World of Warcraft®

In a small conference room at Mardenholde Keep in Hearthglen, three men conversed in low tones. The first, a worgen attired in robes and wearing a crown of antlers on his head, spoke first. "No evidence of a body whatsoever, Artimus?"

Artimus Devaneaux shook his head. "None. It's like the coffin was buried unused. When you have an eye for what the inside of a coffin should look like after someone's been lying in it for three years, you can tell. That's why I sent for both of you - you, Eidan, because you happened to be the closest person I knew of, and you, Taeril'hane, because you had been there when he died, as I was. But what if he isn't actually dead?"

"Preposterous," Taeril'hane Ketiron replied emphatically. "I saw the wounds the Corruptor had inflicted upon him. Not even the naaru could have healed something like that; they would have taken his spirit to its rest, as they did Bridenbrad's. Even if he was still alive, why the deception? That was not his nature. And as someone who regularly spoke with him when he visited our estate in Silvermoon in the years before the Scourge came, I think I would know his nature. Better even than you, Artimus." He shook his head. "No. He is dead. I would bet my life on it."

"Possibly. The fact remains, however, no one has ever lain in that coffin. Either someone took his body before we buried him, or he's tricked us. I'm willing to bet on the latter; who knew how his mind worked?"

"I'm inclined to agree," Eidan Zherron replied; he had flown at once to Sorrow Hill when he received the message via falcon, once the party at Taelanas' had died down enough for him to politely leave. "You may not have known him as well as you thought, Master Ketiron. He could well be alive, and who would know?"

The Master was not convinced. "He is dead, gentlemen. You saw him, Artimus - it's difficult for even a paladin to fake death."

"Maybe. But is it not also possible for a paladin to restore life? Or a priest? Or anyone, for that matter? The fact of the matter is, somebody raised him, or he's a far better liar than we gave him credit for, and his injuries were not as mortal as they appeared. Either way, we buried an empty coffin in Dalaran, and reburied it again at Sorrow Hill."

Ketiron grudgingly nodded. "So it would appear. The question remains...why?"

"Perhaps it is the warlock," Zherron speculated. "After all, you say he was also killed, dashed across the cliff face in Icecrown. And yet...he still operates in Orgrimmar. Could he not have conducted a similar ritual?"

"That does go along with what I know of him," the Master conceded. "It is not the answer...but it is an answer. A very probable one at that." Artimus nodded in agreement; he had had his own share of run-ins with the warlock in question. "And what of this gnome, also a warlock?"

"The Feltouched, they call him. One of the Corruptor's minions. Supposedly used to be a mechagnome, but the Corruptor's apprentice mixed demon blood with the 'recursive' the gnomes use to cure their mechanized kin. I've seen him around before. But...there's something different about him now."

"In what way?" Ketiron asked.

"Well, he felt a lot more powerful - almost as powerful as the Corruptor. We haven't heard hide or hair of him in nearly a year, though we know he returned just as the Shattering happened...could the gnome have absorbed his power? The very nature of his power is unnatural, so who knows how much more he could have taken?"

The Blood Knight shook his head. "For every question we answer, there seems to be five more...it doesn't make sense."

The death knight smiled grimly. "That's the nature of the world these days, Taeril'hane. Nothing makes much sense anymore."

Very well written. I look forward to seeing this story unfold.

Seated in the study of his estate in Silvermoon's Court of the Sun, Taeril'hane Ketiron was troubled. The possibility that he could be alive boggled the mind. Three years ago, a paladin had met his end...the Master had seen him die, Artimus had seen him die. How could he had survived?

Ketiron had sent for three to attend to him, and they stood now in the doorway - his wife, Areinnye, who also commanded the House Guard, the House of Whitehair's private militia; Kellik, the goblin who served as Captain of the Phalanx, commanding the Master's personal bodyguard; and lastly, his apprentice, Nor'taeron Sunblade, who had been knighted shortly after the Shattering destroyed the old Orgrimmar.

"I am glad to see you have returned from Hearthglen safely, my lord," Areinnye said formally. "What has happened?"

"Sit, light of my life...and you as well, my friends." Ketiron gestured them to chairs as he turned his own to face them. "I have investigated the matter at Sorrow Hill as Lord Devaneaux related them to me. Given the absence of any evidence that the casket ever contained a corpse, he has come to a conclusion that I find hard to dispute."

Areinnye understood at once. "Is that possible? Could he have survived...or been resurrected?"

"Very possibly. I have tried to find a logical answer to this throughout my journey across the Plaguelands back into Quel'Thalas. No other possibilities spring to mind."

"From what I have heard of him, he is a man of honor," Nor'taeron said, his expression one of confusion. "Why would he choose to deceive you and your mutual comrades in such a manner, Master? If he is alive, would you not be among the first to know?"

