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His breath was coming out in gasps. Even having been in Icecrown for weeks, Cyrus hadn't adjusted to the soul-stealing cold that gave justice to the area's name. The large orc stood, leaning against the cage that offered him no light of hope, since the thick clouds of this place never let such light shine. Scourge were outside the small, seven square foot cage, sifting through his armor and trying to discern what unit of the Horde he was with.

It wasn't going to do them much good. Of course, the Horde symbol was burned into all of his armor and weapon. The symbol had even been tattoo'd into the side of his neck. This information wasn't going to help them figure out anything new. To them, he was just another Horde warrior, and the other three orcs that made up his cell had stuck to the rules and left him for dead. Or undeath.

Cyrus had sat back down, finding himself wondering what they'd do to him when he heard the first explosion. Something big had torn its way through the minor defenses this Scourge outpost had, and a familiar face stepped arrogantly through the smoke. An orc, and a damned big one. Rimyx.

Cyrus startled in the Blue Recluse, lifting his head off his hand. An empty mug lay on the floor, having been the noise that disturbed him from his sleep. He sat there for a few moments, deep in thought about that day in Icecrown.

The floor creaked in mild protest as the large Draenei stood, walking toward the door of the Recluse and into the night. His hooves clicked quietly as he strolled down the pavement, on his way to the overlook that had a clear view of the demolished Park. Along the way, he'd notice a guard at the last moment, narrowly managing to not run head-long into them. This dream had really been doing a number on his nerves, and was occupying every thought he had.

It had been on replay over and over, the day they came back for him. Ever since Cyrus had gotten his hands on that weapon...

Upon coming to the overlook of the Park, Cyrus sat and leaned against a stone wall. The weapon on his back weighed moreso on his thoughts than his body, but he reached back, retrieving it from its harness. He laid it across his lap, just staring at it. He could almost feel that this weapon had a will of its own, and had been trying to influence Cyrus' since the day he salvaged it from Icecrown Citadel. This axe had been forged from what he guessed was saronite, but what had intrigued him about it had not been what it was made of, but what it was found in.

A runeforge in the citadel had been holding this weapon, meaning it hadn't even been finished. Cyrus felt compelled to take this weapon for his own. Upon meeting with Tyriael, he'd discovered that the weapon had been physically completed, but not empowered. Cyrus needed to infuse it with essences of varying minions of the Lich King, who had been dead for some time.

Even with Arthas gone, Cyrus knew of a creature he could use to empower this unfinished weapon, and he had assigned various Ocheliad to help him attain the souls of Val'Kyr. With Arthas gone, however, most of the easy-to-find Val'Kyr were now under the command of the Horde. Some Ocheliad had returned, having found a few rogue Val'Kyr in the north, but souls being handed in had not gone unnoticed.

Cyrus knew he'd be dealing with the Holy Guards soon enough, but he stood, cursing under his breath with his weapon held firmly in his right hand. He turned from the sight of the obliterated Park, strolling back into the city.

Under his breath, he spoke, "I'm coming, Rimyx..."

((Alright, folks. I have an idea for a storyline and a general direction I'm hoping it goes in. Anyone and everyone who wishes to participate is more than welcome to. Horde members can expect some attacks in the area of Undercity as some Ocheliad are poking around for Val'Kyr, and Alliance can do whatever they want! The end of this is entirely unknown. Feel free to post whatever happens in-game (that's relative) to this thread! Remember, be creative in how you contribute to the story and have fun!))

(( If you are a DK, why are you breathing? Just wonderin'. ))

Taelanas shuffled papers at his desk, seemingly his new calling, for all the time he spent at it recently since his latest promotion. As he shuffled and sorted he came across a report that has slipped by him until now. He held it up to the candles he burned for light at his desk. As he squinted at the page and started to read its content he swore. "Damn." A single word tinged with enough meaning for a sentence. He quickly set it aside and began to write his own report which he would, after much frustrated writing, something that even seemed to transfer into his penmanship, he finally dried, folded and sealed the parchment and set it aside.

"Best address this in the morning."

Taelanas crawled into bed, then lay looking at the ceiling, and muttered a prayer for easy sleep. Perhaps other prayers would go answered because that one did not.


"Damn."

