A dead man stepped into the secluded grove that hid away the Netherbane’s fallen members. His eyes glowed the blue-white of those risen as knights of death, and he watched the Sentinel Celina Stillmoon depart. She had not noticed him in the shadows.

Denalas Moontreader—or rather, the being once known as Denalas Moontreader—had heard the Sentinel’s pleas to her past lover. The veil between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead was, indeed, weaker on these days. Denal could use this to his advantage.

The death knight stepped around the shafts of Elunelight that fluttered through the canopy and onto each of the grave markers. There would be a witness to his deeds this evening, but it would not be Elune. At least not as most understood her. No, tonight Moontreader would act to honor She Who Lived in Shadow.

Tonight Moontreader would honor Umbra.

Closing his rimelit eyes, the being within Denalas Moontreader began to chant in a language he never should have understood. Darkness flowed around and through him as his words flowed through the grove. He could feel the spirits of the fallen nearby, even those with no remains had become anchored to this place of remembrance.

Opening his eyes, Moontreader glanced around him and saw through the veil into the realm of the dead. There were many faces here. Many faces indeed.

The entity within Denalas Moontreader forced the undead body to smile as he spoke in a voice that was not his own. He spoke one word.

“Rise.”

END

With the shadowy figure of Thelnin’s cursed spirit seemingly gone, Tharion resumed his meditations. Glancing upwards, his felsight locked onto a central ribbon hanging from one of the branches nearby. There were two streaks of dried blood upon the torn paper, each streak marking a different time of death.

The brushed ink spelled out a name that Tharion knew well—a name that he would never forget.

Elaia Shaillan.

“The first death.” Tharion whispered into the night. “I remember.”

* * *

You will kill her, Tharion. She has turned from us and gone mad. The responsibility falls to you to ensure she honors the promise she made so long ago.

Eraelan’s words still rang in Tharion’s mind, accompanied by the ethereal laughter that was layered beneath everything he thought these days. The demon hunter ran through a mental exercise to quell the demon’s chattering spirit, but he knew it was only temporary.

Tharion had survived his binding and blinding rituals, and while he now hunted with the abilities of a true demon hunter, he was still learning how to refine his technique.

This will be your true test as a hunter of the Returning Path. This is your chance to prove you are capable of enforcing our promises.

Tharion hated that he had agreed to such a position within the camp, but he had seen many others fall to the madness since he arrived. Alon had just been the beginning, and was far from the worst. The responsibility of hunting rogue demon hunters needed to be filled, and Tharion volunteered.

This decision changed the dynamic of Eraelan Netherbane’s camp entirely. No longer was Tharion treated like an equal, instead he had become an outcast among outcasts. Few trusted him any longer, for they believed that one day he would come for them if they strayed too far from Eraelan’s instructions.

The students began to understand how far Eraelan was willing to go in order to train his “perfect demon hunter.” Rumors persisted of alliances with the Burning Legion. The deaths of some students were thrown into question, and the rituals were becoming exceedingly dangerous and dark.

It did not help that a sect of Sentinels calling themselves the Stillmoon were investigating and harrassing the members of the camp. Few trusted those who willingly trafficked in demonic forces, and the ban on arcane magic under the penalty of death was still brutally enforced since the highborne exile.

The location of the Netherbane camp had yet to be discovered by the Stillmoon Sentinels, but most of Eraelan’s students believed that it was inevitable. Tharion had to take extra care that Elaia did not lead them back in her current state.

A clash of steel weapons caught Tharion’s attention. It was some ways ahead, deeper into the thick foliage of Ashenvale’s primordial growth.

“Your kind will answer to the judgement of the priestess!” The voice was unfamiliar yet distinctly kaldorei.

“My ‘kind’ have been evading your capture for years, Sentinel,” the response was calm. “If you cannot even find us, how do you propose to make us answer for anything?” Another violent clash of weapons sliced through the stillness of the night, punctuating the last word.

Tharion bounded through the undergrowth as fast as he could, worrying not so much about silence as speed. If Elaia were fighting one of the Stillmoon…

He leaped up a series of low branches and slowed his pace after a few minutes, sensing Elaia’s demonic aura nearby. The young demon huntress burned with strong fel energies that acted as a beacon to Tharion’s felsight.

