World of Warcraft®

It is what it is. He hated phrases like this, phrases that allowed people to get away with being rude, inconsiderate or otherwise ignorant. Because to the Sin'Dorei, "it" rarely was "is". Nothing was ever so simple that it could be so stated.

The only light that illuminated the room came from a single candlestick on a well constructed desk. Truly if one examined the desk they would notice the scrollwork on the side, obvioulsy hand cut. The room itself was an office that bordered on a library. The walls were lined with locked cabinets, carefully constructed by their owner. The knowledge that ought not to be shared.

Behind the desk sat Trenetir Moradinal, a self made Sin'Dorei who regarded the ledger with studied care. They were short two shipments of supplies from Kalimdor. "No doubt thanks to the Kor'kron." He spoke to the darkness.

The ledger was easily pushed aside so that he could make way for the folio. The Royal Library was scrawled across the top of it. Trenetir eyed the name with obvious distaste before he opened. On top of a pile of notes, dispatches and dossiers sat an access card. He ran his fingers over its edges, the familiar sneer returning to his lips.

He flicked through the dossiers, Benoite Dawnsong: Archivist, Morgana Deschant: Guardian, Araaya Wrathbane: Arcanist, names and faces now well known to him. He lingered on each of the dossiers, some longer than others until he came across the Board of Directors. He flicked through the names, Avelora Morningray, Elarial Silversun, and there it was, a name that he knew and knew well: Graellius Dawnstrider.

Trenetir pulled out the dossier and read over it. The old man was still alive. Finally there was someone he could use.

The Sin'Dorei had been old when Trenetir was young, and the fact that he was still alive and now entangled in affairs of the Royal Library was not surprising. He had been one of the more demure men that Trenetir had seen associated with his late father.

Trenetir found him in the libary antechamber, he silently thanked Lady Dawnsong for the access pass that had garnered him admission to the Royal Library. "Ser Dawnstrider?"

Trenetir affected all the manners and civility that woudl endear him to the elderly Board member.

"Calastius?" Came an cracky voice from the elder Sin'Dorei. Trenetir looked behind him as if searching for another elf, using the opportunity to hide his smirk. His rouse was working.

"No, I am honored that you would see him in me, so few do, but then so few recall the days before our city was torn. No, forgive me, that is the ignorance of youth, they remember, but our people's attention has been turned elsewhere."

Graellius stepped forward, still upright and quick on his feet despite his age, and yet, his eyes were the first thing to go. He reached his wrinkled hand up to Trenetir's face, narrowing his gaze, "Yes, you have his guard."

"Thank you Ser Dawnstrider. I am honored that you would recall." The younger elf's eyes were alight with possibilities.

The old man stepped back, "What brings you to the library?"

The moment of truth. No. The moment of chance.

Trenetir held up his access card, "I am here for research whilst my paperwork is processed."

"Paperwork, Oh yes, Lady Dawnsong, she is ever diligent in defending the knowledge that we have been so blessed to guard and preserve for future generations."

"I believe that my father's estate had set aside funds that were meant to go to the Library but were confiscated to pay for my younger brother's commission if I recall."

"A donation? Yes, he spoke often of the importance of securing our heritage."

It could not be this simple.

"Yes, a donation, a sizable one." He paused, "To secure our heritage."

Where one door opened another closed. Trenetir examined the books in the library, under the dutifully watching eyes of the interns and other patrons. This would not suffice. He ran through the possibilities in his head, each less likely than the last.

The books are accounted for.

I could just switch one cover for the next and check it out.

This place stinks of magic.

No, there would too many questions and too much that would be all too easily drawn back to the Sin'Dorei. He pulled a book from a shelf, "An Abridged Treatise on Northrend Geology" and took it back to a table. He would have to be patient. Wasn't that the message from the Goblin? "Patience is a Virtue."

After several minutes he handed the book back to the intern, thanking them for their time.

Moragana strolled through the library, as part of her morning patrol. She looked over the shelves and casually chatted with the interns. Ever vigilant for signs of danger or sabotage. She grunted as she saw the Blood knight stroll past, like he owned the place.

The Sin'Dorei was seething, teeth and fist clenched, the correspondence crushed in one hand, a glass now smashed against the stone floor of his office with a CRASH! Wine pooled slowly around his feet. The crunch of the glass beneath booted foot was ignored as he sat back in his seat, the letter fallen to the floor like the glass.