The Master nodded approvingly. "Artimus and I agree on that point, Nor'taeron. Yet Packleader Zherron pointed out that perhaps we did not know him as well as we thought. Not even me, and I had known him for nearly thirty years. Ever since the Second War, when he and Ordevaas came to the old estate on Feth's Way with their master, after Stratholme fell to the Old Horde."

The previous patriarch of the House of Whitehair, Ordevaas Portalseeker - who had trained Ketiron in the ways of the Blood Knights after Liadrin's awakening, and recommended him to Lord Bloodwrath for his Mastery - had also been a priest before taking up sword and shield after the fall of his homeland...and he had also died in Northrend, killed by the Corruptor's troops just as the siege began in Icecrown Citadel. He had trained with this man under the tutelage of the mysterious Sekhesmet of Stratholme, and formed a brotherhood with him that had lasted even after the sin'dorei had joined the Horde, despite the stain on the House's honor when they had allied with the Corruptor during the war for Outland.

"Could the warlock be behind this, m'lord?" asked Kellik. "If he managed to come back after bein' dashed across the cliffs of Icecrown, he may be behind this. Might see it as some kinda cosmic joke."

"The thought did spring to mind, Kellik," Ketiron agreed. "And the fact that the Feltouched, the 'creation' of the Corruptor's apprentice Linavil Shadowsun, was present when Artimus saw the defiled grave...it is too suspicious to be coincidental."

"Agreed," Areinnye said with a nod. "The question is, what possible purpose could bringing him back serve the Corruptor? Granted, we knew he dabbled in necromancy before, with his 'Hands', but bringing back one as powerful as he was..."

"Kellik, send word to Thunder Bluff. Ask Aponi Brightmane to have a runner locate Belor'malanore." Ketiron used the Thalassian term he had come up with to describe a young tauren named Telek Eaglespear, who had come to him for training in his powers - powers similar to those wielded by the Silver Hand, the draenei Vindicators, and the Blood Knight Order. Last he had heard, he had participated in the successful sieges of the Blackwing Descent and the Bastion of Twilight, and also witnessed the defeat of the Windlord in Skywall. "No doubt, he is on the slopes of Hyjal with many others in these troubled times..."

"I'll find him myself, m'lord. Telek will understand the nature of his summons if it comes from me or someone else who is a member of your House. I'd like to ask Lord Kel'theris if he could accompany me to make the trip there and back a tad quicker...and add a little more emphasis to the urgency of your summons."

Ketiron nodded, impressed with the goblin's reasoning; unlike his brother Kitrik, who went where his nearest paycheck was, Kellik was fiercely loyal to the House of Whitehair for the opportunities it had given him. "Very well. Go swiftly." The goblin guard captain saluted and made his way out. He turned to Nor'taeron. "Opinions, my young friend?"

(cont'd)

"Difficult to say, Master. Both you and Lord Devaneaux seem to agree that something is afoot here. But the shadow shrouds everything..." The young Blood Knight tapped a slender finger on his chin. "I could go to Undercity and investigate there. That is, if I can get the damned Forsaken to cooperate. For being one of us in life, Sylvanas seems particularly wary of us - and all the other living races of the Horde. Likely because she knows what she is doing is akin to what Arthas did to us, and to Lordaeron. Even Hellscream sees that, though he is too caught up in trying to destroy the Alliance to care."

Ketiron nodded in agreement. "Aye. What the Forsaken did in Gilneas, Andorhal and Southshore were horrific atrocities that had not been seen in Lordaeron since Arthas laid it waste a decade ago. Garrosh, however, appears to have turned a blind eye...if it brings him victory, it doesn't matter that we have a potential replacement for the Despoiler of the North." It was one of a few reasons the Master detested the new Warchief. Though he had to admit that Thrall was partly to blame as well; he had not cracked the whip enough when he had been Warchief, which had led to the creation of the damned plague in the first place - and, as a result, everything that had followed. The betrayal at the Wrathgate, the battle for the Undercity... "But why would the Forsaken know?"

"Sekhesmet. He is one of them, after all - and despite his allegiance to Sylvanas, he still kept in touch with his old students. If the paladin is alive, could he have turned to his old master for help?"

Ketiron had to admit he hadn't considered that. "Possibly..."

It was said that the damned could not dream. This was somewhat true - to dream, you required sleep.

But even the dead could be visited by visions - and Artimus reeled from what he had seen...

Artimus stood at the side of Ketiron as they held their weapons at the ready. The figure was human given his figure, and was attired in robes bearing runes of power. His shoulderpads bore what looked like hooded figures holding bowls with holy water within them, and his hooded cowl bore a death's head. Angelic wings of Light protruded from his back, and he carried a staff crafted of elementium, its head burning like a censer. He pointed a gloved hand at the two men.