While Tharion’s binding had completed successfully, Elaia’s mental distress at Thelnin’s death interfered with her own ascension. Her personality had split, and over the course of mere weeks, her darker half took over. Gone was the playful but skilled student of Eraelan Netherbane. Little more remained aside from a physical form which contained the churning chaos of her corrupted soul. And even that was degenerating into something else entirely.

Tharion steadied himself on a high branch and looked down into a small opening where two night elven women faced off. The first was Elaia, most advanced of Eraelan’s students, even moreso than Tharion. Her deep purple hair was fading to white now, and her rich skin becoming withered and sallow. She still wielded two heavy long blades, a feat that many others, male or female, could not match.

Elaia still wore the training wraps of one of Eraelan’s students, strips of leather and cloth tied around her torso more for modesty than any form of protection. Around her waist hung a tan kilt tied together by rope strands. It was a simple uniform. But little more was necessary for a demon hunter.

The other woman was a Sentinel. Dressed more traditionally, she held a slender curved blade in one hand and kept the other closed in a fist, the signature moonglaive strapped to its back. She was crouched low, almost feline in her stance, and eyed Elaia Shaillan with intense silvery eyes.

“I vow to hunt your kind down to the last man or woman, demon hunter.” The Sentinel seethed. “I will not let the Legion regain their footing here in our lands!”

Elaia laughed softly. It would have been almost sultry if the madness did not shine from the felfire flames that burned through her black blindfold. “You know so little, yet you believe you know so much.”

The Sentinel sneered her response. “I know more than you realize. I know of the crimes your mentor has committed against our people. I know he murdered my lov—” She swallowed her words and quickly recovered. “I know he murdered Alon Bladewhisper.”

“Alon?” Elaia’s eyes burned brightly in amusement. “I remember Alon. He was the first to fail.” She lifted one of the two massive blades and pointed it directly at her foe. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one he always whined about.”

The Sentinel remained silent, but her face slowly contorted in growing rage.

“You were the one! The source of his weakness.” Elaia cackled. “I remember that lesson. I remember Eraelan scooping up the pile of ashes that used to be your lover and scattering him to the winds.”

“You took him from me. You filled his head with notions of blasphemy! Alon would never have willingly joined with a group who allies with demons! You made him betray me!” Tears began to stream down the Sentinel’s eyes now.

Elaia’s lip curled upward, a sadistic glint in the flames of her felsight. “No, Celina Stillmoon—yes, I remember your name just as well and anyone else who put up with Alon’s incessant whining—no, it was you who betrayed him.” The young demon huntress stepped closer to the Sentinel. “You abandoned him in a time of need. And when you confronted him again, your presence revealed the depth of his weakness.” Elaia’s smile grew. “Eraelan Netherbane doesn’t tolerate weakness. Alon was purged for the good of the rest of us.”

Celina gripped her weapons tighter and coiled herself as if she were a serpent about to strike.

“You, Celina, are the one who killed him.” Elaia laughed.

Celina Stillmoon sprang, screaming a rage that could only come from decades of guilt and loss. Her strikes were swift and precise, the moonglaive swirling about her like a cyclone of sharpened steel.

Elaia just continued to laugh as she dodged and parried the Sentinel’s assault. Celina was truly skilled, but Elaia did not earn her position easily, either. As Stillmoon stepped back to regroup, Elaia struck hard with one of her weapons. It was all Celina could do to keep from losing a limb.

Tharion watched the battle from above. He understood tactics well enough to know that now was not the time to interfere. He would wait.

A nearby tree exploded in felfire as one of Elaia’s strikes missed its mark. Celina had rolled to the side and was again working her way closer to the demon huntress. Elaia Shaillan, however, had no intention of making it easy for her.

“That you use their powers against me proves the depth of your corruption, demon hunter!” Celina shouted as she hurled the moonglaive at Elaia. “I have the Goddess behind me!”

Elaia leaned swiftly to the side to dodge the spinning moonglaive, but was too slow. The silvery weapon cut into her side before embedding itself in the trunk of an ancient tree. The huntress frowned and growled—a sound unnatural for any night elf—and lunged for her opponent.

Celina’s slender blade came down, but Elaia shifted at the final moment. The demon huntress struck upward with the blunt end of one of her weapons, sending the Sentinel sprawling to the withering earth. Casting aside the two huge slabs of sharpened metal like they were nothing more than wooden toys, Elaia pursued her attack and pinned Celina Stillmoon to the ground.

Tharion knew the time had come. Leaping from his high perch, he landed a few steps away from where Elaia knelt atop Stillmoon. “Stand down, Elaia.”

