World of Warcraft®

Yatiri felt warmth return to his limbs, though his vision was incredibly blurry. And of course, he had no sense of time - how long he had been stuck here...or who had come looking for him. He hoped it would be someone friendly, someone sent by an ally in Stormwind, or by the Shado-Pan.

"I apologize for the cage." The pandaren felt his heart sink as he recognized the voice. "I'm afraid that recent events have often required a more primitive code of conduct than I might otherwise have chosen." He could hear the warlock's footsteps, and hear the blades carried by his wrathguard as they remained at the ready.

"H-how..." Yatiri's throat felt dry, and he could feel someone - the gnome himself, from the size of the hands - place a mug in his hand. Instinct took over, and he raised it to his mouth, getting some of the brew all over his beard as well. But he didn't care. He also didn't care that it was the lunatic he was hunting giving him beer, or that the brew might be poisoned. Somehow, he doubted it. "How long have I been here?"

"Twitch tells me that the stasis cell was activated almost a month ago." Rakeri sounded apologetic. "Given the mess Zherron made of my facilities in Northrend, I thought it best to take precautions. And now thanks to you, I have to shut the place down...fortunately, I have the means to continue my experiments in engineering and...other things without the need for a hideaway. Public opinion is a wonderful thing."

Yatiri was confused, and as his sight began to return, he could see that the warlock was dressed impeccably in a well-tailored robe, embroidered with fel runes, and that he looked well-groomed and healthy. "You mean you're not here as a fugitive?"

"Of course not! Would I be speaking cordially to you if I were?" Rakeri chuckled. "Nope, I'm free on my own recognizance, and I'm something of the hero of the hour. Genevra and Saavedro and their precious Light couldn't save the sick and dying, so the Watch came to me. And I managed to find a way."

Yatiri's eyes went wide. "The plague? The plague is...cured?" He glared, suspicion setting in. "You engineered this plague to come to the rescue and save yourself, is that it?"

"I most certainly did not. Though having the respect I deserve is always a bonus." Rakeri paced the room. "I am not here to gloat over the unfortunate state of affairs for the goody-two-shoes in the Alliance, Master Stormwatcher. I am here...to offer you an opportunity."

"I am not interested," Yatiri replied shortly. "I am a Shado-Pan, not some pocket mercenary." Yet Rakeri could hear the doubt...

"The Shado-Pan don't know you're here, my friend; furthermore, I don't think they care, either. The Alliance certainly doesn't." Rakeri smiled. "Come now, I can tell what you might be thinking: Of all the people who had to come and rescue you, it had to be the guy you were stalking, right? Why wasn't it Zherron, or Velenkayn, or Father Shankolin? Or someone else in Genevra's pocket? Well, I can answer why not the good Father..." He handed Yatiri one of the flyers with the priest's drivel on it. Yatiri, suspicious of the warlock as he was, knew enough to recognize it was genuine. "He's completely mad, Master Stormwatcher; he's holed up somewhere in Lordaeron, though I heard his blood elf pal Ketiron had to take him down and bring him to the Argents."

Yatiri glowered at him. "Gloating over your triumph, Professor?"

"Admittedly, I am satisfied with the outcome, yes. But he did not need my help to attain it." Rakeri's stare was unblinking. "Think for a moment - you've been to Genevra's sermons. You've heard her pontificate and preach about the Light's love for everyone, while she does nothing but sit in the Cathedral or at Northshire Abbey and lets people die of this damnable plague. Ask yourself this: If compassion is a tenet of the Light, why does she not show it to them and try to help? If respect is a tenet of the Light, why does she not show it to those who do help? People like me, for instance?"

"Because you're a liar and a manipulator?"

"You don't believe that. That's that puritan Velenkayn talking. You think I'm not aware of what these people have been feeding you?" Rakeri looked and sounded quite reasonable. "I'm not the bad guy here, Master Stormwatcher. Yes, I'm a warlock. Yes, I summon demons and use fel magic. But I am not in the business of slaughtering innocents, as this plaguemaster did. I have served the Alliance on numerous battlefields for nearly thirty years. Genevra is content to sit amidst her dusty tomes and contemplate her obsession with the Three Virtues that she doesn't even follow, while innocents die. If you don't believe me, ask Zherron. He'll tell you the truth; he was with me when I helped cure the plague in Westfall."

Yatiri was conflicted. Part of him knew that Rakeri was right, but was hesitant to believe the source. Finally, he asked, "What is this opportunity you spoke of?"

Rakeri smiled.

Caro'thel Vendross remembered a particularly valuable lesson he'd learned when Gentyl had recruited him into the Pia Presidium two years earlier: When you need to find yourself, get lost. And for the last few months, that was exactly what he had been doing.

The Highborne lord had travelled with the forward scouting force into Pandaria, along with Eidan Zherron; they had separated after the Sha of Doubt had emerged, and Vendross began to focus less and less on fighting and more and more on discovering the land and its wonders. As the Kirin Tor became more militant, he began to distance himself from it - less interested in fighting the Alliance's eternal war with the Horde, and more about living, studying, and exploring.

He was no coward - he had been part of the grand army against the Twilight's Hammer during the Siege of Wyrmrest, and witnessed the death of Xaxas (or "Deathwing", as he was commonly known) - but he began to see that the war would continue, with or without him contributing to it, and decided not to feed the juggernaught of war any further than he had. He had just emerged from a ruined city he had called home his whole life, ending seven millennia of his family's exile; his brother had been slain by one who was eventually slain in turn; and immediately after leaving Eldre'Thalas for good, he had been conscripted into the Alliance's military to fight against the threats that had arisen from the Cataclysm. His world had been turned upside down more times than he could count, in a very short space of time. He didn't think it selfish that he go off on his own, and choose to live, to get lost so that he could discover himself.

Just as he had gone to Winterspring as a Pia Presidium initiate to discover himself, so did he choose another beautiful but inhospitable clime for this latest voyage of self-discovery. He awoke to another brisk and beautiful morning in the small village of One Keg in Kun-Lai, preparing for his daily exploration - studying the mogu tombs and other sites now that the Thunder King and the Zandalari were defeated.

The long period he had spent in the wind-swept plains and snow-covered crags had remade him. Where he had been slender and soft-skinned before, he had now packed on lean muscle, and his skin was worn by wind and cold. His long white hair, which he had allowed to hang freely down his back, was now thick and only styled enough to keep it out of his eyes. He had foregone the neatly-trimmed goatee for an almost scraggly-looking beard covering his chin and the sides of his face, short but unkempt enough to notice. He still wore rich clothes he had crafted himself, but they were worn from hard use. Anyone who had met him upon his arrival in Stormwind just two scant years earlier would never have guessed that the arrogant Highborne dandy would ever appear "rough". The thought made him smile.

"Good morning, Lord Vendross," the innkeeper at the Lucky Traveler, Chiyo Mistpaw, greeted him.

"Good morning, Miss Mistpaw," he replied with a smile, as he took the hot cup of tea she offered.

"A Shado-Pan came looking for you while you were asleep. He wanted me to give you this." She handed him a scroll. Frowning, Vendross read the message - a request for summons to the Monastery. "Thank you." Quickly downing the cup of tea, he placed it on the small bar with a gold sovereign and headed out to where his magical stone steed - an artifact he'd found in the Valley of Emperors - waited. He mounted and headed west into the mountain pass, up to the Monastery.

