Met a woman; she wanted me.

Told my fiancee; she wanted in (later).

Am I the luckiest man alive?

Not yet.

Not even with the third girl, willing to do anything I say, totally trusting.

This world isn't safe, and I'm dumb enough to care.

I have people watching each of them.

Just in case.

"HEAR YE!" the king's crier announced through the Trade district. "His Majesty has added the following names to the rolls of the Knights of Morgraine, defectors to the cause of the Alliance from the evil of the Scourge! Ji the Gnome, Apathy the Night Elf, Fnord the Dwarf..."

"Can you believe those names?" I ask my banker, John Burnside, as we go over the records for the Order's vault together. "Think their mothers named them that, or they chose them, or it's some sick undead joke?"

"Seach me, Niall," he says. "Hand me back page three."

I shuffle the papers and hand him the one he wants. "There you go. Ah, at what price, immortality?"

"About 30 gold, but go check across the street," John suggests. "Get the price list from Chilton... you did mean a unit of Eternal Life, right?"

There are places you just don't go.

In Ironforge, you just don't go to Old Ironforge. We adventurers don't, anyway. Only dwarves go there, and not your run-of-the mill, or even your elite adventurers. No, only the "pure," old-school dwarves who know the old ways and the secret words go there. Only those who aren't "tainted" by the influence of other races and ideologies. The Holy Light and the quest for true knowledge of the Titans are not subjects discussed in the old tunnels. The Bronzebeards aren't popular among those who inhabit this place, but to their credit their adherence to tradition brings with it the maxim, "the King is the King." They don't take arms against a king whose right is proven lawfully.

A pile of dead trees has accumulated on my desk. Somewhere between the forest and here, it all got mashed and mixed with water into pulp and woven into thin sheets and covered with the remains of some of it which burnt up before getting wet. Or, when I blink the words out of my eyes, the words on the pages come into focus again. The piles of paper still bespeak the death of at least one great old redwood's equivalent weight of dead tree. My contacts and acquaintances - I hesitate to call them "friends" while laboring under the weight of nigh-infinite documentation - provided me with enough information on various subjects to choke an army of clerks.

Of course, while I was insane, my seceretary quit.

"How did you find me?"

As she asks me that, Lady DeWynter sets her cup of tea on its saucer, then puts both aside on a small table beside her chair. She seems especially slender and drawn, and not as tall as I remember. Her face is set in frown lines, and the squint-lines by her eyes are not from laughter. Since she is not made up at all, the gray streaks in her black hair are in full force as well, and even the strands with color seem thin and brittle. Her elegantly conservative black velvet dress with pearl buttons is the thing of most substance about her.

"The housing market in Stormwind isn't what it once was, what with the zombie invasion," I explain. "And of course, all the soldiers and adventurers leaving for the north. So really, it was quite easy to find out who had recently purchased a suite. I knew the minimum standard you would put up with, mother."

"Welcome back, Ambassador," says Tricia Stockman, the chipper thirtysomething customs clerk at the Stormwind Dock and Customs Offices.

"Thank you," Amara replies, accepting his papers back after Tricia has stamped them. "I'm glad to be back."

"Oh yes, it's good to see your legal troubles all cleared up."

"Mm, yes, well, just makes another few documents for you to approve," Amara shrugs with a smile. Since there's no line at this time of day, he leans on the desk. "I bet the whole deal made good gossip for your girls over coffee."

Tricia favors him with a coy smile, arranging various papers into piles and drawers. "A little legal drama is certainly more interesting than the usual grind checking shipping manifests. Though we had a little excitement with that, recently."

"Oh?" Amara asks, raising his brows with interest.

*CLANG* as gauntleted fist strikes armored shoulder.

"Hey, fuck you."

"You pulled it out."

"Yeah, I said we would, didn' I? Actually, ah said we'd die. Don' matter tho'."

"Hey, fuck you too. But thanks for not crapping out this time, Kast."

Later...