"You search for answers," the figure said in an eerily familiar voice, "but it is not yet time..."

It also didn't help that, in the house that he had been left, outside Goldshire - the house that Artimus currently loaned out to Eidan Zherron - there was a note in an envelope left on a table in the parlor, addressed to Artimus; it contained a note and a signet ring. The insignia was that of the Kingdom of Lordaeron. He had sent it to Ketiron in Silvermoon, to see if his House magisters could find anything that could aid them; even with his "acceptance" in Stormwind society, he wasn't about to entrust it to some stranger in a tower.

As for the note...it was only one word: "Wait."

Excellent read.

((I know he's not on the server - at least not yet - but this is where the old mentor comes in, heh heh heh....))

Like Artimus Devaneaux, Sekhesmet of Stratholme had not known sleep or dreaming for some time, ever since he was raised by Sylvanas' necromancers from his crypt in Brill nearly six years ago. But as a man who wielded priestly powers - enough to awaken to his own corruption - he had also been visited by visions. He had not been a young man when he died, and despite his virtual immortality as a Forsaken, he still had the issues that had come with age. (Minus the incontinence, though he still did dribble embalming fluid from time to time.)

In his vision, Sekhesmet had just left from ministering to the troops occupying Andorhal, on his way back to Hearthglen. Though the Argent Crusade frowned on Sylvanas' campaigns in Gilneas, Andorhal and Hillsbrad, they did little to oppose her - for all they knew, the Warchief would accuse the Crusade of meddling in Horde affairs, even though Garrosh was known to despise Sylvanas almost as much as the Alliance did.

It was along the road near Taelan's Tower that Sekhesmet spotted the figure. Attired very similarly to himself - but he stood far straighter, and the skin around his joints was intact. Human. He was turned away, but he could see the grayed brown hair resting on his shoulders and the staff in his hand. And as he turned, fixing his eyes upon the Forsaken priest, he could see the familiar braids resting on his shoulders. As his mouth hung open, he could not give voice to the name, but he could hear it repeated in his head like a thunderclap.

Sekhesmet was dumbstruck - he could not tear his eyes from the man, and his mind reeled. It was not possible. He was dead! He was certain of it - Ketiron, damn the man, had seen it with his own eyes, and despite his contempt for his over-pious nature, Sekhesmet knew the Blood Knight did not lie. But nonetheless...

It was then that Sekhesmet returned to himself, seated in meditation in his "dwelling" - he could not call it a home, Forsaken architecture or not - in Tarren Mill. Deciding to make a return trip to Undercity to speak with his friend (and "re-life" mentor), Father Lankester, Sekhemet stepped into the saddle of his waiting horse and rode across the lands of Hillsbrad. The searchlights still ran at the Sludge Fields, despite Stillwater's death and the shutting down of his operation; he figured they'd die out sooner or later.

As he entered Silverpine, he was drawn by something standing on the ridge near the entrance to Shadowfang Keep. Dismounting and walking up the ridge, he stood and saw a man, still living - a surprise in this land. He was wearing the same robes...he wore the same face...the same hair color and style. The same man from his vision. The man he had sworn not so long ago was dead and gone.

It couldn't be. But it was. He smiled and spoke - dispelling all doubts about the nature of the man before him.

"Hello, Master."

Master Taeril'hane Ketiron rested a ring-bedecked hand on the hilt of his jeweled sword, and glared down at the goblin next to him. "I am not exactly fond of being this close to Orgrimmar, Kitrik," he snapped; they were standing inside the cannon control room in Bilgewater Harbor in Azshara, one of the few buildings in that town large enough for a blood elf to stand in. "So this had better not be a complete waste of my time."

"Have I ever been known to waste your time before, Taeril'hane?" asked Kitrik the Assassin - a mercenary who called his outfit the "Grand Army of Kezan". The goblin was grinning.

Damn the little runt, but he has a point, Ketiron thought; during his service to the House of Whitehair, Kitrik had been a diligent worker, and so had his brother Kellik. Finally, the one they'd been waiting for entered. A goblin, like Kitrik, but with darker green skin, and wide yellowed eyes that Ketiron could swear were gleaming madly.

"Hey hey, boss," he greeted Kitrik; he was a member of the Grand Army.

"Evenin', Smeet," the Assassin returned, clapping his associate on his chain-mailed shoulder. He gestured to the Blood Knight Master next to him. "You remember Master Ketiron, of course."

"Indeed, yes yes."

Ketiron repressed a shudder as he inclined his head in greeting. Of all the shaman in the Horde, he had to get one who was a few cards short of a Darkmoon deck. "Master Spiritgrinder. Have you looked into the matter I requested of you?"

