World of Warcraft®

Cray was becoming paranoid. Every shadow, every face.... he could hardly stand the suspense. His one suspicion -- Sathrasa, of course, for who else was as vile and manipulative as this? -- had turned out to be false. He almost felt guilt at suspecting her.... but then, he reminded himself, she had certainly made herself worthy of suspicion.

He stood, perfectly still, watching a cloaked figure walking towards him. A woman, definitely. His hand moved towards his axe. If this was it.... it would end now.

But then the woman turned, taking the hood of her cloak down as she knelt before a tombstone. A moment later, she was weeping softly. Cray relaxed for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief.

Perhaps it was time for a break. A nice, quiet, well-armed stroll around the city...

Ciellia slinked into the Recluse to relax for the evening. Soon after she was joined by other Ocheliad. However, this night was not bound to end over a few drinks and laughing at how vicious Lia's drunken words become. After her friends had left, she laid on the bar with others at the table. A few familiar faces, Genevra, Cray, and one later she found out to be called Dustwing.

Commotion broke out when that armored worgen returned. Nearly blasting off Zaium's arms had not been enough for him. Ciellia growled at Genevra, "Get out!" After hurling lightning bolts at the others and tossing a mug and then a chair a Ciellia, another familiar face appeared.

Ciellia growled at him to get out. Ria's letter to her, asking for help with these letters, also asked for Ciellia to keep her eyes open and if needed keep Arlston out of trouble too deep for him. This trouble was too deep, for anyone. Despite Ciellia's words Arlston was ready to fight the armored worgen. Thankfully, the worgen took the fight outside and Arlston stayed inside.

By now guards had showed up; however, the worgen kept attacking and inflicting serious wounds. Once he had fled Ciellia realized how lucky she was to have only been bruised up and a lump on her head (in feline form) from receiving the armored knee to it and later a hilt of a sword smashed down on it.

Ciellia grumbled. Arlston said something about tracking... Did he mean the worgen? Or tracking someone that knew about the letters? Either way, Ciellia needed to follow him.

Genevra rushed home, for the first time in some months feeling that protective instinct to run and save herself and her child rather than to stay in the Recluse and aid others. As she retreated to her home in Lakeshire her mind raced as fast as her heart while she tried to process all that had occurred.

Cray and Dustwing had spoken of letters, and then came this business of the armored Worgen. She buried her head in her hands, slumping in front of the hearth, the night would be a long one filled with worry as much as curiosity.

The Collector watched them, how could he not, and he did so with a degree of disdain and impatience. He offered them the path to enlightenment and still they had not come together. Perhaps this would require more guidance on his part. He heard the snide voice of the felguard behind him, "Your time is running out." This caused the warlock to utter a curse as he looked over his notes.

"And you're not helping things right now."

He penned a handful of letters, "If this does not get the point across, I'll let you rest for a week."

There was a shuffling and a grunt in the corner from the felguard as the Collector stood and headed to the nearest mailbox. "Fel take me if I resort to plain speech," he uttered before slipping the letters in the box.

The day after the attack, Dustwing appeared again at the Blue Recluse, with a black boar trailing behind him.

Cyrus's idea of the worgen having been Narnicka disturbed him. Narnicka was friend. His mate, Genevra, was even more so. Did she know? Dustwing wondered. And if not, was she safe?

The barkeep gave Dustwing an odd look for his choice of companions, but on Dustwing's reassurance that the boar was clean and well-mannered, he shrugged and let it go. Dustwing crossed over to the table he had been sitting at last night. He peered at the seats, finding the one he believed Genevra had occupied

"Has anyone else sat here since yesterday?" he asked the barkeep. THe barkeep shrugged and said he didn't think so.

All the better. Dustwing called the boar forward. Unbeknowest to most, boars had a sense of smell rivaling that of wolves. Dustwing pushed the animal's head towards the chair Genevra had been sitting in, and commanded, "Track."

The boar snuffled the seat deeply, then slowly but surely waddled towards the door, flat nose pressed to the floorboards.

