World of Warcraft®

“I figure we can take an hour or so to rest properly, and then make our way to Gilneas. We’re nearly there.”

“How generous,” Aloyseus said, a ghost of a smirk on his face. Finnaeus expected him to slide down from the horse, but instead he leaned forward. “You were supposed to wake me when we arrived in Lordaeron.”

“I was too busy marveling at your ability to sleep on a horse. And you needed the rest.”

“And you didn’t?”

Finnaeus didn’t answer that question. True, his whole body yearned for a bit of recuperation. But he never actually needed sleep. He could spend whole nights awake, tilling in the fields or doing some maintenance work around the farm. His mother would chastise him for forsaking sleep, but his father encouraged it. Said it spoke of Finn’s strong work ethic and dedication to duty. And his strength.

“I’m fine,” Finnaeus said.

“Sure,” Aloyseus said. “The rest of the world needs sleep, but you don’t.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t need it. Just that I’m fine.”

“Father would be proud,” Aloyseus responded. This was one of the constant jabs that his brother struck him with, usually with a bit of mirth. Finnaeus noted, however, the difference in tone this time. Perhaps it was because his brother was so tired, but there was no lightheartedness about the way he mentioned their father. Nor was there any humor in his face when Finnaeus turned to look at him. He thought to question it, but he let it slide, and instead set about tying his horse to a nearby tree.

“You should let her rest,” Finnaeus said, nodding to Aloyseus’s horse. “She’s been carrying you a long way.”

“That she has,” Aloyseus said, patting the horse in the side. “But she’ll be doing a fair bit more before she can truly rest.”

“We’re not that far away,” Finnaeus corrected him. “And even still, she’s exhausted like the rest of us.”

“I think you underestimate her,”Aloyseus said. “She’s got a while to go yet before she gives out.”

“Are you going to ride her to death?”

“Of course not,” Aloyseus said. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then let her rest.”

But his brother did not dismount from the horse. Finnaeus raised an eyebrow at him.

“What’s with the look?” Aloyseus asked, a curiously neutral expression on his face. Finnaeus could usually read his brother like a book.

“You’re acting strange.”

“Am I?” he asked. “How so?”

“Are you so eager to get home that you won’t take a moment to rest?” Finnaeus asked.

“Let me answer your question, Finn, by asking you one: why didn’t you wake me when we reached Lordaeron like I asked you to?”

“I told you,” Finnaeus said. “I thought you could use the rest.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That’s not all of it,” Aloyseus said. “Why didn’t you?”

Finnaeus sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Why’ was the first word Aloyseus learned, Finnaeus was sure of it. His brother was always asking it, always demanding an explanation for this or for that. It drove their father crazy. And, by extension, everyone else crazy.

“I don’t know how to answer your question,” Finnaeus said.

“Ok,” Aloyseus said. “Let me help you. The answer is in that letter you have from father.”

“What does he have to do with-”

Aloyseus laughed, but it was the first time that Finnaeus ever heard him give a laugh that wasn’t birthed from genuine amusement. It was cold, hollow.

“You didn’t wake me because you’re trying to get me home.”

Finnaeus looked at his brother. They had this argument before. At least three other times this came up. Each time Finnaeus was sure that the matter was settled.

“You’re coming home,” Finnaeus said.

“You know I’m not,” Aloyseus said. “And you know that just because we’re near Ambermill doesn’t mean I’m not going to turn this horse around and go the opposite direction to Capital City.”

“You’re not going to Capital City,” Finnaeus said, taking a leather skin of water from his horse and swallowing a sip. “You’re coming home.”

“It’s a good thing that you don’t control what I do,” Aloyseus responded. There was a light in his eyes again, shining through his exhaustion. He was alit with that fervor that only an idealist could muster.

“I don’t know why you can’t just come home and then leave to do whatever you feel you need to do,” Finnaeus said.

“You know as well as I do that if I took a step into that house you’re so eager to get back to that father would never let me leave.”

Finnaeus didn’t have a response to that. He loved his father - that was undeniable. But the man was stern, unyielding, and did not compromise. Aloyseus inherited that trait from him, and the two had epic confrontations about the smallest of things, simply because neither wanted to yield to the wishes and demands of the other. But his father, their elder, never lost those debates. Never.

“For good reason,” Finnaeus said. “He wants you to be safe.”

“Safety is the least of his concerns, you know that too,” Aloyseus said. “What did the letter say?”

“Why are you asking if you already know?”

“Because I want you to say the words out loud,” Aloyseus responded. Finnaeus stared at his brother, frustration finally blossoming. He did not want to fight with his brother. Not after what was behind them.

“There’s no point in reading it out loud if you know.”

“You’re so loyal,” Aloyseus said. “The only reason he wants us back is because he’s so Gilnean I’m surprised he doesn’t wear the flag as breeches. He wants us back because the rest of the nation wants to withdraw from the Alliance. You know it, I know it.”

“So what?” Finnaeus asked. “Why is it so important to you?”

“How can it not be important to you?” Aloyseus asked, his incredulity passionate and genuine.

“I have no interest in politics,” Finnaeus said, waving his hand.

“This isn’t about politics,” Aloyseus said, the excitement in him so strong that he was fidgeting atop the horse. “How, after going to war with these other nations, to save the very kingdoms we hold so dear, can you go back to being a lone wolf? The world is grand, big and vast, full of troubles that we can help with. We can rebuild, we can support. We have a responsibility –”

“To do our duty,” Finnaeus finished for him. “We were supposed to fight in the war. We did. The Horde is defeated, the kingdoms safe. We’ve done our duty. Now we go home, back to the lives we had before all of this.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Finnaeus,” Aloyseus said. “There is no going backwards. We can’t go back to a world where we go one way and the other kingdoms follow suit and go to their own. The world is too big and full of danger to do that. We are better united, as a team!”

“There is no more danger. The Horde –”

“Is only one threat. We never knew it existed before they came through the portal. Who knows what else is out there? What if there are more? What if something else comes? And what of the people who are suffering now, because their lands were sacked and pillaged. Do they not deserve our sympathy? Our aid? It is only right that we, who are more fortunate, help those that are not!”

“That’s not for us to decide,” Finnaeus snapped back, betraying his own impatience. “We were instructed to go, and then to come back.”

“And you always do what you’re instructed to do?”

Finnaeus narrowed his eyes.

“What of home, Al? What of our family? What of that? Where does that fit in your grand design?”

“They’ll be fine without us.”

“Us?” Finnaeus asked, his turn to laugh.

“Come with me. We can do so much good together. You can help regrow crops, heal the farmland.”

“I’m not nearly as talented as you think I am,” Finnaeus said. “And it’s moot. I’m going home.”

“How can you be so close-minded to the opportunity that is in front of us?” Aloyseus yelled. “It’s like you’re walking with your eyes closed. Where is your ambition? Are you so dull that you would live the rest of your life tending to a farm –”

“Watch what you say,” Finnaeus said, his temper finally rising.

“-doing exactly what Father tells you to do without giving it a second thought. You’re just a beast of burden to him –”

“Al,” Finnaeus said, more a snarl than a statement. He could not remember being this angry before. It flooded through him, heating his face and balling his fists.

“Just property. And he’ll crow to all his friends in the city that his boys were so loyal to Gilneas, and carried on the Peverley legacy like donkeys carrying grains from the field -”

“Shut up,” Finnaeus snapped.

“When really it’s just an empty meaningless existence. Forget justice, forget what’s right. Forget that we have a duty to help our kingdoms. No, so long as you keep to obeying the whims and wishes of an egomaniac, your conscience is clear. What our mother would think if she were alive to see you now.”

“SHUT UP!” Finnaeus screamed, and without thinking he charged forward. The horse underneath Aloyseus let out a high-pitched whinny and reared. Aloyseus reacted too late – he tried to grasp the reins but instead crashed into the earth. Finnaeus stopped, his heart pounding, watching his brother groan into the earth. He looked up at Finnaeus.

