World of Warcraft®

Taeril'hane Ketiron sat in the wreckage of his study, sobbing each breath in helpless agony; his sword sat on the ground not far from his hand. Staring at him with wide eyes were his wife, Areinnye, and twin brother goblins - Kitrik, his personal spy, and Kellik, captain of his bodyguard. Kitrik had just returned from Northrend, and had given him the news of what had occurred at Grizzlemaw - of Rakeri's dark ritual, the death of Saavedro, and the resurrection of Sekhesmet.

Blind with rage, the Blood Knight Master had taken his sword from where it stood on a rack next to the door and gone berserk, utterly destroying his inner sanctum, along with numerous precious artifacts he had collected over many years. Now he sat against a smashed bookcase, his face soaked with tears of pain and anger, as his wife and his two closest confidants watched. Like Genevra, he began to wonder if he was just being stalked by death. And Sekhesmet, for the longest time, had embodied the darker aspects of it...and now he was whole, while a man he considered a brother would never have that chance again, his soul consumed by the void.

And now there were two lunatics on the loose. Sekhesmet had free rein to move around, and Rakeri was somewhere out there too...though it was not likely he would ever show his face in Stormwind again. But what would they do with Sekhesmet? They would not just let a war criminal walk freely in their city...would they?

As the silence went on, broken only by the sobbing nobleman in the wreckage of his study, the goblin brothers looked to one another grimly, then left without a word. Areinnye lingered, gazing sadly at her grief-stricken...before she too was gone.

----

Two days later, Ketiron had left Silvermoon and returned to Pandaria, seeking to lighten his spirit by observing the activity in the village of Halfhill in the Valley of the Four Winds. Even in spite of all that had happened, the pandaren were hardly (and hearty) folk, and their lives began to go on as the chaos of the war died down. He admired their ability to find inner harmony...and wished he could do so that easily.

"I thought I might find you here."

Ketiron looked up to see the familiar face of Eidan Zherron, in his "public form" - the human face he had worn before being afflicted by the worgen curse. He was attired in beautifully embroidered robes, and carried a kaldorei staff. "How?"

"I like to come here too, to watch a place that is surrounded by war, but not touched by it," Zherron confessed. "It stirs hope in my heart." As Ketiron stood, the Gilnean druid grasped the sin'dorei nobleman's outstretched right arm in greeting. "How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected," Ketiron replied. "And Genevra?"

"About the same," Zherron replied. "Marennia Sputterspark is a really no-nonsense gal when she's of a mind to be. Which is practically all the time, with her big brother polluting the ground he walks on and destroying the lives he touches. She, Velenkayn and I are keeping an eye on the house, and at least one of us is somewhere nearby whenever she's in the Abbey, or at the Cathedral, or wherever."

Ketiron nodded grimly. "I pray it is enough. But with Sekhesmet, it never is."

"Then you'll love this; he walked into her office at the Cathedral, bold as brass. He's actually in Stormwind, Taeril'hane - the only way I would have thought he'd ever come to that town is burnt to ashes and carried in a bag."

"Merciful Light." The Blood Knight Master was horrified. "Was she hurt?"

"No, but it scared the hell out of her. She's gone to Orwyn - Commander Orwyn, head of the City Watch - and filed a restraining order against him."

"That's all?" Ketiron asked, incredulous.

"For now," Zherron replied. "It did not seem like much to me - or to Caro'thel Vendross, either. This is gonna be hell for him, seeing his brother's killer roaming freely." He sighed. "I trust in Orwyn and his judgment. He will be fair. For who, I don't know; this may end up being all that is done. But the warrant is out for Rakeri, so he's deprived of one place to hide, at least."

"I have sent Kitrik out to find him...perhaps I should have word sent to him to have the wretch taken alive, so the Alliance can deal with him." A thought occurred to him, and he requested a parchment, a pen and some ink from one of the pandaren vendors. He wrote down a brief message and signed it, before rolling it up and handing it to Zherron. "Take this to Genevra, please. Perhaps she will be gladdened to hear that we stand with her." He sighed. "I hope there is still a chance for peaceful cooperation."

Caro'thel Vendross sat alone on a bench in front of the fountain in Cathedral Square; off duty, he had returned to wearing his usual red and white robes, embroidered with runes of protection. His flame-charged staff rested in his lap as he sat in quiet contemplation.

"Seeking answers from the cobblestones, Caro'thel?"

He looked up at hearing Zherron approach; the Gilnean druid was in his true worgen form, using his staff as a walking stick. "Just trying to think," he said. "And it's...difficult."

"I can imagine. I felt the same way you did, and I probably would have reacted similarly if he had killed members of my family. I told Orwyn as much, when I asked him to go easy on you."

The Highborne mage felt anger rise up in him; he rose and turned away from the worgen. "I do not need to be coddled, Archdruid."

"Nor will you be," Zherron replied sharply. "That was not my intention when I spoke with him; I asked him for understanding, for leniency. Orwyn has made his stance clear, and I know you know what it is...but I will repeat it anyway. You have to choose between your duty and your feelings; Orwyn needs you as a Watch officer, not as a loose cannon."

Vendross looked up towards the Cathedral. "He killed my brother, Eidan...and he helped Sylvanas kill many thousands more."

"I know that, Caro'thel."

"We are doing nothing."

"We're not doing nothing," Zherron snapped.

"We're letting him get away with --"

"We won't let him get away with anything. Orwyn has placed a restraining order against him, and if he's smart - and he is - he'll follow it...in spirit if not in letter."

"And you think this is good enough?"

"Of course it's not good enough, damn it! But that's what it is!" Zherron grasped Vendross' shoulders, careful not to scratch the Highborne mage with his claws. "This is the way you act in a society based on justice, Caro'thel. We do not simply kill criminals here, no matter how much we want to. We ensure that the law is upheld. If we were to simply allow anyone to take the law into their own hands and kill those who violate it, we would be no better than them. Hell, we'd practically be the Horde! Is that what you want?"

Vendross sat back down on the bench. "I thought this was over," he whispered. "I thought justice had been done."

"I did, too," Zherron agreed. "But have faith, my friend. This does not mean we will let down our guard; no indeed. But we will not stoop to his level to beat him, or else we become him. Saavedro learned that too late...let that be an example for you to follow." He nodded curtly and made his way out of the square, leaving the Highborne to think.

