Tale of The Red Magister – Part 1

“There is a fundamental secret to life. Realizing everything burns.”

May 8, 2013  Chapter 6  “Betrayl”

There was no challenge to it any more. The lies and deceit propogated throughout the Magistrate. The strings he tugged at with the Blood Knights. Indeed even the Farstrider’s were not beyond his reach. Theron may run the city, but Anetho was truly the one who drove it forth. He regulated criminal action, made mental note of every high profile individual slinking into his city, and even took the time to settle domestic disputes when he wandered the city.

The people revered him. Several even feared him. For these reasons the citizens declared him ‘The Red Magister’. The passionate paragon of his people. Where others would trample them underfoot, he sincerely expressed concern over them. He contributed every month to the orphanage and to the clergy, visited the infirmed, even struck conversation with the lowliest servant in the streets. He did everything to ensure their happiness.

But he was equally cruel in darker corners, where good and evil blend into an undiscernable fog. Those that wronged him, even in passing or in so insignificant a manner as to be worthless had everything taken from them. He had no sense of sympathy or pity. Only the desire to blot out everything they held sacred. They were broken long before they had the good fortune of dying. Some at their own hand, such was the worth of all he had destroyed.

Nobody knows exactly where Anetho first came into the public eye, but everyone will remember when he did. One clear autumn day, every nobleman and noblewoman recieved an invitation to attend a grandiose party hosted over the grounds of a newly commissioned villa. The music was fierce and contemporary with the beat of war drums mixed with traditional violinists, lutes, and even the accordion. Wine flowed freely as if the waters of life themselves. The food was succulent, exotic, and beautifully presented. The fruits of aphrodisia tempted men and women alike, as he graced them with his presence with a toast. He was described as a confident, assertive, and positively handsome spokesman.

The lights had dimmed over the estate. “Lords and Ladies. I would first like to thank each and every one of you for attending. Truly your presence means more to me, than all the gold spent to make your evening unforgettable. ” The enigmatic host’s voice carried as if magically amplified. A gentle voice reaching the ears of everyone present as if a woman caressing a child gently and with all the endearing affections that entailed. In such a manner he spoke that every individual should feel personally addressed and honored, as the music died down to a single violinist playing a masterful and intricate sonata to the honor of autumn. His companions joining shortly thereafter, but in not so loud a manner as to drown out the man speaking.  “I know each of you to be of great prestige and truly deserving to stand upon these very grounds. That your class is of great importance and should be regarded with the utmost respect and priviledge rightfully due to your name and house. As such I’ve arranged that your every whimsy should be induldged.” At his words, the lanterns began to glow brightly once more, revealing several women engaging in a suggestive dance with each other in perfect tandem with the music at play.

Then he came into view atop his terrace. His clothing was intricate, and overly detailed. A jet black coat accentuated bright red designs threaded in snake like fashions about the collars, and seams. He wore a bow tie of darkest night, coupled wth a waist jacket of the same hue. His shirt was maroon in tone, offsetting his brilliantly red hair. His face was one of youth, with feminine traits accentuated by his bright and inviting green eyes. His lips were tempting in their shape in that it appeared he was prepared to kiss whomever he was speaking directly to. He could never be seen without a smile, his flawless teeth practically glowing in the moonlight. “Silvermoon’s elite, they call you. And why should they address you as anything but? You are the ones whom fund the city-state. You are the ones whom service as the dream that the lowly and common man aspire to be. Your very thought drives them to their labors… Indeed you are the very spirit of our nation!” He proclaimed, spreading his hands afar as if in awe.

