World of Warcraft®

Everyone has a failing. If Saavedro of Stratholme - being touted as the answer to prayers by people like Genevra Stoneheardt - had one, it would be a piety that bordered on zealotry, emphasized by the incident during Genevra's sermon the previous evening. While normally a man who offered his counsel and a sense of calm, he had given in to his anger at the mage's words. There were three kinds of people who were liable to bring out his rarely-displayed temper: Traitors, murderers...and blasphemers.

In his private amusement, he found it somewhat ironic. The Scarlet Crusade was often condemned for their overzealous nature in persecuting blasphemy, believing that all who opposed them served the Scourge...and he had spent years - before the war in Outland - battling the Crusade as he served the Argent Dawn in Lordaeron. But something about this Randewey fellow ground his gears. Mages had never been subject to "blanket damnation", no matter what this idiot thought. Granted, people were not exactly trusting of mages, but it didn't help that most mages were condescending snobs (especially those who worked for the Kirin Tor), or easily corrupted - how many mages went to the blue dragonflight, the Cult of the Damned...or became warlocks, for the matter?

Then again, how many paladins went to the Scarlet Crusade, or became death knights? he thought. How many priests joined Benedictus in the Twilight's Hammer?

"Lord Saavedro." The paladin turned at the young voice of the young warrior Amendera Kynes, who had agreed to be an emissary of sorts for him. "A message from Silvermoon. It was in Common, so..."

"What does he say?"

"Lord Ketiron says he is sending General Scourgebane and a battalion of his House Guard to Northrend to hunt down the Corruptor. Lord Artimus sent word of his analysis of the scene where Eidan was attacked in the Dragonblight. They think the warlock is still there."

Saavedro nodded. "He wouldn't dare show himself in civilized lands - not with Varian and Hellscream hunting down the Twilight remnants." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Still...what could that man be up to..."

After Artimus had left the scene on the bluff overlooking the bloody plains of the Dragon Wastes, two more figures approached, their auras ripe with dark magic. But both were unusual sorts. One was incredibly tall, the other incredibly short - and both had fought for, and later against, the Corruptor. The shorter of the two had even fought against the Lich King, and was in fact inside Icecrown Citadel when the lord of the Scourge was defeated.

The taller sorcerer knelt, moving the top layer of snow away with the scythe-blade that served as his right hand. "Look here, little one," he said in a deep, grunting voice. "Even in the lands of ice and snow, there can always be a sign." He indicated the blackened soil beneath, the intricate pattern. "You see the pattern?"

The shorter also knelt, so that he could lay his hands on the pattern burnt forever into the ground. He closed his eyes, muttering under his breath. Then he nodded, speaking in a high, cackling voice, "Yes indeedy, my vrykul friend. It's him. There was a skirmish here. The traitor...and some worgen. The one they call Packleader." He looked up at the piercing stare of the vrykul sorcerer. "He'll not be stupid enough to head back south. It seems we may not have to leave after all."

The vrykul looked relieved at that; if there was anything he was uncertain of, it was how he would adjust to the milder climes of the southern continents. With the exception of the rainforests of Sholazar Basin, Northrend was a land of perpetual winter, where the winds could kill the unwary and the temperatures could turn the hardiest souls into frozen statues. The exception was the land that his companion came from, in the mountains where his home city was found. But a vrykul in Khaz Modan would be an odd sight, even in the era of the Shattering, where odd things abound. "What help could he find, staying here?" he wondered. "My people will not welcome him. The Death God's remnants sleep as we did in ages past. And the blue tuskers in their temple-cities to the northeast are dead. He will find no one to serve him here."

The vrykul's companion dismissed that with an imperious wave of his hand. "He's a lunatic, Helbrand. He's not thinking anything through at all. And plus, he's a lunatic who just saw his patron blasted to dust. His world is crashing down around him, just like that traitor Thermaplugg's did when Mekkatorque finally took the initiative, and decided maybe we should have our city back after all..." He smiled malevolently. "And if he leaves a trail as obvious as this, he will not be difficult to find. Not difficult at all."

Helbrand looked skeptical. "Can you be certain of that? The green one is a trickster."