“You –”

“You did this,” Finnaeus yelled. But then the guilt started. He had lost control. Aloyseus’s eyes were wide open, as if he was seeing his brother for the first time.

“I didn’t know you had it in you,” Aloyseus said, coughing as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

“What?” Finnaeus snapped.

“Rage. Passion. Emotion,” Aloyseus responded.

Finnaeus scowled, embarrassed and still toxic with anger.

“I think I touched a nerve.”

“Enough,” Finnaeus said, his hands and voice shaking. “Please, enough. Just come back to the farmhouse. Do whatever you want after that. Just come back.”

“You don’t care if I go?”

“I do care,” Finnaeus responded.

“Then why does it matter when I go?” Aloyseus said, standing.

“I made a promise,” Finnaeus said, grabbing the locket hanging around his neck. “I made a promise to bring you home safe and sound.”

“And I don’t want to go to back.”

Finnaeus sighed, hanging his head.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t want too,” Finnaeus said softly. “I didn’t want to go to war. I didn’t want you to go either. I did it. It was my duty, so I did it. I didn’t want to kill, but I did it to keep you safe. I never thought I would have to kill anyone, and I’ve lost track of how many I have. Orcs, trolls, whatever else. I didn’t want to leave Claire, but I did, because it was my duty. Want has nothing to do with it. I have a duty now to bring you back, Aloyseus. I have a duty to show everyone that you’re healthy, you’re whole, you’re intact. Allow me that, please. After, if you feel compelled to go and help the world, then I will defend you to our father. I will help you do that, not because I want you to go, but because it would be my duty to you as your brother. But please, you need to come home.”

Aloyseus paused, his hands on his waist. There was a vast silence between them. Finnaeus could not bear to look at his brother. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the golden locket that he wore around his neck, identical to the one hanging around his brother’s. They were given by their father, just before they left for war. A family tradition, with the Peverley sigil of a hammer and a rose intertwined emblazoned on the outside of the gold.

“I’m sorry Finnaeus,” Aloyseus said, his voice low. “But I can’t go back. I know you think you need to keep your promises to our father, but you don’t. We are our own people. It’s time we thought for ourselves.” Finnaeus did not respond. There was no emotion save for a dull ache in his heart and a pounding headache. When he looked up, Aloyseus was on his horse.

“When you finally see sense, come find me,” Aloyseus said. “I’ll be in Lordaeron. Hopefully by the time you look, I’ll have made a name for myself.”

Finnaeus had no words to respond. He watched his brother turn the horse and then ride away. He stood there, the grip on the locket so tight that his knuckles had turned white. He thought of telling Aloyseus that it wasn’t to their father that he made his promise, but it was too late. Aloyseus was out of sight.

That was enough – Finnaeus shook himself from the memory. He felt it fresh, now, the pain of his own failure to keep his brother from leaving. The rest was history – Aloyseus would perish in Stratholme, succumbing to the Scourge, while Finnaeus tried to forestall his own family’s demise when Gilneas began to crumble. Their paths both led to their own destruction. Part of Finnaeus wondered what would have happened if Aloyseus had been at the farmhouse when –

No, Finnaeus thought to himself. He had indulged the past enough. It had feasted, leaving that same pain it always did. There was nothing he could do about what had come before, and there was no point in casting his mind backwards. Exhausted, he shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was then that he realized that Aloyseus was no longer by the shore. Instead, a deep mist had slithered over the ground, thick and moving quickly. It was not natural.

Finnaeus raised his head, alert, his feline ears flicking to hear anything. His eyes caught sight of Aloyseus and Araneon fiddling with something on the carriage. But their backs were turned to the lake. Shifting his gaze, he saw something emerging from the water. It was barely four feet tall, water dripping from its sickly grey scales.

A murloc.

Its body was almost entirely shrouded in mist, but with his cat eyes he could make out the details. Razor sharp claws clutched a rudimentary spear, the handle dragging in the mud behind it. Its maw hung open, drool dripping from the rows of pointed teeth all the way down the side of its mouth. Finnaeus saw of skin that looked black and rotted. It shook the excess water from its body, and pieces of flesh dripped off of the body with the water. They were plagued, no doubt by the Forsaken constantly moving through the area. It lowered itself, so that only the grey ridges of its back fins came over the water. Then it waved a hand, and let out a soft gurgle.

More murlocs slid out of the water without making a splash. The colors varied – most were a sickly grey. A few had scales of putrid green, each one with plague marks and horrible rot wounds in their sides. Most carried spears, the tips dripping with an acid green substance. Several stayed half in the water, their hands twirling and glowing with green power. Mist poured from their bodies and fed the fog, covering more of the land. They all ducked into the fog cover, hiding their numbers. The lead murloc raised a spear, and with a flick faster than Finnaeus could account for, the spear whistled through the curling tendrils of fog and grazed Araneon in the shoulder. He turned and drew his sword, crying out in pain, but his voice was covered by the horrifying sound of the entire group of murlocs letting out angry gurgles and shouts, and began the attack.

((More people need this in their lives. Bump.))

The cry that Araneon uttered was one more of surprise than pain. If anything, the sight of blood on his shoulder surprised him. But in that brief moment instinct kicked in – he spun, drawing his sword. What he found in front of him was dense fog, the pattering of feet, and the angry gurgling of murlocs.

“Of all the things,” Araneon muttered. They hid under the fog, and when he felt movement by his legs he realized they were swarming him. In an instant Light glowed from his sword, and he swung in a wide arc into the fog. The blade didn’t catch anything; he only succeeded in kicking the fog higher in the air. Another spear flew towards him – he moved his head and felt the whoosh of air as the spear passed by and landed in the carriage with a thud.

“Protect the carriage at all costs,” Aloyseus commanded.

“No kidding,” Araneon hissed. He turned and saw the priest climbing aboard the carriage. The skeletal steeds stamped their hooves, spooked by the sudden onset of attackers. A spear hissed towards Aloyseus, who waved his hand. The spear struck an invisible barrier around him, and shattered into pieces. Araneon swung his sword, hearing the murlocs scamper around him, but again he missed. The fog was too thick.

He felt a stab around his shin. In a flash he struck out with his foot, and his boot caught a murloc by surprise.

“Do something about the fog,” Aloyseus called from the carriage, moving his hands. A murloc scampered up the carriage and clawed at Forsaken’s feet. He kicked out, sending the murloc sprawling. It hopped to its feet, gurgled, and then let out a thick splash of violent green spit. Aloyseus moved, the spittle landing in the wood of the carriage. There was a sizzle as the spit ate through the wood.

That’s new, Araneon thought. The murloc spit again – Aloyseus waved a hand, the spittle hitting an invisible barrier. Aloyseus moved another hand, and a shadowy beast crawled emerged from beneath the murloc’s feet. The shadow beast grabbed the murloc and clawed into its flesh.

“More are coming,” Aloyseus yelled, pointing towards the lake. Murlocs streamed out of the water, vanishing into the thick fog strengthened by the spell casters standing on the shore. Before he could think of making his move towards them, several murlocs leapt out of the fog at him, letting out streams of the poisoned spittle. He clenched his fist, and an intense of bubble of Light surrounded him. The poison splashed against it, and the murlocs screamed as they hit the shield and fell to the ground, burning from the Light. The shield dissipated. They were just murlocs, but they were coordinated, and when another spear whistled by his head, the beginnings of panic set in. All it would take is one wrong move and that poison would eat through his head.

“You could do something productive like kill some of them,” Araneon yelled. He turned to swing his sword, just in time to feel a murloc crawl up his back and sink its teeth into his shoulder. He howled, grabbed the murloc by its back fin, and with an enraged snarl his hands alit with Light. The murloc screamed and then dissolved into ash. His shoulder burning from where the creature bit him. The pain finally awoke the rage inside of him.