07/21/2011 11:57 PMPosted by Romantic

(( If you are a DK, why are you breathing? Just wonderin'. ))

((At the time, he wasn't. The italicized wording is a memory from when he was an orc with no death knight-like abilities.))

Finnaeus stepped in to the halls of the Pia Presidium. He had arrived shortly after visiting upon Caer Darrow, where of course he ran into Cyrus. While he only knew the name for a day or two, he already experienced a shiver of displeasure when he uttered it. It was disconcerting that he had only recently joined the Pia, only days after recommitting himself to rejoining society, and he was already in trouble. Or on the verge of it. Either way, it was clear now that despite the long days of relative anonymity that he earned in Northrend, he squandered it by spying on Cyrus and his druid companion, Ciellia. And now he had responsibilities towards the Pia and Sepha Gentyl.

Hurriedly he grabbed the nearest piece of parchment and began to write a hasty note to the Sepha. Without any hesitation, he wrote:

Sepha Gentyl,

I am away for druidic training in Hyjal - almost complete, thank the Light - but word must be passed to you during my absence. I spoke with Cray concerning these matters, and he agreed that you must be informed. I leave to your discretion on how we are to proceed.

Cyrus mentioned necromantic practices while we interviewed the new recruit at the Recluse. I believe he wanted to use the cover of idle chatter, but I picked up on it. When he realized he was overheard, he took the meeting outside. Without your permission, I followed. He's using something - whatever it is, it has been kept hidden - to capture the essence of the Val'kyr and raise someone...or something... I believe he has multiple targets, but those targets however are still shrouded in secrecy.

I need not emphasize that anything requiring the captive essence of a Val'kyr can only be trouble. I have had words with Cyrus on two occasions concerning this matter, but Cray tells me that there are politics involved, and we must be cautious. I defer to his judgment due to my ignorance of the political climate, but my heart tells me that we should investigate the matter further. I will return to the Hall as soon as my training is complete to follow up on the matter. Though I've only known you for a few days, I trust your judgment.

Yours,

F.P.

Finnaeus hastily folded the parchment and scrawled "Sepha Gentyl" on the blank side. Without another moment's hesitation, he swept out of the Guild Hall.

"Politics...Val'kyr...Draenei death knights..." Finnaeus mumbled to himself. "Claire, if only you could see the mess I've gotten myself into." He twisted his body into the form of a crow, and then flew off into the night.

Slithengar sat on the bench in front of the Cathedral letting his thoughts run freely like a wildfire. Two Death Knights he had been in close contact with intrigued him; both genuine in behavior, but one he was most curious about. Slithengar continued sitting on the bench when he decided to go to the Recluse. As he arrived he could feel an aura he had sensed before but only when near the death knight Cyrus. He walked in and took a seat near the bar.

He had hoped to run into Cyrus, so many questions he wanted to ask. He never rallied up the courage to speak when he was around, unsure of whether it was the weapon or just Cyrus that intimidated him.

Hey coward, you gonna let a death knight scare you. Pitiful. Here I thought you were some big bad murderer, looks like you still appreciate life.

Slithengar shifted uncomfortably as the words clouded his thoughts.

Just shut up will you, not like you can do any better...

Slithengar began wondering where Cyrus received such a weapon. He began remembering parts of an overheard conversation between Cyrus and a couple others he did not recognize.

The Icecrown Citadel. Slithengar shook his thoughts away as he became apprehensive toward thinking of the Lich King. "Maybe next time I'll talk to him." He looked around when he realized he said that aloud though no one seemed to notice. He walked outside and took a seat and closed his eyes to rest.

((Hi y'all, sorry I've not been around lately...my brain's gone in ten different directions all week, lol.))

Since the fall of the Lich King, Artimus Devaneaux had returned to Northrend many times, and stood in the halls of Icecrown Citadel. As much as it pained him to admit it, he had felt more at home in the halls of the damned than he ever did even in Lordaeron, back when he was a relatively wealthy man with a family, working for one of the most powerful Houses in the kingdom.

Normally, he would not be concerned by "dark powers" in the weapons wielded by people these days; he too wielded weapons bearing runes of Scourge magic, as he had for years...ever since he was raised in undeath after his misadventure in Azjol-Nerub, four years earlier. Something about the one he had seen wielded by Cyrus, however, gave him pause - reminding him all too vividly of the powerful soul-prison of a sword wielded by the Lich King.

