World of Warcraft®

((It's very, very close. Thank you for posting this. I am so far behind.))

Cyrus had once said their code of honor would be their undoing. The horde would use it against them and exterminate them with it. Perhaps he was right. She should have turned Grym over to the Regent Tenwit, but then he wasn't really her prisoner. Cyrus had turned control of him over to her, but he was still an Ocheliad catch.

The elf had been, as she guessed he would be, arrogant and self-assured. He prattled on with small talk as if they were meeting for a quiet dinner. She had remained on Valor. If he decided to strike, there wouldn't be much she could do. Fight or flight and she was never very successful against warlocks. However, Valor was a trained warhorse and even a warlock gets unnerved when flashing hooves drive down on his head.

The horse pinned his ears flat when she rode past the felhound. He was accustomed to driving them into the dirt and didn't like her reining him away from the beast.

More small talk and threats. Lots of threats and bravado. They must have some kind of classes in Modas for this nonsense.

"I don't fear you and your ilk," she said at last, eager to cut off his pretty speech. Gods, if she had a silver for every death threat she'd be rich. While she didn't fear him, neither did she doubt his sadistic appetites. Modas attracted these sorts.

Souleater had once said she was the center of Chaos. It gravitated toward her like steel filings to a magnet. She had laughed it off, but what if that were true to an extent? What if certain beings attracted certain elements?

Aziel had a penchant for attracting the psychotic zealots who reveled in pain and torture. There was no denying that. This elf might be one of the worst of the lot. Dree'jin was the worst, but the elf was certainly on a level very close to him.

At last she had Harmyone. The girl kept apologizing over and over, while Gentyl tried to soothe her. He said she was ruined. That she would never be able to use the Light again. Gentyl didn't believe that. It would take time, but she would be restored. Most important, Harmyone was home. She was safe.

“If you want your Light back, you need the spark of a Naaru. Then, we can both get what we want.”

Harmyone snapped up in bed, sweat soaked on her face. Her eyes darted around in the darkness. Seeing nothing, she let herself come down from her nightmare, breathing heavily and trying to calm a heart racing like a wild steed. She gripped the sheets, trying her best to keep her mind from drifting to those awful days in the elf’s dungeon. It had been a few days since she had been returned to Hearthglen. She drank water, ate actual food, took in the company of those who only sought to comfort her. And yet she still felt the rotten heat from the vile substance he made her drink. The sensation of all of her energy being ripped painfully from her body would not dissipate. She could hear his voice, see his green eyes leering at her in the darkness. He had said those words to her just before putting her in a sleep that only broke when Gentyl finally took her from Ratchet.

Suddenly, she was aware of just how dark her room had become. It reminded her of the dungeon. She could hear the Argent guards patrolling the halls, but the sound gave her no comfort. What she needed was some light to ward away the darkness. She closed her eyes, hoping.

“Please,” she pleaded into the night. “Just a little bit. Anything.”

She curled her hands, straining. All she needed was a bit of light to give her some hope. Just a sign that she could get some of it back. Any of it. Her muscles tensed, her body shaking from the attempt. She could swear she could hear the elf laughing at her.

After a few moments, she sank back into her pillow, silent tears trailing down her cheeks. The room remained as dark as ever.

Gentyl had people looking after Harmyone. It had been suggested she keep the girl in a cell until they discovered what had been done to her. She might be something akin to a walking time bomb. With all she'd been through, there was no way Gentyl could bring herself to do that. Instead, she was kept under heavy guard for different reasons. One of them to make sure she didn't harm herself.

Years ago, after they had been rescued from the death camp, one man who had survived four years there did a remarkable thing. They were free. They were going home. He was the only surviving member of his family, but he fought and made it. One night, while they were resting at Theramore, he climbed to the top of the tallest tower. He carefully removed his coat and folded it very neatly. Then he took off his shoes and put them on top of the coat. On that small pile, he placed his hat.

Then he jumped.

He had survived the camp, but he couldn't live with the memories of the pain and the horror of that place.

Harmyone had survived the horror, but could she survive the pain of going forward. Could she put it out of her mind? Could she fight and try to regain her connection to the Light? They would help her all they could, but in the end, it was up to her.

The air of dust and general disdain towards basic cleanliness did enough to ward away the wrong sort of patrons at The Slaughtered Lamb. But as Finnaeus strode into the establishment, his nose filled with the unpleasant odor of Fel and nasty reagents, he knew that the clientele and their rumored activities kept the rest away. In his time in Stormwind, it was generally known that The Slaughtered Lamb long harbored the kind of magicks that would normally lead to imprisonment, banishment, and even death. But those that ran the establishment were smart, often more smart than the authorities, and they hid themselves well.

Finnaeus nodded at the barkeep, who merely grunted back. It had taken a great deal of maneuvering and negotiating to be allowed access to the lower depths of the tavern. The barkeep did something – he would never disclose it to Finnaeus – and the wall magically opened, revealing a ramp downstairs. With a sigh, his nose wrinkled at the new wave of scents coming from downstairs, and he descended.

Several folks idled at various tables, hovering over glittering runes or bubbling substances. But the traces of illicit activities had been scrubbed clean, most likely for their benefit. While he may have convinced them that he was not there on any official business that would jeopardize them, they certainly did not trust a druid, of the Pia Presidium no less, to see their most prized secrets. Which was fine with him. The less he saw, the less he’d have to worry about.

He saw a woman look dryly at him, and he nodded. This was Ursula – her last name kept from him – and it was with her that he made contact. Negotiations followed, promises of secrecy guaranteed, Finnaeus was allowed access to their sanctum. She led him to a table with several books neatly piled. All for show. The books looked to be vague historical records, nothing to do with the common dark arts practiced in the room.

