World of Warcraft®

[[This is the start of an open rp storyline that will span the next several months. It is open to horde members as well. Please contact me in game or a friend - CorruptedOne(hordeside) if you have any questions.]]

The low hiss and sharp clank of something inhuman moved throughout the ancient vault. A deep THUNK, followed by the grainy sound of metal dragging on stone, the latter obviously heavy enough to gouge into the ancient surface. The long forgotten servant of the Pantheon rolled along the unlit corridors, it's only company were rats and spiders, those creatures who had long forgotten the sight of day, the feel of the sun upon their flesh or bodies. The rough scratching echoed off the stone halls.

The whirring of gears, the source of the hissing was now known, boiling water circulated through bronze tubing, steam erupting from the servant of the Avenger. What sounded like muttering, but was truly just the mechanical whizzing and whirring of the servant sent the creatures of the dark skittering as it dragged the artifact behind it. The servant, barely the height of a gnome, had eyes of malachite that created untold stories on the walls.

Deeper and deeper the servant moved, the weight of the artifact holding it back, slowing its progress, until finally, unable to reach its final destination, the servant of the Avenger falters. The gears grind against each other, the steam spews forth abruptly and eventually stops as the servant slouches over, unable to complete its final task.

Time.... passes....

And has forgotten the servant of the Avenger, and the artifact it was tasked with safeguarding. Rust has taken most of it's gears, the corrosion from the last bit of water fueling the deterioration of the Titan creation.

And yet, the artifact hummed, it's light unseen by any but vermin.

-----
He read it and read it again,

One of the last arms of the vindicator,
Time and men have forgotten,
The cold wastes have not.

Calis Thomason was not a man of many words, he was a man of excessive words and excessive lists. When he came across this notation, scrawled in what appeared to be a combination of dwarvish and gnomish. It seemed as if the one who wrote it had not been fully fluent with either language. "I'll have to have them look at this." He set the book aside. The book itself wasn't anything of note: An abridged history of Khaz Modan, though the words scrawled in the margin appeared older than the text itself.

And so, Calis added this to one of many lists.

((Edits for missing italics where needed))

Calis Thomason, the Dispatcher of Conclave, or as his fellows cursed him behind his back, list facist sat in his office, reviewing the three lines that were, now that he had spent days reflecting upon them, written on purpose. But to ascertain the true meaning of the words, he must delve further into the translations as they knew them.

Even if he had not been absorbed in his work he would have heard the calculated footsteps of his wife, Sathrasa. Yes, he had become used to her sneaking up on him, and he'd finally stopped jumping when she did.

"The usual work alongside the Conclave, I take it?"

Thomason nodded, "Yes, but there's something odd about this book that I stumbled upon."

Sathrasa raises a brow at the man "Mmm? Odd how?"

Thomason handed her the book, "It's this notation here. I've cross referenced it time and again and it .. has me very confused."

Sathrasa takes the book, eyeing the tome curiously, sea blue eyes scanning along the text and the notation." She shrugs idly after reading through it "So something about an old clock in winter or something? No idea, love, sounds like some kind of bloody riddle one of those gnomes would throw out."

"But this" He pointed to the first line, "Isn't Gnomish" "Neither is this... " He pointed to the last word of the last line.

Sathrasa eyes the two lines with a frown, nodding slowly "Why the fel would someone switch languages mid thought?"

"I haven't figured that out. "

"Maybe someone didn't want it read, or it was one of those cultist bastards who spat out some foolish "prophecy" while they were dying. Sathrasa shrugs idly at that "They tend to do that."

"I'm not sure but have you looked at this book? It's rather new isn't it?"
Sathrasa eyes the book with a thoughtful frown, turning over the tome curiously "Where did you findit, anyway?"

"I was doing a much needed inventory, both Goggles and Tahlyn have been slacking in their duties as librarians, and with the constant influx of scrolls and tomes from pandaria it is necessary that we are up to date."

"And what, this was somehow stuck somewhere in the middle of two books with no record of being brought in?"

"No, that's the thing Sath, it's been here.. all this time... "

Sathrasa looks back to the book, folding her arms with a sigh "So why is it interesting now? Surely you would've found something out on it when it was here beforehand, hm? Unless someone wrote in it without your knowledge?"