“Enough of this,” Araneon yelled. He took his sword in two hands and plunged the blade into the earth. A sizzling, crackling sound accompanied the brilliant flash of light that erupted from the point of impact. The Light spun outwards in bolts along the ground, glowing with power. The fog recoiled, and he could hear the screaming of pain from the murlocs caught on the consecrated ground. He looked up, channeling his power, and saw several murlocs writhing on the ground, their plagued bodies searing and smoking from contact. He turned to Aloyseus, ignoring the wound on his shoulder and the odd, rotting smell coming from where his blood mixed with the murloc’s saliva.

“Get the spell casters,” Araneon said.

“I must protect the carriage,” Aloyseus said, watching as several murlocs beat their fists against the barrier that he had created around the carriage.

“You’re useless,” Araneon yelled. He pulled his sword from the ground, narrowed his eyes, and then took a breath. He drove forward, using the Light to push the fog back. His sword danced and slashed, cleaving the murlocs or searing them with the Light. Blood splattered on the ground, the cries of the beasts filling his ears. But he had entered a primal place, where he was the predator and they the prey. He did not fear them, did not fear their numbers, and was sure that he would slay every single last mutated creature before they would ever touch him again. Several turned to flee, but he made sure to strike them down with the Light. They would receive no mercy from him.

Five of them charged him, two coming from his left and three coming from his right. He waited, waited until they got close enough to scream and leap at him. He twirled his sword, and a storm of Light swirled around him. Their bodies dissolved before they could make a sound. Most of the rest were fleeing, their bodies streaming towards the water. He twirled his hands, casting bolts of Light at the murloc casters. They shrieked before they fell, and the fog lost its potency. He could see the survivors diving desperately back into the water. The last one streaked by him, but not fast enough before he grabbed the murloc’s fin in his hands, and he raised it in the air. Its arms and legs waved furiously, and it spun its body to try and snap him. With a snarl Araneon took his free hand and grabbed it right below its jaw. His hand glowed with the Light, searing the thing’s flesh.

“Take this message back to the rest of the surviors,” Araneon hissed, watching his hand burn through the murlocs jaw as it screamed in pain. He stopped, making sure the murloc was still alive. Where his hand burned the murloc, a black ash mark appeared on the murloc’s plagued skin – a Light-infused marker of the Spider. “The next time I see any of you, there’ll be nothing left of you to brand.” He threw the murloc back towards the ground, and it crawled feebly back into the water.

His body still shook with blood rage, his sword and hands still glowing with the Light. He turned to see Aloyseus float down from the carriage.

“Not too much damage,” Aloyseus said, appraising the cart. The horses had since calmed, though one of them looked to be missing a few of its bones. “Which is fortunate.”

“Very,” Araneon hissed, still boiling with anger. “You could have helped drive them off.”

“The security of the carts was paramount,” Aloyseus responded.

“If you helped kill the damned things we would have the damned security you wanted,” Araneon yelled. “You left me alone out there.”

“I was more than confident in your combat experience,” Aloyseus said, his hands removing the covering that hid the crates. “It was one of the reasons I hired you for this particular project.”

Araneon’s nostrils flared.

“I’ve been bitten, in case you didn’t realize,” Araneon said, pointing to his shoulder. “Poison spit? Who knows what kind of plague those things are carrying.”

“I admit I was surprised at their coordination and evolution,” Aloyseus said, now inspecting the runed crate. “But you handled it. Besides, I expected –”

“I don’t give a damn what you expected,” Aranon snarled, grabbing the priest by his shoulder and spinning him around. “I don’t like being left out to dry by a partner.”

“Are we partners now?” Aloyseus said, the mismatched jaw of his contorting into a smile. “You are not simply a hired gun anymore?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I apologize if the sudden presence of danger makes you uncomfortable,” Aloyseus said. “But rest assured that where we are going, the danger will only increase.”

“I’m not afraid of danger,” Araneon said, gripping the Forsaken tighter. “I just expect you to be a bit more active in our mutual survival.”

“Mutual,” Aloyseus said,. “Understood. But again, I was expecting –”

“Someone’s coming,” Araneon said, cutting him off. He turned and saw two mounted Deathguards approaching from the direction of the road. Araneon sniffed, turning to Aloyseus for direction. The Forsaken scowled.

“I do not have time for this kind of distraction,” he said. He turned to the cart, the crates exposed from his inspection, and he let out a hiss.

“We need a plan here,” Araneon said.

“I know,” the Forsaken said.

“Just mind control them. You can do that right?”

“The Forsaken are very difficult to mind control,” Aloyseus said. “Our very existence is proof of it. Do not answer any of their questions.”

“Got it,” Araneon said, sheathing his sword. “Why not just tell them?”

“No one can know of the project until we know of its effectiveness,” Aloyseus said. “Let me do the talking.”

Araneon had no interest in talking to the guards – but he wondered how they would emerge from this encounter without revealing something of interest. The scene looked bizarre enough. The corpses and body parts of plagued murlocs covered the ground, and their cart was covered in sealed crates, one of them warded with glimmering runes on the outside. Everything about it invited follow up questions and concerns.

The two guards came to a halt, sitting atop the skeletal horses and staring down at the two of them with the snide derision of authority. One of them pulled her black hood back. Araneon could not help but wince – a large gash slashed up her face and across her nose, from her chin to her temple. Wispy, grey hair fell alongside her green skin. She opened her mouth to speak, and Araneon noticed that all of her teeth remained, but were filed into sharp points. He took a quick glance at the other Deathguard and noticed that his entire mouth was missing.

“Ran afoul of the murlocs, I see?” she asked, her voice low and full of mucus.

“Indeed,” Aloyseus said. “We paused for rest and they came upon us very quickly.”

“They are tenacious, I will give them that,” the Deathguard responded. “I thought we plagued the entire population of them.” She turned her baleful undying gaze to Araneon. “You look wounded.”

Araneon sniffed again, standing up straight. She sounded amused, despite the growing discomfort of the wound. He pressed a glowing hand to his shoulder in an attempt to mend it. A number of sarcastic responses came to mind, but he did not want to stir trouble.

“A flesh wound, surely,” Aloyeus said, smoothing his robes. “My comrade was able to drive them off.”

“Of course,” the Deathguard responded. “Not without giving them a piece of himself as a souvenir.”

The other Deathguard shortled, the exposed flesh from the inside of his throat vibrating. It sounded more like choking to Araneon. He made to answer, but Aloyseus cut in front of him.

“Undoubtedly they are growing more coordinated. I’ve never seen murlocs orchestrate a surprise attack such as this. It was quite unexpected.”

“You were unprepared, more like” the Deathguard said, her ugly face hitched into a smile. “Considering you have very precious cargo, I would imagine that you would be ready for all sorts of challenges to your materials.”

Aloyseus did not have an immediate response, and the Deathguard shifted on her steed, leaning forward with an eager gaze on her face.

“I admit we should have been more prepared,” Aloyseus said. “But as the danger has passed –”

“Then we should have no interruptions inspecting the goods then,” the Deathguard finished for him.

“That would be quite unnecessary,” Aloyseus said, holding up his hands. “Everything is safe and accounted for.”

“I was not offering,” the Deathguard responded. “Clearly something dangerous is in those crates if it provoked an unprecedented murloc attack.”

“I don’t think the two are related,” Aloyseus responded. Araneon watched the two banter back and forth, the tension as thick as the murloc fog.

“I’ll make that determination after I inspect the goods.”

“With all due respect,” Aloyseus began, “There is no cause for your involvement in my cargo. We have secured it from the murlocs, and given you good information that the murlocs that have survived your military operations are coordinated in their attacks.”

“Unprecedented coordination that happens to occur as soon as you park your cargo right next to the lake,” the Deathguard said, her icy tone matching the chilly gaze on her face. She turned to her colleague. “It is not unreasonable to assume that the two are linked? Especially when you seem so unwilling to cooperate.” Her colleague shook his head.

“My cargo is very delicate,” Aloyseus insisted. But when the Deathguards hopped down from their steeds, Araneon knew that there was no talking their way out of it.