Applause shook the tables below him, as he held up his right hand for silence. “Even with the tragic events surrounding our people, even in the wake of our most prized possession, the Sunwell… Even against the legions of the damned you have persevered! You have returned! And you have thrived!” He pointed to the skies above the terrace where a large Fel crystal loomed overhead, radiating it’s profound magicks for all to induldge. “And you have ascended! Your lives are as though this crystal. Infinite in power, unyielding in status, and deserving of everyone’s eye!” As he stroked their egos, smiles born of arrogance began to display themselves. Each quite pleased with this unknown speaker and his deference to them. Every man admired his word. Every woman, an interest in his body. “Tonight, lords and ladies. Tonight is not my night. Nay, it is not even a night for Silvermoon. It is -your- night! And like the skies above, may it continue on forever!” He shoutted alloud, raising his glass to the masses below him who rose and toasted him. Cheers filled the air, as he stepped down to join them. Not one person did he shy away from in the least. His chambers were filled to bursting that night.

His gentle hand would clasp the unforgiving blade of the Sin’dorei in the public eye in the events leading up to the santification of the grand Sunwell. It began on an unsuspecting evening. Kael’thas, once thought deceased, had forced his way past the Blood Knights of the Enclave, and incapacited numerous Magisters while his Fel Blood minions held reinforcements back long enough for him to make away with the Naaru. He tore open a portal in so horrid a display the tainted fel energies practically poured from it as he and his kin retreated through it.

To the people, their Lord was a twisted and malformed Wretched. Corrupted by Fel and the Sunfury loyalists with him. To Anetho, he provided an oppertunity to further his own agendas. He was a mere clerk back then. An assistant to Magistrix Marianne Silvretongue, of Internal Affairs; The sect of Magistrate officials dealing in information on the home front. From national security, debt, and the most wanted of Silvermoon’s underworld to the common soldier, lowliest carpenter and every other documented legal matter imaginable, they had it all their finger tips. Yet failed to percieve the onslaught that befallen their city.

With his handler humiliated and disgraced, Anetho assumed her duties. Eventually he even implicated her in the plot as one of many whom acted in the interests of the Sun King during and after the attack. She was sentenced to hang from the neck until dead. In the aftermath of her passing Anetho struck a bargain with a trusted colleague. He would service as an adviser amongst the Shattered Sun efforts in order to preserve the interests of Silvermoon upon Quel’Danas. In return he would be formally inducted into Silvretongue’s post.

“As you can see, Magister Ithilien, clearly she was in league with the Fel-mad Sunfury conspirators! How else would they have managed to flee with one of our most precious belongings?! See how she hangs her head in shame! Practically prepared for the noose already!”

He coordinated with Quel’dorei and Draenei alike to ensure the demons that Sunstrider unleashed would be sufficently dealt with in a way that promoted the lowest possible loss of life. The fel-weavers within the Magistrate were expunged and many flocked to reinforce the Sunfury forces maintain a hold on the Sunwell. Time was against Anetho and indeed the entire mortal population of Azeroth. Despite this he still found the time to ship several undocumented artifacts of hellish origins to a vault he’d comissioned upon Kalimdor for his more nefarious ends.

After many long weeks, Kael’thas Sunstrider lay dead within the Magister’s Terrace where the Warlocks of the Magisterium had fled. Kil’jaden was denied entry into Azeroth, and through the Draenei prophet, Velen, the Sunwell was restored. A sensation of hope and fulfillment emerged within the heart of every Elf born under Thalassian skies. They had found the salvation promised in days of old. No longer plagued by their need for mana. Anetho watched from afar. Sincerely happy with what he had accomplished alongside those people he had finally claimed as his own. An inner peace emerging in the place of a dependancy upon magic he had never truly known before this one glorious moment.

It was said that when Kil’jaden had been bested and the Sunfury remnants had laid down their arms, it was there Anetho Dawnpride had earned his name. He turned his head as the demon had cried out in so blood curling a manner that he dropped his staff, running with all haste throughout the halls, releasing firebolt after firebolt at the pockets of Sunfury resistance he encountered. He confided in me, that he thought all was lost in that moment. At last he entered the antechamber, his lungs failing him but his body willed to go on. He turned the last corner and he saw it. The relief that flooded his features was evident and he smiled. He told me that he was in awe, as tears flowed from his cheeks. “This… this is beautiful… I have no words for this..I can feel it…The serenity of a thousand souls put to rest… Peace..I feel peace..Its all so..” Was all he could manage in that moment, when our greatest loss became his single greatest moment in life.

