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A new year dawned on Draenor. Frostfire Ridge was bitterly cold, but the chill Lazhna Trueflight felt had nothing to do with the weather.

The pandaren hunter was on patrol in the rocky outcrops outside of Saavedar, the great fortification along the Zangar Sea coast that had been established by the House of Ketiron when the Horde of Azeroth had arrived on Draenor to push back the Iron Tide. Never having been to Outland, this was Lazhna's first journey to a world outside Azeroth - itself, a world she never knew existed beyond the great island on the back of Shen-zin Su, or the mythical lands of Pandaria where the turtle had set out with Liu Lang hundreds of generations before.

She had seen a lot more since leaving the Wandering Isle, and it had taken many things from her. First had been the decision that had separated her from her elder brother, Yatiri Stormwatcher - he had gone with Aysa and the Tushui to the human city of Stormwind, while Lazhna had followed Ji and the Huojin to Orgrimmar, the capital of the Horde. The Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, was prideful and utterly demanding of the loyalty of his new "allies", declaring all those who had gone to Stormwind as enemies to be slain on the field of battle. Lazhna knew she could do no such thing; so had Yatiri.

Yatiri's death had in fact come from within this so-called Alliance. The mad gnome warlock Rakeri Sputterspark had used his evil magic to bring the dark priest Sekhesmet back from the dead; Yatiri had confronted Sekhesmet at a place called Sorrow Hill, a graveyard outside of the ruined human town of Andorhal, east of the Forsaken Undercity. The shadow priest had killed him, and only one person had been there to see it, one who was Forsaken herself: Euphrati Velade, Sekhesmet's own daughter, who had been trained in pandaren fighting arts by the teachers who had spread throughout the Horde (and the Alliance) after leaving the Wandering Isle.

Lazhna had walked both sides; she had come to Stormwind for a time, and had met Genevra Stoneheardt, the human priestess who ministered at the great Cathedral. But she had made a vow to stand with her Huojin brethren, and returned to Orgrimmar to fight in the siege. It was after Hellscream's fall that she had met Genevra's blood elf ally, Taeril'hane Ketiron, and his wife Areinnye, almost a year ago now...two months ago, they had been charged to lead an army - led by their elite House Guard - to fight against the Iron Horde that had invaded through the Dark Portal, and Lazhna had volunteered to fight for them.

Now she was left to worry as she did her daily patrol; Lady Areinnye had gone missing while scouting the fortress of Shadowgarde, the bastion set up by the gnome near the draenei lands far to the southeast. Lazhna had wanted to go at once to the draenei lands, but Ketiron had called for caution, even though he was far more worried for his wife's safety than he showed. Lazhna had disagreed, but she had obeyed. Now, she was certain the Lady was dead, slain by Sputterspark's hand, just as Ketiron's friend Saavedro - for whom the fortress was named - had been.

Why else had she not come back?

The roads between the hidden fortresses of Shadowmoon and the draenei settlements to the east were well-maintained, even with the orcish fortress so close to it. That, at least, was a blessing; though he had the body of a younger and stronger man, Sekhesmet of Stratholme still felt old at heart, his consciousness having existed for close to a century. Though he could call upon his mystical steed, Antinnis, whenever he wished, he decided to explore this new-old land the way he had when he was a priest in Lordaeron.

He walked.

His shoulderpads burned with ritual censers, as did the staff he leaned on as he walked. They carried the smell of holy incense recovered from the Cathedral of Stratholme following the purging of the Risen, those Scarlet Crusaders who had been risen from the dead by the returned Balnazzar. Decades earlier, he had been the High Priest of that church, and Saavedro as well after him. Indeed, it was sheer luck that Saavedro had been in Stormwind when Arthas conducted his purge of the city, heralding the true march of the Scourge.

The draenei in Embaari and Elodor were wary whenever he walked among them, and Sekhesmet knew why. The traces of Rakeri Sputterspark's blood magic would never fade, nor would the Shadow he wielded in balance with the Light. He was also careful not to display his Ocheliad colors amongst them, knowing that Velenkayn - the idealistic fool - had taken it upon himself to join the guardians of these new draenei. He had in fact asked in Elodor where the Battlelord had gone, and he was told that he had gone to join the guard forces in Telmor, in the forests of Talador to the northwest.