A few hours later the boar was leading Dustwing over the ridge into Lakeshire. Soon it picked a house, almost shoving its nose under the door in its eagerness in following the scent. When it discovered it couldn't open the door like that, it looked up at Dustwing and grunted.

"Good boy," said Dustwing, throwing the boar a scrap of meat he usually used to treat his hawks. "Wait here." The boar understood the command, stepping down off the porch to find a patch of shade. Once there, it flopped over on its side, wiggled around in the dirt a little, then sighed in contentment. It seemed ready to stay there, just like that, for hours.

Dustwing shook his head, smiling, then knocked on the door. "Lady Genevra, are you in? Is Narnicka there?"

Genevra heard the call from downstairs as she sat by the fire. She took a glance at Narnicka as he rested, smiling warmly across at him before descending the stairs. The voice was familiar: Dustwing, or Dusty as she'd taken to calling him lately. She smirked at the thought, knowing that the nickname slightly annoyed the Night Elf.

She still appeared a bit ruffled from the prior night, having not prepared herself for guests for an outing after the last night's events. She looked up at the Night Elf, "Ah Dusty, what can I do for you? Or have you simply come to see the house finally? Either way come in and let me get you something to drink.

Genevra motioned to a chair at the nearby table in the sitting room, "What would you like, I can have Gretchen get just about anything."

Dustwing seemed relieved about....something. He winced slightly at the nickname, politely dipping into a bow and taking the seat as offered. "Oh, no, no thank you. I'm not thirsty," he replied. "Nice home."

Dustwing then hesitated. He watched Genevra's movements, as if trying to see right through her. He wasn't nearly as good as his sister at reading people however, and eventually gave up.

"I wanted to tell you that everyone made it out safely, though there were a few injuries, mostly from the lightning. The worgen is...still at large, though. The guards have been informed and are on the lookout."

He said it nonchalantly enough, but he was still watching for Genevra's reaction. Eventually he continued.

"They think it was odd, a worgen that could use lightning. Often its only the shaman that can, and there hasn't yet been a human that's taken to that kind of magic. Well, excepting your Narnicka, of course."

Dustwing forced a smile. His stomach flipped unpleasantly at what he was going to say next, but there wasn't any help for it. He looked Genevra in the eye and said,

"They're worried Narnicka might be...connected to the whole incident."

Just connected? Might BE that worgen! Dustwing's inner voice scolded him for not telling the full truth. But how could he? Genevra seemed close to Narnicka. If there was anything "funny" about Narnicka, she ought to know. No use worrying about it further if she claimed it wasn't him.

Except....

Dustwing gave his head a little shake to push the doubts away, trying to keep his expression nonjudgmental. He put his hands on his knees, far away from hunting knife sheathed on his belt, and waited patiently.

She took a seat across from him, "Tea, Gretchen, please?" She looked back to Dustwing, visibly relieved to hear that no one was seriously injured the night before. "As they should be on the look out. If this ...man.. has already attacked Zaium he can't rightly be on the loose running around and attacking people at will, we've enough to get on without that added stress and worry."

"Narnicka was raised by a shaman, his abilities were taught to him at a very young age. Perhaps whoever saw these attacks was mistaking lightning for something else?" She asked, knowing that Dustwing had witnessed the attack.

"I can't see Narnicka involved with any of that Dusty. We've got enough to worry about with preparing for Lahkin's arrival." She smiled, "Besides, why would he be connected? There are countless Worgen now among us, is this some kind of targeting against him because of his past?"

She thought it was absurd, and it could be heard in her tone, "Zaium is a dear friend of both of us. We've asked him to be Caretaker to the child, should anything happen... So anything that can be done to stop the one that attacked him, would be in our best interest."

She rested her hands on her stomach, smiling up at Dustwing, "Was there any other news?"

