Tiponi’s blood sang with the rush of fighting. Her body pulsed in rhythm, her blood, her breath, her killing stroke. As the scarlets fell around her, as she brought death, tears, pain and blood to the living, Tiponi chanted an internal mantra.

“I have the flower. Everything will be alright. I will right the wrongs. I have the flower. Everything will be alright. I will right the wrongs.”

Her body moved automatically. Her trained warrior instincts snapping with precision.

She ducked a blow, parried, countered, dodged. She deflected a bolt of the human’s magic with the blade of her weapon, all the while muttering under her breath.

“I will right the wrongs. I have the flower. Everything will be alright.”

This single act represented her redemption. She had fallen so far. In the pursuit of frivolous excitement and adventure she had become the very thing she despised. She had wanted to help others, not cut them down like stalks of barley, and certainly not enjoying it. She had committed so many wrongs. Would her people even recognize her now?

The single act of returning a flower to an unmarked grave might seem insignificant, but to Tiponi it represented her last chance to redeem herself. Her last chance to save her soul.

She ignored the blood. She ignored the screams. She ignored the rasping breaths of the dying. She was suddenly surprised when it was over.

“The Light has spoken,” said the healer.

Tiponi regarded the two dead bodies on the floor. It had all been for this? They looked no different from any other human she had fought since this massacre began.

“Good.” Said Tiponi, “We are finished then.”

Then the looting began. Morgraine had a handsome two-handed mace and some very fine mail gloves. Tiponi graciously offered the mace to the Druid, since she was quite happy with Ravager. Whitemane’s chapeau was clearly for clerics and healers, and was promptly given to Sorena.

The fires that had started in the library had moved on to the other wings. They were unchallenged as they left. No doubt any survivors would have retreated East to the Plaguelands or perhaps Southwest, if they thought they could make it past Undercity to the human stronghold of Ambermill.

They found many an abandoned tabard as they walked. The Scarlet Crusade had fallen out of favour in Azeroth, and any wearing their colours would have a difficult time finding succour.

The party was strangely quiet; now a staggered group of individuals again. Strellabelle was elated, and clearly could not get to Undercity fast enough. Doubtless word had already reached the Dreadlord and the Dark Queen. The pillar of black smoke was barely visible in the distance, but a clear signal for all to see, even for the human residents of Southshore.

Hyzanthlay hung back, trying to find an excuse to take the zeppelin south with Sorena. But the fact is she had to go to Undercity as well. The pile of Pure Hearts were weighing her down. She also had to admit some degree of curiosity as to what Varimathras would reward them with. As single-minded and incapable of planning as she was, she was still a Forsaken warlock, and hardly immune to the temptations of greed and power.

Tiponi and Kohanna had no wish to visit Undercity. Tiponi in particular, who seemed downcast and tired, was anxious to return to Mulgore. Her mood seemed to similar to that of Sorena’s, but less muted. The priest had not announced that she was planning on taking the zeppelin to Grom Gol, but they assumed that she was heading to Booty Bay. DPS Very Slowly was not exactly a famous guild, but it was well-known that it’s headquarters were based in the goblin city. Naturally the priest was going there. Strellabelle did make one wheedling effort to try and change her mind.

“Come to the Dreadlord with us, Sorena,” Strellabelle smiled as sweetly as an undead warlock possibly could. “Are you also not a Forsaken? Part of this glory is yours!”

“I respectfully decline,” Sorena said quietly. “My guild awaits my report. Many thanks, my friends. We have done Azeroth a favor, and regardless of what the humans say openly, nobody will be more grateful then them.”

Sorena caught Hyzanthlay’s eyes for a brief moment as she turned her mount towards the zeppelin landing just outside of Brill. They both remembered the book of the Dancing Trolls; no doubt Sorena was on her way back to that quiet little farmhouse. The two Tauren quietly followed after the usual formal farewells. Hyzanthlay turned to follow Strellabelle into Undercity.

Word had already spread throughout the Forsaken capital that the Scarlet Monastery had been raided, looted and was burning to the ground even as they went about their unnatural daily lives. Many of their brethren bowed low before them, some were even audacious enough to shake their hands and congratulate them openly. Hyzanthlay was glad to remain behind Strellabelle and let her lap up the attention. The Affliction warlock mistakenly took this as deferment, and was content that Hyzanthlay had finally learned her place.

The truth was that the Destruction warlock felt hollow and dull. The raid of the Monastery had been satisfying on a number of levels, but her hunger remained unsatisfied. She craved even more now, and not just the taste of blood and guts, but the sweet milk of revenge. How hard had she worked to hone her skills and train her vicious nature to raid the monastery, only to have an even greater mystery and more powerful enemies appear before her? The Bulwark, and the ruins of Andorhol that lay just beyond, loomed in her mind’s eye.

The residents of the Royal Quarter knew as well. Varimathras and Sylvanas rose when they entered the chamber, the guards saluted them as they marched past, and the entourage that had gathered behind them hung by the door.

“You are welcome, most honored among the Forsaken,” the Queen smiled broadly. “You have accomplished what many before you could not. This is a great victory for the Forsaken, as well as the Horde. You will be duly rewarded for your most valiant and awesome efforts.”