At the gate, he was met by Master Puretide, one of Master Snowdrift's lieutenants. "I apologize for the suddenness, Lord Vendross, but I thought it best to turn to...outside help. One of our brothers, a Blackguard of your acquaintance, is missing."

Vendross' eyebrow rose. He had interacted with Yatiri a number of times during his travels; the Wandering Isle pandaren had also taken to living off the land. "Any idea where to begin?"

Puretide shook his head. "Only that he is not in Pandaria."

Vendross knew at once what the Shado-Pan Master was asking. "You want me to go back to the northern continents and investigate."

"If you are willing and able, yes."

This had been precisely what Vendross had hoped to avoid. But the Shado-Pan did not make idle requests. "I will return to Stormwind at once."

----

Upon exiting the mage tower, he searched for Saavedro, but found that he had changed his name and exiled himself from Stormwind. But as he exited the Cathedral, he was met by Zherron. "Eidan," he said without preamble, "I need your help."

Ketiron sighed as he stepped from the back of the dragonhawk that had borne him from the gates of Silvermoon and headed into the chapel to meet with his erstwhile friend...only to find him gone. "Where is Father Shankolin?"

"We cannae keep a man here 'gainst his will," the dwarf priest who came up to him said. "Th' Father was released earlier this week."

"Forgive me for putting too fine a point on it," the Master replied, his voice rising, "but did I not warn you of just how incredibly stupid that idea was?!"

The dwarf stared calmly at him. "An' what would ye have us do, Master Ketiron? Hold 'im in shackles an' whip 'im like a dog? Flay 'is bones ta 'purify' th' soul, like th' Scarlets do? Nae, lad - if 'e's gonna find redemption, 'e's gotta find it himself."

Ketiron was horrified and incredulous. "You heard him raving when he came in here! He threatened to burn the place down, for Light's sake! And you let him go?"

"Aye, m'lord, we did. Because he's no' gonna get any better locked up in 'ere. Or in Dr. Tinkerbean's nuthouse in Stormwind, or th' Stockade, or whatever dungeons ye blood elves have up in Quel'Thalas. Th' lad will either find 'is way back ta th' Light...or 'e won't. Ye of all people should know that th' journey can only be taken by yer own steps, no' someone else's."

Infuriated, Ketiron stormed out of the chapel and immediately started running - back to the road to Corin's Crossing. He knew exactly where he had gone.

----

Entering the house, blade in hand, Ketiron seethed as he said, "Alright, Saavedro. I tried to play this nice before, but now I --" He stopped dead as he entered the main room, only to find a pandaren standing there, wearing dark blue leather....carrying a pair of back-handled warblades. He remembered the concept as being of troll make - the Amani had used such a weapon in melee combat, as had the Drakkari. "Who the hell are you?"

"The messenger is not important, Master Ketiron," the pandaren replied as he turned, the lower part of his face covered by a mask.

Ketiron recognized him instantly, from the wild hair with topknot and the dark patch over his right eye - and felt his blood run cold, just as it had when he had confronted Saavedro in this very same house. All he could say was, "Why?"

In response, the pandaren lunged. Ketiron, still stunned by the revelation, didn't see the blow coming as he was knocked, once again, unceremoniously down the stairs, his sword clattering from his grip. But as he went to reach for it, another picked it up - a much smaller hand than his own, or any human's for that matter. He caught a glimpse of glowing fel runes on the embroidery of the purple robes, and suddenly, he understood.

"Sputterspark," he hissed with venom.

"That's the problem with you scripture-thumping idiots," Rakeri said with an amused sneer. "Genevra suffers from the same deficiency. Always so willing to redeem other people's souls, when it isn't theirs to redeem." He admired the blade in his hand. "Fine craftsmanship, this. The Sword of Kal'manis, isn't it? I remember seeing mentions of it in one of the Corruptor's grimoires. A family heirloom of the House of Whitehair - the family of your wife." He gave the sword a few experimental swings - though it was nearly twice as large as he was tall, he wielded it with the practiced grace of a swordsman. "Ancient quel'dorei manufacture, if I'm not mistaken - crafted in the image of the Sister Blade." The gnome warlock grinned evilly. "I don't think you'll be needing this anymore." With a burst of fel-fire, he shattered the ancient blade and cast the smoking hilt aside. "That'll be something to explain to the Lady Areinnye, won't it? 'Honey, you'll never believe what happened...'" He laughed.

"You little bast--" Ketiron got up to lunge at the gnome, but Rakeri was faster, drawing the green glowing dagger from his belt and slashing through the robes of Ketiron's lower armor, efficiently hamstringing him. The fel-forged steel caused the Master to scream in agony as he collapsed to the floor. A shadow fell over him, and he saw that the pandaren had silently leapt over the railing from the second floor, and was making his way out. "H-how..." Rakeri raised an eyebrow. "How did you...turn him?"

"I didn't have to. I illuminated young Yatiri here to the truth of things. And as our mutual friend has written...fiction yields to truth." Rakeri's smile made Ketiron's heart skip a few beats; behind him, he could see Yatiri standing almost...protectively? "Saavedro has dug his own grave, Ketiron. You know that, and so do I. In time, he will bury himself. The question is...do you want to be buried with him? Consider this my favor to you - and a warning to leave well enough alone."

By the time Ketiron could consider an answer, they were gone.

Stratholme smoldered, as it had done for more than a decade after Arthas had purged the Scourge-afflicted city, choosing the "better part of valor". It had eventually led to his downfall, of course, but from a practical point of view, it was sound thinking. Sequestered in the former Bastion of the Silver Hand, after it had (again) been purged of Scarlet influence, Shankolin wondered if Stormwind was due for its own version of the Culling. Seated on the floor in what was once the chambers of the Grand Crusader of the Scarlet Crusade, he seemed to be in meditation.

Held across his lap was a book with a white cover trimmed with red, and a wicked-looking mace that Sekhesmet had carried during the Second War - he had been a formidable force back in those days, upwards of thirty years ago. These were among the choice artifacts he had recovered from Sekhesmet's mausoleum, a day or so before Rakeri's arrival. He smiled to himself as he imagined the sputtering rage of the little toad as he was denied his prize. He could sense the fel presence of the warlock even from here, could feel him rooting around in the old house down the road in Corin's Crossing.

His sight extended beyond himself, Shankolin could see him depart - and was surprised to see him accompanied by a pandaren, one whose aura was...familiar. Lying in the house itself, bleeding from the wounds in his legs, was Ketiron, and Shankolin could feel the pain as the Blood Knight stood and stumbled out, carrying the broken hilt of the sword that had been in Areinnye's family since before the exodus from Kalimdor.

Visions. Flashbacks. Sight beyond sight. Usually the province of shamans in this day and age, but when Sekhesmet was a neophyte, the workings of the mind were the province of priests; the defrocked usually made a living for themselves as gypsy fortune tellers, reminiscent of the bronze-skinned wanderers from whom Sekhesmet was descended. Indeed, the old man had done his share of wandering in his youth, before taking on students of his own.

The mind was the path to power, and as he meditated on the old writings of his master - proof that he was straying away from the orthodox teachings advocated by those like Genevra even before he became a Forsaken - he could see now exactly why Sekhesmet had become what he had after his undeath. And it had nothing to do with the Scourge, Sylvanas, or working for the Royal Apothecary Society. Sekhesmet had tasted real power, the power of the mind - and he wanted more. And in the process, he had lost his mind. In a dark corner of his own mind, Shankolin thought he had probably lost it, too.