Thomason smiled playfully at his wife, "I'm thorough, but even I have not read every book that we posses."

"Shocking." Sathrasa offers a playful grin at the man, elbowing him softly "So what do you intend to do then?"

Thomason smiles wide, his eyes lighting up as he pulls out a piece of parchment, rolled tight and bound with a bronze coil. He was waiting for this question, list in hand. "Go ahead." He offered it to her.

Sathrasa gently facepalms, letting out a heavy sigh before taking the parchment with a coy smirk, muttering something about "nether blasted lists" and rolling the coil off, reading over the parchment.

It was one of his typical lists, that started with "Analyze handwriting. Research known crossover dialects.... " and ended with "Problem solved ..." some 1,754 steps later. Each step was enumerated in Calis' tiny perfect handwriting.

Sathrasa briefly looks over the parchment before gently setting it down and patting her husband's shoulder "Love..." She simply chuckles, finding the whole thing amusing.
Thomason smiled at her, "Yes? You see how it'll work, right?"

"I do, love. You're nothing if not thorough."

----
Hummmmmmm The heartbeat of the artifact was slow, rhythmic, a steady pulse, the light within the artifact glowing with each beat. A sharp click echoed throughout the cavern as if an unseen timer had gone off. The artifact opened, the darkness in the cavern eradicated by the blue light from the artifact.

The servant never made it to the deepest point of the vault, that place where the artifact would be neglected, neutralized, and forgotten with time. Its mechanical guide had given out, its gears now seized up, the light behind malachite eyes burned no longer and the only light in the cavern was that from the artifact itself. With the passing of time dust has failed to dim the light of the artifact, which could now be seen, though only by the pests which occupied the cavern.

While the cavern itself was wide enough to allow two carts to pass through with ease, and the ceiling could scarcely be made out, the Artifact took up half of the cavern path in both height and width. The outer casing was hewn stone, appearing to be carved from within the depths of Azeroth, the fittings and outer hardware were cast in bronze, their patina a soft green after untold years in the damp caverns. And from within the open casket, if it could be called a casket, the true power behind the Artifact cast the underground path in its sickly glow.

The light pulsed, its heartbeat now echoed in both light and sound, the low droning slow at first, then increasing ever so slowly. The increase in tempo was so slight that one would not notice it unless they spent hours or even days watching the artifact, though who amongst the rodents and spiders would see it and know to take notice of it. With this increase, the artifact begged to be seen, to be touched by flesh and yet who would know to find it? To search for it.

They would, now that it was open, the messages would appear in more frequency, luring the curious and foolhardy all the same. It mattered not who came, only that someone did, so that the Artifact could finish the work of the Avenger.

----

The following writings (each individual stanza) would appear in books at random throughout Kalimdor, the Eastern Kingdoms, and Northrend. The text, languages, and ink, appear somehow older than the books and scrolls themselves.

One of the last arms of the vindicator,
Time and men have forgotten,
The cold wastes have not.

The Eredar were the first,
I was to be the last,
The work is unfinished.

Crafted of Azeroth herself,
Her last defense,
May also sew destruction for her enemies.

The work of the last is not yet done

The Eredar were the first,
I was to be the last,
The work is unfinished

Crafted of Azeroth herself,
Her last defense,
May also sew destruction for her enemies.

Mazuru Baleblade's breath left in a rasp when his eyes passed over the completely out-of-place passage. Out-of-place, because the well-worn pages of the grimoire were as an old friend to the aged blade master, and he'd never laid eyes on it before.

"Eredar, eh?"

The old Orc chuckled to the warm, dead air in Hellfire Penninsula.

"It seems high time the Burning Blade returned to Azeroth. Fate demands it!"

Another book had been found, brought to Conclave by Gno'Jin, he claimed it came from Feralas, the far ends of Kalimdor. To Genevra, whatever this was, was spreading like a plague. Unfortunately for them, when Gno'Jin, that shy little gnome met up with the search party in Stars' Rest, there were none amongst them who could translate the text. The group had no choice but to continue on and hope that the answers they sought would be quick in coming.