"He is that," the gnome had to admit. "But we will have friends coming soon enough. My seeing-eye has detected a zeppelin arriving at Vengeance Landing, the Forsaken outpost to the east, in the Howling Fjord. Blood elf Scourge-hunters, veterans of the war against the Lich King. Sent by their lord to hunt down the Corruptor for their friend Saavedro." The gnome's lips curled in a snarl on speaking that name. He had told his tale to the vrykul many times, as both shared common stories - they had been found and mentored by the warlock, and then turned on him when they realized he was nothing but a foolish, self-serving maniac who cared for nothing but power.

Helbrand had been an outcast; the gnome had been a mechanized thing damaged, then rebuilt by the paladin...as a personal butler. A blood elf named Linavil Shadowsun, serving the Corruptor, had taken him, used a recursive injection with demons' blood to cure him, and taught him the dark arts. Like the vrykul, he had embraced his new path, and like the vrykul, had run for the hills when the Corruptor was defeated. Now his old master had returned, serving Twilight's Hammer...and now he would die.

"Lord Rakeri," came a voice behind him - one of the remaining retainers of the House of Shadowsun, a member of Linavil's personal guard. "The Whitehair militia is on their way. Shall I assemble others to intervene?"

"Not at all," Rakeri Sputterspark replied. "In fact...perhaps we can offer them a service. Any news of his whereabouts yet?"

"Your tracking...beast...detected signs of magic heading into Zul'Drak." The blood elf looked uncomfortable; the "beast" was in fact Rakeri's felhunter, a demon made exactly for that purpose.

The gnome sneered at him. "Do not question the means, sin'dorei, if it brings us the end we seek."

((Helps if I post with the right character.))

While Amendera worked in Stormwind, and much of his pack was afield doing their new patron's bidding, the Packleader contented himself with his self-imposed exile - and where better than the soil of home.

Zherron was seated in the shadow of Tal'doren in the Blackwald of southern Gilneas, eyes closed in meditation. As before, he would come here whenever his mind was troubled. It had been here that he had been captured by Narnicka and delivered to Hearthglen for trial, and the truth of his affliction discovered. But he had come here many times before that...and had only come here now, since then. His mind constantly focused on the incident a few weeks earlier, where the Corruptor had branded him, and fed on his hatred - hoping to disgrace him.

And it seemed, he mused grimly, that the warlock had succeeded. He doubted anyone knew where he, Zherron, was anymore. Furthermore, he doubted anyone cared - not Gentyl, certainly, or any of her crew...but probably not Genevra or Narnicka, either. Certainly their son didn't have any "happy thoughts" when it came to him anymore.

Perhaps this is better, he thought. Even during the rebellion, I did better with few people...and best with no one at all. I was no stealth master, certainly, but I knew my way around Gilneas fairly well - enough to avoid others when need be.

It was the paladin, that impossible man who proved to be quite possible after all, that encouraged him to try and find a way to break his exile. Zherron had promised to think about it. "Much has changed since you've been...away, Lord Saavedro," he had said. They had met at the Menders' Stead south of Hearthglen, rather than in the town itself as Saavedro had invited him. Though Zherron wandered Lordaeron freely, he avoided Hearthglen out of respect, not because Gentyl had supposedly banished him. He regarded her "authority" with a grain of salt, especially when it came to Hearthglen - Tirion Fordring ruled that town, not the Presidium. But he had let it slide, figuring he had wasted enough time with Gentyl and her ilk - especially her attack dog, Taelanas. (It still amused him that he used such a term in reference to the man, especially given his curse.)

He couldn't help but smile as he thought about it. Genevra, Gentyl, Taelanas, Saavedro. Paladins and priests everywhere. Oh, he believed the Light existed - he had seen it wielded often enough during the war - but he was not a pious man. Genevra was someone who went through the motions, and Gentyl and Taelanas were rabid zealots. So was Saavedro, to a small degree - he had heard how the normally-calm paladin had confronted a mouthy human mage and a cheerfully-blasphemous worgen pirate during one of Genevra's sermons.

But something about him was different from the others...