"Yes, yes, I have indeed, m'lord," Smeet Spiritgrinder replied. "It took a lotta work, y'know. Had to chat with that draenei pal of ours." He noticed Kitrik's disapproving glance; the Assassin was well-known for his opinions on draenei, lumping them largely with their eredar forebears because of their "alien" nature (when it was pointed out that orcs were technically alien to Azeroth as well, Kitrik's usual reply was "at least they're green...mostly"). "I know you don't like 'em, chief, but he did point me in the right direction with the Five Elements. I owe him."

"Fair enough," Kitrik grudgingly allowed. "Now get on with it; I think Master Ketiron would like his answer now." He wagged a finger at the much taller blood elf. "Be glad I like you as much as I do, Taeril'hane. Normally, Smeet would be chargin' you for this. But this is important, you say, so I'll give you a pass. One of a few I owe you."

The Master smiled tightly. "I am grateful to you, sir. Now then, master shaman, you have an answer for me?"

Smeet nodded. "Hope you'll forgive me if it's a little poetic, heh heh." He closed his eyes, beginning his verse:

Grave that was filled, be found empty
Deception clear at every gate
At the Worldbreaker's fall, the Storm returns
Transcending the paladin's fate.

From the Hill of Sorrow, speculation abound
That the Storm is raging still
The ring left where it could be found
To prove he rests not on the Hill.

Regent he was, but is no more,
Of Lordaeron fallen, returning to life
No sword and shield, he bears to war
But the Light, he wields in the hour of strife.

I logged onto my toon just to say what a great read this is. Thank you for sharing this and I hope it doesn't end anytime soon.

"Of all the places the Alliance wants me to explore, it had to be a bloody swamp." Amendera Kynes wrinkled her nose in disgust as she arrived in the town of Bogpaddle, along the coast of the Swamp of Sorrows. She was in her human guise, the better to avoid "offending the fragile minds" - it was a reason that Zherron often used for doing that in towns, though he had become more comfortable "being himself" in Stormwind.

After enduring the infernal heat and ash of the Burning Steppes, she had hoped for a better assignment. Instead - she got a swamp.

As she walked along the coast to complete the tasks given to her by Trade Baron Silversnap, she couldn't shake the feeling she was being watched. She looked up and saw a very pale-looking orc, attired in robes daubed with sigils of death, carrying a runeblade. A death knight. As it lunged at her, Amendera let the Rage take hold and assumed the pack form. Her twin katanas were in her hands in a blink of an eye as she blade-danced with her opponent. Finally, she saw an opening and slashed across the dead orc's neck with her twinned blades, neatly severing its head. Not even a death knight could endure decapitation, so the body twitched for a few moments before toppling to the ground.

Kneeling next to the body, Amendera spotted an unusual sigil worn on its right shoulder. A fist raised up, with the sigil of the Horde on the wrist. She also saw a scroll case on its belt, and took it. Opening it, she saw that the message was in orcish, a language neither she nor Zherron understood. But there was someone who did. Returning to town, she requested transit to Stormwind, where she would speak with Lord Artimus - and he could put her in contact with the man she needed to speak to.

----

Four days later, Amendera was in Hearthglen, waiting in the small conference room at Mardenholde Keep. As the robed figure entered, she stood and bowed before him. "Thank you for responding so quickly, Lord Ketiron. Lord Artimus told me you could be trusted with this information."

Taeril'hane Ketiron nodded. "Artimus told me of the scroll you found on the orc death knight, Miss Kynes. Do you still have it?"

Amendera unhooked the scroll case from her belt and handed it to the Blood Knight, who opened it and began reading the message aloud. "Our insider in Stormwind says the worgen female is being dispatched to the goblin port in the Swamp of Sorrows," he read. "She is connected to the Packleader. Act how you will, but find a way to force his attention to her. He must not be allowed to undermine the Plan. I will have agents deal with Devaneaux and Ketiron." The blood elf furrowed his brow. "The sigil you found...may I see it?"

The young worgen opened a pouch at her belt and handed over the coin-sized emblem. Ketiron nodded grimly. "As I suspected. An agent of the Corruptor. It seems that we've garnered his attention, young warrior. But for what purpose?"

"Could it be related to the mystery on Sorrow Hill?"

"As in, could he be behind the empty casket, the empty grave, the sightings in Lordaeron?" Ketiron was silent for a moment, then he nodded approvingly. "You could very well be onto something there, Miss Kynes. This could be another one of his mind games."

"What can be done to stop him?"

"He claims he is sending agents to 'deal with' Artimus and I. I think we can...dissuade him from carrying out his foolish action." The Master grinned. "You may well have given us an edge over the warlock, my dear...as well as a potentially vital clue to solving this increasingly deepening mystery."

He could not shake the feeling, as he entered his home outside Goldshire, that someone else was present. The voice coming from near the staircase confirmed that.

"Artimus..."