Artimus had only met Cyrus once, in a gathering in Caer Darrow to work towards revitalizing the ruined island citadel, and had been impressed by his blunt honesty. That meeting had also made him wonder if he had any scruples at all about seeking out a weapon that could be considered a "successor" to the mighty Frostmourne. That weapon, and what it could do, was one of the things that had made Arthas reviled (though murdering his father, destroying his homeland, corrupting people's bodies and souls, and taking control of the Scourge to repeat the process worldwide also came readily to mind), and Artimus could not imagine anyone being so insane to try and take up the slaughter where he'd left off. Not even Sylvanas, and some people had already erased the line between her and Arthas, seeing no difference in what they did.

Does the Ocheliad know what he plans? he thought. Moreover...do they care? At first, the thought was one of concern, then it became just an idle curiosity. After all, if he wanted to be one of them, now was not the time to have scruples about what they did...

Genevra hadn't been seen much in the recent weeks, but duties and obligations can only be put off for so long. She stood at her post in the Cathedral, offering prayers and blessings to those who came and went, and while she appeared to be present her thoughts were elsewhere, still trying to muddle through the events of weeks past, for there were still things she did not understand.

Cray had come to her after the Sermon, seeking answers, and why shouldn't he? They were friends and he had not been there when the hour was darkest. This struck the priestess as odd, but was something to think on another time. As she recounted the dark events to Cray, her mind raced, attempting to piece it all together once more.

It was then that she was able to fixate on the thing that plagued her the most since her ordeal: it wasn't the near death experience, nor was it the great lengths that her friends and family were willing to take. It was the words sworn by Cyrus not footsteps from where she stood now in the Cathedral. Almost as if expecting to look back upon the memory of the moment she turned her head back only to see the empty benches of the Cathedral.

Genevra closed her eyes, taking slow measured breaths as she sought to recall the words exactly.

"If either of you step an inch out of line, Val'Kyr souls won't be the only ones I trap in this weapon...."

She took a step back and rested a hand upon the pillar to calm herself. Why had she not put more stock in his words? Why would this threat come now?

In the back of her mind she knew the answer: the last vestiges of Rymus were gone, and she and Zherron were to blame. Genevra sighed, nodding to a patron and offering up another blessing as the dwarf wandered past.

Forgiveness could neither be bought nor earned, nor could hands be stayed, when matters of the soul were involved.

The massive tiger beside her uttered a low growl, and she rested a gloved hand across his thick, striped fur. "Easy, Lore," the huntress breathed, waiting for the lumbering abomination to pass them, flesh falling to settle, steaming, in the snow and ice.

Even past her thick cloak and the heavy leather hauberk beneath her chainmail, the cold chilled her to the bone as she lifted her crossbow, waiting for the ugly, hulking creature to turn its back to them. She waited, and waited, and waited, as the beast seemed to struggle with the concept of pivoting its impressive weight away from the little, camo-clad draenei.

Mithara was patient, in most circumstances, but it was cold, and she had little time to wait for this stupid creature to manage its own mismatched feet. What little temper she had was wearing thin when a passing ghoul bumped into the creature's thick leg, which startled it enough to turn.

The woman put two crossbow bolts in the base of the creature's skull, severing much of its basic control, and sending it stumbling to crash down on top of the unfortunate ghoul. She slipped past the two struggling undead, unnoticed, clutching the bundle of cloth to her chest and feeling the chill spreading across her chest where the bundle rested.

Icecrown's massive, spiked towers loomed upwards, and Mithara wondered idly what the hell had possessed her to take on this "mission", especially when there was no true payment to be spoken of for said suicidal run through the Scourge's home.

Up above her, a reanimated wyrm soared, massive and foreboding, and the woman's keen, faintly glowing eyes caught the faint glimmer of a ghostly, feathered wing. Her tiger followed her gaze, and seemed to grunt, skeptical.

"Yeah, Lore, Kae's going to kill us, if she doesn't." Still, the woman slipped her hood further over her head, and began to move once more.

"Follow them." A silent whispered order, one that Ciellia had been eager to obey. After having seen Finnaeus had spied on a conversation Cyrus was engaged in.. Ciellia was more on edge than normal. Ciellia's training as a young druid had focused on stealth and obtaining information, which was about to come in handy.

