The Black Pit
Three Weeks Ago
A hush fell over the crowd, as the leader of the council approached his podium. In his withered and ancient robes, the Old Man took hold of his gabble, and made a noise that rang throughout the dark halls. The Six Cults turned their attention the Old Man. All six of the highest practitioners from each gathered around, and took their seats. This was a ceremonial gesture. If this had been any other meeting, each of the dark sorcerers would've attempted to murder one another for some past slight or mutual hatred. But tonight, was a special occasion. For the cults had convened to discuss something of great importance to the world, and to debate what fate would be judged upon it. Or so they thought, anyhow. The Old Man gave each of the leaders a nod, before proceeding.
"The Cult of Seven Heads. The Cult of the Stormwind Underground. The Cult of Fremen. The Fremen Separatists known as the Cult of Kalris. The Cult of Burning Tusks. And lastly, the Cult of the Burning Oaks. You each have gathered here for one singular purpose. To debate the actions of what the Coven wishes to do in regards of the recent events occurring on the Broken Isles. As the Grandmaster of the Coven... I have gathered forth the best of your respective orders, and we shall all remain here, until a verdict is reached. To begin... I will have the youngest cult of our Coven come and speak first. Lord Roxburgh... State your case."
To the ire of some of the crowd, a tall, thin man with dark red hair rose from his seat. Raising his hand, he glanced around the gathering of warlocks and witches, and merely smiled.
"Good evening. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have communed with the Herald, and he has said that the great dark one is coming to this planet. He shall destroy all who oppose his rule, for he is the annihilator. If we stand against him, our coven, our families... They will all be destro-"
A voice rose from the crowd.
"Liar!", it proclaimed.
The Old Man only glared at the individual, and the gentleman burst into green flame. With silence restored, Lord Roxburgh continued to speak.
"As I said. The world is ending, and we shall be rewarded for aiding in its transformation into the next. My vote, and the belief of the Cult of Kalris, is that we should join with the Legion, for their wrath will be swift and our time is short. Thank you for allowing me to speak, Old One."
With a bow of his head, Roxburgh took his seat once more. With a brief nod in return, the Old Man wiped a bead of sweat from his bald brow. It was hot, under the mountain. It always had been. After clearing his throat, the Old Man cracked the gabble down onto the old oaken podium.
"You are welcome, whelp... Now, a counterpoint will be delivered by the current leader of the Cult of Fremen. Reveal yourself."
Dawned in a black hood, a withered hand rose to levy it, revealing a horrifying sight. Scarred tissue and burnt flesh, accompanied with glowing red eyes. Startled by the sight, the crowd began to rabble once again. Slamming his gabble onto the podium the Old Man rose his voice.
"SILENCE. FREMEN... SPEAK!"
Gesturing a finger to the ghoulish man, the Old Man sneered at him with a great scowl. Soon, the man began to mutter out a few words, before his whispering voice rang out around the great hall.
"I am Gregor Fremen... You all presumed me dead. For all intent and purpose, I am. You people left me on the Broken Shore to perish... And I almost did, had it not been for a foolish imp and the use of a soul stone. And yet... I will continue to fight on those horrid shores. Until Sargeras and his ilk are purged from this world, and our own magics the only relic of their influence upon Azeroth. For it is for that, that we must use these great powers of ours. We are built to fight the enemy of life with the forces they use to snuff it out. We are the people who lived and die for fight against the darkness. The Cult of Fremen has always stood for the fight to preserve life upon Azeroth in its natural state..."
Pulling his hood back over his head, Gregor returned to his seat. Staring across the isle at Lord Roxburgh, his fingers began to ball into a fist. Glancing between the two, the Old Man banged his wooden gabble once again, against the wood of the podium.
"Thank you, Master Fremen... While I agree that our powers are made with purpose in mind, our lust to increase it is what drives us and the Coven. Would you deny that of us? Deny the ultimate power that we might be rewarded? Think on that. And you, Roxburgh... When the world is burned and all beauty scorched from its surface, what use will that power be, eh? What use would life on the ember have? Think on that. However... I do have another option given to us by an envoy of the Noblemen of Stomwind and the Dalarani High Council. Come forward, Mister Garabaldi Minyanos... Address your alleged option."
With another glare, he gestured his gabble towards a figure in the crowds. A man in a purple robe, with the eye of Dalaran sat amidst those of the Cult of the Stormwind Underground. As he walked down the stairwell, his expensive raised-heel boots let out a loud clomp among the deep silence of the crowd. Upon reaching the Old Man, he gave a bow, before glancing between Gregor Fremen and Lord Roxburgh.
Glancing about the large crowd, Garabaldi smiled, as he gestures his arms out.
"I come here in peace and with open arms. My message is very simple. From my masters, I ask you this... Remain neutral. Do amongst yourselves as you usually do. Leave combating the Legion to us, and you shall be granted quarter within Stormwind and Dalaran without being searched prior. Demons and others may be used in public, but with only good reason. This I promise you, if you only remain neutral in the war effort. We do not wish to harbor more liabilities. The Black Harvest are enough of a bolster to our own forces. And I doubt that the Legion will accept more of your kind this late in the war... They would most likely drain your souls, sooner than allow your forces to cavort with theirs. That, I tell you, is the truth. So please... Remain neutral."
With a flourish of his cloak, Garabaldi began to make his way out, returning up the steps to the sound of mumbling and speculations. With a raised brow, the Old Man merely let out a sigh.
"I see... The Coven will now make its decision."
From what our intel can measure, the Coven has voted to remain neutral. The Cult of the Stormwind Underground has not returned to their local hideaway. Sightings of this "Garabaldi" have been few and scarce. Connections between the Cult of the Stormwind Underground and the recent failed summoning circle in the basement of Stormwind University have come to light. Attempts to requisition information from the Council of Nobles have returned unanswered. The Identity of the figure identifying as Gregor Fremen has been unconfirmed.
- From the Desk of David Woster and his contacts within the Coven of Six Cults.