Everyone has a failing - and Caro'thel Vendross had one that would be obvious to anyone who'd heard him speak two words. Arrogant and proud as those of his bloodline were, Vendross lacked a quality that his elder brother, Lord Tara'thel, believed important...simple tact. To call him an impolite, arrogant, loud-mouthed snob would be the understatement of the eon, depending on who you asked.

Vendross sat in meditation in the simple squire's quarters provided for him in the Presidium Tower in Hearthglen when he was given a note by one of the other initiates. It was short and to the point.

Meet me in Mardenholde. Now.

Being who he was, Vendross found the terseness of this summons insulting. These humans think they lorded over everything. But, he grudgingly admitted to himself, the Highborne were not exactly rulers of the world anymore. Azshara continued to demand worship from her snake-man children in her watery hell, and many of those who had been Highborne were either dead, polluted - like the satyrs, and those descended from the cowards who'd fled across the sea...especially the sin'dorei - or mad, like Prince Tortheldrin.

Our time will come again, he thought. These humans will learn their place...and that will be under our bootheels. Eventually.

Entering the small conference room in Mardenholde, Vendross' eyes narrowed to see the summoner, who wore dark plate armor, a great skull with burning eyes on his right pauldron. The deep blue was broken only by the white and gold of the Presidium's colors on his tabard. Limbered on his back was a huge battle axe almost as long as Vendross was tall, carved with intricate runes. The runes, the armor, and the icy blue-glowing stare of the figure marked him as a death knight; the Highborne mage recognized him as one who held some standing in this "Holy Guard". How that made sense - a dead man wielding unholy magic being powerful in a holy order - he had no idea. But in this day and age, nothing did.

"Ah, Master Vendross. I was beginning to wonder if you would even deign to answer my summons." The death knight's eyes were narrowed as he removed his gauntlets, leaving them on the table; he leaned his huge axe against one of the chairs around the table. "Obedience is important if you wish to advance here, mageling."

Impudent corpse! he thought. He dares mock my abilities? He stared coldly at the man, his expression one that had made "lesser" night elves cringe. The man merely stared back, his unnatural glowing eyes unblinking. "I have come as summoned, Sir Artimus," he said in a condescending tone. "What is it you wish?"

"Dropping the attitude would be nice, for starters," Artimus Devaneaux replied icily. "It's a miracle Sepha Gentyl accepted you here; I only gave her your name because I know Jaeden'laek, and he must be the only man you've met who you haven't considered scum." He smiled, and inwardly, Vendross cringed. Outwardly, however, he remained stoic; he would not give an inch to this man. "I've spoken to Highlord Fordring, and he informs me that there was a rather odd visitor here recently. A blood elf, a rather crazed fellow in black plate armor. Asking all kinds of questions...and he seemed to have taken an interest in you. Any idea why?"

"Probably to see what a true Highborne looks like," Vendross retorted instantly, speaking with his pride rather than his head.

"Let's not start with that again," Artimus warned, his patience grown thin with the "Highborne pride" he seemed to be seeing these days. "I know of this blood elf by description, Master Vendross...he is an agent of the warlock we call the Corruptor. Are you working for him?" Privately, Artimus doubted it - the mage's hatred of the demonic bordered on paladin fanaticism - but with that one, he could take nothing for granted. He'd trained a damned vrykul, for Light's sake... "Or have you done something to garner his attention in some way - enough for him to send his so-called 'Hammer'?"

"Consort with daemomancers? Are you mad?" Vendross was furious at the implication, and not giving a damn who he was speaking to. "Have you not heard me rail against them? Perhaps your brain has been rotted by your death, and it makes you --"

Artimus' left hand flew like a whipcrack across the mage's face, sending him spinning until he tripped over a nearby chair. "That was a warning," he hissed. "Speak to me in that manner again, I'll have your tongue." He would do no such thing, of course - and if he had done this in front of Gentyl, there might be some choice words. Then again, Gentyl often expressed exasperation at this man's antics, too...but she knew Artimus wouldn't really harm anything other than the mage's pride.

