World of Warcraft®

((With the patch - and subsequent invasion - coming on Tuesday, time to start writing up a prologue, heh heh...))

Alieth Taldir was not easily given to temper, but something about that night outside the Cathedral still bothered her. The preacher, this Genevra Stoneheardt, sounded utterly naive...and that other, the man the draenei death knight had called his commander, was just a pompous jerk. But there was something about Genevra that only someone whose homeland had suffered tragedy could see; she knew full well that kind of pain. And yet, her idea of "understanding" still included the Horde, and of course people just had to remind her about how the orcs had helped fight off the Legion at Mount Hyjal.

That's as may be, she thought, as she sipped tea in her home in the Mage Quarter, but we could just as easily have fought that off without them, if we had a full Alliance instead of the fragmented group that was left after the Scourge. Everyone is so quick to point out that the Lich King was a human prince...but before there was even a Lich King, there was Ner'zhul, an orc, for pity's sake...and granted, Medivh was a sorcerer of Azeroth, but who helped him open the Dark Portal? Gul'dan, an orc - the apprentice of Ner'zhul, no less. Clearly the apple did not fall far from the tree.

It was an argument she had had for years with anyone who protested against hatred of the Horde, one she constantly replayed in her head. If the orcs had not been so bloodthirsty and foolish, there would have been no Horde. There would have been no Dark Portal, and thus no First, Second or Third Wars...and Llane would have ruled for far longer, and Varian would not be so conflicted...or so orc-tainted; there would have been no Scourge, and thus no Kael'thas, no Sunwell battle, no blood elves; no Dark Portal would also have meant no Outland...maybe we would have had other foes - Illidan, Archimonde, Deathwing, so on - but we would not have had it nearly to the scale. There would still be a Lordaeron, and Arthas would be king. Dalaran would still be on the shores of Lordamere. And with no Horde, there would have been no Garrosh, and Pandaria would not be half in ruins...

Alieth set the cup down, sighing. Maybe she had been a little harsh with Genevra; the priestess - she guessed, from her attire - was the kind of person who clung to hope wherever she could find it. But the idea of a world that continued to encompass the Horde, responsible (directly or otherwise) for the world's ills for the last thirty years, was anathema to Alieth, who had lost (and somehow regained) both of her home cities in the wars that followed the Horde's arrival.

Such people may choose to forget what they did to this city in years past, and what their coming to our world has done to it since, she thought. But I will never forget.

Maybe that was the reason behind all the dreams, she mused; ever since that night, she dreamt she had been standing before the Dark Portal and watching as a great tide of orcs marched through it...

Battlelord Velenkayn had been dreaming, too - and for a man who required no sleep, he mused, he certainly dreamed a lot. His old friend Jaeden'laek would call them visions, but Velenkayn was no shaman; indeed, he had been among those who had protested Nobundo being allowed to teach this "orcish filth" in the first place. But the elements were no judge of race, it seemed - their only concern was that the wielder show proper deference to the spirits, and maintain the delicate balance that kept the world going. A difficult task indeed, given the shakeup (literally) of the world in recent years.

Seated in his usual clearing outside the Exodar, Velenkayn remained as ever in his ornate battle armor, with his glowing skull pauldron. Instead of the matching warhelm, he wore a frostforged crown, crafted for him by Marennia Sputterspark; many death knights and other "fearsome" folk had taken to wearing such coronets, which held an enchantment that gave them the face of death. "Some of our enemies need such fear in them" had been Marennia's comment.

Since the fall of Hellscream, Velenkayn had often returned to this place, seeking to maintain the clarity of his mind. It was said that death knights avoided the agonizing pain of withdrawal with constant bloodshed, but Velenkayn blocked out his pain through meditation, as he had as a vindicator initiate so long ago. It was during these periods that the dreams had been coming, old memories of the past. In them, he was a vindicator in the guard of Telmor, serving under Velen's chief general, Restalaan, as he had when the Horde - with the Frostwolf clan in the vanguard, as he recalled - had sacked the city. Velenkayn had taken a small group of survivors - including his wife, Taelina, and their daughter, then named Taelinkayn for both of them (who would become Ammenkayn, after Ammen Vale in their new home on Azeroth) - and fled to Shattrath after Restalaan fell...only to watch the Horde, corrupted by demon magics, march in and destroy the draenei capital as well. Taelina had fallen that day, her body mutilated by the rampaging orcs - and all that Velenkayn had to remember her was the pendant he had worn around his neck ever since, even while bound to the will of the Lich King.

