Taking Stock: Proletaire Lightfall Shadowbreaker

I woke up this morning to a blast of reality in my face, and thought perhaps it was time to do some self-examination and review of what I have, or rather Proletaire, has done in the past hmm... 9 months? The realm forums, which I assume not everyone frequents, have served pretty much as my roleplaying sketchpad for the past months. Hence, for the benefit of those whose impressions of Pro are still nebulous, and also as a culmination (but not summation!) of Pro's storyline to date, I present to you:



The Mark of the Shadow by Proletaire Lightfall Shadowbreaker


Act I : The Crossover

At one time a zealous and devout Paladin of the Cathedral, Proletaire stepped out of the order and into the divine priesthood against his father's wishes not too long ago, largely due to his revulsion for all acts violent and barbaric. Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker had no choice but to endorse his son's investiture into the priesthood. After all, he was ridden with the guilt of indirectly coercing his son into the Order by manipulating his perceptions on morality and the Light.


Act II : The Assignment

About six months into his service, Proletaire was assigned the position of Minister of Light in the Alliance base of operations (Trollbane Hall) in Arathi Basin for a duration of ninety days as part of his familiarisation module. As much as he had dreaded leaving behind his fellow priests, whose company he had grown to enjoy so much, and his beloved father, his tenacity of purpose had proven to much to be restrained by any thoughts of nostalgia.

As Proletaire dismounted at the entrance of Trollbane Hall that fateful morning, a sight of pure carnage greeted him - charred and burning bodies of fallen comrades, distinct trails of crimson blood leading to hastily dug burial grounds and the stench of rotten flesh and exposed bones. His assignment held nothing of the dignity and honor he had so anticipated, and he was deeply, but not visibly, traumatised. Over the course of his sojourn there, Proletaire had to endure the agony of actually entering the battlefield as a combat medic, and administering the healing powers of the Light to those on the fringes of life and the brink of the death. Despite the speed conferred upon him by his trusted steed, Orion, and the dexterity at mending, which had honed even further at the Cathedral, many fell helplessly before his eyes, screaming and flailing in mortal anguish. With every unsalvagable soul Proletaire saw wither on those cursed grounds, his thirst for vengeance intensified. Coupled with his inability to cope with his overwhelming guilt at not being able to redeem the souls of countless vanguards at the field, his mind, already weakened by his sorrow at his departure from home, was left completely vulnerable as it suffered a virtual collapse.

During this period of inexplicable grief and confusion, Proletaire discovered his uncanny ability to read the minds of his human counterparts if he mustered enough mental power by conjuring thoughts of revenge. This talent was soon applicable to any creature that existed in the likeness of a human. Gradually, instead of casting benedictions and chanting soothing prayers on the victims of the war, Proletaire took to assaulting the minds of his adversaries by directly controlling them. He was no longer bothered by the consequences that ensued due to his insatiable desire for reckoning. Subsequently, he magically modified holy prayers at will, converting them into dark, mind-assailing incantations that could kill a person slowly and painfully, leaving no trace of his fel deed. Hence, his clandestine venture into the Shadow began.


Act III : The Duality of the Human Soul

Upon his return, Proletaire was reinstated as Resident Priest of the Cathedral, yet in other circles, he was known as Shadowseer of the Lesser Circle. Hell-bent on keeping secret his dark enterprise, Proletaire continued to engage in benedictions and healing works, and all those who were acquainted with him thought him to be a stately, devout priest of the Light. Brother Joshua, his immediate superior, noticed a sharp transformation in his habits, but chose to dismiss it as an anomaly in the re-adaptation to civilisation. How very wrong he was. In his time away from the prying eyes of the public, Proletaire delved into the dark magics of the Shadow, at the same time maintaining a level of engagement with the Light, lest he aroused suspicion. To negate any unwanted speculations, Proletaire allied himself with the Order of Eternity, where he practised his public art. Nonetheless, it was clear that one day, the Light would leave him completely, and he would be left to master the darkness, and only the darkness. Already at this juncture, his once ironclad mastery of the Light began to fail gradually as his dexterity in the shadow waxed to completion. Still, nothing gave his current disposition away. Nothing.

Save his eyes, which had now lost their ability to reflect, even in day's brightest light.


