Chapter 4, Silverpine Forest

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

Silverpine Forest was dotted with orchards and country homes, and the Sepulcher was the central graveyard for the neighborhood. It had never been a place of human habitation. Coveted by the upper class due to its peaceful vantage point over Lordamere Lake, the graveyard and death pits of Brill had swollen beyond capacity rather than inconvenience the elite of Lordaeron and Alterac.

There were only a few large family crypts and the rows of headstones were even and well-tended. Yuriv’s was located next to the crooked metal fence at the far corner.

There was little reason to have any respect for the sanctity of the dead now, especially since she was one. Hyzanthlay jumped on the short metal partition. She stood on it for a moment before hopping directly onto a stone coffin before the headstone, moving with all the playful apathy of a child jumping on the furniture. As she scraped some of the grime from her boots with the insignia at her feet, she inspected the stone symbol carefully. It was the sign of the Scarlet Crusade that she had come to despise, along with a few other emblems referring to the kingdom of Lordaeron.

Hyzanthlay dropped the silver pendant on the two stone hands gripping a stone hilt. Then she dropped off the tomb to the ground and stood still for a moment.
A profound quiet seemed to settle over the hillside. The air stood still.

There was nothing here.

Hyzanthlay kept walking, and made no other attempt to tend to the grave.
Strellabelle had emerged from the largest family tomb at the western end of the cemetery, where the Forsaken had their base.

“We’re going to Shadowfang Keep,” she muttered. “Have you ever heard of it?”

“Of course,” Hyzanthlay replied. “But there can’t be much left of it?”

“Of course not, and we aren’t the first to pick over its ruins. But recently one of our Deathguards has gone missing, and we’ll face Arugal himself. The Forsaken have decided that raiding the lower levels for supplies and specimens isn’t enough this time. Windrunner herself has decided that the Archmage has to die. Stealing his research isn’t enough anymore.”

“I know a rogue, if we need help,” Hyzanthlay ventured. But Strellabelle waved her hand dismissively.

“This mission is too important; the Dark Lady and High Executor Hadrec have seen to our companions personally.”

“And what is our mission?”

“To determine what happened to two of the Lady’s agents, kill Arugal, and collect any more research or communication that we can. Special consideration should be given to any correspondence with Dalaran and a certain tome known as The Book of Ur. I will continue the debriefing as soon as the rest of our party arrives.”

Hyzanthlay grinned. They were the warlocks, and the demonic powers they had included a spell that could summon others regardless of their location. This was Strellabelle’s way of saying the party would arrive and the mission would begin only when they were ready. She was in no hurry, as humans and wolves did little to excite her.

“Perhaps,” Hyzanthlay suggested, “we could infiltrate the Keep in secret, and summon others once inside?”

“We can’t summon from inside. Our spies have already determined as such. Do not forget, we are dealing with Dalaran. I see inside your mind, my dark sister, and understand your hunger. The Scarlet Crusade must wait for now. You are Forsaken, and you will respect for the wishes of the Dark Lady.”

The two Taurens who joined them were summoned with the dark powers, and did not have to travel all the way from Mulgore. A Troll hunter, with shining eyes and a wolf pet, also joined them. He introduced his scruffy wolf as Fang, and cautioned the other party members not to touch him, as he was always ravenous and indiscriminate. It sounded more like a boast than a real concern. Hyzanthlay remembered the Troll hunter from the tavern in the Crossroads, and was glad to have him.

The Tauren warrior and druid were cool and businesslike at first, clearly out of their element in the shadows of the Sepulchre. Hyzanthlay sensed they did not want to be here but were taking the situation very seriously. More interested in Elune than Lady Sylvanas, Hyz thought, but she knew little of the Night Elf goddess and even less of the Tauren spirit world.

The potions were brewed. The weapons and armour had the correct enchantments against shadow and poison. The ideal pathway through the keep had been mapped. And two warlocks meant two soulstones, and plenty of healthstones just in case of emergencies. The Warrior, a Tauren named Earthroot, cautioned the warlocks about the use of Fear in the enclosed spaces they would be encountering.

Hyz grinned with wicked appreciation, even though Fear was a spell that she herself rarely used. It had an unpredictable effect, sometimes causing the victims to turn and blindly run as their skin rotted off or burned, which provided a rather miserable anti-climax to a fight. Hyzanthlay preferred to finish her victims with her sword and savour a hot, fresh meal rather than chew a clammy corpse that had been hidden in the underbrush. It still pleased her immensely that it was their signature spell.

“The Worgen also have the power of Silence,” she added, casting her eyes over the spellcasters and hunter, to the Druid healer. “See that you are prepared, lest I fall.”
“You will not fall,” the Druid replied calmly, and for the first time Hyzanthlay regarded their healer. He carried the same noble air as his brethren, but with none of the silent pity or politely hostile demeanour they often reserved for the undead. In fact, he almost seemed to regard the warlocks with a keen interest. When Hyz looked at him, she was greeted with a toothy, comical grin instead of the usual stiff, serious nod. He looked vaguely familiar but she could not place him.

Hyzanthlay pouted and snarled all along the road to Pyrewood Village and the Keep. Loopy mages and mangy dogs! Hyzanthlay didn’t care for mages, as she was frequently mistaken for one until she picked up a sword or summoned a demon. She didn’t care for the Kirin Tor, as they were Alliance. They were also extremely powerful, and held considerable influence in every human kingdom.

Hyz actually almost regretted killing a few of the weaker Worgen and wolves along the road. Something about their eyes reminded her of a mysterious place beyond the tomb from which she had crawled, the missing memories of her former life.

