Where He Belonged by Melchisedech

[Keeper Of Lore]

Melchisedech stood at the lectern of the decrepit church in Tarren Mill looking out over his “congregation.” It was small: a few Forsaken, a Blood Elf, and an orc, though, admittedly, the orc had been standing there long before the congregation even began to gather.

Still, Melchisedech was proud. People were starting to listen. They were dross, apathetic and ignorant, but they were willing to learn. That was all he needed. From that, he would smelt away their impurities and forge them into steel in the fire of his faith.

“Brethren! I welcome you. You are the chosen few, those willing to hear the Truth, and for that I congratulate you! Moreover, I thank you for taking the time to come here and listen.

“Let me begin with a prayer to She who shelters us all.” He lowered his head, noting with no little satisfaction that his fellow Forsaken did the same. “Lady Sylvanus, your shadow falls over us all. Once, we were all slaves, but you have set us free. We owe you everything.” He peered up, scowling at the Blood Elf, who, though attentive, showed no sign of reverence or respect. “We give you our thanks and our lives, that we may serve your will. Dark Lady, we ask that you continue to shelter us, continue to teach us, continue to guide us. In your shadow, we thrive. So shall it ever be.”

So shall it ever be. The chorus from the congregation sent a shiver down the priest’s spine. This was where he belonged.



The crowd was cheering. There were a thousand of them, including King Terenas Menethil himself, and they were cheering for him. He stood in a shower of roses, bowing deeply, thanking the king for his patronage, not that anyone could hear over the thunderous applause. He was a star.

As he stepped behind the velvet curtain, backstage once more, he smiled. Perfect. This was his last performance of “Three Kings of Night” by Alric Tendry, and he had performed perfectly. Every nuance of the role had been exquisite, every note released a symphony. No performer had ever managed such purity. No performer would ever dare to play the role again. How could they hope to compete?

He stepped into his carriage, his traveling home. It was grand, more a wagon than a carriage, and elegant. It was trimmed with gold, decorated within by the accolades and prizes he had been given. On his dresser, he held a place for the last, King Menethil’s “Crown of Glory.” It was an award given once in a Lordaeron king’s reign, and there was no doubt that, on the morrow, King Menethil would give it to him.

There was a knock at his door, and he smiled. That would be his adoring fans. Opening the door, he found a gaggle of lovely young women, farmer’s daughters and nubile noblewomen come to see his performance, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They screamed and laughed when they saw him, clamoring for him to sign their clothing, their bodies, just to touch them. They wanted to tell their grandchildren that they had seen him.

He invited them inside, any and all of them, and the wine flowed freely. Someone had brought some bruiseweed, and he had a hookah. Soon, the carriage was filled with the scent of sex and smoke, the sounds of laughter and love, the taste of wine and women. It was like the end of every performance.

This was where he belonged.



Melchisedech spoke for hours, passionately. He cajoled and begged, threatened and warned that only through service to Her could they be truly free. He spoke of the dangers of clinging to a decadent life passed, and instructed his meager flock to embrace the gift of their new existences. In the end, they departed with promises to return when next he spoke.

Even the Blood Elf, at the start so distant, so scientific, approached the priest at the end of the ceremony. In brief, self-conscious phrases, he asked if he could be graced with a private moment with Melchisedech, and the Forsaken, of course, agreed. As the Elf left, the priest looked to the back of the room, saw one or two Grims departing, discussing his speech.

The Grim. He had been accepted as one of them, and now he was not a lone lunatic, spreading his fanaticism in the streets. He was one of a larger group of fanatics, and that meant he had power. He would find supporters among them, and his congregation would grow. He would give weekly sermons, and his congregation would grow. He would shed Her Truth upon them, and his congregation would grow.

He was one of the Grim, now.

This was, truly, where he belonged.

[Keeper Of Lore]

by Acherontia

"Tarren Mill."

Acherontia handed the bat handler a few of her coins and climbed on one of the giant flying beasts, cradling Abramelin to her chest with her free hand. The poor cat never liked flying and yowled his discontent as the trio swooped and dove through the tunnels of the Undercity before emerging into the gloom of Tirisfal. Clutching a fistful of the bat's dense fur, Acherontia felt her stomach drop into her boots as they gained altitude but the young warlock reveled in the trip nonetheless. This was a sensation she had never been able to experience when she had been alive, yet 'alive' is how flying always made her feel. Shadows shifted and danced across her vision as they crested the Alterac Mountains and her face prickled with the cold. Abramelin had quieted to an occasional growl, and Acherontia made raspy soothing sounds deep in her throat as they began their descent into Tarren Mill.

Josef Gregorian, the artisan tailor in the Undercity, had grudgingly told her that he had nothing more he could teach her and suggested she seek out Daryl Stack, the master tailor, to continue her training. When she had first marched into Josef's workshop, they had tried to laugh her and her blindness back out again. Acherontia had seized the old man by his collar and snarled that her money was as good as anyone else's. A quick glance over her shoulder at the looming hulk of her voidwalker combined with the chink of coins in her purse changed Josef's mind, and soon he was seeing Acherontia nearly every day as she would return for patterns and supplies. What she lacked in sight, she more than made up for with determination and memory...

"Slowly...be careful not to prick yourself with the needle. That's it." The little girl's hand was engulfed within her father's but he released it gently as she continued to stitch the two pieces of rough linen together on her own. After a few minutes, he continued, "Good. Caroline, come look at this." His wife put down the plate she was drying at the basin and came over to inspect her daughter's work. "Five years old, and look at those even stitches. She has an amazing natural talent."

The little girl's face glowed with pride. She carefully continued to stitch as her father joked, "Looks like I may wind up with an apprentice after all..."

Acherontia swallowed past the lump in her throat and made her way into town. Approaching the central square, she snagged the sleeve of a passing Forsaken and snarled, "Daryl Stack?" The woman pointed toward the rotting timbers and cracked stone of the church, and the young warlock started that direction without thanking her helper. As she approached the steps, she saw shadows congeal into a line of people making their way out the door. Then, like a wrong note in her head, she caught a glimpse of familiar color - she stopped dead in her tracks. Melchisedech.

He was standing at the doorway, shaking hands with the Forsaken who passed him, smiling beatifically - if you could call that grimace a smile - and bestowing blessings of the Dark Lady on all he touched. "Dark Lady watch over you...Sylvanus bless you...the grace of Lady Sylvanus be with you all..."

Acherontia's jaw dropped as their gazes met over the heads of the crowd.

"You have got to be kidding me."