Act IV : The Dark Revelation

(( Sadly, the post that is supposed to grace this space has moved on to the Nether under the heap of forum trolling. One of the best pieces I've written... /sad ))

One fateful stormy night, whatever that was left of Proletaire's holy resolve collapsed and he embraced the Shadow completely. Brother Joshua, the only witness and victim of the aftermath of his dark conversion, was psychologically assaulted after his disciple emerged from the Cathedral catacombs. He was found unconscious shortly after by a Night Elven priest christened Xelas, who alerted the Cathedral to the renegade priest's act of outrageous defiance.


Act V : Proletaire the Vagrant

Upon his complete and unfettered engagement with the Shadow, Proletaire adopted the middle name - Lightfall - which served the greater purpose of implying his disaffection towards and sundering of affiliation with the Light and its tenets. Upon knowledge of his only son's unfavourable deeds, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker severed all relations with his son and cursed him vehemently, driving him out of the Cathedral, his only sanctuary of blessed solace.

Proletaire currently roams the streets of Stormwind, listening to idle chatter among the city denizens, mostly concerning a missing priest and a mysterious furore abrewing within the Cathedral.With liasons with the Cathedral broken, Proletaire's allegiance to the Order of Eternity has strengthened considerably due to his inherent need for a sense of belonging and affiliation. He, however, despite his vengeful resentment against his father, has chosen to retain the name Shadowbreaker, which suggests that a part of his still remains bound to the Light.


Act VI : The Warrant

Pinned by a silver-forged arrow which bears the seal of the Cathedral, to the solitary tree standing at the heart of the Trade District in Stormwind City :

By royal decree of Stormwind Keep, under the divine counsel of the Cathedral of the Light:

I address you today, honourable citizens of Stormwind, as well as its allied inhabitants, because a terrible and unspeakable crisis has befallen the Cathedral, one that threatens to tarnish the noble reputation of the long standing Holy Orders housed within the Cathedral - both the priestly brotherhood and the Order of the Paladins. There have been rumours and speculations that a hellish fiend had been released from the Cathedral not to long ago and that our superior, Brother Joshua had most haplessly fallen victim to the villain's wrath as he stood valiantly to prevent its departure.

I can assure you, men and women of Stormwind, it was through no fault or folly, oversight or underestimation of ours that this vile shade fled the Cathedral. We possessed no prior knowledge or held no suspicion of its presence in our residence, to begin with. As much as it has very much alarmed the citizens of the city, the transpiration of this fateful event has undoubtedly caused us, the keymasters of the Cathedral, much distress.

Be forewarned though, the threat this "emancipated" savage poses is by no means nullified by his absence since his flight. In fact, his prolonged disappearance has thrown the Council into a state of confounded panic, because we simply cannot premeditate our next course of action due to the sore lack of hints at this savage's devices. All we know is that this creature possesses immense power that the even Council cannot speak of, and sports an art that is diametrically opposed to the Light and its teachings. We have condemned his audacity in employing such defiling magics on a holy Brother in the sanctified grounds of the Cathedral, and will exact justice when he is apprehended.

As such, he is currently blacklisted in our internal security records as a criminal on the loose. A steep bounty has been placed on a medallion he currently owns. Investigative magisters have identified it to be this - [Marvelous Madstone of Immortality]. We urge any potential challenger to exercise caution in subduing him, since he is both dangerous and wanted alive. Should his capture be successful, extract from his possession this medallion and escort him to the Cathedral, where you will receive your rightful rewards.

It must be made known that an Elven vindicator by the name of Xelas has assisted us with the greater part of our investigations, simply by his discovery of this fel deed and the swift notification of the Council. Stormwind sends its gratitude to its Night Elven allies.

The apprehension of this shady and blasphemous criminal will restore the peace and security the citizens of the city once enjoyed.

Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker.


Act VII : Grave News

"The Light is good... The Light is great... Fall in awe before the Holy Light..."

A solitary congregation of choirboys in bleached-white robes stood before the altar, browning hymn books in hand, glorifying this sublime entity they call 'The Light'. Its conductor, the convalescent Brother Joshua, towered before them at the altar, his dexterous arms swaying to the tune that was being sung.

To the far left of the hall in the west wing, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker was apparently oblivious to the angelic symphony of ethereal voices that suffused the Cathedral air with a light, heavenly aura. He wore a face forlorn with a tragic apathy, and his brow drooped in sorrow. Standing like an age-old monolith that had weathered many a storm, he kept vigil at the stone-framed portal of the west wing, as if in poignant anticipation at the return of someone dear to him. In one hand held a steel warhammer etched with the seals of Stormwind and the Cathedral. And in the other hung from his fingers, a miniature portrait of a jovial, young boy in a backdrop of royal vermilion.

