In the Shadow of the Apothecary ((RP))

[Argustus-cenarion-circle]

Cast

Modas il Toralar

Fernand Argustus - Forsaken apothecary, caught between several moral responsibilities.

Avanessa Verdantcourt – Sin’dorei Death Knight seeking prestige and power.

Master Grimward – Nightborne warlock and high-ranking Toralite Demonologist.

Mendelson – Forsaken assassin; even the Deathstalkers keep a safe distance.

Argent Crusade

Tillendra Orchidbrook – Kaldorei restoration druid, involved in healing the Plaguelands.

Brolan Doughtry – Old dwarven paladin and high-ranking member of the Crusade.

Geoff Alexander – Young human warrior, newly joined the Crusade to explore the world.

Other

William Bourke – Human mage, Antiquarian of the Kirin Tor.

Var’gamir the Harbinger – Nathrezim demonlord, Marquis of Pestilence.

Meelah – Draenei priestess, prisoner of the Modas il Toralar.

The Forsaken Apothecary sat patiently at an ostentatiously decorated table in the Legerdemain Lounge, the impassive, phosphorescent glow of his gaze passing over what few clientele the inn currently served. Since the defeat of the Legion, the floating mage citadel of Dalaran was deserted of Horde and Alliance forces, leaving only the Kirin Tor mages and those in their employ behind. For their part, the other patrons and the innkeeper himself did their best to avoid staring at the Apothecary. Never one to wish too much attention, or to unnecessarily upset the locals, Fernand Argustus was dressed in his customary attire – a wide-brimmed hat, a scarf that covered most of the decayed flesh of his face, and long black flowing robes. It served to hide his skeletal frame, but nothing could be done for the glowing spectral spheres of his eyes. It was all rather in vain, though, as by his side sat a Sin’dorei Death Knight in the cowled, black plate armour of the Acherus Knights. The cowl only revealed dark lips and a smooth pointed chin with skin as white as alabaster, but the people of Dalaran were all too familiar with the accoutrements of the Scourge. Fernand gave an inward sigh, as regardless, not many of the living cared to make a distinction between the Forsaken and the Scourge.

After waiting for close to an hour, a thin man with a ragged, untrimmed beard and adorned with the purple robes of the Kirin Tor strode into the Legerdemain Lounge. His dark brown eyes immediately settled on the obvious pair of undead and, poorly hiding a disgruntled frown, William Bourke made his way to the table. ‘Good evening, Mr Bourke. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me this evening. It is greatly appreciated.’ Fernand spoke in his typical polite manner as Bourke dragged a chair out from the table, eliciting an unpleasant screech of wood against tile. Before Bourke could respond, the innkeeper appeared beside the living man.

‘Can I offer you fine travellers anything?’ He queried, eying the undead pair suspiciously.

‘No thank you, Rogers, we won’t be long.’ Bourke replied gruffly. Fernand noted the first-name basis and way the innkeeper protectively hovered over Bourke before heading back to the bar. As Bourke worked nearby at the Violet Citadel as a scholar and antiquarian, it was unsurprising that he would be a frequent patron of the Legerdemain Lounge. It also explained Bourke’s insistence that the meeting take place here.

In an attempt to calm the situation somewhat, Fernand smiled behind his scarf and gestured toward his compatriot. ‘May I introduce the Lady Avanessa Verdantcourt. I believe you both may have been neighbours of a sort, hailing from Stratholme as you do, and the Verdantcourts from southern Quel’thalas.’

‘You can stow the pleasantries Fernand’. Bourke raised a hand to interrupt the Apothecary. ‘I am only here to make it emphatically clear that the Kirin Tor will have no dealings with you or your monstrous Forsaken race.’

‘I see.’ Fernand frowned primly and clasped his skeletal hands together. ‘The Archmages of the Kirin Tor are only too happy to accept my assistance when the Legion poses a threat, yet once it is no longer required, I cannot even make an enquiry of their Antiquities Department. It is my understanding that the Kirin Tor remains a neutral faction, neither beholden to the Alliance nor the Horde.’

Bourke scoffed. ‘I -personally- am making an exception for any Forsaken. As far as I know, you also squirm around with that filth the Modas il Toralar, which are even worse, if such were possible.’ The cloth between Avanessa’s plate armour whispered quietly as she shifted ever so slightly at Bourke’s words, but he barely gave her a glance. Fernand winced inwardly, as Avanessa was known within the Modas as having quite a temper. ‘You and this guard dog do not frighten me.’

Fernand sighed deeply and spread his hands placatingly. ‘It is not my intent to frighten you, Mr Bourke. Indeed, I have been very candid in my written correspondence. My only interest is a temporary loan of a Nathrezim Soulgem, which as you know, is an artefact only of use against our common enemy.’

‘For you to capture a powerful, insidious demon that could be unleashed against some hapless village or be used to possess an Alliance diplomat?’ Bourke sneered and stood from the table. ‘Again, my answer is no, and that is final.’

‘Very well then, Mr Bourke. I understand.’ Fernand replied, but his words fell on deaf ears. Bourke was already walking toward the door, giving the innkeeper a nod on his way out.

‘I told you the scholar would not co-operate.’ Avanessa’s voice was as pitiless and cold as the glaciers of Icecrown.