Once again, Rakeri Sputterspark was wanted by the Stormwind City Watch. But this time...he had no intention of walking into their hands, or even going near that city again. Instead, he fled through the Dark Portal, back to Outland, and once more hid within the eerily abandoned halls of Manaforge B'naar.

The ritual had been draining, and - after a fashion - it had been successful. But everything else had gone to hell in a handbasket; word had gone out too quickly, thanks to the meddling interference of his younger sister, Marennia, and the two agents of the Horde sent by Ketiron. Now the goody-goodies were circling the wagons. To top it off, Sekhesmet had returned not as the new master of Saavedro's body, but of his own - a form much like that he had worn in his younger days as a human priest of Lordaeron. And he had made clear that Rakeri's plans for using his strength against his enemies - Genevra in particular - would not come to pass, that he would not be made to bow to the warlock...or to anyone else.

Rakeri did not feel guilty about destroying Saavedro, no matter how unexpected that outcome had been; his reputation had been utterly destroyed by the reports he had willingly consorted with Rakeri, and the gnome's humilating slavery as a machine-man in the human's service had been avenged. But how the circumstances had turned against Rakeri - not only the fact that not only had the mad shadow priest returned so grotesquely powerful, but that he, Rakeri, had made him so - had left him much like this, cowering like a frightened child, far away from Stormwind, Orwyn, Genevra...and Sekhesmet.

He shivered with fear as he put a hand to his face; the mark of the Dark Father's hands touching his face, the searing agony he had felt as the power he had conned Saavedro into giving up when he removed Sekhesmet's soul from his body was ripped out of him, were left as imprints of the human's hands, fingers splayed across his forehead and around his eyes, in something of a purplish-red bruise. It looked for all the world like war paint or a tattoo, something an orc or a Wildhammer dwarf would do. He hoped that it would fade, eventually. Now he found himself in need of protection - not only against Orwyn's bloodhounds and Ketiron's assassins, but against Sekhesmet himself...

But who could he turn to? Alexithima? She would not help him, not after that brouhaha in the basement of the Recluse with the demon-possessed loony she harbored. And given his statements (some of them public) painting Imperon Showdah as a preening egotist who was not worthy of the fear and respect in which he was held, the Ocheliad was obviously not an option, either. And Yatiri...his appearance at his side for the ritual had been a surprise, but it was as if his mind was not his own. He was more like....a robot, it had to be said. That made him dangerous - if he was being controlled, the controller could use him to find Rakeri and take him in...or worse, kill him.

The gnome let out a shaky sigh in the gloom of the manaforge as he finally realized the truth.

He was on his own.

Following his meeting with Commander Orwyn, Sekhesmet of Stratholme had left Stormwind City and gone south, across the river into Duskwood, where he settled in the town of Darkshire. At that moment, he sat alone at a room at the Scarlet Raven Tavern, and sipped from a flask of Lordaeron lambic he had bought at the Blue Recluse the previous evening. "Scarlet Raven" was the term used by the gypsies that had wandered this land in ages past, the ones from who he was descended, for the sun - ironic, for a place where the sun did not shine so brightly anymore. It had been years since he'd thought such things, or simple ideas like color, having seen the world in shades of gray in his undeath. Now the world was as vibrant and full of life as he had once remembered it being.

A perfect place to begin anew.

He knew that Orwyn was unconvinced of his sincerity, and likely did not even care what he'd been, despite his clear link to Genevra. The commander had been all but shaking with joy at something more challenging than the typical low-key crimes his officers had to deal with. Things as exciting as demonic rituals or plagues turned out to be...not so exciting. Though his advice, to find legal counsel, did not seem all that wise to him; after all, if they were aware that he had been Forsaken, and had worked as part of the Royal Apothecary Society in crafting the Blight, they may well recuse themselves at the very least...and attempt to murder him at the worst.

"They say a man who defends himself has a fool for a client," he mused aloud over his flask. "Perhaps I am that fool. Certainly Orwyn is clearly a few parishioners short of a congregation." He snorted. "Find myself a lawyer, indeed. With the deck stacked like this, I may well end up having my defender go over to the prosecution." He sipped his drink, chuckling to himself. Of course it was going to be difficult; he had known as much when Rakeri had come up with this insanely brilliant (or brilliantly insane?) idea. But he would endure it, as he had endured so much already. The name of Sekhesmet had not been made a byword for fear without great risk.

And plus, he had said publicly that he intended to atone for his mistakes, to make his name inspire more than simply fear. Fear was good, but it was not the only weapon at his disposal. Genevra, he knew, would not be swayed...she upheld the Light's forgiveness with one hand and cast judgment with the other, casting stones from her glass house without any concern that one would be thrown back at her.

But could the same be said about those of her inner circle? He had already proven that even imprisoned as he had been in the shard, he could touch minds; he had proven that well enough with Yatiri Stormwatcher. Rakeri knew his strength well enough to be able to put up mental barriers; Yatiri's defenses had more holes in them than Alterac swiss. Marennia had sown the seeds of doubt against Rakeri, and now that he had seen the ritual, his mind was as open as a book.

He would obey the law of Stormwind, and keep his distance from Genevra. That did not mean he would not be able to get close; he had his means. But first, he would reassure Orwyn of his sincerity to turn over a new leaf, by using the Shado-Pan to find the warlock; the professor had served his purpose, and now could be discarded. The amulet Rakeri had given Yatiri was an effective means of communicating and allowing him to see...but the door could easily be made to swing both ways.

Just as the thought occurred to him, he looked up to see the pandaren in the ornately-crafted armor, wearing the headgear of the Shado-Pan, enter his room. "Good evening, Master Stormwatcher," he said with a smile, standing up and approaching the glassy-eyed pandaren. He grasped the jade amulet around Yatiri's neck. "Perhaps you might be able to help me with something..."

Vendross walked across Cathedral Square on his way out of Watch headquarters, when he saw the man in richly-appointed robes approaching the door. "You..." Rage welling up within him, the Highborne grasped him by the shoulders and slammed him up against the wall outside the door. "You have a lot of gall, showing your face to me, Sekhesmet. Commander Orwyn wants me to uphold my duty and act impassively and impartially...but right now, I am thinking of answering to a higher law. Vengeance."