Minutes passed, as Ciellia hid in the shadows listening in as Finnaeus revealed to Cray what he knew. The words Cray chose, in turn to share with Finnaeus kept the report back to Cyrus civil.

"Be warned, Ciellia and Cyrus are not people to make enemies of. They have been close allies of the Holy Guard." ... "It is something to keep an eye on... but in the future, it would be best to trust Cyrus until you know you cannot. If only for the sake of keeping the peace."

Ciellia had hoped that Finnaeus would bother them no longer. However, she knew she would have to keep her ears open, listening more carefully than normal. Everyone had come to know that Ciellia was close to Cyrus. This would be no test to her devotion to the draenei, but a wake up call to those that would threaten someone she held dear.

There had been calls by people - Marshal Tanis, the new Packleader Amendera, and others - for him to return to Stormwind. There were several mentions of Cyrus and some new weapon, thinking maybe he'd want to get in the man's face - they hated one another, after all. But Eidan Zherron paid them no heed. He was too busy. The Cenarion Circle was working hard to preserve their world against the unholy rage of the Firelord, and what did people whine about? A death knight out to steal souls.

A trivial matter, as far as Zherron was concerned.

That conversation he'd had with Genevra, after he had stepped up to speak in her place at a sermon, had been the last straw. She had learned nothing from the experience she'd had. Ultimately, he thought, she would cling to her faith and spout her tired platitudes, and Narnicka and Lahkin would eventually turn away from her in search of someone who wasn't so set in their ways - and wasn't so obvious a target. Zherron had flat out said he wanted her dead, and yet she still kept on with her slogans. Her, he cared not a whit for anymore - it was Lahkin that worried him. He knew that he was responsible for Narnicka's loss of his powers, and now that he had distanced himself from both parents, he could not aid the peculiar affliction that caused their son to grow by leaps and bounds as the days went on.

Now, from what she'd told him just before he left, she was in Cyrus' crosshairs, too...and now he had gone off the deep end, like all death knights would eventually, and now intended to become a genocidal madman like the Lich King. He sneered at that. Typical. To think that this brute is connected to that family...

At that, he felt a pang of guilt for what he had done to "that family" - he had trusted him to be of assistance in their time of crisis, and she had acted as...something of a conscience when things seemed at their worst. And on top of that, he had left Amendera behind as well, to lead his small pack in his stead - and he knew she would stand with Genevra regardless of what he did.

He ruthlessly suppressed his emotions, his face becoming stoic, but his eyes not quite able to hide his pain.

Where I am going, you cannot follow, he thought, and I need no conscience...but my own.

Jalou sat alone in the Blue Recluse, as she has done many times in many taverns. This time is little different, as she is still sitting and pondering the things present in her life. Things like, "When will this wedding happen?" or "I wonder where Aiyoh is." or maybe even "I wonder if those Guards are still alive?". Now would have been a nice time to think "I wonder if I'll ever get some good work.", considering it would have been a funny coinsidence to think said thought at this moment, as Cyrus entered the Tavern.

Looking up from her book, over her legs reclined onto the table, Jalou finds the familar figure of a Draenei wearing a blindfold. At this moment, she is now wondering if he can recognize her own figure, since he is wearing a blindfold.

As this man now comes to sit down next to her, Jalou has decided that he's either able to see through the blindfold, or merely taking a random seat. The prior possibility is more likely, as she has a meager knowledge of him. Cyrus is an "Ocheliad" much like herself, and one often spoken of aswell. She had seen him around the Guild Tower and in the Recluse, but only spoken to him once, if her memory serves (which was a rather awkward happening, in her opinon).

But this particular conversation, as Cyrus sits down beside Jalou at her loen table, seems to go nicely. This conversation even turns out to be an assignment: Collect the Soul of a Val'Kyr, within the provided Shadowfrost Shard....

Just a couple nights later, after much celebratory swearing and praising about the existance of some interesting work to be done, Jalou "raced" her friend Barsilus to the Blue Recluse. This simple matter of travell was in no way intended to be a race from ehr perspective, but upon arriving at the doors, Barsilus announced that he had "Won" the "Race".