‘You did indeed.’ Fernand also stood from the table, although it was a far more calm and precise action than Bourke. ‘It was my preference to solve this problem without resorting to unpleasant means to coerce the good Antiquarian, yet we shall do what we must.’ He gestured toward the carpeted staircase at the back of the Lounge, and the pair strode purposefully up the stairs. They entered a room that Fernand had rented for the evening and, once the door was shut and the pair was out of sight, the pair both placed a hand on a calibrated telemancy beacon floating in the centre of the room. The Apothecary activated it with an arcane word of power, and they were both suddenly standing amongst the refuse of a darkened alley a block away from the Legerdemain Lounge, near the Violet Citadel.

Avanessa carefully peered around the brick corner of a tall building overlooking the alley. She was merely a shadow within deeper shadows. The street was mostly deserted, excepting a pair of Dalaran mage-guards on patrol and beyond them further up the street, walking in her direction, was their target. She pressed herself back into the darkness as the guards walked by. Floating above them was a crystal orb with the arcane eye of the Kirin Tor inscribed upon it. According to Fernand, the orb would allow the guards to see through magical invisibility and illusions that made someone appear as another person. However, it was useless against mundane approaches like simple stealth. Before his death to the Scourge, Fernand had lived in Dalaran as a member of the Kirin Tor, and as such he was intimately familiar with the tricks of the magi. Indeed, he had even perfectly predicted Bourke’s route to return to the Violet Citadel after their meeting, and the ideal location to teleport in order to intercept him.

It was all over in an instant – as Bourke walked by the opening of the alley, Avanessa raised a hand. Thick, ropey tendrils of shadow shot forth and wrapped around the robed man and, before he could even shout, the cold steel of Avanessa’s gauntleted hand was crushing his throat in the alleyway. Bourke’s eyes widened in terror, and the undead Sin’dorei smiled. With surprising strength that should not have been possible from such a slight, wispy body, Avanessa launched Bourke against the brick wall. His skull made a dull thud as it struck the wall, and he became very still in Avanessa’s iron grip.

‘Careful now. We need him alive.’ Fernand admonished. The Apothecary turned deeper into the alley and began chanting arcane phrases to temporarily connect the fabric of space between two points. A portal opened before them, and the musky stink of perpetually damp stone deep beneath the earth filled the alleyway. ‘Several weeks with the Modas il Toralar’s shadow priests playing about inside his mind should make Mr Bourke far more compliant to our request. After you, Lady Verdantcourt.’ Avanessa flipped Bourke over her shoulder casually like a sack of grain, and passed through the portal into the Sanctum of the Modas il Toralar. Fernand glanced at the wall and made a soft ‘tsk’ sound as a single droplet of Bourke’s blood ran down the stonework. It was a terrible pity that such misery could be avoided, Fernand thought, if only people were more agreeable. Dismissing Bourke’s future tribulations from his mind, Fernand stepped through the portal and into deeper darkness.

[Argustus-cenarion-circle]

Fernand closed the heavy oaken door to his laboratory, one of hundreds of rooms within the labyrinthine Sanctum, relieved to place a barrier between himself and the other members of the Modas il Toralar. Whilst he appreciated their utility, coordinating several dozen power-hungry, vicious (and sometimes quite mad) individuals was not a role that the Apothecary favoured. As he walked past a bench cluttered with various alchemical apparatus, Fernand waved a skeletal hand at a shard of floating cyan-coloured crystal. The pristine notes of a violin concerto filled the room as a radiant blue flame lit within the crystal. Smiling a prim little smile, Fernand removed his hat and scarf and arranged them on a rack beside his desk. Several large, leather-bound tomes stood pushed up against the wall at the back of the desk, and from these he pulled forth the tome furthest to the right. An enormous bony spider sat perched on a shelf above the desk, watching with eight crimson orbs. Fernand sat, opened the tome to the last written page, and prepared an inkwell and quill. The good Mr Bourke was still being ‘conditioned’ to comply with their commands to retrieve a Nathrezim Soulgem from Dalaran’s vast artefact collection, but there were still several other tasks to complete before his current experiment would be viable for field application.

The war between the Horde and the Alliance had reached a fever pitch, in no small part due to his patroness, liberator of the Forsaken and now Warchief of the Horde, Sylvanas Windrunner. While Fernand would never dare speak his personal thoughts on the matter aloud to his colleagues at the Royal Apothecary Society or Modas il Toralar, he found the escalating violence to be concerning. The Undercity, which had been the perfect symbol of the power and force of will of the Forsaken, currently lay in ruins that were so contaminated with biohazardous waste that not even the undead could tread there. The dark shadows of war hadn’t quite eclipsed Stormwind as of yet, however they had come perilously close during a recent prison break. Fernand’s young daughter, Lillienne, was safe and well in the human capital for now, cared for by a generous family and protected by several Alliance heroes, but how long could that last? The seat of Anduin Wrynn’s power was too tempting a target, and if given the chance, Sylvanas would not hesitate to strike mercilessly at the heart of the Alliance. The Apothecary’s typical calm composure and polite manner was a façade covering the worrisome conflict inside, torn between a duty to his queen and to his people, and a primal, Herculean need to protect Lillienne. After all, he had died being torn apart by ghouls to give his fiancé and their unborn daughter a few extra precious seconds to teleport to the safety of Stormwind during the Scourge invasion of Dalaran. He wasn’t about to abandon her now.