"I am afraid there is a line you must stand in, my lord," he said politely, maintaining a veneer of calm civility to the mage's fiery anger. "I think Genevra and her lackeys - and Kordrion and Gentyl and their respective lackeys, when word finally gets to them - will have a far higher priority for my head than you do. Fortunately for me, I have done nothing here, and enjoy the protection of Stormwind's law...for the moment, anyway. I was here to provide information, as requested." He smiled, with a hint of his darker side starting to show in his eyes. "But unless you would like me to risk everything by running you through..." He looked down, and Vendross' eyes followed his. The priest had drawn his jeweled khopesh, a tol'vir relic he had found on a recent "jaunt" to Uldum, and now held the tip of the blade up to the mage's gut.

Vendross had been so angry that he had not even seen him draw the weapon from his belt. He realized that perhaps this is why Orwyn had counseled him so. And even despite the crimes Sekhesmet had committed in his "past self", including the murder of Vendross' elder brother, he knew that killing the vile man on the street would make it worse, not better. Releasing the priest, who hooked his curving blade back to his belt, he said in a tightly controlled voice, "What can the Watch do for you, sir?"

"I have information for your commander regarding the location of Professor Sputterspark," the Dark Father replied. "I had an encounter with his pandaren..." He paused, searching for a word. "...associate, while lodging at the Scarlet Raven Tavern in Darkshire. You've interacted with Yatiri Stormwatcher in the past, have you not?"

"I have," Vendross admitted, his mind going into investigation mode.

"Did you ever notice a jeweled amulet that he wore around his neck? Master-crafted jade, glowing faintly?"

The Highborne racked his brain...and found that he could indeed remember the gem, looking somewhat out of place in the red-and-sky blue leather armor that Yatiri often wore. He realized what Sekhesmet was getting at. "A means of communicating with the warlock."

Sekhesmet nodded. "And a means to let the professor see through it without being there. Fortunately, I am all too familiar with such devices, and discovered the door swings both ways. The professor is currently holed up in an abandoned manaforge in the Netherstorm region of Outland." He unhooked his libram from his belt and opened it up, showing full-page maps. He flipped through until he found the one for Netherstorm. "This one here." He pointed at the one west of the goblin settlement known as Area 52. "Whether or not he will still be there when someone goes to apprehend him, is the question."

Vendross studied the map for a moment...then he looked up at the priest, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "He killed Saavedro to bring you back. Why do you want to help apprehend him?"

"Because of that," Sekhesmet replied, a hint of sadness crossing his face; Vendross was surprised at it. "I am not denying what I did before. I served Sylvanas loyally, and did many things that were unspeakably monstrous. I remember well the incident with your brother west of Andorhal, for instance. I will not insult you or his memory by asking for your forgiveness, but I would like you to accept that I have been given a chance to atone for my crimes." He smiled beatifically. "And I recognize that may take the rest of my new life...and unlike Genevra, I am not being overly melodramatic."

"You still cling to your hate of Genevra?"

"Hate? No, my lord...disappointment. She has set guidelines for how people should live, and if people prefer to be their own person and not uphold those guidelines to their strictest letter, she has no use for them. She cast Saavedro aside when he tried to contain me because he 'betrayed' her...and only now that he is gone does she feel the guilt." Sekhesmet gazed up at him. "What 'treason' have you committed that you must now beg for scraps from Orwyn's table, instead of be at her side?"

Vendross was outraged at this insult, against Genevra and against Orwyn. "Thank you for your time, sir," he said through clenched teeth. "I will bring your information to the commander."

"Thank you, sir," Sekhesmet replied, bowing. "Light go with you." He walked away.

Vendross cursed vehemently in Darnassian, glaring hatefully at the priest's back - and not seeing the sadistic smile on Sekhesmet's face...

Marennia Sputterspark spent all night before the altar in the Cathedral of Stormwind. after she left the interview with Orwyn. Her mind and her soul were a miasma of negative emotions - rage, hate, loneliness, grief, confusion, despair...all of them together, tearing her (or at least, her heart) to shreds. She knew now, having witnessed just what he was capable of, that Rakeri was a monster. That realization did not make it easier for her to condemn him; he was her brother.

Her brother. She had tried to hang onto that perception for years, ever since Rakeri had returned home from Northrend a vastly different gnome than he had been when he had gone, as one of the engineers who helped Fizzcrank Fullthrottle establish his airfield and oil refinery. That night in Grizzlemaw had been a blow she was not sure she could recover from. Now she was no longer sure what he was to her.

She remained until sunrise; then, tired and red-eyed, she emerged in Cathedral Square, and looked up to see Velenkayn. The Battlelord was frowning. "By the Light, you look awful!" He knelt, grasping her shoulders. "What have you done to yourself?"

"I have been in the Cathedral, praying for an answer." Marennia looked at him with bloodshot eyes. "And...I don't even know how to phrase the question."

"About Rakeri?" Marennia nodded. "You cannot do this to yourself, young one. Genevra needs you as the warrior, not as this...this..."

"Wreck," she finished for him. "I know...but I have tried to hide the anguish in my soul for too long. I...had to let it out. You understand."

"I do," the draenei agreed. He smiled, surprisingly warmly for the cold aura he projected. "Get some rest, my friend. Zherron and I can watch Genevra."

Marennia shook her head. "I need you to arrange a meeting for me, Velenkayn," she said. "With our 'friend without borders'."

Velenkayn raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because two of his agents were there that night, and Orwyn has asked if I can get in touch with them. I need to speak to him first. With him, we can have them give their account of that night, to corroborate my testimony against my...against Rakeri."

The death knight was silent for a moment, before asking, "Where?"

"Hearthglen. With respect to his and Zherron's usual meeting place in Pandaria, I'd like to stay in my home continent for a while."

----

That afternoon, in the courtyard of Mardenholde, Marennia sat under the statue of Tirion Fordring and waited. Hearing hoofbeats coming from the gate, she looked up and saw him ride into town. He was very much as described; a shock of white hair tied back in a foxtail, an unlined face, and beautifully-crafted armor of gilded steel, contrasted by the black and red of his cloak and tabard, the red phoenix on the latter. She could see the hilt of his blade over his right shoulder, the winged hilt.

Seeing the Conclave colors on her tabard, he halted and dismounted from his horse, barded in red and brass. "Captain Sputterspark, I presume."

"Master Ketiron," she replied, inclining her head. "Thank you for answering my request."

The Blood Knight Master bowed his head in acknowledgement, and raised a hand towards the entrance to Mardenholde. "Come, let us enter; I am sure there is somewhere private we can speak."

"Here is fine," Marennia replied sharply, the old warrior's paranoia coming to the fore.

