World of Warcraft®

It was, Finnaeus thought, a form of torture. The slog through Silverpine’s rocky and uneven ground grew slower as the days passed. Intermittent rain passed through the area, turning the ground into a thick sludge. The skeletal steeds pulled with determination, but they also moved very slowly. And the slower the progress, the dourer Araneon grew.

The elf’s shoulder had healed as Finnaeus promised, but instead of fostering a sense of trust between the two, Araneon seemed to have withdrawn into himself. The few times that Finnaeus collected enough food for the two of them to eat, he refused. Instead, he grew sullen, leaning back in the carriage, his hand ever hovering over the tattoo on his arm. And at nights the elf would thrash in his sleep, whispering something about the pain in his arm, the mark of the Spider, before waking up more restless and more nasty.

Aloyseus wasn’t much help either. Once an hour he would make some sort of benevolent, blandly cliché statement about pressing forward. It only irritated Araneon further. Finnaeus ignored him. The Forsaken had an ill effect whenever he was close, his presence jostling sleeping memories and stirring them in their cages. Finnaeus couldn’t tell if it was because this was all that remained of his family, or if Aloyseus was doing it on purpose. Or if Aloyseus even knew he had that effect. Whatever the case, it was discomforting staying next to him too long. It was better when he was in his cat form. His mind was less human and more feral, and it helped to stave off the memories.

They encountered very few living things. The wolves were a constant, hovering just out sight during the day and almost invisible at night. They howled, though, a reminder that there were eyes on them. Finnaeus wondered why they let themselves been seen, but perhaps they didn’t care that the three of them knew they were being watched. If they did, they were careless. But if they weren’t careless, and they intended on being known – that was another matter entirely. That spoke of a disinterest in what the three of them knew or didn’t know about their presence, which he considered to be dangerous.

It was on the third day of slow travel that Finnaeus noticed the pack of wolves had grown bigger. Usually it was one or two, keeping their bodies low so that the fog obscured them. But now there were six or seven. And they were different bodies too, always changing out so that fresh legs kept an eye on them.

“They’re increasing in number,” Finnaeus said to Aloyseus, when they had stopped for rest.

“Let them come,” Araneon snapped. “It’d be a nice change of pace from this travel.”

Both of the Peverley brothers ignored the outburst. They had grown accustomed to the irritability and decided not to indulge it.

“I’m not concerned,” Aloyseus said, folding his arms in front of his chest. “We can repel a few wolves.”

“And their masters?” Finnaeus asked.

“Still unseen,” Aloyseus said. “And even still, I am not concerned.”

“I am,” Finnaeus said, his mouth frowning around his tusks. “We’re running short on supplies. You may be able to exist on nothing but the suffering of others, but those of us still alive will need fresh food.”

“It was my assumption that you had brought enough to sustain a long journey,” Aloyseus said, not taking his undying eyes from the wolves. Instinct made Finnaeus bristle at the accusation, but he had decided to stop feeding Aloyseus the reactions he was looking for.

“The rain soured most of the food we had,” Finnaeus said, keeping his tone neutral. “And you’ve given me no indication on how long we have yet to travel. We’ll need supplies.”

“We have enough,” Aloyseus said.

“Easy for you to say, being undead,” Finnaeus said, a little impatience betraying his calm demeanor.

“Not easy,” Aloyseus said, finally turning to him. “After all, being undead means I had to suffer the indignity of dying.”

Finnaeus made to respond, but he found that he had nothing to say. He never spared much thought into how Aloyseus finally met his living end. Conceptually he understood that it happened, but when he discovered long ago that Aloyseus had died, he gave no thoughts to the particulars. It was just another loss in a string of losses, another layer of pain to add atop the rest. In his distaste for his brother’s resurrected condition, and the drastic personality changes that came with the transformation, Finnaeus forgot that he had no idea about anything to do with his brother’s death. He simply accepted it as fact, and then put it with the rest.

“Maybe we can secure some resources in Ambermill,” Finnaeus said, deviating from the uncomfortable conversation back into practical concerns. “We’re almost there. I was scouting last night and the mine is behind us.”

“Ambermill was scoured of the living some time ago,” Aloyseus said. “I’m not sure there are any resources to be had there.”

“But there could still be,” Finnaeus said. “When night falls I’ll go ahead and scout.”

“If you insist,” Aloyseus said. “But it would be best if we remained together as we get closer to Gilneas. That is where the danger is greatest.”

“So we’re just passing Gilneas by?” Finnaeus asked, raising an eyebrow. Aloyseus smirked at him.

“You are tenacious.”

“As tenacious as you are withholding,” Finnaeus said back. “You could just tell me where we are going.”

“But that would only invite more questions,” Aloyseus responded. “And with my agreement that I will not lie, I would hate to leave you disappointed with non-responses.”

“At least tell me why you won’t tell me,” Finnaeus said.

“Simple,” Aloyseus responded. “You wouldn’t assist me if I told you.”

Finnaeus narrowed his eyes, but decided not to ask any more follow ups. His brother’s response strengthened his assumption that they were headed toward Gilneas. But to what end was the more important question, and if Aloyseus was not going to share where they were, he certainly wasn’t going to share with the why.

“Hand me some of that nasty druid food you have,” Araneon said from the carriage.

“Not a lot left,” Finnaeus said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a handful of edible nuts and roots. Araneon took them from him in one quick swipe and started munching.

“That’s not a concern though,” Araneon said, sparing Aloyseus a withering look.

“A minor concern,” Aloyseus corrected him. “I’m confident that we will be fine with our current reserves.”

“These aren’t reserves,” Araneon shouted. “This is what we have left. Not all of us can exist indefinitely with no food.”

“Contrary to your assertion, Araneon, the Forsaken do not exist indefinitely,” Aloyseus said. “We wither and succumb to old age just as much as the living. Just slower, and in a different manner. Many get mind rot, and the magic that holds our bodies together fades away. In fact, some researchers are delving into ways to forestall our destruction, perhaps by magic or–”

“No one cares,” Araneon interrupted. And with that, he hopped off the cart and then stalked off into the fog.

“He’s going to get killed if he wanders off too far,” Finnaeus said.

“He’ll be fine,” Aloyseus said.

“You seem very confident that everything is going to work out to your advantage,” Finnaeus said.

“I am indeed,” Aloyseus said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check the runes on our cargo.”

Finnaeus watched his brother run his bony fingers over the large crate in the carriage. The curiosity towards its contents never really ebbed, but Finnaeus reluctantly accepted that he would not be getting that information from his brother. And a part of him was wondering if he really wanted to get that information at all. If he knew what his brother was doing, he’d be inclined to interfere. And after the past few days, with the past coming dangerously close to the surface, he did not want to spend any more time Aloyseus than necessary.

But the longer he watched, the more he felt his mind pull towards his living brother. Little flashes of memory buzzed in his mind like flies, but the more he waved them off the more they persisted. Pieces of when they were younger, when his little brother would hassle him as Finn was toiling in the field. His brother saw it as grunt work, boring and mundane. But Finnaeus relished in it. It was all tangible, all of it – the dirt, the roots, the sprouts and the vegetables. His brother would talk the Light and injustice and politics, about grand crusades and missions. Finnaeus had no interest in any of things. He liked the work of the field, the sun on his skin, the soil in his hands. And he was good at it. It came naturally to him, and it always gave him sense of peace he never found anywhere else.

