Soul's Lament

Tanaris lay sweltering in the noon sun.  He could barely remember the last few days.  The journey to the pirate's lair was undertaken in darkness.  He remembered moving stealthily among the crates of plunder and scraps of a hundred plundered ships.  As he slipped among the unsuspecting buccaneers, his mighty hammer meting out death with swift strikes; he comforted himself with the knowledge that these individuals had dealt far more horrible suffering to a host of innocents.  He was simply doing the Light's work.

He repeated that to himself as he sat in Steamwheedle Port and took small sips from the flask of Kalimdorian wine.  The flavor was sharp, like most of this land.  There was none of the soft aromas of the vintages of Stormwind.  

Once he'd delivered proof of his work to the constable in the port, he received his bounty.  What he had done was horrible by itself, more than forty lives taken in retribution for years of piracy and despoilment.  It wouldn't matter, they'd rebuild.  He had already heard amongst the docks cries of the press gangs seeking to replenish the weakened ranks of the freebooters.

He rubbed his eyes.  He had little memory of what had happened to him.  At one point he recalled traversing a ridge on the plain, he encountered a warlock - Horde or Alliance, he could not tell.  There were words exchanged.  The spell caster had claimed to have work for him to accomplish, but not "now". 

The next thing he knew he was arising from a sweep of sand and his decayed camp.  He had finished his mission and returned here to the salty shores of Tanaris.  More than two decades had passed since he had his encounter.  It seemed that the necromancer had meant for him to arrive at this time.  So he understood the "now".

He felt the inexplicable draw of the warlock's gaes, but to where?