I have spent so long, locked in this prison-

One of brethren's spilled blood, of feverish prayers and hope for forgiveness. Cast like adamantine bars over a weakly beating heart.

You once convinced me of something better, but she that dwells within knows...

Lies...Please give me lies, love. Perhaps it's all I'll ever have.

I took a seat in her world; the blood and sweat of the tired, broken and victorious pervaded the damp barracks hidden beneath the eager roar of thousands watching topside. Her own toil and effort revealed in a glow about her face, too far from my library-obsessed place to touch.

O’ Illurié, how I reached…

Discussions with Darkheart were illuminating when the bigot --fellow practitioner in the Disparate Traditions-- could be coaxed away from the braggart claims of orcish supremacy that so littered the speech of Orgrimmar’s farthest fallen. A baseless crowing founded on their ignorance of any histories, save that of Draenor, clouded by the success of their initial forays into Azeroth via their mass acceptance into the war machine of Blackhand’s Horde. Warlocks had stalked the earth here on Azeroth for tens of thousands of years, the most ancient recordings of demonology from a time before the orcs were more than simple murloc-like bestial humanoids.

Eberict’s own mother was maybe already deep into the mysteries of the warlock cults before the first raging green-skin knew nightmare of demon visage. All their short-lived grandeur at the top of their social food chain proved was how easy and witless they were to dominate by the forces they themselves, by right of erudite learning and purpose, should have been commanding. Being a Legion tool was nothing to be proud of in any chosen profession, least of all theirs.

It was his plan to eventually throw that tidbit of logic in Teng’s face. Not a hard conclusion to come by for they were, after all, little more than unread tribals at the time. He would save it for when the University of Kalimdor professor proved particularly difficult.

In the meanwhile, Eberict had taunted the unoriginal racist with a flimsy orc mask. He flung it aside, no longer needing it as he led the team of researchers and archivists through the hallowed halls of Eldre’thalas, site of the Great Library of the Ancients. Here, once, another antagonist of his Chronicle had made base camp in one of the wings of the massive repository. Pivotal though that time of his life was once, the elf wizard found it very difficult to feel anything more than the dull echo of his foot fall bouncing barely off of the ivy-strewn corridor walls. This was a place of lingering personal memory too presently irrelevant to feel for; formerly heavy names, such as Firatril and Quel’belore, once weighty and unforgiving in their utterance were easy, careless whispers. He calmly breathed them as the group surged beyond the familiar specimen tables so as to avoid a patrol of local satyr rounding the bend.

About the only remembrance that carried weight for him here was –Oh, he had forgotten her name long ago— the Chosen of Shadow that once clouded his mind into a forced donation which would continue her dying House’s illustrious line. The impetus to his current line of inquiry and the first victim of his present obsession, Eberict had choked the life from her when she had lost grip on his mind during the intercourse, returning it only with a sliver of a soul to govern the body. The study of the shattered remnants he kept proved to be the only child bore between them. He nurtured it now, feeding it with the milk of ancient knowledge.

His enjoyment of the finality involved in that memory translated itself into a pernicious smile, which Eberict made the mistake of shooting in Etruscan’s direction. The corpse-retainer’s withering stare of a retort forcing the iconic mask and skull back onto the warlock’s head to prevent a repeat incident in front of the men.

A few more turns and long aisles of shelves dwarfing the expedition earned them entry into the old safe zones. Unknown reasons kept satyr, ogre and plant monster alike from these sections, which made it the perfect academic base camp.

“And we’re here.” Eberict announced, turning to regard the train of timid and awestruck followers. Only those familiar survivors of the Sandfire disaster in Northrend stood out prominently in his vision, nodding quickly before drifting away to scour the bookshelves. They knew what was expected of them. “Search and catalogue any mention of Qiraj, Nerub and Aqir. Make notes of any reference to the Fire Lord or the gods of the Troll Empires. I want transcriptions of all accounts discovered or mention made of mythical beings with insectoid octopi for heads, and I wish to be personally informed of journals involving prolonged travel in the deserts of Southern Kalimdor.”

The crowd stood agape, their eyes glazed over by the grandeur of their surroundings. Accord-borrowed, these new recruits had not yet in their lives experienced Etruscan’s harsh disciplines, and thus had no fear of the silently watchful Forsaken. He would have to take a separate route.