“Tharion,” Elaia’s voice had once again become almost sultry, speaking the other demon hunter’s name as a lover would. “Have you come to take me back home?” She did not turn to face him.

“No, Elaia,” Tharion whispered a word of power and a warglaive appeared in his hand. “I am here to kill you.”

The corrupted huntress turned and looked over her shoulder, the blazing green of her felfire eyes intense even behind her blindfold. There was no smile on her face as there had been on her voice moments earlier. “Then do it, Tharion. Rid me of this life of empty pursuit. Kill me and scatter my ashes to the winds as Eraelan had done to the others.”

“Stand, Elaia. Stand and face me and I shall.”

Elaia stood and turned toward Tharion, and Celina immediately scurried away and to the base of a nearby tree. Her face was still pale from the brush of death.

“Always honorable to the last, eh, Tharion?” Elaia reached a hand out and one of her weapons flew to her grasp. “It’ll be your undoing one day, you know.”

“Such is the way, then, Elaia. Today, however, I am to be your undoing.”

Elaia nodded her head before leaping towards her former ally.

* * *

Tharion removed the warglaive from Elaia’s abdomen, and her lifeless body slumped to the forest floor at his feet. He wiped her blood from his blade with his kilt, and then turned to the Sentinel who had been kneeling nearby and watching the conflict.

“You are Celina Stillmoon, yes?”

The Sentinel nodded her head as she stood. She had recovered her moonglaive sometime earlier, and it was now once again resting upon the back of her fist. “I am.”

“What is your intent?”

The question seemed to strike Celina as odd, for her expression froze for a brief moment. “I … rather, I would say we have been tracking those from your camp for a while now. You are each to be sentenced to death.”

“On what grounds?”

“The death of Alon Bladewhisper and Seth’doril Sunblaze. The disappearances of Thelnin Doran, Elaia Shaillan—” Celina glanced down at the corpse nearby and frowned. “—and countless others. Eraelan Netherbane is considered a criminal.”

“And you seek to capture me—to capture all of us—and put us to death?” Tharion kept his posture still, his eyeless gaze locked on Stillmoon.

“We do.”

“You intend to capture me tonight?”

“Will you come without a struggle?”

“No.”

Celina nodded her head. “Then, no. You saved my life this evening, demon hunter. You have bought yourself a few more days of respite from my sisters and I.” The Sentinel paused before turning away from Tharion. “Thank you.”

Tharion nodded his head and turned towards Elaia’s body. He knelt briefly and picked her up, leaving her weapons where they lay. Before departing the grove, however, he spoke. “I remember Alon. He wanted you to be free of him in the end. He wished you happiness without the burden he brought to your life.” Tharion stepped into the darkness of the Ashenvale forest. “He freed you.”

Celina waited a few moments until she believed the demon hunter gone. Then she spoke, addressing the nothingness around her. “How many years, Alon? How many has it been? Did you not realize?” She wiped a fresh tear from her battleworn cheek. “I never wished to be free of you…”

* * *

“How many years, Greyseer?” Her voice had not changed in all this time. “How many years has it been since we met that night?” The Sentinel stepped fully into the clearing and looked at the stone that marked Alon’s empty grave.

“I have lost count, Celina Stillmoon. For a time, the count mattered not.” Tharion did not turn his head to look at her. Such a gesture was little more than a formality when the Greyseer’s felsight allowed him to see all around him. “You are here for the same reasons as I?”

“I am, demon hunter.” Celina stepped next to Tharion and knelt upon the soft ground. The light from Elune flowed over her, as if she were somehow favored by the moon. “I came to visit my Alon, to hope that he may hear me as the veil of death weakens on this holiday.”

Tharion merely nodded his head as he stood.

“Leaving?”

“Indeed. You deserve your privacy, and I am done for now.” Tharion turned his back upon the Sentinel. “I have much to reflect upon this night, so I will leave you and Alon … alone.”

“Thank you, Greyseer.” Celina closed her eyes and placed her ungloved hand upon the smooth stone of Alon Bladewhisper.

And she began to cry.

* * *

Tharion Greyseer’s eyeless gaze turned to another stone, this one completely unmarked. It was the only unidentified grave in the cluster, but Tharion still recognized it. He placed his palm on the rock and took a deep breath.