He felt that pang again, that longing for times that could not return. Life wasn’t always easy, but it was his, and he knew his place and where he fit. His brother not returning to Gilneas was the first crack in that life, and looking at him now showed just how far away from that life Finnaeus had drifted. Maybe if he had convinced his brother to stay, then maybe life at the farm wouldn’t have turned out as it did. His father wouldn’t have turned cold, disinterested, and wouldn’t have hunted so much. Aloyseus would have been there, and instead of massaging his ego with hunting and political parties, their father would have stayed home. He never would have gotten bitten, and –

No, Finnaeus thought sharply. That wasn’t a path to get lost in. But he couldn’t stop the thoughts, and when Aloyseus climbed down from the carriage he noticed that Finnaeus was staring at him.

“Yes?” he simply asked. The question jolted Finnaeus, catching him on the spot.

“I was wondering about your jaw,” Finnaeus said. He was lying with the truth – he was wondering what the deal was with his jaw. It was a different shape than from when Aloyseus was alive.

“My jaw,” Aloyseus repeated, a small smile twisting on his face. “What about it?”

“Is it yours?”

Aloyseus chuckled.

“Was it mine when I was alive? No. That part of me was not salvageable. But is it mine now that it has been attached to my face? I would say yes. I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

Finnaeus narrowed his eyes, looking at his brother. He felt the question coming, the question that he now suppressed for so long but demanded to be asked. But the fear was there, because once he asked and knew there was no going back.

“I looked for you, you know,” Finnaeus said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“When?” Aloyseus asked, narrowing his eyes.

“After Gilneas fell,” Finnaeus responded, but that wasn’t the real answer. A long time passed before he actually got around to searching for his long-lost brother. There were reasons why that was the case – the Cataclysm, the war, his debt to the Night Elves, his own tenuous grasp on his worgen body. But one of the main reasons was that he did not want to look backwards. If he kept moving forward, he would not have to see what he had left behind, and what he had lost.

“I’m assuming you came up empty handed,” Aloyseus said amiably. “For obvious reasons.”

“Actually no,” Finnaeus said. “I found a few old documents of you registering with Lordaeron’s army. And I found your name on the roll call for soldiers headed to Stratholme.”

“Ah yes,” Aloyseus said. “Stratholme.”

“I’m assuming that’s…”

Where you died.

“…where it happened,” Finnaeus said. “Took a lot of sneaking around but I found your locket.”

Aloyseus laughed a bit, and sat down in the grass. Finnaeus crouched, a position more comfortable for him since he inhabited the body of a troll.

“I forgot all about that trinket,” Aloyseus said. Finnaeus raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond. Ever since he lost his body, and his locket with it, he felt like a huge piece of him was missing. Sometimes he could still feel the weight of it around his neck. When he was troubled he used to hold it, tracing his fingers across the engraved symbol of a hammer intertwined with a rose. But the locket was with his body, taken by mogu sorcerer Shan’daon.

But then again, he couldn’t begrudge his brother. Forgetting was something that Finnaeus was never able to do. He remembered so much, almost too much; his memories entrenched themselves and demanded to be felt.

“It was open,” Finnaeus said, leering at his brother now. His heart raced as he said it.

“Of course it was,” Aloyseus said mildly. “I’m sure it opened just before I died.”

“You didn’t see what was inside?” Finnaeus asked, a loaded anxiety coursing through him. Their father gave them the lockets as part of a Peverley tradition, as a rite of passage from childhood to adulthood. Thaddeus Peverley was skilled with magic, much like many of their family before them, and he had enchanted the lockets to remain closed until the right moment when they would need what was inside. He taught them the incantation when he gave it to them, so that when they had children they could pass it along.

They received theirs just before leaving for the war. He remembered Aloyseus desperately prying at the thing, even trying to use the Light and his sword to get it to open. He never succeeded, and though he was extremely frustrated he became more irate that Finnaeus did not share his curiosity. Back then he trusted his father, trusted that the trinket would open when it was supposed to. Since then he had almost perished many times, and the locket never opened. And now that he didn’t have his, he wondered if it ever would. Or if it opened already, and whatever grand secret his parents had left for him had become lost forever.

“I did not,” Aloyseus responded. Finnaeus studied his brother’s face for any sort of emotion, some feeling for the past. But he was disappointed. Aloyseus had the expression of one discussing the weather.

“How?”

“How what?” Aloyseus asked. Finnaeus was sure that Aloyseus knew what he was asking.

“How did…”

You die.

“…it happen?”

Aloyseus ran a finger along his (not his) jaw, mulling the question. Finnaeus’s mouth went dry as the moment protracted over what felt like minutes rather than moments.

“Well, you know I was in Stratholme,” Aloyseus said finally. “I enlisted in the army, though we both know I was a terrible soldier. I was never good at combat, not the way you were at any rate. I did, however, show a proficiency in the Light, so they put me with the medical staff. I healed soldiers, talked to them when they were injured. It was a tough job, but it was the right job for me at the time.”

“So you were in Stratholme when the plague hit,” Finnaeus said.

“We arrived after the grain was distributed, yes,” Aloyseus said. “The fate of Stratholme is well documented, I’m sure. What wasn’t well documented was how many of us tried to save the people before Prince Arthas made his decision to purge the city. Some of us thought the decision hasty. After all, with the Light’s blessing, and with noble purpose, how could we fail?”

Finnaeus looked down at the ground, finding himself unable to bring himself to look at the corpse of his brother. It was a trap perfectly suited for the likes of his living brother. He was idealistic, he was noble, and he believed in all sorts of grand ideas that always come to painful conclusions with the horrors of reality. Of course his brother would want to save the diseased. He would never have considered that it would lead to his own destruction.

“I came upon a house with a wife and two children,” Aloyseus continued. Absent from his tone was any pain in the reminiscence, no regret in the memory, not even an acknowledgement that this, surely, was a private memory painful to share. In fact, it sounded to Finnaeus to be almost casual, like he told the story before and was unaffected by the details. “The father had long since passed, and the mother was struggling to care for the family. The grain delivery was a boon to her. Marianne, I think her name was, or Marietta…I can’t recall.”

Finnaeus winced. He would have remembered every detail. The drapes, the couch, the hearth in relation to the front door. Even now he could picture every last detail of his own farmhouse, where –

“The children went first,” Aloyseus said, continuing on airily. Finnaeus could feel blood rushing to his cheeks. “The order came to put down the citizens. I could hear them shouting it from the streets. Even when their eyes went dead and their mouths hung open, I never gave up hope that I could save them. Their mother was inconsolable. After all, loss is probably the pain that the living feel the most. She was not in a rational state of mind, and I was blinded by my fervor that I would be the one to do what no one else had done, and save them from their fates. Even as they grew ill, and unresponsive to the Light, I tried that much harder. There wasn’t even a small part of me that gave up hope.”

Finnaeus leered into the dirt, feeling the hot rush of anger and guilt run through him. He was so very different from his brother. He would have killed the kids to save the mother, because he would have looked at them with the cold certainty of what they would have become. There was no point in denying it. After all, he had done the very same thing, hadn’t he? He could see flashes of the knife, covered in blood, but he stopped that memory just in time to hear Aloyseus continue.

“The children took the mother first,” Aloyseus said. “Her death was quick – she never tried to defend herself. They tore open her throat, her stomach, and they fed. By the time I realized what happened, they were shambling downstairs. Outside there were screams coming from other houses. Family members were rising from the dead, or stricken down by the living desperate to remain that way. I remember being very confused by all the nosie and the sight of the children. I froze.” He laughed. “I was never any good at life or death situations.”

The laugh sent a wave of displeasure across Finnaeus’s skin. He was joking about his own death, when Finnaeus could feel his stomach turning with every word.

