There were no guards or gargoyles on the ragged, mossy towers. The thick blocks of stone that had formed the base of the Keep and fastened it to the hillside were worn and smooth. The fearsome stench of wet dog and the occasional guttural howl was usually enough to keep away any intruders.

The five adventurers, along with a shaggy wolf and two demons, left the shade of the winding mountain road and stepped over the hulking drawbridge. It groaned with every step. As they drew closer to the forbidding door, the stones grew clearer through the mists. Green moss bled down from the threshold. The sounds of the forest disappeared as they drew closer. All the adventurers could hear now was the echo of dripping water and the occasional crow of a carrion bird.

Earthroot listened closely at the door for a moment. She turned and nodded gravely. Her companions drew back and unsheathed their weapons. Only the Druid remained unmoved, staring closely at the door.

The Warrior’s mace rose into the air, making a slight whisper as it punched through the fog, then a solid, heavy crunch as it smashed the lock and bolt securing the entrance.

From the look and feel of the heavy, weathered door, it was expected that it would take a few tries to smash through the heavy, soggy wood. The adventurers were surprised – but not unprepared – to see the old door swing open quite easily and with little noise. It was what they saw immediately inside that gave them pause. Crumpled on the floor behind a steel grate, only a few feet ahead of them, were the mangled remains of Deathstalker Vincent. And standing over him was none other than the Archmage Arugal himself.

Hyzanthlay’s first thought was very practical. The element of surprise had clearly been lost.

For a few moments, Arugal did not seem to notice them. They could hear his voice, tinged with shame and madness, muffled by the mists.

“I have changed my mind loyal servants. You do not need to bring the prisoner all the way to my study. I will deal with him here and now. Vincent! You and your pathetic ilk will find no more success in routing my sons and I than those beggarly remnants of the Kirin Tor. If you will not serve my Master with your sword and knowledge of his enemies…”

Arugal stopped. He drew himself to his full height. It might have been a trick of the shadows and fog, but his head seemed to turn slightly towards the door before his voice reached an angry crescendo.

“Your mouldering remains will serve ME as a testament to what happens when one is foolish enough to trespass in my domain!”

As Arugal spoke, the party had quickly entered the Keep and readied their weapons and spells, expecting to take care of business immediately. Hyzanthlay snarled in anticipation, hoping that Arugal would impress her with some real arcane fortitude. The booming voice of the Archmage shook the foundations of the Keep. The wind hissed and moaned, blowing the door firmly shut. Then Arugal was gone.

“He has retreated,” hissed Earthroot, after a few moments of silence. She turned to the others.

“He must not have seen us,” Hyzanhtlay hissed, more in frustrated than anything else. Perhaps he hadn’t? That was a more likely explanation. That fool! He could not have run from them. That was just too pathetic.

“Strong magics here, but only Undead and Worgen,” sniffed the Hunter, who had taken a few moments to examine the ground. His wolf was unnervingly calm and unmoved. “No beasts that will surprise us, anyway.”

“Silverlaine’s ghostly troops will guard the Keep from intruders, as their duty binds them,” the Druid whispered. “The worgen are everywhere, and their Master has given them orders! We will pursue him to his inner sanctum. Prepare yourselves.”

“We have orders of our own, and they must be seen to.” Strellabelle pointed to the remains of Deathstalker Vincent.

Access to the inner courtyard was blocked by the thick steel bars. They would have to move through the stables and a small stockade in order to reach it.

Fang, who had been bristly and jumpy before entering the keep, now moved with a calm fluidity. The adjoining room, only dark and cold a moment ago, was now filled with gleaming red eyes. Fang turned and made sure they saw him first, before they noticed the flying mace.

The next few rooms became a cluttered mess of burning dog hair and angry yelping. Earthroot cut a path for them through the snarling worgen and their wolf companions. The Hunter was silent and deadly, picking off anything that managed to get through the gauntlet the warlocks had formed in front of the healer. Between the two of them, that didn’t amount to much. They left a path of smouldering wood and burning straw behind them. Both warlocks were secretly impressed with the fearless worgen in battle; they ran towards them with all the snarling madness of rabid dogs, but stood upright to face their foes. They did not run even when on the verge of death. It occurred to Hyzanthlay that there was something very human about them, which made her feel better about killing them.