From that same corner came another realization.

He didn't care.

Marennia Sputterspark walked up towards the flight master when she heard a voice behind her. "Staying with the sinking ship, Renni?"

Her hand immediately went to the sword on her back as she turned. "I'm of a mind to put you out of my misery. And everyone else's, for that matter."

"Then you will make a martyr. But honestly, one-on-one, you think you have a chance against me? Because what? You believe in that Light nonsense?" He shook his head. "Too long around humans, that's your problem. I was kinda hoping that Thassarian would have rubbed off some of his...finer qualities on you. I guess a dead human wasn't doing it for you, hmm?"

"Thassarian may be dead, but he respects life more than you do, Rakeri."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Renni. Look what you have dedicated yourself to: Law and order. You destroy your life to embrace the law, and I destroy the law to embrace life. Who I am is what I am, and I will change that for no one. Not even you."

"You're a murderer and a manipulator. And a tormentor, to boot. You think I didn't see you gloating, or read your vile pamphlet? How you convinced Zherron to post that nonsense is beyond me."

"Zherron is beginning to regain his vision. He's been spoon-fed this propagandist nonsense by Genevra and her ilk too long, and he's beginning to see the truth. She preaches, and does nothing. I do not preach - I choose to act. You've heard of the works I've done here, and in Westfall?"

"I've heard, and I think you had something to do with them from the start. A warlock creates the plague, and then suddenly a warlock comes to cure it. Call me a skeptic, but I don't believe in that kind of coincidence. Either you were behind it all along, or you know who is."

"I don't spread plague. I'm a novice at this alchemical stuff, you know that." Rakeri snorted. "What do you take me for? A Forsaken?"

"Evil is cut from the same cloth, no matter what it's made into."

Now Rakeri became angry. "Evil? Ask that blind draenei at the sermon this evening if she thinks I'm evil. Ask the people in Moonbrook if they think I'm evil. You're so full of that human propaganda that you're starting to become one yourself." He glared contemptuously at her, and at the tabard she wore. "You are not fit to wear the colors of our people." He grasped the tabard and tore it from her armor. "You've forgotten that you're a gnome, Renni. You're trying too hard to be human."

"Better than trying to be a demon, like you." Marennia glared at her elder brother, her green eyes meeting his, only lacking the felfire that burned in his. "And if you ever lay a hand on me again, I will kill you, and risk your martyrdom."

The warlock returned the glare, the tabard burning in his hand as his anger brought the green flame up within him. "You do not want me for your enemy, Renni."

"I will take that chance," Marennia replied without hesitation.

Rakeri dispersed the ashes of the tabard into the air. "So be it."

Vendross walked into the Mage Quarter, careful to avoid notice. Zherron had spotted Yatiri in Stormwind earlier that morning, and he went to investigate. If all was well, he could inform him that Master Puretide had sent him to inquire about his current state, and they could return to the monastery without a fuss. But in the deep recess of his mind, he knew it would not be that easy. Nothing since leaving Eldre'Thalas had been that easy.

As he waited in the shadow of the mage tower, he saw Rakeri Sputterspark exit the Recluse, escorted by a fierce-looking wrathguard carrying a huge sword in one hand, and a glowing spear in the other. Behind him...Vendross' heart sank. It was Yatiri...and he was walking with the gnome in what looked to be a defensive stance. He was astounded; Yatiri had long said he wanted nothing to do with warlock magics, as it reminded him too strongly of the Sha. And yet...here he was, acting as Rakeri's escort.

Watching them leave, Vendross felt sick. And he was certain Zherron would react similarly...

----

He flew to Gilneas, where he knew Zherron often spent time in meditation in the shadow of Tal'doren. The worgen druid had also called Taeril'hane Ketiron, and though Highborne considered sin'dorei to be "abominations" akin to the warlocks of old, Vendross and Ketiron had become allies during the Cataclysm War.

"Well, if it's not one problem, it's another." Zherron did not look pleased. "Saavedro has flown the coop, Rakeri now has someone we thought could be a valuable ally in his back pocket, and heavens only know what he's up to next."

"Saavedro has disappeared entirely off the grid," Ketiron added grimly. "Of course, one must assume that the person you're looking for wants to be found, and I am not entirely certain he does. Light only knows what he will come up with. He's not content to simply send damning evidence of his insanity to Stormwind and to your Conclave, Zherron...if our fears are correct, he is following in very familiar footsteps."

"Becoming Sekhesmet?" At Ketiron's nod, Zherron sighed. "I fear you may be right."

"I think that may be what Sputterspark wants," Vendross spoke up. "If Saavedro becomes as Sekhesmet did, a threat that would result in his ending up in the crosshairs of Alliance forces, destroying him would be another manufactured feather in the gnome's cap, to go along with this plague you mentioned in Westfall."

Ketiron and Zherron stared at Vendross with wide eyes, and then turned to one another. They had not considered that. "It is possible," the Blood Knight Master said at last. "Certainly, Professor Sputterspark has managed to manipulate events into his favor. I think Lord Vendross is right; this could be more of the same."

"I think so, too," Zherron agreed. "Which is why we need to find him before he takes that step - or before Rakeri can manufacture that step. You and I will have to comb through all of Lordaeron, and hope we can put a stop to this." Ketiron nodded in agreement. "Caro'thel..." Zherron looked over at the Highborne mage with a grim expression. "Return to Stormwind...there has to be someone who can help us there. Genevra, the Watch, someone. You're the diplomatic one."

Vendross nodded grimly. "Consider it done."

Master Puretide sat cross-legged in Snowdrift's dojo at the Shado-Pan Monastery. Only a handful remained within the monastery itself, with the Shado-Pan largely remaining in the field to deal with the after-effects of the war and the remnants of Shek'zeer's mantid along the wall, those not destroyed by the outsiders or by the Klaxxi before they sided with Garrosh Hellscream. Pandaria had concealed a great darkness indeed, and it had brought half the land to ruin. Krasarang remained a warzone, the Jade Forest, Kun-Lai, the Vale, Townlong, the Dread Wastes...

A shadow interrupted his meditation, and he stood. And was surprised to see Yatiri, attired in richly-adorned blue-and-red leather, carrying a pair of tonfa-style swords. "Blackguard Stormwatcher. You have been long away from us. Have you spoken with Lord Vendross?"

"There was no need, Shado-Master. He has found a much more honest voice of counsel to return here." That voice was not Yatiri's, but the figure who stepped in from behind him, much shorter and yet even Puretide could feel the power within him. His hair stood like a red flame, his eyes burning with green fire, his robes adorned with horns and purplish gems glowing with dark magic, his tabard red with a greenish-gray sigil in the center. His left hand rested on the hilt of a golden curve-bladed sword.

Puretide regained his neutral expression, and bowed deeply. "We meet at last, Professor Sputterspark. I thank you for returning our Blackguard to us."

"That is partly why I'm here, actually," Rakeri admitted. "He will be leaving with me again once our business here is concluded. This is...something of a courtesy call."

"Oh? Does your Alliance have business that requires him to remain beyond Pandaria, or are you simply stating that you intend to kill him?"