He had not whitnessed Thelnin’s death. No one did. Indeed, Eraelan has simply stated that Thelnin failed his First Hunt. Elaia had been distraught at the news, but most of the others were unsurprised.  Thelnin Doran was far from the most skilled of the students. That honor fell upon Elaia Shaillan, his mate.

Tharion began to whisper a few silent words of remembrance, but was quickly interrupted by a faint rustle of unnatural wind through the grove.

“I expected you.” Tharion stated simply, not bothering to look up at the newcomer. His felsight allowed him an awareness of all that was around him in the hollow gray of the world, and he had sensed the disturbance of the shadowy entity’s approach. “This is where you are anchored, is it not?”

The creature was not living, at least at first glance. Nor was it undead by traditional standards. It was something else entirely, a being caught between worlds, fused with obscene energies and clinging to the material world through some unknown force.

The entity, whose body was nothing more than a swirling black cloudiness on this plane, reached a ghostly hand out to lay upon the demon hunter’s forehead in response.

And suddenly, Tharion remembered.

* * *

Thelnin Doran dodged the incoming rake, the demon’s thick claws passing mere inches in front of his face. He ducked a strike from the second demon, too, and rolled away from his twin assailants. He frowned. There was not supposed to be two demons here. Eraelan had told him of only one.

Both of his adversaries were doomguards, both had the leathery wings that gave them a presence much more imposing than they may have had without them. These two, who had revealed their spoken names to be Ghath and Gharn, almost seemed related. But Thelnin was still uncertain if agents of the Burning Legion maintained such blood ties.

It was an odd concept to imagine.

“Come come little hunter!” Ghath, the doomguard who wielded his glaive with his right hand, taunted.

“Come and let us examine what makes you work!” That was Gharn, the left-handed doomguard.

Thelnin was tall for a night elf, but thin. He wore the standard garb for Netherbane’s camp of demon hunters, his tan kilt allowing him to move his legs with little restriction. He wore virtually nothing on his upper torso, for Eraelan forbade such things of his trainees. Even the females were only allowed mere scraps for modesty. Thelnin appeared weaponless as well, and this made the two demons confident in their victory.

“We want to study your insides,” growled Ghath menacingly, hunching lower and spreading his wings.

“We want to make them your outsides,” laughed Gharn, standing straight, becoming taller than his twin.

Thelnin whispered the words of command, and two silver warglaives materialized into his hands. Without warning, he launched himself at Gharn, the closest of the two, ignoring the sensation of fear creeping up his spine.

Had the demon been any other creature, it would have been taken by surprise. However, these two were not inexperienced fighters, and Gharn was ready to parry the flurry of strikes. Ghath, too, was swift to respond to the assault on his brother.

“Good, little—” Ghath began.

“—night elf, good.” Gharn completed.

“Shut up!” Thelnin was not only afraid now, but also frustrated. He should not have to fight these two. Why had Eraelan sent him here? Did he not know that these two were the ones who occupied this part of the Ashenvale? Was his information incorrect? Or was this part of his plan?

Both Ghath and Gharn launched themselves into the air on their wings briefly, and then adjusted their flight paths downward, seeking to overpower the demon hunter trainee from above. The tactic pushed Thelnin back against one of the large trees here, its bark withered and blackened from its close proximity to the demons of this area.

Certainly this must be a mistake! I have to let Eraelan know!

Gharn laughed again. “No mistake, young hunter.”

“No mistake at all. You have been betrayed.” Ghath comfirmed Thelnin’s suspicions.

“But, how—?”

“Your expression—“

“—tells us all!” Gharn cackled and spread his wings. He and his brother, who had done the same, both grew dark and shadowy, their forms becoming indistinct.

They now spoke as one; their singular voice deeper and more threatening that either could muster alone. “You will be our experiment. A gift from your mentor to our master.”

“Who is your master?” Thelnin lowered his combat stance as he watched the shrouded doomguards.

“Lord Xonath. And his apprentice, Lord Sraath.” The two demons both knelt on the grass as the already faint light of Elune vanished from above. “They arrive now.”

Thelnin instinctively rolled to the side as a massive doomguard and even larger dreadlord landed where he had been standing mere seconds ago. Immediately the foliage around the grove withered and the soft soil became dried and cracked.  Looking up at the two huge demons, Thelnin felt the fear creep back down his spine.

He screamed in abject terror as his soul was ripped from his body.