“Failure to meet quota or be generally productive will be forwarded to the Lady Sundown via note with recommendation for ‘retraining.’ It is my understanding that Vollinger is back…”

A good guess; the researchers flew immediately to find unclaimed scripts. Tables were near-instantly occupied by hunch-backed scholars and scribbled transliteration. Etruscan began to make his rounds. Listening to the whispers plaguing his thoughts, Eberict grabbed a book from the fifth shelf and began to search for clues.

Ahn’Qiraj quivered, Teng revealed to him, and he intended to find out why.

I found her body; the suicide letter discovered as I stomached hard discipline to curb my growing passion for Illuríe. Elecsi was dead, again, beneath the shimmering cascade of the waterfall. Her features twisted in tell-tale sign of difficult demise. I languished in guilt...

Monster.

... And bit it down; I had already mourned once before.

"Magtheridon." Eberict began in a pitched tent on the northern side of Hellfire's chasm road. The spot the Accord had chosen for their forward base was selected for its proximity away from the wandering Reaver behemoths and defensible position against forays from the Citadel. Excavators, salvager teams, tomb robbers and sturdy labourers worked tirelessly together with their expedition leaders to dig trenches and set pickets against the inevitable waves of war.

It was safe here for now; the wards stitched into the tent pulsated with growing energy as the warlock capped the enchantment with the lingering sacrifice of a demonic mistress. Her freshly sawed-out heart, a sickly and blackened thing, was taken in cost by the disembodied eye staring unblinkingly at him. He could see her face swimming behind that eternal pupil before the space became filled with the scene known by the eye's twin.

He tapped his fingers on the crate, regarding it with his shadow-hazed and fel-tainted gaze rather than the flickering phantasm he asked conjured before him. "Chained One, though it may be beneath me to address your mighty deific self, so lowly a worshiper and being upon your totem of power, inscription fixed close to the bottom by limitation of mortal body and theft-able soul, it is before you that I must make this petition for, while not the root of the matter, you are definitely an underlying cause that must be addressed immediately."

Curling those fingers back against his palm, the warlock rose and casually turned his head upward. Hand folded neatly behind his back, he took on the role of an interrogator given task to deal with an exceptionally large, though safely celled, victim. His eyes met Magtheridon's image and it took considerable willpower to not flinch or be controlled by the baleful aspect that had governed the stronger portions of his power for so long. Uncertainty gifted him with a pernicious smile that he hoped the demon wouldn't see through.

"Great Once-Lord of Outland, master of the demonic arenas and this circus which now parades upon this nostalgic, yet worthless, rock, I find myself in the unenviable position of doubting your virility and teachings. This has placed me at odds with our most dear associate, also of your faithful, and certain shadows of myself which once held belief. Strength fostered via chains, bestowing to those Chosen the difficult paths of growing. Crippling ourselves so as to remind us of our place in eternity and to inspire something other. Passion, perhaps.

"However, I no longer hold to the idea of limitations. No longer am I content to pull at these chains in memory of the sniveling and naive coward Illurie plucked from the streets to serve her needs of manipulation and subtler power. She tells me now that this mortal body of mine shall not hold much more, that such things belong to beings like yourselves. We are not Stormrages or Menethils, and so we will crumble if we forget the length of our chain. Worship of you, our patron, would help us tug at them a little and look beyond the veil... worship and the bitter brew that links us."

Pulled from a pocket lining the inside of his robe, Eberict produced the gray vial filled with Annihilan blood harvested 'when most potent.' The beast roared, its rage-filled roar filling the tent-space but held from permeating outward. The blood elf gloated in a mad cackle. The shadow veiling disguise over his eyes dropped, revealing a burning red glow to replace the nominal fel green. It matched the disinterested orc wardens guarding the demon's eternal domicile.

"As I said, I don't believe it. Illurie is fearful and she plays this game as a hobbyist with her purifications and cautions. Magic isn't like that. It is desperate, filled with passion I don't need you for."

Eberict popped open the leaden vial and brought it close to his lips, eyes watching the Annihilan's reactions closely. The moment smug satisfaction entered into Magtheridon's features, the elf dropped the vial and blasted at it with a muttered spell. Dark liquid sizzled against the red earth.

"On that note, though, I resent having to rely on both you and her. No more deliveries, no more prayers or waiting for Illurie's good graces to peek from behind that hardened shell she keeps about herself! Religion was never a passion of mine, unlike her."