The concept behind his current experiment had come to him before the destruction of the Undercity, although it was now perhaps even more necessary to push ahead. The Forsaken were a people surrounded by enemies on all fronts – both the living and the undead Scourge – and reviled and mistrusted even by those who claimed to be allies. Once human or elf, each of them had perished to the contagion that festered throughout and eventually consumed the Kingdom of Lordaeron. After Sylvanas freed them from the dominance of the Lich King, the Forsaken had struggled perpetually to reclaim the lands they once called home against Scourge remnants, zealots of the Scarlet Crusade and the self-righteous Alliance who believed to have a claim on Lordaeron. It had been difficult, yet through their cunning and persistence, the Forsaken had etched a homeland across much of Tirisfal, Silverpine Forest and the green pastures of Hillsbrad.
Still, what the Forsaken needed most was a true sanctuary to call their own. A homeland where the living – Horde or Alliance – would never dare tread. With the Scourge shattered and weakened, this sanctuary could have been the Plaguelands. The undead Blight was strongest there, and had seeped into the very soil, corrupting and twisting the plants and animals into undead forms. Without the protection of the Light, anything alive in those lands would eventually succumb to its malaise. The Forsaken had begun efforts to rebuild the ghostly town of Andorhal in their image, and from there the Plaguelands in its entirety. At least, that was the plan, until the Cenarion Circle and Argent Crusade joined forces to cleanse the Plaguelands of the Blight and restore the bountiful forests of Lordaeron past. To the chagrin of the Royal Apothecary Society, the druids and paladins had even proven largely successful – not only were there pockets where the plants, animals and soil was cleansed, but there were even Alliance farmers settling in! If the Alliance was able to establish in the Plaguelands, it would be a catastrophe for the Forsaken and begin a countdown that would inevitably spell doom for their current holdings, and perhaps even lead to their eventual extinction.

And so Fernand had done what Sylvanas and the Royal Apothecary Society resurrected him to do – think of a solution to their problems. The crux of the matter, as far as Fernand could see, was that the Blight was inadequate to repel the administrations of the druids and their paladin cohort. While the initial Blight strain devised by Kel’Thuzad and his cultist minions was a complex mixture of biological, chemical and magical components, it was not ‘unknowable’. Like the layered mechanisms of a time-piece or an arcane spell, once the interactions between the Blight’s components were understood, it could be improved upon. Indeed, the Forsaken had done just so with a Blight variant that was currently utilized in their warfare (although Fernand personally considered the variant to be a rather heavy-handed affair that was equally dangerous to the undead as to the living, and should be used far more sparingly, but try to explain that to a politician in war-time!). At any rate, Fernand considered it entirely possible to bolster the magical, necromantic aspect of the initial Blight without strengthening the other components. The result would theoretically be much the same as the current Blight that covered most of the Plaguelands, but capable of resisting the curative powers of their enemies. And that was what he required a Nathrezim for – the shadow-infused, vampiric demons were fonts of necromantic energy rather than the bare wisp that animated Fernand’s cadaverous corpse. With a suitably powerful Nathrezim high in the demonic hierarchy, Fernand would be able to convert its soul into pure necromantic energy to act as a catalyst for the Blight and disperse it across the Plaguelands. It would take an army of druids and paladins cleansing day-in and day-out an entire century to remove the effects. Furthermore, the Forsaken would be inherently immune to the empowered necromantic Blight, and could thus take the Plaguelands for their own. If fortune smiled upon Fernand, it might even drastically redirect Sylvanas’s priorities to focus on their home front, which would be far, far away from the families of Stormwind, and his precious little Lillienne. The Apothecary smiled his prim little smile, with dry, withered lips, confident that he had everything under perfect control.

[Avanessa-cenarion-circle]

The roar of several dozen Toralites reverberated throughout the domed, subterranean gladiator’s arena. Orcs, Sin’dorei, tauren, trolls, goblins, Forsaken and even a few nightborne encircled a sandy pit, banging weapons or stamping feet against the stonework, growling or shouting in anticipation of the blood-sport to come. Magical, smoke-less torches bathed the enormous room in an eerie purple light. Avanessa smiled at the spectacle, leisurely resting her arms on the masonry over the pit. She enjoyed this Rite of Passage, of a sort, where new recruits of the Modas il Toralar fought a prisoner to the death. She cast the hood of her Acherus armour back to reveal short-cropped raven-black hair and eyes of spectral-blue flame. The delicate curves of her cheeks and dark lips made her quite beautiful, but it was the cold beauty of the deadly nightshade. ‘Bring forth the high elf captain’. Avanessa barked in Orcish to a guard in the pit. A recent naval battle between a Modas frigate and an Elven Destroyer off the coast of Tirisfal Glades yielded a fortuitous trophy – several human and Quel’dorei prisoners. Once they’d been tossed into the bowels of the Sanctum’s slave quarters, they had no doubt wished they’d gone down with their ship.
An enormous, black-furred Grimtotem tauren dragged a struggling Quel’dorei in a ragged white and blue navy uniform through a portcullis and tossed him to the sand. The look of undisguised hatred in the elf’s eyes sparked a thrill of excitement through Avanessa. Perhaps she’d get to see some real sport today. Avanessa raised a hand for silence, and the Toralites immediately hushed in deference to the pale Sin’dorei’s high rank. In Thalassian she called down to the elf, ‘Choose your weapon. If you can prove yourself in combat, you and your crew are free to leave, Captain.’ The Quel’dorei peered about the pit and saw an array of every weapon imaginable adorning the stone wall that separated the pit from the audience above. The captain grabbed an elegant longsword and assumed a crouched, two-handed grip that betrayed his Farstrider training. Avanessa’s piercing gaze turned to a muscular new recruit, a green-skinned male orc with a shaved head and iron rings on his tusks. ‘Begin’. The orc grinned toothily and leapt down into the pit. Brandishing a heavy mace in one hand and an axe in the other, the orc struck them together in an odd staccato that did not match his footwork. Both orc and elf circled each other slowly, the tip of the captain’s longsword extended between the combatants, his weight on the back of his heels. In a bygone age, Avanessa had been taught to fight exactly so by the Weaponsmaster of House Verdantcourt, Illendriel Stonewood. In a rough backhand motion, the orc smacked the longsword with his mace, pushing it out of line and followed with a vicious swing of the axe at the elf’s head. However, in one fluid motion, the elf moved with the momentum of the longsword, ducking beneath the axe and twisting his back foot behind him, and finished by inverting the longsword back to a guard position across his profile. The look of surprise in the orc’s eyes belied his inexperience, and rather than remain on the defensive, the elf dipped low once more, lunged and gave the orc a wicked slash across the thigh. The orc roared and shuffled back to put distance between the pair. The elf resumed his original stance, longsword extended, and waited for the orc to decide the next move. Avanessa applauded daintily from the stands.

