World of Warcraft®

“Let me convince you,” he said, and he kissed her. One hand gently rested on her cheek while the other grasped her hand. It did not take long for her to lean into the kiss herself, her free hand catching him on the waist. Desire and hunger mixed with every moment, and the taste of mana intoxicated him far more than the wine. His brain buzzed, and he wanted more.

“Having fun are we?”

Everything came to a screeching halt. Elana broke off the kiss, and whatever pleasure and buzz he had was replaced by a furious frustration that bordered on primal. He turned his head towards the source of the interruption. But when he saw the unpleasant scowl of Rydan Wildstar, he sighed.

“We were,” Araneon responded. He glanced at Elana, who looked as if a spell had worn off of her and she just remembered where she was.

“Business?” she asked, her tone understandably cold.

“Certainly not pleasure,” Araneon said. He nodded, and with that gesture of release Elana shrugged. Your loss, the gesture said. She, of course, was right about that.

“The goods are in,” Rydan said, wrinkling his nose at Araneon. “We’ll load the vessel tonight and will leave for the mainland just after. You’ll be on the road with your cargo tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Araneon said, watching Elana saunter back to the table. All this energy with no release – he took a breath to try and calm his heart. Watching her bend over to collect her bag only fanned the flames.

“No time for that,” Rydan said, following his gaze. “Though after you’ve gone maybe I’ll have her. Looks like you softened up the beach head for me.”

“If I find out you’ve touched her I’ll break you into so many pieces that the Forsaken won’t be able to put you back together,” he said. His tone was even, but the heat of his anger came off in waves so strong that Rydan put up his hands in submission.

“Don’t get so testy, was a joke,” Rydan said. “Best to inspect the goods now. Your sister wants to supervise the loading, so the faster we get that part going the less she knows.”

Araneon sighed, drained the last of his wine, and left gold coins on the counter for the bartender.

“Of course,” he said. He followed Rydan out, denying himself one last look at Elana. He found denying himself to be entirely too common, and it did not get easier every time. Absentmindedly his hand went to the Spider tattoo on his arm, and he realized that it only got worse.

“Do you really have to be here for this?”

The question came from behind her, but Anyanara did not have to turn to know that it was her brother asking the question. She had no inclination to turning to greet him, nor did she want to respond to his question. Instead she kept her eyes focused on the dock workers moving about the deck of the Sin’Dorei ship that had been docked for the last few hours. She came alone, which suited her best. She didn’t want any of her colleagues associating with this rough looking crew. Nor did she want any of them to interact with her brother. The only one that looked partially respectable was the leader on the deck. He was wearing fancy blue robes, probably too delicate for ship work. He was issuing instructions to the crew in a quiet tone, his voice barely audible over the moving boxes and shouts of the crew.

“You don’t have to ignore me,” he said.

“And you don’t have to ask stupid questions,” she said to him, raising her eyebrow but still refusing to look at him. “But here we are.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” he said back to her. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t particularly care what you think,” she said, looking at him. “Otherwise I’d be offended.”

She could see the beginnings of a scowl on his face, but he quickly smothered the change and instead pitched an awkward smile.

“You seem irritated.”

“Very astute,” she said, sneering a bit before turning back towards the ship.

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m here in the middle of the night to make sure everything here is on the up and up.” She folded her arms in front of her chest. “And because I asked you to keep your hands to yourself.”

She didn’t have to look at him to see the smug, satisfied grin that must be on his face. Even before his turn as the Spider, Araneon considered himself something of a hot commodity, conquering women against their better judgment and turning them into victories that bolstered his ego. She thought that would change after he had been chastened into leaving his old life behind, but to her dismay he retained many of the same qualities that led him down that dark path in the first place. It was one of the main reasons why she found it so hard to completely trust him again. His contrition often came across as sincere, but it was too easy to imagine that these same forays into flirtation would lead him down that dark path again. It was, she mused, much like that tattoo on his arm. He could hide himself away, but he could not banish it permanently.

“Elana came up to me,” he said. She turned to look at him.

“I’m sure she put a sword to your throat to make you kiss her, too,” she snapped at him

“It was just a kiss,”

“That was cut short by a third party, not you coming to your senses.”

“It was just a bit of kissing with a beautiful elf,” Araneon said with a playful laugh that set her nerves on edge. “No harm no foul.”

“Says you.”

“You know, maybe you’ve gone too long without some affection yourself. You seem to have a warped view of a little romantic entanglement.”

“That may be,” Anya said, turning on him with an icy glare. “But I’ve never turned romantic entanglements into predation.”

The silence that came between them was extremely chilly.

“That was unnecessary,” he said, the hurt in his eyes.

“You got personal first,” she replied back, turning her gaze back to the ships. Several of the elves were moving a rather large crate towards the ramp off of the boat.

“Are you ever going to let the past go?”

“Maybe when you show me that you’ve changed,” she said, perhaps too quickly. But she was irritated – no, more than irritated. He seemed to think that he could go back to the way things were before she found out about his past. That he could act like nothing had happened. They had that argument many times before, that redemption doesn’t mean erasing the past. It meant atoning, learning, and then changing. That never seemed to sink in.

“I have changed,” he insisted. “Once I’m done with this I’ll prove it to you.”

“I hope so,” she said, but she wasn’t sure how much hope she had anymore. It was like holding water in her hand. Each day more of it slipped through her fingers.

“You’re going to owe me an apology once this is all done,” he said, trying to reel the tone back towards something a little more civil. She made to answer, but then her eyes spotted something odd on the crate as it was lowered down the ramp. The entire front of it was covered in glittering runes that glowed in the dark of night. The torches along the docks were lit with magical fire, but their flames did not compare to the blue, radiant light emanating from the runes. She watched as the runes flickered. The crate was extremely large, at least fourteen feet long and thick. The wood thudded down the ramp – must have been heavy too.

“Those are containment runes,” she said to him.

“I’m not sure. I could find out if –”

“I’m not asking,” Anya said, cutting him off. “They are.”

“Impressive that you can tell just by looking at them,” Araneon said. It sounded to her like he was trying to mollify her, but she wouldn’t let him derail her.

“It’s my job to know these things,” she said. “So what’s in the crates that would need to be contained with arcane runes?”

“Anya –”

“Don’t ‘Anya’ me,” she said, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. “What’s in the crates?”

“I don’t understand why you’re getting so angry,” Araneon said. “I told you before that they were magically sealed.”

“Sealed,” Anya repeated, turning on him with a snarl. “You said ‘magically sealed’. There’s a difference between sealed and warded, Araneon. And I’m not stupid enough to think that you don’t know the difference too.”

“Keep your voice down,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Anya said, letting her voice get louder. “What’s in the crates?”