Ketiron chuckled. "You know who I am, Captain, and you know I would not do that."

"I know what is said of you," she rejoined. "I wish to see if the reality matches the words." Her green-eyed gaze met his. "Can you blame me?"

Ketiron was silent, and Marennia wondered if she had gone too far; he was a blood elf, and a nobleman on top of that; both were prone to overreaction to insults. Finally, he smiled sadly. "Your caution is understandable, if somewhat disappointing," he replied. "Very well." He knelt next to her, so that his eyes were more level to hers. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

"I spoke with Commander Orwyn of the Stormwind City Watch last night, as part of the ongoing investigation on Sekhesmet." She explained her testimony to Orwyn, and how she had mentioned the presence of Kitrik and Thek'la at the ritual site, and what they had witnessed.

Ketiron's expression was grim as he listened, and when she finished, he sighed. "Kitrik told me the same thing about what happened at Grizzlemaw, almost word for word," he said after a moment. "I can't imagine your reaction was any less explosive than mine...I went blind with rage and destroyed my own study." He met her gaze, and saw the same anguish and anger he felt. "Come with me."

They went inside the keep, where he asked one of the clerks inside for a vellum, an inkpot and a pen. He wrote a message, which he then folded, put wax on, and sealed with the signet ring on his right hand, before handing it to Marennia. "Take this to him. With my compliments."

Ketiron's message was written in the Common script, ornate as befitting a nobleman, but easily readable regardless.

Sin'u amanore, Commander. I greet you with the all-encompassing blessing of the Light.

Captain Sputterspark has met with me to discuss the re-emergence of Sekhesmet of Stratholme, particularly how he has now settled within the borders of your nation. I am sure that Genevra Stoneheardt, among others, has informed you of just what he did in his service to Sylvanas and her foul cause. The captain also mentioned that she has told you about me, and my reluctance to participate in any wars with the Alliance or any actions that I deem to be dishonorable - the attack against Theramore, the Forsaken's use of their accursed Blight, and the whole campaign in Lordaeron and Gilneas springing readily to mind.

I understand that this may come as a surprise to you, but there are those of us who - while we are loyal to the cause of the Horde, and wish for the success of our new Warchief - seek to uphold the traditions of the truce made at Mount Hyjal that brought a brief end to the long conflict, and focus on the defense of our world against far greater threats than one another. At this stage, however, it is clear that our greatest mutual threat is not the enemy without, but the enemy within.

Whatever is required of me, and those who were present in the unsuccessful attempt to stop the warlock's ritual at my behest, I will provide whenever it is asked.

Glory under the Light,
Master Taeril'hane Ketiron

Exiled. All in all, Sekhesmet was not surprised. Not in the slightest.

"This is just the beginning," he said to himself, as he left Stormwind Keep - not believing a word that came out of Orwyn's mouth, just as Orwyn likely did not believe a word that came out of his. They mutually lied to one another, and both of them realized it. He could see why his opponents thought of the commander so highly. He's shrewd, that one, he thought, as he made his way to the tailor in the Mage Quarter. He had already cleared out what little he had to his credit at the room he rented at the Scarlet Raven.

He had decided to have the robes he had been "given" in the ritual patched and re-embroidered, and now went in to see if the work was done. As he walked in, he saw that it was. Pleased, he left a small bag of gold on the counter, and then asked for a changing room to put them on. He left the old robes hanging on a rack by the door, left another small tip for the tailor, and then left, summoning his magical steed, with great white wings of Light.

As he rode in silence to the harbor, where he planned to take a ship across the sea to Kalimdor, he looked up to see a familiar face. "Zherron."

"Sekhesmet." The worgen archdruid glared. "So you have been banished."

"For now. I suppose it was the least they could do...my return left them in something of a bind."

"It hasn't for us. The future is clear - you will be our enemy again, just as you were when your vile essence was wrapped in rotted flesh instead of whole. And you will make the same mistakes...and we will end you. Permanently."

"Perhaps," Sekhesmet conceded, nodding. "But if you make me your enemy, you will find that I have far more at my disposal than I did before. I pray we remember what side we're all on."

Zherron snorted. "The only side you're on is your own."

"Perhaps," he said again. "But I am a realist. Things cannot be as they were before. If there is to be hostility between us again, it is because you instigate it, Zherron, not I." He inclined his head to the worgen and pulled up his hood. "Farewell. We will meet again someday, I hope." Then he rode off as the ship docked at the harbor, and sat in silence waiting for it to make its voyage across the Great Sea. He had not had much opportunity to explore Kalimdor, his operations during his Forsaken service largely centered around Lordaeron - and later, the Forsaken settlements in eastern Northrend. He had visited Orgrimmar on several occasions, and had also participated in Vol'jin's push to liberate the Echo Isles following the fall of the Lich King. Beyond that, he had not seen much...

The ship would take him to Teldrassil, but he would not linger there long. He would not take the chance that someone (Vendross, most likely, or someone from Genevra's Conclave...if not Genevra herself) would spread the word to other Alliance settlements, and he had seen a fierce-looking night elf - a Warden, if his guess was right - visiting the Recluse while he waited to be called before the tribunal. He would sail to Rut'theran, and then set out by air to the mainland...and from there, who knew what knowledge he could discover, what sights he could see?

It was a long game, this new struggle he was now in with old foes and new ones alike...and he intended to play for time, realizing now just how precious a resource that was. Besides, now he had a greater opportunity in his new life, now that he was not encumbered by the shackles of the Alliance capital: to explore the world beyond what he had known, and to truly experience it now that he was a man again and no longer a corpse. A world of color, of life...of limitless potential.

Sekhesmet smiled to himself as he watched Stormwind recede behind the ship before looking out to the west, towards the wide new world that awaited him.

Standing at the top of the stairs leading down into the Stockade's cell blocks, Marennia was greeted by the warden and a pair of Stockade guards. She silently handed her spear off to one of the guards, and followed them down into the dampness, the sound of the plate boots all four of them wore echoing down the halls. It was a short trip, as the guards stood at either side of the outer part of the cell, allowing Marennia to enter alone.

Rakeri was lying on the floor, his ornate spaulders set aside, his robe folded up and kept under his head as a makeshift pillow. Marennia waited for him to acknowledge her presence, uncertain whether it was because she was unwilling to speak, or unable to figure out what to say. Finally, he looked over in her direction, and smiled. "Here to gloat, Renni?" he asked in gnomish.

