas turned us to fel magic to feed our addictions, brought a naaru to Silvermoon to be tortured, and ultimately sided with the Legion. Decisions like that ended up costing him his head. I stood away from the rest until Liadrin's awakening, believing my people - even the lords of the house I was bound to defend, by family tradition - were descending into evil. Indeed, it was not until just before we left for Northrend that I took up this oath, these colors." He tapped his breastplate, and the Blood Knight tabard over it.

"Was it a vision? Did you know Liadrin would be redeemed?"

Ketiron shook his head. "No, I am no seer; I did not know she would find her true path to the Light. But I prayed she would. And while the Light does not answer all prayers, the ones it does answer are the ones you least expect." He chuckled, a sad, bitter sound. "I wonder if it will answer me here."

"With respect to you and those like you, I find praying doesn't do a whole damn lot of good," Zherron said bluntly, tearing off another strip of meat and talking around it as he chewed. "I prefer to act. Maybe that makes me reckless or whatever, but I'm not...how shall I put it..."

"Vain enough to expect your prayers to be answered?" Ketiron replied, an amused smirk on his face.

Zherron couldn't help but smile. "Something like that. Genevra often preaches that at her sermons - 'the Light often says no, but loves us anyway', words to that effect...but I think she's also foolishly optimistic. She thinks everyone will believe as she does, and act as she does. They don't, so her sermons get hecklers. Quite often. Sometimes it's this damn death knight, who still upholds the will and the memory of a dead Lich King. Other times, it's warlocks like Sputterspark." He sighed. "A flickering candle in the darkness, she is. Sometimes I wonder how she doesn't go as batty as Saavedro."

"It sounds like she chooses more constructive means to let off steam. Saavedro just simmers, forgets to lift the lid off the pot, and blows his top." The Master shrugged. "We can't win them all, Zherron. This is a world at war, no matter how quiet it may seem now."

Zherron nodded sadly. "And wars have casualties."

Restricted for five days more to Stormwind, Rakeri walked the streets quietly, making no secret of who or what he was...he liked to listen to people on the streets conversing, and he began to hear words about warlocks that were not demands for lynch mobs. Word of his "miracle" in the Cathedral had spread. People were calling him "the Dark Angel of Mercy", who would go to Westfall and deliver his cure to the sick and dying - not knowing that he needed others to assist him, only that he had taken the first steps. Some of the more pious believed that for all that he used black magic, he did the Light's will; others of less religious bent saw his actions for the good of others to be a sign that maybe being a warlock wasn't such a bad thing after all. It was only evildoers, like the Horde of old and of today alike, who used such powers for destruction.

He smiled thinly to himself. The sheep will flock to whoever holds the herder's staff, he thought. Even if he is a wolf beneath the skin.

In the Dwarven District, however, he stopped dead in his tracks, recognizing the bold handwriting on one particular leaflet plastered on the bulletin board outside the bank, over one of the awful posters for "The Sword of Oarwind". Burn marks beneath the poster indicated either he - or Orwyn himself - had incinerated these abominations before. He pulled the leaflet down from the wall before incinerating the poster, and read the text.

TAKE NOTICE, CITIZENS OF STORMWIND!

It is clear that Commander Orwyn and the entire company of the Stormwind City Watch are guilty of acts of heresy against the Holy Light. But the corruption of the Watch is but a symptom of this foulness that has taken hold within the Kingdom of Stormwind. You, the people, are the cause. Your lives are disgusting pits of blasphemy, and you openly deny the will of the Holy Light to cast judgment upon you for your sins.

The Holy Light's will brought death to your people, as penance for the crimes of your entire so-called civilization. Your punishment was just, righteous, and long overdue. Yet you chose not to accept this divinely ordained judgment, and have committed unholy treason against the Holy Light, attempting to circumvent its will, and stooping to demon-spawned felcasters to bring you deliverance.

As you have pledged yourself to the dark fire, so shall it consume you all. Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows that plaguemaster and plague-curer are one. The wretch wishes you to believe otherwise, making himself into your savior, yet this has been planned all along from the outset. You have sold yourselves to the very individual who has brought you death, and now controls your lives. You are blind, and the precipice approaches.