What had once been a more open area was now enclosed with various awkward renovations. Arugal had made a number of aesthetic and practical changes to accommodate his “children.” Several old pieces of furniture and carpeting lay broken and strewn about. The result was a rank, twisted jungle of shabby stairways and piles of straw. Usually the view was blocked out by a wooden landing or boardwalk that had been added later. As the group came to the foot of a thick, wide staircase that looked weathered with age, the halls were brightened by the moonlight that came streaming in through the higher windows. They were rising above the hills of Silverpine Forest, leaving even the foggy clouds behind.

The air seemed to grow even more bitter as they ascended the stairs. The vaulted ceiling was filled with cobwebs and dust, and the snarling worgen that ran down to meet them seemed even bigger and more rabid than the previous ones.

“We are nearing the courtyard,” Strellabelle sniffed quietly, “the large door to the right.”

But it was securely locked; and this was no ragged back door. It would not be forced or enchanted. Even a rogue might have been at a loss. Beyond the door, restless spirits as well as wolf people waited to meet the intruders. Hyzanthlay sniffed the air, and detected a familiar, rank odour.

“Adament is not far,” she whispered, and pointed to another stairway leading down to their left. This was the stockade, and they would have to investigate it. Any live prisoners might be of some use to them.

There was a bristling entourage of worgen with dark fur and burning red eyes waiting, ready to ambush them. In the cramped, dark space and flickering torchlight, a few of the determined creatures broke through the warlocks and threw themselves at the Druid.
They had chosen their moment of attack deliberately. Earthroot was overwhelmed with defending herself and could not help him. There was one distinctive, hulking worgen that had smooth, bronze fur and terrible red eyes. It had lunged up the stairs along with its fellows and was keeping the warrior busy.

The Druid barely blinked at the creature that surged towards him. What skin was visible through the burning fur was already rotting away from the warlock’s corruption. A few of the hunter’s arrows had embedded themselves in his back and shoulders. He would not survive the battle but was determined to reach the healer, and cripple him.

The Druid took a step back, but didn’t flinch. He narrowed his eyes and held his great, heavy hands out before his chest. The bronze worgen leaped, strings of spit glimmering at his shoulders. But he did not fall upon a stricken healer. Instead, he met a massive bear brandishing a pair of sharp, shimmering horns. He still managed to sink a fang into the shoulder and rake his claws across the bear’s neck before being shaken off. The Druid swung a hulking paw of his own, but could only knock the worgen off balance for a moment.

Hyzanthlay had taken notice of the charging worgen and knew that the healer must be protected. She gave no thought as to her own fate to distract the charging wolf-man. She did not do this out of concern or self-sacrifice; she simply had little value for her own existence. Searing Pain was equally painful as well as annoying spell, and always made the victim look at her in surprised agony. Quite satisfying. It might not have worked with such a raging, determined creature, but the worgen had been disoriented by the Druid’s transformation.

She cast the spell, and the worgen felt his muscles twitch and burn. It yelped in surprise and pain. It charged at Hyzanthlay and swung one of its clawed front paws with all its strength. The warlock remembered the force of the blow, but did not remember crashing through a wooden railing before hitting a wall and falling down the stairs to the Stockade. There she lay until her companions dug her out of the straw and began to perform their healing spells.

Hyzanthlay heard the snickering of an undead male. Her vision cleared, and she saw the fuzzy outline of a rogue. She only knew one undead rogue by name.

“Eucalypto…?” She muttered, and then she heard another familiar voice.

“Ah, yes, I thought I knew you, Warlock. But I was occupied when we were first introduced.”

Hyzanthlay’s vision cleared, and she saw the fuzzy form of the Druid come into focus before her.

“Rik,” she said, now recognizing him after seeing his bear-form. “Greetings.”