"You know I don't do that, Rakeri," she replied in the same tongue. "I leave such...displays to you."

He chuckled, but it sounded hollow. "Well, there's not going to be a lot of gloating from me. Except when I call in my favor with the Watch, and get out of here - so I can get the hell out of here. I can't stay here."

Marennia's eyes narrowed. It sounded like her brother was...afraid. That made her do a mental double-take. The Feltouched, the high and mighty warlock, afraid? "Are you afraid of being executed for killing Saavedro?"

"Orwyn doesn't know how to be a killer," Rakeri replied dismissively. "It's not him I'm worried about. They said he's 'banished'...but that won't stop him. Nothing can. I should know..."

"Sekhesmet?" Marennia laughed derisively. "You're scared of Sekhesmet?"

"Don't mock me, Renni. You're just as scared of him as I am. You and the rest of those people - Conclave, Watch, whatever...you've all been running around like headless chickens since the ritual. Trying to find me. Trying to keep tabs on him." Marennia thought that Rakeri looked like someone in the grasp of a really powerful chemical - paranoid, wide-eyed, and jabbering. "Where is he now, I wonder? They said he sailed to Kalimdor. Are you sure he's still there? Perhaps he has eyes all around us...perhaps he's somewhere in this city, hiding in plain sight. Would you know?"

Gears of Gnomeregan, he's terrified, she thought. "If you're so frightened of him, Rakeri," she said after a moment, "then why did you bring him back? I know what insane justification you came up with for killing Saavedro, but why bring back Sekhesmet?" Rakeri did not answer. Marennia, however, was smart enough to connect the dots herself. "You thought he'd be like those poor people in Westfall. You bring him back to life, and he's yours forever. Only it didn't work like that, did it? You knew he would not be that easy to control, and yet you expected it would be different because you had convinced poor, sickly farmers to kiss the ground you walk on?"

"Now just a damn minute --"

"And now he walks upon the earth again," Marennia said over Rakeri's protests, her voice rising, "in one piece, and it's thanks to you! You murdered Saavedro for your own petty vengeance, and you brought back a lunatic who is partly responsible for the deaths of thousands more! You resurrected a war criminal, Rakeri! Did you not think about what you were doing?!" She laughed bitterly. "Of course you didn't. You didn't think about possibly getting that fel crap out of your system when Linavil recursed you. Instead, you let your anger, hate, and lust for power make you into...this."

Rakeri glared, his eyes glowing green in the darkness. "There are worse things to be."

"And there are better things. It would have been better if you had died, or remained a mechagnome. I have tried to hope for things to change, for you to...not be what you are. But I see what you are now. You're a monster." Marennia kept her voice steady, meeting his gaze. "I renounce you." Rakeri's eyes went wider than hen's eggs, and his mouth hung open. "I leave your fate in the hands of better men, and if you somehow weasel your way out of it, I never want to see you, or speak to you again. You are not my brother anymore." Her voice now began to waver. "Goodbye, Rakeri."

Without another word, she left the cell, walking up the steps, taking back her spear when the guard offered it to her. She left the fortified building, tears running down her face, as she made her way over to the Cathedral, praying that she was doing the right thing.

Eidan Zherron landed at the entrance of Grizzlemaw, dismounting from the great raven he called Almaira, who shifted into a smaller form who chirped questioningly at his side. He had gone from his embroidered robes to red-and-gold leather armor, and carried a black spear with a blood-red tip given to him by Ketiron ("to end the scumsucking pig who did this", the Blood Knight Master had said) when they had met in Hearthglen before Zherron decided to sail for Northrend. Rakeri was in prison - again - so he couldn't put it to its intended use...but he would bear it with honor.

The interior of the great tree stump was a charnel house. Blood was spattered everywhere, and furbolg corpses, only now starting to rot - the chill of Northrend having staved off decomposition - were strewn around the entrance and the upper levels. It felt so darkly familiar to Zherron, who tried to remember where he had felt this darkness before. Gilneas? Lordaeron? Here in Northrend? He took a deep breath through his nostrils, sheer willpower preventing him from gagging at the horrific stench. Pandaria, he realized. The taint of the Sha. He remembered that the Sha were revealed to be aspects of the Old God Y'Shaarj; this scent of death hung like a pall over half of Pandaria, most prominently in the Summer Fields in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. And this land had been "home" to another Old God...

Rakeri had used blood magic combined with his own formidable powers to bring Sekhesmet back; the corrupted fluid in the veins of the local furbolgs made it even more potent. The residual effects of Yogg-Saron's grasp, stretching from deep in the halls of Ulduar to the four corners of Northrend...with that kind of power, Zherron had to wonder, what would Sekhesmet become in his new life? Would he be the "benevolent father figure" he was trying to make himself out to be in the eyes of the world? Would he be the mad scientist who had helped his equally insane colleagues in the Royal Apothecary Society perfect the Blight for their Dark Lady?

Or would he be far worse?

Such questions were dismissed from his mind as he entered the center of the stump, the whole interior looking as if it was blackened by fire. The ritual runes painted on the walls in the furbolgs' blood also seemed to be burnt into the wood from the power unleashed here. In the center of it, he could see in his mind's eye the last moments of agony that Saavedro had endured. But in the blackened soil, he could see a glint of metal. Kneeling, he dusted the soot aside, and picked up a small silver token. It bore the design of a blacksmith's hammer, with the heraldic "L" of Lordaeron.

Saavedro's personal sigil...

Zherron's clawed hand closed around the token. "There will be justice for you, my friend," he whispered.

Though she was not an assassin anymore, her ability to move unseen had not changed with her new training. With the added bonus of not having to breathe, there was thus no possibility of an errant cough, sneeze, or other respiratory expulsion giving her position away. She hid in the bushes of the cemetery, looking over at the great tomb nearby...and waited.

She saw him emerge from inside the rotunda of the tomb, clad in his dark concealing robes, hood up. Approaching was a larger figure...a pandaren in beautifully-crafted leather armor.

The pandaren stood glassy-eyed before the human, who nodded approvingly. "Good to see you are still as...easy to reach as ever." He reached out with a gloved hand to touch the gemstone around the pandaren's neck. "Hmm. Not much of a reading here. Must mean the good professor is in prison." He grasped the gemstone in his hand. "Not much use for this anymore, it would seem..." He crushed the gem to powder in his hand with a burst of shadowflame. "It has been a useful tool, but I think there will be...a problem shortly..."