He was seeing Telmor again in his waking mind - but it was different. He could see orcs still, and - were those draenei fighting other draenei? It couldn't be, it had to be eredar...and there were no Frostwolf banners, either. Telmor had never been seen by the orcs until Restalaan had brought in Durotan and Orgrim. Too, the woods around the city looked wrong to him - the Terokkar Forest was eternally gray-green, but these woods looked to be more autumnal, like Quel'Thalas.

What had happened here? he wondered. This is not how I remember it...

"No, Velenkayn," a voice from next to him spoke, "but that is how it will be. Both as you remember, and as you do not."

Velenkayn looked up, and his eyes went wide. "Jaeden'laek? Is it...really you?"

"It is, my old friend," the ghostly draenei farseer confirmed. "The spirits have allowed me to come to you for this purpose...you have felt in your very soul that there is a new conflict coming. It comes swiftly now. The door will become red, and the iron will sweep across the land to besiege the haunted halls. What has been, has been - but what has been can also be changed. You wear the visage of the dead, Velenkayn, and the dead will need you."

"I don't understand, Jaeden'laek...what is coming? And what does this have to do with what happened in Telmor?"

But the spirit began to fade, and in an echoing voice said, "What has been, will be again. What has been done, will be done again. There is nothing new under the sun..."

When the Horde originally invaded what was then known as the Kingdom of Azeroth, Sekhesmet had been High Priest of the Cathedral of Stratholme, which became the Bastion of the Silver Hand during the Second War and the Scarlet Bastion following the city's fall to the Scourge in the Third. He and his apprentice, Saavedro, had tended to the landless refugees who had arrived in Southshore and heard the tales of the orcish invasion for the first time.

It had been about thirty years, and a lot had happened since that time, but some memories did not fade. Vivid descriptions of large, muscular creatures with green skin and tusks, using dark magic, treachery, brute force and sheer numbers to kill the noble King Llane and overrun his kingdom. The exhausted and malnourished state of the survivors, especially the children. The anguish visible on Anduin Lothar's face when he related his tale.

Ever since, the Alliance had kept watch on the region now called the Blasted Lands, ever vigilant for news from the Dark Portal; that foresight had come in quite useful when the Portal reopened, beginning the war for Outland. Across the road a ways was the former site of the town of Rockard, now a Horde fortress called Dreadmaul Hold (or Okril'lon Hold, as some had taken to calling it, after their leader). But where Sekhesmet now stood was a different place entirely...on the walls of Nethergarde, gazing southward towards the Portal, his robes fluttering in the hot wind.

Ever since he was a child, nearly a century earlier, Sekhesmet had always possessed the gift of prescience. The Light had granted him insight into vague possible futures, as it did the ancient Prophet of the draenei, the wizened and stoic Velen. Four days earlier, while sleeping in his quarters at Mardenholde Keep in Hearthglen - where he often resided while he waited for Stormwind's lawyers to remove the rods from their backsides and let him reside there full time - he had experienced one such vision, and he knew it was not a memory; he had not been to Stormwind during the "post-Portal era" until after it had been rebuilt. But he wondered if this had been what any eyewitness had seen that fateful day in the Black Morass, when Medivh and Gul'dan bridged the way between Azeroth and Draenor...

In that instant, he knew something was coming. He had called for his steed, Antinnis, which shaped itself into whatever its master required, and flown from Hearthglen, across the entirety of the Eastern Kingdoms to nearly at its tip...until at last he had come here.

Since then, he had risen with the sun every morning and stood on the walls, gazing southward, and waited. He had the patience of the dead - fitting, as he had been so twice - and a stern, unblinking gaze. It would be soon, he knew. The Light had shown him so. It would be soon, and the fragile peace would be shattered. And he knew Stormwind would have to rally a response; Nethergarde's commanders would send word to them the moment it began. That is what they had been tasked with doing for decades; to watch, to listen, and to inform.

He wondered if it would be Orwyn who answered. If so...Sekhesmet smiled to himself behind his concealing mask. If so, I will be happy to offer my services, he thought. On one condition...

The troll shaman rushed into the Ketiron estate like he had run a considerable distance. "Masta Ketiron!"