“Greetings, and don’t be such a fool in the future.” He cast another healing spell or two before picking rather critically at the corner of her robe. “I may be a healer, but you are more vulnerable than I…”

Hyzanthlay snarled at the word “vulnerable” and lurched to her feet.

“I have died once, perhaps I’m keen to try again,” she sneered. And she expected Rik to flinch or frown at her words but he did neither. Instead, he smiled and replied;
“I’m afraid not, for your friend Eucalypto would not have it. He has found memories of life in Tirisfal Glades, and despises the Scourge and the Scarlets. If you fell on my account, he would never forgive me.”

The rogue she had first seen was Adamant, now freed from his prison. The other cell remained shut but was not vacant. A human mage was the occupant. He regarded them calmly but defiantly and would only speak in the human vernacular, a language none of them knew. The Forsaken used a language known as Gutterspeak among each other, and the Common tongue of the Horde was Orcish, of course a language that very few humans knew. Adamant and Strellabelle remembered a word or two, but Hyzanthlay had no memory of the tongue she must have spoken habitually.

“We should kill him,” Strellabelle hissed. But the Tauren were reluctant to kill a prisoner. The mage had also made no attempt to attack or threaten them.

“I sense no wards, no magical bindings,” the Hunter said. “He be here as an observer, and he seen what he came to see.”

Hyzanthlay narrowed her eyes at the human, who looked back at her. He was clearly not fearless but contained his emotions well.

“Then he will have to earn the right to report,” Strellabelle hissed, and pulled the lever to open the cell door.

There was a flash, and a cloud of shimmering smoke. The mage had disappeared.

“And now, the re-inforcements from Dalaran will come,” Earthroot shouldered her mace. The city of mages was nearby, where it stood defiantly on the opposite shore of Lordamere Lake. “We must make haste.”

Adamant unlocked the door for them before returning the way the party had come. It was agreed that he would return to the Sepulchre to report. Searching Vincent’s corpse for any clues would be up to the adventurers.

It was the first open air they had seen in some time. A few scattered clouds moved across the sky, shading out the clear stars and a stark crescent moon. The courtyard not only had worgen to contend with, but also the ghostly remnants of the previous tenants. Baron Silverlaine was the original owner of the Keep and stubbornly remained when the worgen overran it. The mad mage had adopted them as well as the wolf people when he moved into the Keep.

Vincent’s remains had nothing of interest or value, and Rik rather sombrely confirmed that he was beyond all healing or resurrection. Strellabelle shrugged, and tossed an old piece of clothing from the ground over his upper body.

“At least someone was here to pay some respect,” she hissed, “and he will be avenged.”
They moved on, and little more was spoken. Now that they were outdoors, silence was even more important. Their path now took them up winding stairs and precarious balconies and bridges as they continued upward. Fang seemed a little unnerved by their high, precarious path and stayed close to his master unless fighting. The ghostly soldiers attacked the adventurers as if still guarding their lord’s Keep. It was strange for the Tauren to watch the translucent figures fall in battle, only to see them rise and continue their patrol only moments later as if nothing had happened.
“They don’t even know, do they? I’d rather be killed and eaten by a band of murlocs,” Hyzanthlay whispered to Strellabelle. The undead had a nice private laugh over it.
At last, they reached the central tower and began to climb a dizzying flight of thick, stone steps. The remains of what once had been a thick red carpet softened their footfalls. Ornate drapes and crests hung from the walls, and they were surprisingly well-kept. They had not been gnawed at or soiled by the worgen. They were finally close to Arugal himself.

Earthroot muttered something about the air being too still, the walls and floor being too quiet. Fang had returned to himself again, sniffing and drooling with enthusiasm. As if in answer, a gutteral wolf howl cut through the silence. It was a long, drawn howl that echoed throughout the tower. Unlike the other occasional howls that they had heard, it was deep and angry, was a seemed to be coming from the very top of the stairs.

“Fenrus, the Devourer, at last,” the Hunter smiled with enthusiasm, patted Fang with rough affection and said something in Trollish. Hyzanthlay listened with interest. So the Hunter was here for Fenrus. It made sense; he would make a fine pelt and an even better trophy. Her thoughts turned briefly to the anthropomorphic Troll gods. Surely there was a wolf in this pantheon.