But he doesn't...and for now, I'll keep it that way, he thought. Deciding to change the subject, he said, "Frankly, I think it's about time you started learning a few things. Piety's not always a given, but since we work for the Church, at least acknowledging that would be a start. What else...humility would be nice...obedience, respect for your superiors." Artimus held up a warning finger before Vendross could open his mouth about how no one was superior to a Highborne. "If you're lucky, you might get assigned to one of my...brethren." His smile was icy enough to freeze over the Searing Gorge. "And if you're real lucky, having heard your rants about sheltering them in the first place...you might get somebody from Gilneas."

Vendross recoiled. "Are you people sadists? Do you torment me merely because of my lineage?"

"No, Master Vendross. We torment you because you're an arrogant, racist snob who thinks he's better than everyone around him, and because of your Highborne bloodline we should be kissing the earth you walk on." The death knight's smirk faded, and his expression became serious. "Well, I have news for you, me bucko. This is not the royal court of Zin-Azshari, or the sheltered halls of Eldre'Thalas. This is the real world. You're born into nobility, like me - you're accustomed to privilege, to respect by dint of status. You could be a king in your own little world if you wanted. But out here, you are nothing - until you decide to make yourself into something."

Artimus fixed the mage with his gaze. "What that something is, well...that depends on you. Will you be a loyal member of the Holy Guard, entrusted to fight evil and defend the helpless, to be a role model to others? Or will you be little more than a self-important egotist who will likely end up dead at the end of some drunkard's blade?" He smiled, and it seemed a tad warmer than before. "Something for you to consider as you study and meditate, Master Vendross. You are dismissed."

Vendross was momentarily stunned, torn between unthinking anger...and deep contemplation. In the end, however, he simply inclined his head, and made his way out.

Once the mage had left, Artimus Devaneaux spoke. "He's gone, Taeril'hane. You can come out now."

Taeril'hane Ketiron looked sickened. "And you Alliance say my people are vain."

"He will grow out of it in time," Artimus replied. "Or he'll be sent back to Dire Maul in twenty little lockboxes by someone angry enough to dismember him." He chuckled for a bit, then went to the task at hand. "Do you think he knows? He did speak with that loon for some time."

Ketiron shook his head. "No. Having listened to that man for only a short time, I would imagine that the only thing those two would have exchanged would be insults." He sighed. "Areinnye is still leading the patrol in Northrend; I will not hear back from them for some time."

"She's very hands-on, Taeril'hane," Artimus pointed out. "Kind of like you."

"Story of our lives," the Master conceded with a smile. "This makes me wonder, though - your Holy Guard have enchantments around the Forgewright house, and around your tower. And this town is crawling with Argent guards. Fordring knows of the Corruptor and knows enough about his agents...so how the hell did that sorry excuse for an elf manage to get into Hearthglen?"

"For every question answered..." The death knight shook his head. "Still thinking this is a wild goose chase, Taeril'hane?"

Ketiron chuckled. "After recent events...I'm willing to believe almost anything."

Things have become far more bitter in this era after the fall of Deathwing, Saavedro of Stratholme wrote in his journal. He was seated at his desk in the parlor of the house outside Goldshire he'd rented on and off for the last two decades. Horde and Alliance continue to butcher one another because they've been doing it for thirty years, and don't see any reason to quit now.

He sighed, his pen pausing for a moment, before dipping it in the inkpot and continuing. It's damned stupidity, the lot of it! While we were fighting Illidan in the Black Temple, they fought over a piece of rock floating in the middle of the Netherstorm. While we were fighting Arthas in Icecrown Citadel, they fought over an island off the coast. And while we were fighting Deathwing in the skies and within the Maelstrom itself, the war continued for Gilneas...

"Lord Saavedro?" He turned to see his twelve-year-old squire, Vorian Tanis - or Vorian the Younger, as he was called, since he was named for his grandfather, the General. "A message for you from Hearthglen. Highlord Fordring has requested a meeting."

"Thank you, Vorian." He smiled. "You've stayed with me, with Ambassador Jaeden'laek and with Lord Devaneaux since you were given your tabard three years ago, lad. I think it will be time for you to take larger responsibility - and maybe some more advanced training. Have you thought about a possible profession?"

"Yes, sir. I...think I might like to be a priest."

Saavedro rose an eyebrow. "A noble calling. What's your reasoning, young Vorian?"