It was the year of the Third War, yet at that moment Quel’thalas remained vibrantly green and gold, with customary floral notes on every breeze and the sense that its beauty was eternal. Avanessa was training in the yard with several other of House Verdantcourt’s younger guards. She laughed playfully as a spear, her favoured weapon, weaved in elegant spirals before her, forcing her scowling classmate to back-peddle, clearly uncertain of what to do with his longsword. The Verdantcourt family was the most affluent House in the southern regions of Greenwood Pass, in the isolated hamlet of Manaholme, by the Outer Elfgate. Located where a mystical leyline bubbled near the surface like an underground spring, the flora surrounding the elven village was tinged with arcane magics. Consequently, the wines, fruit and liqueurs produced by the villagers, and distributed by the mercantile Verdantcourt family, were in high demand across Quel’thalas. The role of the wealthy daughter of a powerful family came easily to Avanessa. She grinned at her sparring partner, her raven-black hair sweaty and plastered against her pale forehead, and assumed a defensive position. The moment he lunged, she sidestepped deftly and whirled in a complete circle. The long handle of her spear whipped and slapped the other elf’s feet out from under him. He struck the cobbles hard, and looked up to see the bladed end of the spear above his chest. ‘You should never feel bad about being beaten by the best.’ She quipped, still grinning. She tossed the polearm aside and offered her hand to the guard, who hesitated only momentarily before letting her help him up. ‘I’ll take a bruised rump over the broken collar-bone Master Stonewood gave you last month.’ He returned with a bit more venom than was wise to the noble daughter. Avanessa’s grin faltered a little as a red-hot flash of rage fired in her mind, but she shrugged off the comment and walked over to retrieve her weapon. She still felt the rush of adrenaline through her veins and the comforting tightness of exercised muscles, and these were pleasures she was happy to focus on. After all, Illendriel had been trained by the Farstriders an age before she was even born. One day she would best the House Weaponsmaster, and she would train hard to achieve it.
‘Where is the old elf, anyway?’ The guard asked as Avanessa’s young brother and sister ran across the yard, laughing to themselves over some private game. A particularly strong breeze set the ancient, enchanted woods groaning as they shifted with the wind. Avanessa began rolling her shoulder to relax the tendons. ‘I’m not sure. Father received a missive from Silvermoon recalling the Farstriders. Father thinks it has something to do with rumours of a sickness amongst the humans to the south.’
The guard scoffed. ‘The humans? They are such pitiful, inconstant creatures. They do not deserve our aid.’
‘Agreed.’ Avanessa shrugged. ‘But it could be troll incursions, or any other number of issues. Regardless of what it is, if trouble finds its way to Manaholme, we’ll take care of it.’