“They approached slowly, and the only thing I could think of was blessing them with the Light. So I looked to the first one and rambled a few words. I didn’t understand – I was in full panic mode at that point. The Light burned him, and the thing screamed in agony. And I, in my naivety, stopped the blessing. I was hurting the child, you see?” Aloyseus laughed again. “I wish I had endeavored to be more scholarly in life, I would have been able to properly defend myself. As it was, however, my stopping that blessing eventually doomed me. They were upon me before I knew what else to do.”

Finnaeus felt cold and hot at the same time. He could see his living brother, his blue eyes alight with fear and horror. Aloyseus was right – he was never good at combat or high stress situations. If Finnaeus was there he would have been the one to act, and he may have had a chance to save him. After all, it was him that saved Aloyseus multiple times when they fought the Horde. He had blood on his hands. Aloyseus was supposed to be the untainted one.

“They were children, but they were vicious,” Aloyseus continued. “Rising from the dead gave them unnatural strength. The first swipe they took ripped my jaw clean off, exposing my throat.” Then, he added, “The pain was fairly overwhelming.”

The air sucked out of Finnaeus’s lungs. Aloyseus wouldn’t even have been able to scream at that point. So much blood must have poured out of the wound and into his throat, back into his body. He pictured his brother falling at that point, entombed in pain. It made him light-headed.

“The rest is a haze. I remember that they gnawed on my stomach when I was awake, which is a horrible realization. If I was to estimate, I was only awake for two or three minutes before passing out finally. I do recall, however, that it was enough time for me to realize that I was going to die.”

Finnaeus closed his eyes. He regretted asking, and he wished he hadn’t known. The dead had feasted upon his brother, and he had the misfortune of two or three minutes to realize that his entire life of idealistic crusading, of big ideas of saving the world, would end because he strove to satisfy the Light and make the world a better place. Finnaeus wanted to throw up. He looked up at his brother, who was looking at him with an odd, curious expression.

“Perhaps you did not want all of the details,” he said finally. “I am sorry if I caused you some discomfort.”

“No,” Finnaeus choked out. “It’s good to know.”

“Perhaps,” Aloyseus responded. “Are there any other questions I can answer for you?”

There were none. He didn’t want to know any more. Finnaeus didn’t think he could take it.

“I’m going to scout ahead to Ambermill, see if there’s anything we can pilfer before we move on,” he said, trying to hide that his hands were shaking. “Keep an eye on Araneon. If he’s not there by the time I get back, I’ll go looking for him.”

“He’ll be fine,” Araneon said, standing up and dusting off his robes. “I’m quite confident in it.”

“Ok,” Finnaeus responded. He thought if he had to look at the undead body of his brother any longer, he would lose himself completely. Without any other word, he shifted into his bat form, and fluttered towards Ambermill.

He wanted to keep flying, but he realized very quickly that he couldn’t keep himself stable. Finnaeus came to a rest in the middle of the woods, his breaths coming quickly, shallowly in bursts. But the mental images, the flashes of bloody teeth and bared claws ripping his brother apart clenched his insides and made it impossible to breath. It was too easy to picture him, his jaw ripped off, blood gushing from the wound. It was as if he were there. The pain, the agony, and landing on the horror that his brother knew, in those final moments, that this was how his life was to end.

Finnaeus placed a hand on a tree, trying to hold himself together. But he could feel the pain in the trees, the land, the own torture at the hands of the Forsaken. His hand recoiled from the bark, and held his hands to his head, the fog curling around him. This was why he wanted to stay away from his brother, why his instinct told him not to get close.

He gasped, a desperate attempt to catch up with his mind. The accusations reeled through his head. He let his brother go. He wasn’t there to save him. He didn’t try hard enough to convince him to stay. He could have made him stay, couldn’t he? Dragged him kicking and screaming back to Gilneas. Aloyseus would have hated him for it, but maybe if they were all together, things would have went differently when the Cataclysm hit.

Everything spiraled. The accusations didn’t hurt as much as the truth that he failed to keep his promise. And his failure to keep that promise unraveled his family. That much was sure, Finnaeus thought, staring into the fog as if expecting an answer to come crawling out. Instead he only heard the howl of wolves, and the festering guilt clawing through his ribcage like a parasite escaping its host. He was supposed to keep Aloyseus safe. And he didn’t.

Unbidden, he looked into his past, forcing himself to relive saying those words to his mother, to make sure that he absorbed every last inch of what he had promised so that he could fully feel the weight of his own personal failure. He staggered into the woods, in no direction in particular, hearing his mother’s voice from the frail body in her bed.

“He’s a sensitive boy, Finnaeus,” Margaret Peverley said, her voice as gentle as cotton and as delicate as a thread. “You will take care of him won’t you? Keep him safe?”

“I will, Mom,” he said.

“But you didn’t,” Finnaeus snarled at himself. “You’ve never saved any of them. None of them.”

He was sitting aside her bed in a wooden stool. It wasn’t very comfortable, but he didn’t dare show that to a woman whose body had been ravaged by an illness that priest nor doctor could heal. Instead, he held a flowerpot in his hands, looking at the wilted sunflower barely supporting its own weight. She nodded at the sound of his promise, and she smiled at him. Finnaeus embraced the moments of silence between them, and did not strive to break them. His brother was fidgety, but Finnaeus always embraced stillness. He ran a hand over the sunflower.

“Don’t,” his mother said, reaching a hand up to his. Her skin was grey from the illness, her grip weak. She was cold – alarmingly so – and he looked up at her. She had his same, dark eyes. Finnaeus always wondered what was going on behind them.

“It’s not hard,” Finnaeus said. “I can make it healthy again.”

“I know you can,” she said. “You’ve been doing it for weeks. It’s impressive.” Finnaeus shrugged, looking down.

“It’s not much.”

“You’re too modest,” she said, smiling. “Your father would be proud though. He never liked a bragging unless it was to a stranger.”

“Maybe,” he said, offering up a smirk of his own. But it wilted like the sunflower. He gave her a hard look.

“Mom, maybe if it works for the sunflower, it would work for you.” he said.

“I know you want to try,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked quietly. “Maybe I can do it.”

“And what happens to you if you can’t,” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t fix everything, you know,” she said. Finnaeus stared at her, locking his jaw so that his lips didn’t quiver, going rigid so as to not let out the gasp of despair.

“But I can try. It’s the last thing left to try.” He put his hand on the sunflower, and his fingers glowed with magic. The sunflower’s petals brightened in its yellows, and the brown of the leaves receded into a healthy green.

“Finn,” she said, pressing her hand to his again. He stopped the magic at once.

“I won’t hurt you,” he insisted. She closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears. Her hands began to shake, and he regretted instantly that he made her upset. Furious with himself, he put the pot down on the side table and took her hand into his.

“You and your brother mean well,” she said. “But both of you must open your eyes and realize the truth, Finn. See things for what they are. There is no cure for what I have.”

Finnaeus looked down at the floor. He wrestled with grief, with sadness. He could not let them show. Long moments of silence passed between them then, his mother watching while her eldest son wrestled with the natural impulse to cry, to grieve. With great effort the wrenched his head up and looked at her.

“How is Claire?” his mother asked. Finn laughed at the question. It was a typical diversion from the crushing reality of the moment, one that his mother had mastered. She never liked talking about herself anyhow, which was another trait she shared with her eldest son.

“She’s great,” he said. “Real great.”

“I agree,” his mother said, smiling though a fresh tear slid down her cheek. “She’s the best decision you’ve ever made.”

“She likes to think so too,” Finnaeus responded.

“Then she’s smart too. Make sure you treat her right too, when you get back.”

“If I get back,” Finnaeus corrected her, automatically. His mother narrowed her eyes.