When he had composed himself, he wandered from the antechamber to the battlements and looked over all the destruction that had been wrought. The Sunfury conspirators with their hands held aloft in surrender. The weary and broken Shattered Sun forces amongst our own Blood Knights and Farstriders. They were likewise in awe of the moment, but he conveyed to them all they needed to hear. “My people!” He cried out triumphantly. “We have not only won a victory this day. We have found… no… We have earned our salvation!” Everyone’s eyes turned to him, knowing it was true. The bright red overcoat of his flapping vibrantly as if our own flag from the highest wall overlooking the entire plateau. Silence and admiration gave way to the door he had opened, victory and revelry. He turned to look at me, tears again flowing down his face. “…I’m home.”

Many of the former Fel-Weavers that had been driven from Quel’Thalas were granted clemency for their supposed crimes, but they would never be welcome upon the council again. They drew together in their own conclave and resigned themselves to the fringes of society. One in particular would prove irksome in the coming days. Resolo Hellwhisper.

Hellwhisper, or as he titled himself, Resolo the Lost enacted a conspiracy that would rip it’s way onto the top of Anetho’s list within his new post within Internal Affairs. He sought to draw the remnants of the Twilight’s Hammer in Silithid and forge another sect with Quel’Thalas. The Red Magister was furious. He knew of the cult and their dealings. They were of great discontent to him and would remain a constant source of tragedy in the years to follow.

As he uncovered the plot to steal a plethora of the city-state’s artifacts under the care of the Reliquary, Anetho was wed to the woman whom bore him a child. He knew a happiness that was without equal. Fearing that they would be soon discovered, Hellwhisper ordered his wife and child be murdered hoping to force him away in fear. This only further strengthened his resolve. He did not act from the usual channels utilizing the standing army but rather took his revenge through assassins and espionage. Resolo soon came to the conclusion of just whom he was dealing and fled out of fear to the heart of Northrend.

“Even through your wildest fantasies… You cannot escape what you are Dawnpride. A monster that simply wears our skin.” Resolo laughed maliciously. “We’re practically alike, you and I!” Anetho snarled, blasting the male with a firebolt, sending him rolling deathly near the edge of the tower they’d engaged upon. Six flights down and the ground still seemed so far away. “Sariane would be so proud of her doll. The perfect image of destruction.” He taunted, rising from the ground. His clothing cracking as cinders ate away at his robes, smoke rising around him. “I am the fires of your own making, that will engulf all who dared to tend them. You cannot control that which is always in flux. All it takes is one burst of wind…” He extended his hands towards Hellwhisper, a fierce pulse of mana projected him from the tower. The man only laughed as he vanished entirely before meeting the ground, having cleary teleported. “…And they will consume everything until I’ve scorched your very memory from the earth…”

Disguising his vandetta as an expedition to the northern wastes as a venture to support the bulk of the military forces attached to the Forsaken legions, Anetho hand picked his closest associates, and titled them his Palamecians. His loyal vanguard. They numbered eight when he first began his venture. Harper, the enigmatic but dependable Human bard. Neeshaka Bloodhand, an Orcess of intimidating size and dominating persona whom wielded a blade just as terrifying and rigid. Liaskar Moonwalker, a Sin’dorei to whom Anetho was directly tied in days before the rise of the Scourge. Magistrix Santifia, his clerk and consort. Majial, a woman versed in the discipline of light and darkness. Amoriene and Amerione, the twin Pathstalkers. Last of course was Anetho Dawnpride himself.

When they made landfall they set to their arduous tasks upon the continent. Scattered at various intervals they eventually rallied upon the floating citadel of Dalaran. From there they discarded their responsibilities to the Horde and chased any and all leads concerning Resolo the Lost. Their first breakthrough came in the form of an Alliance SI:7 Agent. They ascertained that several individuals in dark purple robes were skulking about the caverns of Dragonblight’s western most reaches. As they enterned the cavernous levels preceding the city, the report they were given was validated. Anetho had found his prey once again, two men clad in dark viridian armor wielding elementium weapons were enacting a ritual in an expanse some twenty feet below the surface.