After much unecessary friendly bickering spawned of Barsilus' utterly incomprehendable drive for insigificant victory of a thing not even known to exist by one of the participants, the two finally put aside this ill-existing quarrel and enter the Tavern. This friendly outing was quickly brought to a close, upon Jalou's sighting of Cyrus on the other side of the room.

"Well, great timing!" Jalou exclaimed, and she pulled an object wrapped in cloth from her bag.
Looking over at Barsilus, recalling his discomfort around the concealed object, told him, "You may wish to step back..".
Barsilus took her meaning, and agreed to wait outside for her.

Approaching the far table where Cyrus made his sitting, Jalou approached unwrapping the Soul-Laden Shadowfrost Shard from it's linen prison with a smile on her face.

"Here you are, Sir Cyrus. The Shard that was promised." She said to him and his entended hand, as she placed the glowing chunk of mysterious shrapnel onto his palm. "Thank you for the work, Sir." She said with a bow.
"Well done, Jalou. I'll keep you informed on upcoming jobs." He said to her, in approval of her completion of the Misson.
"Haha, yes! Great to have some nice work again!" She cheered, highly satisfied with her own accomplishment and the speak of future work. "But, I do wonder what you intend to do with all these?"
"You will know soon enough." He said dismissevely.
Though disappointed by this answer, Jalou accepted it and was even rather intrigued by the secrecy...

Upon exiting the Tavern several minutes later, there seemed to be no sign of Barsilus outside. Jalou immediately decided that he likely left because she was taking so long inside. She took a chair, and reclined happily, awaiting Barsilus' return.

But as she sat there, hoping he would return, she got the faintest idea in her head. "What if Barsilus left because he was uncomfortable around the shard?" she wondered. Feeling a sudden wave of guilt, she wondered more if she had scared her friend away with the darkness of the shard. She also then wondered exactly what use they would be put to.

It was then that Jalou had a memory in her head brought back to her train of thought. The rantings of the possibly-dead Gaurdsman Laman rang through her head once again, tauning her, prying at her. She could not help but look behind herself, to the stone pathway where she bent her knee, and swore away her life. "Why join them and endanger your marriage?"

She fastened on her cloak and pulled up hood as she prepared to ride home in silence, hoping that Aiyoh would be around the comfort her when she arrives.

Taelanas dropped two nondescript letters into the postbox. Once opened they would read as follows:



By order of Sepha Gentyl D'Amond of the Pia Presidium, all contained are to cease and desist activites involving one Cyrus, Captain of the Luchduu Ochiliad immediately. Upon cessation, report back to Westbrook.

Effective this 22nd day of the 7th month, year (cannot keep track of what year it is in game )


Templar Knight Cray Auchtin
Initiate Finnaeus


(Signed Taelanas Forgewright, Knight Templar, Pia Presidium)

Narnicka knelt in the Gurubashi arena, completely out of breath. Cyrus had won their usual bout of practice, but didn't seem as winded as he usually did. "I'm starting to think that weapon is giving you an advantage, Cy..." Narnicka motioned to the axe Cyrus was holding, and got to his feet. He pulled the back of his hand across his forehead to swipe away some sweat, but waited patiently for some sort of response.

Cyrus hadn't seemed too quick to respond, but when he did, it was hardly satisfactory. "You know that it only augments my frost abilities fractionally. It's real use will be for when I revive Kron-5," He said casually.

Narnicka instantly discouraged it, snapping back, "Are you insane!? First off, you have no business trying to bring back the dead, and secondly, you have no idea if the others will join you or *attack* you! If you haven't noticed, you aren't green and with toes anymore!"

Cyrus groans quietly. "I don't have time for this. Rimyx would be a good addition to the Ocheliad, so try not to get in the way," Cyrus said rather harshly and turned, walking toward the exit of the arena.

"Don't act like you're doing this to help the Ocheliad, Cyrus! This is because you hate what happened to them!" Narnicka called after him. This is bad, Narnicka thought. He had to get to someone in the Pia Presidium soon, now that he knew what Cyrus was planning to do with the Val'Kyr souls. Narnicka glanced up, trying to discern the time by where the sun was. It was midday, so...

"They'll be at the Cathedral. They have a knighting soon..."

Cray received the notice from Taelanas, quirking any eyebrow upward.