The air in Silverpine Forest was always cold, bitter and tainted with a rank coppery odour. The worgen who roamed the hills were not native to Azeroth. Only a Night Elf could be so careless as to unleash such a thing upon the world, and only a human would be so foolish as to think they could be kept as pets. Hyzanthlay was grateful that the reek of night elf was miles from here. Her looming voidwalker, who had very politely introduced himself as Phannuz at their recent meeting, did not have a nose and made no comment on these observations.

The Kingdom of Gilneas still stood, but stayed in stubborn isolation. From the drawbridge leading to the keep, they could see the Greymane Wall in the distance. The two Warlocks could hear the wails of the refugees huddled along it. No help would come to them from cursed kingdom of Greymane.

Strellabella spat, and cursed the name of Elune.

Hyzanthlay laughed quietly, and reminded Strellabelle not to take the name of the Moon Goddess in vain lest it offend their Tauren allies.

“Besides, if these creatures are half as vicious as they sound, perhaps we should give Elune a little credit. They would make worthy opponents.”

“Enough chatter.” Earthroot unsheathed her mace and strode over the wooden drawbridge. “Let us begin!”

Chapter 3, The Pools of Vision

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

Thus Hyzanthlay’s first voyage to Kalimdor began. On the whole, it was relatively brief but memorable. As her sarcastic friend had predicted, the bright sun and dry heat were not to her liking. In spite of this, she was pleasantly surprised to find that the harsh Barrens had a few isolated, dirty secrets that she could enjoy.

Refuge for an overworked Forsaken could be found in the leafy oases that surrounded the Crossroads. Every so often the pungent odor of centaur swept over the slimy, still water, driving away the more faint of heart. She gleefully hacked away at their numbers to prove her worth to the local Tauren.

After an entire camp had been raided and slaughtered, and her boots were sticky with horse blood, she boldly settled in an open, grassy, but shady vantage spot to fish. Her mere presence made the near feral horse-people nicker and gallop away in fear. But when the wind turned to a cool northern breeze, the reek of night elf wafted across the grass.

There were few undead here, but a fellow Forsaken and apothecary in the Crossroads had asked her to find him some fungal spores in the local wilderness and while she was at it, he recommended she try her hand at fishing.

“Not that you need to eat…food,” Apothecary Helbrim had explained, when she grimaced at him, “but cooking might suit you as well. And what sinks to the bottom can prove to be quite…useful.”

What drives away a night elf with disgust will lure the undead with fierce curiosity. The mire that covered the Forgotten Pools did indeed contain a myriad of useful junk, and Hyzanthlay was not too proud to trade even the most meager items for a few copper before heading to Thunder Bluff. Many vendors here were too happy to give her anything just to make her go away. She offered the friendly apothecary in the Crossroads her catch, thinking he could use it, but he recommended she keep it; “especially since you are an alchemist yourself.”

The sun was unbearable, and the meager shelter of the Crossroads offered little relief. The humble hamlet was little more than a transit point in the vast, rocky plain that stood between Kalimdor and Mulgore. Hyzanthlay’s natural undead hunch actually seemed to increase as she turned her head away from the blazing afternoon heat.

The inn, if it could even be called that, was a round, fat clay hut with a grass roof, identical to most of the buildings in town except slightly bigger. It was cool and dark inside, reminiscent of the Shallow Grave. Hyzanthlay wondered how soon she could return to Tirisfal Glades. Strellabelle had mentioned a place that needed more immediate attention, at the personal request of the Dark Lady and the Dreadlord Varimathras himself. They would meet again in a place called the Sepulcher, a Forsaken outpost near the lake. But that was some days away yet. She moved toward the smoking grill near the bar, which seemed to be the most active area at the moment.

The flames licked hungrily around the meat on the barbeque. The grizzle bubbled in angry protest. A troll customer licked her bright green lips and waved her tankard in the air as she spoke to the chef.

The Orc cook wielded a huge knife that he would occasionally turn on its side to use as a tenderizer. Bits of meat and bone would constantly fly from the cutting board to the ground, only to be quickly snapped up by the crocodile curled up on the rough floor. It looked upward constantly for the next morsel to fall, alternatively staring at its troll mistress for scraps. Sometimes she would grab a large bone, horn or hoof from the cutting table and carelessly let him have it. She cooed with adoration and bragged to the other patrons about her pet’s nasty disposition and boundless appetite.

Hyzanthlay felt a strange emptiness as she stared at the Hunter and her pet, and wished her imp wasn’t such a snivelling coward. She was comforted by the thought of summoning more powerful entities from the nether as her demonic knowledge increased.
She asked the cook, in her best Orcish, if he had fish on his menu, and if he didn’t, would he like add it?

“You keep the fish,” the Orc replied, regarding her with no surprise or disgust. “You buy this from me. I have good recipes.” He waved his bloody cleaver in the direction of the bar, where a disorganized shelf of supplies stood, including some scrolls. A few drops of gore dripped from the knife onto the crocodile’s face. It twitched happily in response.

The troll slammed down her mug. The she laughed and said;

“Don’t you hear what he say, that one good, this one bettah.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a scroll that didn’t look any different than the few the cook had tucked away behind the bar.

Hyanthlay respected the strength of the Orcs, but saw disdain in their eyes when she drew near to them. It was not so much a fear as a primal apprehension. Tauren’s regarded her in much the same way, but their dignified manner also hid deep pity and unspeakable horror. It was only when she spoke to Trolls that she found more of a profound understanding. Their deeply set eyes and yellow fangs make them more like demons themselves. They fearlessly worshipped the gods that Hyzanthlay and the rest of the Forsaken had met personally in the Land of the Dead.

“This has strong medicine,” she reached into Hyzanthlay’s pile of fish and grabbed a certain one. It looked a normal fish; its skin was dull grey and it was barely big enough to keep, but a dusting of small red flecks distinguished it. Turned to the light, it shone gold. The troll grabbed it and split it open with a little knife before tossing it on the fire with some herbs.