“I can be very delicate,” the Deathguard responded, withdrawing her sword. Her accomplice followed suit. Aloyseus let out a hiss through his nostril.

“Very well.”

They approached the caravan, carefully stepping over the bodies of the murlocs. Araneon kept his eyes on the Deathguards, his hand hovering just above the hilt of his sword. They reached the carriage, and immediately the guards turned to the large, runed crate. The runes glimmered and shifted against the wood, as if it were drawing the guards’ attention so that they would have no choice but to ask.

“Open it,” the Deathguard said. Her gaze shifted from the crate to Aloyseus.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Aloyseus responded. “As I said, these are sensitive materials, and –”

The sword was at his throat before he finished the sentence. Araneon drew his sword, covered in blood and yet still shimmering with the Light, but the other Deathguard raised his own.

“I’m not asking,” she said. “I need to know what’s in there. Otherwise I have to take it into custody, with or without you.”

“I cannot overstate the danger in what you’re asking me to do,” Aloyseus responded. “I assure you that if I open that crate, all of our lives are in jeopardy.”

“And I can assure you that if you do not open that crate, I’ll do it over your twice-dead corpse,” the guard responded. “Open the crate.”

“I cannot,” Aloyseus said, shaking his head. “I simply cannot.”

The Deathguard turned to Araneon. “You open it then.”

“Not a chance.” He wouldn’t even know how to open the damned thing, even if he wanted to. The Deathguard hissed.

“You leave me with no choice. In the name of the Dark Lady, I command you to –”

A spear erupted from her mouth. She gurgled before the gaze in her eyes went dark. Her body slumped to the ground. Her accomplice turned, but he was far too slow. A curved sickle swiped through the air, severing the guard’s head from his shoulders and sending it rolling into the fog. The two bodies slumped, and the tall, hunched form of a troll stood behind them.

“Well that settles that,” Araneon said. The troll had a stern, severe looking face. He did not look at either one of them. He picked up the severed head and flung it into the water. Both Araneon and Aloyseus watched as the troll moved quickly, coating the guards’ swords with murloc blood. Lastly, he turned to the steeds and whispered to them. They immediately turned and ran towards the road.

The troll walked towards them, his sickle sheathed at his side.

“Quick work,” Araneon offered.

“Next time kill them sooner,” the troll snapped. “We’ve lost a lot of time, and more guards will come. They won’t believe the murloc cover for very long.” Araneon made to respond, but then he saw the look of pure contempt that the troll gave to Aloyseus, and he decided to keep quiet. The fury radiated off of the druid.

“The carriage needs to be moved in ten minutes,” the troll said. “I’ll scout the road ahead.”

And without another, the druid shifted into a bat form and fluttered off into the air.

“So,” Araneon said, not sure how to react. “That was something.”

“Yes,” Aloyseus said, a ghost of a smile on his face. “That was Finnaeus.”

The decision to move off of the road was an easy one. The carriage still showed the battle scars from their encounter with the murlocs, and Finnaeus did not want to encounter any more Deathguards than necessary. Especially since he still was no closer to finding out what was in the crates that his brother was so desperate to keep concealed. Since moving he did not have enough time to sit down and demand answers. He scouted the path ahead through the woods, finding the surest and safest paths through the dense trees and thick fog. The going was rough, and all along the way Finnaeus noted the wolves that tracked their progress. They piqued his interest, but he had no time to investigate that as well. He was too busy scouting the terrain.

And plotting his own next move. The murloc attack, and the subsequent intervention by the two Deathguards, complicated everything. Finnaeus had not intended on revealing himself to his brother or the elf, and he now lost the advantage of surprise. But he knew that Aloyseus was accompanying dangerous goods, and he could not risk them falling into the hands of the Forsaken military where he could no longer have any control. Though the possibility was still strong that Aloyseus had suspected that he would follow them, he could no longer observe without being watched.

He fluttered ahead, the final bands of light streaming through the forest canopy. They would not be able to traverse the wilderness during the night. The potential for attacks was too great, and at night they would be at a disadvantage against superior numbers. If they did opt to move by night, they would have to use the road and risk investigation by the Forsaken military. Neither option was great, but the alternative was to hunker down in the woods and travel again through the day. Perhaps that would work, but the going was slow without the benefit of the road.

Flying lower than the canopy, he fluttered above the road in Silverpine. It was almost deserted save for a few lazy patrols by local Deathguards. If he scouted ahead as they moved in the darkness, the possibility existed that they could use the roads and still avoid any unnecessary confrontations. But it would be delicate, dangerous, and he would get no sleep as he surveyed through the night. But sleep was a constant sacrifice, a price he would always pay to gain more information.

The end destination, however, remained very much in doubt. Eventually that knowledge would reveal itself – they would reach the crossroads near Shadowfang Keep, and at that point there was only the road to Hillsbrad or into the ruins of Gilneas. And without knowing what was in the crates, Finnaeus wasn’t even sure that he wanted to help them get to wherever they were going. All he knew for sure was that they were transporting dangerous materials, and that he felt the compulsion to know what those materials were.

And what Aloyseus wants to do with them, he thought. It would be foolish to deny that part of his curiosity stemmed from what the corpse of his brother intended to do. Nothing Forsaken was benevolent, of that he was certain. And there was a morbid curiosity in Finnaeus to see how much of his brother’s old character was left in him. But the curiosity warred with his instinct towards survival, and though he was sure he could handle himself in hostile terrain, he had the vague feeling that involving himself further with his brother would lead to his own destruction.

He wheeled around, fluttering through the branches and spotting the caravan making its way over rough, foggy terrain. The dark of night was falling quickly, and if he remembered the area they were in the large patch of woods between Lordamere Lake and Ambermill. He wondered if Aloyseus still had any emotional attachment to the area where they last saw each other alive, but then he discarded the question before he attempted to answer it. There was nothing to be gained by wondering, and he was troubled by his own thoughts turning towards the possibility that the Forsaken husk calling itself Aloyseus actually had some relation to his living brother.

Landing next to the carriage, he shifted into his troll form. Aloyseus sat in the carriage, turning towards him with a pleased look on his face. The elf, Araneon, was holding a hand to his shoulder wound, Light glimmering in the nascent darkness.

“The roads are fairly clear,” Finnaeus said. “Deathguards are still patrolling the area.”

“As expected,” Aloyseus said, nodding. “The night patrols are frequent, but the other road activity tends to dwindle. Your former lupine compatriots make travelling in this area far more complicated at night.”

Finnaeus sniffed, not showing any expression. He felt a twinge at the mention of his worgen existence, a reminder of what he had lost. But he did not want to yield any advantage to his brother.

“I have not seen any worgen in the area,” Finnaeus said. “But nor would I expect to. They would not want to be seen.”

“And I would rather them stay unseen,” Aloyseus said. “We’ve had enough complication.”

“Agreed,” Araneon said with disgust, the Light flaring in his hand. The wound, however, still smelled of rot and would not heal. “After all, if I’m the only one to do the fighting, I would rather not have to face a group of fleabags jumped up for vengeance.” He looked up at Finnaeus. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Finnaeus said, narrowing his eyes. He had no knowledge of the Blood Elf save that his name was Araneon. That he picked up eavesdropping on them back in Tirisfal. But he was a wildcard, and his relationship to his brother remained unclear to him.

“What do you suggest?” Aloyseus said, looking to Finnaeus.

“My suggestion would depend on how far you need to travel,” he said evenly, his eyes turning towards his brother.

“In what regard?”

“If your destination is close by, then we can press on through the night,” Finnaeus said. “The Sepulcher is very close. If your destination is more distant, than we would need to keep in mind that those of us lucky enough to still be living will need to rest.”

Araneon halted his mending and flicked a gaze at Aloyseus before looking back to his wound. It was a small gesture, but he caught it – they both had knowledge of where they were going, and Finnaeus was dancing too close to that knowledge.

“We will have quite a bit of travel ahead of us,” Aloyseus said, that polite, measured tone grating on Finnaeus’s nerves. “And we can’t plan our route unless we know if your strength will be added to ours.”

