World of Warcraft®

Easy. It had been so very easy. The darkly robed man, strode meaningfully out of the doorway, and down the steps. "Light is as weak as those who defend it" the man scoffed in a hollow, ice cold voice, as he walked around the periphery of the large religious structure.

"I remember when I believed your lies, your promises. No more."

Several passerby heading into the Cathedral shivered, feeling an icy chill run up their spines, but shrugged it off as a night breeze. Ignoring the otherwise plainly dressed man as he passed.

The man reached the pond, and without pausing walked right into it, the surface freezing slightly, coated in ice as the man walked under the surface, an arrogant, satisfied smirk on his face as he became completely submerged. Vanishing from sight in the dark depths. Not a bubble breaking the surface. He was gone.

The passerby made it to the Cathedral entrance and as they felt the relief of their faith wash over them, it was completely shattered a heartbeat later. They screamed as if their very souls were in jeopardy.

In the corner, were two dead men, both priests, one lying in a large puddle of his own gore with a hole the size of a large melon through him, the other, face blue, and throat crushed to a pulp. A paladin, covered in the blood that had boiled from every pore and orifice on her, shuddered. Still gasping her last breath, as the final ounce of life left her body.

Terror in her sightless eyes. An Ebon Blade scrap of cloth in her bloodied grip.

Genevra returned from the evening with her family, set to offer devotions to the Light as she did most evenings. Upon entering the Cathedral she knew something was wrong. It was felt before it was scene. Groups were scattered around the cathedral, tending to those who had fallen, others were cleaning up the gore that had soiled this holy place.

Her face paled as understanding struggled to reach her, but found no foothold in the confusion. All around her, the voices were hushed, fearful. Not since the betrayal of Benedictus had the Cathedral been so sullied, so tainted. Her resolve was sound as she slipped into the Shadow, no longer fearful as she had been in times past. "May the Light be my shield and the Shadow my sword," the priestess whispered her mantra, one who had found balance in both worlds.

She watched those who had gathered, to offer help, to find answers where in the darkness that had sullied the Cathedral, "Light protect us."

Mithara, as unlikely as it was considering her faith--or lack-there-of--was among the first to find them, on her way to visit a woman who supplied her with cloth for bandages. She was stunned that no one else had seen them; the bodies were not exactly hidden. It was ugly; Mith had spend a good deal of time around bodies and killing, but she had only ever seen this kind of thing once or twice in her life. She knelt to tug a scrap of black cloth from what was left of the paladin's hand, and frowned. The cloth was so soaked in blood that it was impossible to see any sort of symbol, but it appeared black against her gloves. She grimaced. "Someone pissed off a Death Knight," she muttered, her tiger grumbling beside her.

A passing priest began a greeting that choked upon seeing the blood, which was quite literally everywhere. His own life fluid drained from his face when Mithara glanced up and raised a brow at him, as if he had just run into her on the street. "What?" The huntress sighed and pushed a bit of wild hair from her face with a wrist when the priest retreated with mumbled and rambling prayers and appologies.

Holy Men. Useless.

She looked around, silently scanning the area. Lorivar didn't quite have the nose for tracking over this much blood, and her wolf, Grim, was still in Darnassus. She sighed again, and slipped outside to call for Gentyl, who was perched outside, entirely oblivious to what lay in the shadowed corner of the Cathedral.

As always, the siren call of spilled blood drew Aziriel in from quite far away, searching the remnants of the park in her own mystery. The druidess grinned, knowing that much blood heralded at least one death.

Following her keen nose, Az came up to the Cathedral and prowled slowly inside. She had caught a few other scents, best to lay low before taking action. See? She had patience, lots of it.

Grinning at a few people she recognized by sight and scent, the feline becomes more visible and moves into the scene. Switching forms for a better look, she grins and kneels closer to the bodies, getting a good eyeful of the corpses before being distracted by familiar scents and faces.

Aziriel chuffs lowly, greeting a hunter and a paladin before turning her attention back to the murders.

(( Deleted because of double post. ))

Saavedro of Stratholme turned away from the windows as he watched Bethanie depart, and the death knight resumed his sword drill - his expression one of anguish. Dressing in his robes, the paladin exited the house, his expression grim. "She suspects you?"