There was something in Genevra's words that seemed defensive, but Dustwing reminded himself that anyone would be if their husband had just been accused of something like this. Still, something seemed odd, especially the comment about the magic being mistaken for something else when Genevra knew it hadn't been. Covering something up, or more attempts by a worried woman at protecting her mate? It was impossible to tell, so Dustwing let it go.

"No, Lady Genevra. This worgen is capable of killing many people. They are investigating anything that might hold a connection, likely or unlikely as that connection may be. As you said, they can't rightly let someone--something--like that continue to run around loose. If he is not too busy, perhaps Narnicka could help them in finding a trail. He understands that kind of magic better than most of the guards do. He'd be an asset."

With Genevra's question, he switched the topic of conversation easily. "The AAMS is holding a drive to help children in need, I hear. Have you seen the fliers?" He said a few more comments in that vein and others, such as news about a kobold infestation in one of the mines by Goldshire, and how the trees were leafing out sooner than usual this year. He looked around the room curiously as he spoke, complimenting the d*%%@s and the rugs, examining a certain table ornament, and asking after Genevra's wellbeing. He seemed content to leave the matter of Narnicka and the worgen at rest.

((And apparently window hangings is a naughty word!))

Keyesh sat there silently upon his normal chair within the Blue Recluse as he watched everyone come and go doing there own thing. He sighs softly to himself as he grows bored of just sitting here, so he decides to go for a walk as he made his way towards the outside of the recluse he heard commotions about some letters and whispers, it was strange to him and he didn’t think much of it at first.

He finally made his way outside in the cool breeze as it brushed against his face gently, he wanted to check on his mail anyway for he has people requesting transmutations from his current profession though business there seems to be dim, he opened his mailbox as he noted some jewels from a fellow guildy as he pockets them to remind himself later that he would work on them. He scanned through the mailbox some making sure he got everything and then he noted a strange letter.

He paused to consider it for awhile and he frowned slightly knowing it could not be good for him, He grabbed a hold of his letter and he noted another one attached to it... He silently cursed himself for not checking his mail often for it was rare he get anything. He grabbed the second letter and he made his way back to the recluse silently passing over everyone else as he sat down and opened up the first letter as he read it silently and he sighed and placed the letter upon the table.

He then scans the second letter that he received and a frown spread across his face. He wondered to himself weather or not his past is coming back to haunt him for this did sound like something his kin would do. He did after all betray the Queen Azsharia and betrayal was never forgiven. Now that the highborn were allowed to walk amongst them he had the fear that they would track him down and kill him if need be. He also thought of the Twilight Cultists that served Deathwing this would be something they’d do for he knew what they were like.

He sighed thinking of all the enemies he had made in the past wondering who would be the one sending this letter to him, it bothered him and as much as he silently hated to admit it he was a bit unnerved by it…It showed on his face as well.

That Worgen beast's lightning had truly hurt, but he'd received enough healing magic -- and quickly enough -- that he did not feel so bad as he had when Sathrasa's magical spear had impaled him. Although he knew Cyrus had spoken of Narnicka's shamanistic abilities, Cray could not suspect him. He had heard of armor and weaponry that could grant special abilities -- this, Cray reasoned, was the most likely explanation.
Blame, explanations, reasons -- these were not what it seemed most others were concerned with. Cray found himself, once more, injured and causing worry to the majority of the Holy Guard. They all encouraged him to rest, take it easy, travel only to places of relaxation.

"Avoid the Recluse, for a while anyways," a guard outside the Westbrook Garrison had told him, "Returning to the scene is never a good idea."

"Lightning seldom strikes twice," Cray had replied, with rather less hostility than he felt. It would not do to offend the others living and working in the Garrison and its vicinity. After all, he and the Pia Presidium were the newcomers... but that did not mean Cray liked to be told to be idle.

Now, Cray stood with yet another mysterious letter in his hand. The lightning had assuredly addled his brain, and now this all seemed too much to bear. A serial killer on the loose in the city, ominous riddles, a lightning throwing Worgen... all within days of Pia Presidium's move to a new barracks, and the removal of his bandages. Everything seemed to be going so well until he'd decided to check his mail.

