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The attacks upon Darkshire and Sentinel Hill had been a slaughter. There was no other way to describe it. Fernand had only had a short period of time to co-ordinate neutralising the immediate threats of the Watch, capture appropriate human civilians, and then organise magical transport directly to the Sanctum of the Modas il Toralar. Grudgingly, Akuzul, Aethelgyth and Yrykh agreed to keep the needless butchering to a minimum, and so things likely would have resulted favourably...except that a strong Alliance force responded quickly. Once the likes of Pia Presidium and Terra Incognita were present, there was no time for Fernand to subjugate civilians for more productive purposes. The Modas il Toralar had their hands full simply keeping the Alliance under control. Instead of the quick, clean, surgically precise extraction of prisoners which Fernand would have preferred, the attack became little more than a bloodbath. He had been fortunate to escape at all – if he had not summoned a portal in advance, two brutish paladins and a rogue would have had him.

Now, Fernand Argustus stood before a meagre collection of human prisoners, deep within the subterranean Sanctum. They had been processed appropriately – stripped, hosed down, and now assembled before the dark, dank cells which would be the final 4 by 4 metres of the world they were likely to see. The Forsaken man sighed, looking them over critically. There was less than half the number he required for a thorough evaluation of excess radiation exposure. What was worse, for pity’s sake, several of the prisoners were children. Fernand shook his head and paced before the humans, all of which were terrified and barely able to stand. His shoes clicked audibly against the rocky cavern floor, echoing throughout the area. Children were useless – if Fernand wanted his results to be extrapolated to the majority of the human population of Stormwind, the children would be outliers at best, red herrings at worst. ‘Well, there is just no other way to say this, but I fear today has been unfortunate for everyone all round.’ Several of the humans cringed at the words, spoken in Common, while others did not respond at all. Fernand had seen this response to imprisonment on many occasions – the individual’s consciousness seemed to shut down and ignore all signs of external input. In some cases it became so bad that Toralite guards would have to force-feed some, or simply have them removed altogether.

Sighing, Fernand paced in the opposite direction. The three guards keeping the prisoners in check, all Forsaken, exchanged odd glances between themselves. They did not understand the Forsaken mage. Indeed, few in the Order did. Whilst many joined the Modas il Toralar out of a desire to harm others, wreak havoc, or as a path to greater power, Fernand did not fall into any of these categories. He was simply an undead servant, jointly working for the Royal Apothecary Society and Modas il Toralar, who prided himself on efficient and novel research. What Aziel or Sylvanas did with that research was their business. The fact that he had no concern for what that research was finally used for was not an ethical problem which hindered these efforts.

Fernand considered himself to be an orderly, intelligent man. What he did best was to solve problems, by considering the problem for all angles, and going about controlling the chaos that was life in the most plausible and practical way. Another direct attack was far too risky – the humans would be wary for the immediate future, much like a wasp nest that has recently been struck with a stick. Fernand’s budget did not encompass the loss of life and military equipment likely to occur from ordering an attack. No, what was called for was the skills of the Order’s chief assassin. Several precise, debilitating strikes in the right place would distract the Alliance adequately, and allow Fernand to operate without risking a paladin’s hammer to the skull. Fernand smiled primly at the prisoners, arranged before him like slabs of meat on market day. He folded his hands behind his back, idly playing with his cuff links as he did so. ‘Please, relax. My associates here will see to your lodgings. I’m afraid that it may be some time before we encounter one another again – I shall ensure that your immediate needs are tended to, at least so far as the Order’s standard operating procedures allow.’ He had already dismissed them from his mind as he turned away, the Forsaken guards grinning to each other malevolently.

Walking quickly back toward a stairwell that led to the main hall, Fernand readjusted the knot on his black silk tie, even though, as he did everyday, he had focussed upon tying it perfectly. He would organise for Vectus to be well supplied with a combination of the Red Death, a haemorrhagic disease that could be coated upon a rogue’s weapons, and numerous barrels of Cold Fire Fever, a disease that could be spread like the common cold but which caused debilitating seizures from fever and muscular contractions. Meanwhile, he would requisition an air ship from the RAS, and collect an appropriate number of prisoners, the way it was supposed to be done.

‘Sir?’ A harsh, guttural voice broke the monotonous sound of Fernand’s shoes clicking against the stone.

‘Yes? How may I be of assistance?’

‘Just tellin’ you sir, that the first shipment has arrived from up north. You wanted to inspect it in person, you said?’