Yet another setback. He had attempted to divert his shipments, avoiding the Barrens, to no avail. Wars cost money and this one was starting to cost him more than he could bare.

A book lay open on his desk, acquired with the aid of Ser Dawnstrider

While many have laid stock in transmutations to acquire more gold, few have seen true success with this method. The resulting products, such as Truegold, have been suitable for crafting but never took off as an alternate currency. Gold is Gold.

Believed to be crafted by the Titans or their early constructions, [blurred] is believed to be able to summon, or transport the purest of gold. Fortunately for modern economies, the existence of such an item is discredited as one of many myths.

Jacques-Markhal was the Inquisitor's man. This did and did not explain his presence at the door of Archivist Benoite Dawnsong’s office, holding a perfect peach in his hands.

Just ripe enough and wholly unmarred, the cloudy pink peach was a perfect specimen of summer. The fruit glowed from within. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he had beheld such a thing.

He knocked. He did. But he entered before she could sing the last note of her, “Do come in.” He bowed and sat down before she finished rising and affording him her curtsey, before she could finish saying, “Please, Mister Cutter, won’t you sit?”

He thrust the peach at her, the knuckles of his free hand cracking with anticipation. “For me?” she said.

She smiled at him.

As they chatted, he watched her bite into the fruit without a second thought that his hand had touched it--carried it here, all this way, for her. He watched, without a crude joke spared, a drop of nectar trailing from the corner of her lips, the flush of her her cheeks, her sheepish smile.

“We thought you were coming home,” he said.

“I beg pardon,” she said, dabbing at her mouth with one of her lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. Daisy must be buying them in bulk for her.

“A colleague became poorly during Miss Fizzlesprocket’s fundraiser.”

Jacques-Markhal canted his head like this was news, like he didn’t know about the bleeding heart death knight, like he didn’t know about Firehand, or the latest--the proudest sort of aristocrat. He had witnessed, thrice now, the latter laying a hand on the archivist, tilting her chin towards him like she was a thing meant to be moved.

He grazed the pad of his thumb along the cuff of his shirt. The most accessible of his blades.

At last their talk drifted to weather and again of the Snipes who pined. It was time to take his leave. She had finished her peach. He watched her set down the glistening pit in the nest of her handkerchief.

“I’m afraid I must check in on the colleague I mentioned. It was so lovely to catch up, Mister Cutter. Such a treat--and the peach as well.”

She smiled.

Jacques-Markhal was the Inquisitor's man. This did and did not explain his return alone to her office, only moments after their departure. He picked up that peach pit, still wet and warm from the sunlight that filled her small office.

He tucked the thing swiftly--but gently--into his breast pocket, a small hard heart where his flesh and blood one might have been, once. He spared a glance for the papers on the Archivist’s desk. Request forms for certain texts and a familiar name upon them: Trenetir Moradinel. The splintering of bone filled the room as Jacques-Markhal cracked his knuckles.

Live and let live, they said.

Time.

It could be a friend, a companion, an ally. Or a cruel mistress.

Trenetir would give half of his fortune for the former. No, a quarter of it. Money mattered. He learned that early on.

Her once flowing hair was now cut short. Gone was the familiar shimmer that he had come to know as he looked up at his mother, her face was pale, the coins would pay for a meal or two and then they would be back where they started.

"Your father did this to us." She reminded him. "What a fool I was..."

He shoved the memory down.

Turning his attention to the task at hand, Trenetir Moradinel shuffled the papers around, bills of lading, orders, requests for documents that he needed to fill out. His desk an uncharacteristic mess. Emerald eyes danced behind his own as he blinked, that intoxicating voice lingered.

He drew up the order, "Gore!" He called to the Orc who lingered in the next room. "Take this to Kes. Now." With disgust he poured himself a drink, eyeing the amber liquid as if it had been the thing that had offended him.

Trenetir turned to the window, through which there was a view, not of the red city that he loved, but of the fallen city, that which had been lost.

---

Shadows were his ally. The wards were easily surpassed, silently he slipped through the window of the office. Cloaked in leather he drifted from one shadow to the next, behind the bookcase, and then the desk. It was most likely on the desk: the log book.

That is when he heard it: the low whir and hum of Gideon, Benoite's companion. The robot moved slowly, approaching the intruder, the beeping sound growing louder.