"Hold up, Thek'la, breathe for a minute." That was Captain Kellik, the goblin who commanded Ketiron's guard. "What's up with you, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Big news, Captain. I need ta be seein' da Masta." Two days earlier, Thek'la had witnessed a vision, and being a shaman, he was able to interpret it...somewhat. Something was about to happen at the Dark Portal, the spirits said...Ketiron had been so engrossed in work, concerns about Rakeri and Sekhesmet, and worrying about the news of Hellscream's escape from Pandaria, that he hadn't been afflicted with dreams...but knew to listen to those who had.

Kellik led the troll shaman into Ketiron's study; the Blood Knight Master was in meditation robes, seated on the floor. "My lord." Ketiron's eyes opened, and he raised an eyebrow. "Elementalist Thek'la has arrived, and says he has news."

Ketiron looked up at Thek'la calmly. "It approaches." Not a question, a statement of fact. Thek'la nodded. The Master had stood and called for his armor, then immediately flew for Dreadmaul Hold, riding out to the crater where the Portal stood. Some people had already started milling around, and some from the Alliance that he recognized - Kordrion Stoneheardt with some of his Terra Incognita troopers, including the draenei some called "the Hexing King"; Derscha Kettlebomb, the "bossgnome" Kezrin always went on about; Imperon Showdah, leader of the Lluchduu Ocheliad, with some of his...soldiers, servants...he was never sure.

Thek'la's vision said it would be here, he thought. Did others have the same insight he did? It wouldn't surprise him. A number of shaman had foreseen the Cataclysm (though they had not foreseen its scale; no one could have, in his opinion), which is what led Kitrik to leave Northrend late in the war and return to Kezan.

Standing on the high ridge, Ketiron gazed silently down into the crater...and waited.

Eidan Zherron had followed Sekhesmet to Nethergarde, not trusting the murderer any more than the Watch, Genevra, or Kordrion did; he had been circling the keep in the air in his Gilnean raven form for nearly a week.

Then he felt it. His gaze turned south to the Dark Portal...but the glow was not green anymore. It was blood red. Zherron had heard rumors that Khadgar had returned from Shattrath City to report to the leaders of Azeroth...was this what he was here for?

Sekhesmet, standing on the walls of Nethergarde as he had for days, saw it too. He felt no fear; the word that came to mind is "wistful". So, he thought, this is what happened. This is where, this is how...and this is why. His robes ruffled in the hot wind as he pulled on his masked cowl and took up his khopesh and staff.

Zherron circled around and landed next to him, and shifted back into his worgen form. "Do you know what's coming?" he demanded. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Sekhesmet shook his head. "No, I don't know what's coming. But I felt it was something...and whatever it is, we cannot fight one another anymore." He turned his head to look at him. "I am not asking you to forgive me or forget what happened, Zherron. But this is our problem now."

Zherron stared at him through his cold amber eyes, then looked back southward...and nearly felt his heart stop as he saw what emerged from the Dark Portal. Like the tales he had heard when Gilneas was called upon to fight for the Alliance. Tales he and his father had disbelieved at first, but had grown to respect when the war actually began...a threat he had seen a great deal of in his years of service.

Orcs...

But these were not the green-skins that served in the current Horde, or what remained of the red "fel orcs" that roamed in Outland. In orcish, they called them mag'har - "uncorrupted". Those who kept the brown skin tone they had been born with, rather than the green of demonic corruption that permeated their entire race, whether they drank from the poisoned chalice or not. But what came next made him realize this was something different entirely.

War machines. Massive cannons.

Finally, the worgen druid asked, "What must be done?"

"Nethergarde will likely send a runner to Stormwind, and Orwyn and his men will come in force." Indeed, as he spoke, a gryphon flew from the platform behind him, with a violet-attired guardsman wheeling and heading northwest, towards Stormwind. "Your friends...Captain Sputterspark, Battlelord Velenkayn...go and rally them. Ketiron is over there," and he pointed towards the Portal, "and will send for his men too. The mages will bring them in through Stonard to the north there," and then he pointed towards the Swamp of Sorrows, "and they'll come south to stand against whatever it is...and we'll have a war on our hands."

"And you?"

Sekhesmet chuckled. "I will be right here, my dear boy. I figure this is my moment to prove to you people my sincerity." He turned back towards the portal. "Now go!"