He was not typically involved in any activities with Cyrus -- the Draenei was a capable warrior and one who could be counted on in battle. Without a war currently raging, Cray had little use for him.... more use than most of the Ocheliad, but that was still setting the bar awfully low.

Whatever Finnaeus had uncovered was clearly proving to be more serious than Cray had imagined. If Cyrus was dangerous to the people of Stormwind.... Cray was going to have to consider his arms and armor. He could not be out with playthings or weapons he was merely practicing and getting a feel for. If he came to blows with Cyrus, he'd need a weapon that was like an extension of his limbs and an armor that moved like second skin.

~~~~~~~~~

Cray dismounted Gust and entered the Garrison from the tower -- the gryphon was not fond of the gnolls that occasionally made their way towards the entrance of the barracks so it was generally better to enter from above. The great ebon beast curled up for a nap in the sun, unconcerned with the happenings of his rider.

Cray was a bit envious of Gust for that -- he could scarcely recall the last time he was not worried about one disaster or another. He raced down the stairs, his cloak flowing out behind him. There was no breeze, of course, but the determined walk of a man on a mission.

First things first -- Cray entered his bedroom in the barracks. Aside from the bed in one corner, the room appeared to be an armory. A shield was mounted on one wall -- next to it an empty space where the shield he was currently using would be kept. A collection of swords were contained in a rack beneath those. On either side of the shields were wall-mounted greatswords, crossing in large "X" patterns. A rack that contained a spear and two polearms -- weapons Cray was not fond of but kept, just in case -- filled another corner of the room. Beside them, a rack of massive axes -- Cray's favorite. A few smaller axes were mounted on the wall above that. Mannequins stood in the opposite corner of the room displaying a few suits of plate and mail armor. A chest of weapons sat quiet and unassuming at the foot of his bed.

All of this was irrelevant. Cray knew his collection like the back of his hand, he hardly needed to look to change his gear into something far more.... appropriate. Moments later, he was swiftly striding through the barracks once more -- time to report in.

He knocked loudly on the door of Taelanas' office. What did Taelanas know about the situation? What activities did he think Cray was involved in where Cyrus was concerned? What did Taelanas think Cray could do to help? And most importantly..... what did they intend to do about Ria's close ties to Cyrus?

Finnaues stood in the glades of Hyjal, an errant breeze wafting by as he examined this letter. He inwardly marvelled that mail could be delivered in such a percarious area of the world, but he could not find it in him to consider the matter further. He was more interested in the words that he read on the page, from one Taelenas that he had met briefly before. "Cease and desist..."

If it was on the orders of Sepha Gentyl to desist, Finnaeus supposed he should obey. After all, he was hoping to find a home with the Holy Guard, and to disobey a direct order from the leader of the organization would be tantamount to throwing away his opportunity. And yet...

How could they turn a blind eye to what Cyrus was planning? Finnaeus heard specifically that Cyrus was planning to indulge in necromancy. He did not want to second guess the Sepha - or her agent in Taelanas - but Finnaeus decided that more explanation was warranted. Maybe he was not owed it, but it could do no harm in requesting it. He needed more training in Hyjal, but this was more important. His heart troubled him - his intutition troubled him - and he knew that no matter how much he ignored the issue, he had to see this through. Whether or not that meant directly opposing Cyrus was something else entirely. Surely he could ask the Sepha her explanation.

With that, he decided to make the trek to Stormwind, and then to Westbrook. His gut told him he had to at least ask the follow up questions. With a heavy heart he decided to stall his training. All he could do after that was ask the questions he needed to ask.

Everything had been a buzz recently around Ria, although her attention was elsewhere. A few weeks back, Ciellia had taken the young elf out to train. This was nothing abnormal for the two; however, this time Ciellia took her further south - into Stranglethorn. Ria was to gather a couple crocodile pelts along with practice her long distance aiming, and dodging obstacles - like rivers and muck..

Although the training was going smoothly at first, at one point Ria tripped over a log covered in mud, or so she thought. A loud growl came out which startled the young elf and made her fall face first into the mud. Ciellia quickly ran to her side, laughing at first but as she got close her brow furrowed realizing Ria had not tripped over a log but a very injured panther. Immediately Ciellia instructed Ria to clean off her hands and face and to help. Ciellia made a small fire near the water's edge and grabbed out one of the pots Ria carried with her for making her fruity beverage.