“They call it Deviate Fish,” the troll said. “This one priest from my village, they say he have powah, they say he strong medicine. And I go to his temple where he be. And he split me open and he eat me, eat me like a fish! How fierce be the troll gods when they hungry!”

The other patrons roared with approval at her sordid story. The trolls were famous for their lechery and lack of shame. The raw flesh spat and fizzled on the grill. Hyzanthlay curled her lip, appreciative of the tale in spirit but now dead inside to such longings.

The Troll laughed, and scooped up the barely seared fish. Another patron, also a Troll, boldly asked what she was taught in return for the offering of her body. In response, she picked the burning meat and gulped it down. In a puff of sparkling smoke, the troll was gone and in her place stood a human pirate! She smiled and laughed, sounding every bit like any comely lass in Goldshire. A roar of approval flooded the little inn, which had become more crowded as the afternoon waned. Hyzanthlay also enjoyed a long, husky laugh and clapped with appreciation. The disguise was a simple one that did not mask smell or fool animals, but the Alliance was a gullible lot and it would still have limited use.

“Now you be so ugly, you never learn no new recipe again,” another Troll jeered, a female with a yellow mohawk and a ring in her nose, clearly not impressed with her compatriot’s new appearance.

The warlock agreed. Humans, especially females, were so repulsive.

Hyzanthlay could see the tall grasses moving like waves in the moonlight as the zeppelin floated towards the Tauren capital city. Thunder Bluff hovered on four tall mesas above the windblown plains of Mulgore, starry and quiet in the night. The high mesas seemed to be even closer to the moon and stars, and shone just as brightly in the clear night.

From a distance, the Tauren capital of Mulgore might have been mistaken for a gnome or goblin city. The skyline was dotted with totems, the peaks of teepees and longhouses, but most prominent were the high towers and moving windmills. The lack of black smoke and mechanical noise in the air confirmed the difference.

The breezy wooden yurts and steady winds were ideal for the Tauren, but the Undead preferred the confinement of cold stone and stale air. Hyzanthlay had but a few errands to run before her return and she meant to be quick about it. The white light in the sky bore down on her like an unblinking eye and gave her no peace.

“I know he’s asleep,” Hyzanthlay said coldly to the young brave. “Wake him up.”

“I will not,” The Tauren warrior remained unmoved. “The Master rises early, and you will not wait long. You may find repose in The Pools of Vision, so your presence does not disturb our people.”

Hyzanthlay snarled in frustration, but there was little that could be done. She missed the sleepless denizens of Undercity, but they could only teach her so much. One thing she had already learned about the Tauren was they were well aware of their size and capacity for strength. They would not be moved, either from sentry duty or sleep.

There were few Undead in Thunder Bluff, much fewer than Orgrimmar, but a common interest in alchemy and herbalism was a common thread between the two races. Few Tauren ventured to the ravaged Tirisfal, but they knew of it, and saw the echoes of the Scourge appear in their own sacred lands, even a continent away. Hence Apothecary Zamah was allowed to carry out certain experiments and train the Forsaken that did find their way to Thunder Bluff; as long as they remained in the Pools of Vision, out of sight.

A brief chat with Zamah made Hyzanthlay forget her discomfort for the moment. The Pools of Vision were dark and eerie, and Hyzanthlay lingered for a while with her fellow Forsaken. Every one of them was there to train or research, with one notable exception, a rather sour creature named Clarice.

“It was my name in life,” she said, and Hyzanthlay was surprised. Here was yet another undead creature who had greeted her by referring to their former life. She certainly could not remember her own human name and was rather glad of it. She asked for an explanation regarding her clothing; her robes were untarnished, unstained, but faded with age and decorated with regalia of the Scarlet Crusade.

“As I’ve heard of you, Hyzanthlay, and what you did to the Crusade in Tirisfal Glades, I am honored to tell you.”

With no small amount of bitterness and animosity, Clarice recounted her last few weeks of life.

She described the depth of her faith, her adherence to the strict tenets of the Crusade, and her loyalty as a wife to a well known crusader. Most of her time had been spent serving the Crusade and learning only their wisdom.

When her husband left her to fight the Scourge, she ignored the pain in her heart and the feelings of anger and regret. She described her burial rites after succumbing to plague shortly after his war-torn body was interred in a nearby family plot, each funeral a feast of white flowers and frightened, drawn faces. Even snickering as she described how she had to lie still while they dressed her and laid her in a stone coffin, waited patiently until the mourners had left, before rising from her family crypt to the modest plot where her husband lay.

“I only stopped long enough to desecrate the headstone,” she snarled. “I heard his platoon reached the outskirts of Loaderon before they were cut down. Such a devoted fool in life, the both of us, Yuriv and I!”

Stillness fell over the Pools at the end of Clarice’s story. The dawn was coming.
“Always second,” she muttered angrily, “always second to his blasted duty and that bitch Abbendis. You have business in the Sepulcher, the site of my family’s tomb. Yuriv’s tomb is a modest one, closer to the cemetery entrance. I cannot bear to return; the thought of the place enrages me. Return this to his tomb.”

Clarice pressed a humble silver locket into the warlock’s hand, and said, “Do not think on your former life. Humans are the true scourge, Hyzanthlay, and it is evident that your hate for the Crusade runs as deep as mine.”

Hyzanthlay thanked the fellow Forsaken for her wisdom before returning to the Weapons Master. As she stood before the tent, waiting for the old bull to rouse himself, the dead woman’s words rang in her head.

That bitch Abbendis.
Your hate for the Crusade.
Do not think on your former life.

Hyzanthlay smiled, feeling her resolve strengthen. Clarice had certainly given her good advice. But she would not be able to take it.