“You’ve done a lot of work to gain access for someone with no intentions pf participating,” Ursula said bluntly. “It’s suspicious.”

“Just looking for some information,” Finn replied. “I’m afraid I’m not smart enough to deal in the more…advanced…magics.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ursula said, pursing her lips. “Though I’m not surprised one of your lot has made their way down here. News travels fast, and it seems a few of your Guards have fallen victim to some dark magic.”

Finnaeus raised his eyebrow.

“A few,” Finnaeus said squarely.

“The Modas are legendary,” Ursula nodded. She waved her hand over the table, and the books disappeared. The real contents atop the table showed dusty tomes with what looked to Finn’s untrained eye to be demonic writing. “They have long since studied and experimented with the Shadow, the Void, the Fel. When one is not constrained to ethics, one is given unlimited potential to learn and experiment.”

“And to corruption,” Finnaeus added.

“You are not wrong,” Ursula said. “To walk that fine line is a task only the most powerful and alert can achieve. But you did not come here to argue the philosophies of the arcane with me.”

“No indeed,” Finn said, relieved to get to the point. “I’m here because one of our paladins ran afoul of one of the warlocks employed by the Modas. She can no longer practice the Light.”

“Indeed?” Ursula said, her eyes alight with genuine curiosity. “Which one?”

“A Blood Elf by the name of Malthaes Shadowbough. We know little to nothing outside of that.”

“Blood Elf warlocks tend to be recent converts after the Scourge corrupted the Sunwell,” Ursula said, taking one of her books and opening it. Some of the words glittered with a harsh green aura. Finnaeus could have sworn he heard whispers as the pages turned. “This Malthaes was probably once a mage, maybe with the Kirin Tor. I would suggest you start there should you wish to learn more.”

“Sound advice,” Finnaeus replied.

“What does the girl say happened to her? Exactly?”

“She won’t say much – she’s traumatized,” Finnaeus responded. Ursula sniffed with impatience, rolling her eyes. “But what we can get out of her is that she was given a liquid of unknown origin that tasted rotten, or foul. It gave her strength enough for him to repeatedly drain her.”

Ursula frowned, flicking through the book idly. The whispers grew more persistent.

“That’s curious,” Ursula muttered. “No doubt the Blood Elves have become masters of draining power from others. They resorted to such tactics to ward off withdrawal when the Sunwell left them. But draining the Light is a practice not standard of warlocks.”

“It has been done, then?” Finnaeus asked.

“Surely you feign your ignorance?” Ursula asked incredulously.

“I’m a simple Gilnean druid,” Finnaeus responded. “Enlighten me.”

“Simple,” she repeated with a chuckle. “The practice of draining the Light was perfected by Blood Elf paladins, not warlocks.”

Finnaeus raised an eyebrow. Ursula sighed.

“Very well. The Elves of Quel’Thalas lost the Sunwell to the Scourge. It was corrupted in order to resurrect Kel’Thuzad, a lich of great power. When they lost that source of magic, they faced an extraordinary dilemma. Arcane magic, as you know, can be addictive and corruptive, and they wielded it as easily as you draw air. The Sunwell provided a limitless supply, and so they used that magic with a carefree and, in retrospect, blasé attitude. So imagine suddenly being cut off from such a source of power.”

Finnaeus narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. He nodded for her to continue.

“They were forced to drain their magic from living creatures, like parasites. The once proud culture of the Elves forced into degenerates craving their next fix. Some, unwilling to stoop to such drastic lows, faced down their addiction. Most descended into madness, some overcame the addiction. The few High Elves left in this world are such examples. The rest, simply to slake their addictions, turned to the demonic. Which is why you see Blood Elves with green eyes as opposed to High Elves with blue.”

“But what does this have to do with draining the Light?” Finn asked. “I thought the Light was a power drawn from within?”

“Do not be so impatient,” Ursula scowled. “The Blood Elves joined with Illidan because he promised them powers to curb their addictions. In Outland, they encountered the Draenei and, by proxy, the Naaru. Beings of incredible Light magic. So they did what addicts do. They enslaved a Naaru and drained the being of the Light. Which explains how the Blood Elves, and likewise the Horde, first obtained the ability to field paladins.”

Finnaeus looked down at the book. He could see where this was going. She turned several pages, the whispers increasing in volume. The language completely foreign to him, it sounded incoherent. But the voices dug into his brain. Ursula noticed it, smiling a bit, but said nothing.

“Many didn’t have the stomachs to see the thing through,” Ursula said. “Our Draenei allies were horrified to discover such an atrocity. But they drained the creature of the Light so much that they sent it into a Void state, the very opposite of the Light. Where it once was a beacon, it became a destructive power.”

“What happened to it?”

“Destroyed in the civil war. And Velen restored the Sunwell, making it a font of Light. Using a spark from the fallen Naaru.”

“I get that they drained this Naaru to wield the Light,” Finnaeus said, rubbing his temples. The voices from the book grew louder. “But why would a warlock do this to a paladin?”

“Sadism, the sheer torment,” Ursula shrugged. “I doubt a warlock would seek to employ the Light – it would run counter to their powers. And it’s a time consuming process – there are much simpler ways of severing an enemy from the Light.”

“Such as?”

“Killing them,” she said with a shrug. “That’s how I would do it.”

“But this Malthaes didn’t,” Finnaeus said, thinking. He would have to leave soon – his thoughts became mixed with the whispers. He couldn’t keep his thoughts straight. “And if he was interested in straight up sadism, he would have killed her. Meaning he has an agenda.”

“The Modas do not do anything without a purpose,” Ursula nodded. “The girl was robbed of the Light for a very specific reason.”