With warmed water, Ciellia set to work cleaning off the panther carefully, inspecting it for wounds as she did. Her fears were confirmed when she found deep gashes on the side of the panther. As she went to inspect the panther's underside and stomach, the panther lashed out and growled fiercely. It seemed the animal was to be a mother. And so, Ria's next step in her training had come. Ciellia told her to tend for the beast, befriend it, make sure that the cubs are born safely.

The tension was growing around the Pia Presidium's barracks, with the going ons between Finnaeus and Cyrus, although Ria was clueless. She was keeping a watchful eye on the panther. Then one night, she burst into the main hall spoiling a secret Cyrus had asked her to keep. That same night, she announced that the panther, Korryla, was bound to have cubs. As happy as this made her and a few others, Taelanas was NOT pleased. More cubs meant more ruined curtains.

Ria began to fret and the next day the panther refused to get up and follow the elf into Stormwind. A which point, a few quiet fears were expressed to Mithara who came to check on the panther. She confirmed that Korryla had been carrying three, maybe even four, cubs. Ria mentioned her fears of giving away the cubs and not being able to keep them safe, as Taelanas had been rather sour about the thought.. Mithara offered to take one, Ria mentioned trying to give Ciellia one to raise, and now that left her finding one or two more homes for the cubs once they were born.

Inspector Orwyn couldn't help himself. Despite the late hour, instead of going straight home from the Recluse, he stopped by his office. He needed a moment to think. Taking off his helm and gauntlets, he placed them in their usual spots as paperweights on stacks of case files. He slumped wearily into his beaten down office chair and stared meditatively at the lone uncluttered spot on the desk in front of him.

Closing his eyes, Orwyn reviewed what he heard over the past two days. Given his long service in the Stormwind Watch, he was no stranger to wild stories. Once, several years ago, after a hard night of drinking that followed a particularly hard day, he had hit upon the idea that he had heard every kind of crazy story known to Azeroth and resolved to catalogue them all. After waking up and recovering from his hangover enough to read what he had started, he admitted to himself that although his heart was in the right place, it wasn't a particularly useful long term project. Nonetheless, the stories were in his head and continuously welcomed new relatives of theirs as they appeared. This new one though...it seemed to be an orphan.

Cyrus Sagewind was collecting *souls.*

That had been the rumor. Then Cyrus confirmed it himself when Orwyn confronted him. Mr. Paden said the same. No information was shared as to the supposed purpose though.

Orwyn leaned back and dropped his arms over the chair armrests. Anyone looking in might have thought him asleep, except for the movement of his fingers in the air as they gave physical expression to his racing thoughts. Orwyn was not that familiar with magic involving souls. He knew the warlocks often dabbled in such things, and he was very aware of what horrors the Lich King had wrought. How did this new story tie in? It sounded crazy on the face of it. Maybe it wasn't even true. How would it even work? Orwyn clenched one hand into a fist and idly thumped the underside of a chair arm.

He thought about his conversations earlier with Cyrus and Mr. Paden. And Sigren. He couldn't help but smile and shake his head at some of the unrelated things she had said earlier. Quickly though his thoughts returned to something else she had mentioned that he had immediately picked up on. Were death knights susceptible to "hearing" voices even with the Lich King defeated? Orwyn didn't know a lot about soul magic, but he did know a thing or two about mental pathologies. Cyrus had never seemed any more insane than any given LO member, but if it was true that death knights were vulnerable to some mental conditions...that could possibly explain why he and Mr. Paden were so certain about the soul stealing, while Sigren didn't seem to have any more information than those rumors contained. It didn't make sense that she would hide anything while Cyrus and Mr. Paden were being so candid.

Orwyn sighed. As was so often the case, the possibilities were limited to bad scenarios. First, Cyrus and LO could be collecting souls for who knew what. Alternatively Cyrus and Mr. Paden (at the very least) could have taken leave of their senses and were loose inside the city. Finally, the whole story could just be a distraction for something even worse. Orwyn picked up a pile of files and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor to clear some room to write and figure. It was going to be another hard night following another hard day, and this time there was not a drop of alcohol to be found.