“You make sure you get back, and you take care of your brother,” she said again.

“If I do,” Finnaeus said, “will you still be here?”

His mother gave him a long hard look, the dark in her eyes as mysterious as ever. Somehow he knew that this would be the last time he looked into them.

“You know the answer to that,” she said. “Your brother would hope, bless him, but you know. My time is up, Finnaeus. And while I would love to have more days with you, to see you and your children, I have to play my role in the cycle of things.”

“I know,” Finnaeus said, and despite all his efforts a tear escaped from his right eye, blazing down his cheek slowly, as if relishing that it had, finally, broken free. It threatened to liberate the rest of his sadness. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“The old gives way to the new, that’s how the world works,” she said. “I’ve had my time.”

“But you should have more,” Finnaeus said.

“Should is a fickle thing,” she said, rubbing her hand atop his. He felt every movement, staring at his mother knowing that he would have to remember every detail. “Lots of things should be, or could be. But what is, my dearest Finnaeus; that is what is most important. And while we could try and extend my time like you’ve done for that sunflower, you cannot change the truth that all things must end, to make way for what comes after.”

Finnaeus nodded his head, and he pressed her hand to his lips to kiss them.

“I love you,” he said.

“And I you, my little one,” she said.

Finnaeus pressed a hand to his face. His skin burned, his entire body shaking. He had always accepted that she was right, that all things must end. But if it was a universal truth, a condition of the world in which they lived, why did it have to hurt so much? It was always too soon, too quick, and that burst of pain always followed with a slow, deep ache that never abated. It seemed that for something that must occur, that things must end, that it was the will of all things to exist, to resist that end. How else to explain his brother, the Forsaken?

But he’s changed, Finnaeus thought to himself. He was not the same person. But he existed, he had agency. And perhaps, somewhere deep down in the places that he no longer looked, there was something of the old Aloyseus in there, buried beneath the horrors of his own experiences. Maybe Finnaeus was wrong to reject his brother, the way he rejected the hope of so many before him. Perhaps this was the time that Finnaeus would see things how they could be, should be, rather than how they were. Because things could change. Maybe his mother was wrong.

A nearby howl snapped him out of his reverie. Only then did he realize how dark it had gotten, how quickly night stole over him without him realizing it. He looked around, the fog up to his waist. The moon above him remained hidden behind a thick shroud of clouds. He moved forward in the darkness, and there, five feet in front of him, was a wolf. Finnaeus crouched, his head barely above the fog. He made eye contact with the wolf. It curled its lips back in a snarl, drool dripping from its sharp teeth. They were gauging each other, but Finnaeus would not be the one to flinch.

“What are you looking for, I wonder?” Finnaeus muttered, leaning his head forward. It took a step forward, lowering its head so that only its eyes were above the fog. Finnaeus could enter the animal’s mind, or try and sense its heart, but he didn’t want to intrude unless he absolutely had to. Better for the beast to trust him than not, and –

The wolf flicked its eyes behind him for a second, and Finnaeus instinctively blinked forward, assuming his cat form. He spun, claws bared, and he saw a worgen standing in the space he once occupied. The worgen was covered in blackened leather, his face marked with scars all along the left side of his muzzle.

“Good instincts,” he said, his voice barely more than a growl. “Most of everyone else would have been dead already.”

Finnaeus stayed in his cat form. There were more wolves nearby, making escape tricky. His mind raced, calculating the various possibilities. Combat would be dangerous – this worgen was quick, built, and his claws were exceptionally sharp. And the wolves, while not threatening to him on their own, would complicate a fight between the two of them. And if his instincts were correct, this was not the only worgen among wolves in the woods.

“Show your real self, druid,” the worgen growled. “I wish to speak to you.”

Finnaeus did not comply, not at first. He was trying to get a better handle on what this worgen was capable of. There was a vague scent of magic on him, but not powerful enough to indicate a mage or warlock. But there were ways of hiding those smells from others. But when Finnaeus heard a snap of a twig behind him, he didn’t have to look to know there was another worgen behind him in the shadows.

“You are surrounded,” the worgen said. “And I grow tired of waiting.”

Finnaeus leered at the worgen, and then twisted, assuming his troll form. He narrowed his eyes.

“Better,” the worgen said. “Now, tell me your name.”

“You first,” Finnaeus said, his body tensing. He cast a sideways glance and saw something move in the shadows to his right. Another wolf.

“The name is Frenzy,” he replied.

“Your real name,” Finnaeus said, leaning forward.

“Frenzy is the only name I answer to,” he responded. “It’s the only name that matters now.”

Finnaeus wrinkled his nose, a smile curling around his tusks. He knew of many Gilneans that dove headlong into their worgen identity, taking on more of a wolf mentality and abandoning their old human traits. It was a practice Finnaeus found distasteful then, and he did now. They were humans, they were cursed – they were not animals.

“My name be Drak’Finn,” he responded.

“From what tribe?” Frenzy asked.

“From da Darkspear,” Finnaeus said back. Frenzy stared at him, and then let out a barking laugh.

“Your accent is impressive,” the worgen responded. “But you are not a troll.” Finnaeus held up his hands and tilted his head.

“Three fingers and tusks say otherwise,” Finnaeus said. “Mon.”

“Mon,” Frenzy repeated. “You’re funny.”

“Some people be sayin’ dat,” Finnaeus said, “But some people –”

“Know the truth,” Frenzy finished for him. “You look like a troll, and you smell like one. You even bloody sound like one. But you’re not a troll.”

“And you’re not a worgen,” Finnaeus said back. “So be tellin’ me your real name, and maybe I be tellin’ you mine.”

Frenzy sniffed the air.

“Peter. Peter Dowling.”

Finnaeus considered this – he never knew of the Dowlings back in Gilneas. But that wasn’t so surprising. His father and brother indulged in the politics, the social networking. Finnaeus stayed far away from that sphere of influence.

“Finnaeus Peverley,” Finn said back to him.

“And how, Finnaeus Peverley, did a worgen end up in a troll body.”

“It’s a long story,” Finnaeus responded.

“I’ve got time,” Frenzy said.

Finnaeus could hear the padding of wolves moving through the fog. He tried to get a glimpse but the fog and darkness were thick now, almost impenetrable. The pack was on the move, but to where he did not know. He had gotten so lost in his own memories that he had lost track of where he was in the forest.

“But I don’t,” Finnaeus said. “What are you doing here in Silverpine?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Frenzy said. “But I’d be wasting your precious time. We’ve been watching you escort your corpse friend for days now. Your corpse and the elf.”

I was right, Finnaeus thought. He knew without knowing that the worgen were coordinating the wolf scouting parties. But the key now was getting as much information from Frenzy as possible. And surviving to do something with the knowledge.

“Infiltrating, more like,” Finnaeus offered.

“Ah,” Frenzy said. He narrowed his own eyes, a smile playing through his wolven features. It expressed no amusement, only displaying rows of savage, sharp teeth. “Embedding yourself with the enemy? Gaining some inside knowledge?”

“Perhaps,” Finnaeus said.

“And what did you learn from such an operation?”

Finnaeus smiled back, displaying his tusks.

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I don’t believe that you’re working against them,” Frenzy said, stepping forward. Even through the darkness his claws seemed to glisten. “You may have a wolf’s spirit inside you, but how do I know that you’re not a Horde defector? That maybe you wanted to be a troll all along?”

“Then you wouldn’t be as smart as I think you are,” Finnaeus responded back. Frenzy laughed. As he stepped forward, he raked his claws against the bark of a nearby tree. Pieces of the tree fell to the ground, shredded like paper.

“I never claimed to be that smart,” he said. “So explain it to me.”