“What’s with the whispering?” Finnaeus asked finally. His head pounded. She closed the book and the voices stopped.

“So you can hear it?” she asked, her eyes trained on him.

“Of course,” he said. “Who couldn’t?”

“Most,” she said simply. “Those that hear the whispers in these books have darkness inside of them.”

Finnaeus scowled at her. “I appreciate your time and information. Any way to undo the damage done to the girl?"

“I’ll do some research,” she said. “I wouldn’t know how to wield the Light, but I can research the rituals involved in draining. Give me a few days and stop by.”

“You’re inviting me back?” Finnaeus asked warily.

“You’ve piqued my interest,” she said. Her smile then disappeared. “But that’s all the business we have for today. Now get out.”

Malthaes sifted through several racks of vials, all filled with blood. The front row contained blood from several donors for general purpose. The second and third rows were demonic blood, carefully manipulated to provide the best substance for concoctions and mixtures. The third, and most import, were vials of Harmyone’s blood. All for study, testing, but only under perfect conditions – he could not waste any of it now that she was back in Hearthglen. His eyes drifted to a stone engraved with a demonic rune. That stone would let him see through her eyes – until she went into the warded sections of the Hearthglen compound and the magic would not work. But when she was out in the world, he could use the stone, bound by magic and some sacrifices on Harmyone’s part, to track her moves.

But now was not the time for such reconnaissance. She would get him the spark of the Naaru, or she would die. That was the easy part. The more difficult part, however, came now. He removed a vial of demonic blood, darker and thicker than normal blood, and held it up for scrutiny. Satisfied, he moved away from his test table and towards the center of his lab. There, in a floating clear gem, gleamed an orb of Light. Malthaes squinted, half to shield his eyes and half out of contempt for the substance, and approached it.

It was difficult work, draining the girl of the Light and storing it in this enchanted container. The Light, unlike the arcane, came from within – impossible to mimic and certainly difficult to contain. The arcane, and the Fel, flowed like the air, waiting to be taken by those strong enough and used as they saw fit. The Light, on the other hand, had no external sources, save for two exceptions – the Sunwell, and the Naaru.

Malthaes took the vial of demonic blood. He uttered a few words, and the blood grew darker, imbued with the power of the Void. It on its own posed no danger, unless imbibed. Let loose in the blood stream, it could corrupt the body, causing sickness, dark thoughts, addiction, sometimes death. If he wished he could manipulate such a concoction to do different things, but that would be unnecessary for his test. With curiosity, he held the vial up close to the gem, the Light swirling inside of it. After a moment, he pulled the vial closer to his eyes. The void was gone and, more importantly, the demonic blood completely missing from the vial. Empty.

With a sneer Malthaes threw the empty vial off the wall, the glass shattering. The reaction was one he expected. Such a small sample could not hope to stand against such a vast quantity of Light, which would cleanse what it saw as corruption. But it confirmed his suspicion, that ratios would be important – the Sunwell, after all, was a huge font of Light. He approached the crystal, unafraid. He leered.

“No light burns forever,” he said softly.

He turned away from the Light, returning to his workbench. It would take patience waiting for the girl to do her part. In the meantime, he had Alliance to kill.

The package arrived to Hearthglen sometime overnight, left with some of the Argent guards. Normally Finnaeus would have waited for it to arrive himself, but his mind was cluttered with various threads of worry, each one running into some vague and undefined space in time with little hope of resolution anytime soon. He thought about Dreejin, somewhere out there seething over his hearts – that rage would come. He thought about Erelyn, her impending marriage to Lahkin, her secret plan that sent chills down his spine. He thought about the Holy Guard, slowly recovering from the last storm only to brace themselves for the next. It was enough to drive him mad, save for a sleeping draught and some peaceful company with Faithe that induced a sleep he very much needed. On the other side of that rest, however, was the package in his hands, and his mind once again racing off, chasing worries he could not resolve.

After removing the wrapping, Finnaeus took the book in his hands and idly flicked through the pages. A registry from Dalaran, obtained in exchange for a healthy supply of Dwarven mead that Finn may have taken from the Aerie Peak without actually asking to have it. He did, in compensation, leave a considerable sum of gold in their coffers. He couldn’t steal it, but he also couldn’t risk an outright purchase without avoiding awkward questions. It seemed awkward, to have his Dalaran contact be ashamed of his mead fascination, but Finn merely discarded it as simple Elven prejudice against the Dwarves. Whatever the actual case, he had the registry.

It didn’t take long to find Malthaes Shadowbough’s name in the list. While the Elf never made it into Magister status with the Kirin Tor, it looked like he was well on his way. The information and timeline on him drops off suddenly, which Finn expected – both Dalaran and Quel’thalas were ruined by the Scourge and the Burning Legion. While the registry didn’t offer much biographical information or any hint at what the Modas warlock was up to, it certainly gave him something to work off of. Malhaes’s old residence in Quel’thalas.

It would be an incredible risk, to sneak into Silvermoon. While he did successfully penetrate Orgrimmar once before, Silvermoon offered challenges that Finn didn’t know he could overcome. Orgimmar was a warrior city, swarming with soldiers, but the sun-baked caverns and crags of the canyon gave him the cover he needed to elude capture. Silvermoon, however, was sure to be bathed in arcane security measures, such that Finn’s druidic trainings would yield him no benefits. He would very much be playing a game against the Blood Elves, a people as adept at any at altering the rules with their magic.

But it was the only lead he had, and he could not be swayed by the danger. He would have to move, and move quickly. Finn could not afford to be gone for very long – he could not track down the information he needed and protect those he cared about at the same time.