"Kill him?" Rakeri chuckled. "Not at all. I have enlightened him to the truth of things. Revealing, for what they are, the lies told to him - and likely to you - by the likes of Lord Saavedro, or Father Shankolin as he is known now...or Master Ketiron, or Lord Vendross. Lies about me, about what I do. It is true that the powers I wield are held in suspicion, contempt, or outright hatred amongst my people and the Alliance I serve. And true also, I was in conflict with some of the aforementioned men, and there were fights here in Pandaria. But I have moved beyond such petty struggles and seek only to earn the confidence and respect of those who I must interact with on a regular basis, such as your esteemed order. Yatiri has volunteered to act as my emissary, both to the Shado-Pan and to those who I have business, who may be...hesitant to meet me."

"I see." Puretide looked over at Yatiri, gauging his reaction. "And you have accepted the professor's patronage of your own free will, Blackguard?" he asked in Pandaren.

"Yes, Master," Yatiri replied in the same tongue. "The professor has opened my eyes and my mind to things I chose not to see. Though I still have some reservations regarding the path he has chosen because of its apparent necessity to inflict pain, and its similarities to Sha corruption in some cases, I am convinced of his sincerity to use his powers in defense of his people and of the Alliance, and his willingness to help others regardless of risk to himself. I have seen and heard the results of his use of his powers to defuse a plague in Alliance lands, caused by one of similar calling who used his powers for evil."

The old Master stared for a moment longer, as if trying to determine if this was all puppeted by the warlock or spoken under duress. But Yatiri was completely honest. Which meant that those who had spoken ill of this gnome had lied, or at the very least exaggerated the crimes for which he was accused. "Very well," Puretide said at last, returning to Common. "But remember, Blackguard, you are Shado-Pan as well as a member of the Alliance. You have duties to perform here as well as beyond. Your efforts will be called upon, and you are expected to answer."

Rakeri nodded. "You have my word of honor that I will not allow my business to interfere with his duties, Shado-Master."

"Very well." Puretide's stare now turned to Rakeri. "You outsiders have caused considerable harm to Pandaria, bringing your war to our shores. But there are those that have sincerely offered to assist our people and in the rebuilding of our land. Lord Taran Zhu blames the unleashing of Y'Shaarj and the seven Sha on your recklessness...I, however, have chosen to take a patient stance, to see if the pledges made by your Prince Anduin and others like him will be fulfilled, or if they are just empty pledges made by selfish invaders." He sat down, closing his eyes. "White Tiger watch over you."

Both men bowed and departed the monastery. Once they were out of earshot, Yatiri asked, "What now?"

"Now we wait," Rakeri replied, "and see how Grim's raid turns out. In the meantime, head up to Lordaeron. Find him. He is the key."

On watch outside Genevra Stoneheardt's home in Stormwind, Marennia Sputterspark held her sword against her shoulder as she kept an eye out for any...unruly visitors. She and Genevra's other friend - who she had managed to identify with Velenkayn's help as Maethi Mach, the noted technomage - had agreed to help after the unnerving incident in the Recluse that evening. But she looked up at movement out of the corner of her eye...and spotted Rakeri, moving swiftly towards the city cemetery...

Calling Velenkayn on her hearthstone to take over, Marennia followed as swiftly and quietly as she possibly could in her heavy armor to avoid being detected. She saw Rakeri standing in front of the Tanis family plot, the gravesite of two veteran warriors of Stormwind - Vorian, a general serving the Champions of Peace under Gavinrad the Dire, killed and raised by the Scourge and then granted peace by Saavedro during the Naxxramas incursion; his son, Oren, who outdid his father and rose to the rank of field marshal, killed by Sekhesmet during the Cataclysm War. Rakeri sat on the half-submerged table tomb that housed Oren, waiting. After a moment, two more figures arrived - a pandaren wearing the hat and red facewrap of a Shado-Pan, and the chattering mutant imp Rakeri called "Twitch". In the latter's hands was a large, heavy chest with powerful magical wards.

Rakeri stood, his left hand tapping on the hilt of a golden shivarra warblade. "Is it done?"

"Grim was able to obtain the items you requested, Professor," the pandaren reported. "He has the grimoire. Twitch was able to secure the rest." In the bag on the mutant's back, Marennia could see the staff and hammer. Now she was officially worried.

"Thank you, Yatiri. Leave us." The pandaren bowed and departed without another word. Rakeri smiled, and Marennia cringed at the sight of it. He unhooked his sword from his belt and smashed the chest with a flick of his wrist. Twitch squawked indignantly, but Rakeri paid him no heed as he held out his hand to bring forward the object that had been within it...a darkly glowing purple gem. To her horror, Marennia realized what it was...and who was in it. "Hello again," she heard her brother say to the stone.

Sputterspark... Marennia shivered as she heard the voice in her mind. You continue to torment me.

"Perhaps. But I have something better in mind for you. You brought fear and suffering to thousands, tens of thousands. You can do that again."

As what? A specter to frighten children in their beds for your personal amusement? I will not be used as your puppet, Sputterspark.

"You were the mastermind last time, and you failed. Pathetically. Now the tables have turned. You need me; we're playing by my rules now. Your soul is now in my hands, and I can crush you like a bug simply by clenching my fist. You know that, and so do I." Rakeri grinned wickedly. "However, I am willing to work with you, and as my end of the bargain...upward mobility."

The crystal was silent, the spirit within thinking that over. Finally, it answered in a contemplative tone, Go on.

"He is the key, and we know exactly where he is. We will keep tabs on him until the time is right. He has destroyed his reputation, and destroyed his mind...his body is all that remains. His body. Yours."

Another silence. Then... Agreed.

"Merciful Light," Marennia said aloud - loud enough for Rakeri to hear. Throwing caution to the wind, Marennia ran from the cemetery - but turning back, the last thing she saw before turning the corner was Rakeri's demented grin.

And it shook her to the very core.

Velenkayn listened grimly to the tale Marennia told. "But how could he have obtained the shard?" he asked after she was finished. "It was locked away in Watch headquarters. The place is constantly packed with officers and locked up tighter than the Bank of Ironforge."

Marennia saw what the Battlelord was thinking, and nodded in the direction of the Watch office. The death knight and the warrior entered, handing their weapons over to the desk officer. "Good morning, Officer," Velenkayn greeted her. "I am Battlelord Velenkayn of the Hand of Argus, and this is Captain Marennia Sputterspark of the Gnomeregan Infantry. We're part of Genevra Stoneheardt's Conclave, and we're looking into something that involved one of ours, Father Shankolin - the renegade priest. There was a soul shard taken out of him a month and a half ago, and put into a warded chest. Do you still have it?"

"One moment." The desk officer opened the log book for the archives...then shook her head. "No, it was checked out a week ago. Transferred to Northshire Abbey at the request of Miss Stoneheardt, with the authorization of Commander Orwyn. Along with a few other items - the grimoire, staff, and hammer that had belonged to Father Shankolin." She looked up at Velenkayn curiously. "You didn't know this, Battlelord? If you're part of Conclave..."

"Thank you, Officer," Marennia said before Velenkayn could respond. The Battlelord took the hint, but was vexed by the interruption. Once clear of Watch HQ, he demanded, "What are you doing?"

"Genevra would not have taken all of those things herself. Certainly not the shard. She would have asked Orwyn to destroy it, not give it to her. And Orwyn would not have simply delivered the soul of a Forsaken war criminal to anyone, not even Genevra. Something is not right here."

Realization dawned on the draenei death knight. "The Conclave library." Marennia nodded. "To Northshire, then?"

"To Northshire," she agreed.