* * *

Tharion snapped out of the vision so harshly he nearly fell backwards, but he caught himself before he lost his orientation. The visions had been experienced from Thelnin’s point of view, and it was layered with more lucidity than anything else Tharion had experienced.

“That is how you died, then, Thelnin Doran—betrayed by Eraelan Netherbane.” Tharion knew better than to ask it as a question. “And your current state, this ‘eater of fear,’ is the result of their experiments on you?”

The shadow figure floated backwards away from the demon hunter slowly, as if accepting his conclusions.

“You are remembered, Thelnin Doran. And you will be given your peace.”

The shadowy figure vanished into the darkness, and Tharion was once again alone.

* * *

Tharion turned to another grave marker, this one a withered branch placed into the soil beneath it. In the early years, the branch still sprouted leaves, as if the life of its mother tree still flowed within. But this long separated, the branch was little more than a blackened wooden post in the ground.

At the base of the branch sat a small tome. Its pages were blank—one of the many signs of a locked spellbook. Only those allowed could read the contents and the incantations. The only writing visible was in the inside cover, and it was written in the refined flowing script of a highborne.

Seth’doril Sunblaze.

Tharion Greyseer placed his palm on the outer cover and began his meditation. And he remembered.

* * *

It had been raining within the Ashenvale, and the ground was soggy and the leaves still wet. The scent of fresh water permeated much of the area, with the exception of those areas infested with demonic activity.

A duel raged in one of these areas.

The felguard pressed his heavy blade forward against the arcane shield conjured by the night elven mage. The surge of fel energies caused the iridescent dome of power to spiderweb and crack, as if it were made of nothing more than glass. Seth’doril Sunblaze, known merely as ‘Seth’ amongst his fellow Netherbane students, pushed more mana into his defense, uncertain how long before the shield collapsed.

“Using only magic is a weakness, Seth.” Eraelan Netherbane stood calmly a few yards to his left, watching the struggle critically. The demon paid the elder demon hunter no mind, instead focusing only on the more frail of the two night elves present. “You have been taught how to use your blades for a reason. Make use of them!”

The arcane shield around the former member of the Moon Guard exploded outward, and the demon staggered back. This felguard was larger than others; stronger. It had been a commander during the Sundering and had returned to Kalimdor to seed his own brand of chaos. Today, he was being used for training.

The demon’s sword glowed an eerie violet color, the skull on the hilt almost alive with a wicked glee. The felguard raised this weapon menacingly and beckoned the mage to approach.

Seth’doril Sunblaze spoke a word of power and twin golden warglaives appeared in his hands. He narrowed his eyes, for he had yet to be ritually blinded, and he lunged towards the demon.

“Yes! That’s it, Seth! Use all that you have learned. Merge your disciplines for the hunt!” Eraelan grinned as he watched the mage swing the dual bladed weapons awkwardly. “Channel your magic into the weapons! That’s what they were made for!”

The felguard parried the sloppy strikes from the highborne, maintaining its footing and striking back at the inexperienced demon hunter. The beast was far stronger than the frail night elf, and it began to toy with its prey casually.

Seth struck with all his might, but each blow was deflected as the demon began to advance. Channeling all his remaining arcane energy into his weapons, Eraelan’s student could do little to hold his ground.

“Shan’do!” he shouted as the demon’s heavy strikes hit his blades repeatedly. “Shan’do! I cannot—”

Seth’doril’s plea was cut short as the felguard’s wicked blade pierced his abdomen. Blood pooled within the night elf’s mouth, denying him his final words. With a grin that revealed the truth about the strength of the demon, the felguard lifted the body off the ground, allowing the weapon to slide all the way through.

The two warglaives fell to the soft ground of Ashenvale forest.

“Your students are weak, Netherbane,” growled the felguard, tossing the lifeless body aside as if it were little more than a ragdoll. “Lord Xonath does not seek such pitiful warriors. They are unworthy.”

Eraelan Netherbane grinned at the demon knowingly as he stepped to where the twin glaives had fallen. Picking up the weapons, he merely replied “Indeed, Zevash. It is still early yet. I will forge a stronger hunter soon enough, you will see. Lord Xonath will not be … disappointed.”

Zevash snarled and straightened himself. He sheathed his weapon at his hip and cast one last glance at the lifeless body of the demon hunter’s fallen student. “He will judge that when he arrives, kaldorei.”

This made Eraelan pause as he looked up. “Arrives? Your master is coming here?”