“Can we maybe move this discussion away from the ship?” Araneon asked, reaching out to grab her arm. She pulled away.

“Why? What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, I just don’t want to cause a scene in front of the crew.”

It was, however, too late for that. Several of the ship workers were looking from the ship at the two of them, slowing their work to watch. The leader looked down at her, as if he had just noticed she was there and was wondering why he could suddenly hear her. Anya couldn’t recognize him through the dark of night, not that she knew any of the crew, but she glared defiantly back. No one was going to silence her or distract her from her job.

“You and your secrets,” Anya hissed, finally prying her eyes from the elf on the ship to face her brother, who looked stricken. “After everything I’ve done for you, you’d do something like this?”

“What did I do that was so horrible?” he asked.

“Whatever is in those crates,” she snapped, jabbing her finger towards the boat, “is probably dangerous. No, not even probably. Is dangerous. Otherwise the crates wouldn’t be magically warded from whatever was inside from getting out. Which means you brought something dangerous to the place where I work, when I told you that I was going out on a limb considering I’m already on thin ice. It was a miracle I even wrangled a solo supervision on this. You’ve taken advantage of everything that I’ve done for you, and you’re doing precisely what I asked you not to do. If anyone else saw these crates and saw that I let them onto this island without knowing, they’d kill me let alone fire me.”

“But no one else is here, Anya,” Araneon insisted. “Just calm down and we can discuss it.”

“And who are these people?” Anya said. “They aren’t Sunreavers, they aren’t wearing the tabard. None of them look familiar.”

“They were contracted,” Araneon shifted.

“You said you were chosen for this because you worked with the Sunreavers.”

“I was, and that’s true,” Araneon said. “They gave me access to the Isle. But Aloyseus decided to contract his own crew to move the goods.”

“So do you even know any of them?”

“Rydan Wildstar,” Araneon said. “He’s the owner of the ship.”

“And the rest of them?” Anya said, her voice rising again. Araneon didn’t answer. Instead, he hung his head.

“You, up on the deck,” Anya yelled, breaking away from Araneon and pointing up at the robed elf. “Stop unloading the ship immediately until you can produce a list of the cargo on the ship.”

“Don’t,” Araneon yelled up to him. “Everything’s fine, I’ll take care of –”

“You’ll take care of what, exactly?” Anya hissed, wheeling around on him. “You must be forgetting who is in charge here. I’m not letting anything come off that ship until I know what’s in the damned crates.”

“You can’t ruin this for me,” Araneon said, finally betraying his own anger and frustration. His body gave off heat, but she was not deterred by him. She straightened her back, meeting him in the eye.

“My relationship with you is not going to prevent me from doing my job here in Quel’Danas,” she said, lowering her voice and pulling him away. She could feel the eyes of the crew on them. “The last time someone came on this island with magically warded crates, charming anyone they saw to hide their intentions, he almost destroyed the Sunwell.”

“I told you, I’m not Malthaes.”

“Well this looks just like a page out of his playbook,” Anya said.

“That’s crazy, I’ve never even met him,” Araneon said, looking gravely offended. “And I’m not some wild fundamentalist trying to destroy society, no matter how little you think of me.”

“I’m not saying you are,” Anya said back to him. “But this is precisely the kind of thing that could ruin everything if someone saw.”

“No one is here, Anya,” Araneon repeated.

“That you know of.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“And you’re irresponsible,” she said back. “I can’t let you bring these crates onto the Isle –”

“They’re not staying here,” Araneon hissed. “They’re going onto the ship docked one pier down and they’re departing tonight. No one is going to destroy the Sunwell.”

“And what if one of your mooks up there screws this up? What if whatever is in there gets out?”

“It’s not like that,” Araneon said.

“What’s it like then?”

Araneon opened his mouth to answer, but for once he couldn’t come up with an answer that he liked. She hitched a sarcastic smile to her face.

“Nothing,” she said. “You’ve got nothing to say.”

“I swore I wouldn’t tell,” he said. “These crates are just moving through. Nothing is going to happen to cost you your job.”

“Prove it,” she said, her eyes flashing. “You want trust? Then I want honesty. For once. Nothing glib, no omissions. Just tell me the truth.”

“I told you the truth about what I’ve done,” he said, rolling up his sleeves and pointing at the Spider tattoo on his arm. “Stop acting like all I’ve done to you is lie.”

“You didn’t come to me on your own,” Anya retorted. “Let’s not change the past to suit your agenda, Araneon. The only reason you came to me was because you needed someone to keep you safe when your secret wasn’t such a secret anymore. You needed someone to cover for you while you covered your tracks.”

“I’m asking you for your trust so that I can repay it by living up to it,” Araneon said. “Let me pass these materials through. This is my one chance to get this tattoo off of my arm, to get the last of the Spider erased from memory. Can’t you let me have that?”

“I’d love for you to have a clean slate,” Anya said back to him. “I’d also love to know that my brother was capable of trusting me with the truth, even when it was inconvenient.”

Araneon looked at her, a sadness in his eyes that twisted her sense of guilt. But she stood firm. He got an easy pass – he was never held accountable for the crimes he had committed. She saw in his face the instinct towards the path of least resistance, the shortcut that would eliminate the proof of his past. But it wasn’t about eliminating the proof that he was the Spider, at least not to her. It was about proving that he wasn’t the Spider anymore.

“I’ll talk to them,” Araneon said. “If they’re ok with it, then I’ll tell you. But you can’t tell anyone. You have to keep it to yourself.”

She let out a hiss through her nose. Everything about this seemed wrong to her. If the materials were so secret, it made little to no sense to bring them to Quel’Danas. Sure, a lot of the ships moved through the docks, but the Sunwell was extremely well protected. Nothing came to the shores without prying eyes, and she didn’t put it passed her superiors to be keeping tabs on her, even if they assured her she had their trust for solo operation. Whatever they were bringing onto the Isle, however temporary, was extremely dangerous. And while she found herself believing the materials really were just passing through, she feared more for her brother. He was so desperate to erase the past that he was stumbling into a situation that could lead him into more mistakes, more things to cover up. He was digging himself out of a hole, and she couldn’t get him to grasp her hand and let her help pull him out.

She watched as he walked up the ramp and approached the elf in the robes. They talked quietly, their heads bobbing as they spoke. Several of the workers glanced at her accusingly, as if they were anxious to get back to their work and she was holding them up. She didn’t show any sort of apology, because she wasn’t sorry. All of this was wrong, in every way. Instinct wanted her to just send them away and not have to deal with any of it. But now she needed to know what her brother was up to.

The conversation on the ship ended, and her brother was strolling down the ramp. She pressed her hands to her hips and looked at him.

“I can give you a copy of the manifest,” Araneon said, holding up a tube.

“What’s the catch?” she asked.