The death knight turned, his eyes widening. "Jaeden'laek!" He helped the draenei farseer to a chair. "Where have you been? What's happened?"

"I have seen into the Beyond, Artimus. And I have beheld the answer to your mystery. There is no mistaking it...the Oncoming Storm grows again, and it returns...with a vengeance. The Lich King is gone, sent back to the hell that spawned him, and Deathwing, too, will meet his end - if the Light is merciful. When the Destroyer begins his descent...he will return."

Artimus knew what the shaman meant, and his first instinct - surprisingly, given what he knew - was to deny it. It still boggled his mind, even after all that he had heard and seen. "We both saw him die, Jaeden'laek - it's impossible."

"Foolish human! Do you not trust your own senses? Did you not yourself say that you, a dead man, have more vision than your living compatriots in Redridge?" He referred to the confrontation Artimus had had with Narnicka regarding the welfare of Lahkin - Artimus himself had spoken to the boy, rather than going to Gentyl as he had...threatened would not be the wrong word, he decided. But how did the farseer know this? "An empty, unused coffin. The priestess meeting a robed figure that matches his description - the cryptic words. The knowledge he possesses. He is not dead..."

"How? He's a paladin, he would not deceive us. It's contrary to a paladin's nature." He remembered Taelanas making that point when he had spoken with him and Gentyl in the Recluse. "Their compassion would kick in before they would act in such a manner." At least, it usually would, he thought, thinking of what he had said to Lahkin - voicing his opinion that Gentyl lacked compassion regarding the "Stoneheardt shenanigans", as he called them.

"Not of his own volition, no. But the Light is only one force he serves. He had many affiliations in the past. Druids, dragons, even the free-thinking dead. And of course, many connections to my people...not only those who followed the Prophet to this world, but also those who remained in Outland, in the service of the blessed naaru. Any one of these forces could have restored him, and forced him to lay low."

"There are some who believe the Corruptor is involved," Artimus pointed out. "His agents were spotted near the grave."

"It is possible. The warlock is capable of resurrecting himself...perhaps he is involved in some way - the ultimate joke, bringing back his mortal enemy as his slave." Jaeden'laek looked disgusted. "If that is true...then we must find him."

"If he IS in Stormwind, he may well have his own agenda...if he was working for the warlock, he could simply have killed Genevra. He didn't."

"I am uncertain of the warlock's motive, if he is indeed behind this. My student in Azshara, the goblin - I have asked him to investigate on his end. His master does not trust me, nor any of my people...he believes that, like our man'ari brethren, we are manipulators. Seeking to make the other races dance to our tune." Jaeden'laek shook his head. "But the Assassin accepts Smeet's counsel. He will find out what is going on."

"What of the gnome?"

"He is something of an enigma. I cannot determine what motivates him at all. Vengeance for being used as a menial when he was a mechagnome? Desire for more power than the Corruptor is giving him? Light only knows." The farseer's eyes looked almost...glazed. "We must wait...and prepare...he returns with the beginning of the Destroyer's end..."

"But will he be our ally...or our enemy?" To that, the shaman had no answer.

(I'm glad to see you continuing this. It's a great story.)

Though it was still officially in enemy hands, there was one place that Eidan Zherron often gravitated to when his mind was troubled: Tal'doren, the great tree of the druids in the Blackwald of southern Gilneas. The Forsaken had been here in far less numbers recently; Amendera had attended a ceremony at Light's Dawn Cathedral some days before, a renewal of vows between Narnicka and Genevra. That had surprised Zherron, as he had not known Narnicka was from Gilneas, having only heard of his shamanic connections and his orcish family.

Amendera had abandoned him. He supposed he couldn't blame her, but the betrayal still rankled. After witnessing a rant against the "elder races" and their arrogant meddling, Amendera had taken the seal of the pack - a wolf's paw with the rune that symbolized Gilneas - and thrown it to the grass of the Beer Garden. "You have embarassed me for the last time, Eidan," she snapped at him when he was nursing a hangover from the burnwine the following day. "Where I go...it will not be at your beck and call anymore." And with that, she was gone.

After recovering, and realizing he could not stay in Stormwind due to his altercations with the Watch, Zherron had left and gone into Khaz Modan, finding a refuge in Ironforge. But his mind remained ever northward...one day, at the spur of the moment, he had left and flown north, along the coast of Khaz Modan and into Lordaeron, turning west along the shores of Stromgarde. He had first gone to the old house in Greymane Court. He had heard that Genevra and her party had actually waited in the house as the invited guests attended the renewal ceremony at Light's Dawn. He smiled to himself, wondering if she had known - before she was inevitably told, anyway.

Afterwards, he had gone to Tal'doren. The Blackwald was empty, and it was quiet. He found solace in that. He sat for a long time in the hollow of the great tree, meditating. He maintained his true form here, not requiring a mask while in this sacred place.