Fetching a nearby pry bar, he cracked the purity seals and wax-etched sigils holding the crate in front of him shut. The eye trailed down, as commanded, to give a full view of the rows of empty flasks. Their obsidian surfaces were covered in dark runes and ancient Nerubian wards.

"The logical course for me, then, is to create a new mixture. The how is difficult; Illurie holds the original instructions of that which we drank deeply in. I am told, however, that there are a few treatises on such matters I might yet employ..."

Eberict knelt down to retrieve one of the many dark metal constructs to press against his cheek like a lover. His features softened in memory of a hand, then sharpened with a bared snarl. The flask was pitched in anger towards the image and bounded off the tent wall behind. A familiar book wrested from demon hunters took its place in the warlock's grasp.

"Magtheridon, my master. With this, I will make you my slave."

The eye was banished with a wave of his arm. The spell faded and the wards dimmed. Outside, the Citadel's alarms blazed as fel orcs scrambled to their positions, swaying in step as the fortress shook. Beneath, an angered being pounded its heavy fists against the walls of its ensorceled cell.

Eberict enjoyed the Eucharist of its rage.

There had been time to mourn in the primordial soup of Old Azeroth. Ample time to forget as strange and incomprehensible wonders shifted from one unspeakable form to the next. The time after the Third Initiation of the Faceless and there remained yet nothing to forget; a parasitical drone in service to its host knew no joy save unquestioning servitude. It was not until much later, in the care of his brother's house, that Eberict realized that such base slavery existed as anathema to the fierce survivalistic fire which raged inside the heart of this epitome of Elven self-reconstruction.

Illurie had made him such an offer once back in the days they sought both the approval and death of the other. He was without purpose, without cause, without spine and strength to wish for anything save the direction of the other. A laid trap, his acceptance of the agreement ended in her spurning of him and the disappointment that brought him to the shackles of his mistress, Her Grace Jasynia Sundown. That was many shadows ago, a shade of weakness no longer possessed by the crusader-scholar.

In time he learnt the use of his limbs again, no longer flailing legs or flapping arms to attach suction cups and hooks to surfaces by which to drag across. The faculty of speech returned and opened the volley of criticism for his brother's spartan keepings. The gesture earned him eviction and insight into just how the sensibilities of his younger brother reflected upon his other blood knight companions: strength without, not within.

Doctrine made poor imitation of discipline.

A dark reflection trailed behind him, matching his strides. Upon its feet he stumbled across the Silvermoon forum, evading capture or notice. A forgotten shadow of earlier tulmult. He still needed to rest; Trouble was not the bedfellow he sought. Eberict found her with her foot in her mouth, again.

The only cure for personal demons was a friend. He drank in one of his precious few elixirs.

Dis lurched into the chitinous temple mausoleum, preceded and trailed by golems crafted to resemble his dragonkin retinue in life. Wrapped, runed bandages clung to the skeletal dragon's frame in mock homage to the ancient dead of the South Qiraji region. Shifted, he mimicked the corpse-effigies often target of intrepid grave robbers and idiot sorcerers such as the one he was to find here. Artifacts were the purview of his Flight, and mortals were not yet prepared for the use of things tumbled out of Uldum or Ulduar. Scanning the room, the dread mummy found only cowering thieves thinking themselves hidden behind the statues of the <i>haszakkin</i>. Their number suggested some clever agency leading them, for ancient and unsprung traps should have rightly slain all but the principal guest.

Not clever enough, however, to have avoided the true trap. There, between the pillars and statues, hung concentrations of pure shadow - a graveyard of the Forgotten One's servants and repositories of memory, the main focus of Shadow - and within one hovered Silverleaf, suspended from time.

The dragonkin golems cracked as their heads tilted to Dis for guidance. Lack of indication and mercy led to the slaughter of the remaining mortal excursion. Bodies collected, they were taken outside to be burnt. The dragon trapped the spirits himself to keep from the Lich King.

Three days and it was time. A clawed hand grasped the mortal wizard by the loose fabric around his neck and pulled. Eberict convulsed and fell onto the glyphed ground, slapping his arms forward weakly in some half-memory of motion.

Dis, to spite academic disinterest, gloated terribly at the mortal's plight for at least an hour before extending aid.