“They don’t want you to supervise anymore.”

“That’s impossible –”

“There are two documents in here. One is the actual copy. You’ll know it when you see it. The second is a fake manifest. They want you to bring it to your office now, which will give you deniability when we unload the cargo. You’ll then return here, watch us unload some dummy freight, and then you’ll sign off on the paperwork that you’ve authorized and seen all of what was on the manifest.”

“So lying and forgery?”

“It’s the best I can do,” Araneon said.

“And how do I know that these aren’t faked for my benefit?”

“He gave it to me sealed,” Araneon shrugged.

“You haven’t looked at them?”

“No,” he responded, shaking his head. “I don’t need to. Aloyseus told me all about what’s inside.”

“Must be nice,” she said.

“Not really, no,” Araneon said back. He looked at her, waiting for her to decide. She glanced between him and the tube in his hand. He kept his face neutral, but she could see the pleading in his eyes. The desire was plain, and Anya knew that there was no convincing him that a further dalliance into the illegal would not absolve him of his past crimes. But if this Aloyseus could truly remove the tattoo on his arm, and that was the last thing that Araneon needed to completely abandon his past, then perhaps Anya could spare him a bit of trust. They were, after all, giving her some deniability.

“Fine,” Anya said. Araneon’s shoulder sagged with relief, and he gave the robed elf on the deck of the ship a thumbs up. Anya took the tube from Araneon, her eyes flicking from the tube to her brother. It felt dirty, wrong, but so would denying her brother a chance at something better. “But this is it, Araneon. No more. This has to be the end of all of this.”

“Agreed,” Araneon said.

“I mean it,” she said. “The next time I see you, that tattoo better be gone and your life better be something that we can talk about out loud and not in secret. No more shortcuts, no more cheats. Just good old fashioned hard work.”

“Thank you so much for this,” Araneon said. She believed his gratitude, and his relief, but she could not decide if it was relief from his fear of reprisal, or if he genuinely looked forward to a clean slate. But that was something she wouldn’t be able to tell until they got to a point where he could start meaning cleaner choices. If this was the start of that, then perhaps it was worth the festering guilt that grew in the pit of her stomach.

“Ok,” she said, taking an uncertain look back at the crew, who had begun working again on the shipment. “You’ve got about an hour or so before I get back. Make good use of that time.”

“I will,” he said. He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then turned to go back to the ship. She watched him go, feeling the doubt grow stronger with every second that passed. She turned and walked away from the ship, her hand clenched on the plastic tube as if reminding herself that it was worth the trouble.

But with every step she took, the more she considered that she had made a grave error. Every thought fed her doubt, making it stronger. The quiet of Quel’Danas made it worse – there was nothing to distract her thoughts. The waves were quiet, and the flickering glow of the magical torches that lined the street illuminated nothing except sleeping buildings and trees. There wasn’t a soul around, which was weird because she expected to at least pass a sentry as she got closer to the office. Not that she needed a guard to defend her – she would have just welcomed some small talk.

Instead, her mind wandered towards the plastic tube in her hand. Maybe knowing the contents of the crates would make her feel better about the whole thing. There was a risk, however, that she would discover something to make her regret infinitely worse. She stopped, leaning against one of the lamp posts, her eyes looking at the tube as if it were going to give her the answer she was looking for. Such was the burden of curiosity – once you knew something, there was no going back. There were so many instances where Anya learned something that she wished she never had. It was her burden, perhaps, to be surrounded by people who chose to live lives beneath her standards. But then, she mused, she always seemed to cater to their whims, hoping for a redemption that never came. She made that mistake most grievously with Malthaes, and it almost cost her everything.

Moodily she started walking again, not to anywhere in particular. Her hands traced the seal to the tube, to give her something to do while she danced on the fine wire of indecision. She had a chance to do differently from what she would normally do – she could let their misdeeds remain covered in shadow. But as soon as she considered it, she knew that she didn’t have that in her. Everything came to the light eventually, no secret remained forever. She’d rather know it now, in case it all turned on her. Being betrayed was horrible, but when it comes as a blindside it was infinitely worse.

She ripped the seal from the tube and two pieces of parchment came out. Quickly she unrolled the first, and held it up to the dim light provided by one of the street torches. Light and shadow warred on the page, making it difficult to read. But when her eyes ranged over mundane items like vials, lab tables, and the like, she knew she was reading the fake manifest. She rolled that back up and replaced it into the tube. Her hands held the second rolled scroll, and that ever-feeding doubt crept into her mind. She didn’t have to unroll the thing. She didn’t need to know.

Her hands opened the scroll, and her eyes landed on the contents. Instantly her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, and a scalding anger erupted inside of her. This was the moment she did not look forward to, the moment where she couldn’t go back to the place where she didn’t open the tube.

The scroll was blank.

Already the harsh, cursed words that she would hurl at Araneon came to her mind, flooding her every thought. How her brother could do this. How? She turned, imagining herself storming back down the docks and grabbing him by his collar. Undoubtedly she would smack him. She was drowning in anger, lost in images of rage and retribution. She would never trust her brother again, never –

A blinding, searing pain burst in her chest. She looked down and saw, inexplicably, the blade of a sword protruding from her chest. All of the thoughts in her head were banished save for the odd realization that it was her blood and innards that coated the blade. The pain overcame her, and the hot taste of her blood filled her mouth, dripping down her chin. Why – it echoed in her mind. Her hands moved to grasp the blade, but the blade then twisted. She had no breath to scream, and she felt her legs give out, her body catching on the blade. Her eyes cast upwards, glancing at the glimmering torchlight above her. It seemed to dim the longer she looked at it.

She turned her head, and she came face to face with the elf that had run her through. She didn’t have time to respond to the visage. Instead, her eyes closed, and the dark overcame her.

Aloyseus gave him five days. Finnaeus returned to Lordaeron in four.

The pouring rain had ravaged the roads so badly that they were more sludge than dirt, treacherous for anything traveling on wheels. Finnaeus had decided that he would be more inconspicuous this time when he entered Lordaeron. The rain made the area even worse, a thought he previously considered inconceivable. The smell of the wet mud mingling with the already overpowering stench of death nearly choked him as he slunk through the countryside, his feline form wrapped in shadows that he barely trusted.

The going was slow, deliberate. A little bit of rain did not deter the Forsaken from any of their duties. In fact, they did not seem to notice the rain at all. Deathstalkers continued their patrols, the water dripping from the corpses and taking small pieces of flesh with them. The demon hounds that roamed the countryside had no cause for shelter, and the dark of night drew out the spiders and bats. A few picked up his scent, and some of the spiders considered attempting to make him their meal. None of them actually mustered up the nerve. Finnaeus did not fear any of this wild life, but he was more than happy to give them a wide berth. He did not want any distractions. Nor did he want to leave a trail.