----

The two armored figures immediately knew something was wrong. It looked...almost too neat. Genevra was not known for her tidy filing system. And there was something missing - too obviously so. Three voids in the dust - one the size of a chest, and two the size of books standing up on the shelf. The Watch had one of the grimoires Shankolin had surrendered to them; Genevra had another.

And both were gone.

"You wanna tell her," Marennia said grimly, "or should I?"

Velenkayn was not happy. Not happy in the slightest.

His disgust with Mithara threatening to boil over into "making a scene", as humans would put it, he had left Ironforge fuming with rage and had flown northeast, back to Acherus. He could have just opened a Death Gate and gone that way, but he needed to think, and for some reason, his thoughts always seemed clearest when he travelled. His frostwyrm knew the way to the Ebon Hold quite well, having carried Velenkayn there many times. Marennia remained in Stormwind, "where the evil festered" as she put it; she had yet to secure a meeting with Genevra, thinking that - as it was a family matter to her as well as a matter of concern - it was best that it came from her.

The Battlelord felt sympathy for the courageous gnome warrior, thinking of his own family difficulties - in this case, with himself as the cause...

His father, Incarikayn, was a traditionalist vindicator; when Velenkayn had returned after Light's Hope to face the judgment of the Prophet, Incarikayn had disowned him. To him, the "redeemed" death knights were lower even than the Broken - they were just another form of man'ari, no better than the betrayers who had followed Kil'jaeden and Archimonde into Sargeras' embrace so long ago. Velenkayn knew he was no man'ari, but Incarikayn would not be swayed. "My son is dead, and this vile creature wears his skin," he had said after the verdict. "I will not suffer this insult."

The journey took him over the Hinterlands and into the Eastern Plaguelands; as he flew over Corin's Crossing, he felt compelled to land there, knowing that this had been the home village of the man he knew as Saavedro, now somewhere in these ruins as the mad priest Father Shankolin. He had written Ketiron many times to help find him, but the Blood Knight Master had refused, wishing to remain focused on helping the Horde through its transition period after the fall of Hellscream. And the one time he had felt compelled to leave Silvermoon, it had been Rakeri, not Shankolin, who had waited for him. He wondered if a similar ambush would take place here...

But the village was abandoned, utterly empty. There were signs of the struggle between the Blood Knight and the warlock here, but no sign of anyone. Remembering that Saavedro - and his master, Sekhesmet - had been priests in Stratholme, he flew to the gates and went to investigate. Though the "Risen" had been cleared out of here by the Argent Crusade, who knew what else lurked in this perpetually burning city.

As he entered Crusaders' Square, he had the feeling someone was present. Unsheathing his twinned runeblades, he shouted, "Come out from behind your curtain of shadows, warlock, so that I may put you out of our misery."

But it was not Rakeri who greeted him - it was a pandaren in richly-adorned leather armor, his gloves adorned by a pair of metal gauntlets with wickedly-curving blades for fingers. He wore the colors of the Tushui, the pandaren who followed the Alliance, and the headgear of the Shado-Pan. Velenkayn knew instantly who it was. "This fight is not with you, Yatiri."

"It is now," the monk replied, as he charged forward.

A message was left on the desk of Commander Orwyn, sealed in an envelope and marked "Possibly Urgent":

Sir,

I have a brief visit to the house of Genevra Stoneheardt earlier this evening, asking for her counsel; when I put on "an act" with a mockingly stern voice identifying myself as a Watch officer, she snapped back at me that she wanted no business with any Watch officer save for yourself. She would not elaborate on the necessity of her business with you, only that it was a personal matter. I promised her I would leave a message for you.

Genevra is one of the few people I have met over the years that I can say with absolute certainty I can trust. From what she has said to me, she feels very similarly about you. She would not have reacted so if there was not something amiss. That is merely my opinion, however.

Respectfully,
Officer Recruit Vendross

Rakeri stood on the roof of the Cathedral as Genevra preached her hypocritical dogma to the masses, this time about the nature of truth. A topic she was woefully inadequate to even talk about, much less lecture on. Below, Yatiri sat and listened, the amulet around his neck - crafted by the pandaren's own hand and enchanted by Rakeri - allowing the professor to hear every word. He could not help but chuckle at the deliciously barbed comments Yatiri made to the blind human's question about secrets, and how Genevra, predictably, overreacted to them, snapping at the pandaren for inciting "hostilities" and basically trying to shoo everyone off. Yatiri had not batted an eye; the pandaren's restraint impressed him.

As the crowd dispersed, Rakeri heard the telltale sounds of someone behind him...and a cold shadow that towered over him. "Well?"

"I heard the mewling and weeping in the Watch office; her path is set. I have tried to sway the players to ensure that this remain an internal matter to Conclave, but now that she knows the Watch was involved, she's hell-bent on making it a public spectacle. You may not be safe here much longer."

Rakeri nodded; he had expected that. "I will be much more able to alibi myself in this regard than I was before...and with your help, I will be able to turn the tables on my treacherous little sister and cast a bad light on her - as someone who automatically assumes that I am responsible for all her ills. Certainly, that will be easy enough to do with Genevra...armed with your access to her archives, we can paint a documented picture of her as someone on a personal vendetta." He turned to his reluctant ally. "Out of curiosity, how did you do it?"

"The officer on watch in the archives has mental defenses made of Alterac swiss, and it was ease itself to force their hand to copy the handwriting of both the commander and Genevra based on samples from earlier documents, to raise their doubts."

"While also putting a spotlight on me, the guy who goes around with the scribe's kit," Rakeri pointed out. "You're not backing out of the deal, are you? A little petty vengeance before the job is done?"

"If I wanted to be so petty, warlock, I would merely crow from the rooftops that you're in violation of the restraining order imposed on you by District Attorney Nash."

The warlock nodded. "Good point." He grinned. "Definately a far cry from the man who was writing pamphlets declaring we were all doomed. Wishing to see your final mistake corrected?"

"You took his powers from me, gnome, but I have learned new skills since. If I can harness my old master's last shred of essence and absorb it utterly, I will be able to surpass him - and you."

"Be careful what you wish for. Power comes with a cost, and I'm not sure you have enough to cover it anymore. But as I said, worry not. Everything will proceed as planned."

"I will hold you to that. I will be glad to see this business done."

Rakeri's grin widened. "As will I...my good Father."

After having a drink at the Blue Recluse, Marennia Sputterspark took the midnight tram back to Ironforge, where she would collect the shipment of saronite bars sent by Battlelord Velenkayn; the draenei death knight had requested a new suit of armor. But as she walked from Tinker Town into the Hall of Explorers, she quickly moved out of sight as she saw Rakeri coming right at her from the Forlorn Cavern, accompanied by a dark shrouded figure and the thunderous bulk of Yatiri Stormwatcher. She heard her brother speaking.

"...no other place for such a ritual. The magics of both life and death are strong there. We will achieve the ends we both seek."

"You had better be right about this," the human replied coldly. "It sticks in my craw that I have to turn to an odious fel-tainted toad like you."

Marennia felt a shiver of horror as she recognized the voice. Saavedro is in league with Rakeri...but why? And what does Sekhesmet's soul shard have to do with it? She followed them at a discreet distance into the Great Forge, where the three of them spoke to the gryphon master. She could see her brother's face, and read one word clearly on his lips: Menethil. They were going to Menethil Harbor. Though still half-flooded from the Cataclysm, the ships still ran. One to the ruined docks at Theramore, and the other...