"Speech is useless, thing, but you will remember how soon. Movement is difficult without tendrils, true, but you will recall shortly. What do you now know?"

A blank, groggy stare was his only reply. Stretched, leathery skin broke to smile cruelly.

Eberict crashed back to the ground as Dis let go to flourish his arms wide in a mockery of exultation. He heard the thing sing its accusatory hymn as the blood seeped from the new wound at his head. "And so now have we a mortal able to comprehend the Old artifacts we so tirelessly keep hidden and safe! May the unfortunate wretch live forever in agony to be worth the time and memory invested in its creation!"

Eberict undulated uselessly. A golem fetched him as they paraded behind their master.

Dis groaned back into his winged form, bearing the warlock swiftly through the upper passageways, free of water and undercurrents, things at the edge of sight and the many dead by which this new knowledge was purchased at. Away from Northrend they carried on the wind until the golden boroughs of Quel'thalas were once again visible.

"If you're lucky, lesser thing, you will forget. If not, you will find purpose."

Satisfied at its play at prophecy, Dis departed to leave the elf by the shore where a chance patrol, led coincidentally by one Casel Silverleaf, was passing by. Love did not fuel the recovery so much as duty to the blood knight's last living relative, but such trivialities were not the concern of things such as Dismegitus, whose wings existed to perpetuate the prisons of things held locked in the ancient jails of ice. His work here was done --let Apax and Tris test their theories-- there remained ancient cheaters of destiny to beat his tattered wings above.

In the business entity known to the world as the 'Sandfire Trading Company,' there exist a cascading set of controls referred to only as the 'Etruscan.' In the smuggling operation's founding in the Year 29, Post-Portal Era, the Etruscan revealed themselves to then-Convocate Eberict Silverleaf with the intention of joining him on his designs of recovering his deceased mother's encrypted fel library. Beginning with the appointment of Apaxmegitus as majordomo, the warlock Silverleaf began initiating liberties and controls of Sandfire to the collective as his personal interest waned following the failure of the Company's secondary objective of ruining Silvermoon's debauch-based economy.

Apaxmegitus, called 'Etruscan' by the Sandfire and warlock unaware of the depth of the occult organization, stood upon the prow of the Sandfire icebreaker. Fear motivated the remaining men away from mutiny, which did not ease the ceaseless, tireless patrols of the detail-oriented dessicated husk. His presence kept the crew off deck and away from the blistering winds, as it had also regrettably drove many others to find their watery grave in the wake of their errant master in the foul beneath. Their names were all recorded in dull, tedious script.

Other than discipline and order, the memory and attention of Apax was a precious commodity. His cells did not regenerate as living beings had luxury to do, and so much of the mundane was skipped in favour of the true chronicles that would one day become interred as his eternal memory. This was such a recording: in the distance as far as his hard eyes could focus, flew a spec of blue from the mainland. The shape grew as it raced closer, flapping counter to the winds blowing toward the unforgiving coast effortlessly.

Trismegistus, the true purpose behind keeping the sailors cowed and hidden. Apax dislocated an arm in salute as the reptile beast morphed into the shape of a frozen, bloated living humanoid corpse. The ship lurched regardless beneath the new weight.

"The specimen has touched the fringe of Azjol-Nerub's ancient borders and found one of the Forgotten's Tombs." Trismegitus burbled fluently despite the fountain of brackish water escaping his lips.

"Inefficient purpose achieved then." Apax' terse whisper was lost to cruel wind and the loud crack heralding the return of his arm to its appropriate socket.

The blue-drowned corpse sagged its face into a frown, eyes draped in loosely hanging skin. It reached out to touch the slighter corpse with engorged fingers. In living beings the display would have been sentimental; between the two it appeared only wretched.

"I understand your disdain, brother, but understand that we are not sanctioned by the Aspect to act directly. Experiments and careful guidance are our tools. We've rehearsed this scenario seven hundred and fifty-eight times in theoretical simulation, once in early practical." Trismegitus paused to crease back his face. "Scientific method <i>shall</i> prevail, Apax."

The other could only grunt. A worthless meeting. Platitudes. Still, sentiment would keep this fettered reminder of life from being forgotten. His brother let his face fall again in a display of despair.

"Come, let us turn your ship around. Dis shall bear the specimen to its home. You shall continue to observe. How much longer will you have, brother?"

