"...Absolutely!"
Absolutely...
Was that all I could say when I was asked to delve into the phenomenon of rifts? I can’t remember now, it’s been ages since then… or at least… it has been for me. Yet for the sake of my sanity, what little left of it there is, I should start this story from the beginning. I seemed so eager back then, finally some new material to boast about to my colleagues; back then all I considered Scholomance to be was nothing more than a summer camp for upstart necromancers and would-be nightblades. My enthusiastic reply lead some of the other students in the study to snicker behind their hooded garments as Karhnok, the master of the discussion group, smirked slightly. “Very well, Netami, you will venture forth on morrow’s eve and travel in the veil of night to the craggy hills of Blackrock Mountain. I expect no hesitation as soon as your goals have been met. You will meet a blood elf by the name of…” He trailed off or, perhaps, I had simply stopped listening at that point. I was too busy plotting inside, conjuring up every possible scheme to learn this material as fast as I could so that I might exploit it for my own gain. That was a Warlock’s nature, after all…
Thus I set out, as I was instructed, the next night and took with me nothing more than a walking staff and my shard pouch; if I learned this technique correctly, it wouldn’t matter what I took with me at any time. Indeed, I mulled these thoughts around in my head as I traveled, oh the joyous possibilities and secrets of the rifts! Instant travel between any two points…. Travel packs paling in comparison to a rift to a storage room or my very own staff of holding. And to think I considered those mere theories! The stuff of dreams and elitist mage covens! If only I had known… if only. But I did not know, and I continued my journey none the wiser for many nights as the ominous shadow of Blackrock grew before me. When finally I did arrive, it took almost as long to find the blasted elf of Karhnok’s. After what must have been a week of dodging behind rocks to avoid Orcs and steering clear of pitfalls, I located the elf standing smugly near a flow of lava.
His name was Lothos, and he introduced himself as a Riftwalker, one of the few to truly understand the manner of rifts. At first I did not believe he would teach me a thing, in truth I have had to run a blade through many of his kind to get them to talk, but after I introduced who I was and what I came for, he agreed with nothing more than a shrug. So there in the dark cave, illuminated by only the searing bowels of the earth, did I inquire about the dealings of rifts. There I would learn everything I knew now, as all I could know then was the necessity to acquire this knowledge. We studied as Warlocks study, without food or drink or need for sleep for days on end. Our energy came from the need to learn and to teach; it was the unspoken bond of a master and apprentice. And when the time came that I had learned everything I could from this master, I set off and bid him farewell, “Nen Xera Rathine,” we repeated to one another. It was the way of our kind, to warn each other as we parted, a caution that with our great power should come also a great sense of humility. A man may become the greatest of Warlocks only to lose his soul in the process. In our business, that is a very bad thing to do. But then again, I was always a terrible businessman.
What happened in the next few months are a haze to me now, as perhaps they are to time itself. With my new found knowledge I could move between lands with nothing more than the wave of my hand, and I was never in one place for too long. Like any one would have, I broke away from the institute at Scholomance and struck out on my own, eager to make a profit with my new found knowledge. At first I tried cargo deliveries for wealthy merchants, but that drew entirely too much suspicion when fine goods from across the great sea would arrive but a day later at their destination and transporting others with me was a danger I dared not risk at the time. The mages in Stormwind would surely notice such an anomaly and I’d bet the clothes on my back that Karhnok had a hefty bounty on my head for those willing to keep an ear to the ground at the Lamb. You don’t walk away from the dark order without leaving this world.
So there I was, an exile from every city with a significant mage presence with more money than I could spend in this or any other lifetime. I had no choice but to form a band of like-minded miscreants and attempt to gain the only thing more valuable than gold: real estate. Controlling Goldshire and the surrounding hamlets became my only concern, even to the point that I would publicly reveal myself to deliver ultimatums to the petty peoples of the land only to step into the shadows and disappear. In my spare time, I spent hours pouring over old tomes on the dreaded plane of Xoroth, and the multitude of demonic creatures that lie within. It would become my obsession, as rifts did almost a year before; to find out all I could about summoning devilish creatures of hellish power and then sending them out to the surrounding towns. My men would take the gold I had earned and purchase the required reagents needed, each time the stakes a little higher than the last, and each time I pulled in a greater reward when the shadowy visage of a demon stood before me. In a mere matter of months I had spread terror through the forest of Elwynn and in my arrogance I trusted too many, too soon.