Soaking wet, his eyes ever focused on his next step, he wound his way to the small compound that his brother called home. Some of the windows flickered with candle light, which was not entirely unexpected. He spotted Aloyseus’s building, and he made his way towards it. He leapt effortlessly over the rotted, wooden fence that demarked the beginning of the compound. Silently he plodded through the mud. The rain fell more steadily, pounding against the nightshade black shingles of the house. He sniffed, trying to get a scent, and only succeeded in filling his nostrils with that decrepit stench of the Forsaken. It turned his stomach.

He approached Aloyseus’s house and reared on his hind legs, putting his front paws against the wall so he could see inside. There was no sign of his brother in the room. He made his way around the building, checking each window, trying to get a visual on his brother. But there were only four of them, all around the building, and there was no sign of anyone inside save for the candle light.

Narrowing his eyes, he padded over to the front door and pressed tentatively against it. The wooden door swung open with a creak. He listened, trying to get any sign that someone was in the room. He could detect no movement, no scent. It unnerved him that his brother would leave candles lit in the building and yet leave it unattended. He twisted into his troll form. From his satchel he pulled a piece of cloth, and carefully removed the mud and moisture from both his hands and feet. He uttered an incantation, and with a warm tingle of air his clothes were dry and warm. Satisfied that he would not leave any tracks, he stepped over the threshold and entered the house.

Several bookcases lined the walls, each one filled to the brim with leather bound books. A few of them, upon closer inspection, looked to be bound with human skin. These had traces of shadow magic upon them – Finnaeus suspected that they were necromantic in origin. He had enough experience with foul tomes, however, to know enough to not pull them from the shelves. His eyes ranged over the books, trying to detect some sort of pattern, but the subjects were vast. Topics ranged from history and geography, to arcane and demonic rituals, to stratagems on warfare and urban development. All of this came as a surprise to Finnaeus, who knew his living brother to be far from academic in his character. The Aloyseus he knew was filled with big ideas on justice and society, but he was about action over thought. Impulsive, Finn often called him, while Aloyseus always referred to him as unyielding and lacking in imagination. Aloyseus clearly changed. Finnaeus wasn’t so sure that he had.

The adjacent room was more of the same. Books upon books, scrolls in wooden tubes. In the center of the room was a large, wooden table, completely covered in pieces of parchment. He sifted through some of them. Several on the top were covered in runes with which Finnaeus was not familiar. He moved these aside and saw a few maps that sparked his interest. The first few were of Pandaria regions – a few of the Townlong Steppes and of the Isle of Thunder. He took out his mechanical monocle. It whirred to life, and after a few seconds to warm up Finnaeus began taking pictures. He recorded all of them – maps of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, of the mountainous regions of Kun Lai. But then the content of the maps changed – suddenly he was looking at maps of Gilneas. It was an odd transition in subject matter. The monocle clicked furiously, the sound matching his mounting curiosity. Finnaeus replaced the maps, and moved on to the next pile.

The next pile was comprised of parchments that Finnaeus could barely decipher. There were diagrams upon diagrams, numbers and calculations etched neatly onto the parchments. Finnaeus guessed that they were arcane calculations, based on the mixture of runes and math, but he could not be sure. He had grown proficient with his own magical prowess, but he would never be an arcane scholar. That job was meant for people far smarter than him. But he took pictures nevertheless – he had numerous contacts for this kind of information, and some of them may even still help him while he was stuck in his troll body. The others, he thought with a grim sort of bemusement, would likely try to remove his head from his shoulders.

Interesting as these materials were, Finnaeus could not connect the dots between the documents and this escort mission that he wanted Finn to assist with. Perhaps there was no connection. Desmend, his old mentor, would have cautioned him against making rash connections between two events, and it was good advice. His instinct told him that they were, somehow, but there wasn’t enough proof to give substance to the hazy thought. He contented himself with the pictures. One of his sources could help transcribe the more complicated and arcane diagrams. Maybe after some clarification, the documents would yield some more information.

Satisfied that he had documented everything, he moved the parchments back to their initial places. It was odd how quickly and easily he did this. Infiltration, espionage – these things came as naturally as shifting forms to him now. There was once a time when he was terrible at it, stumbling in the shadows and nearly getting caught in the process. But Finnaeus was nothing if not persistent. Missions for the Presidium, even some stealth missions for Inquisitor Bloodwing of the Coterie, not to mention his own personal jaunts into hostile territory – they had helped him hone his craft. It was a role that he never envisioned himself performing. But here he was, his eyes scanning for anything that would leave a trace, and finding that he had, once again, done a remarkable job at covering his tracks. It unnerved him how good he had gotten at it.

But none of that changed that he had come up empty handed. Nothing he found gave any indication on what his brother intended on doing. And without that kind of knowledge, Finnaeus could not openly assist Aloyseus. He needed to know more, and his brother had refused to share details unless Finn accepted his terms. They were terms that did not sit well with him. There was a chance he was caught up in something unsavory, perhaps by his own design. Finnaeus would not have his name attached to something like that. Not without knowing ahead of time.

He made his way back to the entrance way. Idly he glanced to the stairs leading to the second floor. There was a chance there was something up there to scout, but he decided not to press his luck. He didn’t know where his brother was, and he didn’t want to risk –

There were voices outside. Instinct kicked in; he shifted into his cat form and stealthed into the shadows. He bounded to the window and peeked outside. A huge carriage yoked to four skeletal horses had pulled in front of the building. Riding at the front was his undead brother Aloyseus, covered head to toe in silk robes, and an elf with a stern disposition and short, red hair. He looked sour from the rain, his face soaking wet.

“Will he be here?” the elf asked, pulling the carriage to a halt. The horses rustled but remained quiet. The rain fell against them, but they showed no sign of discomfort. That made sense, since they were dead.

“Remains to be seen,” Aloyseus said, his voice barely audible above the splashing mud. “I gave him until tomorrow. With or without him, however, we proceed.”

“I thought he was necessary,” the elf asked.

“I believe he is,” Aloyseus said, his robes dragging in the mud as he surveyed the cargo in the carriage. Several crates lined the back. One of the larger ones had glowing blue runes all along the outside. The crates were of various sizes, but Finnaeus couldn’t get a good look because of his angle.

“And we continue without him then?”

“We’ll have to,” Aloyseus said. “Everything moves forward regardless. I believe he’ll come.”

“Believe?” the elf asked. “Or hope?” Aloyseus looked back at the elf.

“In this case, both,” he responded. “I had similar doubts that you could make it here in time. You not only did, but you got here a day earlier than expected.”

“I aim to please.”

“More like you’re anxious to be done here,” Aloyseus said, his hand reaching up to one of the crates, his bony fingers tracing one of the blue runes.