The pandaren shook his head to get his bearings, his eyes regaining a spark of life. "What...where..." He looked around him. "Sorrow Hill, in Lordaeron - what am I doing here...?" He looked down at the robed man. "Father Shankolin? What is going on here?"

The human tapped his fingers on the hilt of a jeweled tol'vir sword he wore at his belt. "I see the spell was a bit more potent than originally anticipated; it has skewed your recent memory somewhat. What is the last thing you remember?"

"Falling...then great coldness, like I had fallen into ice water. Then someone in my head, saying...'not yet, not yet...' And then nothing." The pandaren looked at the human, confused. "Your voice...you're not Father Shankolin. Who are you?"

"You stood at his side and watched him craft his spell, Yatiri Stormwatcher," the human intoned darkly. "He led you to believe that he would destroy me forever, just as he led Saavedro to believe it. Now...believe what you see."

He pulled back his hood, and despite the fact she no longer needed to breath, she let out a gasp upon seeing his face. So it is true, Father, she thought. You have returned...

Yatiri recoiled, his green eyes widening in horror as the realization came to him. "Sekhesmet," he breathed. "No...what have I done?"

"What had to be, Shado-Pan. My return was as inevitable as the rising and setting of the sun. And though I am banished from the city of Stormwind, I will not be homeless for long. In time, I will return, and make them realize I am their future; I will give them no choice but to bow before my will, or be destroyed. They do not yet realize what it means to make me their enemy...but if they oppose me, they will." Sekhesmet's eyes, clear blue like a winter lake, gazed into Yatiri's green ones. "You have seen what I am capable of. Rakeri lied to you to obtain your loyalty; I need not stoop to such deceit; I can and will help you achieve your every goal, Yatiri. You have only to kneel before me and pledge me your loyalty."

Yatiri was outraged. "Never!" he shouted, as he swiftly donned huge clawed gauntlets, slashing at the priest with them. Sekhesmet calmly drew his khopesh and his staff and engaged in a dance of death, his movements as graceful as a dancer. In the bushes, she stared in astonishment. He had never moved with such precision before, such skill, such fluidity. Was this something he had taken from Saavedro in his resurrection?

Despite the deadly skill he displayed in his people's fighting arts, Yatiri was no match for Sekhesmet's sorcery. With a burst of shadow magics, he left the pandaren cowering before him...before he began flaying his mind, inflicting horrific pain, and draining life essence from his body. The pandaren screamed in agony, collapsing to his knees. Sekhesmet spun on one heel...and slashed Yatiri's throat with a swipe of his tol'vir blade. Blood leaving his body in rivers, Yatiri slumped to the ground, clutching his throat, blood seeping through his fingers.

"Ahhh....that was invigorating..." Sekhesmet smiled cruelly and pulled up his hood, moving away to ensure no blood got on his robes. "I would love to stay and watch you die, the first person I have killed in this new life. But I sense something worth investigating, north of here.." He laughed as he summoned a great hawk formed of shadowflame, and continued laughing as he flew away.

Emerging from the bushes, she came up next to the dying pandaren. His eyes widened in terror as he saw what she was. She raised her hands to placate him. "No, I am not going to consume your corpse...the Alliance will hear the ruckus and come soon. I will ensure that the Shado-Pan knows of what my father has done."

With his last breath, Yatiri had only one word: "Who...?"

"Euphrati," she said in response, as she knelt to hold his hand as he died, so that he would not do so alone...

In the woods outside Hearthglen, Sekhesmet came across the smoking wreckage of a flying vehicle, and no sign of the pilot or any crew. There was, however, a dead human lying nearby, not far from the corpse of a slaughtered canine. Closer inspection of the human indicated that he had been gnawed on by the odd scavengers who showed up, but the cause of his death was very familiar. It was a method he himself had used many times in his formerly wretched state. It was a method he had, partially, used just moments before, dispatching the pandaren "assassin".

Leaning on his staff, he knelt and put his hand on the ground, closing his eyes and bowing his head. One of the things he had learned from a shaman in Orgrimmar during his Forsaken days was that the air, the grass and trees, the very soil itself had memories. It could remember events that caused trauma to it, if one knew how to ask. Calling on the Light, he began to have an idea of what had happened:

The great machine descending and smashing into the ground...

The lumberjack and his faithful mutt, going to investigate...

The wolf-visaged troll and the hooded woman, who he knew was "one of them"...

A presence was intruding. The Dark Father opened his eyes and came to his feet...and was not at all surprised to see who was there. He had sensed her presence earlier. "Euphrati."

"Father." Euphrati Velade, despite having been killed a little over fifteen years earlier, was still a figure of beauty and grace. Her period of training under the pandaren masters from the Wandering Isle and Tian Monastery, combined with the work she had done in the field with the Shado-Pan, had honed her natural fighting skill to an art form. She was steel in a silk glove, and Sekhesmet was much more wary than he had been with Yatiri; unlike the pandaren, she had extensive experience with fighting and killing, even powerful men like him.

"So you have found out about me."

"It was not difficult. We had a bond, you and I....it was strong when we were alive, and strong again in death, lying in the cold stone of our tomb in Brill. And it remained even as Forsaken...and it remains even now." The Forsaken monk glared icily at him. "You tried to have me killed again. Did you get over Artimus Devaneaux's treachery so easily, Father? Did the horror of what Kel'theris and Settra did drive you to remove all emotional 'impediments' from your mind so that you could make more room for your depthless sadism?"

"You betrayed the Forsaken and you betrayed me, when you turned to our enemies. I did what was right and just under Sylvanas' law."

"And yet here we are. I am still here, and still Forsaken. And you have returned from Oblivion, healthy and whole. Fortunately, I will not have to turn to the living to be your enemy. You are a traitor to the Forsaken now, Father - you turned your back on the Dark Lady in Pandaria, and it was only by sheer happenstance that Saavedro got to you before I did. If I had, you would not be here at all. I would have seen to it myself."

Sekhesmet calmly nodded. "I understand." He turned away from her, looking over at the smoking wreckage of the plane. "Are you going to kill me?"

"I want to. But I feel that our struggle is not meant to end here." Euphrati gazed at him for a moment. "The Dark Lady will learn of what has become of you. You will be hunted. If not by me, then by others. You have turned on us and nestled into the embrace of our enemies. You will be taken to task."

