For in the darkness, we shall rise. Through our power, those who worship the brighter things in life, may forever dwell in blissful ignorance of the darker forces that fight on their behalf. For as it began, so shall it end.
- Lord Gregori Fremen, Leader of the Cult of Fremen (Formerly the Cult of Kalris)
Marrion MacHarren let out a sigh, as he wandered about his office. Grazing a hand over the hard oaken desk that many a student feared to be brought to, he sighed. On the desk, lied an assortment of papers, among them a few knickknacks from his travels. A small pendant from the Trolls of Stranglethorn. A pistol, from the old days of the Company, back when such a thing was needed. And lastly, a painted picture, set in a small frame. It was of him, his grandfather, and his cousin. Out of all of them, he was the last. Lord Gregori Fremen had passed of old age, almost in his sleep. Gregor Fremen, the rightful heir to the estate, had died on the battle of the Broken Shore. Or so they said, anyway. No body had been presented to him, but it was highly unlikely anyone could've survived such a horrid defeat. And then, the door on the opposite end of the room creaked open, bringing forth a horde of sutdents.
"Doctor MacHarren, when is the final going to be-"
"Sir! Could you approve of this project of mi-"
"Doctor, I need a letter of approval so that I can-"
"Ergghhh..." He though quietly to himself. "Even with half of my students gone, there's still enough to be a thorn in my ass."
Adjusting his overcoat, he slowly seated himself into his chair. Glancing around at the small mob of students.
"Right, well... Everyone, please get into a line. I'll see you all one at a time, please."
Elsewhere, things were occurring, that had not occurred since days long past. When Orcs had conquered the South, and Lordaeron herself was struggling to unite what disparate forces it could to battle against the Old Horde. But this was no meeting of that sort. Surrounded by a group fourteen of hooded individuals, a lone figure stood at a table constructed of bone and painted with the blood of sacrifices long given to their evil purposes.
"I have summoned you all here today for a singular purpose. The impotent whelp that claims leadership to this society, has forsaken his duty to our cause... I shall utter the obvious. In this dire time, sides are being taken. I suggest that once and for all, we take a stance. We join the Legion's followers, and aide in the destruction of those, who would pursue and destroy us..."
After much murmuring around the table, one rose to speak, in a loosely Gilnean accent.
"Right, well... I will admit, that although my kin have only recently rejoined the Cult, I refuse to agree to such idiocy! Society at large may denounce us, but it needs the Cult now. And I refute anyone who even believes such nonsense!"
With scattered nods and distant glares, the group began to murmur once more, before the Primary Speaker began to speak once more.
"Duke Hastings... For such insolence, I should have you given to the Imps! If our cult stands any kind of survival in this new world, it lies not with mortal man, but with the Legion itself! Any less, and we run the risk of either fading into oblivion or even death at the hands of the Light-wielders!"
The Gilnean, in an act of defiance, levied his hood, exposing the withered skin and grey eyes to the rest of their gathering.
"Gregori, the man -I- knew personally, would've never stood for such a thing! It is wrong for us to even consider turning our backs on this world, as if we were some fifth column that works to destroy it from the inside! It is a horror, nay, a disgrace not only to Gregori's memory but also to the meaning of our cult!"
Soon, others began to levy their hoods. As Duke Hastings began to leave the dimly lit hall, half of those gathered began to follow him out, before the doors began to shut before them!
"I will not stand for such insolence... Marrion MacHarren, is no Gregori Fremen. He is a novice at best, when considering our knowledge of the Fel. Even if he bears the Necronomicon of Kalris... That is of no concern, if he does not know how to -use- that power. I vote, and I see a good number of you loyal to our cult, that we shall overthrow him and join the Legion... All those opposed, I motion that they must be eliminated."
Those who remained seated slowly reached into their robes, slowly revealing a dagger, each carved with a different rune. Stummbling back, Duke Hastings and his contingent found themselves cornered near the sealed doorways. With each step, the others began to surround them.
"Lord Roxburgh, this has gone far enough! Cease this! I implore you, for your sake more than mine!"
With a wide smirk, the Primary Speaker began to levy his hood, sporting a knife of his own in his hand. Joining his constituents, they began to close in on the Hastings.
"It is too late for that... You will be the perfect sacrifice, for returning the Old Master to this world..."
Marrion let out a sigh, as he lied back into his chair, eyes bloodshot and weary from a day's work. Soon, he could go back to the Outpost, tuck Dahlia in for bed, shoot the breeze with his father, and ignore his mother all the while.
"Perfect..." He thought. But before he could rise from his seat, a final person entered through the doorway, dawned in black robes.
"Get the hell outta here, I've already... Who the hell are you?"
Glancing over towards the man, Marrion would begin to note his defining features. A bad spiked hair cut, a small scar over his right eye, green eyes, no makeup, green...
Marrion puzzled over this briefly, before giving the man a nod. He had been speaking throughout.
"Right, so... Yes, I see. Erm... Could ya go over that. One more time. I kinda had a storm of students today, so if ya could that'd be ni-"
"I have no time for this foolishness, Lord Marrion. Your cult, your grandfather's legacy, even the fate of this world lies in question! The other members of the council have revolted. Only I, and a scarce few managed to survive the slaughter. Not even the most battle-weary of us, made it out of their attack. Now, unless you wish to risk the coming of Kalris yet again onto this world, I suggest you gather your things. I have been told, that I am to aid in your summons to the Black Harvest's base in the Twisting Nether."
Marrion let out yet another sigh, as he began to fumble through his pockets.
"Alright, Mister... Whatever your name is. Just let me find my smokes..."