“That too.”

“We’re in the home stretch, Araneon,” Aloyseus responded.

“And our agreement?”

“The terms of our agreement are still in effect,” Aloyseus said, nodding. “As well as some additional financial recompense for some of the familial stress that we have placed on you.”

The elf – Araneon – shifted uncomfortably.

“So you heard?”

“I like to keep well informed,” Aloyseus said. “I regret that our transition in Quel’Danas upset your sister.”

“I feel the same way,” Araneon said, shifting. “But she went along with it in the end.”

Finnaeus watched the two of them. Inevitably they would make their way inside, and that would make leaving without being seen almost impossible. He tore himself away from the window and bounded into the living room and then up the stairs. He made his way into one of the rooms at the top of the stairs. The walls were lined with books – no windows. Cursing inwardly, he left the room and tried the next. This one looked like a study, with a small window on the opposite end. He made his way over and opened it up. Hanging a head outside, he saw an empty field. Relieved that his brother and the elf were on the other side of the house, he climbed through the window and then closed it behind him. He shifted into his bat form, fluttering up to the roof and then perching just above the carriage. Just barely he could make out the voices.

“…will need payment.”

“I’ve made arrangements all around, I assure you,” Aloyseus said. “Do not fear. There will be no loose ends.”

“I hope not,” Araneon said, looking around. “So when do we leave?”

“We wait for Finnaeus tomorrow. If he does not show by sundown, we leave without him.”

“Sundown? It is it wise to travel at night?”

“Do you fear the dark, Araneon?” Aloyseus asked, a hint of mirth in his voice.

“No,” Araneon said, sounding offended. “Of course not.”

“We leave in the dark to keep us hidden,” Aloyseus said. “I want no delays nor curious investigators. Discretion is key.”

“I find it hard to believe that no one will stop us along the way,” Araneon said. “Your cargo is not exactly unsuspicious.”

“True,” Aloyseus said. “But let us cross that bridge when we get to it. Travelling at night decreases the odds that we run into anyone especially curious.”

“Fine,” Araneon said. “This would have been a lot easier if you didn’t need to be so damned secretive. I’m sure you would have gathered some support for your little project.”

“Hypothetically, sure,” Aloyseus said. “But the results are crucial, and I need not raise any hopes when there is a slim chance that this may not work.”

“But you think it will?”

“Confident,” Aloyseus said, pressing his ears to the runed crate as if listening. Finnaeus wished he could shift and use his monocle. But that would have been madness.

“Can’t be too confident if you’re hedging your bets.”

“A smart man will always account for the alternatives,” Aloyseus said. “But believe me, I’m well convinced of the efficacy of what we are doing here. You are, of course, welcome to hang around and see for yourself, once we complete the delivery.”

“No thanks,” Araneon said, holding up his hands. “Once you pay me, I’m out of here. I’m not interested in your science project. Only in payment.”

“Understood,” Aloyseus said, betraying a bit of impatience. “Our terms have not changed.”

“Just want to be clear that I want nothing to do with your end business.”

“You don’t want to be part of something grand?”

“Absolutely not,” Araneon said. “I’ve got no ambition except to fade into obscurity.”

“A shame, you show such promise,” Aloyseus said. “But, we all have our burdens to bear. Come, help me make sure these are properly secured to the cart.” Aloyseus took another moment to trace the runes on the crate. Araneon, however, looked hesitant to approach the crate. Aloyseus looked back at him.

“The crate will not bite, I assure you.”

“It’s not the crate I’m worried about,” Araneon said. Finnaeus saw the elf’s hand clench the grip of his sword.

“He is well secure,” Aloyseus said, turning his gaze back towards the crate. His hands hovered over the runes, the blue light flaring. “The runes are still quite potent. But then again, so is our cargo.”

“Think he’ll get out?”

“No,” Aloyseus said. “But one can never be too sure. I’ll consult with my colleague about these runes before we leave tomorrow.”

“What about the other crates?”

“Those are fine,” Aloyseus said. “Those simply need to stay accounted for. They will not need to be warded.”

“Good,” Araneon said. Then, shifting, he added, “And your magister friend?”

“Utterly capable of discretion, yes,” Aloyseus said, anticipating the question. “Come, we have work to do. I want no delays tomorrow.” The two of them secured the crates in the cart, and then headed inside the house.

Finnaeus had seen enough. He fluttered away into the night, his wings beating against the cold rain that slashed the sky. So Aloyseus wanted his help to escort some sort of ‘he’, locked away in a crate. Finnaeus wanted to know more – it seemed out of character for his brother to keep someone prisoner for so long that he would be sealed in a crate. But, Finn reminded himself, he did not really know his brother anymore. Becoming a Forsaken changed him. And he also did not know this mysterious “he”. Clearly someone of immense power, if they were worried about him breaking loose.

Answers always posed a tantalizing lure, but he wasn’t so sure that this knowledge was something he truly wanted. He had a decision to make, but he had to find shelter nearby first before he could cast his mind towards that particular hurdle. The weather was deteriorating; a distant roll of thunder sounded more like the weather clearing its throat for what was to come. He did not want to be airborne when the storm really opened.

Beautiful writing as usual. Well done.

((Thanks Gen! Means a lot!))

((Sorry for letting this sit - was out of town last week. Without further ado, the continuation!))

Araneon sat on the carriage, watching the sun dip below the horizon. Normally sunsets were his favorite time of the day. He would watch the sky light up in pinks and oranges, settling into deep purples, as the stars awoke and the sun took to its nightly rest. Spring days were the best – the floral scents complimented the light colors, and an easy breeze would sweep away any troubles for just a few moments of beautiful tranquility. But here, in Lordaeron, the sunset was far more ominous and sinister. Dark came quickly on the sky, as if feasting on the remains of the sunlight while the land devoured the sun itself. There was something hungering about the oncoming dark, and when no stars emerged overhead it was as if the night had awoken, and claimed dominion.

He shuddered. The air was still damp and thick with moisture from the storm. It had raged itself out by morning, but in its aftermath there were downed trees and the ground looked more like thick sludge. A fog slithered over the ground, sometimes snaking up trees or curling like fingers clutching at the air. It did not look like great weather for travelling, but Aloyseus would not have any delays. Araneon turned to the Forsaken, who stood at the front door with his bony arms folded in front of his chest. The sun disappeared, repelled by the night, and still the druid had not appeared.

“Sundown,” Araneon said, his eyebrow raised.

A rasp escaped Aloyseus’s nose, a rare moment of emotion escaping before he let his arms settle by his side.

“Indeed. It would be wise to depart.”

Araneon watched Aloyseus climb aboard the carriage, taking the reins to the skeletal steeds and purging them on. The carriage wheels groaned underneath them, struggling against the thick paste that was once the road.