With a sigh he picked up the registry and threw it in his knapsack. He’d have to report to the Sepha on his activity, and then head out.

(( I'm really enjoying Mal's character. ))

((Thanks Dree! Story should start picking up soon. Speaking of which...))

It took a bit of patience, but Finn penetrated the walls of Silvermoon. For a remote city with magical defense, the Blood Elves maintained an ever-alert vigilance. Though, that was to be understood – their city was still in the process of being rebuilt, and they would have nothing happen to threaten that revitalization.

Finn prowled through the alleyways, keeping away from the main streets. Despite never having practiced the arcane, he could still sense the magical power heavy in the air. He watched in idle fascination as brooms swept the streets themselves, or giant enchanted machines patrolling the streets. These robots he kept away from – they would not be deceived by a bit of stealth.

Though Finn never had any particular feeling towards the Blood Elves, he couldn’t help but respect the grandeur and decadence with which they ornamented their city. Every wall was ornate with detail – fine lace red curtains hung from the windows. Enticing scents of perfume wafted from the street shops. Elves wandered about the streets, showing of magical tricks as easy as breathing. Despite their recent hardships, they walked with an air of superiority, which was difficult to resent – Gilneans had their pride as well.

Finn tore himself from observing and found the address he was looking for. Dodging a rather drunken elf wandering the street, he leapt into the building. There was a certain smell in the air that didn’t match the fragrance in the rest of the city. He sniffed the air, leading him into the basement of the building. He walked through a curtain of red lace, smelling traces of the Fel. He leered around, looking for something that would give him information.

Noticing a notebook on one of the desks, Finn walked over and flicked it open. Idly, he thumbed through the page – a lot of it looked to be written in Thalassian, some of it looked Demonic. Finn didn’t understand the majority of it, but he noticed diagrams of what looked like Naaru, and one full paged illustration of what looked to be the Sunwell. As he turned through the pages, he noticed the drawing come up a few more times, all in relation to pictures of Naaru. Finn narrowed his eyes.

“What are you up to?”

A thunderous noise and the sounds of shouting came from outside. Finn tore himself from the book, tore upstairs and gazed out onto the street.

The Ocheliad had breached Silvermoon. Guards were shouting, rushing the crowd. Flashes of magic and arrows flew through the air. He saw Cyrus, commanding the Ocheliad. Despite himself, Finn growled – he had no idea what the Ocheliad were doing, but they ensured that he would not be able to spend his time leisurely slinking through Silvermoon gathering information. He would have to be quick – the Ocheliad would not be able to overtake the whole city, and soon reinforcements from the rest of the Horde would pour into the city. No, he no longer had much time.

He turned back from the street and back into the basement. In his haste he was careless, because he ran by a Blood Elf before he realized he was not stealthed again. The first blast caught him straight in the ribs, sending him crashing into a bookcase. A rain of books fell down on him. His side burned – he was on fire – and he twisted quickly, chanting as he did so. Contorting into his human form, whispering words to dispel the Fel flames threatening to overtake him, he looked up and saw the Blood Elf again, his hands wreathed in flames and a cruel smile on his lips.

“Welcome to Silvermoon,” he said, and he launched a wave of fire at him. Finnaeus dodged, rolling to the right. The books caught on fire – the smell of char and ash filled his nostrils. The Blood Elf sneered.

“No mark of the Ocheliad,” he said. “Who are you with, I wonder?”

“None of your business,” Finnaeus snapped, launching himself forward into his cat form. He dodged another blast of fire and pounced, his claws sinking into the shoulders of the Blood Elf warlock. He swiped, slicing down the Elf’s chest, crimson blood staining his claws and the elf’s robes. It was then that he noticed the Modas tabard, then that he realized it was Malthaes, come to check his holdings, and it was then that Malthaes held up a hand, the smile still on his face despite his wounds.

The blast of shadow struck him straight in the chest, lifting him and sending him sprawling to the ground. Malthaes stood, blood pouring from his wounds. His green eyes flashed, and a beam of shadow erupted from his hands and struck Finn before he could move. His muscles seized – he couldn’t move. He felt something draining from him, his energy, his alertness, and he watched in horror as the vicious slashes on Malthaes’s chest began to heal.

Finnaeus struggled, desperate to break the spell – he was dying while Malthaes grew stronger. He could feel the Elf in his mind, probing around. The sensation was increasingly unpleasant, like there was no longer room in his head. Pressure from within pressed against his skull, giving him a powerful headache. Distantly he could hear the Ocheliad’s battle pressing deeper into the city.

“A Pia Presidium,” Malthaes sneered with delight. “How utterly fascinating. Who sent you, I wonder? And a druid, no less!”

Finnaeus closed his eyes. He pressed Malthaes out of his mind, and then with a concentrated effort he pressed out with his body, exerting every muscle in his body. The spell broke – Finnaeus dropped to the ground, landing not quite so nimbly and yet alert. He panted, his body tired. He couldn’t sustain the transformation into a cat, and his body trembled and became human.

“Poking around because of your poor, Light-less paladin? Foolish. The girl knows everything she needs to know to fix her problem.” Malthaes sneered.

“I’m not going to bandy words with a madman,” Finnaeus snarled. He stood straight, his body aching.

“But we’re having such fun,” Malthaes said. “Come now, we have social pleasantries for a reason.”

“Fun? You think this a game?” Finnaeus asked.

“Oh no,” Malthaes responded. “Not a game. There are very real consequences for the things that we do. Disfigurement. Anguish. Death. But that is what makes life so very exciting, doesn’t it? That everything we do has real consequences. Often permanent.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Finnaeus said, his body shaking with rage.