The sound of a fist beating heavily against wood awoke Avanessa in the night. ‘Lord and Lady Verdantcourt! Lord and Lady Verdantcourt!’ It was one of the guards shouting at the front door. Heedless of only wearing her nightgown, Avanessa sprung from her bed and raced out of her bedchamber, across the landing and down the carpeted stairs. ‘What’s going on?’ She called as her sensitive ears heard the double doors to her parents’ bedchamber finally open. The pair of guards at the front doors opened them, and the hollering guard on the other side practically spilled into the foyer. Behind the guard, visibly shaking, was an outrunner in the garb of the Farstriders.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Her father called from atop the landing, as Avanessa approached the outrunner.
‘My Lord,’ he began, his voice trembling, ‘There’s been an attack. Along the Outer Elfgate. A band of sickly humans have breached it.’
‘They overcame the Farstriders!?’ Avanessa hissed in disbelief.
The outrunner turned to her. ‘We were at peace with the humans. It was only a handful of us guarding the sally port.’
‘It cannot be.’ Lord Verdantcourt’s hushed tone sent a shiver of fear along Avanessa’s spine. Steeling herself, she clenched her fists. ‘How many?’
The outrunner slowly turned away from her, looking about the opulent room, dazed. ‘No more than five score.’
Good, Avanessa thought. Less than a hundred humans wandering the woods surrounding Manaholme. The Verdantcourt guard numbered half of that, but they were skilled and knew the terrain well. ‘Father, I will take the House guard and cull these humans from our forest, before they stumble upon the village. The darkness and the boughs shall be our shroud, as the humans’ senses and archery are no match for us.’ And what’s more, she thought privately, that hard old elf Illendriel would be forced to finally acknowledge her prowess. The Farstriders might even offer her an invitation to join their order.
‘Do it, my daughter.’ Lord Verdantcourt nodded, his frail, old hands gripping the wooden rail of the staircase.
‘Is this not brash, Avanessa?’ The guard who had escorted the outrunner, her sparring partner from earlier that day, pulled her arm close and whispered harshly. The furious glare she rounded upon him was as effective as a slap. ‘I am of noble blood, and without Master Stonewood here, I have the most extensive military training in the entire hamlet. You will do as -I- say.’
‘O-of course, Lady Verdantcourt.’ The guard stammered, releasing her arm and stepping back.
‘We leave within the hour. Inform the other guards to prepare for a swift, covert strike.’ Avanessa was half-way up the staircase when the outrunner, whom she had completely forgotten about, spoke again. ‘And Lady, there’s one other thing you should know.’
She looked over her shoulder expectantly.
‘They – the humans, I mean – have gone mad. As I fled to the village, I saw some of the humans … eating the fallen rangers.’
Avanessa cursed beneath her breath and hurried to don her armour. What vile beasts humans were. Little better than trolls, really.

Dressed in dark leathers and most carrying bows, the guard of House Verdantcourt slipped from bough to bough in the direction of the invading force. The humans weren’t difficult to find – and not because of their complete lack of stealth moving through the forest at night, although they did create such a dreadful cacophony that even an ancient, half-deaf elf could have pinpointed them from a mile away. No, Avanessa first noticed them by the smell. The closer the elves approached the invaders, the fouler it became. It brought to mind a time when she had discovered a lynx that had fallen down a ravine and become trapped in a thicket of thorny vines. It had died there and slowly rotted, with nothing in Nature willing to climb down and eat it, save the carrion beetles.
Soundlessly, the elves positioned themselves in the trees along the length of the human force. There were not many – perhaps eighty, and from what Avanessa could see, the majority were either sickened humans crawling along on all four limbs like dogs or heavily cowled, wispy humans trailing in the back. The only human that appeared to be a threat was a helmed knight riding upon an armoured warhorse, carrying the largest broadsword Avanessa had ever seen. She kept an eye on this one as her guard finalised their positioning. The moment her lead scout returned to signal they were ready, she whistled loud enough to be heard above the humans’ trampling.
A volley of arrows, invisible in the night, rained down upon the invaders. The humans immediately broke into chaos as many of the sickly, crawling ones were struck and began snarling and loping in all directions. Several of the cowled humans in the rear also fell. Moments later a second volley fell upon them. Many of the crawling humans fell and lay still. The knight, who seemed unconcerned with several arrows sticking from his armour, raised his weapon in the direction of the elves hiding amongst the treetops. The sickly humans began loping for the trees, but few were able to claw their way up toward the elves.
Semi-transparent purple spheres popped into being over many of the humans, and a third volley of arrows struck them without effect. Avanessa cursed as she discerned chanting amidst the cowled humans, revealing mages amongst their ranks. Still, the elven surprise attack proved effective, and she judged that the two forces were more evenly matched. ‘Close in and finish them.’ She screamed above the din in Thalassian. The knight’s helm turned at her voice, but swept past as she was hidden in the trees. The dull grey of his armour reflected a ghostly silver in the moonlight. Avanessa scrambled along a branch of her current tree and leapt to a neighbouring bough. Her guard were descending from the trees en masse with bared steel, landing lightly as cats among the sickly humans. Avanessa swung onto a bough above the knight and unhitched the spear from her back. With a wild Thalassian battlecry, Avanessa raised her weapon and launched herself into the night sky.
Master Stonewood had taught her that the greatest strength of a mounted opponent was also their weakness – if you killed the mount, the beast was likely to take care of its rider for you. There was a thunderous crunch as the blade struck the horse’s skull. Avanessa barely managed to land on her feet as the spear was ripped from her hands, lodged tightly in the bone, almost splitting the beast’s face in two. Unfortunately, the horse didn’t enter any wild death throes, but it did topple over to crush the knight’s leg. To Avanessa’s amazement, the knight didn’t utter so much as a pained gasp. Using her foot for leverage, she pulled her spear free – curiously, a black, syrupy ooze leaked from the horse’s skull rather than blood – and swung the blade down to cleave the knight’s breastplate. A shock ran through the strange human, and Avanessa fell back as a wave of viscous shadow exploded from his wound. The pestilence coiled through the air intelligently to wrap around the elf, and she screamed as it set her exposed flesh to blister and bleed. She fell to her knees as the shadowy liquid poured into her screaming throat, ears and eyes. Avanessa collapsed as consciousness mercifully left her.