"Gilneas. Such a gloomy place...and a place of mystery."

Zherron stood, his hand grasping his staff. "Who goes there?" he demanded.

"A wanderer," replied the stranger. He was human, judging by his posture, and attired in ornate robed armor with burning skulls and runic scrolls on the shoulders, chains running along the length of his robe, the skull-capped cowl hiding much of his face. He held a huge skull-capped battlemace at his right shoulder, forged of the metal borne of the blood of Yogg-Saron. A veteran of Northrend, then. "I have long wanted to speak with you, Zherron Shadowhowl..."

That caught the Packleader short. Almost no one called him that these days, not since Gilneas fell. "How do you know who I am? Who are you?"

The figure shrugged. "My name is not important. Know only that I have appeared in many...costumes, I suppose you could call them...and have spoken to many of your peers. The young priestess, for instance..." He smiled a bit. "Genevra is a kind soul...with a good man at her side, too. And this Holy Guard, this...Pia Presidium...intrigues me. Along with their allies. It pleases me that the Light continues to shine in these dark days."

"Enough with the mysticism, wanderer. I have no time for rambling prophets."

The figure became somewhat hazy as a bright light emanated from him; Zherron raised a clawed hand to shield his eyes. DO NOT MOCK ME, WORGEN! came a voice from the brightness. I HAVE NOT ENDURED WHAT I HAVE AND COME ALL THIS WAY JUST TO LISTEN TO THE MISGUIDED INSULTS OF A BOORISH DRUNKARD! The light faded, leaving the figure looking tired. "I have come...to aid my world and people...as She wills. And you...you will aid me."

Zherron, his jaw hanging open, stared for a long moment. This was an incredibly powerful Light-wielder - more so than even Genevra, who was no slouch. "What do you ask of me?"

The man smiled. "To await my word, Zherron...here at the calm. The Destroyer begins his descent..." His smile faded. "And the Storm has returned."

The Storm has returned. Zherron suddenly realized who this man was. But before he could speak, the man was gone. Outside, he heard the roar of a great beast, and as he looked up into the sky, he could see great wings cast a shadow across the Blackwald.

The wings of a red dragon...

(( Good stuff! ))

Held in the dungeon of Mardenholde Keep to await the judgment of Pia Presidium, Eidan Zherron's mind went to the evidence that it had in fact been tampered with - branded by a powerful warlock who had discovered his routine. For a brief moment, a lingering hint of paranoia led him to think that Amendera had betrayed him to the Corruptor. He quickly dismissed it; the Corruptor's agents had attacked her in the Swamp of Sorrows. She was not likely to serve someone who tried to kill her.

Kill her... "By the Scythe," he whispered to himself, his face a mask of horror - suddenly remembering what he (or rather, what the warlock who'd branded him) had ordered - the cold-blooded killing of three targets. "Liam..."

Liam Branscombe was a man on a mission. Over the years, he had served as the personal scout, courier and all-around dirty worker for his Packleader, dating back to the latter days of the Northgate rebellion. Just shy of thirty, Branscombe was a white-furred brute with cold blue eyes, but despite his large size, he was able to move both swiftly and silently, with the shadows as his ally.

It came from more than a decade of cold-blooded murder and evading the Gilnean Royal Army - for Liam Branscombe was also a serial killer. Dubbed "the Ghost of the Northgate", he was responsible for several dozen murders dating back from when he was sixteen; the victims included his father and his elder brother. And no one had even thought of accusing him. Hell, the fact he had ended up in Stoneward Prison at all was not because of his murders, but because he was a captured rebel. Zherron had been his commander, leading a small company of ex-Gilnean Army, veterans of the Second War. Like all held in Stoneward, Branscombe had been granted amnesty by the King, in exchange for battling the worgen menace - and later, the Forsaken, a task that he had taken with relish, as he detested the undead with a passion. He found undeath to be unnatural.

The hint of an ironic smile curved Branscombe's snout. Unnatural - a word that seemed to have little meaning to people like him. Looking in the mirror would be proof enough of that.

Before departing Gilneas, having seen the confrontation between Zherron and Narnicka, he had been given his directive. Three targets, enemies of the pack. Branscombe admittedly didn't care much for politics - his Packleader had a mission that required murder. That was enough. The targets were spread out, but distance was no issue in this day and age.

His targets were Turrick Silvertongue (finishing what Zherron himself now could not), Genevra Stoneheardt...and Amendera Kynes. Turrick would be more difficult to get to, with the wards and sentries in Hearthglen; he thought maybe it would be best to handle him last. But Amendera and Genevra would be easy. Amendera often journeyed between Stormwind and Outland in search of new ores to craft weapons and armor, and Genevra's home in Lakeshire - as he attested to from personal experience - was woefully unprotected. Genevra was overly confident that she was completely safe.