They were quickly dispatched and it was revealled that some group of heroes or another had already found the caverns and were delving deeper still. The journal they collected also detailed the Twilight’s Hammer had established themselves in the deepest reaches of the underground. The Nerubian Old Kingdom. The champions of the Horde and Alliance had already dispatched with the vast majority of the undead spiders and eliminated the conclave tucked near an underworld palace.

Jedoga Shadowseeker was identified as the head of the Northrend sect, though thankfully she was dead when Anetho and his band discovered her. Several Alliance corpses were scattered about indicating a rough engagement. All around there was evidence that they were hopelessly dedicated to the Old God, Yogg-Saron and his worship. Though there was no indication of Resolo having ever been present. After investigating further, it was determined that he had come to collect something and left immediately after. Ironically, mere moments before they were cut down. The Magister was oddly calm about the whole spectacle.

He dispatched his palamecians to scour the frozen wastes over their own capacity while he studied in Dalaran for a time. Ulduar was uncovered, but he had no desire to chase after it. Electing to allow the heroes of the Horde and Alliance to take to it’s forgotten depths. Even the name Yogg-Saron did not stir him, nor did the victory revelations of his passing. He was biding his time, waiting for the moment that his hand should be required. That time came quickly when the call to battle was sounded. The Fall of the Lich King was near, and every able bodied man and woman was pushed immediately to the front lines. He willingly accepted the whims of his people, the Red Magister took to the field once again. From the court yard to the very upper spires of Icecrown Citadel he pushed. Alliance and Horde vying for the very chance to slay the greatest threat Azeroth had ever know. To remove the malignant stain from the history books, two came to blows, within the citadel and even aboard the airships that circled the skies. In the aftermath of the skirmish, Saurfang the Younger, now Deathbringer Saurfang; Lord Protector of the Citadel emerged to confront the victors. He was released from the damnation of undeath, The elder Saurfang and the Horde forces arrived and collected his body. After a moment that brought nearly everyone present to tears, Human, Orc, Elf, or otherwise. Even the King of Stormwind could not bring himself to engage his hated enemies in the wake of such a display.

The champions who’d been chosen to join Tirion atop the very peak of Icecrown  confronted the Lich King. The moment of justice was at hand. After what felt like hours, Tirion Fordring descended the peak alongside what champions had survived. The battle was over. While the world breathed a sigh of relief, and experienced a very brief peace Anetho was wracked with feelings of guilt and uncertainty. He said only that it was of experiences nearly a life time ago and to pay it little heed. In the wake of our victory he married a Paladin, whom he had met in the course of our campaign. His happiness was not to last.

“The Lich King is dead, and Bolvar Fordragon died with him.”

In the months following Arthas’ demise, Anetho retreated to his villa to enjoy the company of his wife. She already had a daughter of one year when he had met her as a field nurse upon the Argent Tournament grounds, but now she was the object of envy and the talk of the city. More so, when she was discovered dead within his estate. In a fit of rage, Anetho burned it to the ground. He knew who was responsible and would exact his terrible vengeance. This was the second woman he’d come to love that had been lost to the treacherous cult. Eventually he’d tracked Resolo to a clearing the Ghostlands and proceeded to engage him in swordplay. He made use of a gift given to him by members of the Ashen Verdict before they parted. An enchanted runeblade forged of Sin’dorei and Kal’dorei methods.

“Every blade has a name that symbolizes it’s purpose and intent in life. I possess Defiance, Malicath was gifted Sonata. For you, we have forged Orpheus, the Harbinger of Despair.”

