Heresy

((after a very very long hiatus, I am very happy to once again have Arcorash in my stories, along with the mage Phantasm, and the beginning of a whole new saga tying them into Fireflower's story as well.))

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Call it intuition, reader, that sometimes a question, however innocently worded, strikes a degree of concern in my mind.

It had been some time since I’d seen Arcorash…well let us call him now by that which he prefers – Jeremiah Vecht – but through various sources I had come to understand that the recovered warlock had made his way to the Outlands; but in some weakened state.

He had come to join us in the Libertines, but had kept a reasonably low profile; I didn’t question it, as a man once compelled to such acts of violence and madness undoubtedly had made a few enemies along the way, I neverthless felt he deserved an opportunity at a new life. He was, for better or worse, one of the most human of undeads, flawed, sensitive and far more dangerous to himself than he had been to most of us. And, perhaps in some strange way, he had become that which I so rarely can call anyone – a friend.

Phantasm, as he called himself, I knew less intimately; a mage of pleasant manners and quick skill, I’d never liked duelling him…mages are my weak point to this day, I readily admit. And even in practise I found him frustrating as an opponent; though he was rarely ingracious, he seemed to take perhaps a too-great delight into turning me into farm animals on the random occasion. He’d been “around” – I remembered him from the Orphanage, a spiky-haired undead, youngish in appearance (if such a thing was possible), prone to smiling and hugging people but somewhat secretive and difficult to know. Quite unlike the emotional and brutally honest Arcorash, Phantasm always left you wondering what he was really thinking.

Maybe that’s why….that day at the Temple of the Elements, when Phantasm asked if I’d seen “Arcorash”, something about it struck me. While it was true the warlock had gone by this name some time ago, he’d identified himself as Jeremiah for months now…years, even. Perhaps the mage just didn’t know.

“Have you seen him around?” Phant sat near the water’s edge, cross-legged and meditative as he sipped the cool, conjured water from a flask.

“Its been some time.” I said, guardedly. In truth since he’d joined us in Stormspire, I’d seen the warlock only once, and then briefly. Jeremiah had been almost reclusive as of late, having even tossed away the trappings of his violent past – gone were the horns and scythes and flaming pauldrons, replaced instead by simple robes and slippers and a staff. It was only by the distinct scent and presence of Maanom, his felhunter and his magnificent dreadsteed that one would have known him to be a warlock at all.

“He still consort with demons?”

Something about the sentence set me on edge. Maybe it was that word.. “consort”…smacking of Scarlet Crusade-eque judgement, but since when was I protective of warlocks? Since when had they done me anything but harm..

In all fairness, Arco did more harm to himself than he ever did to you.

Yes, that is true.

You will care about him always.

How could I not? He helped forge me.

Yes, that is true also.



“Well, if you do, could you let me know, I’m looking for him.”

The mage’s voice couldn’t have been more pleasant, more amiable. And yet I felt a strange, instinctual wave strike me, like a cold breath on the back of the neck. Without any real reason for it though, I chalked it up to the fact that the breezes off the lake were always a little chilly in Nagrand, even on these fine sunny days – and because, inherently – mages make me nervous.

“Of course.” I offered, and left it at that.

Dressed in dark blue, Phantasm stood then, his ever-present spiky cropped hair and burning eyes as distinctive as ever. He smelled like a storm, laced with electricity and ice; similar to most mages I had encountered save Zolamon, who usually smelled like burnt fabric for a reason.

I had given it no further thought until one evening in Zangarmarsh when the sound of approaching hoofbeats in the distance caused me to stealth up and crouch down behind one of the countless oversized mushrooms in the boggy, close swamps.

Two warlocks stood, fighting together.

One was unmistakeably Jeremiah, throwing bolts at the naga as if his life depended on it, still in the simple green gown I’d seen him wearing weeks ago.

The other…

Oh gods..anyone but her…



I would know her anywhere. A pretty face, even given that she was an undead girl, delicate features and pale skin, glowing eyes and tiny hands, and a bounding, perversely happy felhunter at her size, tearing chunks out of the fishy flesh of their opponents.

She wasn’t just any undead girl, either.

“Elzebeth Azrethoc”, I thought with a snarl. It wasn’t enough that she’d given me nothing but grief since I brought her to Orgrimmar, snatching her from the grips of the Burning Blade, trying to prevent her from being used as a tool of destruction by the Coven…

She’d nearly gotten me killed in her consorting with that bastard Nashtoch…not that she cared. Fireflower didn’t care about anything.

I felt the hatred rising inside of me, despite what I knew about her. To be born into what she was, halfling demon and human, to exist as an unreconcilable tangle of conscience and psychosis would be an infinitely painful life sentence for an uncommited crime.

And yet – I couldn’t be bothered to care. Seeing her standing by the warlock, knowing his long and arduous process to healing and knowing her violent, unpredictable and ultimately cruel nature, I felt only frustration and fear. I just wanted her away – from him – admittedly, because he’d healed so much, because he was so human and she was so sincerely inhuman.

Why would he help her?

Gritting my teeth, I slunk back into the distance and mounted up onto Rebus’s broad furry back. With a sigh I spurred him into the air, and returned to Stormspire, heart heavy with questions about warlocks.

Again.

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"I wrote the story myself. It's about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it." - Mae West
Fireflower's Words of Wisdom: http://i200.photobucket.com/albums/a...ompilation.jpg