When the eve came of the day that I would launch a fiery assault of demons from the plane of Xoroth upon Goldshire and its foolish guardians, a painful migraine manifested itself within my head. Yet my determination would not waver even as my hand did, and I pressed on with the final preparations despite spilling the ink vial many times. My sanctum was strangely quiet as I penned the last runic symbols and prepared to meet the dawn with a promise of bloodshed. What would happen next has been played over and over in my mind since it transgressed. Unmistakable figures jumping out of the darkness to bind and tie me down as a lone bounty hunter barked orders from outside. I had been betrayed, blackmailed by more than two dozen of my own men and I could only imagine the others had been paid to look the other way as the bandits stormed my estate, tearing down bookshelves and burning precious research.
When I came to, I could recall but one thing about my surrounding: the heat. I had not experienced such heat since my time with Lothos. My idle thoughts were broken by a voice in the darkness, “Netami… my child, what have you gone and done?” The voice was deep and filled with a haughty sense of disappointment, it was none other than Karhnok, the bastard son of a whore that he was. I felt a swift tug at the back of my head and suddenly I could see; a flimsy linen headband used to blind my sight fell to the ground. My eyes took their time to adjust in the shifting lights of the cavern and Karhnok continued, “You failed the test, my child. You took a forbidden art and ran with it; you know the consequences of crossing our order!” A swift kick met my side as I buckled to the floor and tasted the grimy soot of the floor, I knew where I was now and it seemed foolish that I did not recognize the place I called home at the beginning of this pathetic journey. “You, like so many before you, took the fast path and now you will die for it. You forgot the first rule of our society, to never give in to the temptation of greater power. Did you really think you would be the first to wield such ability? There wasn’t a Warlock in that group that didn’t have the power to manipulate rifts!” Karhnok swore. Demonic wasn’t a kind language on the ears, no matter how proficient you were in it. He turned to me and for one last time bid me farewell, “Nen Xera Rathine, my child.” The only response I could manage was a shuffled clutch at my side, his blow must have shattered several ribs, but that was nothing more than a premonition for things to come. Karhnok sighed heavily and backed off and away from me, his crossed arms breaking for a moment to motion the order to drop my drugged body into the lake of fire. I wasn’t given the courtesy of being thrown so much as I was kicked off the small outcropping into the lava pit below, I suppose you buy steel-tipped boots for a reason.
My plunge seemed to last uncomfortably long, and in the corner of my eye I caught a most ironic sight. The gleaming white body belonged to none other than Lothos, my former master and friend, and he leaned against the damp cavern wall, shaking his head and biting his nails as my fall reached its end. His next action would become my greatest blessing and curse. He extended both arms outward, as it was custom for mages of his race to do when casting a spell, and spoke loudly in an alien language. Angry purple beams of light shot forth from his fingertips and consumed my frail corpse moments before the magma would have eagerly done so. He was attempting to capture my soul so that he might reconstitute it afterwards, but I hadn’t given him enough time! Realizing this and using those damned elfish reflexes of his, the Riftwalker begged forgiveness and all went dark. I would realize the severity of this apology when consciousness found its way to my being later. Death was too kind a punishment for a wretch like me.
Years passed by. Or perhaps mere days. Time does not function correctly on the plane where I have been imprisoned. Indeed one area may pass much like Azerothian days, but other areas have varied rules. Gods, no wonder most of the patrons of the fel were so old… or undead. I once witnessed a small flaming bat-like creature leap out of the, what I thought was distant, sun of this world and suddenly collapse into dust upon reaching old age in just a few flaps. It’s becoming much harder to put together coherent thoughts… The migraines will not leave and my journal entries take longer and longer. And how I burn here; I seem to feel nothing but an ache as if I had been out in the sun far too long, but even this pain is miniscule compared to what is happening to my psyche. Every moment I float here, I feel an overpowering sense of amnesia. In truth I looked back upon my writing here and forgot many details… I also can’t seem to cast any of the cantrips I knew. It’s as if mana, as the scholars often call it, doesn’t even exist in this realm… I should have stayed a thief.