"I'm the puny kid, sir - before I was apprenticed, I got picked on a lot for being the runt. Not much for sports, but I'm all for study and helping people out...and Ambassador Jaeden'laek says he thinks there's a hint of Light in my future. And he'd know, right?"

"He might at that," Saavedro agreed. "I'll speak to Priestess Hildreth. She's always looking for young ones to teach." Vulnavia Hildreth had been Saavedro's apprentice during the war for Northrend, training for the priesthood on the battlefield. "It takes a lot of work, m'lad. But Vulnavia learned much of what she knows from me, as I learned from Father Sekhesmet when I was about your age. She'll be a fine teacher." He patted the boy on the shoulder. "I take it you have Magnanimous all saddled and waiting for me?"

"Yes, my lord, he's right outside. I asked one of the town guards to hold him for a bit while I came to fetch you."

"Good lad." He stepped outside, and sure enough, the guard held the reins for a moment. "Off for a canter, Lord Saavedro?" he asked with a grin.

"Something like that," the paladin agreed. "He's no problem, is he?"

"Vorian? No way, m'lord! He's a good lad, helps ol' William with his occasional runs to the apothecary."

"Very good." He swung into the saddle and gently snapped the reins, and he rode off to the northwest, up the road to Stormwind - to a fast gryphon waiting to take him north, back into Lordaeron.

----

As Saavedro entered Mardenholde, he was escorted upstairs to the main meeting hall. "You wanted to see me, Highlord?"

Tirion Fordring stood and smiled. "It does my heart good to see you again, Saavedro. We have not spoken since...your return. Though I hear the Dragonqueen had a hand in it."

"Something like that. What's the urgency, Tirion? You didn't call me all the way from Elwynn for a social call."

"No, I'm afraid not. I've received word from Silvermoon. The Corruptor has attacked the House of Whitehair. Lady Areinnye has taken her son and fled here, believing she is no longer safe in her own home city. And from appearances, she may have a point. Half the Whitehair House Guard is dead, the other half wondering how in the Light's name this could have happened."

"By the ghosts of Lordaeron..." Saavedro was horrified. "What about Taeril'hane?"

Fordring shook his head. "No word. Areinnye thinks he might be dead. The Regent Lord sent agents to examine the house after the fact, but found no evidence of a body. If he is alive, he's in hiding, somewhere he doesn't even want his wife or heir to know." The Highlord looked grim. "For all intents and purposes, Ord'taeril Ketiron is Lord of House Whitehair now, with Lady Areinnye as his regent."

"We're certain it was him? It wasn't some lamebrained scheme by Ordevaas' brother, or by House Shadowsun?"

"I think I can answer that, Lord Saavedro." A tall blood elf wearing a black tabard with a red phoenix stepped into his view. "Kel'tanis, as far as we're aware, is in Outland; House Shadowsun, surprisingly, is back in line with the Regent. After the debacle at the Court of Bones, they're not liable to be associated with that madman again."

"Nor'taeron. Or I should say Master Sunblade now." Saavedro smiled sadly. "My condolences, sir."

(cont'd)

Nor'taeron Sunblade was sickened. "Lord Bloodwrath decided to replace Master Ketiron before we could determine whether he was alive or not. I have awaited this honor, but this is not the way I wanted it..."

"Bloodwrath...he hates Taeril'hane. Could he be complicit?"

Nor'taeron shook his head. "He's an idiot, but he's not insane. He knows better than to associate with warlocks. Especially that one."

"We are all foolish in our own way." The three paladins turned to see a group of people - several blood elves wielding weapons or staves. With them were a diminutive figure in robes, holding a staff, and a giant figure in a hooded cloak, with a huge scythe-blade for his right hand. A long, braided beard could be seen trailing to his waist. Saavedro's hand went to the hammer hanging from his belt, recognizing the giant as a vrykul.

"Stay your weapon, paladin!" the gnome snapped. "We are here under a flag of truce."

Nor'taeron's gaze was on the blood elves. "They bear the mark of House Shadowsun. And the gnome and the vrykul, I have seen them with these elves...and with him."

"Yes, we were with him," the gnome agreed. "Once. No more."