"They will all suspect me," Artimus Devaneaux replied bitterly. "I'm the crazy death knight here, remember? Still, if what happened in the Keep when I was taken to Narnicka, and what happened here just now, is any indication...the Terrans are just a bunch of paranoid idiots."

"One of those paranoid idiots saved you from capture, Artimus," Saavedro pointed out, referring to Ulthryn. "It was his intervention that allowed us to fully investigate. Otherwise, you would have been sent to the block."

The Baron nodded, conceding the point. "Maybe."

"Still...I am not pleased with the conduct here. She demanded a search of some sort with no written warrant of any kind?"

"She wanted to SNIFF me, the little witch. Hmph! I have had enough violations of my privacy dealing with Sekhesmet. I don't need this crap."

"Hmm. I will have a word with Lahkin. Since you so subtly entered me into this mess." Saavedro smiled. "Carry on, Artimus. Amendera will keep an eye on you and keep the vultures at bay."

"Not sure she likes that duty, but she has a good head on her."

"Of course. Narnicka wouldn't have taken her into his Regiment otherwise." Saavedro walked away and headed into the Cathedral. He wrote out a terse message and handed it to his Argent squire, Vorian Tanis. "To Lahkin Stoneheardt. Accept no excuses."

It was brief, and to the point: Cathedral. Now.

"Paranoid. Paranoid! Light. Does no one understand the law is blind? You can't let someone go just because you 'think' they're a good person..."

Lahkin rubbed his face as he stepped out of the Cathedral after his talk--well, more like a yelling match--with Saavedro. The Bishop was looking particularly miffed, and Lahkin expected another one of those talks about conduct inside the walls of the Cathedral was heading his way.

"But damnit, if that bastard can't understand that this bull!@#$--"

A passing priestess gave Lahkin an appalled look, and the man bit down on his lip to stop the tirade. No, no, no, that was just the kind of "conduct" that got him into trouble! The paladin took a deep breath--seemed like he would be doing lots of that today--letting the colorful words trickle out of his conscience.

It was a tangled mess of snakes. Everyone was upset, and as Saavedro said so himself, that meant harsh words were exchanged, suspicions were on the rampage. Backbiting, ever attacking themselves...whoever had it out for the Church of the Holy Light understood how to turn people against one another, at the very least.

It wasn't Sekhesmet, it wasn't Artimus, and it wasn't Kaellar, Miragule, "Patches", or any of the other death knights Bethanie had sniffed out today.

It didn't seem to be anyone at all!

Lahkin entertained that thought for a while, morbidly wondering what kinds of magical thoughts the three dead people were thinking to make them die like that. His feet found themselves wandering down to the lake behind the Cathedral. The water spirits burbled to themselves in the back of Lahkin's conscience, and he felt a little calmer, listening to them.

Perhaps that was the right way to go. Perhaps, if he could find a shaman or a priest strong enough to contact the victims' spirits, they would have seen the clever bas--person--who had killed them.

With the scent running cold and their physical description already so lacking, it seemed the most logical next step...Lahkin made a mental note to contact the Watch.

Gentyl landed at the Cathedral moments before Mithara had. She hadn't even had a chance to send Cloud away and go fetch Valor. She eyed Mithara, wondering what kind of mood the woman would be in today. It was best to let her make the first move, Gentyl had learned.

"Hello, dear," Mithara said, smiling and walked past.

Mithara came out moments later and told her she might want to come inside and look at some bodies.

Bodies? What the fel.

Suspicion, distrust, betrayal.

It was all going according to plan. While not a large fan of the "overt" the dark robed man knew that his little "demonstration" would continue to cause problems for those who cared about a treacherous faith and their "friends". A little nudge here, a push there, and the suspicion would become so heavy he could taste it. It would be glorious.

Far away from Stormwind, in a small, dilapidated cavern, the dark robed man smirked to himself in the gloom. He had many plans, and many ways to implement them, the only problem, was his largest.

He was alone.

The man rocked back and forth on his chair, the air growing ever colder around him. Perhaps this man, this "Saavedro" whom he had seen arguing with the child commander "Lahkin" would do nicely. He was connected to the Baron, and if something happened to him, the blame would fall nicely on an already distrusted man's shoulders.