Finnaeus could feel the danger approaching. He was surrounded by wolves, and where there were wolves, there were worgen. And they were moving in a large group. He could not afford to look weak to this Frenzy, but he also couldn’t risk running out of patience. Not without an escape route.

“A mogu sorcerer did this to me,” he said. “He ripped my soul from my body and it landed in this one.”

“And what happened to this…sorcerer, you say?”

“Disappeared. My real body with him.”

“Fascinating,” Frenzy said. “I believe you. But that doesn’t explain your present company. Or why you would be helping them in their mission to destroy Gilneas.”

Finnaeus betrayed no surprise, but he could feel his body jump.

“They are going to Gilneas?”

“Don’t be so coy, you’re so smart,” Frenzy said. “They’ve been moving materials into Gilneas for months now. Into the mountains. We’ve waylaid a few of their deliveries, of course, but to no avail. And we’ve scouted into the mountains with none to return alive with details. They are planning something.”

“What are they planning?” Finnaeus asked. His eyes met Frenzy’s, and they stared long and hard at one another.

“I was hoping you would know,” Frenzy said. “After all, you’ve embedded yourself with them, have you not?”

“They won’t tell me,” Finnaeus said. The worgen got so close that Finnaeus could smell his breath. He didn’t flinch.

“I sense you are telling the truth,” Frenzy said. “But whether that matters or not I’m not so sure. Of all the things they’ve brought to the mountains, Finnaeus Peverley, none have been magically warded like the box you’ve got. And it’s quite a large box. So the question of the day is, then, what is in it?”

“I don’t know that either,” Finnaeus responded.

“And that is a problem,” Frenzy said. “The battle is coming, Finnaeus, no matter what the Alliance and the Horde have said out loud. There may be peace in Orgrimmar, but there can be none in Gilneas until we have rid it of the Forsaken corruption and claimed it as our own once more. Already we have reinforcements coming, ships of soldiers sailing from our benefactor in Stormwind.”

And who might that benefactor be, Finnaeus thought to himself.

“You’re fighting over dead ground,” Finnaeus said. “Much of it is plagued.”

“That can be cleansed. It is not dead, nor is it undead,” Frenzy said. “It still lives. Barely. We can push it back in the right direction.”

“You and your benefactor,” Finnaeus said, raising an eyebrow.

“And those who fight for the right side,” Frenzy said. He leaned in, his teeth bared. “So the other question of the day is, which side are you fighting for? Because if you wanted to know what was in the cargo, Finnaeus, you would have killed the two of them and opened it for yourself.”

Finnaeus kept still, his eyes meeting those of Frenzy.

“That would be reckless.”

“Progress is impossible without taking a chance,” Frenzy replied. “So why haven’t you killed them, hmm? Maybe your loyalties aren’t quite so clear.”

Finnaeus snarled.

“You lack subtlety.”

“And you lack honesty,” Frenzy said. “I knew you were different. You’re the wildcard. The elf? The Forsaken? Disposable. You were interesting. But I’m afraid you’ve disappointed. You lack the fortitude for action.”

“I think you may have seriously misjudged,” Finnaeus said, curling his fists. “Full on attacking that carriage is foolhardy. Something dangerous is inside.”

“Then we’ll kill the two of them and take it for ourselves,” Frenzy said. “Unless you want them alive?”

Finnaeus made to answer, but then he heard a series of howls in the distance. Frenzy didn’t even turn his head, and smiled.

“It’s a moot question. Let’s find out what’s in the box, eh?”

Finnaeus cursed – they were occupying him, splitting them up. Finnaeus shifted into his cat form, fast as lightning, and pounced. But he crashed into only a puff of shadow, thick as smoke. Several feet away he saw Frenzy reappear in the darkness, wreathed in shadow. He was on all fours, dashing off into the distance.

Aloyseus, Finnaeus thought. He was not going to let his brother die. Not again. He shifted into his cheetah form, and he dashed off after the worgen.

Araneon had only wanted some solace. He barely got any rest since he left Quel’Danas, and he desired a little bit of isolation from Aloyseus and his druid brother. The dreams were terrible, and the tattoo on his arm had started to burn as if it was freshly pressed. The constant hunger pains didn’t help either. But when he found a place by himself, the isolation only exacerbated his foul mood.

He pressed his hand over his arm, making his way back to the carriage. The forest around him had gotten dark and foggy, and he knew better than to be caught alone. But that meant going back to Finnaeus, and Aloyseus, who always seemed to warp his mind back towards his past. He didn’t want to think about it.

But the tattoo seemed to have other ideas. His skin burned, as if someone had placed a poker to his arm. The pain was not nearly as intense as when it first appeared on his arm. Nothing compared to that pain. Just the thought of it made his skin crawl. It burned, like no fire ever had, and when he coupled it with the sound of the voice that accompanied the pain, it was the worst feeling he had ever felt in his life.

“How it must sting to be so defanged.”

Araneon set his jaw. He wasn’t going back there. When he reached the carriage he saw Aloyseus standing up with the skeletal steeds.

“You’re back,” he said.

“That I am,” Araneon said, a little less sullen than before, but no more pleasant than he could afford. He was sick of this entire endeavor.

“Did the solitude help your disposition?”

“Enough,” Araneon said, holding up his hands. “Just don’t ask questions you don’t really care about the answer to.”

“I do care,” Aloyseus said. “I would rather not continue to travel with impulsive and sour temperaments. I want our wits about us.”

“Don’t you worry. Your precious cargo will get to Gilneas safely,” Araneon said. He hopped up into the carriage, and laid back, resting against the boxes. He knew this rankled Aloyseus, and he took great joy in watching the Forsaken try not to show his displeasure.

“Careful,” Aloyseus said. “He may be around.”

“What does it matter?” Araneon asked. “He’s going to figure out that’s where we’re going. Your brother may be stubborn but he’s not stupid.”

“I do not want to risk alienating him now that he’s here,” Aloyseus said.

“I thought it didn’t matter if he came or not.”

“It didn’t, before,” Aloyseus said. “Now that he is here, I don’t want to lose him.”

“I didn’t take you as sentimental towards family,” Araneon said, narrowing his eyes.

“I will not be provoked into conflict by you,” Aloyseus said. “And you would do well not to push it. Should you not be required, I would terminate our agreement without hesitation.”

Araneon jerked upright.

“You owe me.”

“Your payment was contingent upon arriving safely at our destination. We haven’t gotten there yet. And with your current attitude, I’m not entirely sure you won’t be a hindrance.”

Araneon wanted to draw his sword, but he refrained. There was no way he could lose out on getting the damned tattoo removed. The gold he could live without – after all, he led a fairly austere existence as it was – but the tattoo was non-negotiable.

“You’re a piece of work,” he snarled.

“Merely attempting to preserve what we have here,” Aloyseus said. “I can deal with your moods, but not your recklessness.”

“Fine,” Araneon said. “But you’re removing this tattoo, one way or another.”

“That I will,” Aloyseus said. “Contingent upon-”

“Message received,” Araneon said loudly, before Aloyseus could finish. The Forsaken had no further use for him, and returned his attention to the skeletal steeds. Araneon imagined popping the corpse’s head off of his shoulders. It made him chuckle, but then the tattoo burned again.

“Enough,” he growled, grabbing his arm. Aloyseus turned and gave him an odd look.

“Enough what?”

“I was talking to myself,” Araneon said, letting go of his arm. But it was too late – the priest saw. He turned to Araneon and put his arms behind his back.

“The draenei who did this was powerful,” Aloyseus said back. “If it still burns.”

“I don’t know why it does,” Araneon said, scowling. “It never did before.”