The trek through Dragonblight was uneventful, aside from the awe that quickly struck the curious Gnome. Genevra and Lily did their best to maintain the course to the north, knowing the trek to the library would be longer still, the trio stopped to rest on the banks of the river in Crystalsong Forest. Hopefully there allies were not too far behind.

Genevra sat on the banks of the river, idly listening to the banter between Gno'Jin and Lily. She'd brought a handful of books with them on their journey, and those coupled with the newest addition were spread out before her. She squinted at the foreign writing, cursing herself for not learning the ancient tongues. No matter how she looked at it, she could not see a connection.

---
Within the forgotten cavern, the pulsing beat of the artifact echoed off the stone walls. A crack in the wall, small at first, but growing now, the artifact would be found, one way or another.

The old gnome finished reading his letters, orders for more fish!, and returned his attention to the pile of iron lockboxes that were piled up high in the middle of his pacing space. Taking back up the spanner he had dropped, he knelt down next to the Twenty-Fifth and final box he had lugged up the stairs.

Cail worked the lock patiently for a moment. Patience swiftly fading, he twisted the spanner this way and that, jarring the box, jamming the spanner between seams and small crevasses until finally he stood and began kicking the tool as it was wedged beneath the lid. Sims scrambled up behind, unbeknownst to Cail, and extended a small probe into the lock.

Just as Cail brought his full weight, which increased exponentially by his rate of descent multiplied by the arc at which he propelled himself, all of which made even greater by his expressed determination....

"HEYAAAAAAA!!"

...Sims popped the latch.

The old gnome hit the spanner with full force, popping the lid open with nearly an explosion, and continued straight to the floor with a thud. The spanner flew across the room with a deadly spin and buried itself into the wall just above his cot.

After a moment, Cail gathered himself off the floor and peered into the open box. "Oh my." With wide eyes he reached in and pulled out a folded parchment. "There must be dozens of them."

Bryan called up from the shop below. "Is everything alright up there?"

"Yes! Pardon the noise, I was prying open one of these locked boxes!"

Bryan came to the foot of the stairs. "Not to worry, Ducky. It's been a long time since I've had such excitement in this place. Did you find anything interesting?"

Cail unfolded the parchment carefully, noting its tender condition. "Immensely so." He read but the ink scrawls made no sense.

"Any treasure?" Came again the voice from below.

"No. At least not the treasure I'm sure you mean." He paused to peer below with a reassuring grin. "But fear not. Whatever riches I may find will be shared with you, my boy."

----------

He returned to the mysterious lettering. It seemed as though the letters were written recently, but by the texture of the parchment this letter had to have been sealed away for some time. The lock box having been lost to the deep off the shores of Stranglethorn Vale.

Cail pulled on his modified pair of Gnomish Goggles. He studied the grains and filaments of the parchment under much greater magnification, which confirmed his hypothesis. The parchment was indeed old. He called to Sims.

The mechanized squirrel skittered up onto the work table. "Illuminate this page with black light." He placed the paper flat on the table. Sims eyes changed color and glowed a purple hue as it focused on the page. Faint remnants of what was originally written on the parchment revealed itself. "Just as I thought." The old gnome nodded to Sims.

"The parchment is indeed old, and though they are dry now, and brittle I might add, these were once submerged in saltwater for a fair amount of time. That lockbox wasn't sealed as tightly as I had hoped." Sims chirped its understanding.

"The original ink text is faded and all but invisible to the naked eye. This ink here was recently scrawled as evidenced by the lack of degradation to its line." The Gnomish Goggles zoom closer, magnifying the ink lines. "It appears as if these markings have only just dried, they appear so fresh."

Cail stroked his beard as he pondered on the findings. "Fascinatingly curious." He jumped up with a surprising zeal, startling his mechanical companion. Sims lost his balance and fell from the table.

"I must take this to Gen at once!"

Power. Such a simple word with implications that are rarely simple. Trenetir had seen what man and elf would do for power, and rarely did it end well for those involved. But he was different, or so he told himself, much like many others who dove into the race for power, he labored under delusions that he would be different, that he would be the one to prove them wrong, and that they would be the ones to suffer.

And what had his quest for power gotten him? Unconscious and at the hands of meddling Alliance, just when he had been on the brink of locating the weapon, for that is what it was: The Last Arm of the Vindicator.