Sekhesmet recalled what he knew of Draenor's history, both from what he had researched as a Forsaken and now, as a living man again...Telmor had been the closest draenei settlement to Auchindoun, the holy tomb-city south of Shattrath. In Outland, Auchindoun was a shattered wreck, blown open from the inside by the Shadow Council in the summoning of the sonic elemental Murmur. Here, it was intact...and the Shadow Council of this world, separate from the Iron Horde, sought to claim it to appease their demon masters, who were no doubt angered that things had not gone how they wished here.

It's said that if you move but one grain of sand, you run the risk of altering history, he thought. The bronze dragonflight was fairly adamant about that fact...and one need only look at this place to understand why.

Making his way once again towards Embaari, Sekhesmet paused and looked back into the woods. Somewhere in that tangle was Shadowgarde, Rakeri's little sanctuary. He smiled to himself, thinking of the bombshell he had left in his little argument with Raintree. You may think yourself safe now, he thought, but sooner or later, Orwyn and his ilk will have you for killing one of their own...if Ketiron does not find out about his wife first. Once again, he had watched in the shadows as Rakeri committed his latest crime, murdering the Lady Areinnye, who had led the scouting-and-spying effort against the warlock's fortress.

Despite being part of the Ocheliad, Sekhesmet had not yet encountered its master since his induction; it had been Coblyn, one of Imperon's captains, who had interviewed him in the Blue Recluse and inducted him into the Black Guard. But having dealt with similar folk in the Modas back in the day, he knew the "masters" would make time when they felt like it.

He smiled at the thought of subordinating himself to "masters" again - especially a wet-behind-the-ears pup like Imperon Showdah. Give me an opportunity, youngling lord, and I'll show you what mastery looks like... Yet even as the thought formed, he dismissed it. The situation was far different than it had been when he was Forsaken, when he had turned on the Modas. Back then, he could count on the protection of Sylvanas and of his brothers in the Royal Apothecary Society. Here, the Ocheliad was his protection - from Rakeri, Genevra, Orwyn, and damn near everyone else under the sun. He would play the role that fate had destined.

For now.

Patrolling along the outside of Saavedar's walls, Kitrik the Assassin nodded in satisfaction as he examined the stonework, making sure everything the peons and goblin engineers had put up would damn well stay up. General Ketiron (how strange to think of him by that rank, he thought) had entrusted the engineering of his fortress to Kitrik, who had judged the blood elf to be an honorable man, worthy of his efforts. When they had arrived, nearly three months earlier, Ketiron had looked on the walls that Kitrik and his artisans had erected, nodded, and said only one word: "Excellent."

That one word had spoken volumes. But Kitrik had not taken the job just to sit on his laurels - no indeed. He took his duty as Ketiron's chief engineer very seriously, ensuring that everything kept running the way it should. His younger twin brother, Kellik, was Captain of the Phalanx, Ketiron's personal bodyguards - and was also responsible for overseeing the well-being of the workforce. Though a battalion of peons - the lowliest of orcs - had been sent with him by the leadership in Orgrimmar, Ketiron wanted it made clear that there would be no slave labor or work that was unrewarded. The peons were fed well and given shelter, and the goblin engineers were well-paid. The tavern that Ketiron had ordered built had become a popular hangout, and even the general himself partook of some strong drink with his soldiers and workers. It was a quality about the elf that had drawn Kitrik back into his House's service, after leaving it to lead a ragtag mercenary outfit he had grandiosely called the "Grand Army of Kezan" during the Cataclysm.

And I once again follow him into a frozen hell-pit, he thought with a sardonic smile.

Kellik had expressed a concern that Kitrik had heard already from Lazhna Trueflight, who was off looking for native beasts to domesticate as mounts...the concern over the fate of Lady Areinnye, who was long overdue from her insertion into Shadowmoon Valley. Adding to it was the fact that now Ketiron himself was worried; he had sequestered himself inside his Great Hall for the better part of the last week. The only company he kept was his son Ord'taeril, clinging to the boy like a lifeline. Kitrik could hardly blame him...