“You’re the master at answering questions while giving no information,” Finnaeus said, a cold grin forming around his tusks.

“And yet here you are, in the middle of Silverpine,” Aloyseus said. “Night is falling, and the longer we sit here and debate, the more vulnerable we make ourselves.”

“Afraid that more murlocs are coming for you?” Finnaeus asked, leaning forward. “Or worgen? Perhaps more Deathguards? So many parties out there that would want to halt your progress, Aloyseus, and so few willing to go with you on this mission of yours.”

“We can defend ourselves just fine should you choose to leave,” Aloyseus said evenly.

“Says you,” Araneon said, finally piping up. The Light from his hand flickered against his wound. “You did nothing but defend the carriage.”

“And you acquitted yourself well in slaying our murloc aggressors,” Aloyseus said, without looking at him. The lights in his eyes remained trained on Finnaeus.

“Which won’t work if a pack of worgen come at us,” Araneon responded. “If they’re any kind of coordinated we’ll be ripped to shreds.”

“Rest assured I remain confident that we can repel any kind of attack with or without my brother here,” Aloyseus said.

“But I don’t share in that confidence,” Araneon said back. “You couldn’t even kill a murloc.”

“Oh I’m quite sure he could,” Finnaeus said. The division between the two of them raised an opportunity that he would not miss. “He’s able to kill, and fight. He just didn’t want to tip his hand.”

Finnaeus raised an eyebrow, waiting for Aloyseus to challenge the claim. But instead, the corners of his mouth rose into a grin.

“Such distrust between us,” Aloyseus said. “You think I would sacrifice our cargo to create an illusion that I am unfit for combat?”

“No,” Finnaeus said. “You’d never sacrifice the safety of your materials. But you would let Araneon fight to his last breath before you revealed information before its time. Time that you set.”

“But you are guilty of that very same crime,” Aloyseus said, openly smiling. “After all, you watched as the murlocs assailed our carriage. You could have intervened well before the Guards came knocking. You withheld your presence until it was absolutely clear that you would have lost sight, and control, of my carriage.”

Araneon flicked his gaze between the two of them, a scowl on his face. Dark had fallen in the woods, and it was clear to all three of them that there was no trust to be had. Finnaeus crouched, looking up at his brother.

“Except I never made any commitments,” Finnaeus said.

“True,” Aloyseus countered. “But then we lead back to where we started. I do not wish to reveal the cargo or my destination to someone who clearly has his own agenda. And you do not have an ounce of trust in me. We are at an impasse. We will be travelling on, with or without you. As I stated in the beginning, I would greatly prefer you to be accompanying us on this trip. But I cannot control you. You must make your own choice. So I ask you again, will you, or will you not, add your strength to ours?”

Finnaeus narrowed his eyes, tracing a finger on his tusk. He had broken it once, after he had to kill a Night Elf to save his own life. It grew back, thanks to his troll blood and a bit of magic, but he remembered how much pain he felt when he ripped the tusk out. It was a pain he deserved, and relished, because it matched the pain he felt in betraying his former ally. The pain reminded him of who he was, when he was faced with choices that would have him betray everything that he stood for.

But what do you stand for, he wondered. The thought came suddenly. Family, balance, duty. These were the things he strove to maintain and protect. But he no longer had family, no longer had duty. He only answered to himself, and that that meant long stretches of nothing to do, nothing to live for. Wasn’t that why he joined the Coterie? To gain some type of meaning?

His brother was waiting, and Finnaeus wasn’t sure he had an answer. He acknowledged the intense curiosity he had towards what his brother was doing, and the deep distrust went so far that Finnaeus was sure that his brother was up to something nefarious. Since being trapped in his troll body, Finnaeus relied on instinct to guide him through his days. And his instinct told him that while he shouldn’t help his brother, he couldn’t also leave things up to fate.

“You say we have no trust?” Finnaeus finally said. “That much is true. And I owe you debt. I will accompany you to your destination. But while I do so, no more lies.”

“Agreed,” Aloyseus said, nodding. “But you must understand that while I will not lie to you, I will also not tell you information that I cannot share.”

“Understood,” Finnaeus said, narrowing his eyes. “But once we’re done, that’s it. We part ways, never to cross again.”

“Understood,” Aloyseus repeated. Finnaeus sniffed the air.

“Then we have an agreement.”

“We do,” Aloyseus said, clapping his undead hands together. “I must contact one of my associates. I expect we’ll be able to travel a bit more aggressively now that you are in our ranks. They will need to be prepared.”

Finnaeus watched Aloyseus stroll into the dark of the woods, reaching into his pockets and pulling out his hearthstone.

“Not going to spy on him?”

Finnaeus turned to look at Araneon, who did not look up even to address him. With a raised eyebrow Finnaeus climbed aboard the carriage, sitting next to the elf.

“There’s no point,” Finnaeus said. “He’ll be speaking in code.”

“You seem to know him well,” Araneon offered.

“Quite the opposite,” Finnaeus insisted. “If I knew him well I wouldn’t be so unsure of what he’s doing.”

“It’s all secrets here,” Araneon said, his face twisted into a look of annoyance. “Secrets and who has access to them.”

“They are a form of currency, that much is sure,” Finnaeus said. “Is he paying you in secrets? Or did he add some gold to sweeten the deal?”

Araneon did not answer immediately. Only the flash of Light in his hand, and the sight of his wound not responding. The dark came quick, and even outside of his feline form he could see shapes moving in the shadows, keeping an eye on them.

“A fair bit of gold,” Araneon responded finally. He said nothing of secrets, but he didn’t have to. The immediate silence told Finnaeus everything. If he had to guess, Aloyseus was holding a debt over Araneon’s head as well. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

“You won’t be able to heal that,” Finnaeus said, nodding towards the paladin’s shoulder.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he responded back. “Been trying for hours.”

“It’s the poison,” Finnaeus said, reaching into his satchel. “The murlocs in this area have been twisted by the plague runs the Forsaken execute. Mostly it extinguishes all life, but anything lucky enough to survive, or unfortunate depending on your perspective, are altered all the way down to their fundamentals. So the poison in the wound is altered by the plague as well. And their plague is specifically designed to be resistant to the Light.”

“I don’t care how it works,” Araneon said bluntly. “I just need my shoulder fixed.”

“I can help.”

Araneon looked up at him then, his eyes narrowed.

“I’d rather keep trying.”

“You’re going to fail,” Finnaeus said.

“What do you care?” he asked. “I know all about you. Gilnean stuck in a troll body. You’re Alliance, with all the treachery that comes with.”

Finnaeus couldn’t help but smile and laugh. It was still foreign to him, laughing in a troll body, and the sound seemed unnatural to him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Of all the things to distrust me for,” Finnaeus said. “You pick because I used to be Alliance.”

“Used to be?”

“Can’t be anymore, now that I’m in this body,” Finnaeus said. “The tusks are a bit of an obstacle.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be a spy,” Araneon said.

“A spy for what? And for whom?” Finnaeus asked, genuinely confused by the elf’s paranoia. “You think the Alliance wants to keep tabs on you?”

Araneon shifted in the seat, his hand flickering again. Finnaeus looked at the elf with a renewed interest. He could understand Aloyseus’s mistrust – after all, he was travelling with a huge secret. But he knew next to nothing about Araneon, and the elf strongly suspected Finnaeus of spying on him. It made him curious. What was this elf trying to hide that would interest the Alliance as a whole?

“I once held a deep distrust of anything Horde,” Finnaeus offered. “It was a Blood Elf like yourself that taught me otherwise.”

“How nice,” Araneon said coldly.

“Mutual interest is a powerful motivator,” Finnaeus insisted.

“And how could a worgen have any mutual interest with a Sin’Dorei?” he responded.

“Gilneas and Quel’thalas had a lot in common,” Finnaeus said, ruffling through his satchel. “Both were filled with haughty, proud people who believed they could withdraw from the world and its problems. Both times that withdrawal led to its near destruction.”