No reply. Tris paused to verify the signs and keened till the ice cracked from crown to tip. Water leaked from the holes meant for eyes.

"We will wait for you in the Blight. Dis will receive his new instruction."

The undead dragon returned to inform the Etruscan of their sibling's fate.

Something had happened in those waterlogged caverns, deep beneath the frozen waves at the lower tips of glacier reefs where light and life forgot. Echoes of things dwelt here, as Eberict had discovered; dark magic was all which sustained him and his expedition as they peered at the fel-green illumation of bones and other teasing whispers of habitation at the uncertain edge of sight. The pressure was immense, claiming frailer Forsaken bodies and soft gnome and goblin explorers. Again, mystic arts salvaged those of his kind, and pain was nothing new to sin'dorei that had known the Winnowing.

Spurred by growing mortality, the warlock's dark eyes had searched the labyrinth of caves, eschewing sleep entirely for weeks to keep going the enchantments of survival. More members were lost to moments of carelessness as the soothing tendrils of fatigue caressed at his mind. Those echoes were more brazen here; several more, primarily the thick-muscled dwarves, missing as a result.

Elecsi, Nether knew why he dragged her along, was beginning to fade. With her training, the expedition stayed fed and drinking something other than gulpfuls of underground ice, but she became more transparent with every effort. Easily mistaken for a trick of the light, there being scarcely any there, the damage was not readily apparent until they had found a rise which had lead out of the water and into a dry cavern with walls carved instead of nature-hewn. A frantic examination proved him powerless to stop it. The expedition moved on.

------------

There had been plenty of time to think on mistakes made in his new body. He undulated forward by slapping several of his uncountable tendrils forward, miniature hooks and suction cups holding fast against the living earth, pores secreting a gelatinous film to keep the cracks left from the ravages of Ragnaros' legion from scarring his soft underside. Today his host's memories would bring him to the Great Congregation, the second in Eberict's lifetime as backseat driver to this pre-Titan construct. If he was so lucky, the great Old One that commanded these shadow puppets would grant this body, at last, the humanoid regalia of what he knew in the present as Faceless Ones.

The warlock was granted no control. Nearly one hundred years of imprisonment in an alien landscape had proved deafening to his sanity. The great works of Medivh, the mad demanding orations of that Guardian's mother, Eberict's own mother's library of cipher and secret, the caskets of the South, the <i>Book of Fel Names</i>, some ridiculous and jealous fool's blathering wedding speech... these were the repeated recitations he kept going to remember his origin in this primordial prison. Observations were allowed, however, and new thoughts and discoveries were always a boon when the sluggish creature got close enough, long enough, to make any real analysis. The best were always the Congregations, as he coined them in the scholarly lack of imagination.

In truth he should have called it 'Initiation of the Faceless,' but the academic in him refused to allow an anachronistic term outside of the context of the era. Further thought reminded him that everything was an anachronism, and so self-spurred debates raged as the beings gibbered in their pattern-less language.

Still no sign of Elecsi here. He was giving up finding her. His third Initiation, another hundred years forward by his rough guesstimate, and he didn't even search for her. The host gained the body that made it more familiar to him, the smallish body now sprouting eyes that appeared and disappeared. Awareness grew into a neck, a torso, hands with three fingers each and legs. Another mind was also growing in the space he occupied, eldritch and alien and invasive.

He wanted to scream.

Rationally, he wanted to die.

Soon, all he would want would be service to C'thun Whole, Progenitor of the Skittering Shadow and Noxious Nature.

It siphoned at his memories now, took all into account of the concepts to come: Time, Order, Light and Fel. Even as it stole from him, he could feel the thing forget the deluge into disorganized chaos. There would be no time to remember such concepts until memory was brought to order by Aran. Too late a realization for these Elder things! Eberict clung numbly to that last, smug defiance as he felt the <i>true</i> shadow embrace him...

The usual bustle: hired musicians filling the manor with song, masking the noise of servants chattering amongst themselves the latest gossip and allowing those noble occupants who played at politicking to converse ruthless ploys in civil tones as their opponents secretly seethed at them. All of it was gone, replaced by a cold breeze that mimicked death to the imagination and whispered a haunting lilt of a thousand passions snuffed out in a single, breathless moment.