Amidst the tranquil chorus, sharp but ruffled footsteps at the Cathedral gates found their way into the pristine symphony.

"Hark and be still, keymasters of the Cathedral! I bring word from the Keep!"

The seraphic rapsody that had previously emated in constant waves from the enthused congregation of songbirds was completely obliterated by the hoarse but assertive exclamation. So rudely interrupted was their vocal endeavour that the flock broke into a flurry of indignant whispers, much to the ire of the royal emissary, who simply stood at the inner entrance awaiting the attention of the Cathedral denizens.

After scanning the hall for his desired audience while the hubbub ensued, the emissary wasted no time in flying to his side and conveying his, or rather the Keep's, urgent message.

"My Lord, the Investigative Enclave of the Keep instructed me to send word to you that one of their magisters has intercepted a letter allegedly sent by the wanted vagrant. It seems that the parchment is addressed to a clandestine organisation formally known as the Lesser Circle, and the residence of its author has been traced to The Gilded Rose in the Trade District. We believe that the whereabouts of the fiend whose head you have a price on has been duly made known to us. He will not escape the iron clutches of the law this time.

That being said, there has been a report sent in personally by a priestess so named Aelinor, documenting the minor skirmish that occured in Goldshire between a band of vindicators headed by a prominent elf, and the devil's incarnate himself. Similar witness accounts by the merchants and patrons of the Darkmoon Faire seem to be in total agreement with the priestess' vividly chronicled report. Apparently, by some oversight, that blackguard fled on his steed - under a spell of utter stupidity - toward the very gates that spat him out!

Cast your anxieties aside, my Lord. This fel creature currently makes the prison that is the walls of The Gilded Rose his very refuge! Oh, I speak the truth, he is the quintessential personification of outright idiocy! Absurdity has a new name, indeed! Here, this is the very parchment unearthed from the mailbox mire. I believe you will find its contents most... intriguing.We will meet again soon, Lord Shadowbreaker. My business here is done."

Tossing the frayed ends of his royal garb from his path, the messenger, apparently wearing an expression of twisted satisfaction at his contemptuous delivery, left the Lord visibly shaken and overwhelmed with a colossal sense of ambivalence. From the corner of his tearing eyes, he caught Brother Joshua descend the altar hastily, and raising his warhammer he cast the concerned party aside as he tried to administer token consolation.

Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker retreated as a wearied child would to its mother's arms, into his room above. As he left, Brother Joshua noticed a frame bearing the face of a young, jovial boy in a backdrop of royal vermilion, in undisturbed repose on the cold asphalt concrete where the Lord had stood moments ago. He raised his head to observe the resident paladin climb the stairwell stepwise. His withered right hand held the portrait no more.

In its place was a comparably wilting brown parchment bearing the Thalassian Seal.

Act IX : The Renunciation

“I stand before you now, worthy at last to challenge the contempt and scorn you so often threw at me with words like knives to a dartboard.

I stand before you now, tempted to break what little will that sustains your being and condemn you to an abyssal insanity as recompense for the condescension you hurled at me when I expressed an affinity for the priesthood, not that it matters anymore.

I stand before you now, ready to smite you to your shadowy death should you choose oppose my supreme power, or alert the rest of your zealots to my unexpected presence.

I stand before you now, mocking at your pitiful disposition as you languish in this desolate and cursed old asphalt shed you so call ‘The Cathedral’.

I stand before you, with the full knowledge that you now despise me with an indescribable sense of loathing, and wish me dead by the face of your ageing warhammer.

But you know you and your pathetic Light are no match for me.

You know you will cower in apocalyptic dread before me and plead for the sustenance of your insignificant existence, or face the unending wrath that will doom you to an eternity in oblivion.

For you, dear old man, there is no escape.

For you, there can be no respite.

As you have so ruthlessly purged me from these walls before, I shall expel you from my memory and sever the blood bonds and fetters that have bound me to you, without remorse, without hesitation. Just as you did.

So take this filthy scrap metal token and immolate it as an offering to your gods. My inherent liaisons with the Shadowbreaker Household shall no longer exist.

I am free.

If you are hell-bent on that futile vindication of yours, old man, seek me out sometime. You know better than to have me play audience to your whims in this shanty.