“He guards the Mage’s study, and our Book of Ur,” Hyzanthlay said quietly, “we may face the beast and his master at once.”

“It would be suicide to face us alone,” Earthroot thought out loud.

The adventurers had to fight their way up the stairs, and the double doors at the very top were unguarded. The party took a brief respite. It was difficult to keep Fang calm now; every howl he heard from inside the doors drove him deeper into a canine frenzy. He snarled and gripped the stones with his front claws, returning the guttural cry that came from behind the heavy doors.

“Fenrus must be killed first,” Rik said. “Warlocks, we will need an imp for extra fire and a voidwalker to help Earthroot and Fang; there is no telling what the mage will do. And lastly, please, soulstones for both myself and my fellow Tauren.”

It was serious business indeed, if the confident Druid believed there was a chance they could fall. The Warlocks worked in a rushed silence that was only interrupted by the angry howl of Fenrus the Devourer only a few feet away. The Hunter inspected the door closely and concluded that it was not locked or barred.

Earthroot narrowed her large brown eyes and snarled at the door. Fenris howled his challenge.

“For our ancestors,” she roared, and she raised one of her great hooves and kicked the heavy doors with all her strength.

The hulking, shaggy beast was waiting for them to open the door. Hyzanthlay barely had time to take a look at the room before the great wolf threw himself at the charging Tauren. It was a circular, domed room lined with candles and bookshelves. A circular walkway surrounded the roof, and it was occupied.

“The Mage comes,” Strellabelle pointed upward, to where Arugal was calmly standing in full view of them. He spoke not a word and did not so much as raise his arms.
As Rik had planned, Earthroot, Fang and the voidwalker concentrated on Fenrus.

Fire and howling filled the chamber. Fenrus was a fearsome creature, but he could not stand against the determined adventurers. The hunter filled the creature with arrows, and the warlocks threw their fire and disease in his path. It was not before his long, black snout was caked with blood from Earthroot’s repeated blows. But Fenrus’ own fangs were bloody with blood that was not his.

Hyzanthlay waited for Arugal. She watched him out of the corner of her glowing orbs, waiting for one of the greatest mages alive to make a move. But he just stood there, with a strange unearthly calm, watching them. Wasn’t this creature his pet, or his child…what was it he had said?

Fenris’ eyes were blinded with blood. He crouched and snarled now, a wounded animal near death. Bloody drool hung from his loose jaw, and his paws left smears of red on the floor. A noble creature indeed, Hyzanthlay thought, and a strange emotion took hold of her. Normally proudly sadistic, Hyzanthlay decided that watching the creature in pain was strangely displeasing. She began to cast one of her most powerful destructive spells, in a sudden hurry to put it out of its misery.

And still, as Fenris lay dying, blugeoned and lying dead in a pool of its own gore, Arugal did not act. This enraged Hyzanthlay. They and followed him all this way, and he had done nothing! Even in her rage, she took note of his sloping shoulders and bowed head.

Why had he done nothing?

“Arugal!” She roared angrily. “You helpless coward!”

The mage’s head jerked towards her as if startled out of a trance. He raised his hand and stepped back, then vanished. But he did not leave the party alone. Already battered from the fight with Fenrus, four voidwalkers appeared and rushed towards them. Luckily they were weak creatures and fell fairly quickly, but Earthroot still turned to Hyzanthlay in anger.

“That was uncalled for, Warlock,” she spat.

“The fool must be stupid and suicidal,” Hyzanthlay retorted, thrusting Earthroot’s own words back at her.

“That mage is a being of great power,” Earthroot spoke carefully but she was shaking with rage. “You risk our lives…”

“The coward sends his minions in to die, then runs from us!” Hyzanthlay was enraged, but Strellabelle gripped her shoulder and said,

“What my colleague means, Tauren, is that the mage might not be as powerful as our intelligence originally reported.”