Cray's eyes narrowed, throwing an accusatory gaze upon the very letter in his hand. "I'm finished," he murmured, crumpling the letter into a ball and tossing it aside. "If this thing wants to reach me, he will have to find me."

He turned to leave the mailbox behind, then paused. Ria's worried face flashed across his mind. He was not simply trying to solve a mystery to give himself peace of mind. He was a protector and an Incorruptible. If something evil was behind this he was sworn to stop it.

With a sigh, he turned to pick up the crumpled letter only to watch as his excitable gryphon Gust picked up the crumpled ball of paper in his beak.... and swallowed it. Gust gave a very unsatisfied caw, then glared at Cray for feeding him something so tasteless. The ebon gryphon shook his feathers, then took off for the sky. If his master needed a ride, he would need to find something respectable to feed him.

Yet another letter had come.

The mysterious, "Collector" had been growing impatient, it seemed. The latest clues worded far less ambiguously than the previous. It was interesting to ponder for what reason he was growing impatient. Perhaps a timetable and agenda were failing. With a face like stone, he read, and re-read the letter enough times to memorize it, and the handwriting.

Glancing up at the dimly lit room, deep within SI:7 barracks, he sighed quietly. Too much work, and too little time to do it. Not terribly bothered by the recent influx of mountains of files and observation reports, it was these simple letters, these few sentences that put him, not quite fearful, (He had long since abandoned fear of anything dangerous) but wary.

All his sources had come back blank... His eyes and ears within the city, and those on the discreet payroll of SI:7 had nothing new to offer. The postal service, had not noticed anything suspicious, and Arlston's own investigation of the mailboxes had only led to a small, bloody cut due to some idiot Gnome's idea of mailing a robotic, shaving razor to his friend.

There was too much information for other matters, but not enough for the one that directly concerned him. Information was his lifeblood, his most valuable commodity. It was through information, he was able to perform his job ending a conflict before it got out of hand, and harmed innocents.

Arlston closed his eyes slowly, thinking deeply. Master Shaw had assigned him specifically to hunt down and eliminate a recent perceived threat to Stormwind. The report named him "Torvan Wallanston, formerly known as Torvan Stadlight", but the man had killed guards and was a known Death Knight now. A troubling target to kill, but no matter, he needed to die before he caused widespread panic.

Arlston opened his eyes slowly, glancing down the dimly lit room where a man much like himself sat on a bunk, sharpening a long thin dagger, identical to his own hidden blade. Without so much as a blink, Arlston tossed the reports back on the table. "Too much...to do...too little...time," he muttered.

Picking up his assortment of concealed daggers, and putting them carefully into their hidden sheathes around his body, he belted on his preferred pair. One of which marked him as an SI:7 Assassin, the other he simply preferred for its heft and balance. Stretching lightly, he checked to make certain that all his hidden tools were squared away, a normal routine. Lockpicks, poisons, smoke-bombs, chloroform, and a small bit of rope hidden around his person. Satisfied, he opened his personal trunk at the base of his bed. Glancing around the room, he picked up his small pile of letters and documents.

He had work to do, personal affairs came after. He silently remembered the reason he had become the way he had, always distancing himself from others, then banished the memory. People called him "Honorable" for protecting the weak anonymously, for sacrificing fame and glory. Still others always suspected him, the label of "Assassin" instantly making enemies without explanation. Masked men are never trusted, and seldom understood it seems.

Arlston frowned, he had never felt he was "Honorable." His was simply a necessary job, for the sake of others. It was for others that he did what he had to do. What he was about to do. Thinking briefly of Ria's reaction to his upcoming statement, Arlston flinched. He was going to have to break a promise he had made to both Ria and more importantly, Ciellia, a woman he was wary of. Perhaps doing the right thing would get him killed after all, for all the wrong reasons.

Striding quietly out of the barracks, he nodded to each masked man and woman before he left, heading for the Recluse...