Zherron shifted back into his raven form and lifted off, circling to fly northwest, following the runner, leaving Sekhesmet to stand like a silent sentinel on the walls of Nethergarde. The priest watched him go, then looked back towards the tide that began to approach. It was as he said to the draenei he had been talking to the previous evening - a storm was coming. The tide would wash over this land and break upon the crags...and when it receded, the armies of the Alliance and the Horde would follow it from the shore to where it came.

It has begun...

Marennia Sputterspark had flown directly from the front lines back to New Tinkertown, where she reported to her superiors about the "Iron Horde". Word had already come from Ironforge of an invasion from the Dark Portal, with some of these new forces making their way as far inland as Blackrock Mountain. She had played her small part in the fight, and the Gnomeregan Militia would soon join with the rest of the Alliance to combat this new-old enemy. For now, however, she returned to her house and removed her battered, bloodstained armor, setting it and her pandaren spear aside to beat back into shape and polish later, before returning to the south.

In Stormwind, she had heard rumors that Sekhesmet of Stratholme had arrived in Watch Headquarters in tattered robes, seriously wounded and covered in blood - his own and his opponents', having been at Nethergarde when it fell to the invaders, and was forced to escape...but not before he had apparently killed any orcs that had stood in his path. If true - she had her doubts from what she knew of the man - then he would have a case for a full pardon for the crimes he had committed as a Forsaken, for he had risked his life to fight the invaders in the name of the Alliance. Indeed, he was believed to have largely recovered and gone to the front to minister to the troops and offer his formidable powers to the fight; Marennia cynically mused that the only other thing he could possibly do to convince people of his sincerity was to die. Again.

Of Rakeri, however, she had heard nothing - and that was what worried her. Her elder brother fed on chaos and disorder like this...so where was he? Dark rumors had begun to spread of a warlock conclave that had discovered how to harness fel magic; she had no doubt that Rakeri had learned from these people, for he wielded the green flame with deadly accuracy. He had used it to fight in the siege of Orgrimmar, and to destroy Saavedro. The idea of others like him, banded together, was almost as sickening as the atrocities she had witnessed on the battlefield outside Nethergarde.

She remembered standing with Calent and Sierocca, the two Watch officers she had been assigned to by Orwyn for the fight, over a crater that had been used as an execution pit, and seeing the mangled bodies of Nethergarde soldiers. She remembered standing inside the keep itself as they called in Stormwind Marines from the ships off the coast, seeing the devastation - and some of the forlorn mementoes left behind by the fallen. She had seen her share of blood and death, having fought during the Cataclysm War and in Pandaria...but this was far more than even she had been prepared for.

She had thought the same as others who had come from outside Stormwind to witness this dark tide rising from beyond the Nether: "This must be what it was like back then," those people would say, referring to the first arrival of the Horde three decades before. "This must have been what the people felt." That tide had come and resulted in the death of the King, the destruction of Stormwind, and the flight of its people to the shores of Lordaeron. But if it happened again, there was no Southshore to offer them shelter, no Terenas to help reclaim the lands. Stormwind would be lost forever.

But Marennia made a solemn vow, just as others like her did. If they had not seen the event, they had heard the tales, and made their pact with the memories of the dead with just two words.

Never again.

Rakeri Sputterspark had to admit that Sekhesmet was a pretty good motivational speaker. He had watched and listened through his Eye of Kilrogg from the roof of the Cathedral, as he was wont to do during Genevra's sermons. After all, it wouldn't do to upset the young wretch - though she didn't seem to be all that bothered to see Sekhesmet there. The recent events had changed things a great deal, it seemed...

The professor had not yet gone to the Blasted Lands. He would eventually, but on his own time, not rushing to the rescue like the "brave heroes" of the Watch, Genevra and her ilk, and even Sekhesmet had done. But the reports that had come in about this "Iron Horde" intrigued him. Exactly as the dwarf seer predicted, he thought, remembering a strange dwarf shaman in a wolf-skull helm and ornate shamanic vestments he had encountered in Dun Morogh during a visit back to the home country. The dwarf had told him of an "iron tide" coming from the "red door" in the Blasted Lands; the tide would come, wash inward, and then recede, and both Alliance and Horde would recede into the "red door" with it. (Ironically, unbeknownst to either of them, this was the same Light-granted vision that Sekhesmet had experienced.)