Fernand smiled primly to himself, his dry, cracked, dead lips twitching at their corners. ‘I certainly did. I will be there momentarily.’ If the dead man was capable of emotion, he would probably have experienced excitement at that moment. Things were finally beginning to fall into place.

gentyl had been walking with the commander near the gazebo behind the cathedral. he had just returned from another voyage and as much as she might have wished to just hold him, not speaking or thinking, just enjoying his company once more, there was business to discuss.

'i have chosen helhammer as a new lanistae, but i have hopes you will still be able to help.'

he nodded. 'always, m'dear. whenever i'm about, but this is a busy season for shipping and we dare not miss any opportunities.'

she sighed. he was right, but she missed him when he was gone. it was then the alarms rang. 'dakshire calls,' he said. she was still nursing the broken arm from the fiasco with finn, but struggled up to the gryphon. turncutt had already flown off, assuming she would stay behind probably.

'pia, attack in darksire,' she called out over the hearthstone. a good number of guards responded immediately and flew to join the commander.

'sepha,' the commander called out when she arrived, 'stay with me.'

the order did no good as her gryphon had caught the blood lust. he fought his head and even though she could normally control him with both hands, she couldn't with one. he landed in the middle of the modas attack and she was quickly picked off. pia rallied and swept forward, pushing modas into the town hall. it was a mixed blessing. modas was in one place, but the defenders were bottle-necked when they swarmed into the building. pia pushed forward and eventually modas were driven off. by this time some other defenders had arrived and joined the defense, routing modas.

alarms soon sounded in westfall and they responded as well as they could.

'what are they after?' cray asked.

gentyl shook her head. 'slaves, i fear, but who knows.'

--ooc thanks to modas for a fun fight. thanks to everyone who responded to the defense calls.

The orcess grinned as she took off her plate and started to clean it off. The fight was good, and in her eyes, honorable. She had killed several of the defenders, and several more civilians. She laughed at the irony. "Let them people go" the goblin yelled at her, not one night prior. Now they had ravaged alliance towns, and took slaves. She finishes polishing the breastplate and places it down. "When next shall I fight them again"

The orcess grinned as she took off her plate and started to clean it off. The fight was good, and in her eyes, honorable. She had killed several of the defenders, and several more civilians. She laughed at the irony. "Let them people go" the goblin yelled at her, not one night prior. Now they had ravaged alliance towns, and took slaves. She finishes polishing the breastplate and places it down. "When next shall I fight them again"

ooc--laughing my head off. i'll try to get the let them people go post up today. thank you.

((I have no clue what really was going on, lol, and then I found the irony funny XD))

((By a mad coincidence, issue three of The Vigilant Times will focus on slavery and human(oid) trafficking in the Horde. Thanks for the leads! Keep feeding the press!))

03/19/2012 01:53 PMPosted by Silverquill

((By a mad coincidence, issue three of The Vigilant Times will focus on slavery and human(oid) trafficking in the Horde. Thanks for the leads! Keep feeding the press!))

(( If you ever have the desire to go Horde, Modas could always benefit from your mad propaganda skills *wink wink nudge nudge* ))

03/19/2012 01:53 PMPosted by Silverquill

((By a mad coincidence, issue three of The Vigilant Times will focus on slavery and human(oid) trafficking in the Horde. Thanks for the leads! Keep feeding the press!))

((Not just the Horde! The House of Nobles would be just about the best market for slaves...I would also say Modas slave raids are quite outside the Horde as a whole; Modas doesn't exactly represent Horde ethics in the same sense that the Syndicate or Scarlet Crusade doesn't represent humanity:P))

Mueh'zala would be pleased; every drop of blood was that of deathly sacrifice.

"We takes for slaves, some for meat...."

It pained Akuzul to allow the continued existence of so many; "Life undeserving of life" he heard the master say. "Mueh'zala grow fat today" whispered the ghoulish troll.

He made one last guttural prayer before cleaving another guard in two.

"Feed, Mueh'zala...feed..."

As evening neared, Vectus sat high above Stormwind, perched atop the Cathedral's spire like a bird of prey scouring the ground below for its next meal. The chimes of the clock tower reverberated in his ears, with every building and surface contributing to the maddening cacophony.