A flash of light! And Gideon turned around, disoriented, his sensors thrown off as it attempts to right itself it runs into the desk with a loud THUNK! The beeping is now louder, loud enough to be heard in the next room. The intruder searches frantically, Record books, a calendar, but no log book. There was nothing to be done.

Gideon, the mechanical companion, attempted to find the intruder, crashing roughly into the desk, the bookcase, the chair, until it fell over again, incapacitated from the physical damage.

The shadows were his ally, as the door to the office opened, the intruder was gone.

That gnawing feeling in the back of his head had grown stronger with each passing day. Trenetir retraced his actions, his path, it was set and there was naught to be done to stray from it this evening. The excitement was palpable. It surged through his veins, his heart racing as he read through the recent reports.

The Golden Eagle was delayed again in Bilgewater Harbor and would not return until next week. No matter, the shipment of wool was not urgent, not like the shipment from the south.

Trenetir leaned back in his seat, the familiar sound of the workers was but a low hum that he ignored. Now was the hour of waiting: the test of patience and of resolve.

Despite the advances in magic and technology, sea travel would always be a hazardous and tumultuous thing. Storms, natural and otherwise, could gather upon an unsuspecting and unprepared crew. Malnutrition, heat stroke, mutiny. The common threats.

Pirates.

The Bell's Heel pirates flew Harbor merchant flags, that's how they would get you. Close range, friendly faces waving and net-fulls of fruit and goods brandished overhead.

Then the mast-breaker would fire and ocean hell would follow.

Take everything. Chill them all. A bounty of gold, of supplies. Of desirable flesh. The pretty ones would keep the crew sated enough, until they could be sold off to the slavers. What was left of them, at least. Girls and men alike lit the barren sky with their screams.

It would seem Trenetir Moradinel's precious shipment would be delayed, permanently.

~~

With a breath of thanks and the familiar slant of his shoulders, he stepped out of the bakery and down the square. The brown, paper bag was loaded with more bagels and baguettes than seemed proportionately sound. He shifted it from hand to hand as he went, before settling upon hugging it to himself like a pre-teen with her dollie. With her savory-smelling, fresh-baked dollie.

A pair of boots materialized beside him, tiny cat-bells jingling with each step.

"Stormy weather we've gotten, hey me'ser?" The voice was as ragged and sun tanned as the elf who spoke. He was a shorter fellow. Liore had first assumed he was old, but a closer look revealed he was a younger man, who must have lived a brutal and fast life.

There wasn't a single cloud in the Silvermoon sky.

"A downpour, clearly." They walked on.

"Caught us a turtle, we dids. Big one."

Liore Bloodwing coiled his imperious blonde brow, glancing poisonously over the mound in his arms. "A barque turtle?"

Sunburn ran his tongue over his silver teeth. "A trireme turtle."

"And?"

"Took some pryin, but we got its shell off."

The pair stopped, to allow a mistress with her flock of pre-academy students across the street. Shifting to accommodate his bag, the Inquisitor found a pastry for each of them.

"Inform your captain that he is to maintain his vigil. You know which ships to watch for, mm?"

Sunburn grunted. The boys, himself included, weren't privy to the idea of being privateered like this, least of all by an Inquisitor. It took a degree of mutual trust, that one party would not abruptly try to hang the other. At least things were never boring. And the pay was -great-. Worth letting the little fishes swim on by, unmolested.

"Aye aye, me'ser."

"Brilliant. Now get."

Sunburn cackled and scrambled off. A bagle spun circles around one of his salt-worn fingers.

Sleep eluded him, the distractions were just that, distractions. Rotters, women, how was it that his attention had been divided? He paced the small room, it was little more than a cell: a simple bed, a night stand, and a window, always a window that faced West. The only light in the room came from a small lantern, turned up just enough to allow its shadows to dance wickedly on the wall.

It would not happen here, nor at his shop, he could not risk it, they would be watching. He felt their eyes upon him always, so much so that he looked around his small room wondering if there was someone there. But no one was. No one ever was.

From within the nightstand came a parchment and quill, to which words were quickly scratched. The sun was barely up, but once again in the city, his city, he felt his blood quicken, he would have the book before the day was up.

Ser Dawnstrider would be displeased. This lone regret was one that was easily shoved down.