After the dwarf had gone on, Rakeri had returned for a time to Ironforge, meditating in the lonely darkness of the Forlorn Cavern. Then, he decided to return to New Tinkertown, knowing that his sister would be there. Unlike in Stormwind, he had not been all that ostracized (despite Marennia's best efforts) among his own people; warlocks were just another kind of sorcerer among the gnomish people, a race known for their intellect and desire for knowledge. Though he publicly disagreed with Mekkatorque and believed his efforts to retake Gnomeregan had been a failure, Rakeri was still a gnome, dammit all, and this was his people's home. And he would do his part to defend it, and the world of Azeroth as a whole.

The Council of the Black Harvest had sworn to that goal before, too - but Kanrethad had been too greedy, delved too deeply. The growing number of those who followed in his footsteps, including Rakeri, were not so foolish. Under the guidance of those like Rakeri and his colleagues, a new Black Harvest would arise, learning from the lessons (and mistakes) of their forebears, and fight the coming darkness with felfire. This Iron Horde, Rakeri was sure, was part of that darkness.

He approached the house where his sister resided, seeing her at her little thermal anvil outside, a blacksmith's hammer in her hand, as she beat her armor back into shape. "Hello, Renni."

She froze in mid-swing and looked up, eyes wide. Rakeri's dagger hung from his belt, but he did not seem to want to go for it. Indeed, he raised his hands to indicate he was not here for fighting. But his hands empty were an even greater weapon than his being armed. "What do you want?"

The direct approach, then. Rakeri decided to answer in kind. "A truce."

Marennia laughed bitterly. "A truce? You declared war on everyone who doesn't agree with you, Rakeri; you've publicly stated you will destroy anyone who opposes you. Like your own sibling, for instance. And now you want to come and sue for peace? Not damn likely!"

"If Sekhesmet and Genevra, two people who hate each other intensely, can speak like civilized people and set aside their differences to fight a common threat, why can't we? We are blood, Renni - a bond stronger than elementium." Rakeri's expression was solemn. "This Iron Horde won't care if we're at each other's throats...but it would be wiser if we were not divided when the time comes to face them in their homes. You know that's what needs to happen."

Cautiously, Marennia nodded. "I thought as much when I went into the field with the Watch," she admitted. "Wherever they come from, we need to follow them there." Her eyes narrowed. "And what will stop you from betraying us when the threat is dealt with?"

"If you want to keep fighting after we deal with them, fine. Right now, I'm calling for a cease-fire, to focus on a greater enemy. Like Thrall and Proudmoore at Hyjal."

Marennia stared at her elder brother for a long moment. He was lying, she was sure of it...or was she so sure? Her logic had always been uncertain where he was concerned, especially after his ordeal in Northrend that made him...like this. And for all that his magic was dark and corruptive, he was very powerful - and she would prefer to have that power pointed at someone other than herself. Finally, reluctantly, she said, "Alright, Rakeri. A truce. After the threat is done...we will see."

Rakeri nodded, turned, and walked away from the house. As soon as he sensed she had turned back to her forge, he smiled to himself. Yes indeed, sister, he thought. We will see.

Thirty years earlier, an orc named Torghn had been a clansman of the Burning Blade as they marched with the old Horde through the Dark Portal into the Black Morass, where they began their invasion of the Kingdom of Azeroth, sacking Stormwind before moving northward into Lordaeron. The treachery of the warlock Gul'dan, and the necessity of bringing the traitor to justice, cost the Horde the war, and the vast majority of the orcish people ended up in internment camps. Torghn had been among the few Burning Blade to survive only to languish in those camps, the rest having been consumed from within by the dark fire that cursed their entire species.

Now, thirty years on, history seemed to repeat itself, with yet another Horde corrupted by evil marching on the southern lands. He was called Torghn Skulltaker now - a title earned not during the First or Second Wars, but during the brief period he spent in the armies of the Lich King. By the time he had fallen at the gates of Orgrimmar during the prelude to the Northrend campaign, Torghn had followed in the footsteps of the few surviving Burning Blade warriors - he had taken up his warblade as a blademaster, one of the elite warriors of the new Horde under the new shaman-Warchief, Thrall. He had been liberated from the camp near Dalaran and fought in the siege of Durnholde, and then followed his brothers across the sea to Kalimdor, where he had fought at Mount Hyjal and during the founding of Durotar. From then on, the battles continued - the black dragonflight, the qiraji and their Old Gods, the Scourge, forces of the Legion, here and in Outland, Illidan...and then he had fallen in battle, only to be raised by the Scourge.

