Alterac Mountains...

[CappnRob]

An elven priest, aged and stoic, stood before the gates of Hearthglen. He had ridden all night to arrive as soon as he could, his face betraying his lack of sleep. Sleep could wait. He had a mission to do. Inside this supposed bastion of holiness, this last fortress of the Virtues, a crime was either began here, or ended here. Either way... there were those who have befouled the Light, and in doing so have made a terrible mistake. They dare strike at one of the few things this old priest holds truly dear, second only to his own family.

He will find them. And they will be brought to justice.

[Krilari]

Terastraza found a lull in the fierce combat, her kin resting and recovering upon the Steppe of Life. Even for a split second the behemoth of a dragon has her own sense of rest... until the amulet fell off of Greene's person.

It needed no words, it needed no explanation.

The red behemoth took to Northrend's skies, sailing south.

"Hell hath no fury..."

[ImagenAshyun]

The Serpent and the Toad learned of the news by happenstance...

              Dino met with Arnaldo after Dino learned from Aryeon and Arnaldo from a wandering group of soldiers. Whereas the living doctor was calm, the undead one was distraught, sobbing. Dino was surprised the dead can cry.

              "So... I take it you heard the news?" Dino ask. Arnaldo nodded. "Are you also aware that Annabelle has been resurrected?"

              "Oh, that is wonderful!" Arnaldo jumped with absolute joy. "How did you find out? Where is she?"

              "An elf friend of hers found her."

              "Faelara?"

              "....I'm assuming that's a female. No, this one is male, a priest. Annabelle's body is being held up by another male.... and I would rather that body stay under my care than some elf." He scoffed.

              "I don't care about that! I want to see her!"

              "Let's not worry for that. I want to find her murderers."

              Arnaldo's face darkened, his glowing yellow eyes dimming as they narrow. "Yes.... what do you know about them?"

              "The priest says they were in Alterac. Militant Light fanatics. Possibly Scarlets, though we suspect another group. The priest asked if I knew anyone of fanatic militant nature... then I recalled a call to assistance of a militant group who I... uh... assisted in attacking who happens to be Annabelle's cousin. Dear Light, I hope he doesn't remember me..."

              "Wait. Annabelle has a cousin you know of?"

              "Tressian. I held his hand."


              Arnaldo blinked.


              "...it was chopped off."

              "Oh."

              "That militant group called for my aid but I didn't realize what I did until it was too late. I still have to apologize for that man... but at least I returned his hand."

              "Does this Tressian know of what happened to Annabelle?"

              "I don't know."

              "We better contact him."

              "Let's not do anything foolish, Arnaldo. There may be paladins among that group."

              The Forsaken scoffs. "I do not fear Light users. I killed many for the Glove, including the family man Anna met with later."

              "....I see."

              "You stay here, Doctor. The moment you step out of Hearthglen, the Glove may pounce on the opportunity to recapture you. No. I'll go out and seek out information. If I can convince the elf who has Anna to transfer her body here, I'll do it. But let me do this. I want in on getting back for who did this to Anna as much as you do."

              Dr. Dino sighed. His glances at his cane, then to his feet, as he grumbles with frustration. He then spoke in a defeated tone, "Very well. Just get Anna here to Hearthglen. I'll see if I can seek out anymore information here while you go out. Light's wisdom, friend."

              "The Light hurts me."

              "...fine. Shadow's strength."

              "So shall it be." And with that, the Toad scuffles off, a low croak in his voice as he glares forward with a tranquil fury.

[CappnRob]

(Arnaldo is gonna get shot. Again. )

[Sol]

Hammering a dent out of a breastplate, Castor thought with some wryness, was a whole lot more entertaining when you had a song to sing as you worked. All the more so, he reckoned, if the other fella working in the smithshop beside him was singing too. This is what I needed, ain't it? A good day of honest work, with no swords, no madness, no risk of life and limb; just himself, his friends, his labours and his faith. There was commotion on the streets this morning - but not the level, it seemed, that the guards and Crusaders would have to get involved in dealing with, and Castor was frankly damned glad for as much. He couldn't bring himself to strap on his armour and disperse a crowd, he thought. Not after the night he'd had. Not after the week he'd had. Not after--

Someone stumbled into the smithy, arms flapping, struggling to catch his breath and bring words out. Castor looked up, words of his song trailing off, the steady, pounding rhythm of his hammer cutting short. The grey habit, the blonde hair, he knew the man well enough, but what was Stephen Lachlan, councilman and friar, doing barging into the smithy in such an awful hurry?

"Cas," he all but croaked, and the young paladin realised now how haggard he was looking. And then he answered his question. "I've been looking for you."

Setting his hammer hanging off the wall rack, Castor brushed down his apron with gloved hands and approached, frowning. "Why? What's the matter?"

"It's sister Greene." Anna.

" . . . If I can do anything for you, tell me. Yeah?"

Before he knew it, he'd tossed an apologetic little wave of his hand to his smithing partner and he was pulling off his thick gloves, his heavy apron, and following the friar out of the smithy with urgency in his step. He scooped his cuirass up off the anvil as he went and pulled it on over his shoulders, and he found himself squinting at the morose mass of men and women that Lachlan was leading him towards. Confusion burnt up in his cheeks, but something else stung hard at the back of his throat. His hands worked urgently at the straps on the breastplate's sides, anxiously, automatically, as though he was expecting a fight.

"You're still what amounts to my baby brother, so I -have- to badger you . . ."