Truth is spoken.

Fiction yields to truth.

Rakeri looked around, seeing the leaflet posted elsewhere throughout Stormwind...and smiled coldly. "Looks like someone doesn't want to give up." He folded the leaflet and stashed it away among his scribe's tools. Tonight, when he was certain to speak to someone of authority in the Watch, he would report it. By then, they would probably be aware of what...but not of who.

Zherron had received a summons to meet at the gazebo behind the Cathedral, on "a matter of importance". Thinking it might have been from Genevra or Velenkayn, he arrived...only to find the diminutive figure of Rakeri waiting for him. "I should kill you where you stand for this."

"I don't think so, Zherron." Rakeri turned, the fingers of his right hand tapping rhythmically on the rune-encrusted cover of his spellbook. His left hand rested on the hilt of a large dagger with a fel-green blade. "I am in need of your assistance."

Zherron bared his fangs in a snarl. "That's not funny."

"No, it's not," Rakeri agreed coldly. "That's why I had to seriously think before making the offer." The warlock gestured for Zherron to sit at the bench next to the aisle, while he took the one across from him. "As you may be aware from your clumsy efforts at espionage, my enforced residency in Stormwind will come to an end tomorrow. Tonight, I will go to the Watch and request the assistance of the 'sanctioned' warlocks of the crown. Tomorrow morning, I will travel to Westfall to administer the cure to those quarantined in Moonbrook who have not been killed by it."

"So you did find something."

Rakeri nodded. "That something found me, in a way. And it got a great deal of use in clearing the Cathedral quarantine. The thing you may not have heard is that it was done in conjunction with a couple of other warlocks towards the end, due to the draining nature of the spellwork - and with the assistance of a druid from Showdah's clique, a night elf named Ciellia Oakensong. Druidic magic is the only treatment the Watch was able to find that did not exacerbate the symptoms of the plague, but it didn't cure them, either."

Zherron, a master alchemist as well as a druid, was admittedly curious. "What was your method? Obviously something that required your...odious methods."

Rakeri elected to ignore that last ignorant comment. "The plague, as the Watch discovered, is partly fel-based. Based on what little the Presidium apothecary and I were able to decipher from the...partial documents I was given, the method involves overloading the afflicted with pure, untampered fel magic, to overwhelm the effects of the deadly herb used in its concoction. For the less terminal cases, the apothecary introduced an accelerant to make the herbal essence easier to find and drown out. The fel magic is then purged from the person's body."

"Using druidic magic," Zherron finished, the coin dropping. "Why me, then?"

"Two reasons. First, you have connections to the Cenarion Circle, and having a couple of your druid friends accompany us would be beneficial. Second...quite frankly, Zherron, you owe me. I have finished reconstruction on my destroyed gnome-improved sky golem, and it cost me a great deal of money. However, rather than extract a price in gold - or blood - from you for destroying the last one, I merely ask that you accompany me to Westfall in the morning, and assist me in curing the sick. I know that you have a vested interest in the wellness of the people here, as you call this place home until Gilneas can be retaken." Rakeri's fel-tinged eyes glared into Zherron's amber ones. "I took an awful risk doing the work in the Cathedral, Zherron, and I am taking an even greater one in Westfall. The least you can do is share in it; afterwards, consider us even."

"And how about your little vendetta?"

"Saavedro?" Rakeri waved an imperious hand. "You've seen the flyers declaring that Stormwind is doomed and that I am responsible for the plague. Who do you think wrote that?"

The warlock was right, and Zherron knew it. "Ketiron had him taken to Light's Hope Chapel, where the Crusade priests will tend to him," he grudgingly admitted.

"Sick bodies are a lot easier to treat than sick minds, Zherron. I am content to consider his debt to me paid. Which leaves us with yours." Rakeri's eyes seemed to burn into the druid's soul. "What is it to be? Will you continue this pointless fighting for the sake of your own ego...or will you stand with me, and help those poor folks?" He sounded utterly earnest. Zherron knew that there was another game at work here, but for the life of him, he could not see it.