After completing his inspection of the walls, Kitrik asked to see Kellik in his "office" - the ramshackle engineering hut in the courtyard. "I'm gonna head down south to find the Lady," he said without preamble. "He can't be cooped up in there forever. I think that scum warlock's murdered her, but we gotta be sure. We gotta know - he's gotta know. One way or the other."

Kellik was reluctant, looking up towards the Great Hall where Ketiron brooded, wondering if this would provoke his anger...then finally nodded, deciding it would be worth the risk. "Luck of Kezan be with you."

"With all of us, little brother," the master assassin replied grimly. "We're gonna need it."

It was another late night at work for Rakeri Sputterspark, who more stood than sat at the desk in the scribe's quarters, crafting glyphs of power. He had heard no words from the dwarf in more than a week, and he wondered if the hairy drunk was thinking of backing out on him. Though wary of the shaman's ability to call upon the elements, Rakeri would have no more qualms about taking his life than he had when he had killed Vendross and Areinnye.

All people are expendable to men of power, he thought.

As he worked, hunched forward at the desk, he picked up the strong scent of incense, and wondered what idiot was burning this foul stuff at this time of night. He looked around...but could see no obvious source. He shook his head. "Another late night, my mind is playing tricks," he assured himself aloud. Stepping down from his desk, Rakeri walked across the courtyard and up the steps into his keep, retiring to his private chambers to meditate.

As he crossed into the room, however, he could feel more than see the shadows in the room, and felt a chill roll down his spine. Then he reassured himself again, he was hallucinating - just something brought on by fatigue. There was --

"Good evening, Professor."

Rakeri froze, his eyes going wider than hen's eggs...after what seemed like an eternity, he was able to turn, and see that this was no hallucination. "Sekhesmet..."

Attired in finely-tailored robes, leaning on an ornate staff with a burning censer, Sekhesmet of Stratholme presented a regal and commanding figure, Rakeri had to admit. The human's ice-blue eyes stared piercingly, as if into his soul...and given what he had said in the article in the Herald, perhaps he could. Gathering up his courage, Rakeri snapped angrily, "How did you get in here? How did you get into this fortress at all, with my guards watching?"

Sekhesmet chuckled. "Oh, how you continue to underestimate me. Even gnomish minds can be fooled..." He held up two items, and Rakeri felt his heart skip a beat when he saw them. One was Vendross' ring, the other was Areinnye's jade headband. "I incinerated her ears, of course," he said, as he returned the items to a pouch at his waist. "No one deserves to have their remains displayed so, not even the wife of that puritanical wretch Ketiron. And I am sure the goblin hovering outside the room will be glad to know the answer to his lord's question..."

Around the corner, in the hallway near the front door, Kitrik froze. How had he known?

"What Ketiron does with you is his own affair, and I am sure he would prefer a piece of you be left to deal with," the priest continued. "However, I will take the ring to Darnassus...I have an appointment to keep there." He knelt in front of Rakeri, who was now starting to shake. "I think it is time to even the scales a bit between us, Professor. I have watched your every move ever since Linavil found you in Northrend, back when I served Sylvanas. You were 'recursed' with demon's blood, and you have drawn incredible power from it...for the purpose of fighting a man you killed as easily as you did Vendross and Areinnye." He smiled, and Rakeri felt a chill roll down his spine. "I don't think you'll be needing it anymore."

"W-what do you mean?"

"I think that, before I keep my appointment with the Warden, I should enact her...how did she term it? Ah yes...'rehabilitation'." He waved a hand, and shadowy tendrils came out of nowhere to wrap around the gnome's body.

Now Rakeri panicked. "What...what are you doing?! HELP! SOMEBODY!"

Sekhesmet grinned evilly as he came to his feet. "Scream all you want, warlock. No one will come. After what you tried to make me into, not even death will save you from me." Raising his staff, waving the burning censer around Rakeri's head, the priest began to chant in the high tongue known by priests of the Light, intoning a spell of exorcism and banishment, drawing out the fel taint in the gnome's very blood.

Rakeri began screaming in agony as he felt the fel essence within him being ripped from his body, wondering when it would stop. Then, after what felt like an eternity but what had only been a matter of moments, he collapsed to the floor, the void tendrils releasing him.