Earthroot shook her mane, and Hzyanthlay twitched slightly. The party breathed again as the tension seemed to dissipate from the room. The Hunter had barely noticed the altercation, busy as he had been with tending to the corpse of Fenrus. Fang stood by proudly as his master dressed the beast. Rik was helping but took some note of the heated discussion between the undead and Earthroot.

“Fine pelt, fine trophy,” the Hunter patted the large bundle tenderly. He was spattered with blood and bits of black hair. “It be an honor to face the Devourer, and win his hide! Powerful medicine! I thank all here, friends and witnesses. And now, we kill the Master! Eh, now you get your scalp, Warlock! Yeah, I know what you be waitin’ for! Arugal, now we kill!”

Hyzanthlay was so pleased with the Troll’s enthusiasm and appearance that she forgot her anger. Strellabelle had found the Book of Ur without very much trouble; it was a tall, thick book with a shining purple cover. The mage had made no attempt to hide it or any of his other belongings.

“Not far now,” Earthroot nodded to Rik, and the party moved soundlessly through the far doors of the study, up another flight of stairs, towards the highest tower of
Shadowfang Keep.

There was a final long room at the top of the dark stairs. No torches lined the walls, no straw or wood burned nearby to light their way. The only meagre light now was the thin, white threads of moonlight that seeped in through the rotting wood. They could have easily conjured some light, but decided to use the shadows as a cover for the final assault. Beyond the room above them was the very pinnacle of the tower, where the mage was waiting.

The Hunter very quietly informed them that the large room was filled with both wolves and worgen; not much different from what they had been fighting through the whole time. No traps or ambushes of any kind. An eerie sense of foreboding settled among the party, even for the undead.

What ultimate horror did Arugal (or the Kirin Tor) have waiting for them?
Or was he actually just waiting to die?

The beasts in this room were fierce, but grave and sombre. They seemed to have a plan of attack and followed it, attacking Earthroot at the same time, ignoring any distractions the Hunter or Warlocks attempted. At last, the great worgen who stood by the thick double doors at the end of the room uttered a forlorn, guttural howl and lurched towards Earthroot’s bloody mace.

For a few moments, they rested among the piles of smouldering bodies and charred wood. The Hunter decided to make a few quick alterations to his bow. Earthroot was skilled and strong, and none doubted her skill, but the Mage would move quickly, and the party would be depending on ranged damage.

Hyzanthlay sighed at the miserable anti-climax the pursuit of Arugal had become. She turned to Rik, who was sitting quietly by a patch of moonlight by the last set of doors. He was holding a bit of Fenrus’ pelt, which he seemed to be studying intently.

“And if Eucalypto is so deeply concerned for my welfare,” She asked, with a certain mock politeness, “then why is he not here to defend me personally?”

Rik did not look up right away, but snickered and smiled.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen Eucalypto in some time,” he delivered this news with no gravity or distress. “He was last seen in Wailing Caverns, a famous place near my homeland. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Fine fishing,” Hyzanthlay said shortly.

“And fine mining and skinning, for those that have the skills.” Rik lifted up the pelt and held it to the light. It had a thick, luxurious sheen, and even in her undead state Hyzanthlay knew it would have been very sensuous to touch. “There’s a lot of gold in it, and we need all our copper these days. We mean to start a guild; and you are welcome to join, Hyzanthlay, if you desire.”

Strellabelle was busy for the moment with some potions, but she overheard this comment and snorted with disdain. Strellabelle already had a guild, The Clan of the Fallen. They were venerated throughout Undercity and had been in existence since the rise of Sylvanas. They did not have petty annoyances to contend with, like lack of gold.
“We be ready,” the Hunter announced quietly. And Earthroot nodded, in her usual grave way, as she hefted her great mace on to her shoulder. An unearthly calm had come over Fang, who no longer made any noise even to sniff the ground.

“And now, the head of Arugal,” Hyzanthlay muttered with not a hint of enthusiasm. “Anything I should know, in case he decides not just to lie down and die?”

“He does what mages do,” Earthroot said calmly, ignoring Hyzanthlay’s sarcasm. “I expect he will teleport and shape-shift. I will not be able to follow him immediately.”