Which meant he had no choice.

"Yes," he finally conceded. "I will accompany you to Westfall to end the plague."

Taking a much more circuitous route to foil any spies, Rakeri used his teleport beacon to Gadgetzan and flew up the coast to the remnants of Theramore, where the ship - for some reason - still ran from there to Menethil Harbor in the Wetlands. From there, at the controls of his rebuilt sky golem, he flew northward, crossing the narrow water between Khaz Modan and Lordaeron to the west of the Thandol Span, up and over the Arathi hills into the Hinterlands, across the Plaguemist Ravine into the Western Plaguelands, and then west into Tirisfal - careful not to fly too close to the sentinel towers of the Bulwark. Of course, from that distance, the machine he was flying was of goblin make, and goblins were allies of the Horde; perhaps the guards there wouldn't notice. But Rakeri was not about to test that...he had managed to survive a month in prison, two weeks stuck in Stormwind, and leading the "final charge" against the plague in Westfall. He was not about to sample Forsaken "hospitality".

Hell, the trip he was making was dangerous enough; the cemetery was nestled up against the village of Brill - right next to the zeppelin towers connecting the Forsaken's growing empire to the orcish base in Stranglethorn to the south, and to Orgrimmar across the Great Sea to the west. But Rakeri was prepared, he hoped. His second transport beacon, to the pad outside Toshley's Station in Outland, was on emergency standby if things got too hairy, and a built-in transmatter device would take the golem back to his lab at the abandoned manaforge in Netherstorm...where he had another thing waiting. For now, however, his focus was on what he would find here.

He landed in a clearing on the opposite side of the cemetery from Brill, and cautiously dismounted. One hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, glowing with fel energy; the other was kept ready to set loose a burst of felfire if needed. He knew Forsaken apothecaries occasionally wandered into this cemetery, but he hoped they would keep their distance. The last thing he needed was to have an entire Forsaken garrison gunning for him. Walking along the narrow pathways, he mused that the space taken by the cemetery was probably larger than the village itself had been before the Forsaken rebuilt Brill in their own image. These had been people fortunate enough to die naturally, or to be killed by undead without becoming undead themselves. The thought gave him a slight shiver.

Finally, he saw what he had come for, seeing the carved name beginning to fade in the worn stone: SEKHESMET.

Two had been buried here initially; the first had actually been Sekhesmet's daughter, Euphrati Velade. She had been murdered by a band of men who had been associates of Aedelas Blackmoore, fighters that Euphrati had defeated in Durnholde's gladiator ring. Sekhesmet himself was laid to rest by the few remaining human survivors after being found dead in the throne room of Capital City - a room that now served as the entry hall to the Undercity. Both had been raised as Forsaken; Sekhesmet first, then Euphrati not long after. But Euphrati distanced herself from her father and his madness, and trained with the pandaren monks who came to all the capitals from the Wandering Isle.

Knowing the best way to open a creaky metal door was to do so quickly, Rakeri threw open the doors to the mausoleum, careful not to let them bang into the stonework. The burial chamber was relatively small for a mausoleum this size, but Sekhesmet - after his resurrection - had probably hidden things beneath the stones of the floor. As he raised a small flashlight to investigate, he saw that someone else had had the same idea. The stones had been lifted - recently, if the smell of freshly-churned dirt was any indication - and Rakeri could see a metal-reinforced chest in the hole.

It was open - and it was empty. Someone had beaten him to it.

Sighing, he left the mausoleum - and realized there were three Forsaken Deathguards heading right at him. Shouting in their debased form of Common, they started to run at him. But Rakeri was no slouch. Calling on his expertise in spellwork, he conjured a exploding burst of felfire that hit all three of them, burning their bodies and slowing their pace enough for him to run across the cemetery and through the hole in the fence to where he'd parked the golem. Not willing to wait for them to recover, he lowered the armored canopy over the control cabin and set the retrorockets to full power, blasting off into the sky and flying south, following the coast.

Rakeri cursed vehemently in gnomish. One opportunity wasted. But another waited for him back in Outland...