Chapter 2, Eucalypto

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

“There’s a rogue following you.”

Strellabelle first mentioned the pressing need for bat pelts and thread before mentioning their unwelcome companion.

“Since Deathknell,” Hyzanthlay acknowledged, insulted that Strellabelle had taken it for granted that she didn’t know.

Despite the stoicism and mutual hostility, the two warlocks were likely candidates to clear some of the spiders, bats and other vermin (such as Captain Vachon and his Scarlett friars) from south-eastern Tirisfal Glades. The monastery would have to be saved for later. They resolved to return, with friends.

Hyzanthlay stood greedily by the Apothecary as he brewed his latest potion. A dwarf and human had been kept in the cellar of the Gallow’s End Tavern. Hyzanthlay was more interested in testing out her concoction on the dwarf. Her native curses certainly sounded impressive. She was fierce and strong, but terrified, and no match for two creatures that know neither pain nor fear. They did not hesitate to hold her down and force the putrid liquid down her throat and paid no heed to her cries of agony. They watched with detached fascination as her skin curled and yellowed like old paper before bursting into puss-lined boils and reducing her to a rotting pile of screaming mush.

Hyzanthlay examined the hissing remains with appreciation. They were too putrid even for the most famished undead appetite.

“I want to be an Alchemist,” Hyzanthlay announced to Strellabelle as they waited for the zeppelin. Her voice had as much enthusiasm as the breathless undead could muster.

“I thought you might. And what do you think happened to our skulking little friend?”

Hyz squinted and didn’t answer. There had been no sign of the rogue since their departure from Brill. Perhaps they would appear in Kalimdor, the land of their most powerful allies, the Orcs.

The bright, harsh sun of Durotar distracted Hyzanthlay. Strellabelle had been here before, and strolled casually from the zeppelin landing without looking back. They had an unspoken agreement to meet in Orgrimmar later. After spending a few days together on the small, noisy zeppelin, Hyzanthlay was glad to be on her own for some time.

“I suspect Durotar won’t be to your liking, but no matter,” Strellabelle had said when the sandy, rocky coast started to take shape. “You will see the Forsaken in these lands, and you are compelled to lend them aid as you can. Do not forget to endear yourself to our noble hosts.”

Hyzanthlay took an extra moment to observe the crusty, red earth and scorched rocks that made up the landscape. She walked past the two orc grunts that stood before the zeppelin tower, and when she turned to take a second look, they stood unmoved.

They were tall and heavyset creatures, unashamed of ugliness or cruelty. Their weapons and armor were cut in a way that was designed to look crude, but the effect was deceptive. It would take the blink of an eye for an orc warrior to turn into a sharp steel projectile lined with blades and teeth. There was darkness in their eyes that the Warlock could not pin down. It was not the abyss in the shining orbs of her brethren, nor the bloodlust of a Troll. It was a shadow Hyzanthlay did not understand, but the smell and aura were familiar. In spite of this, she was pleased with her allies so far, and turned towards the city gates. She had only gone a few steps when a voice spoke.

“Tis the demon’s blood, madam, that which vexes the Orcs.”

Her secret admirer had returned, and she felt rather stupid for becoming distracted and forgetting him.

“You follow me all the way from Brill, hiding in underbrush and shadows, only to reveal yourself in the full light of day. You foolish Rogue, what do you want from me? Speak plainly, and leave me in peace.”

The Rogue appeared at her side, this time in fill view. His wizened, hunched frame and rotted face bent before her in the dust. She concluded that this pathetic creature must have succumbed to plague before rising to join the Forsaken. A few scraps of bleached hair and flaked skin crowned his head, which he only held up with some difficulty as he bowed before her. Gaps of rent flesh lined his cheekbones, giving his wide grin a comical, grotesque look.

“Allow me to introduce myself. EucaIypto is my name, and I must correct thee, madam, ’twas all the way from Deathknell.”

“The Orcs have drunk the blood of the demon Mannoroth, and it seems to still burn inside, even though the curse has been lifted and the demon long slain. As thou art also a student of the dark arts it also vexes thee. I never saw an Orc in life. Were you also as fortunate, my Lady?”

Hyzanthlay stopped walking. She searched her memories, staring intently ahead as if she expected them to walk towards her out of the thin, hot air. A red flame. A book. A rat. And nothing more.

“Perhaps I was,” Hyzanthlay replied. “I only know now that I am Forsaken, and remember little else. I am called Hyzanthlay, and yes, I speak to demons. If there is nothing else then, I will bid you…”

“Allow me,” the Rogue named Eucalypto interjected, “I have been here for some time and it would be my pleasure to escort thee in Orgrimmar. A lady of thy stature should not be….”

“I am no longer a lady any more then you are a gentlemen,” Hyzanthlay sneered, “If you’re a Rogue, then go steal a new shirt! You may have died a gentleman, and they may have buried you in silks, but the only Lady you will ever serve again is Sylvanas.”

By now they were standing before the gates of the city, and Hyzanthlay realized that the huge cloud of dust before them was not the wind but the movement of fierce sparring. The flat, dried rocks and thick sand outside the gates of the Orc city made a perfect venue for practice battles.

She had already seen a few Trolls in Undercity. Their lips were permanently stained with the blood of their cannibalized victims, murdered during rituals to their gods. The most ancient culture of Azeroth, and the keepers of many of its darker secrets, the Horde saw the Darkspear Tribe as a valuable asset.

Tirisfal Glades did not have many Tauren, and when one of the great creatures stood up and lumbered into the sparring area he even made the Orcs look diminutive. His step made the ground vibrate. It was apparent that he was a Druid when he took on his bear form. He roared, and the air shook. If Hyzanthlay had breath, she would have caught it.