Mourners had come. They came daily, too bitter or empty to participate in the Sunstrider prince's great vision. They flocked to the ruins with lanterns and candles, flickering points of light to wander lost in the eternity that was this place. Silvermoon. Here where identity, self and direction could be lost, only memory would linger on unscathed. A memory none wanted.

Yet Eberict had noticed the fires begin to fade over the last month. Fewer candles, fewer visitors. He had taken to perching on the precarious remains of the rooftop during supper to observe them die away with each new night. To die away and thus live again. He tried to tie it together with the imagery of the imperial phoenix --candle extinguished, from ashes reborn-- though gave up on the analogy mid-way. His head was never one for poetic metaphor and it was best to leave such things for the absent minstrels, else they starve and cease playing altogether.

He missed those lyrical servants that had filled his youth with ease and soothing calm. Even as Ranger-General Sylvanas engaged the enemy at the outskirts, the song of immortality continued without fear or concept of failure. The dynasty of thousands of years fall to some upstart necromancer's army? It was the trouble of humanity, not elvenkind. They would prevail where man had failed.

Oh, how wrong they had been.

Carelessly he sipped at a wine-filled goblet plucked from his gathered picnic assortment. Eberict made no indication of having heard the shuffling from the debris-strewn courtyard below, as was proper. He listened as it ended abruptly by the wall beneath.

'Sir.' Muffled and barely audible as always.

'Go ahead,' he replied casually as he enjoyed a grape. There was a pause and a curious rustle of cloth from below. Eberict would have peered over the awning to investigate if he could, but the arrangements he kept with this particular liaison were such that denied him his usual inquisitive tendencies. All in due time, he had been told the last time he asked for any telling details of identity. Since then all attempts on his part had been met with lethal, projectile force.

‘The negotiations with the goblin trade princes are still ongoing and will require more time to resolve, although those backing the Venture Company have placed some very interesting offers on the table...’

‘Leave that in the written report as per normal. Have we secured a viable front yet? Remember that neither of us can afford having this traced back. Things might get... unpleasant. Too many thrills and spills and not enough servants to clean up after.’ Eberict re-emphasized the importance of secrecy to his hidden companion while remaining nonplussed. He was, after all, simply preaching to the choir.

'We have found a suitable agency... they've just arrived, in fact.'

He looked across the vastness of the ruined city, catching lanterns in the eerie still, and noticed a larger collection of twinkling lights enter the field. A familiar retinue, an altogether brooding bunch, their membership seemed to swell as the number of general visitors waned.

'House Sandfire?' He asked in disbelief.

A scolding click of the tongue began the explaination. 'As you know, House Sandfire lost its heirs and even its illegitimate children in the ruin. The reclusive Daybreak branch of the family also took heavy casualties. Of those remaining, none have seen the Daybreak scions within the last thirty years...'

'Perfect for a pretender prince.' Eberict finished for the agent. 'Might even impart upon that line a general desire to live. Do we have a candidate?'

'Not as of yet. Daybreak Sandfires have specific traits that must be mimicked. It should not take long.'

'Do find one with the mettle to go up against the interests of the young son of Brightwood, would you? His sister's influence as Convocate may be more than a real Sunshadow can stomach. I can't have his bid cut into our plans.'

Mauricio Brightwood. Eberict admittedly knew very little of the son of Doern, the old administrator of Silvermoon. His name had cropped up in the last report of talks with Undermine's trade princes. Not yet was the Silverleaf patrician willing to lose Imperial favour to a rival trading company.

'Of the traits we will search for, the Sandfire penchant for scandal and loose tongue shall not be on the list. We could always use Pansey.'

'I ask you to find me a spine and you suggest that Sunblade again? Are you even listening to me?'

'Intently so.'

'Why do I doubt that?' Eberict poured himself another glass as he saw House Sandfire approach his dilapidated estate. 'Now hush, we have visitors-- Hello, Harlest! Enjoying a brisk stroll? I'd deliver some wine down to you, but I seem to be lacking in retainers at the moment. Be a neighbour and lend me one of yours? I know for a fact that you don't need that nanny any longer...'

His enthusiastic wave and deliberate faux pas were met with scowls and loud curses from beneath black mesh veils as the retinue glided past him. Patriarch Harlest Sandfire, to his credit, was proper enough to haven't even spared his Silverleaf counterpart so much as a glance.