“You must be disappointed,” Araneon offered, as the carriage staggered forwards. Aloyseus flicked the reins, and the steeds moved a bit faster, pulling harder. Araneon wondered if dead horses felt any kind of pain.

“I’m not entirely unsurprised,” Aloyseus responded. “Finnaeus was always stubborn. If he made up his mind, nothing was going to alter him from his course.”

“You’re his brother,” Araneon said. “That should count for something.”

“Present circumstances have made our relationship quite complicated,” Aloyseus said, not looking at the elf. Araneon snorted.

“Family is family,” Araneon insisted. “My sister probably hates my guts, but she’d do anything for me. Sometimes family is all you have in the world.”

“Endearing.” The Forsaken let a small smile emerge from the concentrated effort of conveying a neutral expression. Araneon narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t agree?”

“It’s a lovely sentiment,” Aloyseus said. “I have no prejudice against it, specifically, but about sentiments in general. Family can be a great asset and comfort. It is, however, still a construct created by people. Such constructs are only as strong as the faith and belief that people put in them.”

“Meaning?” Araneon asked, leaning forward.

“Meaning that it’s not a general truth that ‘Family is family’. Perhaps it’s not a truth at all.”

“It is for me,” Araneon insisted.

“I find that curious,” Aloyseus said.

“How so?”

“Well you have your sister. You had no influence in her existence. To you, her being your sister was as determined for you as being born into a world with gravity. You had no real choice in your relationship with her. Surely your parents indoctrinated you into caring for family well before you had the intellectual capacity to question it.”

“What’s your point?”

“That if family was such a vital, powerful resource, why do you only have your sister?”

“Well my parents died long ago, and –”

“Let me clarify,” Aloyseus responded. “Why do you not have a family of your own, of your own creation?”

“How do you know that I don’t?”

“You haven’t even come close to establishing a family for yourself. No long term relationships, save for your web of associates from your days as The Spider. And the relationship with your sister is forged of a bond built out of some sort of emotional obligation. You have no one else.”

“I could have a family somewhere, and I’ve hidden them from you,” Araneon said.

“You could,” Aloyseus said. “But you don’t.”

“You presume a lot.”

“It’s not a presumption,” Aloyseus. “I know quite a bit about you, I assure you.”

“Quite a bit,” Araneon repeated, the words bitter in his mouth. “I forgot that you have all the answers.”

“Not all,” Aloyseus said. “I’m not so arrogant to claim to have all the answers.”

“But just arrogant enough to scour up every piece of information available on someone,” Araneon retorted. “And to twist them into doing your work for you.”

“That’s not arrogance,” Aloyseus responded. “It is prudence.”

“Whatever,” Araneon said, thoroughly annoyed at the undead priest. A silence fell between them, thick and unpleasant like the fog around them. Araneon casted a scowl in Aloyseus’s direction. It was highly disturbing to be in a position of weakness. Aloyseus knew everything. How he knew everything was the essential question. Araneon was sure that he had eliminated every one of his old contacts. There were only three people that knew he was the Spider. His sister, himself, and the one responsible for the tattoo brand on his arm. And he was confident no one told Aloyseus.

So how then? How did he know? He shifted in the seat, training his gaze back to the trotting skeletal steeds in front of him. There was a part of him that knew that the Shadow gave people the power to infiltrate the mind, to steal and destroy thoughts, to flay minds and obliterate sanity. But the process, in his experience, was extremely painful and invasive. There was never a time when Araneon felt a foreign presence poking around his thoughts. And even if Aloyseus attempted, Araneon was confident he was strong enough with the Light to protect himself from that kind of mental invasion.

But the longer Araneon thought of it, the more he realized that he was never at ease around Aloyseus. It was always a discomfort to be in the presence of the Forsaken, but this was a special unease. His thoughts always drifted to his past, to the days when he strutted around as the Spider laying claim to whatever he wanted. He never took the time to really think about why that was the case. For a long time he dismissed it as insecurity that someone he was not familiar with knowing his secret. But now, sitting next to him and feeling that inexplicable discomfort, Araneon strongly considered that the priest was influencing his thoughts.

The carriage trundled on, moving slowly but steadily. The darkness was thick in the middle of the Tirisfal Glades, with only the baleful glow of the steeds’ eyes giving off any kind of light. Araneon’s eyesight was still sharp at night, but the thick fog had no intention of betraying its secrets. The silence was worse than the darkness, however. Araneon expected to hear the moving of nocturnal creatures. Demon hounds prowling the woods, or the skittering of a spider drawing its webs in the trees. But if any of those things were moving, they moved silently. Araneon’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, wishing that there was something to fight. In fact, he would have taken any kind of distraction to take his mind off of things he couldn’t answer. Or explain.

He yawned. Aloyseus, as a Forsaken, showed no signs of weariness. He simply stared ahead, his eyes trained on the path ahead with a purpose that would not be impeded by fog or darkness.

“You know, if we’re going to be travelling together I should know something about you,” Araneon said. He tried to keep his tone casual, trying to sound more casual than opportunistic. But then he thought that endeavor was futile. Aloyseus would, if he could read minds, see right through it.

“What do you want to know?”

“You’d actually answer? Honestly?”

“I can answer any question you ask,” Aloyseus said genially. “Whether you accept it as truth or not is a decision that is out of my hands.”

Smart !@#, Araneon thought.

“Fine. Where are you from? When you were alive?”

“Gilneas,” Aloyseus answered promptly.

“You were Forsaken before the invasion, though,” Araneon responded.

“Indeed. I died in Stratholme.”

Araneon quirked an eyebrow. That didn’t make sense – Gilneas built the wall to extricate themselves from the Alliance. Curiosity piqued, he leaned forward. He held out his right hand, and absentmindedly a spark of Light danced between his fingertips.

“How does a Gilnean die in Stratholme? I thought your people were isolationists and locked yourselves behind the wall before the Scourge hit.”

“They were and they did,” Aloyseus responded. “My brother and I joined the Gilnean troops that marched with the Alliance against the Horde. After the war, when we reached Gilneas, I decided not to return home. Finnaeus did.”

“Why not go home?”

“A question that vexed my brother,” Aloyseus said with a laugh that sounded well-choreographed to sound genuinely amused. Araneon did not buy it for a second. “It vexed him for quite some time after Gilneas fell.”

“Why?”

“You must understand – I did not want to go to war. Survival against the Horde was paramount, which I understood at the time. But I didn’t want to kill. I didn’t want to fight. My father, for the sake of family pride and out of loyalty for Gilneas, pressured both myself and Finnaeus to represent our family. And so we did.”

“I can’t imagine you as a pacifist,” Araneon said.