“You all say that,” Malthaes said. “But here I am, in front of you. You know, your paladin friend said the same thing. And, from my understanding, she’s drowning in her own tears, because she can no longer make things light and sparkle. What a useless waste of flesh she is.”

Finnaeus couldn’t help it – he snarled. He could feel it coming.

“How long before she recovers her will and leaves that dreaded keep of yours in Hearthglen? I can’t say. After all, I got what I wanted out of her. I’d send you back with a message for her to do what I told her, but I’m afraid you’ll be ash when I’m done with you.”

Finn roared, his body contorting into his worgen form. His eyes met Malthaes, who looked, inexplicably, to be amused.

“Oh this is quite unexpected,” Malthaes said, a laugh in his voice. “I’ve always wondered if your kinds’ fur would light on fire. I guess I’ll find out.”

Finnaeus charged, closing their speed with frightening velocity. He slashed, his claws ripping into Malthaes’s shoulders. The two bodies collided so violently that they crashed through the basement wall and onto the stairs. Finn slashed again, catching the warlock in the abdomen. Blood flowed. Malthaes reached down, removed his sword and swung upwards. Feral instinct kicked in – Finn leapt backwards. Malthaes seized his change – he launched a volley of shadow, striking Finn directly in the head. He roared, blasted backwards. He felt dizzy somehow, if something changed. He shook his head to clear his mind – the smoke and heat from the roaring fire did nothing to help.

Malthaes was gone. Fire surrounded him, lapping at his skin. He ran forward, flames licking his skin as he dashed out of the building. He could see the guards rushing towards the Ocheliad. Finn twisted into his cat form, his head still buzzing. Something was wrong, but he didn’t have time to fix it. Nor was he in the right state to assist the Ocheliad. Finnaeus slipped into the shadows, wondering what the warlock did to him, and how long he had before things got worse.

It was early evening when Finn approached her. He had wandered into the hall earlier that day, yawning, stretching and remarkably renewed. He sat down to eat breakfast with them and pretended to grouse at Faithe for making him oversleep.

Gentyl had seen them the night before. Finn had asked if she had that sleeping draught she'd promised. Then she had massaged his neck and the base of his skull, trying to relieve the tension. Finally, she fixed a cup of tea she was adamant he drink every night to trigger his brain to recognize it was time to sleep.

The combination had, apparently, done its job and Finn had slept all night long for a change.

Faithe had merely smiled and passed down the trencher of peppered bacon.

The full night of rest was probably more needed than he had realized, but now he came to her with a proposition that would wipe out all of that recuperation and then some. He had the name of the warlock who had captured Harmyone. That information wasn't enough. They needed to know what he had done to her. Harmyone either couldn't or wouldn't talk about it. Gentyl was sure she didn't know herself. The girl had nightmares. She spoke nonsense occasionally, but mostly she was quiet.

"I'd like permission to go to Silvermoon," he said as simply as if he were asking to go to a picnic.

"For what?" She continued working on the eight-strand plait, weaving the horse hair into what would eventually be a new set of reins. Her eyes stayed focused on the strands of white, gray and black. The gray was actually two different shades of gray so the pattern had four colors. Her eyes stayed focused, but her mind was racing.

They couldn't afford to lose anyone else The horde picked them off and then returned her people broken and scarred. Mira had been attacked with a flesh-eating liquid. Thankfully, the vial Tyrexus provided had cured her, but it came at a price. Rhudran was still in a coma. Faithe was recovering slowly, but she wondered if she would ever be whole again. Harmyone, was the worst. She was the walking dead. She did what she was told. She ate. She slept, with the help of the sleeping draughts. She went where they asked her to go, but there was a certain deadness in her eyes when they weren't darting with fear.

"That's where Malthaes lives. We have to find out what he did to Harmyone if we're going to help her."

Her fingers stopped their task and she looked up. "I can't afford to lose you."

"We can't afford to lose anyone. Never abandon a friend, a Guard, a noble cause."

She nodded and resumed plaiting, more slowly now because she had to think about what she was doing. He was right, but gods. To go into Silvermoon. She had been there. People joked about the weak blood elves. They were anything but weak. Orgrimmar and Undercity were simple compared to Silvermoon.

"Go, but for Light's sake, don't take any chances you don't need to."

"I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

She doubted that.

((I'm really, really enjoying reading this one, folks! I'm curious to see what happens next!))

The wounds had, with the help of some Demonic rituals, healed. But as Malthaes stood in the wreckage of his flat in Silvermoon, he realized that no amount of Fel magic would soothe the thumping anger that flamed inside of him. His robes in tatters, dried blood caked on his chest and hands, he ran through the encounter with this druid in his mind again. A formidable enemy, to be sure – the druid’s talons ripped through him like so much paper. Malthaes lost a lot of blood, but he was no slouch himself. He was sure he did enough damage to the druid to more than make amends. Revenge would come soon, that he was sure of.

“What did you see, my furry little friend,” Malthaes wondered, kicking through ashen pieces of wood. His library of books was regrettably burned, but that was no matter. Most of his more valuable and important tomes were in the Modas Sanctum – he couldn’t risk the Silvermoon authorities knowing his intentions. Not yet anyways. But he did have a notebook in the room, one that he, intelligently in retrospect, wrote in Thalassian. Talented as the druid was in combat, Malthaes did not entertain the delusion that he could read the Elven script.

It was all of no consequence, Malthaes decided. There was nothing he could force the druid to unsee, and he rather doubted that the fool would be able to piece it all together. What was more important was the complication at hand. The Ocheliad attack on Silvermoon, added to the infiltration on the part of the Presidium, told him that he didn’t have much time. The Alliance stirred, responding to the aggression from the Modas as a whole. If he was to complete his plan, he would need to do so in time for the Horde – Modas, more specifically – to benefit.