The Dark Father nodded again...and then grinned insanely. "You will try, child. And then I will carry out the sentence I imposed on you. Personally. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an investigation to conduct." He walked away from her to examine the wreckage of the plane.

It had been a little over three weeks since Hazlett, Orwyn's undead bloodhound, had captured him, and yet he remained locked away in the Stockade, no attention being paid to him at all. His clothes had become grimy from the damp conditions, and he had begun to show signs of malnutrition. Not that he was not fed; he just wasn't given all that much.

No visits since Marennia had told him in no uncertain terms to stay here and rot. No Orwyn. No officers for questioning. No visit from that pompous twit Nash, or from any so-called defense. Nothing. In fact, the only sign of any movement he had seen in front of his cell was in the hall - Vendross, the Highborne suck-up, escorting a prisoner into the cell across from him. When the elf had left, he recognized the other as Noikona, the proprietor of the Recluse - and in her eyes, he had seen the telltale signs. Most interesting; he filed that away for future reference.

Though he was not visited or spoken to at all, he still listened. The guards talked amongst themselves a great deal, arrogant swine that they were, and word had come that Sekhesmet had confessed to the killing of Yatiri Stormwatcher - an act he claimed was self-defense. The act had taken place outside of Stormwind territory, and so he was not charged, but the act of his admitting the deed was making rounds...seeing as he had done it to Orwyn in public, in full view of the Recluse patrons. On the one hand, he was glad to see that there was one less loose end for him to tie up when he got out of here. On the other, he only wished he had been able to finish the duplicitous pandaren himself. It had been Yatiri, he knew, who had betrayed him to Sekhesmet.

Anger filled him as he paced in his cell. He was in here for a minor crime, in his view - his involvement in the thefts from the Watch archives. He had pointed Saavedro in that direction, true, but it had been Saavedro who had mind-controlled the clerk, taken the items, and had them delivered to him at the cemetery. What else could they charge him with? Killing Saavedro? Not likely. Orwyn was probably glad to be less one babbling idiot in his city, and plus, it had taken place in Northrend, which was quite beyond Stormwind's over-eager reach.

Typical human overreaction, he seethed. His last stay here had also been on a relatively lesser charge. They couldn't charge him for fighting Saavedro in Pandaria. They had instead charged him for the lie, the claim that it had been in Three Corners, not outside Halfhill. But because the King of Stormwind claimed to be "leader" of the Alliance, these idiots in Stormwind seemed to think they could strike anywhere with impunity. Hence, Hazlett and Symmber, who had gone to Outland - which was really out of their jurisdiction - and nearly beaten the life out of him.

All over a soul shard and a pair of alchemical librams!

"Guard!" When the annoyed-looking human popped his head in, he said, "I need a message sent to a Watch officer. The one called 'Desmund'. Inform him that I wish...a meeting." It was time to play his trump card. He had played the waiting game long enough.

The sooner he was out of Stormwind, the better.

Once again, Vendross sat in his usual "musing place", on a bench near the fountain-statue of the Lightbringer in Cathedral Square, not far from Watch Headquarters. He was in his richly-embroidered red robes rather than his more utilitarian Watch uniform, as he was not currently on duty. His staff, charged with flame, sat in his lap.

He had heard the rumors out of the Stockade, and he was torn by indecision. On the one hand, monsters such as that deserved their fates. On the other, it was a cruel and inhumane treatment, more worthy of sadists like Hellscream or Sylvanas than of an Alliance that upheld the concepts of justice and honor.

"Don't think too hard, Caro'thel. I can see the smoke coming out of your ears. I know you're a fire-mage and all, but..."

Vendross looked up to see Zherron walking over. He moved over slightly to allow him to sit down; the worgen's amber eyes looked over the grim face. "More problems with Sekhesmet?"

"No, he's been quiet...too quiet," Vendross replied. "It's the other madman that worries me."

"Sputterspark? He's in prison. What's to worry about?"

"Because he appears to be dying, Eidan...thanks to us."

"What do you mean?"

"The warden put him in a particularly...unclean cell. He's fed rotten food if he eats at all, and he's developed severe respiratory problems as a result of the black mold and the cold dampness. The guards have ignored and mocked every request he's made for meetings with officers, and he didn't ask for medical help because he didn't think they'd honor that, either."

The worgen's eyes went wide. "Doesn't the idiot realize what will happen if he dies in there? For that matter, does Orwyn or anyone else in the Watch?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" The Highborne sorcerer laughed bitterly. "I think we all realize what will happen...but probably other than Orwyn, no one particularly cares. Indeed, I hope his death is slow and painful. He deserves as much for bringing that monster back, and destroying Saavedro to do it."

"You can't be serious." Zherron was horrified. "I know he's a cold-hearted bastard, but not even he deserves a fate like that, and you know it!"

"I do know it, damn it!" Vendross snarled. "But how can I feel compassion for a creature who would strike us all dead with a thought if he could, Eidan? Tell me that! You should know better than anyone that such creatures only deserve oblivion, not compassion! How is he any different from the Forsaken scum who despoiled your land?"

"How are we any different?!" Zherron shouted, coming to his feet. "Blood of Gilneas, Caro'thel! This is tantamount to torture, all that's going on here! Any two-bit public defender can use this to completely destroy any case the Crown could make against him, and he would be released! Certainly, that's probably come across his mind!" He stared at Vendross unflinchingly. "And from the conflicted look in your eyes, it's come across yours, too."

"What do you want me to say?!" Vendross now came to his feet, looking up into Zherron's face (Zherron was slightly taller than he in his worgen form). "That I think he should have been treated better? That would be a lie, Eidan - and I do not lie!"

"So just kill him yourself and be done with it!" the worgen roared.

"Maybe I will!" the Highborne returned.

"Then you would become him! You would take his place down there! Is that what you want, Caro'thel? To throw your life and good works away just for the satisfaction of killing him?"

"He's a warlock!" Vendross screamed in exasperation. "It's what he deserves!"

"Like you deserved?"

That stopped him short. "What?"

"The night elves used to say the same thing about your kind. 'Kill the Highborne, it's what they deserve'. I don't like them any more than you do, but they're here to stay. In the end, we must accept that...just as Darnassus has accepted you. Grudgingly, it must be said, but..."

"You compare me to that filth?!" Vendross was disgusted. "How dare you, you...you mutt?!"

Zherron, surprisingly, did not rise to the bait. He simply nodded. "So be it, Caro'thel. Destroy yourself if you wish. I will not sit here and watch." He turned and began walking away.