“Ya, that be a thing to see,” the Hunter said. Rik nodded, and rested his hand on the troll’s scarred shoulder. Hyzanthlay was readying herself but listened closely. Shapeshifting was important to Druids and Trolls, but it was not a power that Warlocks knew.

These doors, like the ones before it, were not locked or barred. Earthroot prepared to open them the same way she had opened the others. Then she stopped and lowered her great hoof, almost as if she was tired. Instead, she calmly reached forward and turned the knob.

The door swung open with a frightened squeak. Nothing rushed to meet them but cold darkness.

There was a glow at the far end of what looked like a room that had been broken in half. The pale light shone through the jagged hole that stretched across the thatched roof, and it reminded Hyzanthlay of the lonely light she had seen that night in the Crossroads, when all were alseep but the good apothecary working before his beakers and candles under the cold stars. And then in the darkness she saw the figure hunched by the alchemy lab, in the same robes and pointed hat she had seen him in downstairs. Despite the noise they must have made he took no notice of them.

The few beams of moonlight that shone through the ceiling were barely enough to illuminate the shattered room. Beyond a crooked stone doorframe was a landing and a flight of stairs leading down and to the right.

Arugal was standing on a broken platform straight ahead on their level. The Hunter and his pet crouched in the darkness by the entrance while the rest of the party made their way down the stairs.

As the party quickly and silently moved towards him, he very slowly stopped his work. His shoulders were hunched at first, and he moved slowly and deliberately to stand at his full height.

He slowly turned to face them. Hyzanthlay did not wait for the rest of the party. She targeted the mage the moment Earthroot’s hoof hit the first stair leading up to him. And he seemed to focus on her for a moment, and hesitate, before unleashing his fury.
Hyzanthaly was surprised to be hit by a shadow magic at first.

The mage must have known that it would have a limited effect on the Forsaken. It shook her but did little to prevent her from casting again. Earthroot was too quick to let Arugal cast at one of her charges a second time. In the next moment, the mage’s line of sight was blocked by a massive pair of hooves and horns, crowned with a heavy mace.

Arrows began to fly across the room. Fang had silently slipped from his master’s side and up the stairs. He joined Strellabelle’s voidwalker and Earthroot in raining blows upon the mage. Hyzanthlay cast in a way that was calm, almost bored; the mage would be down soon and they had not had much of a fight. All talk and no action. Typical for a human, she thought.

Then the mage spoke.

“Release your RAGE!” He cried, and a heavy darkness swept through the room.

Earthroot’s figure twisted and warped. The mace fell to the floor with a heavy clunk, her horns and hooves disappeared. In their place appeared red eyes, claws and fangs. The mage had turned her into one of his pets, a raging worgen!

Hyzanthanlay’s lips opened in a wide grin. Now THAT was impressive!

In a flash of light, Arugal appeared on the platform next to the Hunter, who had already dropped his bow and unsheathed an axe with a vicious, jagged edge. He was by no means less threatening without his bow or his pet. He crouched low and swung decisively, striking one of Arugal’s arms and causing him to miscast.

Earthroot, in her worgen form, was now a minion of the mage. She turned to charge down the stairs at Rik, who was helping the Hunter for the moment. A sickening crunch, followed by a bolt of pain in her ankle, changed her mind. She looked down and saw Fang, his snarling jaws locked on the tendon below the knee.

She roared in agony and rage. One of her great, shaggy paws clenched into a fist, swung around and made contact with Fang’s snout. A fountain of blood burst from the creature’s nose as its body lurched from the platform and fell, to lie in a motionless heap near the bottom of the stairs.

Arugal targeted the warlocks next. The shadow bolt flew over Strellabelle’s head. Her voidwalker charged at Arugal, but he transported back to his original position as Earthroot flew down the stairs towards them, now free of Fang’s grasp. Hyzanthlay turned to Rik, who did not look at her but said calmly, “Aim at the mage,” as he narrowed his eyes and raised his hands in front of him.