Malthaes swept from the charred building. The challenge still remained in front of him. His paladin girl in Hearthglen would need to be motivated. He needed the spark of the Naaru, sooner, rather than later. But even if he acquired that, even if the girl finally took heed to his word and did what she was told – he still needed away to overpower the Light.
Something so powerful that not even the vaunted Light could purge it from existence. With enough Fel and Void he could do it, but that kind of power could not be amassed quickly, easily.

He moved quickly through the city, inspecting the damage the Ocheliad incurred. It was then that Malthaes had doubts. A carefully laid plan meant nothing in the face of unexpected catalysts – he did not expect the Alliance to strike back as fiercely as they did. Even this druid, a mere shapeshifter, a beast, had caused him great pains. A mere druid, with nothing but a set of claws and a coat filled wth fleas. What he would give to put the beast to sleep. He would give –

Malthaes stopped, a realization occurring to him that would never have come to him before. A cruel smile twisted on his face. Research would need to be done – though he suspected there was no documented case of anyone trying to do what he intended to do. But then, the path he was on was already one with no fellow travelers. It made it all the more fun.
He took a deep, calming breath. Perhaps the druid just gave him the key to the kingdom, the missing piece that would help put the rest of the puzzle together. It would be dangerous, risky, but no endeavor worth doing was without risk.

“To the Emerald Dream,” Malthaes whispered to himself. “Let us see if we can wield the powers of the Nightmare in the waking world.”

Finnaeus held the hearthstone in his trembling hands, wondering how long he could make it. It took all of his effort to escape Silvermoon, travel through the Ghostlands, and make it to the Eastern Plaguelands. But after all that effort, travel and exhaustion creeping in, he longer thought he could fight it. The blast that hit him in the head, whatever magic it was, upset the balance.

Please, Finnaeus begged, to whom he did not know. Please not this.

His body trembled, though the battle was purely in his head. He trained long, and hard, to keep the balance, to maintain himself. Despite the other Gilneans wandering about in their worgen forms, Finnaeus, whenever possible, kept himself in human form. Many people questioned this, especially fellow Gilneans, but he knew in his heart who he was. He was Gilnean. He was a human. Once a father, a son, a husband. These things he held true to his heart, and no worgen nature or face could reflect those roles. It was an image he fought for viciously, every day, and one he would not relent.

With his other hand he reached for his locket. For a small piece of metal, Finnaeus found that it gave him immeasurable comfort. It reminded him, always, of who he was. It was easy sometimes for him to forget where he came from in the face of such strangeness. He was not always a Presidium, fighting the Horde, becoming a druid. He was once just a farmer, who tilled the fields until he came home, drinking tea with his wife and reading his daughter a bed time story. He had come so far from those moments, so far that sometimes he found those memories slipping away from him as they made room for the information he collected, the missions he undertook, the allies he made. The locket anchored him, kept him from losing who he truly was.

But despite the feel of the metal in his hand, he found himself fading. Something Malthaes did to him took that balance away. His face beaded with sweat. It did not help that he suffered major burns and injuries fighting the Blood Elf. They were injuries he could halt from getting worse, soothe, but he was no Mira. Every ounce of energy he devoted to tending to himself took away from maintaining his balance. His mind raced, the hearthstone trembling. He had to master it. He had to.

He let out a groan, laden with agony and despair, and he knew. He would lose this battle. Wasn’t this how Malthaes operated? Somehow taking out the one key around which one formed an identity. He took Harmyone, blossoming paladin, and stripped her of her Light. And what had Finnaeus fought so hard to maintain? His identity, his humanity. Taken from him by this mad Elf, an Elf with some design and a mad plan, known only to him. It made no sense.

His heart, desperate and shamed, sank into his stomach. With a grimace he held the hearthstone up to his mouth, and he issued his warning to the guild. The words jerked out of him, painful. It was a strain to speak, but it hurt him more to know what the words meant. He had failed.

“Sepha…anyone…I’m in the Plaguelands….I cannot hold it anymore…”

He heard Gentyl’s voice back, calling on Faithe, who was nearby, to rally up people to track him down. Distantly he heard Wulfhere committing to the search. But by then it was too late.

“Claire…” he whispered, an invocation to his long deceased wife, and then he dropped the hearthstone. His body quaked, the primal rage in his chest bursting outwards, and then he lost himself. He was worgen. The hearthstone thunked into the mud, and Finnaeus was no more. Finnaeus snarled, lost to the primal madness inside of him, and he raced off into the Plaguelands.

The worgen raced, driven by nothing more or less than instinct. He wove through the deadened trees, whizzing past the Argent sentries. He would not tire, would not relent – there was no thought but to territory, to prey. His feral eyes trained forward. It was not long that his powerful body took him to the Western Plaguelands, where he let loose a ferocious howl. He could sense home, somehow. His territory that needed defending.

Finnaeus reached the woods around Hearthglen, and there he saw a pack of gnolls, idling in the woods. There was no stopping to consider, no strategy involved. Driven by bloodlust, Finnaeus plunged directly into the group of gnolls. They shrieked, completely surprised by the monster among them. Tactics yielded to instinct, and it was not long before several gnolls fell to the ground, gutted and bleeding. The largest among them quaked, hands clutching the rudimentary weapon that it used to defend itself. But it held no hope.

Finnaeus towered over it, blood dripping from his claws and muzzle. He eyed the creature, let out a bellowing roar, and charged forward. It took one swipe of his razor sharp claws to remove the gnolls arm, and another across the throat to cause the gnoll to slump to the ground. Gurgling, unable to move, Finnaeus lowered his muzzle, digging into the gnoll’s body. Drenched in blood, sniffing the air for new prey, Finnaeus caught sight of the locket, hanging from his side.