The now familiar words of the felguard echoed in his head Your time is running out. The seemingly frail warlock was feeling the pain of his situation. "I hate it when you're right." He cursed the air as no one was particularly around him.

And so he set pen to parchment, but only thrice this time.

The darkness must someday ebb, to give way to the dawn. The absence of one does not explain the other.

The soul must give way to the heart.... eventually

The Light harbors the darkness in its depths, be there... now.

Now he just had to wait, and thankfully the wait was not long, for the man did not have the luxury of time.

They appeared cautious; first of Tarbis and then of the aged man himself. It was not until Tarbis was dismissed that the trio would speak. And then came the questions. The man deflected them, in an attempt to keep things going on his timeline, his agenda.

"Will you fight according to the rules?" He posed the question to each in turn.

"What rules?"

He did not answer, and only posed the question again.

First the Worgen walked away. Then the paladin. The rogue remained.

For the first time since the first letter had arrived, Arlston was ready for it.

The note was cleverly worded as always, but simply stated. The "Collector" wanted to meet him. It seems Arlston's worries would answer themselves, and he'd be able to directly confront this secretive man. And he knew exactly where to find this "Collector".

Folding the letter and placing it within his pouch, he silently strode out of the Blue Recluse. Wincing slightly, as the memory of Ciellia's threats forced their way into his mind. Blinking away the thoughts, he banished the memory to the back of his mind for later perusal. He would keep Ria and the others safe, alone if he had to. He would bring the danger only to himself, even if that caused Ria and Ciellia trouble. Ria was better off emotionally hurt, then dead or worse. Ciellia did not understand that, believing herself unshakable, infallible. He admired her for that, and was envious of how easily she could speak her mind.

She did not understand him, nobody ever did. He did not need, nor want, her "protection". He blinked again. His eyes took on a resolute fire behind them, his face remained its emotionless mask. He would find the answers he needed to keep them all safe.

And the "Collector" had just given him the means to do just that.

Walking swiftly, he passed through the canals, and into the Cathedral district, glancing up at the imposing structure. Religion and righteousness did not seem to accept his secretive ways. Walking inside the Holy bastion, he observed Cray Auchtin, pacing the large chamber nervously. A pleasant suprise, Cray had always treated him fairly, and Arlston considered him a friendly man, not quite a "friend" but a respectable man. A man he could depend on to do the right thing, no matter what.

After discussing with Cray what was needed, and where the meeting would happen, (Arlston silently wished for a more subtle, intelligent partner) he told Cray where to go. The cathedral tombs, where "The Light harbors the darkness in its depths".

Upon arrival, Arlston, the worgen druid he did not know, and Cray gathered and watched the strange old man who spoke from the corner. Arlston quickly memorized the man's features, but did not recognize him. He was a stranger.

Cray was instantly suspicious of the man, using threats where they were not needed. When the warlock dismissed his demon, he asked the three men before him to lay down their arms. Understanding the man meant no immediate danger, Arlston threw down his weapons, and was surprised when the man knew about his hidden blades. Cray threw down his axe with hesitation, keeping his shield which Arlston knew was quite deadly in itself. The worgen merely flexed it's claws.

After disarming themselves, they were each asked a simple question. "Will you fight fairly?"
Nobody gathered before this old man knew what they would "Fight". The worgen left at this, Arlston shot him a glance of intrigue. Cray was next, refusing to fight unless he knew the terms, common of a Paladin, defenders of the Light.

When the old man peered through the gloom of the tomb at him. Arlston's mind was planning. What was this "fight"? What was this old man's agenda? Why (and how) did he know about his involvement with Master Shaw? Who was this "Calis" the man muttered about secretly? Would he lose his soul at the end...? Arlston spoke slowly, perfectly hiding his tone of suspicion in his usual stoney voice, and unreadable face.

"I...will fight".

It was this phrase that would see him to the end of this mystery, to finding the truth behind this old man. To discover and end any danger this warlock might pose, or to die trying. If Arlston was to keep the others safe, his own well being must come second. As always.