It’s been so long… since I last wrote. It feels as if I’ve been asleep for years… I can’t remember… my name… I think I saw something important today. A small bat-like creature fended off a large blue demonoid today only to both be sucked up into a purple cube that opened up out of no where… I wonder what this means… why do I think this is important? Someone came to me today after that happened and spoke to me. He was a very handsome individual who called himself a friend. I wonder what he wants…
The sun. It beats tirelessly in this realm. How I hate the sun. It bakes my skin… my skin! I am covered in wrinkles now… My friend doesn’t seem to mind it at all; he says he is used to it. I wish I could remember what it was like to see the night. My friend often speaks of the night and it eases my pain for awhile. He also reminds me of certain memories I don’t care to hear. They make me burn especially so in this never-ending daylight. Names like Karhnok … Lothos… who are they and where did they come from? Do I hate them? Yes… I must hate them. My friend says I must hate them. I must get out of this place, it is not right.
My friend spoke to me about leaving today. He asked me if I would like to leave. He asked me if I would leave this place behind and listen to him. In exchange for someone to talk to, he would help me get revenge. He keeps asking me, “Will you leave? Will you get out of this place? Can we go now?” He points to a purple cube in the distance and my tired eyes focus upon it, “Can we return home? Can we make those who brought you here suffer?”
“…Absolutely.”
*As you lean down to hear the clip, you are greeted with the dull whirring of the tram system and the distant sound of many gnomish voices. It becomes apparent that this was recorded near Tinker Town under Ironforge.*
Hello? Is this working?
Ah.. ahem. Dear gnomish contraption:
I “found” an access card to this station when a rather sagely looking old man dropped it in the Deeprun Tram systems, and, being so close to a terminal, I have decided to look into what this whole thing is about. After playing with it for awhile, I think I am ready to record a story. But this is a special story. It’s my story.
*At this point he begins to read from his journal and the narration takes over as what you hear over the course of the next half hour. The following is not Tethin’s personal account, but what you take away from the story as it’s being told.*
In his youth, Tethin Androm was the sort of trash you'd see welling up from the depths of Booty Bay, having the reputation of a master swindler and landing the most-wanted spot on many a bounty list for several months in Northern Lordaeron. He was a professional con-artist if such a profession would be granted acknowledgement and could masquerade as many different types of characters to swindle his way into keeping his stomach full and a roof over his head. He was most known to travel amongst alliance villages posing as a heroic paladin; Tethin took on the false title of Zecroda Revenant, a chaste and just crusader of the light. Tethin would use this guise to net in gifts and taxes on behalf of the church of Azeroth many times without being caught. After all, war against the horde had made the smaller towns of the alliance predictably generous towards their esteemed knights in shining armor.
And so Tethin continued his life of petty crime for many seasons before coming to the area of this story’s particular interest. On the border of the northern elven lands lay the isolated village of Altora. Tethin had hit this perfect location at the worst time, when the undead plague was working towards the village just as he was working it over under his paladin alias. With no visible undead on the horizon, the town was just close enough to panic and far away from danger to really benefit Tethin and his gold pouch.
Mawgut, an abomination of horrid size that had been sewn from the flesh of demons, was sent to deal with this unprotected land first. His stomach had been wrought into a massive, plague spewing jaw, and alone it would lay waste to many of the human villages before it's infamous penchant for destruction would promote it to lead an undead army into the northern lands of the elves. It was this abomination that found it's way to Altora as Tethin masqueraded into his third week as Zecroda. Calling out to be saved by the false savior as the monstrous horde approached, the villagers watched in horror as he instead dove into the town's well while the undead scourge ravaged the city.
Blood and tears stained the land. Tethin awoke months later in the center of his lost paradise. He clambered out of the well, which had dried up years prior, into the hell had that become the countryside. Struck with a massive head wound from the dive into the dry well, Tethin had a shift in persona. Zecroda Revenant, his paladin alias that had raked in such a profit, was all that he could recall about himself. As much a hero as Tethin forged him to be, and imbued with faith in the light, Zecroda stumbled out into the world. His body was filled with the divine, cleansing his hair into the long, flowing white of paladins before him. In a mere matter of moments, Tethin had been transformed into the holy crusader Zecroda, with no training other than that of his self-persuasion. Surveying the damage around him, Zecroda swore revenge on the evil Mawgut, and set out on a journey to reclaim the honor of the small village in the name of the light.