Rumors are a funny thing. One word, one whisper falling haphazardly upon the perked ears of another spreads like wildfire with equal destruction and fury. Auraelith was eternally grateful that these were flying about like pollen as she strolled through the glistening streets of her city. So much useful information all neatly folded into letters silently delivered through hushed tones and sealed with a wink.

Years spent slithering into the shadows like a street-savvy feline had it's uses, but it seemed that being invisible, much like ignorance, was blissful....and drawl. This had to change, and it was about to.

She made her way to the Wayfarer's Rest Tavern, her enigmatic grin gracing her lips as she regarded each passerby. Confusing some and haunting others, those who dared respond with a polite nod remained intrigued or regretting the contact they had just made with the picturesque woman. There was never a middle ground. She liked it that way.

Swaggering to the bar, her 'breakfast' this day would be a bottle of Dalaran Red specially imported for the mistress herself. Rarthein approached her as she settled onto her usual perch, the city's ever-faithful supplier's work-hardened hands expertly uncorking the bottle, pouring her a tall glass. He watched her thoughtfully, shamlessly admiring her form as he had done each morning for a few years now.

“You seem oddly pleased with yourself this morning, my lady,” He hesitated before completing his thought, placing the bottle down on the counter knowing she'd make good use of it in the next hour or so. “Safe to assume something or someone has finally had fortune -or misfortune- of the cachting that eye of yours?”

She simply smirked, lifting the glass to her parted lips, savoring the elixir as it slid down her throat. She watched the ruddy elf posture himself handsomely in the low light of the tavern as he set about his business awaiting her reply, his tanned and toned biceps a feast of their own for her perpetually ravenous eyes.

“Something like that...” Her voice dripped from her parted lips like honey, equally sweet, sticky, and irresistable.

Rarthein masked his sudden uneasiness with a dashing smile as he hoisted a keg atop his shoulder and looked into her poison green eyes. “Poor fools.” He knew better.

Auraelith savored his exit as much as his entrance, swallowing another delicate sip of her 'breakfast.' She was far overdue for a meeting with chaos and their date lingered on the horizon, drawing nearer each moment.

Gezelda fiddled around in the kitchen of the wayfarers in, grabbing that cup of sugar that she was burrowing. As she dusted off her hands and looked around she spotted Rarthein carrying a keg into the kitchen he grunted as he set it down. "Miss Fizzlesprocket, you find all you need!?"

"Yeah, just the sugar, thanks! I've been workin on this new bunt cake recipe and I can't believe I ran outta sugar! You're a lifesaver!" She sniffed and looked over to the wine rack "hey...Didn't you just serve Miss Aura her special wine?"

"Uh yeah, why'd you ask" Rarthein said, eyes darting to the rack noticing the bottle of red as well.

"I...I think you might've given her one of my ipecacs..."

Suddenly, in the kitchen of Wayfarer’s, a crate of lettuce exploded. Out burst… a goblin! A goblin with guns. Big, flame-shooting guns a'blazing.

"Awwwwwwwlright now, y'all murloc-porkers, stick'em up! This here's a robbery!" The masked goblin fired twin streams of white hot flames towards the ceiling. Bivanx Josephine Kisskate made for one heck of a vision in steel-spurred boots and a hat that could double as a bucket.

On cue, an oily black baby t-rex burst forth from a barrel of onions, roaring thunderously. The creature’s name was Slither. He was her most constant companion.

A dark patch blossomed over the crotch of Innkeeper Rarthein’s silk trousers. Bivanx threw back her head and laughed in bellowing hoots. She pushed down her mask and winked at the meaty but daft Sin’dorei. “No need to piddle, darlin! Just kiddin’ ya.”

Bivanx blew on the barrels of her guns before holstering them with a twirll. “The fast finger life is alllll behind me now. Mostly. Still quick at the trigger, I do declare. Now, where’s my Gezgirl? I didn’t come all this way to leave without some chicken lard soup!”

At the sight of Gezelda Fizzlesprocket, Bivanx slapped her knee. "Gezgirl! There you are! How the devil you been? I reckon you been missin’ me somethin’ fierce! How’s about a kiss for your ol’ pal Bivanx!”

Bivanx swept Gezelda into her arms and dipped her daintily, planting a wet one smack dab on her lips. “My pa always says, the experience of the sublime is an apt descriptor for a meridional dialect!"

