((A precursor to his coming to Cenarion Circle. Which, hopefully, will be some time in June.))
Deep in the gloom of the Undercity, the sanctuary and power base of the Forsaken Empire, a lone figure made his way through the labyrinthian catacombs back to his quarters in the Apothecarium. Though as a dead man he needed no sleep, a quirk that had followed him from life was his desire for meditation - and, on occasion, solitude.
Seating himself at the desk provided for him, he began to compose a letter, writing in a hand that had seen long decades of practice.
After powdering the ink dry, he dripped hot wax from a nearby candle - made of the processed flesh of slain Scarlet Crusaders from Tirisfal - then set the seal of the Forsaken. Gently rolling it into a scroll and tying it with a crimson cord, he summoned a waiting Deathstalker - wearing the sigil of the Argent Crusade to allow him easy access to "neutral" territory. "Take this to Hearthglen, and have it sent by human or other Alliance-race courier to Stormwind. If anyone asks, Hearthglen is the origin, and it is only to be read by Saavedro himself. His rank among the Argents will make anyone think twice about violating its...urgency."
"I understand, Father Sekhesmet."
"Good. Then may the Dark Lady watch over you, and speed you on your way."
The Deathstalker bowed and made his way out. Alone again in the candle-lit gloom, Sekhesmet of Stratholme smiled grimly to himself. The game was just beginning.
Deep in the gloom of the Undercity, the sanctuary and power base of the Forsaken Empire, a lone figure made his way through the labyrinthian catacombs back to his quarters in the Apothecarium. Though as a dead man he needed no sleep, a quirk that had followed him from life was his desire for meditation - and, on occasion, solitude.
Seating himself at the desk provided for him, he began to compose a letter, writing in a hand that had seen long decades of practice.
My dear Saavedro,
Do you feel the icy chill of death as it wraps around you like bony fingers? Do you feel the madness tearing you asunder like a lion shreds meat?
The battles you fight now are but a taste of the terror that awaits you in the end, you know. In the end, you will be unable to trust anyone, and certainly no one will trust you. You’re a trouble-maker, a rabble-rouser…and a coward, on top of it. Yes, sending your anonymous letters of condemnation, how noble of you…did you not think I would recognize your handiwork? Did you not think that our ears would be listening, our eyes watching? You didn’t even give me a second thought, I’ll bet.
Poor, deluded boy…you did not learn a thing from me, did you?
You did not truly respect my power – you underestimated me then when you were my student, as you underestimate me now. The Corruptor? The Corruptor is nothing. A pawn, looking for a puppeteer to pull his strings. Kil’jaeden, Arthas, Deathwing – he has called them all “master”, all the while believing himself to be the master. Now I am the unseen hand that guides the damned. All of your doubts, all of your fears, all of your reckless actions…it is truly glorious to see one so “blessed” fall so far into his own delusions.
And now you seek to take back what you have said. To apologize to the one called Gentyl. To make amends with her knights, with the Razortalons, and all those others you have offended. To help the priestess stave off the Shadow within her heart, so that she may continue to be a paragon of Light. All the things a good little paladin does. You used to question – now you merely cave in, like the spineless coward you are. It pains me to think that the weak, effeminate elf was far more of a man than you are. I loved you as a son…and you are the antithesis of everything I taught you. You are a drone, too much ruled by your conscience.
You cannot save them. Artimus is mine. Genevra will be mine. And you, my faithless apprentice, will be mine. Oh, you will believe yourself strong enough to resist me…but in the end, you will fall. You are weak. You are spineless. You are ignorant. And before I let you die, I will illuminate your ignorance about a great many things.
We shall speak again…soon.
In Sylvanas’ name.
After powdering the ink dry, he dripped hot wax from a nearby candle - made of the processed flesh of slain Scarlet Crusaders from Tirisfal - then set the seal of the Forsaken. Gently rolling it into a scroll and tying it with a crimson cord, he summoned a waiting Deathstalker - wearing the sigil of the Argent Crusade to allow him easy access to "neutral" territory. "Take this to Hearthglen, and have it sent by human or other Alliance-race courier to Stormwind. If anyone asks, Hearthglen is the origin, and it is only to be read by Saavedro himself. His rank among the Argents will make anyone think twice about violating its...urgency."
"I understand, Father Sekhesmet."
"Good. Then may the Dark Lady watch over you, and speed you on your way."
The Deathstalker bowed and made his way out. Alone again in the candle-lit gloom, Sekhesmet of Stratholme smiled grimly to himself. The game was just beginning.
Edited by Sekhesmet on 4/24/2012 6:32 AM PDT