As a Knight of the Ebon Blade, he served in Northrend against the Scourge and the corrupted Titan watchers under the command of Loken and his dark master, Yogg-Saron. It had been at Conquest Hold in the Grizzly Hills that he met a sergeant named Nazgrim. Torghn had served with Nazgrim as the younger orc rose through the ranks, first as a legionnaire commanding Horde forces in Vashj'ir, and then in Pandaria as a general, before he fell defending his Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, in the siege of Orgrimmar. Torghn continued to mourn his death as a waste, even as he understood why the general had done what he had felt he had to.

And now, it has come to this, he thought, as he stood on a ridge looking towards the Dark Portal. A new "Iron Horde" marches on Azeroth...and all who serve must answer the call.

Torghn remembered the discussion he had had in Hardwrench Hideaway the previous evening, on his way back to the front - having witnessed the technology at this new Horde's disposal. Technology that had been used by Garrosh during the siege. Remnants of Helix Blackfuse's mercenary company had vanished when Garrosh escaped from Pandaria, and Torghn had heard that Warlord Zaela of the Dragonmaw had led the attack against Blackrock Mountain. As he had said wistfully, it was unlikely he would see Nagrand, the lands he called home, for a good long while...

Garrosh had been his Warchief, and the goblins and orcs who joined this new "Iron Horde" had been his comrades in arms. But that did not matter now. As he had told Korigal in Orgrimmar when he offered his services, he was dedicated to the real Horde - the Horde of many peoples united in honor, a philosophy reflected in the guard forces of Orgrimmar under the newly-installed Warchief Vol'jin. And so, he would go to fight this new foe with a familiar face.

Undead or not, Torghn was still a blademaster of the Horde, dedicated to its defense. That still counted for something.

Ketiron rode through the Forsaken encampment in Andorhal with barely concealed distaste, and into the streets and across the bridge to Sorrow Hill. The previous evening, he had hoped to speak with Genevra - he had heard from Zherron, when Ketiron had asked him, that she would give her weekly sermon at Uther's Tomb - but she had been in deep conference with Velenkayn (before the Battlelord had stormed off) and with a man wearing the colors of Stormwind's City Watch. She had asked for a delay until tonight, and he had agreed.

He rode his great noisy chopper - a new design built by master engineers - up next to her, disabled the engine, and dismounted, smiling ruefully. "Everyone in Orgrimmar seems to have one of these damn things, heh heh." He was surprised to see Genevra attired in very dark armor; it looked more like something a death knight would wear.

Genevra did not waste any words. "Sekhesmet..."

He nodded grimly. "Aye, I could hear Velenkayn swearing his way all the way back to Acherus. What's he done now?"

"He's petitioned to have his banishment overturned," she replied simply. "And he plans to walk free."

"I see." Well, that escalated quickly, he thought, pursing his lips. "And - other than the painfully obvious - is there a reason he shouldn't? Kitrik, my chief spy and assassin, has had his ear to the ground, and has not reported him being up to no good. Quite the opposite, actually."

To his surprise, Genevra sighed in exasperation. Just like she had with Velenkayn. "Nevermind. Forget I said anything."

"Now, just hold on a minute, Genevra," the Master snapped impatiently, not in the mood for dramatics. "I witnessed his crimes for myself, if you'll remember. I am not condoning his actions, and neither is Velenkayn."

"I have no patience for those who wish to see a killer walk free."

Neither do I, he thought, but... "I am simply saying, he is playing nice, and - for the moment, anyway - it seems to be working. Are you a hundred percent sure it's an act? Because I'm not. I'm bloody baffled." Indeed he was; he had actually anticipated that Sekhesmet would align with Rakeri (or, more likely, dominate the warlock), but the two had kept their distance, and spoke words of vitriol in one another's directions. Sekhesmet's hate for warlocks began with the manipulative Corruptor, way back when. "It's that damn gnome that's the real trouble," he added.

"I do not disagree with you there," Genevra admitted. "He is trouble as well...but yes, I am certain it is an act."

Ketiron raised an eyebrow. "If I might ask, how? I'll grant you, Sekhesmet is a clever, calculating bastard...or at least, he was as I knew him. But now that he has been restored to full flesh and blood, do you think he is incapable of change?" He raised a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "Just humor me!"

"You do not spend a lifetime doing what I do without being able to judge the character of a person," she replied.