Though he provided a fierce defense since their last encounter, Resolo was still no match for the unbridled fury of Magister Dawnpride. The blade pierced him clean through, driving him against the wall of a long abandoned structure effectively pinning him there as he gagged on his final words. Hellwhisper did not plead for his life, as Anetho had long fantasized. Nor did he panic or otherwise indicate concern for the fate that befallen him. He only smiled and spoke his dying words; ‘…You’ve lost, Magister…Death comes on black wings… for you all… Sariane sends her… regards.’

The Magister withdrew his blade, and incinerated Resolo alive, who groaned with what little life he had left. There was the revelation that those whom first sparked his hatred of the Twilight’s Hammer had returned, and with it an uneasy senastion gripping to his stomache. He departed the realm of Quel’Thalas in favor of Stormwind for a time, masquarading with his illusions as he was so often inclined to do. It was here that he first discovered the Twilight’s Hammer had in fact returned, and in far greater numbers. For the first time in his life of power and control, he knew fear. He demanded his Palamecians return to Orgrimmar as he gathered what information he could within the realm of Stormwind. They had pierced the veil of shadows he was accustomed to fighting them in for so long and openly brought two great nations to their knees in one well organized attack.

They had manipulated the elemental planes in such a way that ferocious creatures not of our world rained down upon us in an unrelenting fashion. Stormwind and Orgrimmar were brought to their knees, and would have surely collapsed were it not for the efforts of it’s champions and guardsmen. In a crucial moment, the Red Magister re-emerged for all to see atop a hill in Orgrimmar. Brilliant red coat flying the breeze as it had in days of old. His hair, now deathly white, accentuating the cold death that he would gift to every last conspirator, worshipper, or associate. He organized counter-offensive, after counter-offensive between both cities and various other tactically minded individuals, until finally the sieges broke. Soldiers pushed their way into the elemental fields to slay the harbingers that commanded the waves of elementals until finally, the tension had been lifted. But it was a prelude to events far more tragic…

“Heroes! Look now to your banners that lay broken in the dirt! To the children forced to cower in their own homes! Look to all that have taken up blade in defense of a nation, from the lowliest farmer to the most decorated hero in all the realm! Let this spell light the first blow we enact on -our- terms!!” The Red Magister hurled a firebolt at the nearest device that conjured the devious creations into the world of Azeroth, it shattered into countless peices. “FOR THE HORDE!” He proclaimed, as hundreds of invigorated men and women ran to battle, fueled by this riposte.

The multi-front assault was but a ruse to mask the true threat the Twilight’s Hammer worked to force upon Azeroth. Deathwing. In his resurgance, the very world was torn asunder, practically ruptured at his very whimsy. Everyone was in an uproar and panick. The Twilight’s Hammer enticed weaker minded individual’s with promises of safety and protection at the end. The Magister had no pity upon them either. Once open demonstrations were replaced with public executions. Even adolescents who simply joined of fear or rebellious whimsies were put to the noose as Anetho stared from his perch atop the Sunfury Spire. He never smiled in those days, his eyes burned only with hatred. They would know the very same fear that plagued him with every passing hour.

“COME TO YOUR SENSES MAGISTER! THEY ARE BUT CHILDREN!!!” Anetho shook his head and replied calmly. “They are enemies of the state, and conspire to end the whole of creation. They are traitors, in short. And those whom commit treason are put to death. There is no statute of limitations here, Magister. Now, unless you want to join them I suggest you fall in line. You are either with me, or fastened to a noose. There are no grey areas to explore.”

The mortal races banded together in a desperate bid to stop the very end of all existance, even the Dragon Aspects openly joined in a united offensive. Old hatreds and betrayls marked the begining of the conflict. Tragedy was the only word that could describe the state of affairs surrounding the hopelessness of the scenario we were all faced with; Cairne Bloodhoof had been murdered through foul play, Gilneas was besieged by the Forsaken, Garrosh waged a seemingly endless war against the Alliance, and Ragnaros had risen once again intent on scorching Hyjal. Amidst these horrific happenings, the Magister of the People was nowhere to be seen..

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~ by anethodawnpride on May 10, 2013.

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