Hyzanthlay concentrated her flames on Arugal and tried not to be too distracted by the vicious bear on worgen battle that was taking place at her shoulder. Despite the distraction of the healer and the warrior, Arugal was steadily being beaten; the undead warlocks were strong against his shadow spells, and the already fearless hunter had been driven to a lethal rage by Fang’s terrible fall.

Arugal shuddered now, visibly weakened by the three determined adventurers. The spell he had cast upon Earthroot was broken, and she shrank into a Tauren warrior again. She shook herself and did not hesitate to pick up her mace and turn back to the mage.
Rik had barely returned to his Tauren form the moment Earthroot picked up her mace. The Hunter had moved down from the platform near the entrance to stand near Fang. The animal still had not stirred.

The mage’s defences were broken. His mana was spent. He stared with angry defiance at the Tauren warrior as she raised her mallet and struck decisively.

She hit him where the neck and shoulder met, aiming for his collarbone. The crushing blow very nearly separated Arugal’s head from his body, and there was already a thick puddle of blood to meet his body where it fell.

Rik, although clearly exhausted and badly wounded, was already casting a few healing spells. Earthroot slowly lowered her mace and shuddered. A light shower of blood sprinkled over her hooves.

The Hunter gave no thought to himself or his companions. He was already crouched over Fang’s body, speaking quietly to himself in Trollish. Strellabelle was distracted by Arugal’s apothecary equipment and books. Hyzanthlay, who was unscathed for the most part, slowly made her way to the mage himself.

She expected his face to be twisted somehow, with anger, fear, pain, madness. Whatever had driven him here, she expected it to be etched in his face somehow.

But it was not. Except for the gaping wound below his neck, he seemed to simply be asleep, dreaming pleasantly.

“Him at peace,” a voice at her shoulder said, and she looked up and saw the Hunter. He was cradling his axe in his hand and had a strange, blank look in his eyes.

Strellabelle was standing at his side and it seemed like they had just spoken briefly. The other warlock did not have to speak; her glowing orbs said the words, Stand back.

Hyzanthlay did, but not in time to get a few drops of blood on her shoes. The Hunter had chopped the head of Arugal clean off with one heavy stroke. Strellabelle quickly grabbed it by the sticky hair and thrust it into a sack at her side. Then she motioned to Hyzanthlay. The Hunter stood over the remains, shoulders sagging, and took no notice as they swept away.

The two Tauren were crouched near Fang, and Hyzanthaly broke off from Strellabelle’s path to walk towards them. The other warlock was out the door before she realized that she was no longer being followed. No matter; she knew where the Sepulcher was.

Earthroot was kneeling and chanting quietly in her native tongue. Rik was channelling a powerful healing spell and took no notice anything around him.

“Is it dead?” Hyzanthlay was heedless of the gravity of the situation and wondered why she even cared enough to ask about the lifeless bundle on the floor. The Hunter had sheathed his axe and calmly returned to his vigil at Fang’s side. He leaned very close to the creature’s side, close enough that his front tusks were buried in the thick, black fur. Rik filled the dreary room with green and white light. Hyzanthlay could barely contain her fascination when the creature stirred.

“Oh, well, look at that! I was sure it was dead.” She said, almost enthusiastically.
“Earthmother be praised,” Earthroot raised herself up. She seemed just as relieved as the Hunter, whose quiet demeanour had broken apart. He was weeping openly as he helped the shaggy beast to his feet. Fang was shaky and still rather bloody, but clearly not dead.

“Indeed, she has been kind to us this day.” Rik seemed profoundly tired but pleased. “We will return to the Sepulcher and give our report.”

They moved quickly out of the Keep. Worgen and wolves would no longer bother them, but the odd stray ghost would occasionally flash past their vision. The many fires they had set did little damage. It seems that they air and wood was too wet with clouds and mist to let the fire consume them completely.

The pelt of Fenrus was not the only heavy bundle the Hunter carried. When the party reached the foot of the hill, they buried the body of Arugal in a shallow grave near Pyrewood Village. As they threw a few shovel-fulls of dirt over what was left of it, Hyzanthlay drew a piece of linen from her bags and tossed it over the upper body.