"Imperon, Cyrus," Gentyl had spoken a the top floor of the Recluse. Cyrus shook his head, coming out of the daze he'd slipped into under the weight of his exhaustion. The past couple days had felt incredibly draining, and he wasn't entirely sure why.

Imperon and Cyrus had been sitting with several other Ocheliad in the Recluse, discussing the recent events involving the Val'Kyr souls and Pia Presidium's involvement. Gentyl had obviously tried her hand at ignoring Imperon's casual acceptance of Cyrus' recent activities, but even she had seemed to have a boiling point.

"Lady Gentyl, a pleasure. how may I aid you tonight?" Imperon asked in a polite tone that suggested he had no idea what had her feathers ruffled. Right about this time, Dalbrom and Baridin, a couple dwarves that had been talking with Gentyl, had also made their way upstairs only to be blocked by Valtherimas and Gagere. After a reassurance from Gentyl that she was safe in Ocheliad presence, the dwarves uneasily moved downstairs, but kept their eyes up top for any sign of real trouble. Imperon motioned to a seat, "Have a seat, Lady Gentyl. Let's talk."

Gentyl, stifling a sighof frustration. "Two things. You know what Cyrus is up to, and you're a scholar, aren't you?"

"I like to think of myself as one, yes," Imperon replied.

"History is resplendant with stories of men who craved great power. They thought they could control evil. Then the world finds out they can't," Gentyl explains, obviously trying to make Imperon believe Cyrus couldn't handle what he was trying to create. Well, it seemed that way to Cyrus, at least. Despite his urging, Cyrus remained quiet to let the two have their little conversation as the rest of the Ocheliad watched.

"Quite true, Lady Gentyl. Human men especially are notorious for such weakness. It is quite sad when someone does not understand their own limitations."

Imperon looked to capitalize on that point, but Sigren chimed in, having ascended the stairs that Cyrus had his back to. "Human men are known for a variety of weaknesses. Which one are we talkin about?" The question seemed rhetorical, as Imperon and Gentyl continued on.

"Cyrus, I fear is playing with forces he doesn't quite understand and nor do any of us," Gentyl continued.

"Which forces would those be, Lady Gentyl?"

"Any weapon that requires souls to balm it cannot be good."

Off to his left, Cyrus heard Sigren mutter, "The trouble with souls is that they have baggage almost by definition," to which Cyrus chuckled quietly.

"Weapons, Lady Gentyl, are not intended to be 'good'. They are intended to be weapons."

"And when those weapons have a power that controls the wielder?"

"The creation of "good" weapons invariably leads to the destruction of good men. Let men be good and let weapons be weapons."

"Well, said Boss," Paden chimed in.

"You show very little faith me in and my judgement, Lady Gentyl. This weapon is a template and its wielder is not just a man, he is one of *my* weapons already," Imperon continued. "Your weapon is a weapon, Gentyl."

At this point, Chardros, a sly rogue that had been watching Gentyl, seemed to materialize on the backrest of Gentyl's chair. At Sigren's order, he pouted and hopped down, but Gentyl had taken notice and groaned at the sight of the obnoxious follower. She tried to stay focussed on her conversation with Imperon. "But my weapon doesn't have the power to control me. It isn't fueled by souls."

"Of course it does, Gentyl. Your weapon desires to fulfill its purpose. You must *choose* to not use it. If you ever stop making that choice, your weapon will do more than control you, it will define you."

"My weapon is not fueled by an otherworldly power. You're dancing with words, Imperon. Don't take me for a fool," Gentyl warned.

"Foreign magics, things from other worlds, it would take much more research than we really have time for in order to risk bringing a power such as you describe into contact with magic from Azeroth."

Gentyl had seemed to have enough of Imperon's running her in circles. "Fine, continue playing with fire. And by the way, call off your hound," She said, motioning at Chardros.

Imperon smiled faintly at that, most likely at the fire part. "Lady Gentyl, I grew up playing with fire. I was careful, even as a child. The burns I suffered were well worth the price of wisdom."

Gentyl, after managing to get Imperon to scold Chardros for rifling through her clothes, made her way back downstairs, not looking one bit satisfied over the whole conversation.

"I wish I could believe she'll keep her nose out of this, but... she's female. And a paladin," Cyrus muttered, to which Imperon chuckled.

"Captain, I'd not expect you to keep her from being nosy."