Beneath him he watched as ships came to dock and as guards tended to their patrols and changed posts. Several squadrons of gryphon riders flew about in formation, all still many feet below. A young woman and her daughter stopped by the cemetery to pay their respects, and a couple clergymen exited the Cathedral, seemingly in the midst of a heated discussion.

Further away, laborers covered in soot and grime tended the forges. Ferries drifted across the canals carrying passengers and cargo to and fro. He watched as an old man was mugged by a pair of thugs in a dark alley, and as a mother scolded her children for wandering too far away.

On the other side of town, the Trade District was rife with traffic and commerce as always. From this distance, the merchants, buyers, beggars and peddlers appeared to be little more than ants frantically skittering around as they went about their business.

Fitting, he thought. Insects. Pathetic, insignificant, and completely unaware of their fates at the hands of powers they cannot hope to fathom.

Another round of chimes echoed from the clock tower.

As he sat biding his time, his mind drifted to the events of the previous night. He played each moment back to himself, savoring every gory detail. He relished every agonized scream and cry for help--every look of sheer terror in the eyes of his victims. As always, they begged for their lives at first, and then merely for a swift death.

It had been far too long since his blades tasted blood. The tension had been building, and this release couldn't have come soon enough. This sadistic pleasure was as necessary to him as feeding or breathing, for it was the only way to find solace, to clear his mind, and to free himself from his inner demons. He shuttered to think what mindless, obsessive creature he might have become were he never to cross paths with the Modas, never to discover such an effective way of controlling his dark urges. For this he was thankful, for he knew now; it was by embracing the monster inside him, not repressing it, that he was able to find freedom... even if only momentarily.

More chimes, and then sunset.

It wouldn't be long now. Mentally, he went over the plans and his route, ensuring he could recall the minutest detail about where he would be and when. Earlier that day, he had gotten the information he needed from an agent within the city, and everything was in place. It had been quite some time since he set foot in the city, but an entire evening of studying the guard's patrol routes and mannerisms ensured he would encounter little to no resistance. No one would know he was there, and no one would know anything about what was to happen aside from what he wished them to see.

As the twilight slowly crept up on the city, its life slowed down to a crawl. He watched as merchants closed up shop and the denizens retired for the night to their homes or to the various taverns and inns. As more time passed, lights flickered out one by one and guard patrols became less frequent.

His heart raced as the moment neared. Steady, he thought. Any moment now. He poised himself and cleared his mind, focusing wholly on the task at hand. And then--finally--the signal fire.

Without missing a beat, Vectus lunged from the spire towards the pa%%#%ts across the near side of Stormwind Lake. Roughly a quarter into the descent, he deployed his parachute and glided silently onto a balcony. After quickly disposing of the parachute, he made his way towards the Keep along the rooftops and outer wall, making use of the shadows and timing to avoid sight of the guards. In less than a minute he found himself scaling a tower on the Keep's inner wall. Child's play.

He readied himself. In one fluid motion and with perfect timing, he flung himself up over the wall and into the guard on watch, knocked him off balance, and slid a hand over his mouth and a blade into his heart with surgical precision. He was limp in two and a half seconds and on his way towards the bottom of the lake in eight. With luck, he'd be eaten by a crocolisk. At the very least, he wouldn't be found for a couple days. Directly behind, a latch was left open to allow for easy entry into the keep. Conveniently, the guards stationed in this area would be preoccupied investigating a diversionary fire started mere moments ago.

From here it was a clear shot towards the Nobles' Quarters. Down a flight of stairs, through a door and across the hallway were his marks. Three nobles: Jonathan Whitehall, Charles Dunhaldt, and Bethany Rosemond--each of them key to passing a controversial piece of legislature which would severely limit trade rights of neutral parties traveling within Alliance-controlled areas. Not the most threatening legislature to be sure, but certainly one that could pose problems for the Undermarket if passed. Vectus figured that Lord V'Ghera, prudent as he is, sought to kill two birds with one stone and win a political victory on top of their real agenda by choosing these marks.

He entered the room without notice, and discreetly landed two throwing daggers into the backs of Jonathan and Bethany. They were not intended to kill, only to paralyze and deliver a fatal dose of a combination of the Red Death and Cold Fire Fever diseases provided to him by Argustus. The deaths needed to be gruesome in order to cause the level of concern they were aiming for.

Two soft thuds. Two gasps. Two louder thuds. Charles managed to turn around just in time to see Vectus lunging for him, dagger at the ready. He was able to yell "Guar---" before his voice faded and his mouth filled with blood. Slowly, he reached out and grabbed a low hanging beaded pendant around Vectus' neck. Yes, that's it. Perfect.