A traitor's shoulders in the solitary figure's glowing blue eyes.

Perhaps him, perhaps that rickety old Draenei brother he had spoken to, that entire Order of theirs seemed perfect material to take apart from the inside. Especially that wild dog. The Scourgelord smiled to himself, a smile devoid of anything but hatred, and loathing.

He knew how to put pressure on the Terrans. Starting with that ill-mannered puppy girl... or perhaps that pretty young one, the one attached to the child commander's arm.

Easy. It is all so easy to one who waits and watches, and simply draws the lines for others to follow.

Erelyn sat on the outside looking in. Not literally, for she was grateful to be far removed from the stench of the slaughter inside the Cathedral. The scent of the blood had been so overwhelming, it was hard for her to focus standing there inside the building. As always, she heard Finn's voice in her mind, telling her to step back and "see things as they are." There were other bits of wisdom floating around within her conscience as well, but it was this particular bit which she relied on to gain perspective outside of her own. The investigation had led the Watch Officer, Ethillian, to suspect a death knight. Strangulation, blood boiling ... a very large, gaping hole.

A bit of black cloth ...

He'd borrowed Bethanie, or perhaps "commandeered" was a better description, and put her to work straight away tracking the perpetrator through Stormwind. The search had ended at Olivia's Pond in a dead end. Now he was using her for scenting.

Light, Eri thought. She's not a dog and she's just a kid! What are we doing here?

But ... murder. Within the Cathedral.

Erelyn wasn't particularly attached to the Church of the Light; although she understood the core elements of its philosophy, it wasn't her experience of the Light. Hers had always been more organic, thanks to the Naaru. A'dal and V'eru had always taught her to rely on herself, and she couldn't recall their lessons ever including preaching. She'd resisted the message of their later lessons; she didn't believe she'd ever truly have any wisdom of her own to impart to anyone else, but then Finnaeus had entered her life. His argument to that had been simple. She would never be certain of whose lives she touched, changing them irrevocably, whether it was for the good or the bad. "Sometimes, you're merely the vessel, or the conduit. This is why we strive to be our best. To be the example."

She pushed a hand through her hair and peered at the entrance to the cathedral, saying quietly, "this was a crime of passion," to no one in particular. "The victims are incidental ..." She stepped forward but hesitated, not wanting to step inside again. She'd already reasoned this once, just after Lahkin had snapped at her for words that had down-played the atrocity ... but she'd been stunned then, stunned by the audacity of one so bold as to slaughter three hapless practitioners in near-broad daylight, within the walls of Stormwind's second-most prestigious landmark. And for what? Revenge?

She forced a smile as a priest passed her on the stairs. Reaching for the hearthstone on her belt, Eri turned and started down the steps. "Arlston," she said into the stone and then continued without his stilted confirmation. "You make damned sure you stay with Bethanie ... night and day. I'm on my way to Lakeshire. I want to check on Genma before I go have a chat with Mr. Devaneaux ..." Eri's guardian construct soared from the sky, as if on cue, and slowed its flight long enough for her to fling herself onto its back. How the thing ever got lift, she was sure she'd never know, but it carried her back into the sky and she settled in for the flight to Lakeshire, speaking into the wind, "It's time to learn a deeper understanding of what it means to be a death knight."

"You ever wonder, Saavedro, if the whole planet is just going mad? I mean, Deathwing's dead and gone, and now we're ripping into one another like piranhas."

Saavedro nodded. "It's the nature of the day, my friend - first it was the Scourge, then the Twilight's Hammer...now we have to worry about the damned Horde having spies in our midst, and Light only knows what the Ebon Blade's up to. You'd think they'd go away quietly now that the Lich King is dead."

"You thought the same thing about the Forsaken, as I recall."

The paladin conceded that point; Sekhesmet was a veteran of Northrend himself, having contributed his shadow magics to the battle against the Lich King in Icecrown Citadel. But it seemed that he, and his dread mistress Sylvanas, were hell-bent on world dominance...starting with the entire continent of Lordaeron. "You can't blame a man for hoping, Artimus."