"There is no time... We must hurry.
And with that, the pair were transported through time and space. The innumerable worlds that passed through the tunnel of starlight and shadow seemed like a blur, before they appeared at their destination. Gazing around, he saw spires of molten fel. Imps that cavorted about in chains. Succubi seductively strutting behind their masters.
"Oh goody... Fuck you, Whatsyourface!"
TO ACTUALLY BE CONTINUED!
Dreadscar Rift, The Nether
"So, to summarize, you folks, want -me- to go and fight a bunch of folks on Azeroth, who used to work for my Grandfather. And you want me to give you the various shit, that I took from my cousin's closet too? Well, I think that's a little one-sided. What's in it for me?"
Marrion MacHarren let out a sigh, leaning back into possibly the only chair on the barren little rock. He didn't see any when he was teleported here. Although to be fair, he wasn't looking for one anyways. Infront of him was an Orc, with a long white beard. To the left of him, an elven woman in a dark black robe.
"Come to think of it, everyone's wearing black robes." Marrion thought quietly to himself.
"Mister MacHarren... Believe us when we say we'd deal with it, if it were not for the current conflicts on the Broken Isles. Not to mention that your minor cult, isn't much of a threat in the immediate future. Frankly, we wouldn't have even known about it, had it not been for your cousin informing of us of some descenters within your ranks, before his unfortunate passing..." The Orc let out a sigh, as he gestured his staff toward the chair. "Where'd you get that thing anyway?"
"Erm... No clue. Back to the point, you're dancin' around the question. What are you gonna give me in return for taking care of this problem?"
The Elf glared at Marrion, with a dead look in her eyes. Gripping the hilt of a dagger, she barred her teeth.
"We'll let you live..."
Glancing between the two with a dead-pan look, Marrion let out a soft chuckle, before leaning back in the chair.
"Well! Let's not be too rash... Let's say, I can keep the weapons. You get any prisoners for... Whatever it is you morons do. Sound good? I think that's a wonderful deal."
With a wide smirk, Marrion peers at the two warlocks.
"That... Is acceptable." The Orc sighed. With a deep sneer, the Elf drew her dagger.
"I SHOULD HAVE YOU KILLED FOR SUCH-" The Orc let out a deep growl. Snatching the dagger from out of the Elf's hand, he barked.
"YOU SHALL STAND DOWN, AL'DORTHIL!"
"Right, well... I think we're all good. So! I'll be heading out... We should do this again, sometime. Maybe drinks in Booty Bay? I'd love that. To be honest, I've had a -wonderful- time, really you guys are so, so good at what you do. I mean, abducting me during the middle of my paperwork? Ha! Very good... I think it's pretty obvious, that I never want to see you. At all. You ever do try to contact me, I will find a way to make your lives highly miserable."
Rising from the seat, he'd take a final glance around the hellish rock, before wandering over towards the portal. Glancing back to the pair, he'd wave his hand.
"OH! And get more chairs!"
TO BE CONTINUED... AGAIN.
Violet Hold, Dalaran, The Broken Isles
"Mister... MacHarren, right? According to this, Mister MacHarren, not only have you been warned -not- to enter this city on grounds of prior acts of malicious conduct and aiding and abetting a known criminal against the state... But numerous accounts of vagrancy, public misconduct, public intoxication and the assault of a... Flower girl and her boyfriend. Am I correct in assuming you are the same man, Mister MacHarren?"
The room was dimly lit. The guardsman in front of Marrion was staring at him with a cold glare. Slamming a large file onto the table next to his seat, the Guardsman began to smile with an eerie grin. All the while, Marrion just sat there. Didn't help that ge was in restraints. It also didn't help that before the "interrogation" began, his mug had been beaten to a pulp by the guy.
"I don't know how they do it in Stormwind, Mister MacHarren, but lack of cooperation with me here, is not going to end well. There aren't any legal defenders.... None that'll take your case, anyway. Just tell us... Why are you here?"
The Guardsman would begin to raise a fist, as he approached Marrion. Grasping his collar, the Guardsman threw a punch to Marrion's stomach.
"Why are you here, Mister MacHarren?"
After a slight whimper, he threw another.
"Sorry, I couldn't make that out. Come again?"
Delivering another punch, the Guardsman let out a deep chuckle. Opening his mouth, Marrion joined in his torturer's dark humor.
"What's so funny now?"
Cocking his head back, Marrion continued to laugh with a wild look in his eye.
"Look, it was a mistake. I assumed that a portal on a certain isolated wasteland of a planetoid would take me to... Oh, I don't know. Anywhere but this shithole."
The Guardsman continued to hollar like a mad man, before throwing another punch.
3 Hours Later...
"So, what you're saying is, is that I use my authority in order to enact ny deep-seated hatred for my father, due to his years of abuse?"
Slowly nodding his head, Marrion sighed, as he began to struggle with the restraints on his wrists.
"Yeah, I got the same thing... Except with my mother. Ya just gotta learn to channel that anger into something positive."
Slowly, a young boy would enter the chamber, with an envelope held in his quivering hand. Tossing the boy a copper, the Guardsman tore the letter open.
"I see... Well, Mister MacHarren... It looks like someone higher up in the ranks has decided not to have you commited... You're a free man, then."
The Guardsman smiled, as he undid Marrion's restraints. Marrion let out a harsh sigh, before rising from his seat, rubbing his hand over the red, bruised wrist.
"Right..." He thought. "She's still alive. Good thing, Dick ain't with me... Otherwise we'd be here for a while."
"The exit's on the second room, to your right..."