It was Zevash’s turn to grin this time. “He will be soon enough. Prepare yourself and your ’students,’ Netherbane.”

Eraelan frowned. “Very well.”

Both the felguard and the demon hunter parted ways, leaving the small clearing at opposite ends. Neither of them detected the two pairs of glowing eyes watching them from within the canopy of the forest. In fact, neither pair of eyes noticed its counterpart, either.

The Sentinel revealed herself first, dropping down from her perch within the trees and approaching the fallen form of the mage-turned-hunter. She whispered a silent prayer to Elune before muttering one word and bounding into the darkness of the Ashenvale.

“Netherbane.”

* * *

Tharion removed his hand from the cover of the book and replaced it at the base of the wooden grave marker. He had not been a friend of Seth’doril. In fact, he blamed Seth and his kind for the state of the world after the Sundering, and the hatred had always shown through in Tharion’s interactions with the mage.

But on this evening, Tharion’s attitude was quite different.

“Seth’doril Sunblaze,” he whispered into the night. “Your failure revealed a new truth to us, a truth we should have taken to heart.”  Tharion, still kneeling in the center of the grave markers, bowed forward deeply. “You are remembered.”

* * *

The first grave was marked with stone, as there had been no real remains of Alon, only ashes. Tharion placed his gloved hand on the smooth rock upon which was painted an ancient character representing Alon’s family name of Bladewhisper. The ink was nearly faded now after so many years.

“The first to fall,” Tharion spoke into the stillness of the twilight. “The precedent.”

Tharion straightened his back and slipped quickly into his meditation. “Eraelan’s ‘example.’ Eraelan’s mistake.”

The Greyseer remembered.

* * *

The parchment was thick and roughly made, a concession that Eraelan Netherbane had allowed his students. They were forbidden from entering the more populated villages and towns, and so had to make much of their day-to-day supplies on their own. Paper has become necessary to transcribe the details of the various rituals, but was slow to make when one considered the number of rituals that needed transcribing. Eraelan himself kept the bulk of it. A few sheets, however, were given to the students as a luxury.

The words written across this piece were smeared with tears, but the male night elf’s face did not contort in grief. Instead he wore the stoic expression expected of all students of the Netherbane. This was not a luxury, but a necessity.

I miss you, Celina. More, perhaps, than you realize. Whatever my crime, I pray every night to Elune that you will ultimately forgive me. I know not why you have chosen to strike me from your life. But I’ll honor your wishes.

I no longer see you, but I still hear your name: “Celina Stillmoon, most promising of the Sentinels.” I see your influence, and I hear others lavishing their praise upon you and your skills. You will be the best of the them—the most vigilant protector of kaldorei lands.

But I know you no longer see me, either.  Your eyes—eyes which I once believed looked upon me with respect, eyes which honored the nature of my intent—no longer look at me. Your eyes only look through me now.

I no longer exist to you, and the reason still eludes me. Was my crime that great? Were my actions so wrong? My heart was always faithful to you. My words meant only to honor you.  But I cannot look upon your smile any longer. I cannot hope that my words will bolster your spirit. I cannot even speak a truth I feel so deeply, because anything I say will sour to your ears. Anything I do will sour to your eyes.

But I am not even a villain to you, am I? I merely do not exist. I have vanished from these lands, and it was by your choice. I am nothing. I could stand next to you, and not a word would be spoken, not a glance would be given.

It is useless now. You have your desire. I am gone, and you will never see me again.

Live your life, Celina. As my final gift to you, I free you from the burden that I have somehow become. Be safe. Be skilled. Be glorious.

At some point in the future I could have said I loved you. Today, however, I am not allowed that freedom.

“You are done purging your weakness, Alon? You are done wallowing in your misery?” The questions held no sense of compassion, only derision. Eraelan Netherbane was rarely one for the former. The elder demon hunter’s exposed skin was darker than most; a deep hued purple that almost matched the night sky. Eraelan’s hair was nearly as dark as his skin, despite being the same color. He kept it long and loose, the only binding for a small topknot at upon his scalp. From his waist hung a series of small chains, each linked to slender hooks and resting against the baggy pants he wore. Few had seen the hooks used, and only the ignorant asked.

Eraelan’s blindfold was black. As were all the blindfolds of his students.

Taking one last look at the rough handwriting on the withered page, Alon nodded his head. “Yes, shan’do. I am.”