“Perhaps it knows you’re close to removing it.”

“It knows?” Araneon repeated. “That sounds crazy.”

“It is no ordinary brand,” Aloyseus said, getting closer. “You still haven’t figured out how she did it?”

“No,” Araneon said. “Or else I wouldn’t be here with you.”

“Indeed,” Aloyseus said, nodding. “It must have been humiliating to have been subdued by her.”

“She was powerful,” Araneon repeated. “And I was desperate.”

“Mana withdrawal?”

“You know the story.”

“Not the details,” Aloyseus said.

“They’re not important,” Araneon snapped. But then his tattoo burned as soon as he said it. He shook his head, closing his eyes. How many elves did he claim in his prime? How many women? Too many to count, so rich in mana. And he grew his network to bring in more. They all feasted, every single elf that became a network agent for the Spider. He shared the spoils with them, but he kept the best, the most beautiful, for himself. But then the Sunwell re-ignited, and one of his contacts turned traitor. And that put him in danger.

But it’s all moot, Araneon thought. Betrayal or no, his days as the Spider were numbered. In his arrogance he branded his victims, and enough bodies piled up where he could no longer operate in Silvermoon without arousing suspicion. They moved their operation to Outland, where they could operate with a bit more scrutiny. But soon the elves left, and with fewer targets, he only had the draenei. His target was strong with magic. But she was strong, and worse, she was strong in the Light. Even at the height of his strength he may not have been able to take her.

“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 memories are worse when you suppress them,” Aloyseus said, studying him.

“The past is the past,” Araneon said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it does, if you always revisit it,” Aloyseus countered. “How did she do it?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I should know as much about it as I can, if you wish for me to remove it,” Aloyseus said. Araneon sniffed, holding his head up.

“She bound me,” Araneon said. “Taunted me for a bit. And then she grabbed my arm, and all I knew was the pain. I’ve felt pain before that, and after. This was nothing I’ve ever felt before in my life. And when she was done, there was the brand on my arm. My skin smoked from her touch.”

“The incantation must have been powerful,” Aloyseus said. “Impressive. How did you escape?”

“I didn’t,” he said, looking up at him. “She let me go.”

“She let you go, knowing what you are?” Aloyseus said, incredulous.

“What I was,” Araneon corrected him. “I don’t even know how she knew. Though, nowadays that’s not so surprising. You seem to know more than what I’ve told you.”

Aloyseus grinned.

“Go on,” he insisted.

“She just told me that I would never forget what I did,” Araneon finished. “And that the pain in my arm was nothing compared to what would come.”

“And what came?”

“Nothing,” he said. “She left me in Shattrath, and I could have sworn that she was going to reveal everything. But only Anya, you, and I know about it now.”

“And her.”

“Not her,” Araneon said. “Not anymore.”

“You had her killed?”

“Along with all of my former network,” Araneon repeated. “No one else knows that I was the Spider.”

“Not yet,” Aloyseus said.

“Which is why this brand needs to go,” Araneon said. “Once it’s gone I’m free. There’ll be no link to the past.”

“Then keep your mind ever focused on the task at hand,” Aloyseus said. Araneon gave the Forsaken priest a sideways glance. A very vocal part of him, the part that always sounded like his sister Anya, distrusted everything to do with the Forsaken. But he wanted so badly to be severed from his past. If only he could cut this last tie, he could be free to live. He promised his sister he would live well, and he intended to keep that promise. But it was clear that Aloyseus wanted him to get his heads dirty in order to clean them for good.

“You haven’t told him anything about what’s in these crates?” Araneon asked.

“No,” Aloyseus said, eying him steadily. “Have you?”

“No,” Araneon responded. He found himself wondering what would happen when Finnaeus found out. Surely he was going to be irate, possibly full of rage. Not that he wouldn’t be justified. When Aloyseus told him of the contents, Araneon had given the priest strict instructions to not tell him anymore. He didn’t want to know the end game. It could only lead to some awful knowledge that, once known, could not be given back.

“Then let’s preserve the status quo,” Aloyseus said. “Will you have any further complications or doubts?”

Doubts he had plenty of. Araneon looked down at the tattoo. Somehow, no matter how dark it got, he could still see the black mark of the Spider on his arm. He traced a finger along the edges; sometimes it felt as if the thing moved. Biting his lip, he pressed a finger against the tattoo. It flared with pain – it felt a lot like the poison of the murlocs eating through his skin. He was lucky that Finnaeus was there to heal him. The thought caused a twist in his stomach.

“Are you going to kill him?”

He stared at the corpse, who did not immediately answer. The pause was enough of an answer for Araneon, but then Aloyseus spoke.

“I’m hoping it does not come to that,” he said simply. That didn’t sit well with Araneon either. “But it will be his choice.”

“Will it?” Araneon asked, more to himself than to anyone. He pulled his sleeve down. There was no need to touch and stare – the tattoo was always there. It demanded attention, after all. There was no way he could forget it.

“So is our deal intact, Master Sunwhisper?” Aloyseus pressed. Araneon made to answer, but then they heard snarling. The wolves were in their midst faster than he could have anticipated. Araneon drew his sword just in time to slash at a charging wolf. Blood splashed in the darkness, hot on his face. He heard a whimper and whine.

“As predicted,” Aloyseus said, floating up to the top of the carriage. Araneon spun, his sword blazing with the Light. He was ready for this - another outlet for some of his frustration. His free hand glowed, and he sent a bolt of Light at a wolf charging directly at him. The wolf never made a sound – its body slumped to the ground, the smell of burnt fur filling the air.

One of the skeletal steeds let out a horrible whinny. Araneon turned and saw two wolves snapping their jaws at the skeletal steeds. The undead creature was rearing, trying to kick the wolves away. The other steed was already on the ground, pieces of its legs missing. The wolves were taking it apart bone by bone. Araneon charged, and in three strides he covered the distance. The sword cut through the darkness, radiant with the Light. He cleaved the wolves, blood splashing all over him. But he relished it, the heat from the blood, the glow of his sword. He peered into the darkness, looking for another target. There were more, he knew it. He could hear them snarling.

“You’ll want to be atop the carriage for this,” Aloyseus called down.

“They’re just wolves,” Araneon said. “We can take them.”

“In a few moments it won’t just be wolves,” he said. There was the sound of something heavy running in the darkness, and in a blur of darkness and fur something huge collided with the intact skeletal steed. The thing never had a chance – it shattered from the contact. Araneon saw a worgen land on the ground in a shower of bones and dust, and then turned.

“Right,” Araneon said, his mouth gone dry. He climbed quickly up the carriage, standing atop of it along with Aloyseus. The Forsaken gestured, and a golden dome of light surrounded the carriage. It gave off such a brilliant glow that it illuminated the nearby woods. Araneon gasped, despite himself – there were at least fifteen wolves snarling at the golden dome. He tried to count the worgen, but he spotted four or five moving just beyond the light, keeping to the darkness. Except the one that had destroyed the skeletal steed. The worgen leered at them, licking his lips. In the light of the shield Araneon could see scars running down the left side of his muzzle. He held his left hand, his claws glinting in the light of the dome, and dragged his hand across the dome.

“What’s the game plan here,” Araneon asked, his hand clenching his sword. He wanted nothing more than to run the worgen through.

“We wait,” the Forsaken responded, holding his hands aloft. “I can do this for as long as it takes.”

The scarred worgen barked out an order. The wolves retreated backwards. For a moment Araneon thought they were retreating, but then a worgen approached wearing dark black robes. She nodded at the scarred worgen. Her clawed hands twirled, and blazing orange ball of fire appeared in her hands.