With the last ounce of his strength, Charles pulled and snapped the necklace, sending beads tumbling across the room. Vectus tossed him aside as his body went limp and gathered a handful of the beads to store away. He then withdrew a dark, mottled fabric from a side pouch and used it to soak up some of Lord Dunhaldt's blood. Condemning evidence, if ever there was any. It would undoubtedly be of use later.

He could faintly hear muffled groans of agony as he turned to leave the room. A pity I can't be around to watch them suffer, he thought. With that, he made his way to an open window and lept into the cold night, making his escape into the shadows.

((Fantastic writing by everyone.))

03/19/2012 05:05 PMPosted by Aziel

((By a mad coincidence, issue three of The Vigilant Times will focus on slavery and human(oid) trafficking in the Horde. Thanks for the leads! Keep feeding the press!))

((Not just the Horde! The House of Nobles would be just about the best market for slaves...I would also say Modas slave raids are quite outside the Horde as a whole; Modas doesn't exactly represent Horde ethics in the same sense that the Syndicate or Scarlet Crusade doesn't represent humanity:P))

((But an Alliance reporter wouldn't be able to tell that. :p

You're all the same to a very angry bunch of characters!))

((But an Alliance reporter wouldn't be able to tell that. :p))

((Moot point. "Would be" isn't "is". (Not that I know of, anyway.)

((Oh, and don't you worry, folks. Front page is always 100% drawn from canon. Second page is reserved for fanon (aka player-character community) hijinks. Rest assured that Modas, the Razortalons, or any other Horde guild will never make the front page.))

The Forsaken air ship had been following the Alliance cargo ship for eighteen agonisingly slow hours. There was not a cloud in the sky – both parties were aware of the other’s presence, and while the Alliance vessel was gamely trying to outdistance the air ship, it simply could not match their speed, fighting against the high seas. With every hour that passed, the great white and blue sails, emblazoned with golden rearing lions, became a little more visible to the undead Deathstalkers gathered on the air ship. Standing among them, the wind tearing at his dry, blonde hair and black silk robes, was Fernand Argustus. Capturing the human sailors for his experimental procedures was vital. The war between the Alliance and the Horde, specifically the involvement of the Forsaken, was reaching a new threshold. Hillsbrad was firmly under Sylvanas’s control, and the Gilneans were on the retreat. With every passing day, the conflict worsened – in fact, just before Fernand took flight, Vectus was involved with several high priority assassinations, and the Alliance invaded and stole important research material from the internment camp known as the Sludge Fields. Furthermore, Alliance aggression against the Undercity was increasing...and Fernand was not entirely comfortable with the Argent Dawn keeping a close eye on Forsaken activities, either. The time to unleash the perfect weapon was rapidly approaching. A weapon that was not only capable of demolishing several city blocks instantaneously, but would also render the surrounding countryside totally unfit for the living. It would be Southshore upon a far grander scale – a haven for the Forsaken, where the humans of Stormwind would have no choice but to retreat for fear of a slow, cancerous death.

‘Sir, we’re in cannon range. Would you like us to fire?’ The captain turned to Fernand, clearly uncomfortable with positioning his ship this close to the human vessel. As if on queue, a ballista missile was fired from the cargo ship; it arced beneath the Forsaken air ship and plummeted into the sea.

Fernand inclined his head to the captain. ‘Yes, do as you see fit. However, first we have a piece of quick business.’ The undead man stepped to the railing, and raised a microphone in one hand, typically used to direct commands across the ship. Fernand’s dry, prim tenor voice split through the day and was heard by the humans below. ‘I regret to inform you all that this cargo vessel is hereby claimed in the names of Lady Sylvanas and Lord V’Ghera, as is its crew and current holdings. Rest assured that your fate here today shall be marked, and your status as war heroes reported to your superiors in Stormwind. Captain, if you will.’ Fernand lowered the microphone as the first cannons were fired. Thick metal spheres spun through the air and struck the cargo ship, breaking apart against the deck, or landing harmlessly in the water. Clouds of a combination of benzodiazepines, powerful tranquilizers, smoked from the spheres to coat the cargo ship in a deadly mist.

Several more volleys were fired upon the sea-borne ship, before Fernand raised a hand to call a halt. ‘That should be quite sufficient.’