“Stay, and watch,” Eucalypto smiled at Hyzanthlay as he spoke. “This is my Guildmaster, Rik; a very powerful druid. He usually finishes off his opponents rather quickly.”

Hyzanthlay thought of druids as healers, and was interested to see one that was a fierce warrior in his own right. An Orc was his opponent, and he wore similar armour as those by the zeppelin tower. Hyzanthlay watched with interest as his armour bent and turned perfectly with his movements. He was wielding an impressive jagged sword in each hand and threw himself fearlessly at the Tauren druid. The power of the demon was no longer in them, but when he moved Hyzanthlay felt its echo, that same jarring vibration as when she summoned her demons or cast fel fire.

She was surprised to see that the Orc weapons did little to the thick Tauren hide. So it was true; the skin of a Druid could be as solid as plate. Hyzanthlay resolved to remember this if she ever met a night elf druid. Suddenly bored with the spectacle, she turned and walked towards the city gate with not a word to Eucalypto. It took a moment for him to notice and he loped after her.

“The battles have just begun, my Lady…dost thou not…”

“I have no use for a duels; I only desire to kill Scarlet Crusaders for the glory of the Horde and the Dark Lady. Good day.”
Hyzanthlay moved towards the shade of the massive corridor that made up the front door. Eucalypto followed.

“Ah, so it’s true! Thou art the warlock that decimated the Scarlet Crusade in Tirisfal…”

“And thou art the rogue who secretly helped me,” she viciously mimicked his formal speech. “Why do you feign ignorance?”

With a woosh the rogue disappeared again. For a moment, Hyzanthlay mistakenly thought he had returned to the duels, but then she heard his voice. The loud cheers from the sparring match outside were still quite audible, but muffled in the tall stone corridor that led into the city.

“Yes, many of those early Crusaders also served me as pickpocket practice. But that first night, I had no plan to aid thee. That was a nice knife that boy had…and your cape would have looked quite fine over my humble burial clothes.”

Hyzanthlay turned and Eucalypto was standing before her, again in plain sight. He spoke slowly and stared at her intently.
“Such furious, vicious, unrelenting bloodlust. When thou didst rise to destroy them, then fell heavy and fulfilled upon their corpses, the path of Darkness opened up before me, and I knew what it was to be Forsaken. I see a great many more that will fall before thee. Return to the arena with me, and show me thy skill in the dark arts.”

Hyzanthlay took a step towards him and regarded the strange creature closely. Behind his long grin and sloping shoulders was a deep, melancholy gravity.

“My fury is saved for the enemies of the Forsaken,” she replied in a low voice, “The Scarlet Crusade more than any other. When the time comes to defile their most sacred places perhaps you will aid me.”

“Oh, my dear Lady, I would be most honored.” Eucalypto bowed low, and if a Forsaken could shiver with joy he might have done so. In this case, however, it was just the breeze ruffling his shredded shirt.

Hyzanthlay strode into Orgrimmar. Eucalypto returned to the sparring circle. They would meet again.

Training in Tirisfal Glades

Chapter 1, The White Flame

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

The little demon stared at her with its buggy, lidless eyes.

It resembled a frog with long, springy legs and a long tail. It bounced sideways from foot to foot when it was excited. The demon’s name was Ziltip, but she never had to use its name. As Maximillion had instructed, it was bound to her by the demonic summoning spell and had no choice but to cater to her every whim. Since this mostly consisted of hurling small firebolts and cackling, this vocation pleased it.

The new denizen of the Forsaken still seemed unsure of her own calling. Maximillion and Mordo had used the word “warlock”. The term sounded familiar. Perhaps she had studied some of the dark arts in her previous existence. Mordo had warned her that some things from her old life would follow her into undeath.

The moon had moved below the horizon as Hyzanthlay had risen from the tomb. Now the dull sun limped across the perpetually hazy sky. She had spent those hours wandering the ruins of Deathknell with little more purpose then the mindless zombies that made up the current population. The plague had swept through the town quickly, and the residents succumbed to the will of the Lich King before his minions had even come near the place. She had thinned their numbers using a mix of fire and bolts of shadow spells while scavenging for supplies, and Maximillion had rewarded her with a demon. The task he had just asked of her had more gravity to it. He had raised one of his rotting hands and pointed north.

The mossy hill sloped downward. Hyzanthlay’s joints bent more freely now, fastened tightly by her ragged clothing. Some bones were badly damaged and the marrow showed through. She had discarded the shabby dress and now wore a less ragged flax vest. The gaping wound over her heart was now completely hidden. The empty orbs of her eyes glowed gently as she crouched closer to the ground. There was movement in the distance.

One of the camp sentries drew nearer. A young woman, with a mail shirt, brandishing a sword. It seemed like she was alone. Hyzanthlay prepared to attack. She planned to draw the enemy into the dark mists, away from the camp, before slaughtering her.
Her first few spells were simple. Maxmillion had been impressed with how quickly she learned to cast a Shadowbolt. Too quickly, as if she already knew something about it. The song seemed to go along with the thoughts in her head.

The spell hit the sentry squarely, and wounded her, but she did not falter. Her counter-attack was fierce, no match for the novice warlock. Hyzanthlay fell heavily to the ground, her small dagger knocked from her hands. The sentry began to rain down cool but persistent blows with her heavy shortsword on the figure below her. Ziltip enthusiastically threw a firebolt, which missed her and exploded a few feet away, attracting the attention of another sentry closer to the camp. Ziltip didn’t even have time to protest before he had been returned to the nether, and the Scarlet Convert and his initiate turned their aggression back to the undead creature.

