(61) - Ghosts from the Past

Griffonclaw woke from sleep, his wrist aching as if decapitated.

Some time ago, Griffonclaw had been invited to the Crypt, the sanctum of Lord Keruptis SaDiablo, sometimes called the Thrice Damned. During the visit, Griffonclaw had been offered to black manifestation of the Elder Dark; to escape, Griffonclaw had slit his left wrist and sent nine drops of his lifeblood as a token offering. He had healed the minort wound and escaped, but it had left him with a sensitivity to certain things.

The paladin only knew one thing was certain.

Keruptis had returned once more to Azeroth.

* * *

Griffonclaw found him in a dark, desert alleyway in Gadgetzan.

When he had felt the change, he had reported to the Cathedral, to the Archbishop. Shortly thereafter, as he sat on the stairs, he was joined by his friend, April Owens.

"So... what are you going to do now, Griff?" she'd asked.

"Well, I just spoke to the Archbishop. He is of the belief that I am mistaken; that the strain of torture under Blackrock Mountain, followed by the conviction of embezzlement and fraud in Undercity, followed by the stream of assassination squads from the Syndicate, have driven me to a place where I am imagining the whole thing. He recommends I take a leave of absence and spend a week or two fishing somewhere..."

"I see... I'm sorry, Griff," April sympathized.

Griffonclaw nodded, deep in thought.

He had followed the command of the Archbishop to the letter, taking a leave of absence so he might take a vacation. Someplace he had not been in some time, with a relaxing beach and gentle waves; Steamwheedle Port, in Tanaris.

If he also took some time to visit the SaDiablo farmhouse while in the area, who could blame him?

As luck would have it, the ache in his wrist took him to the goblin trading city; like a blazing arrow, it led him closer and closer to his quarry. When he dismounted from the griffon upon which he had traveled, he was surprised to find the warlock Noctarre Bane waiting for him; clearly, he was not alone in his contention that Keruptis had indeed returned.

"Warlock" he greeted her, his voice the essence of icy courtesy. His history with the warlock had been a long and contradictory one; sometimes bitter opponents, sometimes torrid lovers, they circled each other like two alpha wolves. Noctarre had once stood high in the councils of the Scions of Darkness, along with Annaliese and Ravenlore; he was surprised that the other two were not also on hand.

"Paladin" she returned, managing to sound both amused and disdainful at the same time. He passed her, entering the city; she followed.

Following the pulse in his wrist, it was not long before Griffonclaw had sighted his quarry leaving the inn, heading down the alleyway, behind the bank. Griffonclaw had followed, suspecting a trap; surely, if he could feel Keruptis, then Keruptis likewise would know of his nemesis' proximity; and if a trap, . When they were in the narrow between bank and city wall, Griffonclaw spoke.

"Good evening, milord"

The figure turned, slowly and carefully. "Good evening. With whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The figure was much as Griffonclaw remembered, and more, the voice was precisely the same; low, seductive, the kind one imagined could sell beer to Ironforgers.

Griffonclaw bowed. "You are looking well for a dead man, Lord Keruptis SaDaiblo the Thrice-Damned."

"I beg your pardon.... who do you think I am?" The voice held more than a tinge of amusement.

"I know who you are, milord, your protestations to the contrary notwithstanding," answered the paladin. He had dressed carefully for his search, and wore ordinary black leather boots, dark trousers, and a blue pirate-style shirt. No armor. No weapons. "May I offer you some wine?"

"I am just a peaceful traveler... whoever you are..." maintained the warlock.

"I have made some inquiries, milord; all outstanding warrants and charges against you were dropped after your first death, and your identity thereafter was never proven. Mikaylus and Donovan had asked me to identify the body upon the Cathedral altar... and I told them it was not you; a homunculus perhaps, but not you. In any case, there are no outstanding crimes charged against you - all were considered discharged with your death."

The figure said nothing, digesting this news. Griffonclaw continued, "But I have not forgotten Catrionae, Keruptis."

"Who?" the figure asked ingeniously, his eyes glowing under his hood with demonic power.

"I shall see that you remember her in detail, erelong," concluded the paladin. "Until then... fare well." Griffonclaw left the alley, leaving Noctarre and his old nemesis alone.

"I look forward to our renewed acquaintance... Griffonclaw FitzSilver" the figure laughed at his retreating back, his laughter tinged with the familiar edge of malice.... and madness.

Griffonclaw left the alleyway, brooding all the way to the griffon pens. He had not been deluded; Keruptis had returned. Although he had denied being himself at first - had he really expected that to fool Griffonclaw, or was he merely baldly denying Griffonclaw to his face to needle the paladin? - he had let the guise drop, and spoken with Griffonclaw as they had used to. Griffonclaw had himself, in a way, returned from the dead, drifting for weeks like a corpse in the twilight of the Twisting Nether; why should he doubt that the self-proclaimed Master of the Great Darkness could reappear at will?

He was up to something; he always was. Griffonclaw was well aware that he had left Keruptis in the alley with one of his most powerful adherents, although Noctarre was nobody's catspaw these days. If Keruptis thought that she would be an obedient minion, as she might once have been, he did not remember the woman as Griffonclaw did; she was darkling power itself, these days, and her willful stubbornness had only become more steadfast over time.

Griffonclaw smiled. While they would both bear watching, the paladin did not know who might prove the larger threat in the fullness of time, the teacher or the student, now post-graduate. A thought struck him, and he chuckled, despite the grim tidings; it might well prove that Noctarre was a greater threat to whatever Keruptis planned than himself.