He trudged for days to reach the menace, following a torn and angry forest road. And then, after many miles, Mawgut's army lay ahead of him. Zecroda had the will and courage of any paladin, but Tethin's body was weak and inexperienced. Zecroda ultimately lost against Mawgut, and left to better himself before returning to finish his duties. His travels brought him into the company of a man called Netami, and he became a lackey of sorts to him in exchange for his knowledge on demons and the undead. Netami would soon form a guild in the hopes of furthering his own goals, and Zecroda would follow him, becoming his right hand.
Zecroda would also become good friends with not only Netami, but also the rogue Bulzeeb, his esteemed counterpart within the guild. With their aid, Zecroda went about the known world, aiding his people wherever he could. He became wise in the art of war, and the workings of the factions he worked with. The passage of time had sculpted Tethin into the able bodied Paladin his mind had thought itself to be. And when he had learnt enough, he left his guild mates without so much as a word to them, heading once more into the oft forgotten lands of the northeast.
His final march into the lands of the dead would bring Zecroda to the grave of Uther; The Light-bringer, the First, the Betrayed. A final prayer was spoken softly upon a light drenched statue... A request for strength for a land lost, a people scattered. Zecroda held up the mark of Uther from his grave, a palm sized pendant in the shape of a cross, and took flight towards his final destination. With his body, mind, and spirit ready, Zecroda descended into the land he wandered long ago.
The plague raged on, unhindered, in this closed valley so distant from any that would get in it’s way. Mawgut, foul and massive in his gluttony for flesh, spew a cataclysmic miasma across this land and no longer would any plant grow upon it. Zecroda's steps became heavy, his breathing difficult... The painful aura that seeped from the crevices of the beast had subdued even the undead scourge around him and he alone sat in flitted hunger, tearing at the diseased remains of his legion. Zecroda found him there and beckoned unto him, “Arise great beast, your end has come for you!”
The two battled for many hours until dusk came to the darkened land of the north, both combatants waning in their power. Zecroda had come a far way since his first encounter with Mawgut, but the beast had grown considerably as well. At last the point would come when Mawgut reared upon itself and blasted forth a foul and concentrate blast of it’s miasma at Zecroda. The foul wind threatened to overwhelm Zecroda in his weakened state, but the paladin would prevail. Lifting himself from the knees, he stood and began to tread slowly towards the foul demon. His arm outstretched, Zecroda pressed on with the symbol of Uther clasped in his palm. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the champion made his way to the beast as the torrent of hell came forth. And just as the last rays of light fled from the land, they shone brightest in the amulet held by Zecroda, he thrust the amulet into the face of Mawgut and it burst into a million pieces as the beast was stunned in agony. Taking no time to retort to the pain in his tattered right hand, Zecroda mustered all that was left within him to pierce his sword deep into the demon’s flank until it exploded out the back of the midsection, cleaving the beast in twain.
But even as it fell to the ground in a sickening heap of limbs, Zecroda threw off his helmet in utter shock, a wave of memories washing over him. As the helm touched down, Tethin was one again with himself, his hair reverting to a black hue as the light faded from his being. Staring down at his hands covered in the sticky purple blood of demons, Tethin wept openly at that which had transgressed. In the short span of a few months he had risen to greatness a just and noble man. And now that his quest was done, the light had gone back over the horizon and left Tethin with nothing but the starry night and the wind's chill.
The conman sat there long and he thought there deeply, sitting on the edge of the well where he had fallen many months before. Was it a dream? Was it another scam? The night had no answers for him and the moon waned into the distance. As dawn approached, Tethin stood and made his way from that place in hopes of finding the answers in the people he had met.
It is said by those that have traveled through there since that a mighty battle can be heard echoing off the fallen walls when the eve is just right. And on that spot in the town of Altora, where a small dry well reflects the light from it’s stone, the last rays of light shine especially so… for Zecroda the Just.