Marennia's eyes widened with realization, remembering what he had said about the magics of life and death. Northrend! He's going back to Northrend!

Feeling a chill in her soul even despite the intense heat of the Forge, the gnome captain walked to the Great Anvil and greeted the smith on duty. "Evenin', Cap'n Sputterspark," the dwarf replied cheerfully. "Th' shipment o' saronite bars from that death knight fella in Azuremyst arrived this mornin'." He indicated the stacked pallets of greenish-gray metal. "Jes' waitin' fer ya ta work yer magic."

"Thank you." Marennia opened her toolbox - she was also an engineer - and produced her gnomish army knife, which included a smithing hammer as one of its tools. Her toolbox also contained a collection of elemental crystals from Northrend she had purchased that fit the patterns of the armor she had been commissioned to make.

For the remainder of the night and even after the sun had risen over the mountains outside, Marennia labored at the forge, crafting a suit of armor that was both barbaric and beautiful in appearance, and spent time working out the last touches. Then she removed her battered plate, the armor she had worn when she had fought under Thassarian in Andorhal, what felt like an eternity before, placing each set with careful reverence into a crate, which was then taken on a cart to her vault in the Bank of Ironforge. Once that was done, she began putting on the armor she had crafted, every piece seemingly locking into place as she did...then she put on her Gnomeregan tabard and cloak, and lifted the great horned helmet onto her head to complete the appearance.

Sheathing her militia broadsword across her back, Marennia walked over to the gryphon master herself and requested a flight to Menethil Harbor, flying over the mountains and down into the Wetlands below. As she approached the landing zone in the half-flooded town, she could see the great icebreaker Northspear coming in, still making the hazardous journey to Daggercap Bay, on Northrend's eastern coast.

She smiled to herself as she stepped aboard the ship, and soon it began its journey. The chase was on.

Standing on the battlements of Utgarde Keep, overlooking Daggercap Bay, Yatiri Stormwatcher gently tapped one hand (with the clawed metal gauntlet worn over the leather glove) against his thigh, while holding his ornate spear in the other, watching the ship depart from Valgarde. Rakeri was inside, searching for leftover artifacts from when King Ymiron and his vrykul had aligned with the Scourge, until they were destroyed by the "invading" forces from the southlands. Shankolin had gone ahead alone, heading into the Grizzly Hills.

There was something that rang false in the back of his mind about this whole mission, coming to Northrend and using Scourge artifacts to awaken the power that Sekhesmet had kept within his own soul. But Rakeri had assured him of the necessity, in order to ensure that the power could be taken and the soul forever discarded so that he could not harm anyone again. He had understood that...but Rakeri had already taken the vast majority of his dark magics out of Shankolin. Why did he need more?

"Playing minion for my lunatic brother, I see."

Yatiri turned at that voice...and looked down to see a diminutive figure in ornate spiked armor, the helmet somewhat oversized...and wearing the tabard and cloak of Gnomeregan. She carried a broadsword in both hands. Instinctively, his spear point tipped towards her. "You will go no further, Captain."

"Let's agree to disagree," Marennia replied as she leapt at him. Yatiri blocked her sword swing with the gauntlet on his left hand, catching the blade between two of the claws. With a wrench of his wrist, he pulled the sword from her hand and cast it into the water below, as the armored gnome flipped back and landed on her feet. "You're good, but you have no real experience outside of your monasteries."

"Big talk from a small creature with no weapon."

"I do have a weapon, Yatiri. Except you're holding it." Seeing the confusion in Yatiri's eyes, Marennia sprang forward and double-kicked him in one of his knees, somersaulting back and grabbing the spear that fell from his suddenly-lessened grip, moving acrobatically despite the metal armor she wore, landing with a spin and a flourish of the pandaren-forged weapon. "Your training on the Wandering Isle did not truly prepare you for combat, did it? I heard about how badly you took the war in Pandaria. I have seen your ancestors' homeland myself, and understand why."

"You know nothing, little gnat!" Yatiri snarled in rage, as he took up the fighting stance of the tiger, using his metal claws. But despite the extensive training in the pandaren fighting arts, Yatiri found himself facing an experienced veteran, Marennia nimbly dodging and slashing with the razor-edged tip of the spear. He was mesmerized, his reactions more automatic than will-driven, by the graceful fluidity she displayed despite the heavy metal plate. Magnificent, he found himself thinking, even as he felt the agony in his legs; she had stabbed him below both knees in his distraction.

Collapsing to the stone floor, he looked up to see the blood-stained tip of the spear pointed less than an inch from his nose. "Kill me, then," he challenged her.

"I don't want to kill you, Yatiri. I want to save you." Marennia gazed at him solemnly from the eyeslits of the massive horned helmet she wore. "You have seen what Rakeri is capable of. He is no better than the man he seeks to resurrect."

Resurrect? "What do you mean?" Yatiri demanded.

Marennia laughed in disbelief. "You didn't honestly buy his 'I'm going to destroy him so that he can't harm anyone again' story, did you? I heard it come from his own mouth, Yatiri - he intends to use Father Shankolin's body to resurrect Sekhesmet! You know what that monster did when he was Forsaken, and you know what Rakeri's ally, the plaguemaster, did to Westfall. What Sekhesmet can do, with the kind of power he would wield as a living man, would make those atrocities look like a vacation by comparison!" Her stare did not waver. "You can help me stop him, Yatiri. You are Shado-Pan, not some stooge to a selfish warlock. Be the protector you swore to be!"

"Yatiri knows his place, sister," a familiar voice said in gnomish. "It is a pity you do not." Rakeri, now attired in his usual purple robes with fel-green runes embroidered in, smiled coldly as he switched to Common. His purple-and-red cloak fluttered in the icy wind. "I applaud your detective skills, sister. I didn't think anyone would be able to figure it out."

Yatiri looked up at him. "Is it true, Professor? Do you intend to bring back the dark priest?"

"Yes, I do." Rakeri stared at him. "Now that you know the truth, you must decide. Are you with me...or against me?"

Marennia decided for him. "This is for your sake, Yatiri," she said, as she gave him a push over the side, a long drop into the icy waters of Daggercap Bay...

Rakeri looked down as the pandaren splashed into the icy water below. "That was kind of uncalled for."

"He'll be fine. The people in Valgarde will take care of him." Marennia glared at her brother. "This is between you and me, Rakeri."

Rakeri drew his golden shivarra warblade and fel-forged dagger. "Are you prepared to die, Renni?"

"My friends and family call me Renni...my colleagues call me Captain." Marennia twirled the spear in her hand, until the tip pointed right at him. "And you're neither, scumbag."

"So be it," the warlock replied, greenish wings sprouting from his back as he leapt at his sister, who blocked his sword strike with the ironwood shaft of the spear. Moving like...well, a demon, Rakeri kept Marennia on the defensive, forcing her to raise the spear to block the sword while he tried to find a weak point to stick the dagger. Taking the initiative back, Marennia spun around, the spear moving in great sweeping arcs, turning the tables and making Rakeri defend himself instead.

"You think you will be allowed to get away with this? If you go through with this plan, you'll not only be a traitor and a murderer, you'll be charged with aiding and abetting a war criminal. Genevra knows you took Sekhesmet's soul shard."

"I have the soul shard," Rakeri agreed, as he leapt nimbly back from a broad stroke of the razor-tipped spear, "but I was not the one who took it. There will be no proof I was anywhere near Stormwind on the night it was taken."