"Sorry I delayed our second meeting so long," I said, propping myself in a chair across from the warlock, putting one foot up on another chair next to me. "Things got hairy on the last phase of our Ulduar campaign right after we first met to discuss your troubles."

His bright green eyes look out from under a dark hood. "That is unfortunate. I take it that is now resolved?"

"The seals holding the old god were weaker than anyone thought," I explained, and paused to take a drink of mead before grinning and saying, "We stuffed it back down its hole, though."

Amara "Flamefist" Niall: missing for two days.

His secure Dalaran apartment, provided by the Violet Eye and shared with Arasminna Moonsong (and sometimes Zaas Glados Devereaux), held a half-finished treatise on Val'kyr and the spirit world next to a cold cup of coffee (one sugar, no cream). The five completed pages were scattered on the floor near his writing desk, with one half-finished page marked by a large, scrawled note: THEY DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS! WHY AM I BOTHERING!?

The Order of Magicks offices in Stormwind and Ironforge kept for warder master-at-arms Niall haven't been visited in more than a week.

The Argent Crusade hasn't signed him in since Friday.

He was seen passing through Shattrath City yesterday.

In the Netherstorm, he is sitting on the edge of a floating rock, surrounded by a crowd of drakes. He stares at the endless abyss and says, "No, Zoyin. I can't go back yet."

This piece of paper can be found posted at Stars' Rest... at the back of the medical tent, often half-obscured by a patient's chart, most likely.

WARNING!

Kilix the Unraveler is an agent of YOGG-SARON! If you do his bidding, you contribute to UNLEASHING THE OLD GODS and ENDING THE WORLD!

The following document was seized from an office rented to the Order of Magicks in Stormwind, pursuant to reports that an individual exiled under pain of detainment and questioning (Amara Niall of the Ghost Scions) was seen at the location. These pages from a journal identified as belonging to him were taken as "seditious materials proving anti-government intentions," and several office aides were arrested for questioning.

Journal of the 11th day of the 10th month, 4th year after my father's death.

((Since there are spoilers about Yogg-Saron's dialogue, I've hidden this behind the cut.))

Look at these People
Amazing how sheep’ll
Show up for the slaughter

The melee before Icecrown Citadel is carnage as usual. My lance passes through the empty skull of another commander, and I pause for a moment to look up at the Citadel's summit. Does this game before your home amuse you, traitor prince?

No one condemning
You lined up like lemmings
You're led to the water

Why can’t they see what I see Why can’t they hear the lies
Maybe the fee’s too pricey for them to realize
Your disguise is slipping, I think you’re slipping

"It would appear that I made a slight miscalculation. I allowed my mind to be corrupted by that fiend in the prison! Over-riding my primary directive. All systems seem to be functional now. Clear."

Dearest Mother,

It probably brings you little joy to receive my letter, but you insisted I write you about my sister Sabyne and her progress in her studies. If you marked the notices that were sent out, you would have been informed that she has progressed into advanced applications of scrying, and now heads the Order's oracle division. She does not do very much field research these days, so I'm sure you will be gratified to learn of her safety. Also, no, she hasn't suddenly developed any interest in pursuing marriage with any of the idle rich of Stormwind. Their ignorance of the world remains a deterrent even to Sabyne's eager-to-please personality.

Enlistrasza sits, in her elven form, on Zoyin's tail. He sits on the floating chunk of rock in the Netherstorm where he makes his home when he is not serving the human who saved his life. She recites to him, "...and then, on the eleventh day of the first month of the fourth year of the city of Quel'thelas, the Life-Binder gave unto the elves the secret of rebirth for those who had died prematurely. The elven sage Aeolimnus received this gift, and spread it among his people..."

"That's all wrong," comes a voice from within Zoyin's cave. The two drakes look at each other, then peer into the cave, focusing their keen eyes to see into the dark. They catch the faintest glimmer of purple light off bronze scales. "I was there, then, just now."

