Eidan Zherron knelt in the firm earth of Tal’doren, deep in the Blackwald of Gilneas, his mind deeply troubled. The Red Mage, Alieth Taldir, had struck again – attacking Noikona at the tavern run by the Feathers of Iron in Booty Bay. Mithara, his on-again/off-again friend and ally in that group, had suffered burns to her hands when the sorceress had superheated her rifle, damaging it – but not before she was able to get off a shot, hitting her in the chest just below the shoulder…not fatal, but proof enough that she was a mortal, and that she could bleed. A frantic call for help had come from a friend who had witnessed the lunatic mage fly across the bay on the back of a black-scaled drake.
Enough insanity had been going on these past few months. The campaign against the Iron Horde, the losses of friends like Velenkayn, the tension taking hold in the Cenarion Circle since Archdruid Stormrage had left, spurred by something brought to him from Draenor. Now Taldir had returned, intent on revenge against Noikona for her attempted assassination…and, ultimately, against Genevra for her “treason”. Her obsession was her weakness, as he had said to Noikona when he caught up to her in Stormwind…but privately, he believed that the mad archmage’s strengths – her intellect, her magical powers, her skill at psychology – outweighed that weakness. For the moment, anyway. He had seen her kind all too often. They screwed up eventually. And when they did, they could be squashed.
But in his mind, he could see Noikona’s grim prediction – that Taldir would maim and kill more before she was finally put down. Who would eventually suffer the same fate as Velenkayn?
“I thought I might find you here.”
Zherron looked up at that voice. It belonged to the friend who had summoned him to the Bay, having arrived on a ship from Ratchet before making the long journey back to Quel’Thalas. It was Taeril’hane Ketiron, the blood elf holy warrior and Argent Crusade veteran who had been a friend of Genevra and others in her circle since the Cataclysm. The years of stress and war wounds had taken their toll on him, Zherron could see; he moved with great care, and his eyes looked to be a thousand years older than he actually was.
”I’m glad you called me, Taeril’hane. It’s a hell of a mess.”
“So I saw,” Ketiron agreed, nodding. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Mithara had her hands scorched when Taldir overheated her gun in her hands; I offered you up as a possible engineer to repair it. She says she has someone else, but…I hope you don’t mind I offered on your behalf.”
Ketiron waved a dismissive hand, smiling. “Not at all. I would have been glad to help. And what of the other, the raging one?”
“Noikona? She’s fine, physically…scorched bangs, is all.” Zherron sighed. “Mentally, though, I’m worried. I spoke to her before I came back up here, and I tried to tell her to be patient. To be watchful for her, for Genevra’s sake. Most of all…I warned her not to become what she was fighting.”
Ketiron’s brow furrowed. “That bad?”
Zherron nodded. “She’s damn near as unstable and unpredictable as Taldir. Fuelled by hate and anger. The only difference is, that hate and anger is not directed at us.” He let out a sigh.
“I hear that unspoken ‘yet’,” the Blood Knight Master commented.
“I do worry that she will be so blinded by it that she will not be able to tell friend from foe anymore. Like a feral worgen. I’ve been down that road once before, Taeril’hane; I have no desire to repeat it, or see anyone else suffer it.”
“I hear you. The question is, what now? Taking the patient approach is all well and good – and I must admit, I’m surprised I’m hearing such an idea coming from you - but it might be more than melted guns, burnt hands and scorched bangs next time, Eidan. It could be another house fire, like Lakeshire…or worse.”
“I know,” Zherron replied. “And so does Noikona; she said as much.” He let out a snarl of frustration. “It’s bad enough that all signs point to something big on the horizon, bigger than anything we’ve seen so far…this is a distraction, and a very dangerous one at that.”
Ketiron looked concerned. “The Circle is still keeping mum?”
“If the higher-ups know something, they’re not sharing it. But I think they’re in the dark just as much as the rest of us.” The worgen archdruid laughed bitterly. “I don’t know which is worse; that they know something and are keeping it from us, or that they know diddly squat, and don’t want to let it slip.”
“Sounds about right…”
Enough insanity had been going on these past few months. The campaign against the Iron Horde, the losses of friends like Velenkayn, the tension taking hold in the Cenarion Circle since Archdruid Stormrage had left, spurred by something brought to him from Draenor. Now Taldir had returned, intent on revenge against Noikona for her attempted assassination…and, ultimately, against Genevra for her “treason”. Her obsession was her weakness, as he had said to Noikona when he caught up to her in Stormwind…but privately, he believed that the mad archmage’s strengths – her intellect, her magical powers, her skill at psychology – outweighed that weakness. For the moment, anyway. He had seen her kind all too often. They screwed up eventually. And when they did, they could be squashed.
But in his mind, he could see Noikona’s grim prediction – that Taldir would maim and kill more before she was finally put down. Who would eventually suffer the same fate as Velenkayn?
“I thought I might find you here.”
Zherron looked up at that voice. It belonged to the friend who had summoned him to the Bay, having arrived on a ship from Ratchet before making the long journey back to Quel’Thalas. It was Taeril’hane Ketiron, the blood elf holy warrior and Argent Crusade veteran who had been a friend of Genevra and others in her circle since the Cataclysm. The years of stress and war wounds had taken their toll on him, Zherron could see; he moved with great care, and his eyes looked to be a thousand years older than he actually was.
”I’m glad you called me, Taeril’hane. It’s a hell of a mess.”
“So I saw,” Ketiron agreed, nodding. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Mithara had her hands scorched when Taldir overheated her gun in her hands; I offered you up as a possible engineer to repair it. She says she has someone else, but…I hope you don’t mind I offered on your behalf.”
Ketiron waved a dismissive hand, smiling. “Not at all. I would have been glad to help. And what of the other, the raging one?”
“Noikona? She’s fine, physically…scorched bangs, is all.” Zherron sighed. “Mentally, though, I’m worried. I spoke to her before I came back up here, and I tried to tell her to be patient. To be watchful for her, for Genevra’s sake. Most of all…I warned her not to become what she was fighting.”
Ketiron’s brow furrowed. “That bad?”
Zherron nodded. “She’s damn near as unstable and unpredictable as Taldir. Fuelled by hate and anger. The only difference is, that hate and anger is not directed at us.” He let out a sigh.
“I hear that unspoken ‘yet’,” the Blood Knight Master commented.
“I do worry that she will be so blinded by it that she will not be able to tell friend from foe anymore. Like a feral worgen. I’ve been down that road once before, Taeril’hane; I have no desire to repeat it, or see anyone else suffer it.”
“I hear you. The question is, what now? Taking the patient approach is all well and good – and I must admit, I’m surprised I’m hearing such an idea coming from you - but it might be more than melted guns, burnt hands and scorched bangs next time, Eidan. It could be another house fire, like Lakeshire…or worse.”
“I know,” Zherron replied. “And so does Noikona; she said as much.” He let out a snarl of frustration. “It’s bad enough that all signs point to something big on the horizon, bigger than anything we’ve seen so far…this is a distraction, and a very dangerous one at that.”
Ketiron looked concerned. “The Circle is still keeping mum?”
“If the higher-ups know something, they’re not sharing it. But I think they’re in the dark just as much as the rest of us.” The worgen archdruid laughed bitterly. “I don’t know which is worse; that they know something and are keeping it from us, or that they know diddly squat, and don’t want to let it slip.”
“Sounds about right…”