“Or total destruction, in the case of Gilneas,” Araneon said. Finnaeus did not respond, but he felt a twinge of annoyance at the elf.

“If you need a reason to trust me, then let me give you one,” Finnaeus said. “I’m committed to seeing this through. And I don’t trust Aloyseus. Quite frankly, I don’t trust you either. But I’ve seen you fight, and undoubtedly you will need to do so again. It would do me no favors to be fighting alongside someone who is hampered by injury.”

“I won’t be hampered by a shoulder wound,” Araneon said.

“Not now, maybe. But you’ll want your wits about you if the worgen show,” Finnaeus said. “Your wits and your strength. That poison is going to spread, regardless of how confident you are that it won’t. And when it does, you’ll be an easy target.”

Araneon looked up at him, a calculating glare on his face that masked what was going on underneath.

“And to be honest,” Finnaeus continued. “You flashing your hand in the middle of the night is going to attract a lot of unwanted attention.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out a leather pouch. Without waiting for an answer, Finnaeus reached in and pulled out a small glass jar, filled with a light pink dust.

“What is that?” Araneon asked.

“It’s a bit of essence,” Finnaeus responded. “Infused from the leaves of a few rare plants that I collected in my travels. It will help neutralize the poison, and allow your wound to heal.”

“Side effects?”

“Not mind control, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” Finnaeus said. “It stings.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.”

“I’m sure,” Finnaeus said, using his three fingers to scoop some essence. He cradled it in his hand, whispering words into his palm as if he was lulling the essence to sleep. His hands glowed green, and the pink began to sparkle. He looked up at the paladin. “Up to you.”

Araneon paused, fighting his distrust. They heard a howl in the distance.

“Do it,” he said.

“You’ll want to brace yourself,” Finnaeus said, and he sprinkled the essence onto the wounded flesh. To his credit, Araneon made no noise. But his hand gripped the side of the carriage, and his jaw clenched so tight that his blanched.

“Let it sit,” Finnaeus said, applying some clean cloth to the wound. “The pain will stop when the poison is neutralized. In the morning we’ll try closing the flesh so you don’t get an infection.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Araneon said, shifting away from Finnaeus and staring down at the cloth.

“Don’t touch it,” he insisted.

“I heard you the first time,” Araneon snapped. “You nag like my sister.”

“You have a sister?” Finnaeus asked, passing it off as a polite, yet disinterested question. Any small tidbit of information he could gain was an opportunity for him to perhaps gain some leverage.

“I do,” he said, still looking at the cloth like he wanted to poke at it.

“And what does she think about your involvement in this mission of yours?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. Araneon looked at him with that calculating look.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” Finnaeus said. “After all, she’s not here with you.”

“She’d never get involved with something like this,” Araneon said, waving his hand. “Stuck up do-gooder like her? No, she wouldn’t. She’s too busy guarding the Sunwell to do something like this.”

For a moment, Finnaeus froze. He knew a Blood Elf whose job it was to guard the Sunwell. Or used to, as far as he knew. It was partly his fault that she lost her job in the first place.

“Worthwhile cause,” he said, considering each word before he uttered them. “I knew a Blood Elf who used to guard the Sunwell. She lost her job.”

He didn’t dare look at Araneon – to be obvious would betray his intention. But the Blood Elf didn’t pause for very long.

“You did?”

“I did,” Finnaeus said.

“And how would you know such a person?”

“Because I helped her save your Sunwell once,” Finnaeus said. He finally looked up at Araneon. He made eye contact with him, and they both knew at once that they were thinking of the same person.

“You know Anyanara?” he asked, his suspicion dropped in the midst of his incredulity. Finnaeus decided not to be overly aggressive.

“Know is probably too generous,” he said. “We had a mutual enemy, an elf that tried to convert the Sunwell into a Voidwell. We managed to stop him, and in the process we became mutual friends should the need arise. We only had contact once or twice after that.”

“She never mentioned you,” Araneon said. “She told me all about Malthaes, but never about you.”

“Probably because my involvement does not reflect well on Blood Elf security,” Finnaeus offered. “And because she likely was trying to save her job. I don’t begrudge her the anonymity.”

“She got her job back,” Araneon said. Then, after a pause, he asked, “why did you help her?”

Finnaeus did not answer right away. His long history with Malthaes Shadowbough was not pertinent to the current predicament he was in. Nor did he want to revisit some of the worst events that occurred because of the warlock. But this connection to Araneon’s past was his key to gaining his trust. He could not lose it.

“Because the idea of a person like him gaining that kind of power source was unfathomable,” Finnaeus said. “Because he tortured and attacked several of my compatriots and allies.” Friends, he thought, but then that word caused him pain. Friends he couldn’t contact any longer, because of his troll body. “And because your sister is a good person, and saving the Sunwell was the right thing to do.”

That seemed to knock Araneon off balance. He looked down, and he strangely gripped his arm, lost in thought. Finnaeus waited to hear more, but instinct told him that it was unwise to push too far tonight. His fortuitous connection with Araneon’s sister got his foot in the door. There was no need to barge in.

“We’ll hunker down tonight,” Aloyseus said, reappearing from the darkness.

Araneon shook his head as if shaking off flies. Finnaeus put his reagents back in his satchel, and turned towards Aloyseus. He looked satisfied, which gave Finnaeus a pang of annoyance.

“I’m going to scout,” Finnaeus said, hopping down from the carriage. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“You’re going alone?” Aloyseus asked.

“Of course,” Finnaeus said, wrinkling his nose. “Keep an eye on Araneon, make sure he doesn’t poke at the wound. And keep quiet. There are wolves nearby, and I’m sure that means that worgen are not far behind them.”

“I didn’t see or hear any trace of them,” Aloyseus asked.

“It’s because they’re good at what they do,” Finnaeus responded.

“Will you engage them?”

Finnaeus did not answer. The thought occurred to reach out to them and enlist their help in stopping the carriage. But he didn’t trust that he could communicate with them before they tried to kill him for being a troll.

“No,” Finnaeus responded, walking away. “I’m not interested in losing my head for your cargo.”

“Very well. If you don’t return in an hour?”

“Then I’m dead,” Finnaeus said, disappearing into the shadows. “And they’ll be coming for you.”

Even in the dark of night, Araneon could still see the Spider tattoo on his arm.

He had leaned back in the carriage, allowing himself a bit of relaxation. The searing pain from Finnaeus’s healing whatever had since subsided, and though the rotting smell disappeared and the wound felt a bit better, the process left him entirely exhausted. He fought against sleep, his eyes flickering open and then closed. To his left he saw Araneon sitting cross-legged against a tree, his eyes staring forward, ever watchful. It was disconcerting that the Forsaken never slept, and Araneon didn’t trust the priest to be left alone. Finnaeus had returned and was in a tree above them, in his cat form. That gave him some measure of comfort, but then again he didn’t trust the druid either.

Araneon turned his gaze upwards. He could barely make out the Finn’s tail hanging from the branch above. There was no way to know for sure, but he suspected that the druid was not sleeping either. It was interesting, Araneon thought to himself, that all three of them were bound together and yet none of them trusted each other. And they were all members of the Coterie. He wondered what the Inquisitor would think knowing that the three of them were all missing, together, and they were a mutual arrangement away from killing each other. Araneon grinned at the idea, and then stifled a yawn.

The woods were silent, as they always were. Anything that was living wanted to stay that way, and the dead and plagued things moved with the assurance and confidence required to remain silent. The only noises he heard were the infrequent howls of distant wolves. Otherwise, Araneon could close his eyes and be convinced that they were the only living things in the woods.

But he did not want to close his eyes. Sleep meant vulnerability, to Finnaeus and Aloyseus and their twisted connection. But that wasn’t the only thing he was leery of, if he was honest with himself. He rubbed his eyes, willing himself to stay awake. Sleep without wine meant dreams, and within those dreams hid the real torment.

