(62) - Exit, Stage Left

Griffonclaw laid the valise open, and began to pack his desk.

A bottle of ink and a scribe kit; sand, parchment, a half-dozen or so quills, and a small knife with which to sharpen them. A small black leatherbound book, filled with notes that had struck his fancy during sessions with his students. A small stack of correspondence between himself and the Headmistress, mostly concerning student's progress.

So little to show for the time he had spent here, as an instructor at Stormwind College.

Griffonclaw, in his resignation letter to the Headmistress of the college, Perspicacity Spacklenox, had been the first to admit that his other duties had rendered his academic career undistinguished.

"As we had discussed at the beginning of my tenure, my various other obligations - to the Iron Throne, to the Argent Dawn, to Highlord Tirion Fordring, have prevented me from taking a more active role within the College. While I am honored to have held the Chair of Philosophy, as we near the crusade to Northrend, I fear that even that meagre, pathetic effort will fade. There is much to do, and not much time in which to accomplish it"

There were pangs of regrets; that he had not gotten to know the students as well as he might have, that Maxyne in particular felt as if he had deserted her on numerous occasions, but the work would not wait; Griffonclaw had hoped it might, but it had been made very clear to him that the Darkness was gathering faster than he'd hoped. The scouting missions to Northrend had been destroyed, and Arthas was on the move.

The question now was whether or not Tirion's actions and preparations had begun too late.

He heard his office door open; the Headmistress had found his note. He could not decipher the expression on her face; she was one of the few gnomes he had met whose emotional control was highly disciplined.

"Headmistress..." he greeted, nodding and continuing to pack.

"Griff. I got your note. You know you always have a place here; whether the battle's finally won or you're just tired of fighting it. I suppose I knew you weren't really ready for a desk job even when you took the post."

Griffonclaw kept packing, and the tiny headmistress sighed and spoke, leaning against the door. "That's not why I'm here, though."

"No?"

"No." She walked a bit further in, stopped, and removed her hat. Standing straight, holding her hat lightly yet protectively in front of her, she leveled her eyes at the paladin's back and asked "Professor FitSilver, have you started drinking again?"

"Yes ma'am, I have... not only because its Brewfest, but also because... Persi, there is only one person whose continued existence makes me more... angry, more frustrated, than Arthas', and he has returned from the Twisting Nether again."

Griffonclaw stopped and faced the warlock. "It passes my comprehension that Keruptis SaDiablo has returned, and yet - as he claims - has no further purpose, and wants to live out a life without some nefarious machination at its base. In some ways, he is much worse than Arthas; Arthas is many things, but subtle is not one of them."

"I'm tired, Pers... MacLhir, my nephew, was maimed by the Black Irons to get to me. I used to have a ward named Catrionae - she was sacrificed by Keruptis on the Altar of Storms to get to me. Arthas may reduce Stormwind to a cinder..." the paladin continued, chuckling bitterly, "but at least the Lich King doesn't strike at me indirectly, through my family."

"And so... I will not have those of the College endangered - not Max, not my other students, not the faculty."

Persi looked puzzled, then furrowed her brow deeply.

"There are always those who'll lash out at someone through those they care about. It's an extremely potent technique, the power from the rage generated in that way defies description. One triggers the the most primal emotional centers in the subject, resulting in enormous, tappable energy spikes beyond what the subject could normally produce. Furthermore, once the subject has produced those spikes of emotion, they come more and more easily unless the subject develops..." Here her lips hardened slighty - "absolute, iron-clad emotional control over him or herself.

In fact, the subject often finds him or herself seeking out those emotional spikes, even offering them freely to the initial instigator. This pattern will not even stop on the instigator's death, but will often continue until both parties have been annihilated.

If you have found this person, this instigator, proactively seeking him out before he strikes at those you love will likely give him more power. You are offering him your emotions instead of forcing him to take them."

She sighs again.

"You know all this, I think. Maybe not the mechanics. Take this, it connects to the one in my earring. If you need someone objective, someone he can't touch, call. Good luck, Professor Fitsilver."

Perspicacity Spacklenox walked to the Paladin and patted his hand. As she turned to leave, he noticed she had slipped a delicately-fashioned transmitter earring into his hand, the craftsgnomeship unquestionably her own.

"My thanks, Headmistress" he said as she began to walk away.

"My feeling is in that the days to come, I will need all the help I can get..."