Vendross realized what he had said, and he felt shame. He tried to call after him. "Eidan, I'm sorry! I didn't..."

But Zherron kept walking.

Troubled by his confrontation with Zherron, Vendross had gone down into the Stockade to visit the prisoner, to see for himself. Upon seeing him, the gnome had started laughing...which became a fit of coughing that left him doubled over on the stone floor. The draenei medic had given him something to try and clear out the mold toxins in his lungs, and was now in a much cleaner cell thanks to her ministrations...but even Vendross had to admit the gnome looked seriously ill. His fel-green eyes were dim and sunken, and his skin looked about five shades paler than it had before.

"If you are expecting me to beg you for mercy...keep dreaming," Rakeri said coldly, as he spat green-tinged blood through the bars and onto the hem of Vendross' robe. Vendross did not flinch. Wheezing, Rakeri sat down on the floor, catching his breath. "You must want to leap for joy, seeing me like this."

"The thought had crossed my mind," the Highborne admitted.

"Well, you'll not be jumping for joy for very long. Thanks to the more...cooperative efforts of the guard force here since the medic's visit, I have sent a letter to the office of the Crown Prosecutor, declaring my intention to file charges against Orwyn and the rest of you self-deluded idiots in the Watch. You people kidnapped me, threw me into prison without formal charge and without any kind of trial, and it has now resulted in this." He coughed again, sounding more like a dry heave. "You may be the law in Stormwind, but outside the city walls, you, your precious Orwyn, and all the rest of you chest-thumping 'officers' are nothing."

"The Watch has authority in the Kingdom --"

"Don't." Rakeri raised a hand to silence him. "The Kingdom's authority is a sham, a mere joke. It has been for years - and Varian just made it worse. Orcs crawling all over Redridge, feral worgen and undead in Duskwood, and Westfall...well, we know all about Westfall, don't we?" He paused to cough again. "And where is the great King, the deliverer, the savior of his people? Off fighting a ridiculous war. The Cataclysm was one thing - but what was the point of the war in Pandaria? Just two bullies comparing the size of their 'weapons', that's what!"

"If the Kingdom is a sham, a mere joke, then how does it rule the Alliance?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it?" Rakeri chuckled. "Come now, Vendross, don't deny it - you've seen how humans behave, how they think they rule the world and that all 'lesser races' should kiss the ground they walk on. They're like orcs - not as much muscle, but the same miniscule, self-absorbed brains. Humans think they can do whatever they want, wherever they want. Varian tries to overthrow Moira Thaurissan, no one blinks. Proudmoore goes psycho, ends Kirin Tor neutrality, and tries to flood Orgrimmar, no one blinks. Stormwind leads the Alliance forces to take land that does not belong to them simply because they can...no one blinks. But if a gnome, an orc, a dwarf, or an elf do the same thing, they're chased down like rabid dogs."

Vendross did indeed think that humans were too egotistical for their own good, more oft than not; however, he did not give the warlock the satisfaction of saying it aloud. Rakeri coughed again, and spat another bright gobbet of blood through the bars at Vendross' feet.

"The Kingdom rules the Alliance, my dear Vendross," the warlock continued when he caught his breath, "because the rest of the Alliance leadership is either too weak, too stupid, or too distant to say otherwise. Combined, all of the other Alliance races could descend on this city and turn it into a crater that makes Theramore look like a mere pothole by comparison. Stormwind is weak politically, weak militarily, and weak magically...and yet no one takes advantage of it. Why?"

"I assume you're about to tell me."

"Indeed so...no one takes advantage of it because of the myth."

Vendross raised an eyebrow, confused. "The myth?"

"Indeed. Varian has taken a bit of inspiration from his days in orcish arenas, the whole Lo'Gosh business. The warchiefs of the Horde and other orcish chieftains became legends in their time. Living legends, even, in some cases - like Doomhammer." He paused for a moment, coughing. When he regained his breath, he continued. "Varian leaves his people to starve and die in lands ridden with poverty and disease, and goes to fight the Horde or whatever else is 'threatening the world', so he can become what every human seems to want to be - a hero, an inspiration, an example to uphold. And most humans, even those who are dying from poverty and disease, buy it....as does most of the Alliance. Or, as a historian I met once put it, 'When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.' That, my dear Vendross, is how Stormwind rules. Take away the myth, and what does it have?" He smiled coldly. "Nothing."

((A public notice posted throughout the kingdom))

Citizens of Stormwind:

You have likely heard by now rumors of the mistreatment of a particular prisoner in the Stockade. Although we do not yet have full information regarding the crime and the motivation behind it, allow me to say most definitively that we will. The Watch has been given the authority to undertake an investigation into the crime, and we take that mission very seriously.

The citizens of the kingdom must never doubt that their legal system will treat everyone fairly, justly, and with concern for their property, rights, and lives. The law cannot be failed by those who uphold it, and the citizenry must be able to trust that justice will be done from beginning to end in all cases.

We are gratified to be able to already announce that the victim has begun to recover, thanks to medical care provided by Watch officers. In addition, several Stockade guards have already resigned. It is expected that more conspirators will be identified, and criminal charges filed against them. This does appear to be an isolated, specific incident, as no other prisoners have been treated in such a reprehensible manner. That in no way reduces the enormity of the crime, however.

The rumor that the abused prisoner is the well-known public figure, Professor Rakeri Sputterspark, is also true. Although he without question deserves sympathy for the infamous treatment he suffered, we must take care that our sympathy not extend further than that, as he was arrested for a crime, theft of evidence, that also threatens the integrity of our justice system. Although Professor Sputterspark has rendered invaluable service to the kingdom in the past, it is the unfortunate truth of the world that the capacity for good and evil exists in all individuals. The kingdom built a solid case, and the Professor has received the maximum sentence permitted by law, which is a combination of imprisonment and banishment.

To all those who say he should have received a harsher, or a more lenient punishment, and to all those concerned about the impact on your justice system from the prisoner abuse or theft of evidence, know that the Watch will always ensure that laws are applied as written, in all cases, and that abuses of the system, or stemming from the system, will not be tolerated. The citizens of the kingdom require and deserve a legal system that will protect them and treat them fairly, regardless if they are victims or offenders. That is the public trust you have placed in all of us, and we shall not fail you.

Any inquiries regarding this matter may be directed to the Watch Office and they will be answered in the order received.

- Lt. Commander Orwyn
Stormwind Watch