“Good,” began Eraelan, reaching his hand out. “Give it to me and we can conclude this nonsense.”

Alon nodded again and handed the page over. Eraelan took the parchment, rolled it up without reading, and tucked it into his belt. He then reached for a long curved single-edged blade stuck into the ground nearby, forged from the ancient methods, and took the weapon by its handle.

The demon hunter-in-training straightened his back. He, too, wore the traditional garb of a demon hunter. Bare-chested, but with a loose fitting kilt wrapped around his kneeling legs, Alon was dressed far more simply than his mentor. His deep green hair hung loosely around his shoulders.

“Alon Bladestrider,” Eraelan’s voice carried, even though it was just the two of them at the edge of the camp. “You are charged with allowing your weakness to take control of you during the hunt. You are accused of allowing a fellow demon hunter to become injured. Your weakness. Your folly. Your consequence.  Do you still accept that which you agreed upon when you first joined us?”

Alon swallowed and nodded his head slightly. “I do, Shan’do. I accept.”

The ancient blade came down swiftly, severing Alon’s head from his torso. In a flash, Eraelan spoke a single word of power and the remains of his former student burst into felfire.

It was now that a few students stopped to see what was happening. They would be told of Alon’s weakness during tomorrow’s lesson. They would be told how he hesitated to defend his fellow students from a patrolling group of Sentinels, and how his hesitation at the sight of one of them allowed the Sentinels to wound two of the younger students from the camp.

They would not, however, be told the unread contents of the rolled up letter which Alon had just written. Indeed, Eraelan tossed the parchment onto the burning body. No one would be told.

“A waste…” Eraelan Netherbane strode away from the conflagration, the ancient blade in his hands still coated with a streak of kaldorei blood. The few students who had stopped stepped aside for their master, their eyes—some blinded and some natural—still locked on the felfire bonfire that was once Alon Bladewhisper.

* * *

Tharion removed his hand from the stone, the memory fading into his mind. He inhaled deeply of the clear night air, the phantom stench of a burning body fading once again to history. Glancing at his gloved palm as if he still held some fragment of the memory, Tharion Greyseer whispered.

“Alon Bladewhisper. You are remembered.”

* * *

Tharion Greyseer, demon hunter of the night elven people, knelt in the center of the opening. He wore his traditional garb: a loose fitting kilt hung from his waist, a single piece of armor rested upon his right shoulder, a blood red mask covered his face from nose to mouth and sat below one of the worn blindfolds that were tied over a demon hunter’s burned out eyes. Upon the Greyseer’s back was a single weapon—a large blade emblazoned with firey runes. It was the former weapon of an old orcish blademaster.

The moonlight fell around him, highlighting the places of the dead, but it did not fall directly onto his exposed upper body. Indeed, Tharion’s felsight barely noticed this, for it only picked up the violent glowing auras of demonic and arcane magics. The rest of the world, the mundane world, appeared muted and hollow.

Grave markers were placed in a semi-circle around him. Some of these were the weapons used by fallen students—glaives, swords, and daggers alike—forced into the ground to mark the places of rest. Others, however, were merely wooden posts with a tattered blindfold tied ceremoniously around the shaft. And still others were simple stones, a ritual pattern painted on the smooth surface in ink. Tharion’s eyeless gaze passed over each of them, the names crawling out of the depths of memory.

Above him, in the ancient trees of the the Ashenvale forest, hung paper ribbons. Each of these had a different name scrawled upon them, the names of those who did not survive their training. The banners were for those who died dishonorably; those who fell to the corrupting influence of the fel magic.  They were given no stone nor wooden post, but they were still remembered.

All needed to be remembered.

Once a year, during the season of Hallow’s End, Tharion visited this place of fallen students. Hallow’s End was a time to cast away the old, to burn away the bad things of the past, and to hope for a better future. For Tharion Greyseer, it was a time to honor those fallen and remember the sacrifices made.  He was often alone in his remembrance.

They had been equally alone in their deaths.

* * *

This whole “getting interviewed” thing is still a new experience to me, but it’s definitely something that can be rather fun.

This past Monday I had the honor of being the first guest over on the For the Lore podcast, hosted by Roger (@forthelore), Joe (@lodurzj), and Enrique (@spoonwolf, who wasn’t present due to real life matters). The podcast itself covers the lore of various different games, but World of Warcraft is definitely one of them.

The episode can be downloaded here for those interested in listening to me babble incessantly about Warcraft lore, roleplay, and storytelling.