Slowly, Avanessa became aware that she was awake … and somewhere else. It was the Eversong Woods, and yet it wasn’t – everything was drained of colour, and the sky was neither night nor day, but something in between that cast flickering shadows everywhere. She opened her mouth to speak and coughed. Her throat was so dry. Indeed, she realised she’d never felt such thirst or so fundamentally weary. ‘H-hello?’ She called. Tick “never having felt so alone before” off the list, as well.
‘I see your mind remains intact, little elf. I was beginning to doubt.’ A voice reverberated through Avanessa’s head, causing her to wince and clap her hands over her ears reflexively. It did not come from beside her, but rather felt like an enormous presence far beyond the horizon.
‘Where am I? Who are you?’ She was in no mood for games. There was a battle to be won.
‘These are the Shadowlands, a realm of purgatory for the damned. It is a place spurned by all other gods … save myself.’
The fire that Avanessa felt growing inside her extinguished in a heartbeat to be replaced by a damp chill of fear. ‘What do you want of me?’
‘I know of the pride and anger that thrives in your soul. You seek dominion over others, to command and for them to obey, but above all you desire prestige and admiration. You have delivered a final death to my fallen paladin, but at the cost of the lives under your charge. It is of no consequence – Death marches upon Quel’thalas, and my servants will be the doom of your people. Serve me willingly and you shall have that which your soul craves. Refuse and be banished for all eternity, while your mindless corpse obeys in your stead.’
There could be no denying the overwhelming power conveyed by the voice. Nor could she explain how the voice seemed to know her, or why she believed it could deliver its promise. Avanessa fell to one knee and lowered her gaze to the shadowy tendrils of the grass. ‘I will serve … my Lord.’
The voice responded immediately, as if there was no other choice Avanessa would have made. ‘My necromancers are preparing your body as we speak. However, your attack has delayed my servants in establishing an outpost at the border of the elven wood. My armies require the resources of the forest, and the corpses of your people. Your first duty shall be to complete the task of your predecessor.’
A mental image of her parents and two young siblings sleeping in their feathered beds flashed before Avanessa before she pushed it away. ‘There is a cemetery by my village of Manaholme, my Lord. My people have been burying their loved ones in the grove for millennia.’
‘Good. Direct my ghouls and cultists to this village. Claim it all in my name. Both the dead and the living.’

The orc’s gurgling death-cry brought Avanessa from her reverie of a day long-since passed. In the gladiator pit, the new recruit of the Modas il Toralar clutched vainly at his bloody throat as he collapsed before the Quel’dorei navy captain. ‘It is done. Be true to your word and release my crew.’ He growled in common, perhaps refusing to acknowledge his shared heritage with the death knight.
‘You’re not quite done, Captain. There is another challenger.’ Avanessa’s black lips smirked. Unhitching the spear from her back in one dainty hand, she leapt over the stone rail to land with predatory grace in the pit. The captain narrowed his eyes at her and resumed his guarded stance with the longsword. The black robes covering her armour flowing, Avanessa strode toward the other elf, murder in her eyes. The blade of her spear swung horizontally to clash against the sword, locking together with a forceful clang of metal on metal. The air around the death knight rippled with a dark shadow, and the navy captain screamed and fell back. His eyes filled with red as the tiny blood vessels burst and he coughed up a gout of crimson onto the sand. Avanessa dropped her shoulder and launched into him, driving him up against the stone wall with her unholy strength. The captain attempted to lift his sword, but she discarded her own weapon to grab both of the captain’s wrists in a vice-like grip. And then the elf’s blood began to rupture from his shuddering frame to flow into the death knight. It was over in moments. Avanessa threw the drained husk aside, frowning slightly. The captain had slaked her thirst somewhat, but unfortunately the life essence she absorbed left only a bland, watery taste on the back of her palette. She turned to face the Toralites watching on in stunned silence at the ferocity and speed of the duel. ‘Do not hesitate to use strength and speed against a defensive opponent. Once overwhelmed they will offer little challenge. Now, recruits step forth and drag out the next prisoner.’

[Tillendra-cenarion-circle]

Tillendra Orchidbrook knelt in soft grass before a large runestone, checking that the inscriptions on the stone weren’t weather damaged. She traced the tip of her index finger along the stag-shaped rune of Malorne and felt the power still emanating from it. Next, she inspected the intricately geometric runes instilled with the power of the Light that surrounded the curved druidic symbols. Nodding to herself, satisfied this runestone was still functional, she reached into her backpack for her diary. It was always a bit of a mess, and it took her a few minutes of hunting through numerous scroll-cases, worn tomes and scattered pieces of parchment before she found the leather-bound diary. Flipping to the current date, she inked ‘runestone marker between Mender’s Stead and Gahrron’s Withering: operational’. Tillendra looked around the lush, green grass of the clearing and smiled at the scarlet petunias and wild carrots that had blossomed since she’d last visited the runestone. She scribbled a note of the new floral growth, softly blew the ink dry, and began packing up her equipment.
Not many druids remained in the Western Plaguelands to tend the slow regrowth of the forest. Tillendra was not angered by being left behind – the Cenarion Circle were also healing Mount Hyjal after Ragnaros’ audacious attack, or battling demons, or cleansing the Emerald Nightmare. Prior to the Cataclysm, the Argent Crusade and Cenarion Circle came together to construct runestones at specific positions throughout the Western Plaguelands. Tillendra remembered those first weeks all too well – the rotten stench of the Blight-infested plants, the mushy texture of the muddy soil, dead grass and occasional half-decomposed animal between her toes (she generally preferred to walk barefoot, but quickly adopted wearing boots in the Plaguelands), and the unnaturally large, swollen toadstools that sprouted from the dead plants and animals. The druids and paladins had infused the runestones with the restorative powers of Nature and the Light, blessed them in the name of the Guardian of the Forest, and then left behind a small group to maintain the runes and document any effect on the Blight. In truth, Tillendra was happy to be asked to stay behind because of her affinity for inscription and runework. She much preferred to watch life take root once more in this sad, forgotten place than to fight demonic legions or perform world-changing feats of courage and strength. And they’d certainly been successful, as the runestones she patiently cleaned, repaired and re-empowered were pushing the Blight back and giving new life a chance to emerge where once it was given up as lost forever.