Hyzanthlay had raised from the ground enough to face them, and turning to the first sentry raised an open glove and spoke a horrible word. The sentry screamed as her skin exploded into bloody cracks and lesions. She staggered backward, scabby boils spreading over her stricken face. The second sentry stepped forward and raised his sword. Setting his teeth, he tensed his muscles and prepared to strike.

The undead creature raised her eyes but no other part of her moved. Her face was gaunt and expressionless. She was already dead, and could feel nothing.

The sword glinted in the failing light of dusk, and it shone for a moment on the tabard the initiate was wearing, the same tabard that all those bound to the Scarlet Crusade wear. A red flame burned against the pure white background. Hyzanthlay saw the flame, and the emptiness in her chest was suddenly filled with a great and terrible rage. She awoke to a fiendish and burning desire to hunt and kill all that belonged to that white flame, the mark of the Scarlet Crusade.

She could hear something. A long loud wail, a cry of confused terror or the music in her head, but it was a burst of sound that exploded in her ears and left them numb.

The sword fell, and missed. The awkward creature had surprised him with a sudden movement. It had lunged closer, slipped the small dagger from his belt, and swung a misshapen arm around his waist and driven it into his lower side. He howled with pain and leaped back, almost tripping over the stricken sentry. She had struggled to her feet and drawn her sword. The boils on her face now nearly rendered her blind.

There was no hesitation or doubt in Hyzanthlay’s movements now. She struck with all her might at the red flame that she still clutched in her clawed hand. The dagger was well tended, and struck deep. It slipped easily through the mail jerkin and shirt and rendered the flesh beneath. Blood gushed forward from the jagged opening as the force of Hyzanthlay’s skeletal arm jammed it in past the hilt, the growl in her throat rising to a crescendo.

Blood poured from the Initiate’s nose and mouth as his ribs and lungs were torn apart. The sentry staggered to her feet just behind him, perhaps hoping to get away. Up to her wrist in gore, Hyzanthlay reached forward, past the sentry’s twitching body, and grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to stand directly behind her hapless companion. His back burst as the blade drove through his spine and into her chest. He slumped over, sagging between them like a scarecrow, his corpse still leaking blood and bile.

For a moment, she and the undead creature stared at each other. Such a look of surprise on her mangled face! Thin threads of blood dripped from the corners of her mouth and down her chin.

Hyzanthlay stepped back and let both bodies fall to the ground in a steaming, tangled heap. The smell of fresh gore drove her into a new frenzy. She hungrily slurped at the sinew and flesh that dripped from the handle of her knife and forearm. Hyzanthlay was shameless as she knelt before the prone bodies and gorged, instinctively knowing her hunger and how it could be satisfied. The living blood and flesh restored her. The executor’s words returned to her as she was satiated.

Bring me proof, should you return.

The moon was bright and full when Hyzanthlay returned Deathknell, reeking of blood. Her teeth and mouth were stained with it, and it had collected in puddles on the nape of her neck. She threw the armbands at Deathguard Arren’s feet with reckless triumph and angry defiance, waiting expectantly for her next order.

He said nothing at first, and then laughed heartily before speaking.

“You truly are a warlock, Hyzanthlay.”

Arren looked at the documents the novice warlock had retrieved with interest. Apparently, Hyzanthlay had killed someone of repute during her rampage through the Scarlet Crusade campground. She was promptly fitted with some less bloody but equally modest gear and told to follow the road to Brill. There she was to deliver her correspondence to Executor Zygrand and await further instruction. Before she had left, Deathguard Arren had decided to demonstrate his dry wit and reward her with a weapon she could not use. It was a handsome enough staff, simple and balanced, but awkward and useless in her untrained hand.

What was she, a mage? Her dagger would suffice for now, she insisted.

Arren had laughed and told her to seek out a master of rustic weapons.

“We have some unlikely bedfellows, who have become powerful warriors using such simple things.”

Food and supplies were always needed. She was to lend a hand when ordered. She was also informed that the war effort was still ongoing and she was expected to contribute even if she was not skilled enough to fight. Her skills as a warlock would not be enough; she was to learn a trade.

Deathknell had become small, a place where spiders and mice skittered nervously under Hyzanthlay’s heavy and deliberate step. A training area for the most vulnerable, the path leading from the small jumble of tombs and chapels was protected by an embankment and a high wall. A few guards and messengers came and went but the place was otherwise quiet.

The road east was relatively calm but a deep undercurrent of uneasiness ran through it. At times, she was distracted by a common plant that would strike her as familiar. She picked some silverweed leaves and buds, a common tea and smoking herb. She mused that she might have some use for such things even in death, and pocketed it.

Hyzanthlay thought that she saw a shrivelled figure huddled in the leafy shadows as she turned to leave Deathknell behind, but when she cast her full, bright orbs towards it she saw nothing. A rogue, she thought. She had already seen a few. They seemed to be common among the Forsaken.

The road forked to the right and left. A sign directed her to Brill on the right, but the promise of a meagre reward compelled her to head left, where a small holdout of human farmers was in need of ravaging. She had also heard the word “Apothecary” and remembered Arren’s advice regarding a profession. The farm was near a ruined tower that sheltered a few more Scarlet stragglers. Hyzanthlay was able to slay a few before turning back towards Brill with supplies from the farm.

It had been too easy, she thought. Too many of her victims had appeared disoriented or distracted. Ziltip had also been agitated ever since she had summoned him again. He kept jumping on her shoulder, or clinging to her forearm, glancing furtively about, complaining incessantly.

“I’m not even supposed to be here today,” he simpered. Hyzanthlay ignored him.

The zombies on these lonely roads were aggressive, and their long claws and their sharp teeth were riddled with disease. Hyzanthlay kept to the road. Mangy dogs and bats also snuffled about in the dark woods. She expected that anything dangerous would sneak up on her, so was not alarmed when some obvious noise drew her a short distance from the silent road.