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So your favorite night elf demon hunter named Tharion Greyseer is going to be interviewed on the Twisted Nether Blogcast! Yes, this is an out of character interview, and it’ll most likely discuss Warcraft lore, BlizzCon, and a few other things they may choose to fling my way.

Feel free to come on over! The interview is being held on Thursday, September 3rd, at 9:30 PST. Click on the badge below for more information!

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For the next two days I’ll be attending BlizzCon! And if you haven’t been following me on the billion other internet locales I manage or frequent ( Twitter, TwizzCon, LoreCrafted, Raptor13.com, or Rusted ) then you know know what I’ve been preparing for and where I am!

If you happen to be here at the show, drop me a message over Twitter ( @greyseer ) and we’ll see if we can coordinate a meetup!

Many of the other World of Warcraft blogging community will be in attendance, too. It should be a blast!

Until then!

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Below is another short snippet, much like the As He Returns shorts. It’s not necessarily meant to be a continuing story, but is instead just a short piece establishing a scene. These give a little bit more insight into the characters involved (mostly Tharion Greyseer at the moment). Specifically, I intend the Voices from the Greyseer series to be mini-lessons. Just tiny fragments of knowledge and wisdom passed on from Tharion to some student.

Yes, yes, I know I left you all hanging with no less than two previous stories. Don’t worry, the final part of Lessons from a Blademaster: Path of the Warblade (Part 1 and Part 2 available) is almost done. You can actually read a sneak peak over on the World of Warcraft, Eh? forums (it’s towards the beginning of the linked thread). It’s written from the human’s point of view, though, so it’s much more limited. Garik’s viewpoint will serve as the final piece to that tale.

Also, the A Lesson in Darkness story will be continued. I haven’t forgotten about Eraelan, so don’t worry. That one will come soon enough.

“But, Thar! That’s not soon enough!”

Yeah, yeah, I know. Patience. It’ll happen…

I hope you enjoy!

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* * *

“You realize, Shan’do, that they do not like you,” said the young kaldorei, his dark blue hair was tied back into a simple short braid. His garb was simple as well; the drab green robes given to young druid initiates of the Cenrion Circle.

“‘Liking’ is irrelevant to the training, Kethan Windclaw,” responded Tharion Greyseer. “What they feel about me matters not, only that they listen.”

“But if they like you, aren’t they more inclined to listen to you?”

“If they like me, they are more inclined to become foolish when I am in danger.”

“I do not understand, Shan’do,” said the younger night elf in confusion. “You don’t wish to be saved by your allies if you are stricken?”

Tharion Greyseer, demon hunter of the night elven people, turned and faced the young druid, who was sitting cross-legged on the broken stone flooring of the shattered building that was within the Netherbane Site of Lessons; ‘Forest Song’ the others called it.  Tharion’s blindfolded vision removed the need to actually face anything to truly see it, but the gesture still had meaning to those who had only their natural sight. Kethan was a potential student, many months from even choosing whether he truly sought to walk the path that Tharion taught.

“If I am weak enough to become ’stricken’ as you so put it, then do I not deserve whatever fate befalls me?” Tharion’s words were matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion.

“That seems … wasteful.”

“It would be wasteful if I made the conscious decision to make the mistake that defeated me in the first place. But as is apparent in this world, not all mistakes are made willingly.”

“I would think that few are. Would they be mistakes otherwise?”

“Of course, making a mistake, even when fully knowing that it is a mistake, is one of the few true freedoms we have, Kethan Windclaw.” Tharion leaned in closer to the young druid. “Now tell me, are you willingly making a mistake this day?”

“The Circle does not approve of me being here,” Kethan began. “They, especially, don’t like you. Some may respect you, but they’ll never claim it. Still others outright hate you.”

“And you?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I hated you, Shan’do.”

“Are you truly certain of that? The Site of Lessons is not barred from hatred, Kethan Windclaw. In fact, we have seen … many … who have hated either myself or the Netherbane as a whole passed through here.” Tharion’s lip twitched upward in a small smile, and Kethan understood immediately why Tharion used the past tense.

“They are dead?”

“Gone, merely.” Tharion straightened himself and turned back around, resuming his arrangement of ritual components on the nearby table. “As I said a few moments ago: liking is irrelevent. What matters is that they listen… and understand.”

“And those that don’t do either?”

“They fail.”