Zoyin ruffles his wings in annoyance at the intrusion in his cave. He asks the intruder, "Who are you?"

Four men, playing cards and smoking, look up suddenly as the door of their cardroom is kicked open. This is not normal for them, unlike some card players. Three of them are nobles of stormwind; one is simply in charge of more men and more dealings than any of the other three. All four calmly put down their cards to assess who would dare barge in on them as if they were common back-room thugs.

"Hello boys," Amara Niall says, stepping into the room. "Sorry about the door, but I'd no idea where to find the key, and this really can't wait."

The card-player not dressed in a noble house's colors stands, taking in hand his diamond-tipped cane. He eyes the armor and large weapon of the intruder, but betrays no unease. "I see blood, but not as much as I'd expect. And we didn't hear you coming. How is it you weren't fighting your whole way here?"

"Oh, well, simple. Let me tell you a story..."

-----

"Gentlemen," the goblin Qizzik says. His brow furrowed as he looks up from his ledgers, and he says to his guards, "No, make that, 'you bozos.' What have I told you bozos about letting customers in here ARMED!?"

Smirking at the desperate note in the goblin banker's voice, Amara "Flamefist" Niall casually flicks one of the seven blades on his very large axe with an armored finger. As the metallic note rings in the air, one of the gadgetzan bruisers shrugs and says to his boss, "Hey, you didn't spring for the bruisers' guild insurance level that covers extreme bodily dismemberment. As long as he doesn't interfere with Cartel business, Mr. Niall and his extremely powerful weapon can go wherever they like."

"Mr. Lefty and Mr. Bruno simply thought they'd escort me in, since I wouldn't give up my arms," Amara chimes in helpfully, a cruelly satisfied note in his voice.

The courier had never, in all his years, had to deliver a message to this part of Dalaran. The inner barracks of the Violet Eye, sanctum for secret agents of the most secretive order within the Kirin Tor. In most places, he would have found some forgiveness for his ignorance. Here and now, he is suspended in the air by a violet diagram of power in front of the door to the apartment he sought to deliver a note to. Setting off the trap was not technically his fault. The device was triggered by the lingering psychic stench of hostile intent left on the message he carried, simply by virtue of what was written on it. Of course, despite knowing full well that bonded Dalaran couriers never read the messages they carry, Amara Niall chose to leave the kid hanging when he read the note. He figured it would be better than killing the bearer of bad news.

"I will send you a souvenir when I am finished.
Should not have touched another man's property."

Ten kilos. Try swinging THAT on a pole in one hand.

Came home... At the door's Zaas. Naked? Oops. Too tired to go somewhere else.

"Here, hold these."

Hand her sword, mace, trudge past.

Collapse in bed.

Wake up later, wearing only shorts.

Guess she and Minna undressed me.

Good progress, girl.

Hug, sleep again.

"Hm, how could I help? Married to some creep, father dead... she needs lawyers."

I shuffle papers.

"Nobody good... wait, who's...?" Poorly handwritten poster, notes in other hands. "Good rep, but... Kowits? Troll won't do in Stormwind."

Master Niall, you are late.

"Damn. Alright Enlistrasza, take me there." I haul myself up. "Kast won't wait."

Before: Ask the barkeep for Harrigan. His look says, "I told you last time, if a Niall never set foot in my bar again, it'd be too soon." There's only one old man here anyway, but I needed an excuse to tip.

After: Another question: when'd Elrin piss in Harrigan's beer?

Oh well. Duty done.

The red drake Enlistrasza looks around her new home. Her nostrils flare, tasting the strange nether currents of this floating island. She looks up at strange stars twinkling through violet haze lit by arcing mana, and stretches her wings and tail to feel a strange atmposphere hanging about the place. Her claws flex, scraping the rock of the ledge she stands on, then there is a noise in response. She turns, seeing a cave leading into a deep recess of the island. A pair of draconic eyes open there, lit from within by a green glow.