Tillendra lay back in the grass and closed her eyes, enjoying the peaceful sounds of the forest and the sun’s warmth on her skin. The Argent Crusade had kindly assigned an honour guard of sorts for her, Crusaders Doughtry and Alexander, and while she enjoyed their banter, there were times when she needed to be far away from anything that could speak. It didn’t last long, and Tillendra began to hear Brolan Doughtry’s gallomping plate boots and occasional barrel-chested, dwarven curse at the plant-life as he searched for her. Much younger, indeed barely old enough to shave, Geoff Alexander was close behind the dwarf. It was obvious that the Argents had paired the young human with the veteran dwarf for a bit of experience, but repairing runestones in the forest didn’t seem to be exactly the kind of heroic adventure Alexander had joined for.
‘There ye be! Now Lass, we’ve had this talk ‘bout ye wanderin’ round these woods on ye lonesome.’ Doughtry finally pushed his way through the last of the overgrown trail, sounding thoroughly exasperated. ‘Now where be the other one.’ The dwarf grumbled, turning back to the trail. He was about to stumble back into it as Alexander half-fell, half-leapt through a briar bush into the clearing. Tillendra sat up and did her best to hold back a smile as the dwarf fussed over the young human, brushing thorns and twigs from his tabard and clothes. ‘I’m sorry Brolan, but it really is fine. There aren’t many undead left, and besides, I can take care of myself you know.’
‘Aye, aye, ye all can take care o’ yerselves ‘til ye can’t.’ Doughtry gruffed dismissively. He plodded over to stand by the runestone, applying a grizzled eye while stroking his long salt-and-pepper moustache and belt-length beard. Tillendra privately suspected he let the beard grow outrageously long and full to compensate for his bald head, but she would never have the heart to say so to the proud dwarf. ‘Runes still be lookin’ good. I guess the storm a few nights back didn’t buggah ‘em up.’
Tillendra nodded. When they were first assigned to runestone duty, the dwarf paladin was by no means an expert in runecraft, but over time he had become familiar. ‘Aye, the runes are still whole and have been working well since last we were here. There are even some wild carrots growing here, here and there.’ She pointed about the clearing, and Doughtry begrudgingly looked where she pointed and made little noises of acknowledgement. The dwarf wasn’t a fan of vegetables or plants in general, and his lack of interest was all too obvious to the night elf.
‘You just said ‘aye’. You’ve been spending too much time around this old man.’ Alexander grinned at Tillendra. This time she wasn’t able to hide her smile.
‘Aye, very funny lad. Just remember that sense o’ humour when ye rankin’ officer decides if ye be dinin’ with the rest o’ us tonight or if ye be on watch duty. Speakin’ o’, let’s get back te camp an’ pack her up. If we’re quick about it we can be back in Hearthglen before nightfall.’ Tillendra collected her things, and after one last look about the clearing, she followed after the two Crusaders.