“No,” Aloyseus said. “As you can clearly see, I am no longer that person. By the time we had done our fighting, I had seen enough of the world to know that it was bigger than just Gilneas and its pride. But as expansive as my ambitions grew, Finnaeus’s shrank. I wanted to see and help the world, he just wanted to get back to his family. Not that I blame him. But when we returned, I decided to go my own path. He did not agree with me at all. It violated his sense of family, of completeness.”

“And so you landed in Stratholme?”

“Not at first. I spent quite a bit of time in Capital City, forging contacts, training in the Light. I went with Prince Arthas when he marched on Stratholme. The rest is sordid history, as it were.”

“So you were Scourge,” Araneon said, his nose wrinkling.

“Afraid so,” Aloyseus said.

“Interesting.”

“Have I satisfied your curiosity?”

“Maybe,” Araneon responded, clenching his hand and watching the Light fade out. “Do you ever miss it? Being alive?”

A silence followed. It was a personal question, and probably rude to ask. But Araneon did not care – Aloyseus knew much about Araneon that would be considered intensely private. He was only returning the favor.

“No,” Aloyseus responded.

“Really?”

“Death and undeath are violent and, obviously, gravely transformative. But they are also liberating.”

“Liberating?”

“Liberating,” Aloyseus repeated with a nod. “My death and subsequent resurrection, with all of what that entails, freed me from the kind of hindrance and restriction that the living seem to prize.”

“Like what?” Araneon asked, his eyebrow raised.

“The guilt you carry for being the Spider, for example,” Aloyseus said. Araneon twisted in his seat. Always it came back to that damned moniker.

“Do you have to keep bringing it up?”

“You have proven my point,” Aloyseus responded. “You bear your history like a burden to be kept in the shadows. As such, having the ability to shine a light on it makes you vulnerable, and able to be manipulated. Your attachment to your guilt has done this to you.”

“You’ve never done anything questionable at all?”

“Oh I would never lie that boldly,” Aloyseus said with a guttural laugh.

“And you’re saying that you feel no guilt? At all?”

Aloyseus turned to him, gesturing towards the horses.

“Observe these steeds. They are tied to this carriage by my will, and so when they pull it forward, they carry its weight. They would run faster, less laboriously, without being attached to the carriage. Their freedom is denied them by me. Guilt is the carriage, and you the steed. But you tie yourself to that weight, you restrict your own movement. It is a burden that no one places on you but yourself. Unless, of course, you care so much about someone that they put it there for you.”

“Remorse is important,” Araneon said, though when he said it, it sounded more like something his sister repeated at him over and over. “It tells us when we do something wrong. It prevents us from repeating the same mistake.”

“You conflate learning from the past with suffering from what has transpired,” Aloyseus said. “Why should you suffer emotionally from making a mistake? One can learn without having to rake over past deeds and feel, fresh and new, the pain of those failures or mistakes that we so readily regret.”

“My sister would have a huge problem with your argument,” Araneon said. “She’s big on atonement and repentance.”

“Only those who have no perspective labor under some presumption that they need to suffer due to the past,” Aloyseus said. “The past is to learn from, not to carry around like these horses drag this crate. The living lack perspective. They have not lost the most important thing they have, and so they cling to lesser things that they overvalue. Love, family, guilt, morals, principles. Once you’ve lost your life, and gained it back, all that remains is one simple truth.”

“And that is?”

“Self-preservation,” Aloyseus said. “The only real mistake one can make is to get yourself destroyed utterly. The rest is utterly correctible. Morals, principles, ideals – all of these are grand concepts utterly blind to reality. The world is a brutal, violent place. To survive it takes wit, cunning, and some good fortune. To make it more difficult by placing arbitrary rules on behavior, on feeling – it is self-destructive.”

Araneon said nothing. He looked down and saw that his free hand went to the place on his arm with the Spider brand. It would be wonderful to be free from the past. He likened it to taking off the armor, and being able to breathe and move again. But then the image of his sister wafted into his mind’s eye, stern and disapproving.

“There are those that would die in service to those ideals,” Araneon said.

“Death in service to anything is still death,” Aloyseus said.

“Maybe,” Araneon responded. He had this eager, nervous feeling in his chest, mulling the idea over. Perhaps the Forsaken was right – maybe his own remorse was unnecessary. But as soon as he thought it, the memory came forth, springing like a trap.

Always the voice came first.

“How it must sting to be so defanged,” the voice said to him, full of cold fury. Araneon would twist and struggle, but the restraints were too powerful. He was utterly defenseless.

“Just kill me and be done with it,” Araneon hissed, his fury mixing with his self-disgust. How could he have fallen so? He should have seen this trap coming from a mile away.

“And grant you an easy reprieve?” the voice came back. “No, no that would be far too easy for someone as vile as you. I want you to remember this feeling of being conquered. Of being utterly defeated. And when you think back on this moment, as helpless, your life completely in the hands of another, I want you to remember that I had the mercy that you did not, for all of those that became victims of The Spider.”

The voice said more things, but Araneon would never hear them. He felt the blinding, searing pain of something on his arm, and then he would scream.

Araneon shivered, his hand clenching over the tattoo. Nothing erased that mark. Not even the most powerful of incantations. He glanced away from the priest, and instead cast his gaze to the dark of the woods. He could spot a few wolves moving between the trees, every so often casting a gaze at the carriage.

“Wolves,” Araneon said.

“Indeed. They’ve been following us for quite some time.” Aloyseus did not seem particularly concerned.

“Can’t see why – we don’t have much food.”

“It’s not the food they’re after,” Aloyseus said, his voice even as if he hadn’t implied anything at all.

“I don’t follow.”

“One or two wolves I will not concern myself with. But they, I believe, are merely scouting. It is for whom they are scouting that gives me pause. We’ll know for sure once we reach the Silverpine woods.”

“Silverpine…” Araneon said, realization dawning on him.

“Indeed,” Aloyseus said. “It was one of the reasons I was hoping my dear brother would be accompanying us. He would know more about the worgen than you or I. And how to deal with them.”

Araneon said nothing. The only sound he could hear was the turn of the wheels and then footsteps of the skeletal steeds. But the wolves were ever with them, soundlessly padding through the trees, their eyes ever on the carriage. Araneon sniffed the air, and then placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Perhaps they would face some real danger soon. But until then, there was no point in worrying. He let his eyes close, hoping for some rest.

The sun rose, but Finnaeus was awake far before that moment. In fact, he never slept.

He fluttered in his bat form, moving through the branches of the tall trees that lined the roads of Silverpine Forest. Almost all of these trees reached tall into the sky, but he could tell even before he landed on them that the branches were all sickly and on the verge of death. The ground below him was covered in a slithering, ghostly fog that sometimes curled up the tree bark like diseased waves. He sometimes came across plagued bats among the branches, but most did not dare to approach him. The few that did ended up dead, their bodies placed delicately on the branches so as to not fall to the ground below.

