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Screams echoed dimly through the cancerous halls of Acherus, but Brynnara paid them no mind. Through much difficulty, she'd reconciled herself to the unsavory elements that were commonplace in the Ebon Hold.

She finished carefully composing her missive, folding it neatly and dripping hot wax on it before stamping it with the ring she wore, bearing the image of a jagged blade on a shield. She looked up at the Forsaken standing before her, looking bored with what few facial expressions were left to its mangled visage.

"Take this to the Undercity," she instructed, laying down a sack of gold by it. "I don't know where they are in the collection of ruins and sewers, but I know they're there. You likely know more than I. Make sure one of their operatives finds it, and relays it to their leadership."

The Forsaken hissed, ichor dribbling from his rotted, split lips. "You're playing with forces you don't understand, draenei. Leave the Modas alone. They don't know who you are. It's in your best interests to keep it that way."

Brynnara's mouth curled in derisive amusement. "I've heard the name Aziel V'Ghera. I'm on his trail. He should know. I don't feel like slaughtering half the orcs the Hellscream whelp has left in 'good will' in the banshee's city as guards. I have other things to work on. You can deliver the missive without the unnecessary impediment of factional tensions. The gold should cover your time." She pulled out the large sword she wore on her back, admiring the precise incisions and stamps which represented the runes she'd forged into it to act as a channel for her unholy power. "This will insure that you get the missive delivered and don't 'lose' it along the way." She turned icy eyes, small motes of green energy dancing in them, on the Forsaken. "If you happen to be waylaid by Alliance forces, understand that death is no refuge from me: the basest of the Ebon Blade can force awareness into a corpse, as you well know."

The Forsaken's demeanor didn't change. He nodded, taking the note up, not taking his eyes from the draenei Death Knight. "I'll do this for you, draenei, because we are both sworn to the Ebon Blade. Loyalty to Highlord Mograine comes before all other considerations. But I again offer you this simple warning: stay away from the Modas il Toralar. You are new at this. The depredations they're capable of rival the worst abominations you encountered in Icecrown Citadel." He took the bag of gold, sliding it into a magical pouch on his belt. He walked to a nearby balcony and summoned a skeletal gryphon and took wing, heading off in the direction of Tirisfal Glades.

The note reads:

Aziel V'Ghera and the Modas il Toralar,

I offer greetings. I am Brynnara Matheredor, Coordinator of the Reclamation, Knight of the Ebon Blade. You are hereby put on notice: your existence will no longer be suffered. Don't step into the Light, for the Light has nothing to do with this.

Leave the shadows where you dwell, and step into the darkness. Only there can we properly trade the atrocities necessary to end your presence in Azeroth.

I am watching.

An envelope, in a flowing script addressed to Brynnara:

Mistress Matheredor-

Greetings! I am afraid Lord V'Ghera is uninterested in your threats, so it has been left upon me to answer. My name is Thelinna Que'sheth, Lord V'Ghera's consort and a member of the Modas il Toralar.

I am afraid to tell you that we were already well aware of your feelings towards us. Expressing so in a public forum such as those silly war council's will have it fall back on our ears quite easily. Needless to say, any actions you take against us will be met with similar force. Your presence in Azeroth is as unwelcome as our own. Though I must admit, I am amused that you seem to think that we are without influence in the Ebon Blades. I would kindly suggest to watch your back.

As it is now, all you do is threaten. When we see something of greater consequence, perhaps we may react. We have more important business to deal with than to take heart with every one who might potentially be a threat.

Take care. Perhaps you will prove yourself to be intriguing.

Order through atrocity.
Peace through fear.
Faith in Modas il Toralar.

Lady Thelinna Que'sheth

She finished the quick note, smiling grimly as she stuffed it in its receptacle. The forces were withdrawing, and she only had a few moments before more Horde guards arose, intent on defending their Banshee Queen's sanctity.

She pinned the Deathguard's head to the wall with the note folded and socked into the drooling mouth. She thought for a moment that the eyes might have rolled hatefully at her, but she shrugged, unconcerned if the Deathguard still "lived". She joined the force as they continued their march to the ruins of Lordaeron.

On the walls of the inn in Brill, in the Deathguard's mouth, was the note:

Lady Thelinna:

'Twas so pleasant to see you this fine evening in Brill, as we so handily and easily laid waste to its "defenses". You desire something of greater consequence? Here is your wish. Respond soon, corpse: you know nothing of atrocity, and I so dearly desire to show you and your fetid "order".

In the Shadow's Flickering Embrace,

Lady Brynnara Matheredor

The Maggot Lord stood over the body of Ehlina, her liver freshly ripped from her abdomen and dripping redly to the hungry ground beneath his feet. The grass wailed as it soaked in the fresh blood, growing greener and looking almost alive. Deathguards moved about the courtyard, putting to rights the battle damage and making sure the corpses were not too defiled. One never knew if a new Forsaken would arise from the dead, after all.

"We have driven them from our home, yesss. But, at what cossst, yesss? A fessstival interrupted, and many dead, yesss. At leassst we will eat well, yesss!" Abominus began eating the fresh liver, sharing chunks with Raoul and few other Forsaken, and one curious Troll.

While Abominus and the other Grim Maw and allies stood talking and eating, no one noticed Ehlina's body fade into the shadows, the work of an elven rogue dragging his friend's body to safety.