“We may not have that much time,” Araneon said, just as she let the fireball fly. It streaked through the air, and it hit the dome with a thundering explosion. Fire spread all along the outside of the dome, casting a blinding orange light underneath the shell. All Araneon could see was fire. He shielded his eyes, and the fire abated.

“What are we waiting for?” Araneon asked.

“Finnaeus,” Aloyseus said simply. He moved his fingers, reinforcing the shield. The worgen mage snarled, curling her clawed fingers and creating another fireball. Before Araneon could respond, it screamed towards the shield, rending the air with another deafening blast. The light of the shield dimmed in the wake of the scorching fire that crawled the length of the dome. Araneon thought that time he could feel the heat of the fire. Before the fire dissipated, another fireball struck the shield. He flinched at the sound of the explosion, and for a wild moment he thought the shield flickered and broke.

“We’re done,” Araneon said. The fire disappeared, and all he could see was the hungry eyes of the wolves, the worgen just visible in the darkness. If the shield broke, they would be dead. They were far too outnumbered. Aloyseus grunted, his hands glowing from magic, his skin smoking and searing from the effort of wielding the Light. Araneon could feel his palms sweating. He would have to be quick if the shield fell, and when another explosion rocked the shield, Araneon knew one thing for certain.

The shield was going to fall.

((I hate you so much right now))

((Just wait until you get to the next post. It's a doozy! And almost done in editing!))

Through the forest Finnaeus ran. In his cheetah form he could dart through the darkness, cut between trees, and jump over obstructions with the agility necessary to maintain his speed. The urgency of his predicament sharpened his focus, and he pushed his body to the max to keep up with the faster worgen ahead of him, and the wolves snapping at his heels.

He darted below a low hanging branch, and then sensed the wolves getting close. Surging forward, he leapt, spun in mid-air, and changed into his troll form. He barely had time to see the two wolves before he snapped his hands opened. Searing white light struck the two of them, and they crumbled in pain. Finnaeus completed the spin, shifted back into his cheetah form, and landed on the ground without breaking a stride.

But the maneuver made him lose track of the worgen. He surged forward, following their scent, running faster than his panic, than his fear, than the thought that he would be too late. Harder he pressed, his body fluid, his breath coming even, his eyes ever focused forward. He dodged rocks and jutting roots, ever careful to make sure he didn’t lose his footing. For a wild moment he thought he lost the scent, but then he saw a golden light appear in the distance.

Aloyseus, he thought. Spurred by the sight, he shifted into his cat form and blended in with the shadows. He dashed forward, the sound of explosions almost robbing him of his breath. He wasn’t too late, there was no way, he got there as fast as he could, he wasn’t too late –

He stopped, almost barreling into one of the wolves. They could smell him but not see him, and he darted between them. Instinct kicked in, sharpened by his training in the Silent Guard of the Presidium – he counted five to six worgen, one of them hurling fireballs at the golden dome surrounding the carriage. He saw Frenzy, standing next to the mage with a hungry look in his eyes. The mage wound up and hurled another fireball at the golden shield. Finnaeus didn’t have to see the shield break to know that it did – he took three lunging steps, burst from the shadows, and then pounced on the worgen mage.

Chaos erupted. In a quick motion he swatted the worgen so hard in the face that she collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Finnaeus didn’t have the chance to stop and survey – he blinked forward into a clearing and spun. The wolves and worgen charged. He saw Araneon leap from the carriage, and in one smooth motion he swung his sword in an arc along the ground. Arcs of Light erupted from the ground like lightning, striking several wolves in the process and sending them reeling. Aloyseus floated above the carriage, twirling his hands. A column of holy fire engulfed one of the worgen in flames. The worgen whined and fell to the ground, trying to extinguish the flames.

Finnaeus heard a snarl to his left. He spun into his bear form in time for two wolves to land on his back. He roared, shifting his bulk so that they rolled off of him. He reared to his hind legs and let out a massive swipe, his claws burying so deep into their flesh that he scraped the bone. As they slumped to the ground, Finnaeus shifted into his troll form, and took another survey of the scene.

Araneon was surrounded by the bodies of three wolves, and was dueling with a worgen that had two giant swords in his clawed hands. The Light flashed and danced in the darkness as he twirled his sword, the sound of metal on metal clanging in the air. Aloyseus was floating high above the carriage, sending out bolts of Light towards like a hovering turret. The mage was down, Aloyseus struck down another. That left four, including Frenzy, who was not visible. He scanned the scene, trying to see where they were, when –

-something jerked him around his navel and he flew backwards towards the carriage. He saw two worgen where he once stood. His heart was pounding – they nearly got him. In panic he turned and saw that Aloyseus had pulled him towards the carriage.

“They’re quick,” he called. Finnaeus nodded, and green magic curled in his hands as he planted his feet on the ground near the carriage. Roots burst out of the ground, wrapping around the two worgen that had tried to ambush him. They roared as they fell to the ground. He turned and saw Araneon dodging the dual-wielding worgen, and then swinging his sword as he spun away. The blade went clean through the worgen’s neck, sending the head rolling into the ground and a gush of blood spurting into the air.

“Well done,” Aloyseus called. Finnaeus looked up, and behind his floating brother was a puff of shadow that looked eerily like smoke. Frenzy appeared behind him, clasping onto his body and sending him crashing onto the carriage. He hoisted the Forsaken up and held a green-coated blade to his throat.

“I knew you were a traitor,” Frenzy yelled. “This is what happens to those who would assail Gilneas.”

“NO!” Finnaeus screamed, but it was too late. The worgen took the blade and ran it across Aloyseus’s throat. Finnaeus held out a hand, but then Aloyseus’s body dissolved into darkness. Finnaeus had no idea what happened, but then he saw his brother reappear five feet from the carriage, looking furious. Frenzy turned, roared, and disappeared into shadow.

Powerful relief came over him. Finnaeus rounded the carriage and joined with Araneon and Aloyseus. They had felled so many opponents. But then he saw the worgen mage standing, Frenzy beside her, and the woods were alive with the sound of snapping jaws. More wolves had arrived, more worgen with them. It was, Finnaeus thought grimly, the full pack.

“Any other bright ideas?” Araneon asked, winded from his duel.

“We need to escape.”

“We stand our ground,” Aloyseus responded.

“That’s suicide,” Araneon said. They could hear the worgen in the woods yelling commands, organizing the group.

“Reinforcements will be arriving shortly,” Aloyseus said. “We need more time.”

“What reinforcements?” Araneon asked. Finnaeus wondered the same thing. But then he saw Frenzy through the trees, wolves and worgen at his back.

“CHARGE!” he screamed, and an army of fur and fangs charged forward. Finnaeus twirled his hands, his three fingers glowing with magic. Treants spun into existence, meeting the charge of wolves with roars of their own. Bark clashed with fur, and then the sound of a horn rent the air. Finnaeus saw a group of Forsaken charging.

The melee was an unintelligible storm of sounds, screaming, and violence. Finnaeus shifted into his cat form, dodging between wolves and worgen clashing with the Forsaken troops. Intermittent flashes from spells erupted around them. He dashed between combatants, pouncing on the wolves and dispatching them quickly before moving on to the next. He spun after snapping the neck of one wolf in time to see the worgen mage wave her arms. A column of fire erupted, setting a blaze a group of ten Forsaken troops. The smell of burning, rotted flesh filled the air, and the nearby trees caught fire, lighting the area. No doubt the battle would attract more attention.