‘How do you know, Sir?’ The captain asked dubiously, scratching at a loose piece of skin flapping from his cheek.

‘Well, for one, those drugs are particularly potent. Also, you must surely have noticed that the humans have not fired a second missile at us.’ He turned to face the captain. ‘Gather a small group, and take us directly above the ship. We should perform a preliminary scout, before transporting our sedated prisoners.’

‘Aye, Sir. Will we be needing the respirators?’

The Deathstalkers were used to working alongside Apothecaries, and gas masks were often a necessity. Fernand shook his head in the negative. ‘No. The drugs used here have no effect upon the biochemistry of a dead brain, that is to say, you and I. We are immune, I assure you.’

Seemingly satisfied, the captain went to grab a small force of Deathstalkers. They released a rope ladder from the stern, and began the roughly eighty-foot descent carefully. The wind was picking up, and it appeared to be a treacherous task to Fernand, as he remained on the air ship’s deck, quite happy to stay where he was. Fernand was reflecting upon how well this was going just as the sounds of weapons clashing and the bright sparks of fire came from the deck of the sea-borne ship. He sighed and peered over the rail, but his vision was obscured by the thick, choking mist of tranquilizers. There were many things Fernand was not particularly fond of, and being within sword slashing distance of his enemies was high on that list. Still, there didn’t seem to be much for it at the moment. He gestured at four undead crewman. ‘You all, head down to the human vessel. It sounds as if the captain could use some assistance.’ The undead Apothecary, on the other hand, stepped over the rail with the calm of a man not troubled by vertigo.

He invoked a simple charm, and drifted gently to the deck of the human vessel. From this distance, vision was no better – the wind had yet to disperse the drug-mists, and all Fernand could see was white gaseous vapour. Thus, he was quite surprised when he walked directly into a burly human wearing a singlet (most likely to best show off his tattooed arms), short trousers and a gas mask. The sailor was equally surprised, and by the time he swung a wickedly curved cutlass at the undead man, it bounced harmlessly off a magical shield constructed of pure mana. Fernand rattled off a quick incantation, and the sailor shuddered and bucked as his bones cracked, skin stretched, and form became stout and compressed. The sailor, now a rather fat piglet, squealed. ‘I have one over here.’ Fernand called, hoping that it would be a Deathstalker who responded, and not another sailor. ‘Beware, some of the humans appear to be equipped with respirators.’ He said this as he stepped over a comatose sailor stretched out on the deck, a sailor not lucky enough to have a respirator. Apparently, while slow off the initial mark, the humans were adapting to fight against the Forsaken. Evidently they just weren’t willing to pay to protect all their soldiers, as the cost of a proper respirator could be shockingly expensive. The Forsaken captain’s voice rang out from the direction of steel striking steel, ‘Disarm the humans and remove their masks!’

The mists were steadily beginning to abate; Fernand could now see the Deathstalkers fighting against a trio of human sailors, equipped with gas masks. Before he could cross the deck, a ball of fire erupted around the undead Apothecary, destroying his magical shield and leaving a rather unattractive odour of sulphur on his robes. Fernand activated a spell to protect his person specifically from elemental attacks, and peered about. Fifteen feet away, using the doorway to the aft cabin for protection, a human mage was chanting, a second ball of flame forming between his hands. The fireball flew at the undead mage, but winked out of existence before it could come into contact with him. The living human teleported to stand before Fernand; a wave of fire radiated out from him, washing over the undead Apothecary and setting alight the rigging to the main mast. Again, the fire winked out of existence, leaving Fernand unharmed. He smiled primly. ‘You are good, but I fancy I was better even before my death. And I have learnt all manner of new tricks in the years since.’

Fernand spoke a single word, and relative time was suddenly distorted – it hastened around the undead, and a second word caused the living human to become significantly slowed, as he struggled to fight against an influx of time concentrated on his being. Fernand released a blast of arcane power into the human, sending him flying across the deck. A second blast flipped the human over, and a final barrage of arcane energy, brightly glowing balls of pure energy, finished the job. Fernand walked over to the fallen mage, his shoes clicking against the wooden deck, and knelt to inspect the human. He would not be using this one for his radiation experiments – the application of arcane energy had left him a smouldering corpse. ‘A pity.’ He sighed, standing up. Meanwhile, the Deathstalkers had seemingly disarmed the remaining sailors of their respirators. Fernand joined the captain over the comatose bodies of numerous humans. ‘I want a head count, and for our new subjects to be loaded on board as soon as possible. What are the humans carrying?’ He asked as an afterthought.