She motioned towards the Dreadlord, who was also smiling. His long teeth bit into the top of his dark blue upper lip. He looked quite pleased, but not exactly thrilled or amazed. Hyzanthlay wondered what it would take for a Dreadlord to bend his knee.

“For you, Strellabelle,” and the warlock bowed low as he spoke to her. “May the Prophetic Cane guild you to many more victories. And for you, Hyzanthlay, I understand you are not partial to staves. In that case, may the Sword of Omen cut you a path to victory.

For the Forsaken!”

These last few words boomed through the chamber and sent all that were there into raucous cheering. Even Sylvanas flattered them with a round of polite applause.

Strellabelle was greeted and congratulated by members of her guild. Many also wanted to have a word with Hyzanthlay, but in the chaos of cries and cheers she had quietly slipped away.

“Ah,” Apothecary Farnell was bent over his vials and potions as usual. “My dear lady! I heard that you had returned.”

Hyzanthlay nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing. She lifted her heavy bag and dumped the pile of soggy hearts on his workbench.

“My, what an abundance of lovey gore you have brought me, Hyzanthlay!” He rubbed his hands together with glee. “Your efforts have been most excellent! Along with a commendation from Varimathras and the Dark Lady herself as well, no doubt!”

“My efforts have proven to be very fruitful,” she said, and drew her new sword to show off a bit.

“Most excellent indeed!” He then lowered his voice and said, “You should tell Faustin about this…as I’m sure you’ll be heading south again soon.”

Hyzanthlay smiled and carefully sheathed her sword. She took her leave of the Apothecary, and after a brief visit to the bank and the tailor (who recognized her and gushed incessantly about how honored she was), she had changed into her fishing gear and was riding out to the zeppelin landing.

***

“Well, if it isn’t our esteemed priest!”

Sorena entered the Salty Sailor tavern in Booty bay to barely a look from the other patrons. Perhaps it was too soon for word to have reached the isolated pirate cove.

Eucalypto might have been an undead rogue, but no one could ever say that he was not a gentleman, and that he did not look after his guild mates. He immediately rose and greeted her, then pulled out her chair and ordered her a drink. She said little, and was clearly quite downcast.

“The monastery has fallen,” she confirmed. “No word here yet?”

“The goblins already know, but many are keeping it quiet.” Eucalypto smiled. “Don’t want to frighten off any investors, I suppose. This may hurt certain prominent human families in Stormwind and Tyr’s Hand. And why the long face, my dear? I would expect being in your old haunt would have brought back some fond memories.”

“That was part of the problem,” she sighed, and gratefully took the full flagon of mead from the goblin waitress, whose eyes widened when Eucalypto handed her a handful of coins,

“Keep them coming, and another round for myself. We’ll also need a third glass.” He said.

“Yes sir!” She answered enthusiastically, not taking her greedy eyes off the shimmering pile of gold clinking in her hand.

“I know what will cheer you up,” he said. “A friend of yours is here, arrived just a few moments ago. Came straight in from Undercity.”

Sorena assumed that the third glass would be for Rik, so she was both surprised and happy when Hyzanthlay, grinning from ear to ear, came down the stairs and sat next to her.

“You were held up in Duskwood,” the warlock smiled. “I caught up to you. Did the boy like the book you got him?”

Eucalytpo raised his eyebrows a bit (what was left of them) but said nothing. Sorena’s head seemed to sink even lower.

“I couldn’t give it to him, or even leave it for him,” she said quietly. “The house is standing empty, completely locked up.”

A dark silence settled over the table. Sorena continued.

“Perhaps…they were tracking me. The undead activity there seems to have increased. My father-in-law, he has a tavern up at the logging camp. I will try to find him there. It’s just as well. Safer for…them.”

Sorena drank deeply and Hyzanthlay joined her with the full mug that the goblin had just placed on the table.

“You’ll find him,” Hyzanthlay shrugged, wondering why she even cared. “Eucalypto, you should have been with us! The spoils, the hunt, the great feast that it was!”

“So many humans, so little time,” the rogue snickered. “And what did you find, Hyzanthlay?”

“Not what I expected,” the warlock said, her mood darkening for the moment, but not to the same degree as Sorena. “But that Strellabelle…she’s after the Dreadsteed!”
“And so are you,” the rogue said, smiling.

“Indeed I am,” the warlock confirmed proudly. “And I found out that you would know,” and she turned and poked the Priest, “about the Dreadsteed.”

“I know nothing of your Dreadsteed,” Sorena answered shortly, and took another swig.
A voice from outside the tavern cut into their conversation.

“Extra, extra, read all about it! Special edition! Scarlet Monastery in Tirisfal burns, leaders thought dead, Horde takes credit! Read all about it!”

An excited wave of chatter swept through the tavern. Many glasses were raised and many toasts were declared;

Here’s to the fall of the Scarlet Monastery! For the Horde! Huzzah!

Sorena could not help but smile. Hyzanthlay lit a fat cigar.

“We’ll talk about the Dreadsteed later,” Hyzanthlay drained her glass and leaned back behind a plume of heavy, satisfied smoke.