Leaning on his staff, Sekhesmet knelt down to him and whispered, "Feltouched...no more." Then he stood and walked out of Rakeri's chambers. At the doorway, he paused, pulled Areinnye's headband from his belt pouch, and dropped it to the floor. "Take that to Ketiron, with my compliments, assassin," he said, and then he was gone.

Kitrik picked up the headband and made his way out, before Rakeri regained his senses. He wondered if that would affect the overall strategy...and then he thought of how Ketiron had reacted when news of Saavedro's death had reached him, and feared the worst.

Shaking with humiliated rage, Rakeri glared out the door - with eyes that no longer burned with fel-fire...

(( ! *mgs sound effect* D:))

Talador.

Though it was far different from the Terokkar Forest that he knew, Battlelord Velenkayn knew at once when he went across the pass from Shadowmoon Valley that he was home. No matter that Genevra had derided him for his decision, he knew from what he had witnessed at Karabor, and now seeing the smoke rising from Shattrath, a ways to the west...he was needed here, not on Azeroth.

Halting his deathcharger, Velenkayn closed his eyes, breathing the air, taking in the familiar scent of the olemba trees, the sound of the nocturnal insects chirping. The last two months had not been kind; his armor had seen better days, and his Hand of Argus tabard was ragged and stained with orcish blood. His chosen weapon was the crystalline warblade given to him by the defenders of Karabor, for his part in that battle. He patched himself - and his armor, now that he had taken up the blacksmith's craft himself (inspired, in part, by the effort Marennia Sputterspark put in for him) - up as best he could, but he was beginning to show signs of flagging. Give it a year or so, I'll become a broken, stiff-gaited bundle of patchwork, like Kaellar, he thought with a hint of amusement.

Continuing along the road, he passed sights that were both familiar and not at the same time. The towns of Tuurem and Aruuna were in ruins - the former sacked by the Iron Horde, and the latter by creatures who turned out to be a winged form of arakkoa. In Outland, and on the Draenor that it had once been as Velenkayn remembered, the arakkoa only came in the "walking bird-man" variety, so far as he knew. To the west, he could hear fighting in Shattrath...though the Iron Horde had been pushed back, the city had been attacked by the foul traitors calling themselves "Sargerei", aligned with the evil warlocks of the Shadow Council. They were believed to have a sanctuary in the hills west of Karabor, back in Shadowmoon Valley.

Another reason to stay and fight here, he thought.

Finally, as he traversed along the eastern edge of Auchindoun, he approached his intended destination, and he saw the smoke rising. As he approached the entrance along the road, he dismounted and walked up the stairs...and looked out upon the grim sight that greeted him.

"Telmor..."

Decades before, he had been a vindicator in the city guard, under the command of Restalaan, Velen's chief general - until it had been sacked by the Horde, and Restalaan slain with most of his guard; Velenkayn had taken his family and other survivors, and fled to Shattrath, for a brief respite from the bloodshed. On this Draenor, it was very different. Here, it was Velen who was dead, and Restalaan who was left to carry on.

((Screenshot: http://conclaveguild.org/images/originalphotos/43/39/4fd1028d7d0ed72e36620056.jpg ))

Nevertheless, despite all the differences of this city and of this world...this was his home. This was where he had had a purpose. Kneeling, Velenkayn felt the memories rush back - remembering the visit of the Prophet, after attending to a funeral service in Auchindoun; the two young orc males, both of whom would return to bring death and destruction to the city; Restalaan falling in combat before the Frostwolf chieftain Durotan, the younger of those two boys; the pain he had seen in Durotan's face, the anguished cries that had come from his throat as he witnessed atrocities committed against the defenseless.

And here, he saw it was happening again; Telmor was a charnel house, its sacred cathedral and the magister's house violated. But the enemy was more open, and far more sinister, than a reluctant chieftain...

Restalaan had escaped and regrouped near Auchindoun, he had heard. Coming to his feet, Velenkayn mounted his steed and rode away, westward, towards the encampment where a joint force of draenei and blood elves did battle against the Shadow Council despoilers who continued to make war on Auchindoun. He felt a shudder within his soul as he arrived within the protective embrace of Leafshadow...there he was.

The captain of the guards of Telmor looked up, his brow furrowing as he saw the undead steed...and then his eyes went wide as he recognized the rider as one of his own men. "Velenkayn?"