The captain scratched at the skin peeling from his cheek again, a rather foul habit. ‘Iron ore, mostly.’

‘Can your air ship support the weight?’

‘Not a chance.’ The captain guffawed.

Fernand frowned tightly, disappointed to waste a potential resource. ‘We have no options then. Sink this vessel when we have the humans safely on board.’ The captain gave the Apothecary a quick, snappy salute and went about performing his assigned tasks. ‘All in all, a reasonably productive day.’ He murmured to himself. Now the proper work could begin.

((Great stuff as always!))

On any given day, all sorts of terrible sounds could be heard within the halls of the Modas il Toralar’s Sanctum, from screams to angered shouts to metal striking metal. Once a year, every year on this day in fact, all of this stopped as a particularly peculiar type of music drifted along the corridors – music that was jubilant, crystalline and pure, full of the promise of hope and laughter. The source of this music was Fernand Argustus’s personal quarters, which amounted to a dusty tomb of an office, barren of furniture other than a desk, chair, and shelves filled with books, reports and records. Sitting at his desk, Fernand watched the magical, glimmering sphere of music he had summoned. From within the sphere floated the beautiful sounds of a symphony in concert, a joyful blend of strings, flutes and a single tambourine. Fernand had never been overly fond of any of the movements in this symphony, but he always listened to it on this day, every year. This date marked Fernand and Ameira’s anniversary, and Ameira loved opera and orchestral performances. This specific symphony followed the story of a young, poor farmer’s daughter from Tirisfal Glades who dared to venture deep into the forest to find a green dragon to breathe life back into her father’s failing crop. She got into all sorts of amusing situations in her misadventure, and the music portrayed this perfectly – it could always bring laughter to Ameira’s lips. Fernand thought the story was ridiculous (even when he was alive) but Ameira loved it, and to please her was to experience such uncomplicated happiness and love. Her very presence made his heart swell with devotion. But that was all, literally, a lifetime ago.

They met in Dalaran at the height of its power, the centre for brilliant thought and achievement upon all of Azeroth. They were both apprentices to some of the greatest minds in generations. Neither was interested in the glories of battle sorcery which attracted many of their peers. Instead, they preferred the overlooked biological and alchemical sciences; it was not as flashy as creating a pyroclastic flow that could scour an enemy army from existence, but there were many simple pleasures to be had in exploring the life, and what that meant, of plants, animals and other living things in the world. The phrase ‘love at first sight’ was a ludicrous over-simplification of social interaction, but for Fernand and Ameira, it was close enough to be true. Countless were the hours they had spent together: lying beneath the apple orchards in Tarren Mill, talking about their hopes and dreams; enjoying a full meal and bottle (or two) of wine; sleeping with their arms around each other. Tall and slim, with apple-green eyes and straw-coloured hair that radiated like spun golden thread in the sunlight, always dressed in modest, flowing robes of one shade of blue or another, gifted with a keen, critical intellect and thoughtful nature, to Fernand there was no question that Ameira was the most beautiful, amazing person to ever grace Azeroth with her presence. He had proposed to her on this date, many years ago now, and the expression on her face when she accepted filled Fernand with a rapturous love that cannot be described by words.

Six months later the Scourge invaded Dalaran. The mages, including Fernand, never suspected an attack upon the magical citadel was possible...but then, they had never anticipated that many of their fellows had secretly taken up the forbidden art of necromancy. They were all caught completely unaware by the treachery of their peers and the endless legions of undead. Fernand and Ameira’s happiness was not meant to be. They were caught in Dalaran’s theatre, surrounded by necromancers and skeletons, cut off from any military force. They did the only logical thing – they decided to flee to Stormwind, teleporting to safety. The necromancers, several were in fact men and women Fernand spoke to on a daily basis, were not about to let anyone escape; the shouts of counterspells to prevent teleportations could be heard over the screams of the mages and civilians being torn apart by ghouls. Fernand did not even think about it. He attacked the Scourge agents, distracting them as best he could. He sacrificed himself for his beloved, giving her the few precious seconds she needed to teleport to the safety of the southern kingdom of Stormwind. He was overwhelmed moments later, driven to the ground beneath the weight of cold, rotten flesh and mindless snapping fangs. Those last terrible moments were horrific memories that still haunted him to this day.