The night elf had long since learnt to accept the lack of grace the Crusaders made as they moved through the undergrowth. Perhaps it was the din they made as they forced themselves through the overgrown trail, or perhaps Tillendra was more focussed on Alexander’s jests at Doughtry’s expense as they moved along. Perhaps the trio were growing bold at their success of cleansing the forest and pushing the aggressive undead monstrosities back. Whatever the reason, they did not notice the enormous bruin tearing their campsite apart until they were practically upon it. ‘By Moira’s hairy chin, lookit the size o’ that thing! It’s as big as Therazane’s a*** an’ twice as ugly te boot!’ Doughtry gasped as they crowded behind a thick oak at the edge of the forest trail, roughly 40 yards from the beast.
Tillendra doubted the bear deserved such a colourful comparison, but it certainly was big. And angry. With a swipe from a paw full of wickedly curved claws, it tore a gaping hole in the side of their tent, then proceeded to pull it down with its teeth. The bear’s breathing was a bellows as it dug about in the ruined tent, searching for food. Shifting its bulk haphazardly, there was the sound of clay shattering, and what remained of Doughtry’s ale jug was hurled aside by the bear. Outraged, the dwarf brandished a mace in one fist and bashed it against his shield. ‘Oi! That’s enough outta ye! That brew ain’t easy te come by up here!’ Mace and shield still banging together to draw attention away from the camp, Doughtry plodded toward the bear. Its growl the deep sound of a furnace, the enormous bear tore its head free of the tent and glared at the stumpy dwarf with blood-shot eyes. It lowered its shoulders and prepared to charge the little creature that had disturbed it.
This all happened in a matter of seconds, much to Tillendra’s surprise. ‘Stop!’ She shouted at the dwarf, just as Alexander pulled his sword free of its scabbard. They were both still behind the tree. The night elf leapt into the clearing. Her long hair, the blueish-green colour of coastal seas, deepened to the dark purple of shadows on a moonlit night. Sleek fur erupted along her body as her long, scholarly fingers shrank into thickly padded paws and her arms and legs twisted in very non-humanoid ways. Her high cheekbones and jaw elongated as two dagger-length canines sprouted from her mouth. A moonstalker landed in the clearing and bolted past the startled, short-legged dwarf. The bruin, confused at the emergence of a new threat, took an uncertain step backward. It knocked over a pot hanging over the dead campfire, and snapped its teeth at the object as it rolled away.
Once Tillendra was roughly equidistant between the dwarf and the bear, she shifted back into her humanoid form. ‘Lass! What are ye doin’!?’ The old dwarf wheezed, trying to run with his mace, shield and heavy plate armour. But the druid ignored him. This close to the bruin, Tillendra could see that the top of her head barely came to the bear’s shoulders. It growled and lowered its head again, preparing to unleash upon her the charge initially meant for Doughtry. Tillendra took a deep breath, held her palms out imploringly to the bruin, and closed her eyes. She pursed her lips and slowly began to breathe out, focusing on the web of connections she constantly felt between all living things, and not the thunderous sound of the bruin’s paws thudding in her direction. ‘Lass! Tillendra! Get down!’ The horror in Doughtry’s voice was almost enough to break her concentration.
But she had what she was searching for. She felt a rush of the comforting, natural energies of the Emerald Dream flow into her, through her, and toward the bruin. The enormous bear grunted and crashed onto its side, its momentum causing it to slide through the grass and dirt another couple of yards. Tillendra opened her eyes to see the bear’s gaping muzzle inches from her face, breathing heavily in a deep, dreamy sleep.
By the time Doughtry finally reached her moments later, his face was a red fury from her actions and his exertion. He clearly wanted to shout until he could cause a mountain to cave-in, but instead, in a harsh whisper designed not to wake the bear, Doughtry hissed, ‘I cannae believe ye jus’ did that! By me beard, I’ve ne’er seen such disobedience!’ Tillendra looked down her nose at the dwarf and let him continue on for several angry statements, until he got it out of his system.
‘I appreciate your friendship and aid, Brolan, but we work together. You are not my commander. And I am not going to sit idly by and watch you kill a hungry animal that’s just looking for a meal when there are non-violent ways to take care of it.’ She turned her back on the dwarf and walked to the bruin, knowing all too well that the dwarf was just going to get more flustered at her.
‘Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bear so big.’ Alexander spoke quietly as Tillendra brushed her hand gently over its flank. The young Crusader wisely gave the dwarf a bit of distance. The bear’s flank heaved up and down with each breath. ‘Neither have I. It could be a sign that the wildlife is living longer and growing to maturity.’ She also spoke quietly. Despite defending her actions to Doughtry, Tillendra didn’t want the bear awake any more than the dwarf did. ‘But the effects of the Blight still linger – look here, and here.’ She scowled, noticing bare patches on the bear’s hindquarters and back where the fur was absent and open sores bled freely. She winced and turned her head at the pungent odour of the plagued flesh, as she placed her hands over the wound and began to heal it. An emerald glow flickered as the bear’s wounds began to mend and the Blight disappeared.
‘Oh grand, now she’s healin’ the blighted beast. Elves an’ their bleedin’ hearts!’ Doughtry grumbled to himself as he stomped over to the ruined camp.
‘Till, what’s this?’ Alexander enquired, staring at something on the bear’s back. ‘Hmm?’ She came over and narrowed her eyes at what caught the Crusader’s attention. A strange bulge was on the bear’s neck, between its shoulder blades. Something beneath the skin wriggled, causing both Tillendra and Alexander to step back reflexively in disgust. Still asleep, the bear nonetheless shifted slightly as the bulge made another, rather violent wriggle. ‘I’m not certain. I don’t think I’ve seen this symptom of the Blight before …’ Tillendra replied. She raised her hands to heal the bulge, but the Crusader took hold of her shoulder as something visibly moved beneath the surface of the bear’s skin. ‘Till …’
Both the young Crusader and the ages-old, experienced druid screamed and fell back as the bulge split open. Scores of fist-sized, black, leathery-skinned spiders erupted from the bulge and spewed over the screaming pair. ‘What now – ye Titans!’ Doughtry cried, finding the last reserves of energy to run over once he saw the waves of black spiders rushing away from the pair through the grass. The dwarf spoke a word of power and the ground around the trio glowed with a golden, consecrated fire. Jumping about, brushing wildly at themselves, Tillendra and Alexander frantically fought themselves free of the speedy, persistent little arachnids. Once free of the spiders, all three of them began stomping on any of the brood that hadn’t raced off into the forest or burned in the golden Light. Breathing heavily, Tillendra turned to the dwarf, who was suddenly looking a little smug. ‘We are taught to respect all of Nature, but I must admit, I make an exception for spiders.’
‘If ye don’ mind, I’ve had more’n enough o’ the outdoors for one day. Let’s salvage what we can an’ be off.’
‘Agreed.’
Alexander merely shuddered and continued wiping at his armour for phantom spiders.