"Indeed, it is I, my captain," Velenkayn replied, as he dismounted and approached, to let the elder draenei see him up close. "But not as you might remember."

Velenkayn watched Genevra leave the gardens of Karabor, before turning to go back to his rounds. "I cannot blame her," he said aloud to himself, "and yet she is." He had returned from his exploration of his old city of Telmor, and pledged to be on call for Restalaan if needed...and then returned to Karabor, in his capacity as one of the Temple's guardians. While he was making his rounds in the Tranquil Court, he had encountered Genevra.

Once again, his frustration with her had come to the fore, especially when she had talked about her concerns for people in "her service". He had seized on that - that was the real reason why she protested his decision to stay on Draenor. Not because it was not "his" Draenor, not because she had concerns for him...but because he was giving his service to someone, something, other than her and her accursed Conclave.

You are an inferno, he had said to her. A firestorm that burns all who get too close. How many have thrown themselves into the fire for you? Not the Alliance, not the Light. You. She inspired a sense of loyalty that was as admirable as it was strange...and, in Velenkayn's mind, destructive. All of the evil committed by Sekhesmet and Sputterspark involved her in some way. All of the corruption, all of the dark rituals...all of the killings.

What benefit did he gain from continuing to associate with her, a poisonous tree that killed all who partook of its fruit?

"You were right about one thing, Battlelord. She is an inferno...but when a forest grows too wild, a purging fire is inevitable and natural."

Velenkayn felt rage well up in him at the sound of that voice, as he turned to face its owner. He wore a white embroidered robe, the hood concealing his face, and leaned on his old tarnished staff bearing the sigil of the Church of Light. "Sekhesmet," he hissed, as if the very name was venomous.

Sekhesmet pulled back his hood with his free hand and nodded a greeting to him, then looked around the quiet garden. "I would like to have a garden like this," he mused, "with paths to walk and think on the affairs of the world. That is really why you make your rounds here, is it not? Not as a protector, but as a seeker of truths."

"And instead I find you."

"The truth is not something to be sugar-coated, Velenkayn. If you want sugar-coating, speak to that idiot dwarf who sits at Genevra's sermons with her conjured donuts and her pointless questions. I'm sure she can conjure something up for you." His ice-blue eyes stared into the glowing ones of the draenei death knight. "I normally need to work my way in to see someone's true feelings, but I always admired this about you...you are an open book. You're tired of Azeroth and all of its pointless wars, aren't you? What was your breaking point? Theramore? Serpent's Heart? The Vale? Orgrimmar?"

"Stay out of my head, shadow priest," Velenkayn snarled.

"As I said, I need not dig too deeply. You're too easy to read. Much like Sputterspark, the paranoid little insect. Well, perhaps I can add 'relief' to your list of surface emotions when I tell you that this particular insect's sting has been torn out of him. As I told Warden Raintree when I met with her in Darnassus, he has been...'rehabilitated'."

Velenkayn had heard of the war of the written word between Kyalin and Rakeri, and Sekhesmet's revelation of Vendross' death. "And we're expected to be grateful to you?" he demanded. "You and your lackeys killed Jaeden'laek, Artimus, and Yatiri. The foul gnome murdered Saavedro to bring you back to life. And while we're at it, you worked on the plague that was used at the Wrathgate, at Southshore, and in Gilneas. How am I supposed to feel gratitude to one like you?"

"Because I do not lie to myself or others about my past crimes, death knight; I instead choose to move forward and atone for them. Something you should be all too familiar with." Sekhesmet stared balefully at him. "I have done a lot of things, Battlelord, more than a few that I am not proud of. But one thing I do not do is lie."

Velenkayn had had enough. "Remove your foul presence from our Temple, Sekhesmet, or I will remove your head from your shoulders." He lifted his newly-forged truesteel battleaxe, crafted by his own hand, to emphasize his point.

Sekhesmet nodded. "Very well. But consider this: Sometimes the pains we try to leave behind can get ahead of us. You may do well to remember that." Pulling up his hood, he called for his mystic horse, and rode away. Velenkayn's gaze followed him for a moment...and then he continued his rounds. This time, however, he knew the priest was right, that he walked the paths in order to think.

And he had a great deal to think about.