Rather than think about sleep, his turned his thoughts to his conversation with Finnaeus. The druid’s connection with his sister troubled him less than what he said about her. Because you’re sister is a good person, and saving the Sunwell was the right thing to do. The right thing – the very concept sat like a dagger in his stomach. Anya always lectured him about doing the right things. Which was all very well for someone who always seemed to have clarity on what the right thing to do actually was. That kind of thing never came easy to Araneon. And when he thought of what his sister would think about what he was doing, he knew very clearly that if she knew what was in the crates, she would instantly disapprove.

Well she knows now, Araneon thought. He had given her the manifest. The idea of returning back to Quel’danas to face her wrath – he could picture her angry face and the disappointment that would underline her almost hysterical anger. And she would be justified in that anger. But what she didn’t understand, that he could never get her to agree with, was that he needed this tattoo gone. And if performing one last unsavory act would get that spot removed. Well, that was the price he had to pay. But every time he settled on that idea, every single time, her face would pop into her head, and then it would be replaced by that awful voice, the one that came with the pain of the brand on his arm, and –

No, he thought to himself violently. He was a different person now. He was not The Spider. The Spider was dead and gone, faded into memories like the rest of his past. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the guilt, but the doubt crept into his mind like a spider on its webs, thoughts of guilt and second guessing creating an elaborate tapestry of toxic ideas laced with self-loathing. Landing on any of thoughts would ensnare him, but the more he resisted the more he was drawn in. Hadn’t he just branded a murloc today with his old mark?

That was different, Araneon thought to himself. But it wasn’t, not really, and he knew that as soon as he tried to rebuff the idea. He thought back to that moment, watching the slimly little bastard squirm. He could feel the bloodlust anew, that sense of power and control as it screamed and writhed. The pain was his as much as the murloc’s, and the feeling of power flowing through his hand and searing the murlocs skin gave him pleasure. And to watch it crawl back into the water, utterly defeated. It had pleased him in a way that he hadn’t been in such a long time. Not since his last conquest, not since the days of The Spider. Now he was defanged, less menacing. That was what he wanted. A life in the right, in the light of day, a life that he didn’t have to hide from his sister. Or from anyone else.

And yet, as Araneon’s eyes drifted to a close, his mind drifted back to that she-elf on Quel’danas, her beautiful curves, and how much they reminded him of Helena, what would have been his greatest conquest, at the height of his power and when no appetite remained unquenched. He drifted into sleep, his hand subconsciously reaching for the tattoo on his arms. Sleep came over him, a poison lulling him into submission, and he could already smell the perfume, and hear her luscious voice. They were in Silvermoon, and he could –

-feel the silk of the bedsheets against his skin. He lay naked on the bed, his head rested on his hands. He watched Helena slide out of bed, the candle light dancing on her bare back. The light cast odd shadows, the dark sliding down from the back of her neck all the way down to below her waist. He drank her in, inhaling the scent of her perfume and sweat and getting drunk off of it. And her mana - just the thought of it sent him into a near frenzy. She was rich with it. He could feel it when he ran his fingers across her smooth white skin, tasted it when he kissed her lips, her breasts, and when he made love to her he swore it made it all the sweeter. Her deep red hair fell below her shoulders, and she stood in front of a mirror.

“What do you see?” he asked her, resting a hand on his bare stomach.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she purred. She combed long, slender fingers through her hair, and then arched her back so that he could see all of her. Goosebumps covered his skin. Once was not going to be enough. Not tonight.

“I see perfection,” Araneon offered, licking his lips. She laughed, the sound like music in his ears. He could listen to her laugh all night.

“Such a charmer,” she said, glancing over her shoulders. He met her green eyes, and he saw an invitation. He slid off of the bed, ignoring the sheets falling to the floor. But the touch of silk would give him no comfort. His right hand rested against her hip, while the left grabbed her hand. Kissing the back of her neck, he pressed himself closer to her.

“But what do you see?” he asked, his face visible in the mirror next to hers. She leaned her head back so that it rested on his shoulder.

“It’s like when you find the right words, and the spell finally works,” she said, twirling fingers through his hair. “I see magic.”

It was the perfect answer, from the perfect woman. He kissed her neck, tracing his fingers along her body. “We are magic, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” she said. “Two elements of an equation that perfectly balance.”

“And produce such wondrous results,” he said.

“Wondrous,” she repeated, closing her eyes. “At first I was not sure. But now…”

He nuzzled against her, staring ahead into the mirror. There he saw her looking at him, desire in her eyes, but something more in her words. She wanted him, he wanted her – the physical desire was more than obvious. But that tone in her words, that insecurity that was beneath a woman of her stature. It told him something else, something far more ominous.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but he knew what she meant. The question was more to stall than for information. She glanced in the mirror, her eyes trying to meet his. He kissed her neck instead.

“You have a bit of danger about you,” she said. “An aura.”

“You think I’m dangerous?” he asked, trying to distract her with his fingertips. She closed her eyes, but for a moment, and then looked back into the mirror. In this way she was stronger than any other woman. Nothing could sway her from what she wanted. And what she wanted, more than the physical love they shared, was confirmation of something more.

“You are dangerous,” she said.

“So are you,” he whispered into her ear. “You could take me apart with a flick of your wrist. You can undo me with a look.” He grinned at her. “You already have, just now.”

She let out a purring laugh. Her right hand reached out and her fingertips hovered just above the candle flame. The flame stopped dancing and stood rigid, a trick of magic. It bent and distorted into a perfectly round orb of fire. Araneon could feel the mana flow through her, the power required to perform such a simple trick. It set his brain abuzz, shot a running tickle up the back of his spine that it made him shudder. He pressed against her, trying to regain control.

“But you are more dangerous,” she said, turning back to the mirror. “You are like wine, Araneon. Sweet to drink, and intoxicating. But the bottle empties, eventually, and what will I have then?”

Araneon said nothing, trying not to show his impatience. It had taken weeks to ensnare her. Nights of delicate words and subtle glances, drinks of amberwine and listening to music. She distrusted him because she knew what he wanted – one night, one encounter. And while she was game for a strictly physical encounter, she wanted more than just the one night. They played this game for weeks, countering and counteroffering, until finally Araneon could no longer put off his own needs and relented. But here, now, his skin on her skin, the thought of a tomorrow with her was the sour note spoiling a harmonious creation. She was perfect, yes, but not as perfect as he.

He met his own glance in the mirror, his eyes meeting those of his reflection. Where he saw desire in hers, he only saw hunger in his. He never slept with a conquest twice. It was a rule he created when he began his hunts, and it was a rule that kept him from being caught. And yet here he was, his body against hers. He had explored every inch of her, and yet he found himself wanting more. She wanted more too, but she would not relent until she got an answer.

“You’re asking for something I do not know I can give,” he said, his eyes never leaving his reflection. He saw his mouth form the words, his voice bring them alive, and he found that they were the first honest words he had spoken in a very long time.

“I think you underestimate yourself,” she said, turning her head so that she was nuzzling against his neck. Her hands pulled his so that he was hugging her, and her arms overlapped his. This was a gesture of intimacy, not of sexual desire, and it felt odd, alien to him. He did not know what to do. It was against his code. Many before Helena had attempted to do this, and they all ended up with the same fate. But here, without only themselves and the candlelight, it did not feel entirely wrong.

“I don’t know,” he said to her, feeling confused. She moved her hands over his, and she sighed, looking into the mirror.

“We can have many nights like this,” she said. “As many nights as there are stars in the sky.”

“But I only want the one,” he insisted, kissing her cheek, trying to turn their encounter back into something more physical. That was where he was comfortable, and that was where he could reclaim his power. But she turned in his arms so that she could face him. She reached up, placing her palms on his cheeks. Her eyes searched for his, but he could only look passed her head, to his reflection in the mirror. There he saw confusion, discomfort.