"With respect, Genevra, I think your judgment is a little too sweeping. You blew me off when I offered aid to you because your colleague was kidnapped by a sin'dorei. Call me paranoid, but that sounded like condemning all of us for the acts of one." He referred to the letter he had sent nine months earlier, offering aid to a possible revitalization effort in northern Lordaeron; she had rejected him because of the kidnapping. "That would be like me saying all humans are scum because Garithos tried to kill my people." And then, of course, there's Arthas, he thought.

"I am certain you can understand what that's like?" Genevra asked him pointedly. "Having a friend who is kidnapped."

"All too well," he conceded. "And I have had many fall. Some taken by death, others...not given that luxury." He fixed her with a piercing stare. "I also try not to jump to sweeping conclusions. But we are digressing somewhat...you were discussing it with Velenkayn, and with that other man - I'm guessing he works for Lord Commander Orwyn, from his tabard. What is being done?"

"It is up to the council now," she replied, meaning the Council of Nobles. "Their votes will decide the fate of a murderer."

Ketiron snorted. "Whoever runs your justice system - not Orwyn and his officers, your judges - isn't doing a very good job. Professor Sputterspark is still free to roam, instead of having his head decorate the arches where Nefarian's and Onyxia's used to." His tone became a mixture of anger and grief, remembering what that scum had done to his brother-in-arms. "And his crime, to me anyway, was a hell of a lot more heinous."

"Yes, I am aware of this oversight," she agreed.

(cont'd)

The battle-hardened nobleman was silent for a moment, thinking. Finally, he asked, "What are the chances the Council of Nobles will pardon him? My wife has been on the front lines of late, and she's seen him. If he's not patching together wounded troops with Light, he's using Shadow to slay these 'Iron Horde.' If I didn't know any better, I'd say he thought he was looking for propaganda posters. Like this 'Oarwind' crap."

"That is the same attitude that Rakeri had, when he did his work in Sentinel Hill."

"That's probably what kept his head from the block. And it will keep Sekhesmet's from it, too..." He shook his head. "Thing is, if they do pardon him...what will you do?"

"I will cross that bridge when I come to it," Genevra replied, adding, "though I hope not to."

"I personally do not believe the zhevra can change his stripes. However..." Ketiron sighed, feeling his years. "I've seen more of my share of bloodshed than your lifetime twenty times over, Genevra. I, for one, am tired of having to look over my shoulder when my eyes should be at the front...if he is pardoned, and he proves his sincerity - again, I doubt it, but miracles do happen - then...I suppose 'wait and see' is all I can really suggest. Who knows? Maybe this whole 'atonement' act isn't all for show. Then again, knowing him as I do...." He shrugged. "It helps when our villains are more like Sputterspark. As obvious as a tauren in Booty Bay."

"I know what it is to be banished," Genevra said. "I know what it is to be on that side of things. I would only trust him if I was able to see within his mind. To rip it bit by bit until I could see his true intentions." She took a deep breath and smiled. "But as I said last night, vengeance is not our path."

Ketiron's eyes narrowed. "If you did that, you would become him...just like Saavedro did."

"As I said...vengeance is not our path. So even if I wanted to...I would not because as I said lastn ight, what is right and what is wrong does not change from day to day."

The Master smiled sadly. "Not exactly ideal, is it? But alas, that's how the Light rolls. Even for...people...like him."

"I am glad that you can understand my point of view. If I do not practice what I preach as it were, what sort of shepherd would I be?" She paused for a moment. "Can I forgive him? Yes...can I forget? No."

"Nor should you," Ketiron agreed. "Some like that do not allow themselves to forget. Like Velenkayn, as I'm sure he told you. Ever since I've known him, he has agonized about his brief and bloody service to the Lich King. Most of those knights feel very similarly." His smile broadened a bit. "Or, as my father used to say, 'forgive your enemies, but always remember their names.'"

"We cannot fault them for that, but they too must move on...we cannot dwell on the past, only learn from it."

Ketiron refrained from pointing out that she had focused on Sekhesmet's past acts rather than his current and future ones, but said only, "Speaking of...the past seems to be repeating of late, doesn't it?"

"Unfortunately, it does."

He looked wistfully up towards the tomb of Uther. "I had hoped to retire after the Cataclysm. Then came Pandaria...and Orgrimmar. Again, after that, I had hoped to settle down and attend to my House, and raise my son in peace."

Genevra nodded. "That has been the hope of all parents, myself included."