He followed the Old warlock to the Docks, listening carefully he caught the name "Calis" again, before something unexpected, and unwanted happened. He shook the warlock's hand.

"Your bonds are broken" the mysterious "Collector" told him, in a tone that made Arlston's mental warning bells ring. "We will meet tomorrow, you and I" and with that, Arlston was allowed to leave.

Staring at his hand, he thought of the meaning of those words, "Your bonds are broken"...
Shaking his head slowly, he crept back to the Recluse...he had a number of small favors to ask Cray. One simple. One Dire...

Ciellia had been watching in the shadows for days now. A letter from Ria made Ciellia wary of what might happen. Arlston had sent Ria a pile of information as to what was going on. She didn't want to read it... And so she sent it to Ciellia.

Ciellia's main goal was to keep Ria safe, regardless of what harm it placed on herself.

Ciellia was lounging in the Recluse, as was normal for her, when she overheard Arlston speaking to another about a meeting and the letters. With an annoyed yawn she jumped down from the bar and slinked upstairs. She managed to conceal herself in the shadows of the railing. They didn't know she was there, just as she liked. However, from where she positioned herself, Ciellia only heard bits and pieces of the conversation.

The two words that engrained in her mind "promise" and "kill". Ciellia had to figure out what had happened at that meeting.

As Arlston left, she followed him and cornered him, demanding information. He was careful about what he shared; but, Ciellia came to learn that Cray promised to kill Arlston if things went bad. Ciellia backed off of Arlston for a few days, knowing she needed to speak to Cray.

Within a couple days her and Cray met in the Pig n' Whistle. Ciellia wanted information; she wanted to keep Ria safe. This meant keeping Ria's friend alive. Ciellia made the point to come unarmed and clad in a traditional elven outfit instead of armor. She also only spoke to Cray in her elven form. She needed that information and did not need to come accross threatening.

It was clear Cray appricieated this gesture, so he laid down his axe and shield on the bar. They spoke for awhile. Ciellia learned of another who had been at the meeting. A worgen that went by the name of Sykes. She smirked knowing of this worgen. She would enjoy trying to get more information out of him, even though he had left early on.

In the end Ciellia only had a little bit more information than she had started with. However, she had an idea on what questions she needed answered.

The Collector could not return to the north, not until this business was settled. He cringed at the thought that had been plaguing him since returning to Stormwind: It was your last. He pushed aside the latest batch of notes, all of which had left him and his efforts at a standstill.

The warlock paced the room slowly, speaking to what appeared to be himself, but might have been to the nearby felguard, "Sykes will prove to be a problem it seems. He was so highly recommended," By who? He winced at the words, knowing they were neither his nor the Felguard's.

His thoughts raced, back to the day that he had grown to rue.

The sun was just setting, and the cave was no longer as lit as it ought to be. The sconces had been lit, casting an unsteady light that danced and played in shadows. The Collector worked. He was already an old man, but not ancient by any standard; not yet; not by appearance at least.

He worked over a roughly hewn table, though what he worked at appeared to be a stack of books, scrolls, and gems, their further purpose unknown. The warlock was quite at ease within the cave, despite the foreboding appearance.

A voice carried to him from the cave entrance, speaking the words that changed it all, "I seek the House of Tomorrow."

And now he was back in the city, if the ruins could be called such. Fourteen. Three. Not enough choices.

He wrung his hands together, turning back to the notes of which had upset him.

Twice now he'd offered and twice now he'd been refused. The warlock was growing impatient. Impatient with those chosen, impatient with Calis. The visions started with the second refusal. They plagued the warlock in an unimaginable way; for what could scare the collector of souls?

The table was strewn with letters and notes, scribbled in the demonic language. In a fury he let forth a shadow bolt scorching the documents and filling the air with the acrid smell of fel magics.

"What happened to your friend?" came the deep mocking voice of the felguard.