The self-proclaimed The Bombest Dinomancer of Azeroth grinned from ear to hear. Bivanx slung her thickly muscled arm over the smaller goblin’s shoulders. "Which must mean that to hear my voice again must be right music for your pretty little floppy ears. So, about that chicken lard stew..."

Bivanx spun Gez to face her. “Say. You’re lookin’ a little pale! What’s eating you, sug’? Some customer givin’ ya belly achin’? Need me to tenderize ‘em?” Bivanx strolled to the doorway of the kitchen and swept her gaze over the nearly empty bar.

“Is it Hotties Tatties over there? Cruisin’ and boozin’ not a blink after sunrise! Now that’s my kinda classy broad!” Bivanx removed her hat and tucked it under her arm. “How’s my hair? Do I got anythin’ in my teeth?”

Gezelda Stared in amazement and shock. She couldn't hardly able to believe what she was seeing. As Biv swept her off her feet and planted a smackero on her, she was barely able to squeak a hello. Eventually she was able to gather her thoughts she finally babbled out "Biv! Where've you been!? Last I heard you were in that tight spot in Arathi Basin!" She looked around at the kitchen reaching out to stop her from causing too much of a scene. "wait! This isn't my place! Don't get me in too much trouble!"

By order of Grand Magister Rommath you are hereby confined to the city of SIlvermoon due to an ongoing investigation by the Silvermoon Magistrate regarding suspicious activity performed.

Due to the confidential nature of these events, I am not permitted to include any more details.

I assure you, if you make any attempt to contact any member of the Magistrate during this investigation, or are found to be attempting to leave the city for any reason, you will be reprimanded severely.

I assure you this remains but a precaution. Should the situation escalate, you will receive a court-issued warrant and will be required to attend a hearing.

Glory to the Sin'Dorei

-The signature that follows appears to be identical to the Grand Master's. It is sealed with the Magister's own wax seal-

Livid. That was putting things nicely. He was a volcano, not a shield volcano with lava seeping regularly from the low sloping walls of his vents. He was a composite volcano, with pyroclastic flows destroying all in their path, his noxious gas suffocating those who got in his way.

The messenger had been away before he could react to what he read, and all the better for the messenger, he would not know the ramifications of the parchment which he had just placed into the hands of the volcano.

None were free from his ire, from the rocks, lava and gas that spewed from his body.

When the eruption had stopped, none breathed, save the Sin'Dorei who sat slumped in a corner, his desk and chair long gone.

Gone were the boxes, stacked in neat stacks; tattered scraps remained.

Gone were the leper gnomes who had sewn at the looms, their last breath consumed by his eruption; their fallen forms scattered throughout the workshop.

Gone was his desk, once neatly stacked with orders, receipts and coins; now a burning heap.

Tendrils of red, grey, and ash stirred around the sunken form of the Sin'Dorei, the Volcano that waited to erupt again, to consume those who had held him back.

Busy night. Bodies milling everywhere. The press was tight, but the young man knew the flow like the back of his own heart. Jig here, step there. Nobody was the wiser. Gas lamps overhead trickled upon him a hazy plume of flickering light. His cloak scattered it like golden leaves.

Unnoticed, unseen. A nobody in a tide of nobodies. Beyond the square, through the courtyard. A hand up against the broad back of an evening reveler, automatically guiding it elsewhere. A girl pressed to him, apologized. He smiled plainly, but kept his stride.

Up the chiseled steps of the stairs, two at a time. The silvered moon cut a wedge out of the blanket of grinning stars. Out in the open, more city folk. Noisy, ignorant. Living their lives. Not a care in their heads. Not an inkling of the death that rushed to meet them.

Passed the benches. He tugged his cowl over the lean crags of his harsh face, and he did not break his stride.

"The noose is taut."

A whisper as still as the forest. Delivered with the same pace his leather boots set. In a blink, the agent was gone. A nobody in a tide of nobodies.

Something detached from the wooden bench. Sparked a light off a fingertip and exhaled a thin ribbon of pale green smoke. A black-gloved hand swept back an unruly strand of blonde, cut unfashionably short. He turned his back to the courtyard and stalked away into the night, satisfied that his patience would soon enough be rewarded.

Tick. Tock

One would not know that there had been an explosion of historic proportions within the office should they wander upon it, however it was much changed from the last time anyone save Trenetir had stepped foot in it.