The abomination stood well above her, the folds of its naked skin exposing rotting organs and tainted, greenish brown flesh. A grotesque motley mix of stitches and misshapen limbs, this one was fighting off a bat and a feral dog. After Hyzanthlay helped him, he informed her that he was searching for a type of weed.

What does an abomination want with such a thing?

Apparently there were a few skilled Apothecaries in Brill, and the creature seemed grateful when she offered to take up the errand with which he had been tasked. With a wave of his hand and a billow of putrid stench, he lumbered back to the woods to continue his regular sentry duties. Hyzanthlay continued, unmoved by his smell or appearance.

Strellabelle was the first warlock that Hyzanthlay met. Upon reaching Brill, and confirming her chosen profession as an herbalist, Zygrand had pointed one of his boney figures towards the inn and told her not to go alone. Slightly more skilled, already accompanied by a looming Voidwalker minion, Strellabelle had been sitting in the inn, next to a dusty urn covered in cobwebs and filled with mouse droppings. The two had barely spoken before stepping out into the night together.

The Emerald Circle

Posted by Kristy Ambrose

Galileo expected the telescope to quickly make believers in the Copernican system out of all educated persons, but he was disappointed. He expressed his discouragement in a 1610 letter to Kepler: “My dear Kepler, what would you say of the learned here, who, replete with the pertinacity of the asp, have steadfastly refused to cast a glance through the telescope? What shall we make of this? Shall we laugh, or shall we cry?” It became clear that the Copernican theory had its enemies.

…

In the 1633 trial of Galileo Galilei, two worlds come into cosmic conflict. Galileo’s world of science and humanism collides with the world of Scholasticism and absolutism that held power in the Catholic Church. The result is a tragedy that marks both the end of Galileo’s liberty and the end of the Italian Renaissance.

From: law2.umkc.edu/faculty/projects/ftrials/galileo/galileoaccount.html

Advocates of marijuana legalization are feeling frustrated these days. For almost a century, marijuana prohibition has endured despite every effort of the anti-Prohibitionists to counter this alarmist and misguided social policy with facts, studies and logic. As anti-Prohibitionists as fond of pointing out to their opponents, it’s insane to do the same thing repeatedly and expect a different result. So, if proponents of legalization would take their own advice, what is the next step in what seems to be a perpetually losing battle?

“Legalizers” (for lack of a better word at this point) are heavily focused on the results of their efforts. The legalization movement focuses almost exclusively on a result, the legalization of marijuana. Instead of trying to break or damage the Prohibitionist ideology, the legalization movement should build another ideological system to compete. This competing system will empower more marginalized groups by demonstrating what they all have in common with anti-Prohibitionists and appeal to the last of the most reefer-mad voter.

Logically, the lies that prop up Prohibition should be successfully countered by the truth and hard facts, but this is an oversimplification. Prohibitionists don’t care about the truth or the facts. What exactly do they care about, and why? Prohibition advocates are more focused on the efforts they make to achieve the result. This is why they are not affected by the logical assertion that “Prohibition simply doesn’t work.” The results of the Prohibition are not as important as the efforts made towards achieving that end. It is the effort that drives the Prohibitionists, not the result, and this effort relies heavily on a system of belief that will never be swayed by facts.

Every lie the Prohibitionists tell themselves and the rest of us about pot aren’t really about pot at all. Every myth about cannabis for recreation or medicine that Prohibitionists use is connected to a bigger picture, and ideology driven by very basic human emotions, the greatest of which is fear. Fear is the endless well from which Prohibition drinks, and this is one way of explaining why the Prohibitionists are conditioned to react with screaming hysteria in the face of even the calmest resolve.

When a Prohibitionist sees the green marijuana leaf, it is not a literal depiction of a plant to their eyes. It is a symbol of all their worst fears, common fears that are shared by most people. Some common, non-specific fears are fairly obvious, like the fear of terrorism or poverty. Other more intangible fears include the fear of competing ideologies (ie, environmentalism, which stresses a world that is not human-centric) or self-knowledge (which can be psychologically painful). The leaders of the Prohibitionist movement insist that marijuana is the source of many, if not all, of these real or imagined threats.

“It’s not WHAT they do. It’s WHY they do it.” So says Simon Sinek in his video, “How Great Leaders Inspire Action.” This lecture is more about marketing and product positioning than civil disobedience, but Sinek uses inspirational civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. to help illustrate his point. His “Golden Circle” is constructed based on what motivates people and why. The anti-Prohibitionists have this backwards. Most of the dialogue of the Legalizers starts with the “what” – the legalization of marijuana, the ultimate goal. But how do we get there, and why should anyone care?

We can view the Prohibitionist ideology of fear in a simplified form using Simon Sinek’s “Golden Circle” diagram as a template.

Why – to protect you from all the bad stuff in the world (crime, poverty, terrorism, sickness, sin)

How – by doing everything we can to eradicate this plant, which is the source of your horrors, and punish anyone who touches it

What – marijuana prohibition

As overblown as the “why” claim sounds, promising all but a chicken in every pot and eternal youth, it succeeds by appealing to the most basic and childlike needs and desires of every human being alive. It also simplifies complex problems and blames a single, outside entity for them, real or perceived, and allows Prohibitionists to absolve themselves of any personal responsibility in their actions to rid the world of this vermin.

Another fringe benefit of the fear factor is that it gives the Prohibitionists the impression that they are constantly being attacked by these malevolent and insidious forces, which justifies their aggression against their opponents as a form of self-defence. This is how Prohibitionists justify jailing otherwise harmless people who are clearly not criminals, like journalists or protesters. This then spills over into totally fictional threats like “the gay agenda” or “the war on Christmas.”