When it finally hit him, he hadn't even gotten the armour on properly. It wouldn't have saved him if he did, though. "Something awful has happened," Stephen was saying, although Castor could barely hear him for trying to make out what the people in the crowd were muttering about. He could barely feel the priest's hand on his shoulder. "Nothing's been confirmed, but they're saying that . . . "

" . . . paperwork . . . "

When someone broke out crying in the crowd, Castor abruptly got the gist. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't get the words out for the life of him.

" . . . I flee you hooligans now. Work to be done."

He put his head in his hand and squeezed, pushing his fingers through his hair, and turned his face up to the drizzle that was beginning to fall from the murky brown sky. He felt like he was dreaming, all of a sudden. Was he dreaming? The world around him seemed hazy, ephemeral as he sunk down into his thoughts. He hadn't felt the full impact, yet, no - but he felt it coming. He closed his eyes.

"Work to be done," he found himself whispering, sounding strangled. And he'd told her to stop going off alone.

[Zenethen]

Dalikan Godford stood above his forge as he watched the metals heat so that they could be shaped into a blade for the Crusade. As he sat in his chair, armor to the side, he held his face with his hands. A young man dressed in blue and gold walked in, and saluted Dalikan. Dalikan looked up towards the man, and recognized him as Garonir, a corporal within his Order.

"What brings you here, Garonir?" Dalikan asked, looking between the heating metal and the young soldier.

"Sir, I've received some... Grim news. Your friend, the Miss Annabelle Greene is..." Garonir stopped, and gulped, looking around silently. "Miss Greene was murdered."

Dalikan's eye twitched and he looked at the heated metals on the forge. "By who, Garonir?" He folded his hands together, trying to think of anyone that would want to harm Annabelle.

"It's presumed a group of zealots, likely a small pocket of Scarlets, from the Alterac Mountains. They captured her and mutilated her... Her body was hanging on display from a cross in the Mountains, for all to see..." Garonir said, gulping once more.

Dalikan closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath, sighing it out. "The Order has to keep concentration on Sangreala, sadly... I'll see what I can find, and inform others... You are dismissed, Garonir." He gave a light salute to the young man as he exited the forge.

Dalikan still sat, and looked up to stare at the heated metals in the forge. "Who the hell did this to you, Annabelle?"

[hiddengecko]

Rain drummed in Hearthglen, steady, sullen, untouched by even a breath of wind. Sunlight filtered gray through low clouds that blanketed the little city in silence. The white flicker of lightning could be seen past the parapet, each flash just slightly closer; the thunder that followed each seemed halfhearted. It was just as quiet within the walls of the tavern, which had filled by now with a motley patronage that ranged from guardsmen to highwaymen. All sat in silence, most with heads bowed over drinks several times too strong for them. In the second story, a woman sat alone in a rented room.

“Miss Antia.” The Anchorite’s fingers ceased their muffled staccato on a half-empty wineglass, and she turned her head to regard a thin, dignified man with a high forehead, who perhaps pushing forty – human age was difficult to determine in the best of times. Antia could not help but be reminded of a butler. The woman smiled wanly, a gesture the man returned with a degree of sympathy.

“Jensen,” she acknowledged, tone quiet. His approach had been heralded by no footsteps - as silent as he ever was. “Won’t you sit?” His brow twitched, eyes flicking expectantly to the chair across hers, but his hands remained folded.

With a skyward roll of her eyes, Antia pressed his chair out with a hoof, allowing him to seat himself with that insufferable smile of his. “Well?” she asked expectantly, folding velveted hands on the table. “Have you discovered anything?”

Jensen shook his head. “Nothing world-shattering, I’m afraid. You know my channels are limited.”

Antia frowned, leaning forward. “Not so much as mine. You must have learned something.”

With a sliver of a sigh, the thin man inclined his head. “You’re grieving; I’ll humor you. Annabelle was killed – violently, I might add; nasty piece of work – by armored men. Humans, or so goes the talk of the town. Conjecture has it that they were zealots, and it’s a theory that holds given the uproar over the recent political drama. She was badly beaten, and crucified; I can only assume someone was making a statement.”

The Anchorite’s hand curled into a fist upon the table. A thin trail of smoke drifted up between her fingers; Jensen cocked a brow at it as it wafted away. “I do hope they realize this means war.”

The man hooked an arm over the back of his chair, swinging one leg over the other. “They’ve created a right proper martyr, I’ll give them that.”

The lamps about their table flickered and dimmed, Antia’s shadow seeming to grow and writhe in the darkness. “They turned my friend into a martyr.” Her voice was quiet now, and her fangs bared in a rictus un-smile. “I will find them. I will find them, and when I do, it will be slow and their deaths final.”

Something shapeless stirred in the gloom about them; it gave the impression of eyes. “I think,” the man said, shifting in his seat, “I think they will find you don’t share her fabled penchant for forgiveness. Is that all?”

Antia waved him off. “You may go.” The man stood, and vanished; Antia rose seconds after, hands braced on the table. Her shadow danced, now, flickering on the wall beside her like a candle in the wind. The lamps had shifted to a sickly purple hue, and the orb that lied upon the table before her hummed, softly. The door was locked, and barred.

Blackness yawned before her, a void swelling to consume her. The Priestess was little more than a silhouette, naked, wreathed in purple flame. The room had faded, and she was alone upon a dune in a vast and featureless waste; innumerable stars glimmered dully in a night sky. “I have a boon to ask,” she told the dark. “Terms to discuss.”

There was silence, and the dark answered.