Marennia caught the warblade with her spear-tip and slashed at Rakeri's hand, causing him to cry out in pain and drop the sword to the ground. Green-tinted blood flowed from the wound. Before he could react, she had the spear-tip tickling his throat. "Commander Orwyn is not stupid. He knows you are not innocent. You had the evidence doctored to implicate him - and Genevra."

"The evidence was doctored...but not by me. I leave the province of mind control to...experts." He shrugged nonchalantly, despite the razor-keen spear at his throat. "Shadow priests, perhaps?"

Marennia realized who he meant. "How did you turn him?"

"I told him the same thing I told Yatiri: I intended to make it right, and destroy Sekhesmet forever while ensuring that his knowledge was used for better purposes. His own, or so he thinks." Rakeri grinned evilly. "Humans are so stupidly gullible. Tell them what they want to hear, and they dance to your tune. Just like your precious Commander Orwyn. You think he can stand against me?"

"Once I'm finished with you, he won't have to. I'll send you back to Stormwind in a shipping crate and let you rot in his jails for the rest of your miserable life."

"I think not." Rakeri's demonic wings flapped, the burst of air knocking Marennia backwards and over the battlements. But unlike Yatiri, who had to use the water to break his fall, Marennia was also an engineer - as she activated the lightweight glider to gently carry her across Daggercap Bay and into Valgarde's port. Rakeri's wings faded as he watched her fly away. "Yes," he said. "Run. Run back to your friends in Stormwind. It will avail you nothing."

His laughter echoed across the cliffs, causing Marennia to feel a chill that was not entirely due to the arctic climate...

Sitting on the dockside in Stormwind Harbor, Eidan Zherron watched the ships moving in and out of the harbor. He remained in his human form, as he often did when among large groups of people in the city; he was not above maintaining his true form in public, but in the busy harbor, he judged it best to practice discretion.

He snorted to himself at that thought. As if the accent and the robes with druidic patterns embroidered into them weren't a clue of what I really am...

There were two places the Gilnean druid considered conducive to thinking: In the woods, or near the sea. In Stormwind, as in Gilneas, he had plenty of options for both. After Genevra had left him in the Recluse, he had come here. He was glad to see that she was returning to a small semblance of her old self, full of energy and determination, as opposed to hiding in the Cathedral and running away from her problems...she had said she had even gone back to the old house in Lakeshire. But the pain had risen again as they talked about what to fight for, how she had talked about her family.

Genevra was expansive and considered many of her closest friends as family members - even Zherron himself. But he was not so open; more often than not, people he considered family died in very painful and gruesome ways. His father had been killed by the Scourge, fighting for the Alliance after escaping from the prison-fortress that Greymane had made of Gilneas...and his mother, his wife, and his three young daughters had all died at his hands, when the true effects of Jeremiah August's attack turned him. He did not excuse the fact that he had been gripped by the feral madness; it had been his claws that were stained with their blood. He had rallied a pack to him after the fall of Gilneas, and they had fought alongside him in the Cataclysm War...but they had been hunted down and slain, and he very nearly so several times. Between the Twilight's Hammer, the servants of Deathwing, and the Forsaken, they had all died; only he remained.

He had nothing of value left to him. His family was destroyed. His people were scattered, subsumed by the greater whole of the Alliance. His homeland remained abandoned and in ruin, and the forlorn hope that he would live in Gilneas again before he died was becoming more and more fleeting with each passing day. All he had left were the powers granted to him as a druid of the Cenarion Circle, and his hatred of Sylvanas and the Forsaken. Though there was one other thing he clung to, if he was willing to admit it: Concern. Specifically, his concern for those who called him friend or even family...and his hopes and prayers that people like Genevra - people so full of life, with families and causes to fight for, with faith - did not become people like him.

In addition to Genevra, another who worried him was the gnome warrior Marennia Sputterspark, who had left Ironforge for the harbor and sailed off to Northrend. He guessed (correctly, though he did not know it - yet) that she had gone in pursuit of Rakeri, who was known to make regular trips to Northrend in search of Titan relics and leftover artifacts from the Scourge, the blue dragonflight, and Light only knew what else. She had become something of a zealot, devoted to the betterment of her people...and Rakeri was a stain upon gnomish honor, one she intended to purge in his blood.

Will you feel as I did, should you strike that blow? he thought, seeing the fiercely-glaring gnome in his mind's eye. Will you be told that it was not your fault and that you had no choice, but never bring yourself to believe it? Or will you listen to that last little voice that reminds you he is your blood, and not make that blow at all?

He wondered if the question would ever be answered...and what the price would be either way.

Marennia did not return to Stormwind, as her brother had mockingly admonished. She instead continued along the narrow cliff-roads back up to the heights of the Fjord, and made her way westward into the Grizzly Hills. Right at the border, she felt a tingle on the back of her neck...she was being followed. She grasped her spear and spun around. Standing there was a goblin, slightly taller than she, with dark hair tied back in a short ponytail, sideburns, and great green goggles. He carried a pair of ornate daggers at his belt. Standing behind him was a troll in native garments, hardened wood and robes mixed with chainmail; he carried a flame-imbued dagger at his belt and an orcish war shield on his back. "Come to kill me?"

"Come to help," the goblin replied. "Master Ketiron sends his regards."

"Ketiron....Genevra's blood elf ally." She lowered her spear. "Marennia Sputterspark."

The goblin nodded. "Kitrik." He removed his goggles to let her see his eyes, a mix of violet and blue.

"Thek'la," the troll spoke up. "Da spirits be sayin' da warlock be bringin' back da Dark Fathah. I been under his thumb once before. Nevah again."

Kitrik nodded in agreement. "I did a bit of scouting ahead before we caught up with you. The warlock is headed for Grizzlemaw, the old furbolg city built in a destroyed World Tree; the priest is waiting there for him. The ritual circles were being prepared when I left; we'd better hurry."

"Then let's go," Marennia replied.

----

Marennia, Kitrik and Thek'la made their way towards the center of the Grizzly Hills, towards the massive tree trunk of the fallen World Tree Vordrassil, now known by its warring furbolg inhabitants as "Grizzlemaw". There were dead furbolgs everywhere around the entrance. Thek'la knelt and inspected the bodies - he knew not to taste the blood, as the furbolg tribes remained corrupted by the residual darkness of Yogg-Saron. "Freshly dead," he said in a low voice. "Mere moments, mebbe. Dere not be a whole lotta blood left in 'em."

"Probably used in his ritual," Marennia speculated. She steeled her nerves. "Let's go." Gnome, goblin and troll entered the great stump, and looked down into a scene of horror. The dark blood of the furbolgs was used to paint further ritual signs into the "walls", while magic-imbued ink was used around the burnt remnants of the sapling in the center, torched by druids to prevent the furbolgs, in their madness, from regrowing Vordrassil. Shankolin stood in the center of the room, and Rakeri stood before him, his ornate grimoire in hand and open. To her horror and disappointment, Yatiri stood at the side of the gnome warlock, his face utterly devoid of expression as Rakeri spoke the ritual words - not in his crafted "gnomeredar" language, but in pure demonic.

Dark chains wrapped themselves around Shankolin, whose eyes went wide. "What --?"

"Oh, come ON," Rakeri said, laughing. "You didn't honestly believe me, did you? You're a bigger idiot than I thought, Saavedro. The world will be better off without you." He held the soul shard in his hand, speaking the final words...and his grip began to tighten around it.