The “why” encompasses the purpose, cause and beliefs of the Prohibitionists. Without marijuana Prohibition protecting society, terrorists and criminals would swarm over society in days, leaving us completely powerless. We just can’t take that chance! This also explains why a Prohibitionist can rationalize their own personal pot use; they don’t include themselves in any of the groups typically associated with marijuana (e.g., environmentalists, “hippies”, youth) so the effort to eradicate marijuana certainly won’t include them.

The Legalization movement needs their own golden circle. We need to recognize and use our own powers rather than work within the framework the Prohibitionists have built. Breaking Prohibition won’t just result in the legalization of cannabis. It will empower the entire human race. And that means everyone. Inclusion is important for the Legalizers because Division is one of the Prohibitionists’ favorite weapons (they keep it right next to Fear in the Authoritarian toolbox).

The Emerald Circle is about inclusion, improving the quality of life of everyone, and freedom from fear, anger and exclusion. Historic context is also important, as the Prohibitionists bristle at the thought of a world that existed without them.

In a very broad sense, the Emerald Circle can look like this…

Why – to improve the quality of life for every single human being on this earth,

How – reducing and even eliminating our dependence on fossil fuels by discovering and developing alternative fuel resources, eliminating corruption in police and government, saving millions in taxes and fees and delays in our court processes related to overcrowding and lack of funds, etc. (pretty much everything that farmers, doctors, economists and hippies been trying to say for the past 90 years),

What – LEGALIZE IT.

The Emerald Circle is just as supernatural in its claims as the Prohibitionist counterpart, and therefore equally unbelievable in nature. It makes more sense, especially if the Legalizers expect to include everyone, to break down the Emerald Circle into specific categories and apply it to different ideologies. For example, for those concerned with factory farming or GMO seeds and crops….

Why – improve food production, availability, affordability and quality,

How – lift the restrictions against hardy and versatile crops that farmers are currently not allowed to seed, grow or cultivate,

What – LEGALIZE IT.

The connections to the bigger picture here include industrialized hemp as well as any seed that has been genetically modified or restricted for farmers to use, like certain types of corn. The Legalizers stand firmly in solidarity with another group, one that opposes genetically modified crops and factory farming but has the same ideological goals. The message is a positive one that focuses on inclusion, empowerment and appeals to those that are concerned about the quality of their food or, on a more extreme level, afraid of starvation. Groups like Monsanto use the fear of starvation and unemployment to coerce both farmers and consumers into accepting factory farming and genetically modified crops. Nor does Monsanto allow its customers to choose what they grow. The message of the Emerald Circle is diametrically opposed to the one that Monsanto (and their supporters) uses. It empowers instead of bullies. It encourages self-sufficiency as opposed to relying on corporations to curate our food supply.

Another example that demonstrates the wider appeal of this philosophy;

Why – lessen the costs associated with health care while at the same time improving the quality and delivery,

How – by allowing patients to use natural and holistic alternatives that are scientifically proven to be effective against a variety of ailments and have been quality produced and tested by experts,

What – LEGALIZE IT.

Concerns about the cost and delivery of health care are serious issues, so anything that can appeal to anyone. This includes any and all patients (remember, inclusion is important) but can be applied to chronic patients that also need expensive prescriptions over long periods of time. In this instance we not only include Legalizers, but also anyone who is concerned about the costs in a general sense as well as the side-effects of prescription drugs that are distributed via the health care system and the ulterior motives of the companies that produce them. Government and insurance companies play on the fear of removing health care entirely when they insist that they must make cutbacks or increase premiums under the guise on improving or even saving the system from total destruction, depriving the frightened and vulnerable of a world entirely without health care. The Emerald Circle combats this feeling of helplessness and empowers patients and doctors alike instead of threatening them.

One more example and perhaps the most poignant considering the driving forces in North American politics these days;

Why – eliminate our dependence on petroleum,

How – by researching and developing alternative forms of clean and renewable energy sources of plastic and other petroleum based products,

What – LEGALIZE IT.

This includes hemp, of course, but can apply to virtually any alternative fuel source. However, no plant is more versatile than hemp when it comes to replacing petroleum, either as a bio-diesel or an ethanol fuel. In fact, Prohibition as we now know it began when the owners and investors of the petroleum industry (which was barely out of its infancy by the 1920s) realized they couldn’t complete with hemp on a level playing field, and played on the racial and moral fears of a naive population to demonize its close cousin, cannabis. This counters the alarmist claim of tar sands “fanbois” who claim that without petroleum we would all have to go back to living in caves, appealing to the basic human fears of poverty or material loss and the general understanding that petroleum is so important that we simply can’t live without it, even though we did so, and thrived as a society and species, for many thousands of years. Just like the Prohibitionists who insist that making plants illegal is a normal practice and is common throughout human history when the contrary is true.

Fighting this false ideology that has been the Prohibitionist gravy train for almost a century by trying to challenge it with facts may seem like the obvious answer but it has proven to be futile. A competing ideology, one that uses the opposite tactics (inclusion where there is division, empowerment where there is helplessness) and appeals to positive human emotions instead of negative ones can succeed where raw data has failed.

The Emerald Circle is not a marketing ploy or a psychological trick. It is the natural evolution of the anti-Prohibitionist movement. The Legalizers need to remind the human race of the positive things they were capable of, and will be again, in a world without Prohibition.

References

Hemp Ethanol Saves the World: http://hemp-ethanol.blogspot.com/2008/01/economics-history-and-politics-of-hemp.html

Simon Sinek, “How Great Leaders Inspire Action.” http://www.ted.com/talks/simon_sinek_how_great_leaders_inspire_action.html

“The Emperor’s Wears No Clothes”, Jack Herer, AH HA Publishing, 2007.