He howled, and dipped his muzzle into the gnoll again, the locket forgotten in a bath of blood and violence.

((I'm sorry it took me so long to post this. I hope, in some way, that it's still relevant. It takes place after the attack on Azure Watch.))

At first, she was confused. The letter was unexpected; Meriste and her father had an agreement. Communication was to be kept to the bare essentials in times of danger. If she could help it, nothing would come between her and her family. What troubled her even more was the symbol etched into the wax seal, a single Draenic glyph. It was by no slip of hand that the glyph was written in the wrong orientation. She knew it at a glance - something had gone terribly wrong.

She broke the seal with a slip of her skinning knife, fingers trembling as she struggled to pull the letter from its envelope. What she read made the color drain from her face. With not a moment's hesitation, she saddled up her talbuk and took off for Eastvale as fast as the beast would carry her.

---

The talbuk's hooves skidded to a sudden stop, sending clumps of earth and grass flying into the air. Meriste leaped from the saddle and hastily tied the reigns against a nearby post. She didn't even bother to knock on the door to Kaellar's home, bursting through the doorway in a frantic search for Mira. Meriste found her standing in the kitchen, wiping her hands clean with a wet dishrag. At the commotion, Mira turned and stared, clearly surprised by the unusual outburst.

"Meriste?"

"Mira. You need to read this letter, now. An'da has sent word. Our home…Azure Watch…it has been attacked!"

Mira reached for the letter and began to read. Her hands trembled, eyes widening in fear and anger. "Father…he is safe, then. But the villagers…" She stared at the letter in disbelief.

Meriste gripped her bow, muscles tense. She paced the room, trying to think clearly through a fog of intense, burning hatred. Innocents. Families, children, elders. Why would anyone attack those who were only vaguely aware of the wars raging around them?

"Mira, we need to gather whoever we can. Our people need our help. We must find out who is responsible for this." Our people. She spoke the words in her native tongue, emphasizing them.

Mira nodded, folding the letter and putting it away. "I will try to reach Mith and Kaellar." She hurried into another room, scrambling to gather supplies. Meriste reached for her hearthstone, calling out to the other Presidium.

---

"…no."

The breath was drawn from Meriste's lungs with a sharp pain. She had seen billowing clouds of smoke from the shore, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her home in ruins. Families who hadn't relocated to the Exodar huddled under makeshift tents, holding on to what was left of their belongings. All but a few of the communal buildings had been completely leveled. Meriste's eyes scanned the horizon, taking in the details. Near the center of the village was a circle of bare ground, an ashy smudge where grass had once grown. Littered around the edges of the circle were the smoldering corpses of infernals, surrounding a single rune etched into the ground with fel fire. It still burned with an eerie, poisonous glow. Mira walked over and reached down to take a closer look.

"Don't touch that!"

Mira looked up, her fingers only inches away from the ground. Mithara stood a few feet away from the rune, an impressively large and fierce-eyed worg at her side. She folded her arms over her chest, body rigid with tension, intense anger smoldering in her eyes. Mira drew her hand away from the rune slowly.

"That rune could still be active. You could touch that, if you wanted, but you might find yourself lacking an arm…or worse."

Mira nodded and stepped away, looking for any injured villagers. As she walked, she summoned a gentle rain to fall over the area, invoking a prayer of calm and healing. Belpha looked up at the sky, lifting his arms to the sky to help Mira sustain the rain.

Meriste looked at the letter once again, examining the roughly drawn rune and comparing it to the one on the ground. She didn't know what it meant, but this was definitely the rune her father had indicated.

"It's a summoning rune. A warlock uses runes and circles to allow demons to pass freely through the Twisting Nether and enter our plane of existence. Each rune has a basic structure and meaning, but they are usually customized to a certain purpose."

Meriste looked up at Mithara, then at the corpses of the infernals. She tried to respond, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she wandered over to the remains of her father's home, staring at the support structures jutting out of the earth like broken bones. Mithara followed her, peering inside the broken frame of a door.

"Oh. Back's blown out. 's not that bad…could be rebuilt."

Meriste knelt, pushing aside rubble and splintered beams with her hands. "At least…no one was inside."

Mithara sighed. "…yeah." She paused, glancing down at her worg. "Grim. Elf." Grim growled, immediately setting off with his nose to the ground. Mira ducked through the frame of the doorway and began to help Meriste search for anything salvageable. Belpha approached the door but stood outside, eyes trailing after the worg. Mithara approached Belpha, tapping a finger right into the center of the golden cross on his tabard. "Hope you're glad you're wearing that, dear."

"Off." With a single word, he slapped Mithara's hand away and stared at her coldly. She raised an eyebrow, frowning at him. "Denial isn't good for you." The tension in the air between them was palpable.

Mira picked up a container and began to carefully set things in it, scooting the box closer to Meriste. A patch of bright blue caught Meriste's eyes and she pushed away a few loose stones, revealing a small, well-loved doll in the shape of a talbuk. She turned it over carefully in her hands, examining the hand-stitched seams. Her mother had made this, so long ago. She hugged it to her chest, grateful that at least one fragile memory had survived.

Mithara broke the stare and began to sort through a stack of boxes, leaving Belpha with one final comment. "I loved these people, dear. I do not love that tabard." She held up a book from one of the open boxes. "Books? Several of these are still in good shape."

Meriste nodded. "Whatever we find, I'll pack it up and take it to An'da." She paused for a moment, looking at Mithara. "Did you live here, once? In Azure Watch?"

"No. But you did. And there's more here to save than you think."