Finnaeus saw Araneon exchanging sword blows with another worgen, distracted while another snuck behind him. He flashed into his troll form, waving his hands. The worgen spun in a vortex of wind, just in time for Araneon to see his own peril. He struck out with his sword, parrying a blow from his main enemy, before spinning as the vortex died down and the worgen landed on the ground, disoriented. Araneon flashed with the Light, and the worgen fell to the ground, their bodies smoking.

Balls of fire flew through the air, striking with deafening explosions and lighting many on fire. Finnaeus made his way through the crowd, shifting into his cat form so that he could move with more agility. He swiped out at several wolves before finally reaching the mage. He loathed to kill the worgen, but he had no choice. She was wreaking chaos, and it was only a matter of time before one of her spells struck home and killed one of his companions. He pounced landing hard on her, and with one swift bite he crushed her throat in his jaws. The fireballs in her hands dissolved into darkness.

There was a howl, and the wolves and worgen began to fall back. So many bodies littered the forest floor, worgen and Forsaken alike. Finnaeus saw Frenzy on the ground, his clawed hands holding his stomach where a sword jutted from him like a broken bone. Blood matted his fur as it poured from the wound and into the soil. Finnaeus crouched next to him.

“Traitor,” Frenzy said, narrowing his eyes.

“It didn’t have to happen this way,” Finnaeus responded. He looked up and saw Aloyseus approaching him, his robes covered in dirt and blood.

“Do not leave him alive,” Aloyseus said to him. The statement was in that same tone, congenial, despite how cold and calculating the order was. Finnaeus winced.

“He’s going to die,” Finnaeus said. “There’s no saving him.”

“Then better to end his suffering before we attract more attention.”

“More attention?” Finnaeus asked, looking around at the group of Forsaken soldiers. “It’s too late. We’ve already attracted your military.”

“Those are my troops,” Aloyseus said. Finnaeus furrowed his brow at his brother, and then took another look at the Forsaken. They were scooping up the bodies of the worgen, and piling them up.

“What are they doing?”

“The work of madmen,” Frenzy said, choking on his own blood.

“Collecting the bodies,” Aloyseus said. “For research.”

Finnaeus’s mouth went dry.

“For research?”

“Of course. We both knew the worgen were following us. It was only a matter of time before they struck.”

“But…how did your troops get here so fast?”

“They’ve been waiting in Ambermill,” Aloyseus said. “I told you we were close and did not need supplies. We were going to rendez-vous with them tomorrow. The battle just escalated the timeline.”

Finnaeus didn’t understand.

“If you had troops all along, why didn’t you just have them escort your goods?”

“Three people with one cart is more discreet,” Aloyseus said. They watched as the Forsaken gathered the rest of the fallen worgen, while others tried to put out the fire in the trees. Finnaeus felt winded all over again.

“You put us in danger,” Finnaeus said.

“None that we couldn’t handle,” Aloyseus said. “It was a calculated risk, sure, but it was one I was confident in taking. You and Araneon are quite formidable.”

“Formidable,” Finnaeus repeated, crouching down. His head was spiraling. None of this was adding up. Why the secrecy? Why slink through the woods? Just what were they hiding from the Forsaken military? And why did they need worgen?

“I told you not to trust them,” Frenzy choked out.

“That’s quite enough from you,” Aloyseus said. He reached down, grabbed the worgen’s face, and then twisted. The brittle sound of crunching sent Finnaeus into a rage.

“Enough secrets,” he hissed. “You put my life, Araneon’s life, on the line to move this stuff when you had plenty of hired help to do it for you. No lies, Aloyseus. No more lies. Why did you ask for my help?”

“You would never have come with me, Finnaeus, if you thought for one second that I could fend for myself,” Aloyseus said. “Yes, I manipulated you, because rather than trusting me as your brother, you sank back into your fit of sullen displeasure that I am, indeed, undead. So I manipulated you into thinking that you needed to save me, so that I could get you here.”

“You didn’t need me here,” Finnaeus snarled.

“Not here, no,” Aloyseus responded. “But what is to come, however, is another matter. There’s no turning back now, Finnaeus. You’ve helped to kill your former comrades. You need to see this through.”

“I killed them to save you,” Finnaeus said. “I thought –”

“That you would let me die again,” Aloyseus said, folding his hands behind his back. “Understandable. I knew you would feel some bond to me, even if I’m a corpse. But if you just remain calm, and let me explain, you’ll be thanking me for all this.”

“THANKING YOU?” Finnaeus yelled.

“Lower your voice,” Aloyseus said. “Please.”

“I’ve got nothing to thank you for,” Finnaeus yelled. He didn’t care if all of the Forsaken here saw him explode. Against all of his better judgment he helped his undead brother. He remembered that sick feeling of panic when he thought his brother was going to die, and he was ashamed for even feeling that. Betrayal slid over him like nausea.

“You need to remain calm,” Aloyseus said, holding out his hands.

“I don’t need to do anything.”

“You do,” Aloyseus said. “If you do not come with me calmly, they will kill you.”

“They can try,” Finnaeus snarled, curling his hands.

“Please, Finnaeus. I can understand your anger, and I regret how it came to this. But we must move, and move quickly. The battle will not go unnoticed, and we will need to move before the military gets here.”

Araneon came up next to them, his body and face covered in blood. His sword looked clean as new, however, when he sheathed it at his side.

“Handy that reinforcements came when they did, eh?” he asked, anger flashing in his eyes.

“Very convenient,” Finnaeus said, his lips curling around his tusks.

“I cannot stress how precarious this situation is,” Aloyseus said in a hissing whisper. “This is bigger than me, and I can only protect the two of you for so long. You will both benefit, in the long term, if you can find it in yourselves in the short term to bend with the wind, as it were. Do not obstruct things here, or it will cost you your lives.”

Finnaeus looked at Araneon, whose face remained inscrutable. Finnaeus knew that the paladin was promised a hefty sum for his services to Aloyseus, and that would be a powerful motivator. For his part, however, he saw no benefit.

“Bigger than just you,” Finnaeus repeated. “And who is pulling the strings here?”

“I promise you that all will be revealed in time,” Aloyseus said. Despite himself, despite everything, Finnaeus could tell that his brother was telling the truth. He just didn’t care anymore.

“I think now’s a good time,” Finnaeus snarled, and he flashed his hand out. A powerful surge of wind and water rushed towards the carriage, and upended it.

“NO!” Aloyseus screamed.

The carriage tilted and the boxes thundered from the top onto the forest floor. Finnaeus watched as several of the carts splintered with the impact of his spell. The giant warded box tilted, and then fell. It seemed to hang in midair, but before it hit the ground a golden bubble surrounded it. It fell with a thud to the ground, but remained intact.

Finnaeus heard Araneon speaking, but he didn’t hear the words. There, among the debris of the wood, was his worgen body.

Finnaeus did not know how long he stood there, staring at his real body, his true self. Everything went numb, as if everything were happening in slow motion. He couldn’t ake his eyes off of it. He searched everywhere in Pandaria for traces of Shan’Daon, the sorcerer who stole his body, and found none. How did Aloyseus have it now? How could this happen?

And how could he keep this from me?

That thought sent him back into his senses. He turned to his brother, only knowing rage. So many questions sprang into his mind, so many angry things he wanted to yell, that they all log jammed.

“You,” he hissed, feeling the hot anger starting to erupt.

“Do something,” Aloyseus hissed.

Finnaeus started forward, but then he felt something heavy hit the back of his head. He fell, slumped to his knees, and heard Araneon’s voice.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s for our own good.”

Finnaeus never got to respond. He felt another blow to his head, and the world went dark.

((We're at the mid-point-ish of the story. If you've been reading up to this point, thanks for sticking with this, thanks for reading, and thanks for being awesome! Things go down from here on out!))