Dark trappings lined the wall, the crest of House Sunwarden: a red sun rising behind a black shield, now adorned the walls. No longer did the room fill with the soft echo of workers, instead their hum was replaced by the drone of music, coming from somewhere. The music itself seemed otherworldly in nature.

And yet, there was production, Sin'Dorei worked in one corner of the large room, no sound leaving their lips save to ask for a thread, or a shear. While they did not appear dejected, neither did they appear very thrilled at their current task. They were much more suited for a livelier atmosphere.

Within the center of the room, he sat, not brooding, not seething, but flourishing. By all rites he should be broken, disheartened and pulling out his hair, not seeing to orders coming and going.

"Two hundred bolts to Thunder Bluff, yes, The Golden Eagle will arrive within a few days, and we expect a quick turn around."

He spoke to a messenger, accepting the order in trade for a bill.

Bad news traveled slowly. The worst, the slowest of them all.

Something had changed. He threw himself into his work, dispatching the quicker orders with whatever supply he could buy up. "Meri! Another three hundred bolts of wool, yes it's itchy, no I don't care for the cost just get it."

The younger elf quickly scrambled from the room, off to the bazaar now doubt. Trenetir watched him leave, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a smile, was that a smile? Perhaps a smirk, either way the look was quite off putting.

Borrowed Time.

The messenger lingered at the door, raising his hand to knock, but the knuckle never hit wood. No, it dropped again as a furtive glance was given this way and that, praying that someone would come along and prevent him from the course of action he was set upon. But luck was not on his side, just as it was not on his side when the task fell to him to play the role of messenger.

There was nothing truly remarkable about Merithel, or Meri as he was oft called. And while he appeared most times to be a willing and able worker, today he was not. Finally the knuckle hit the wood, three times. Those three knocks were like gunshots in the night.

A raspy voice broke the silence that ensued. "Enter"

Prayers flashed through Meri's mind as he drew open the small room. It always struck him as odd, that one of such means and stature would choose to abide in such a small room. The only light that filtered into the room came from the moon which was now setting.

"I have news Ser." Meri's voice cracked. He had seen the bloodshed that had consumed his master following the last bit of bad news and was not keen to lose his life this night.

Trenetir merely stared at the man, his eyes bright in the darkness.

Meri gulped hard. "The Golden Eagle, it will not be arriving tomorow."

"You woke me up, to tell me of a delay?" His tone did nothing to hide his annoyance.

Meri shifted about, looking anywhere but at Trenetir, "She's been destroyed Ser. Every man killed, the shipment gone, the slaves gone," his voice cracked again, "It's all gone."

Trenetir was silent, taking slow measured breaths. "Go." The volcano within him stirred. Meri did not need telling twice and with a quick movement was gone from the room.

The low rumble; the shaking building.

Forged of the finest steel and emblazoned with the crest of House Sunwarden: A sun behind a shield, this weapon was the one thing that Trenetir Moradinel loved. He loved this sword as one would an old friend, trusted and true, never faulting, always giving. He loved this sword as one would their own blood, their own brother. In a moment of honesty it would be admitted that he loved the sword more than his own brother.

How could a piece of steel bring out such affection and care in one who was usually filled with spite, hate and malice? It was the only gift from his father: Calastius Sunwarden, Lord of their House and now long dead. Trenetir was never publicly acknowledged, and thus forever the bastard.

"Things are not so simple my son." The elder Sunwarden told his son, barely old enough to be considered an -adult-.

Trenetir saw only the blind ignorance and rage that consumed youth, "HE should not be the one to inherit. I am the eldest. It is MY right."

"That is not our way. His mother is my wife, by all rites and responsibilities, HE is the first born."

He seethed, or was that pouting?

Calastius motioned for his son to take a knee. "Things in life are difficult, and it is not always easy to do the right thing, and sometimes, you cannot do the right thing." He withdrew his sword from its scabbard and handed it to Trenetir, "You cannot have my name, but you may wield my sword. It has served me well these last years, and your grandfather before me."

His gaze examined the blade, the blade that he would come to trust with his own life. The blade that he loved, as his father never loved him. And it was gone. Taken...by her: Elre Stormsong. She was not the only one to blame, there was also the matter of the Death Knight, the thought of whom caused his head to ring again.

And yet, the treachery did not start there. No, it began with a file, written in Merithel's hand. The elf would have to die.