“You have many conquests,” she said to him, her voice washing over him. How did this turn? How did this happen? Just minutes before he had her in the palm of his hands. She responded to his every touch, begged for more, and he gave her everything that she wanted. “I can see you love the thrill of the hunt. But I can offer you more than that, Araneon, if you would but let me.” She kissed his lips, and it set his body ablaze. He broke off the kiss, shaking his head. “I can give you more.”

“I don’t want more,” he said, but when he glanced back into the mirror he saw hesitation, a lack of certainty.

“But I think you do,” she said. “I can feel it.”

Her words had a charm to them, fogging his brain and dulling his senses. They were pressed so close together, their bodies intertwining. She kissed and he could not counter, and when she pressed him onto the bed, he found himself conceding to her. It was not his way, not the way of the Spider. He was the predator, he was in control, never twice. It was his game, and when he won and got what he wanted he claimed everything.

But here now Helena was besting him at his own game, and his own desire betrayed him. They made love for the second time, a forbidden encounter, and when it was done she lay on the bed, perfectly naked and exceptionally beautiful, and she looked at him with the same smile he used to give his lovers. It was the look of satisfaction, of an appetite satisfied. Victory.

He sat up on the bed, his hands clutching the soft mattress. He caught his reflection in the mirror again. This was not how he envisioned his night. Helena was to be his triumph, but instead she was his downfall. She sat up behind him, her image appearing in the reflection, and just the sight of her made him light headed. He closed his eyes. It was disturbing just how much he had lost control.

“You are a great lover,” she said, sliding up next to him and snaking a hand across his belly. The warmth of her body made his heart beat faster.

“Nothing compared to you,” he said. It was a line he often gave to his conquests, one that was carefully honed to sound entirely genuine. But this time he meant it, and it sounded like defeat when he said it. She put her head on his back.

“I bet you say that to all of your lovers,” she said back to him.

“I do,” he said. “Every time.”

“But you don’t always mean it.”

“Almost never,” he said.

“But you mean it with me?”

“I do,” he said, heart beating faster now. He had been bested by this beautiful woman, this strong, smart woman who oozed sexual appeal and reeked of magical power. He wanted to claim her, but she claimed him as a prize.

“You must come back to Outland with me,” she said, tracing her fingers back and forth across his stomach. “I could find a place for you.”

That wasn’t part of the game. Going with her was never part of it. It was supposed to end, tonight. And he could still end it, still follow the rules of the hunt. But with every word his will grew weaker, falling under her spell.

“I don’t –”

“Hush, lover,” she crooned. “What would you do otherwise? Lay with me tonight and disappear in the morning? Is that what you do to the other girls? I am not the other girls, and you are above such meaningless encounters.”

It was confusing, in the moment. His body coursed with lust and desire, and with every word he consumed he could feel the mana radiating off of her. But she miscalculated, just then, and the spell broke. Those were not meaningless encounters. Quite the opposite – he remembered each one, because each one proved his own prowess. They were his victories, his, and no one could take them. He sat up straight, staring into that mirror. He smirked a bit, and he there he saw it again. The power, the confidence that came with being The Spider.

“I don’t just disappear in the morning,” he said, taking her hand softly into his. He turned to her, pushing her gently so that she was laying down on the bed. With a kiss on her lips he straddled her, holding her hands above her head.

“What did you do?” she asked, biting her lip. She thought she was part of the game. But for her it was game over. He kissed her, pressing down on her hands, and then leaned in.

“I sucked all of the mana from them,” he whispered. She looked at him with an odd expression, as if she thought she misheard him. He kissed her, slid his hands down her face, and then pressed them over her throat.

Instantly her hands shot to his hands, but he had already begun the process. His hands glowed blue, her mana draining from her body and into his hands. Power coursed through him like an electric current, and he threw his head back as his head buzzed with the influx of energy. This was the second part of his conquest, the prize he claimed as a reward for his efforts. She struggled underneath him, but he was too powerful. He pressed his hands tighter on her windpipe, making sure she could not utter any incantations. More mana flowed into his body, and he rocked with the power of it. He smiled, let out a moan of pleasure. All of the weeks of preparation, laying the intricate web of desire and manipulation, were worth this moment of consumption.

She was dead long before he was done draining every drop of mana from her. And even when she had no more mana left, he could still taste it, still feel that warm glow of power coursing through his veins. For these few moments there was no more desire, no more want. It was simple catharsis, a feeling of pleasurable completion. When he came to, when the buzz began to fade, he looked down at Helena.

“You were the best,” he said. “And you almost got me.” He pressed a finger to his forehead, and a black mark blossomed on her skin in the shape of a spider. “Almost.”

He stood from the bed, dizzy with victory, and got dressed. He would leave before anyone came and saw him. To those who knew her, she would be Helena Brightwing. And maybe she was that to him before. But now she was simply the tenth victim of the Spider, and his greatest victory so far.

He awoke to the sound of a wolf howl. His eyes flew open, though it was still incredibly dark. Rubbing his eyes, he turned to see Aloyseus still sitting against the tree, though his eyes were closed. Above him he could no longer see Finnaeus sitting in the branch. Araneon looked around and saw Finnaeus going through his satchel.

“You should catch some sleep,” Araneon offered.

“When you’re healed and can cover the watch, then I’ll rest,” he said. Araneon rolled his eyes and looked at the cloth. They were no longer white – the cloth looked completely black. He made to touch it, but then Finnaeus looked up at him.

“Don’t touch it,” Finnaeus said.

“It looks rotten,” Araneon responded.

“It’s the corruption from the poison,” Finnaeus said, walking over to him. “It’s drawn from the wound. You’re not completely done yet.”

Araneon looked down, wrinkling his nose at the cloth. “How did you learn all this?”

“I spent a lot of time with the Kaldorei in Ashenvale,” Finnaeus responded. “As well as Felwood. I learned a lot about natural remedies to corrupted wounds.”

“Handy,” Araneon said, raising his eyebrows. “When will this all be done?”

“By sunlight I should be able to tell,” he said, holding his three-fingered hand over the cloth. Araneon was sure he was about to touch him, and his free hand gripped the hilt of his sword. But then Finnaeus withdrew his hand, and walked away. “But you’re almost there. You should sleep more.”

“I’m good on sleep for a bit,” Araneon asked.

“Didn’t look it,” Finnaeus said.

“What do you mean?” Araneon asked, sitting up and peering at the druid.

“You tossed quite a bit,” Finnaeus said. “And you were grabbing your arm so tight I thought you were going to break it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had deep bruises around that tattoo of yours.

Araneon said nothing. He was grateful for the dark, because he could not contain the blush of anger and embarrassment on his face. The past always haunted him, even in his sleep. He looked down at his arm at the tattoo, and he pulled a sleeve down to cover it. How could the druid see it in the blasted dark anyhow?

“It’s nothing,” he said. “A remnant of an old time.”

“Ok,” Finnaeus said with a shrug. “I can blend some plants for a more restful sleep if you need it. Won’t be as potent as it should be, because the materials are hard to come by in these parts.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Araneon said, sick with shame. He knew he shouldn’t have fallen asleep. “I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself,” Finnaeus said, closing up the satchel. Araneon watched the druid give him the once over, an appraising look that Araneon couldn’t quite gauge. Was it distrust? Concern? Or perhaps a look that indicated that Finnaeus thought he was weak?

I am not weak, Araneon thought.

“If you’re not going to catch some rest, I will,” Finnaeus said, looking up at the tree. “Keep a sharp eye for the southwest. The howls are coming from that direction.”

“Duly noted,” Araneon said, wrinkling his nose. He watched as Finnaeus turned into a great cat and sprang into the tree.

He settled in the carriage, his eyes roving over the unsleeping skeletal steeds and to Aloyseus, who said nothing through the whole encounter. Satisfied that they would all leave him alone, he leaned back in the carriage again. His thoughts drifted to his dream, that memory of Helena, and a cold shiver raced down his body.

That’s not who I am anymore, Araneon thought to himself. But even in the dark of the night, he could still feel the tattoo on his arm, and the ache of the bruises surrounding it.