"Hello," the red says cautiously. "Is this your home?"

"Yes," the green-eyed drake says, stepping out into the light, nether mists drifting close and surrounding his green-black scales. "I am Zoyin. I serve the Flaming Fist."

"She only started work a couple of years ago," Arille Azuregaze told me, wiping a glass more out of habit than because it needed cleaning. "Why?"

"I'm not getting paid for this," I say, rolling my eyes and dropping some coins on the counter. "Look, some mead please. I'm just in this to satisfy my curiosity."

This is going to be harder than I thought.

About a month ago, I tagged along with another unit that staged an assault on this fortress. Sakaiyah had been working with them while the Scions got it back together, getting herself the lay of the land, so to speak. She tipped me off to the opportunity. They did their jobs, and let me stay behind to do what I wanted. I slipped on the amulet, and pretended to be a casualty, the amulet making me appear dead. When a cult of the damned necromancer came through on clean-up, the amulet absorbed his spell, making me look like a ghoul. I was able to spend a day scouting out the floating fortress Naxxramas, then slip out.

I've been marching for a long time now. I haven't stopped getting up and heading out every day, not since Durnholde, even when Kast re-formed the Scions. I started marching double-time when he showed up again. I have the feeling I'm still in retreat. The forces of the scourge seem a lesser obstacle than settling down and finding someplace to fit in again at times, but that's not really it. I could go back to Shattrath if I wanted to quit. The Scryers would laud me as a hero for the rest of my life, and even the aldor admit a grudging respect for my actions in the Shattered Sun campaign, even if I hung up my armor and lay in the World's End with six hired women until I died of booze. No, I'm not ready to quit and it's not because I don't fit anywhere.

"This is your stop! Good luck!"

As I float lazily down in the parachute, my heart leaps to my throat, and not because of the usual arrows and gunfire from below. No, I see below me dozens of steam tanks. The last time I saw one, it was driven by Syndicate mercenaries, slaughtering my Ghost Scion comrades.

"Hey up there!" The dwarf below me yells. "We've got your tank prepped!"

My tank?

Hmm.... I could get used to this...

A big, heavy axe is useful for killing - but not always ideal. I came north with a replica of Grom Hellscream's legendary axe, copied through the strange time-warping magic of Karazhan. I replaced it with an enormous Vrykul double-bladed axe I found while attacking Utgarde Keep - even bigger and heavier. But when I made my own to improve again, I went the other way. A small, dense blade on one end with a counterweight on the other. I can keep this one spinning around me with almost no effort compared to the other two. Less edge to get dull too.

The "Prince" at my feet is appreciating the curve at the top of my axe, which is just enough to spare his neck from being cut - as long as he doesn't swallow. I'm standing on his wrists, so he seems unlikely to get up.

Matthias Shaw groans and rubs his jaw tenderly, then works it to make sure it isn't broken. Staggering to his feet and leaning one hand against the wall to keep his balance, he yells at the back of the man walking to the door of his office, "Damn all Nialls to hell, anyway! I can't override a count!"

Stavros "The Butcher" Mannig enjoyed things he shouldn't have. He was a man of few vices, but his vices effectively removed him from polite society.

CHINK

Mister Flamefist, is now a good time?

CHINK goes the mining pick again, echoing through the damp cavern of the underbog. You know I'm in the field, so this had better be important, Fiann.

CHINK

You told me to let you know about anything that came up, Amara's seceretary's voice came through the mind-link, more nasal than in person, flavored by his momentary annoyance with her. Your perpetual fiancee met with a Syndicate goon earlier.

CHINK. Thud, as he puts the pick down. Why is this important enough to interrupt me?

Scrawled in feminine script on a paper tacked above the shaving mirror in the owner's room at the Moonsong Rest inn, Stormwind:

Don't forget: Work with Shar on her past tense Common. Tack this above your mirror. ~Fiann

And a masculine addition:

USED TO love to run. Dammit, I don't like being such a fool.