He tracked Aloyseus and Araneon since their departure from Tirisfal. The carriage moved slow – frustratingly slow in Finnaeus’s opinion. But he could see why – the grounds were sludge from the recently passed storm, and the crates they had stacked on the back of their large carriage looked incredibly heavy. They paused before the border to Silverpine to cover the crates in a heavy-hide cover. That piqued Finn’s interest, though it wasn’t too inexplicable; Aloyseus prized discretion, and he almost certainly did not want anyone poking their nose in their business.

They moved a bit quicker once they hit the roads in Silverpine. Finnaeus fluttered from branch to branch, trying to pick up bits and pieces of their conversation. He heard nothing of note, though much of it he could barely hear. At times he fluttered lower, but he did not want to be seen. While he greatly valued obtaining as much information as possible, the anonymity was more important. He gave a thought to communicating with some of the local wildlife, and when he noticed the wolves following the caravan he thought he had struck gold. But there was something sinister about the wolves, and he didn’t dare reveal himself to them. They moved with a purpose that belied feral instinct. They were being instructed by something more intelligent than a simple wolf or pack leader.

They seemed to be following the main road in Silverpine. Occasionally a Deathguard would pass by, but after exchanging a few pleasantries the Deathguards would go on their way. Finnaeus grew wary as they went deeper into the woods. Military operations for the Forsaken were heavy in these parts – probably not as heavy as when they made their first incursion against Gilneas. But the military presence here in the woods spoke to the constant ebb and flow of battle over the remains of his former country. The air was heavy with the toxic fumes from some of the Forsaken experiments in chemical warfare. A few of the trees showed chemical burning. Some of the bark had turned into a form of decrepit sludge, melting away as if it were always made of wax.

A giant ettin passed, dragging a cart filled with war materials and several chemicals. The acid green concoction sloshed precariously in the canister. Finnaeus wondered what would happen if the contents spilled onto the ground. But he realized he could never imagine the horrors that the twisted minds of the Forsaken could concoct. And, as he fluttered onward, encountering a tree whose bark looked a grotesque shade of grey, he decided he was in no mood to deal with anything tainted by the Forsaken experiments. They were often horrifying or deadly. Most of the time both at the same time.

As the day passed, traffic on the roadway grew increasingly frequent. The increase in activity must have made his brother nervous, because Aloyseus’s carriage pulled off the road and headed towards the beaches of a nearby body of water. Finnaeus followed them, watching as the carriage bumped over the rocky terrain and the runed crates jostled in their spots underneath the leather hide. A wild hope that one would fall over and crash on the ground, revealing its contents, emerged briefly before Finnaeus squashed it. His brother, unfortunately, was not that clumsy.

They came to a rest several yards away from the water, far enough away from the road that they couldn’t be seen. Finnaeus thought this a wise move for concealment, but they were not completely out of danger. In the middle of the lake was Fenris Isle, often a hotspot for worgen activity. And while the murloc population had been decimated by the Forsaken military operation, they were not eradicated from the area. And they were also not simple creatures – Finnaeus was sure they would love the opportunity to claim retribution on a single Forsaken caught unawares.

Finnaeus fluttered into a nearby tree, just far enough away to not be obvious and still in line of sight of the carriage. He shifted into his catform, stealthed into the shadows, and then lay down. His feline eyes were better than those of his bat form, and it gave him better visibility. And concealment. Not that he expected to see much. His brother wouldn’t dare open the crates in open territory like this, and the wards looked magically complex. The conversation he overheard suggested that a third party, some type of magister, had more knowledge about the runes and was responsible for their creation. And, quite possibly, their removal.

Which called into question their final destination. They were headed south into Silverpine, and that they pulled off of the road suggested they had much further to go. Their secrecy from the Forsaken military command suggested that theirs was a secret much deeper than Finnaeus anticipated. Their cargo could not be consigned to the war efforts, otherwise there would be no need for the secrecy. Finnaeus suspected that they were moving through Silverpine, which indicated that either they were headed through to Hillsbrad. Or, more interestingly to Finnaeus, to the ruins of Gilneas.

He narrowed his eyes as he watched his two marks dismount from the carriage. Araneon, the Sin’Dorei, stretched, scratched his stomach, and then went to the bushes to relieve himself. His brother, Aloyseus, however, walked up to the lake shore. He held his hands behind his back and stared unblinkingly out over the water. Finnaeus wondered what he was thinking, what was motivating him. Was his brother truly up to something in Gilneas? Finnaeus was not so naïve to believe that Aloyseus had any kind of emotional connection with his homeland – that was gone far before he perished in Stratholme. The undead facsimile of his brother was far more concerned with practical matters. But was there a chance, a remote possibility, that his brother had some small flicker of some attachment to Gilneas? That it still, despite his death, resurrection, and freedom from the Scourge, had some pull on him?

Finnaeus didn’t know. He didn’t know his brother anymore. Or, perhaps more accurately, he never truly knew him. He lowered his head, resting it on his front legs, ever staring at the Forsaken as if the image would turn and speak to him. His mind wandered back to the last time that he saw Aloyseus alive. Initially he resisted the urge to remember – he never wanted to remember – but staring out at his brother now he couldn’t help but indulge.

The horses were tired, but Finnaeus was sure that theirs did not match his own exhaustion. He slumped forward a bit, his eyes barely keeping open. He glanced back at Aloyseus, who found a way to sleep on the horse without falling off. It was probably because his own horse was moving so slowly, but they were almost to the Gilnean border, and he could not wait to be back in his own lands again. He wanted to see his family, and he wanted to leave everything else behind.

But Aloyseus’s horse let out a whinny that sounded exhausted, and he knew they had to at least take a rest. He pulled his own horse to a stop. He leaned forward, whispering in the horse’s ear. They had gone a long way, and Finnaeus could only be grateful that they had made it this far. The horse shook his head, in acknowledgement or as instinct Finnaeus could not tell, but it didn’t matter.

“Rest time,” he shouted, and he hopped off of the horse. He stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles. Everything was stiff and sore from the long ride, but it was a pain that would bear great fruit. He turned and saw his brother’s eyes flutter open.

“Where are we?”

“Close to home,” Finnaeus said, a bit of excitement cutting over his weariness. “In short time we’ll be near Ambermill.”

“Ambermill,” Aloyseus repeated, rubbing his eyes. The normally piercing blue eyes were a red from exhaustion, and his blonde hair was ruffled and longer than normal. But overall he still looked healthy, whole, and that was important. Finnaeus could look to his own later. But he was sure that his father would want to make sure that Aloyseus was intact. There was some concern he wouldn’t come back at all.