"NO!!!!" Marennia leapt to intercept her brother before he could crush the shard, but it was too late; the shard shattered in Rakeri's hand, and the sudden rush of power sent both brother and sister flying backwards. The screeching soul released from the gem swirled around the ritual runes all around the center of the great tree stump, before its multiple strands entered the chained body of the human priest. With a scream, Shankolin exploded in a burst of shadowflame and gore, as a vortex opened where he had been standing to consume what remained. Then with a thunderclap, the vortex sealed.

Dead silence. Marennia stared in horror where Shankolin had been standing, then over at Rakeri, who looked similarly wide-eyed; that had not been what he had expected. Has he failed? he thought. Has it all been for nothing? The ground where he had stood was blackened with dark fire, which still smoldered in dark purple embers around it.

When the silence went on for what seemed an interminable length, the embers began swirling with energy...blackness rose, and what looked for all the world like bone began to coalesce in the dark flames that rose from that spot. They began to take shape, like a twisted puzzle, interlocking until a perfect skeleton floated amidst the dark flames. Then from the air, organs began to form within the skeleton, and muscle and sinew....and then the thing began to scream, part rapture, part agony. A dark cloud formed around him, as skin began to writhe and bubble, stretching over the body. Finally, a swirl of the ragged cloth from the robes Shankolin had been wearing began to form as the materials began to reform and wrap around the man who floated there.

Though his body had a dark glow to it, Marennia could see his features clearly. "No..."

Rakeri rose to his feet and stared, utterly mesmerized, at the form that began to take shape in the shadowflame. He floated serenely above the blackened earth. His skin was bronzed, and his head was polished bald. In the darkness was a hint of light, white eyebrows over closed eyes...and then those eyes opened, showing as blue as the ice of a winter lake.

The man raised his hands as if to see them, and clasped them together as if to feel them for the first time. "Strong...vital..." He touched his fingers to his wrists, feeling the blood flowing through them. "A living pulse in my veins again...it has been so long." He felt joy rise up in him, a slight chuckle of mirth, rising to great cackling laughter, showing the madness that lurked in the soul of this man who now appeared before them. His merriment echoed throughout the "halls" of the great tree stump. Rakeri stared in stupefied awe, Yatiri remained utterly blank...but Marennia could only stare in horror. She looked up and found that the troll and the goblin, the allies of Master Ketiron, were also staring; Thek'la, in particular, seemed to be frozen in sheer terror.

The human - if he could be called that even after all that had happened - continued laughing. "Light and Shadow are as one within me once again!" he exhulted. "Let my enemies tremble with fear, for I have risen again! Terror once more has a name...and that name is SEKHESMET!" He laughed again, looking down at the gnome warlock before him. "You have done well, Professor Sputterspark," he said in a soft, contemplative tone, an utter transformation from the cackling lunatic he had returned as. "I am impressed by your skills, and grateful for your aid. You have fulfilled your end of the bargain handsomely."

Rakeri nodded. "Yes, I have...and we have both gained something we wished as well. A final victory over the meddler. Genevra will be powerless before us."

"Perhaps. Though she has great potential, and she will have need of...spiritual guidance soon enough." Sekhesmet smiled, almost angelically. "However....before we go any further, there is something you have that belongs to me."

Rakeri was confused. "I...don't understand."

"Oh, I think you do. Your devil's bargain with Saavedro and the Stormwind City Watch in the Stockades." His smile became a cruel sneer. "When you removed me from him...you took something else. Something that does not belong to you."

The warlock's eyes went wide with realization. "No...no! You can't!"

"I can, Sputterspark...and I will. The powers you took are not yours...they are mine." Sekhesmet raised a hand, and Rakeri found himself being wrapped in a great void tentacle that raised him off the ground, so that his face was level to that of the priest. Utterly immobilized, Rakeri could only stare as Sekhesmet gently caressed his cheek with one hand, shuddering at the human's touch. "You have once again mistaken your place in this arrangement," he said. "You thought you could use me as a weapon to smite your enemies. Now that I am flesh again, it is time to reassert my authority." His sneer became a demented grin. "Starting with you, my dear Professor." He grasped Rakeri's face with both hands, thumbs under his eyes, fingers splayed across his forehead.

Rakeri screamed in pure agony.

It had been nearly thirty years since Sekhesmet of Stratholme had set foot in Stormwind; it had been just after the defeat of the Old Horde in the Second War, and the reconstruction that proceded under the direction of the young King Varian and his chief architect, Edwin VanCleef. One of the first buildings that had been rebuilt under the Stonemasons' Guild Master's direction had been the Cathedral of Light, and Sekhesmet, then High Priest of the Cathedral of Stratholme, had visited the place with his "heir apparent", Saavedro. Even now - after all that he had seen and done, and all that had happened in the decades since - he was still impressed by the majesty of the place.

He had not been surprised at Genevra's reaction. After all, the last time she had met him, he had been a man of rotting flesh and twisted mind seeking to bring death to the world for the cause of the Forsaken. Now his flesh was whole...and to his surprise, he found his mind reeling at the horrors he had committed in Sylvanas' name, as well as the fact that Rakeri had killed Saavedro to return him to a strong and vital state.

He had not lied when he had told Genevra that Saavedro's death as part of his resurrection had not been his intent (indeed, when the warlock had made his bargain, he had thought it would simply involve taking over Saavedro's body and keeping his mind and soul intact but trapped...not destroying it to form a new one), and the part of him that remembered he had been human, and was now human again, was beginning to reassert itself. His reaction to being alive again had been one of triumph. Now...he was surprised to feel guilt. He had not felt guilt - good, clean, honest guilt - in nearly a decade, ever since the Forsaken necromancers had opened his tomb in Brill and brought him back.

But just as quickly as the feeling came, he ruthlessly suppressed it. His path was set. Genevra would not allow his crimes to be forgotten. But perhaps he wouldn't, either; rather than indulge in his appetites for pain, he would play the long game - to reassert himself in the society he would now have to face. He had said to her that he would bring the truth to Orwyn himself. And so he would.

The following morning after his meeting with Genevra, he returned to the Cathedral and sat in the library, writing a message.

Unto Orwyn, Commander of the Stormwind City Watch, the High Priest Sekhesmet of Stratholme sends greetings.

You have probably heard a great deal about me from my former student, Saavedro, or Father Shankolin as he became known. And most of it was true for the man I was. But I have been returned for a second chance, though the cost was more than I could have foreseen. I know Genevra will likely tell you many horror stories about what I did under Sylvanas' thrall, and I will not deny the truth.

In the spirit of said truth, I will admit that my "rebirth" has unfortunately resulted in Saavedro's death. While it may seem that I have the most to gain from that, I am not the architect of this tragic affair...but I know who is. I wish a meeting with you or one of your chosen representatives at the earliest possible opportunity, so that the truth - of me, of Saavedro, and how I am here once more - can be spoken.

For the Light.

He signed his name with a flourish, powdered the ink dry, folded the vellum into thirds, set hot wax on it, and sealed it with the sigil of the Church. He then walked silently out of the Cathedral and to the headquarters of the Watch, and left the message for the commander with the front desk. He then walked back behind the Cathedral to the gazebo; it was here, he knew from his interactions with Rakeri, that Genevra gave her sermons.

Perhaps he would listen to one, to learn from her insight...