Yet as he landed in Stormwind, having rode all the way from Gilneas on the back of a gryphon Zherron had procured for him, Branscombe - probably one of the most morally bankrupt people ever to walk the planet - had his doubts about what the Packleader was asking. Stealthily moving into Old Town and heading for the Dwarven District, where he knew Amendera would be, he considered what he had been asked to do - and how Zherron had made the request with a bloodthirsty smile on his face. Though extremely proud and quick to anger, like any red-blooded Gilnean (worgen or otherwise) would be, this was definately out of the norm for the man, who was not one to kill for killing's sake. And her "crimes" aside, Amendera was the only family Eidan had left - and Genevra had often given him counsel in the past. Oh, he remembered when Zherron had wished Genevra's death when she had gone into shadow magics. But now? It made no sense...

"Nothing about the world makes much sense these days, assassin."

Branscombe turned, surprised that he had been spotted so easily. Another damned paladin - attired in ornate armored robes, holding a huge warhammer that, he was reasonably sure, could crush his skull like a ripened melon. "Who are you?"

(cont'd)

"Who I am is not important. What I have to say is. You struggle with doubts, and rightly so. Your bloodstained past aside, you know what you are about to do is wrong, Liam Branscombe..."

How the fething hell does he know my name? he thought. And yet...he was right. "Somethin' not right with the Packleader. He's never been this crazy before."

The paladin nodded. "Those who he maimed will soon find the reason why. He will pay for his crime...but my focus now is halting another crime from being made. If you do this, you condemn your Packleader to the gallows. Put aside your lust for murder, Liam, and THINK. He is already damned for what he has done while under the spell - do you wish to send him to his death for ordering you to commit murder in his name?"

Listening to the man speak, the assassin's cold blue eyes...began to fill with tears. "What must I do?"

"Go to the child, Liam. But not with murder in your heart. Tell her exactly what I tell you. Tell her...the Storm requires a Herald."

Cryptic as hell, he thought. But...wait. Did he say "Storm"? Like this "Oncoming Storm" tripe he keeps talking about? If so, then... Finally, he nodded. "Alright."

The man smiled and began walking away. Branscombe turned to head toward the Dwarven District...but couldn't help but wonder. He turned around, only to find the man was gone. Looking perplexed, he turned back and began walking. I must be as mad as Zherron, he thought. But...there is something about that man...

I go now to commune with the wild. The less I see of people...the better.

Thus did Eidan Zherron begin his self-imposed exile. Priests, paladins, assassins...he could trust them no more. He could not even trust his own people. The pack was dead, its Packleader having abandoned his brothers for good this time. He would wander the wilds, where he would hopefully never be seen again. Certainly not in Hearthglen. He thought of Taelanas, no doubt sneering behind his golden mask; Gentyl, her belief in her order's supremacy giving her the belief that she could dictate a damn thing to him; Cray, a foolish drunk. He could see it in the man's eyes.

A plague upon you all, he thought. Just as well I never have to see any of your faces again.

After wandering the length and breadth of the Eastern Kingdoms - thankful for the crow form of his calling - he had taken a ship into the north, wandering back into the Grizzly Hills, where he had attempted to aid the ferals of Northrend nearly a year earlier. To the west, Deathwing's Twilight legions battled the Wyrmrest Temple's defenders in what would likely be the final battle of the war against the Worldbreaker. Afterwards, he had journeyed into the Carrion Fields, dead silent now that the Scourge's siege of Wintergarde had been broken.

Zherron stood on a mountain ridge south of Wintergarde, staring out at the temple to the west. The sounds of battle and the cries of the wounded could be heard from here. He could only gaze in mesmerized horror at the scene. This is truly the Hour of Twilight, he thought. The defenders of Azeroth make their final stand against the Destroyer's flame...who can stand against such power?

"None can, worgen. Then again, I suppose you knew that."

Zherron turned in surprise to see... "YOU!!!" he roared, lunging at the robed orc. The sorcerer merely laughed and raised a hand, a burst of shadow magic slamming into Zherron's entire body, knocking him from his feet.

"I'm disappointed in you, Eidan," the Corruptor chided him in his thickly-accented Common. "Running away from your friends." He stopped for a moment, looking puzzled, then snapped his thick green fingers. "Oh, I apologize. I forgot...they're not your friends anymore, are they? It must be such a burden to you."

"Not really," Zherron said as nonchalantly as possible. "I have been shackled to the needs of others for thirty years...I am my own man, not some priestess' pet dog."

"No, you are not the priestess' pet dog," the warlock agreed. Then he pulled the great frost-scythe from his back. "You're MY pet dog. And you have failed me. Now you must pay."