The Collector waved a hand dismissing the demon. His head reeled, he staggered as the visions clouded his mind. A rasping guttural scream left his lips before he collapsed.

Cray tossed and turned in his bunk.

The words echoed in his mind.

"It is because you abhor this demon...."

His eye shot open and stared above him. All there was was darkness, nothing to see, and yet his vision was clearer than the thoughts in his own mind.

He was going to have to find Arlston if he was going to get any rest tonight.

It was over for him.

Instinct kicked in, the hilt of a dagger clutched tightly in his hand. He felt the resistance of the old man's chest as he drove the dagger into the man's heart.

It had started with a simple request, a calling to all those who had received letters, a meeting of sorts. Arlston entered the Pig and Whistle stealthily, wanting to check inside for danger first. The bar was safe. Once inside, and seated at the large central table, with the other gathered men. Arlston began doing what he did best, listening and learning.

The strange "Collector" had called several men to the meeting, a Paladin who went by the name of Samuel. Xytan, an officer of the Watch whom Arlston did not get along with, and a quiet, Gilnean man named Wallen.

Cray Auchtin arrived later, to Arlston's quiet relief, glad to have a familiar face. It seemed that the "Collector" was here for one purpose, to give a last chance to these other men, to give them the choice that Arlston had made long ago. To fight by the rules. To hear what the "Collector" had to say, and to answer questions, with his usual, vague answers.

Cray immediately began his stubborn streak, the other three men at the table preferring to watch soundlessly, unaware of what had transpired before. Cray had become somewhat agitated, even threatening the old man yet again, until Arlston quietly took Cray's axe from him. This did not change Cray's attitude, distrust of the mysterious old man ran deep in Cray, from the moment the warlock had mentioned Cray's family.

Arlston watched the whole ordeal quietly, only speaking one or two words. Listened to the questions and frustrations of the men gathered around him. The "Collector" refused to speak plainly, to share the information he had shared with Arlston.

The "Collector" wished for an "Inheritor" of a powerful soul. A soul of a once great man named "Calis". A man who was the "Standard Bearer" and had fought for the good of man as a whole, entrusting his soul to an old Warlock. The old "Collector" had taken the man's soul, but soon found himself to possessed by it, the physical shell of Calis had died, and the soul needed a new host. The collector had sent the initial letters to find those that Calis would be able to match with, to find a new host. To become the new "Standard Bearer" and receive the gifts that Calis gave, as well as the burdens.

Arlston knew all of this, but refused to speak. He hoped silently that these men would show patience, curiosity, and subtlety. It was not to be.

Angered, and surrounded, the old "Collector" scowled, his face a contorted mix of anger and disappointment. "Fools! the Lot of you!" Channeling a wave of Shadow magic that blasted all the gathered men backwards. Each man landed roughly, hurled violently against the wooden walls.

Arlston sighed quietly, it had come. The moment he dreaded had arrived. The "Collector" had become a danger to himself, to others, and to innocent lives. He had to be eliminated. Bounding to his feet expertly, he lunged at the collector, drawing a hidden blade from his armor, tipped with a powerful poison used exclusively by SI:7.

The paladin named Samuel dove between Arlston and the old Warlock trying to stop the dagger. Reacting instantly, Arlston twisted his arm, stabbing the old Paladin lightly in a pressure point, causing pain and paralysis, but not endangering the man's life.

In a flash, using the paladin's bulk, Arlston pushed towards his target, burying the dagger swiftly into the old warlock's fragile chest. Twisting the blade twice before wrenching it free, he immediately recognized the mist of death growing in the "Collector's" eyes. He was dead.

Diving over the railing, Arlston heard Xytan's and Cray's shouts behind him. Arlston whispered quietly, "Forgive...me..." before fading into the shadows. His job finished, innocents saved, and himself bearing yet another emotional scar.

He thought of Ria, Cray, Dustwing and so many others who had all received letters. They were safe. Only the men who had witnessed Arlston's actions would know what had happened.

It was not the way he had wanted it to end.