"Hope is nothing if we do not act on it." It was an oft-quoted maxim the death knight clung to since the fall of Lordaeron, maintaining that vengeance would not be achieved by sitting around the Plaguelands fighting lesser minions. Brigitte Abbendis had realized that too late, and it had led to her downfall when the forces arrayed against the Lich King had decimated her garrisons in New Hearthglen; only a few ragged remnants of the Scarlet Crusade wandered in Tirisfal or in the frozen wastes of Northrend, with their leaders all dead and gone...or having become the very thing they despised most.

"Maybe so, but action is nothing if we do not think on it," Saavedro retorted. "The Valiance Expedition and the Ashen Verdict were not simply conjured on the spot, Artimus - it took months, YEARS, of careful planning before we killed Arthas."

Artimus nodded in agreement. "Maybe I'm just an impatient man by nature...I've spent my life waiting. Waiting for justice against Arthas, waiting for vengeance against Anub'arak for killing me...waiting for the Alliance to stop treating me like a criminal. Even before the whole thing with Sekhesmet."

"All good things to those who wait."

The Baron chuckled. "Now you sound like my moth --" He suddenly froze, his sharp hearing detecting the pulling back of a rifle hammer - and up on the battlements leading into the canal district, he saw a glint of metal as a rifle was raised and a shock of reddish-bronze hair belonging to the rifleman. "Saavedro, get down!" He tackled the robed paladin just as the gunshot went off - a charged round that exploded the death knight's left pauldron, spraying shrapnel across the courtyard. Regaining his footing quickly, he brought Saavedro to his feet and found cover on the side of the Cathedral. As he looked to ask if his comrade was alright, Artimus suddenly thought it best to hold his tongue.

Saavedro's expression was one of holy fury.

An odd request, but nothing too difficult.

That was Sathrasa's thought as she stole through the cold Stormwind evening, the guards finishing up their rounds. She carried a small bundle under her arm and casually stepped past the patrols that she came upon. It was a quiet night, after all; no need to rouse suspicion.

Acquiring the tabards were of no issue. Slip into the Peak, grab a few from their stores, slip right back out. She wasn't seen through the entire event. Three again, deciding she shouldn't take too many, would suit this task fine enough.

Though she was curious about who it was - she still held the letter, after all - her greed drove her to ignore her curiosity. At least until the Captains awoke.

The second I spy one, they're going to know that this occurred. I should think that finding this interested buyer of my skills, however, would be mutual.

She casually dropped the package at a single crave, nearly hugging the northwestern wall with its cold stone and silent epitaph. Without so much as a glance she continued walking through the cemetery, eyeing the tombstones before she departed.

Whoever it is, I better get paid.

Greed. Such a reliable method of persuasion. Every living being has its vices. The infamous sneak Sathrasa proved her reputation correct. Gold was easy to come by, the remnants of the Cult of the Damned proved useful every now and then. Only fear driving them to obey.

Sitting on his rotting chair, deep within his cold, dark, domain, Ashlamar stared at the stone wall, eyes boring into the granite over his steepled fingers as his scowl deepened.

All this planning, this preparation, was it truly necessary? He could just repeat the past. Waltz right into the Cathedral and start butchering every weak believer in a weak faith that he could.

No, that would be foolish. Better to let the Church suffer later, after its defenders were at each others throats and making his duty that much easier.

The next pieces were falling into place, soon, the strife and suspicion would be thrown where he saw fit, and where it could do the most damage.

Orwyn awoke with a start and looked around blearily. He realized with sharp disappointment that he was at his desk and not in bed. Rubbing his temple wearily, the reason why came back to him. More murders. It was almost perverse how Stormwind itself was becoming more dangerous as the threat to the entire world from Deathwing had been removed.

Orwyn flipped absently through Ethillian's report again. It did seem to be a death knight. That wasn't much to go on, but it was a start. Starts eventually got around to ends. Orwyn made a note to send officers to question the families of the deceased in the morning, to see if there was any connection between them or if any of the victims had known enemies. The way things were going though, it was probably another crazy cultist of some sort. The world seemed to be awash in cultists with nothing else to do now other than go off on personal vendettas. Lock up one, and along came another. Maybe there'd been an upside to the Twilight Cult concentrating all the crazy in certain places.