"I almost wish that Gentyl and her lackeys had gotten to you first," Zherron replied with a sneer. "They'd be more merciful. You...I intend to make you suffer, sorcerer." Without another word, he assumed his feline form and pounced. But the Corruptor was suddenly gone - a burst of green fire and he was suddenly...elsewhere. "Coward! FIGHT ME!" he roared. "Show me what you're capable of!"

"Alright." That voice had come from behind - as Zherron suddenly felt a huge blade pierce his back and go straight through his body. His feline form faded, leaving him impaled at the edge of the Corruptor's blade. "You have failed your master, Eidan," the warlock replied, his expression one of feigned sadness. "And now you will die, forgotten and alone, just as you wish. But don't worry...all life will join you soon enough. Lord Deathwing will have broken the pitiful 'accord' at Wyrmrest Temple, and the end of days will come as prophecied...where those who serve in his glory will ascend, and those who deny his glory...will be as nothing."

Laughing, the warlock vanished.

(cont'd)

Crawling (and collapsing down the mountain path) towards the nearest road, leaving a trail of his cursed blood, Zherron collapsed into the snow - just as he heard approaching riders. A cart, escorted by six riders - a goblin trike, three hawkstriders...and two horses, one in reddish-gold livery, the other in grey and white.

"Careful, my lords," said the rider of the trike - a goblin in black plate armor, wearing the red tabard of Silvermoon and a sash across his chest. "It might be feral."

"Wearing the sigil of Gilneas?" replied a haughty-sounding female, riding one of the hawkstriders. "I doubt that highly!"

A tall figure wearing ornate elementium plate armor knelt next to the fallen worgen, his tabard bearing the black and red insignia of the Blood Knight Order. He removed a gauntlet and placed his hand on Zherron's forehead, muttering under his breath.

"Is it he, Taeril'hane?" came the voice of the other horse-rider.

Taeril'hane Ketiron stood. "It is," he said. He gestured to two of his guards, riding the other hawkstriders. "Get him in the cart. Quickly. We must make haste. Lord Kel'theris awaits us at Conquest Hold for transport back to Silvermoon."

"My lord, this is a worgen!" one of the guards protested. "We cannot bring a worgen into our city!"

"We can, and we will. This worgen is...a friend. Of a sort." He turned to the other horse rider. "Should we inform his patron, the Lady Stoneheardt?"

"Yes, I will send word to her. Worry not, Taeril'hane. There are still plenty of battles left in this one." He smiled. "Whether he wants to or not."

Ketiron nodded. "As you say."

A letter is delivered by courier to Hearthglen, post-dated from two days after Eidan Zherron's trial. It is written in a scrawled but still legible hand, like the man didn't care enough to learn how to "properly" write it, but knows enough to make it readable. On the envelope is written "to Gentyl of the Pia Presidium, from the Ghost of the Northgate".

The letter reads:

I hear you've been looking for me. Normally I wouldn't like that; in fact, I'd wonder what you're smoking. But given what's happened, I'll make an exception.

Amendera passed word to me from Artimus Devaneaux about what happened to the Packleader - about his trial, how he's disappeared off the map, and how he mentioned what he tasked me to do while he was off his rocker. You heard that Zherron sent me after Genevra and Amendera, and your worgen friend - Turrick, I think his name was. You've probably heard that Amendera went to your pal Artimus, after I went to her. And I'm probably guessing, given my profession and your reasonable distaste for Zherron around now, you think I'm full of it. My word may not mean much to you, but rest assured - I mean no harm to your friend, or to the ladies.

You may be wondering why someone like me - a confessed murderer, a man who kills for a living, a man who must be morally bankrupt - could have had such a change of heart. Believe me, I've been asking myself the same thing. I honestly don't know much myself, but I'll just say I had...let's just call it an epiphany, because I don't think any other word can describe it. And usually, I'm a man of few words. Goes with my calling. Better in the killing business, distasteful as you may find that.

It involves one of your comrades, a paladin. Fellow in plate-and-chain robes, with a big hammer. Northrend swag, I'm guessing. I never caught his name...but I've heard what they call him. "The Oncoming Storm", I've heard more than once. Kinda full of himself, when you think about it, but this guy...there was a calm to him, like he was projecting it. He spoke to me...and something he said made me wonder what Zherron was doing. Oh, I'd killed people on his orders before, but not like this...plus, I'd grown to kinda like the gals - Genevra's a decent enough sort, and Amendera's a firebrand. Gods know we could use people like them these days. And this Turrick fellow - I don't really know him, but I know what stake you holy orders put on your comrades. Hard to argue with it, tell you the truth...but don't tell anyone I said that.

If you wish me to speak in person, or perhaps even have me turn myself over to your justice just to reassure your no-doubt still-worried mind, then by all means, I can meet you where you wish. I know you're probably more comfortable with Stormwind; I stop by the Recluse once in a while. Just say the word.

L.B.