'That and a few more barbs should ensure we never cooperate in public view.' The nobleman mused smugly as they left. Once they were a certain distance, Eberict leapt up on his feet and shuffled closer to the edge, stealing a peek down to where his associate had been prior. From entirely the opposite direction, his curiousity was met with a well-aimed warning arrow a foot away.

'Our agreement...'

'Oh, lighten up. It wasn't like I expected you to be there.' He waved his hand out dismissively and returned to his perch. 'Did you bring the tome?'

'I took the liberty of placing it on the mantelpiece while House Sunshadow walked by.'

'As I expected you to. Good.' He clapped his hands together, signifying the end of their talk. 'If there was anything further, put it in the written report. I need you to now make arrangements with the pirates of the Merchant Coast. A few minor ships on retainer should do.'

Already beginning to pack what remained of supper, Eberict was a little surprised at the query his agent posed to him.

'Why are you doing this?' It was almost so inaudable as not to hear.

Considering the unusual change in regular operations, he asked in return, 'A personal question? You should know better. Are you ready to trade identity for reasoning?'

A pause. 'No.'

'Then I suppose we'll just both have to wait.' He shrugged. 'All in good time, was it?'

'May I have my arrow back?'

'Certainly.' Eberict pulled the arrow from the roof and tossed it down.

A few moments and he was again alone with the memories of the dead. Before descending to the main storey, he looked out again at the lost living carrying their lanterns and huddling around memorials. He sighed deeply as he finished his count; no reduction in number from yesterday.

It was time for him to light his own candle and join them.

They would call this an epoch. Casel visited him daily to read aloud the latest rhetoric, those particular words deserving special inflection. Epoch. Beginning. New Era. Each one increased the weight of his brother's pride until, with idle concern, Eberict glanced down at the cracks beneath their feet to ensure they hadn't yet grown. No, looked like the only one groaning here was him.

'Do you hold issue with Prince Kael's great vision, brother?' Casel paused his recital, nearly pouting beneath the burnished gold of his new breastplate. Everything about Casel was new: his clothes, his zeal, his anger--

Eberict sighed. When did his brother become so exhaustingly patriotic? 'I don't require our prince's vision to see for myself, Casel. I don't need his eyes to know that there over the wall lies Silvermoon rebuilt, that around us is Silvermoon ruined. Actually, I don't think he could help me see any of this, considering how far away he must be. Think he sees Azeroth at all, these days?'

'You speak treason, then, brother?' Casel thumbed the crimson phoenix on his sword pommel.

'You speak nonsense.' Eberict casually brushed aside his brother's simple-mindedness and took a sip from the tarnished goblet in his hands. Laced with the essense of pure magic, it took the edge off being the only sensible brother of three. 'Take the time to see with your own eyes, Casel, and tell me what about any of this devastation constitutes an epoch. Much like your armour and that city, this is all pageantry. The past lies here scattered, a burden we cannot escape. This is no beginning.'

Casel scowled. 'You would side with Anador and his precious humans? Become the second of my brothers to turn tail and run? That would suit your cowardice.'

'You're avoiding my question.'

'You're avoiding mine!' The scowl turned to an open yell that echoed throughout the exposed hall that was once a part of the Silverleaf estate. His hand slipped to his weapon, then fell shaking to his side.

Eberict stepped forward to lay a hand on his brother's shoulder. 'Have you done feeding your rage, yet? It must be wearisome to be so young in this,' he considered the word with a whistful smile, 'Epoch.'

'So you agree with me then?' His brother's features softened and brimmed with hope. The news Casel carried here each sunset was not for Eberict alone. Amongst them in this memorial were the weathered portraits of their parents. In truth he had always been reading to them, yet it fell to Eberict alone to deliver that desperately desired approval Casel hungered for more than magic itself.

'No,' he shook his head. 'I'm sorry.'

A hush descended upon the estate as the brothers stood there wordlessly, staring at each other as if to reconcile the differences between a Thalassian past and a Sin'dorei future with their own. When Eberict broke the silence to offer Casel a seat at dinner, the younger brother politely declined, collected himself from his slump and wordlessly left.

As Eberict listened to the retreating crunch of debris, he was reminded for a moment of Anador's departure. He turned to find his brother gone and knew he would never see Casel here again. He was glad. It was now finally his turn to find his own path -- away from this ruin.