Mira made her way back over to Meriste, carrying a box of salvaged items. "I did, for a little while." Mira paused to set the box down. "I had a little trouble letting go." Mithara began to stack boxes near the door and called out to Belpha. "You, outside! Belpha, right? Tell Acteon we're going to need more packs."

He snorted. "I'm not taking any orders from you."

Meriste covered her forehead with her palm, closing her eyes. "…Belpha. Please…? For me?" Fighting, all the time. Pointless wars against allies. Wars against cruel, brutal, terrifying foes, devoid of pity and fear. Death and destruction - deceit - she was sick of it. Times like these made her think that she never should've left Azure Watch at all - but looking around, it was clear to see that there was no safe harbor. She had to fight to preserve the very essence of who she was. It was a cruel irony, fighting to keep peace. Mira reached down and gently squeezed Meriste's shoulder.

Belpha's expression softened. He looked at Meriste for a moment before turning to walk away. "Of course."

Mira, Meriste, and Mithara began to move the boxes outside, stacking them into a small pile.

"Is there anything more inside…?"

"This is all that's left."

She examined the talbuk doll in her hands, running a finger along one of the horns. Meriste turned, eyes falling on the ruins of her home. The image weighed heavily on her heart, but she had come too far - endured too much - to let these chains bind and cripple her. She would return to help her people, these people she loved so much, to stand on their own again.

Nothing but darkness. And then –

Faithe and Wulfere stood before him. Faithe looked stricken, sad. Wulfhere assumed his worgen form, his eyes trained on Finn. It was confusing. Finn stared at Faithe, trying to gauge why she looked so terrified.

“Faithe?” he asked, his voice tentative and unsure.

“He recognizes me,” she said, surprised. She held out a hand.

“Careful now, he may not have control yet,” Wulfhere warned.

It came back to him then. Finn looked down and saw the worgen claws, caked in blood. A sick heat sweltered in his stomach, and the horrifying thought occurred to him that, in his madness, he killed someone. He looked up at Wulfhere and Faithe, panic striking him, but then he heard the flapping of wings, smelled a gryphon, and –

Darkness. But then something cold comes over him, and–

Drenched in water, Finnaeus looked down at his hands. They are his. He held them to his face, feeling his nose and jaw rather than a muzzle. Something warm on his fingers. He lowered them and saw blood. Sick again.

It was no longer just Wulfhere and Faithe. Tergen was there. Finn’s mind worked overtime, trying to put together a puzzle when he didn’t have all the pieces. Clearly the combination of Wulfhere trying to reach him and Tergen’s shamanistic prowess succeeded in pulling him out of his worgen form. But it was temporary; Finn knew that he had not yet reached a balance. He could feel the primal beast again stirring inside him, subdued but not yet vanquished. He was not safe.

Finn finally noticed Desmend. His mentor. There was no emotion on his face, but Finn was sure that made it worse. He felt shame. Shame that he let the warlock get the upper hand on him, shame that he let this warlock disrupt his balance, and shame that he failed his mission. He never failed before. Always did he escape, with the information he needed. But not this time.

“I need to be locked up,” Finn said, staring at the ground. “Until I can regain my balance.”

Faithe looked at Desmend.

“What should we do? He’s your man.”

Desmend simply stared at Finnaeus. Their eyes met, unspoken words and questions answered. It had been awhile since Desmend acted as Finn’s mentor, but the level of respect he held for Desmend would never fade.

“Do as he says,” Desmend said. He took plucked a nearby flower, holding to his mouth. He whispered to it, glanced at Finnaeus, and then breathed out. The petals flew into the air, mingled among spores that would paralyze Finnaeus.

Finn breathed in, feeling the effects of the spores almost instantly. He could feel his muscles going rigid.

***

The holding cells were dark, dank. Finn sat with his back against the wall. He could barely make out Desmend, staring back at him. To his right was Tergen, maintaining a temporary field of totems around Finnaeus should he lapse back into his worgen form and go feral.

“I had it all planned out,” Finnaeus said, whether to himself or to the others he neither knew nor cared. “Mapped the guard routes. Found the perfect routes to avoid detection. Planned for everything except the damned Ocheliad attacking Silvermoon.”

“No use cryin’ ‘bout it,” Tergen shrugged.

“You’ll find a way to factor something like this into your planning next time,” Desmend said simply. “You’re lucky to have escaped with your life.”

They were both right. Nothing constructive could come from picking apart the past, bemoaning events which he could no longer change. Wasn’t he always telling Erelyn that she should see things as they are, not as she would have them? He sighed, nodding to the others. He screwed up. He took a deep breath, and looked at Desmend.

“I’ll have to be put under, until you can activate the wards around the prison.”

“Don’ take the easy way ‘oot,” Tergen said.

“I’m not,” Finn said quietly. He needed to regain his balance. It was clear now that he let this happen to him because he lost control. The shadow magic certainly unhinged him, but it would not have been so severe if he would havejust listened to everyone around him. Gentyl, Faithe, Erelyn, Mira – they all repeated, over and over, they he neglected himself at the cost of his health, if only to gain information. He dove headlong into mission after mission, without keeping track of his own balance. It was time to rest, recuperate, and mend his mind. No amount of waking hours would bring him that balance.

Desmend’s eyes met Finn’s, and they connected. Both adept at druidic training, both uniquely tied to the feral instincts of the wild, they communicated without speaking. Desmend tapped into the feral instincts within Finnaeus. It was not long before Finnaeus, prompted by Desmend, turned from human to cat, from cat to bear. Weaving together strands of the Emerald Dream, Desmend coaxed Finn into relaxing. Finnaeus slumped to the ground, falling into a deep, primal sleep.