"We thought - practically convinced ourselves - that he would hide in Northrend," Rakeri Sputterspark commented around his hookah. The gnome and his vrykul companion had retreated to a private conference room in Mardenholde Keep with Saavedro and Nor'taeron. "This brazen strike, and the ambiguous status of Master Ketiron, now makes me wonder just how well I knew the treacherous son of a trogg in the first place. Between him and his 'Hands', the scum could be anywhere."

"Hands, plural?" Nor'taeron's eyes narrowed. "He's been raising more?"

Rakeri nodded. "It seems he's taken advantage of the dormancy of the Scourge to catch up on his necromancy. He's raised a small group of personal bodyguards, and it's rumored he may well be taking in servants of Sylvanas. With her val'kyr raising the dead all over northern Lordaeron, the Forsaken's numbers swell - enough where she could spare a few for a crazy ex-Twilight sorcerer who's occasionally worked for her."

"High Priest Sekhesmet would likely throw a fit over that," the newly-minted Blood Knight Master commented darkly. Saavedro was silent on that, not liking the reminder that his old master was Forsaken.

"Sekhesmet is too busy enforcing Sylvanas' will out in the front lines to care. He's been working primarily out of Tarren Mill, heading into Silverpine, Gilneas, and Arathi. With Prince Galen of Stromgarde now one of Sylvanas' meat puppets, she's trying to consolidate her hold over the entirety of the continent of Lordaeron."

"Will it come to war between Undercity and Hearthglen?" Nor'taeron looked concerned; no small number of sin'dorei had been inducted into the Argent Crusade during the war in Northrend, and Sylvanas would likely "request" Lor'themar's backing for a war with Fordring, just like she did for the one with Arthas.

"Without question, Master Sunblade. Fordring is an impediment to Sylvanas' dominance over the continent of Lordaeron. But that's a matter for the far future, hopefully...the problem is the present. With the Corruptor's strike against Ketiron, he's proven he can hit practically anyone. It wouldn't surprise me if he had agents in Hearthglen - either as members of the Crusade, or within the Presidium."

"Lord Devaneaux has ruled out the Presidium," Saavedro pointed out. "The only likely candidate was that snob Highborne, Vendross - but he's too puritanical to associate with warlocks. The rest of them are piously loyal to the Alliance. Literally, in many cases."

"Any can be broken," the vrykul said ominously. "The Death God proved that. The Corruptor can do the same."

"The giant has a point, Saavedro," Nor'taeron agreed grudgingly. "Considering how many he had turned in the past - including Lord Ordevaas and House Whitehair, during the battle for Outland - it wouldn't surprise me if he preyed on even the pious ones for weaknesses. Everyone has one."

"Aye." He glanced at the gnome curiously. "And what do you get out of this? You've never exactly been a fan of mine..."

"Yeah. I hate your guts, tell you the truth. You used me as a mechanical maidservant until Lady Shadowsun took me and used the Recursive, and taught me my calling. No regard for what I had been at all." Rakeri's mad gaze was piercing. "But as much as I dislike being used, I hate being stabbed in the back even more."

"You reap what you sow, fel-tainted imp," Nor'taeron sneered.

"Nor'taeron, enough." Saavedro raised a hand to forestall his protests. "Fel-tainted he may be, he speaks the truth," he admonished the Blood Knight, speaking in Thalassian - a language he'd learned while a guest of House Whitehair decades ago. "There is an aura of death and fel magic about him, but not of deceit. Follow my lead on this."

Nor'taeron glowered at the gnome, who grinned wickedly in reply. "Very well," he replied.

Saavedro returned his attention to the gnome. "Do you think he is back in Northrend? Could he still be in hiding?"

"He could be. Or he could be anywhere in Horde lands. Garrosh doesn't look down on him quite as much as Thrall did - in fact, he barely acknowledges him. And given Garrosh's predilection for bloodshed, I don't think he rightly cares. Ketiron hated Garrosh, and was a vocal critic of the war policy - only his service in Outland and in Northrend allowed him to keep his head." Rakeri shook his head. "Truth be told, we don't know. But Lady Shadowsun and I are coordinating what resources we have to find out."

"And will you appraise me when you find something?"

The gnome sorcerer nodded, his expression serious. "You will be among the first to know."