"Now, it seems, I am not even allowed that...the Regent has ordered my House Guard to be prepared for a new campaign. I have a feeling that means we're going through the Dark Portal. Wherever it leads."

"Know that the Light will be with you, even if you travel to darker places," she quoted from scripture.

He sighed, chuckling. "My sense of duty prevents me from saying no anyway. Vol'jin and Lor'themar have called, and I must answer." That seemed at odds with his decision to turn on Hellscream, but then again, Hellscream had actually turned on most of the non-orcish races of the Horde...Vol'jin had proven his worth.

"I too am in a similar spot," Genevra added. "I am constricted for life. However long that life is."

"Be glad you're not an elf, Genevra. I'm halfway through my third century and I'm wondering how much longer I'll go." Ketiron laughed. "But at least I'm not a draenei. Light only knows how long they go."

She laughed quietly with him...then said, "I should get going...my daughter is waiting."

"Of course." The Master bowed his head. "Al diel shala, Genevra."

"Light watch over you," she replied.

Ketiron stepped onto his bike. "And with all of us." He gunned the engine and rode off into the Lordaeronian night, his mind racing.

Was Sekhesmet just an attention seeker, as Genevra - and likely most others in Stormwind - thought? Or had his return truly changed him after all? And if not...what would be his next move?

Velenkayn stood impassively as he watched Marennia work in the Great Forge; the gnome captain was dwarfed (pun somewhat intended) by the Great Anvil, but she was undaunted. She swung her smithing hammer like a master, working with the dark metal that he had brought. His old warhammer had been found and kept in a vault by his father, Vindicator Incarikayn, when he learned his son had become a death knight; the Hand of Argus had taken it and returned it to him after the fall of the Lich King.

Now Velenkayn was having it remade in his image, as it were. The crystal hammer head had been reshaped, and now made up the core of this baroque-looking weapon. Finally, Marennia - who had stood atop the anvil to work - stepped back. "All on you," she said.

Velenkayn put a plate-fisted hand around the handle of the weapon, as ice began to run from his fingers all along the length of it, supercooling the heated metal. The heat of the forging centered in the centrifugal head; an aura of ice and fire glowed around the pure blackness of the crystal shard in the center. Ebonshard, he thought. A fitting name for it...

Stepping away from the anvil - and any dwarves who might be using it - he gave the weapon a couple of experimental swings, feeling the balance. It had been some time since he had used a heavy weapon, his combat impliments usually being paired blades he had collected from Scourge armories in Naxxramas and Icecrown during the war.

"Saronite has its issues, of course," Marennia said as she watched him test the weapon. "And I'm not good working with it, so I went with elementium, with a thin layer of obsidium for the centrifugal head; it has the same kind of power channelling capacity as saronite without the Old God taint. I did a lot more work with the metals unearthed by the Cataclysm and what we found in Pandaria than I did the Northrend ones, so I went with that. The shaft is a living steel core, elementium on top of that, and another thin layer of obsidium. Any runes, of course, you'll have to do yourself; my skill at the forge doesn't go that far."

"Beautiful piece of work," Velenkayn complimented. "Quite excellent, Captain."

"I do good work for good people," the captain replied with a smile. She gazed at him seriously. "You think Genevra is being too bitter?" They had discussed Velenkayn's angry encounter with Genevra outside Uther's tomb while he helped carry the rather heavy load of raw materials for the project over to the forge.

"I do, even though I admit it is not without reason," Velenkayn replied with a sigh. "But if we banished or executed everyone who had committed a heinous crime and did not give them a chance to atone for it, Genevra and I would be exiled, or dead. The one small consolation I have is that...they would be exiled or dead too." He shakes his head. "Taeril'hane advocates a wait-and-see approach." The Blood Knight Master had sent Velenkayn a note through the Argent Crusade after he had returned to Silvermoon: You must not allow the unity to be broken. Watch. Listen. Do not act rashly, or you will become the monster you fear - the monster you once were.

"I think he's right," Marennia agreed. "Rakeri came to me the other day calling for a cease-fire. I don't trust him - and he's not even trying to play the atonement card, not like Sekhesmet. But if worse comes to worse, I would rather have this devil at my side, rather than in his path."

"That's the trouble with the devils we keep at our sides," Velenkayn said grimly. "They start to stack up on our sides - and going through the door, some of them will end up in front...and some behind."