Orwyn shrugged off those thoughts and spun his chair so that he could look out his office window over the Cathedral District courtyard. The answers would all come sooner or later. Until then he could help keep an eye on the Cathedral personally.

As long as he could stay awake.

"No. This simply will not do."

Walking briskly through the streets of Stormwind, passing many similarly attired citizens, none noticing the tall, thickly garbed man in their midst. To them, he was just another pedestrian, trying to achieve the day's errands. None noticed the dead, black tint to what little flesh showed, or the blue glow to his eyes behind the thick glasses.

This is why his brethren had fallen. This is why his King had entire nations rallied against him.

They lacked subtlety.

Now, arrogantly grinning his way through the streets, a ball of purest death in his hand, he thought on his next strike. After all he had an eternity to wait, and plan. An eternity to continually strike. And to whom should fall the blame...

Perhaps Devaneaux, after all, he had made himself such a ripe, inviting target...

"Greetings, priest! Welcome to the Cathedral of Light!" echoed in the necromancer's ears. A normal response from the dear Brother Sarno. As always, the illusonary magic did its work, hiding his true nature from the priests and paladins of the cathedral.

A frown came to Ardam's lips as he approached the crime-scene. Still guards buzzed about, making his investigation into the triple murders all the more bothersome. Not only was he forced to wait until late ito the night, due to all the bothersome faces who might be able to pierce his illusions, but Orwyn and his people were involved.

"Excuse me." A guard chirped in, breaking the necromancer's chain of thought. "You'll have to move along. This area is closed off to the public for now. Grisly murders and all that." The guard was obviously not one to take any nonsense either. He already had one hand at the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Killing the guards was out of the question. It would only draw more unwanted attention, as well as make him a scapegoat for the old murders. Luckily, this too had been planned for.

"Worry not, good sir. I am merely here to recite some prayers for the dead." A smile crossed Ardam's lips. Simple lies were always the best. Especially the ones people would eagerly want to be true.

"Very well." The nameless guard responded, hand moving off his sword. "But be quick about it, and no funny stuff. I've got my eye on you." The guard returned to his post with a scowl. The necromancer nodded before moving to the spot of the murders.

"Now to get to work." Ardam mumbled to himself, dropping to a knee as if in prayer. Making sure his back was to any prying eyes, he slowly unbuttoned the front of his robe, revealing rotted flesh. Just as quickly, two small heads began to poke out from the man's ribcage. Ripping through the decayed skin, the heads of a worgen and demonic felhunter poked out, snorting at the air. "That's it, boys. Take it in. Take it all in." The heads proceeded to sniff the ground and all surroundings they could, any hint of what caused the murders. Any odd scents, magic or otherwise.

Another foray into the City, another interesting twist of events. How easy it is to bait the easily manipulated into their own undoing.

The night had begun quiet, until Ashlamar strode into the recluse.

The night ended in anger, suspicion, and distrust.

One of the traitorous Ebon Blade was behind bars. The ever so dutiful Orwyn had seen to that. What a wonderful tool Orwyn and the Watch was. The Law is always the perfect shield. It keeps the minor annoyances away.

Jenya is in the stocks, and he had almost secured a spot for the blasted Gnome, but the Pia Presidium's lackeys had intervened. Thinking they were out smarting the Scourgelord. How wrong they were. Their little farce had ended with nothing happening. It was well, though not as well as Ashlamar would have liked. What better way to bring down the church than to undermine it's staunchest supporters?

Ashlamar sat thinking on his chair, in his lair, the dank, dark cavern that he alone populated. For now...

He almost wished that the good Lt. Commander and his buffoon assistant Witheeis had arrested him for the Pia pawn's trick. He had missed a chance to destroy the "Good" and "Holy" Order's reputation. Surely conspiring to falsely imprison and defame an innocent man would do wonders to the Light cursed Order's prestige. No one would look the same at their "Holier than thou" heroes.

If their whitest of Knights would commit fraud, and stoop to petty personal attacks. What did that say about their superiors?

Ashlamar twirled the ball of shadowmagic around his fingers, leeching the little Light in cavern left. His eyes resting on the stolen tabards, considering his next move. Devaneaux was still a ripe target, as was the Terra Incognita. Choices choices...

Oh how Ashlamar loved choices...