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Wallen sat quietly observing the strange old man. The aura of demon taint was strong enough on the gray haired shell of a man, his voice scratchy and full of distain and arrogance. How much of the so called repentance for past mistakes was true and what was the old man's real motive? A few twinges of concern flitted across Wallen's soul as he watched those around the table. How could they be so blind and naive to think the riddles were anything but a cover for some plot the old man had to destroy them all.

As he watched the old man rant and throw riddle after riddle into the discussion, Wallen could not help but feel some compassion for him. The sins of the past will often catch up to a person...how many of his own failures in judgement will eventually come to light and shatter the fragile pose of a well to do gentleman that he was trying to build?

The meetings that the wielder's of the Light had held in Stormwind wracked his battered soul with a mixture of hope and bleak despair. How could the Light save someone who had been using the power of demons to create chaos and further his own plans and dreams? Was there any hope to rise above the selfishness that had caused him to abuse his friends and even possibly cause needless death to his own kin?

Wallen watched the rogue with growing unease, what was the agent up to and why did he seem so cold and unemotional? What kind of arrangement was between the old man and the rogue...and why was the rogue asking for a commitment to something he may very well lose his soul to?

As the evening unfolded, those around the table grew more stubborn and Wallen could not help but feel frustration at the lack of information. Finally in sheer curiosity he agreed to the terms, a strange sense of exhilaration filled him as he contemplated the possibilities.

With a sense of dread and excitement, Wallen tried to instill some reason into the paladin who was only making the old warlock angry. The events that ended the evening were shocking and dazzling. As the old man became beligerant and tried to knock them all flat with his dark magic, all chaos broke loose! With injuries to some and the final dying gasp of the old man, Wallen attempted to capture the soul that was fleeing his fragile shell. But the interferrance of the paladin caused Wallen to falter and the soul escaped.

The rogue had made a desparate gamble and stabbed the old man before he could do anymore harm. His whispered plea for forgiveness was almost missed in the noise and confusion. Wallen felt a strange kinship with the young rogue and hoped he would not be hunted down for this act of courage.

The night was to turn even more disconcerting however. Wallen was able to trace the flight of the errant soul to the Slaughtered Lamb. There a paladin sat seemingly unconcerned that an evil presence had settled on him. The group entered the tavern and a strange battle ensued. Some Dark magic had cast them all aside like twigs in a storm. When they were able to get their wits about them, the strange paladin and the errant soul had disappeared into the Nether.

Wallen was shaken to his core and resolved to speak with his comrades in the Warlock den in the basement of the Lamb. As he spoke with them, they all agreed the errant soul had to be captured or banished before it caused more harm. Though how this was to be accomplished they could only offer some rituals which were risky at best. A soul this powerful would take a combination of skill and luck, with the power of the Light to make it secure. Perhaps the paladins and priests in the Temple could help, but Wallen had not yet made any friends there who would possibly understand the gravity of the situation.

The Lamb was quiet as Wallen climbed the ramp leading into the tavern. The rogue seemed to be busy trying to undo the wound he had inflicted on the guardsman. He looked shaken and unsure as he applied an antidote and bandaged the wound. Wallen approached and offered words of solace to the rogue. "What you did was both foolish and brave, young man. It is my hope you will not be persecuted for either." The rogue only offered a nod in reply and disappeared into the shadows.

The old warlock knew that he needed more aid than that which he had. One was not enough. Others were called in, but the stubbornness of one was enough to set off the old man. This was a last ditch attempt to try to save ..... to try to save himself. It wasn't until Arlston's blade pierced his chest that he saw the fault in his plan. He did not listen to any save his own misguided judgment. The Collector had ignored the pleas of everyone around him: of the demons who were all too observant and most importantly, of Calis, the Standard Bearer, the man whom the warlock had underestimated to his grave demise.

He thought it would be slow, drawn once the last shadow bolt was sent forth from his hands, but instead it was in a rush, a flurry of movement, a flood of action that left the warlock in a heap on the floor of the Pig and Whistle. Empty eyes blinked for a last time up at those gathered:

Arlston, the man steeped in shadows who held such potential. Cray....His immovable streak had struck a chord within the Collector, or was it with the soul that he bore? In this instant it was nearly impossible to tell. The Watch: they had been diligent in their pursuance of every aspect of the Collector since he had stepped foot back in Stormwind. Wallen: one of the few chosen who had merit, who stood a chance at the inheritance.

Yet, in this rush of thoughts and observations these were not the old man's last. As his eyes closed and that last breath sought to expel itself from his lungs his thoughts were gone, pushed violently from the forefront of his fading mind by the Standard Bearer.

--

During the reign of the lich king he, Calis, knew that there was a possibility that he may perish, with the Northlands being as treacherous as they were. And it was with this in mind that he sought the services of a warlock, known , if such a thing can be said, as the Collector. Calis had heard rumors of a man so corrupted in the ways of Fel that he would search not only for the souls of demons but the souls of unsuspecting wanderers and adventurers to use and corrupt to his will.

It took Calis months to decipher the rumors and sort out what was true and what was false about the Collector, but in the end, he found himself in a cave in the Hinterlands, staring down a Felguard and a doomguard. Calis held up his hands, indicating that he did not mean to harm anyone. "I seek the House of Tomorrow."

The demons parted. Calis looked between the demons before taking a cautious step inside the cave. The cave walls were lit by torches jammed into the walls at random intervals.
The conversation that ensued was muffled. The Collector could not quite make out the words that were being uttered, they washed upon him in a haze, yet somewhere in that fading bit of life, he knew that Calis spoke of the Eagle Standard, and a need to protect it against the chance of his death.

Finally words were made out, his own, "Your soul could be stored in the House of Tomorrow until the hour was nigh.":

The Collector spoke in codes and riddles that made it difficult for Calis to follow his line of reasoning, but eventually they were able to come to an understanding. Or so Calis thought.
-----


The Collector heard the familiar tug that lead from the soulstone to the body that it yearned to be restored to. A wry grin befell the warlock, knowing that he had secured himself at least another lifetime.

Calis died, feeling the pang of betrayal and the knowledge that there was no longer a Standard Bearer, that the line was lost with him.

-----
Days passed. Months soared by. Then came the years. With each passing day the Eagle Standard lost its luster, or was it simply the warlock's eyesight fading with the passage of time?

Then the dreams came. The shadows of reality that plagued him during his waking hours. He no longer slept, he no longer rested, and in those oft moments when his body and mind could no longer fight it, he rested, if such a thing could be called rest. He was tormented by the words of one he'd thought to forget; of one who spoke of a higher purpose, of realizing freedom.

When he finally awoke, the Standard that had stood in the dimly lit cave for years was as pale as his own skin. It was in that moment that he knew that he would know no true rest until he found a new Standard Bearer.

---

In the end he had failed, for the Collector lacked the tact and humanity necessary to band together those who were needed.