Oh, and the primary purpose of this unprecedented return was not to waste my time railing at you, but to reclaim more of that which are mine. On this second occasion, I have invited myself to the libraries of the Cathedral – for what purpose but to pick up this musty ol’tome – <Divine Absolution> - bearing the priestly treatise on the art of total arcane negation. The time has come for me to unravel the magic lying encased in this book.

Do not cast that leer of dirty indignation, old man. This is one of the paraphernalia presented to me by the priestess Laurena. Oh, she will be so proud of her student.

I remind you to tread lightly, once again. Should you and your heathens stand in my way, you will never live to see even the glimmers of twilight again.

My presence here tonight will be forgotten. The space in the shelves of the library finding reason in a borrowed book. Your fear explained by your imminent insanity.

I depart and my shadow follows.

Imperium is mine.”

The old man was left trembling for his life as a hideous phantom left the confines of the room.

But the night lay still.


Act X : The Last Confrontation

It was an atmosphere of tranquil silence in the Cathedral Square, on a night steeped deeply in a soft but adamant fog that swept in stealthily after an unexpectedly brief spell of rain. The transient shower had supposedly diminished to a sporadic drizzle when twilight glowed its last, yet six hours later the ghostly mist still lingered about in the courtyards and above the canals, swirling into miniature maelstroms as the wintry breeze navigated the nooks and corners of the slumbering city.

Above, the hovering dust-grey clouds seem to mirror their terrestrial cousins, partially obscuring a gibbous moon at its zenith. Slivers of silver perforated the translucent, amorphous floating masses, throwing a royal cloak over the damp rooftops of the city estates and bathing the waterways that ran through the districts with an ethereal glow. Together with the unabating mist, the scene at nightfall in Stormwind City proved to be all too surreal, save for a solitary visitor to the Cathedral, whose features were dissembled under the fabric of faded Silver-thread robes. Even a pitch-black cowl concealed what little identity his face held, although the stately and sure steps with which he traversed the grand flight of asphalt stairs that led to the Cathedral entrance seemed to suggest that he was no stranger to its monolithic architecture. He seemed physically excluded from this dreamy portrait – like a wilting rose amidst a prairie of flowers in springtime bloom. A pair of city guards, apparently members of the night watch out on their rounds, plodded into the Square absorbed in a humorous dialogue concerning an elf plying the canal waters at the most unearthly of hours and the recent sightings of crocolisks in the waterways.

The knell began to call the hour.

“Ale on me tomorrow morn at first light, if he survives th’night, hehehe…” commented one of them, before raising his right hand to muzzle himself in an obvious attempt to stifle his mischievous laughter. He possessed the charisma of a fine, well-schooled man in the prime of his youth, and his voice resonated deeply in the surrounding vapour with a crisp assertiveness.

“Tha’s a deal, Elexius lad! We migh’ve elf-burgers ou’of th’crocs mouth ta’morrow methinks!”, replied the other distinctively more podgy one, his hands gesticulating erratically.

“Eyes on th’road, friend. Th’fog here thickens beyond my pale human sight. Don’t y’forget, we’ve got a felon on th’loose.” His tone sharpening to dispense a caveat to his counterpart, the more dutiful of the two tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade as he thought he saw a shadow dissolve into the mist at the Cathedral entrance.

Proletaire Lightfall disappeared within the Cathedral walls just as the church bell ceased its laborious tolling. It was six hours after twilight. The air in the hall was dead-stagnant, as were the yellow flames on the candles that adorned the walls. They however, seemed to waver and tremble as the priest proceeded down the center of the hall before making a left turn. What little moonlight penetrating the tinted glass panels on the wall behind the empty altar narrowed into silver gossamer before turning invisible. At this juncture, Proletaire assumed a ghastly construction of shadowy vapour, and his body bore a violet translucence that emanated a dim glow.

Then climbing the stairwell, he adjourned to the room that was Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker’s. Its master was deep in slumber, his breathing light and regular, when the shade invited himself in. Proletaire stood towering over the Lord, who did not stir even as an aura of wintry chill clawed over the entirety of the room. Incidentally, the silver globe that was the moon exceeded its zenith and began to strafe away from the imposing congregation of thick grey clouds, throwing its borrowed light once again on the city.

At once, the face of Grayson Shadowbreaker was illuminated by the rays pouring in from the window above. The dark fumes that had consumed Proletaire momentarily receded as he set his sight on his father’s face, clearly withered with age and anxiety. Half burdened with sorrow, the other plagued with guilt, he reached out to touch the face of the one whom he had so grievously failed and abandoned for a lost cause in a distant land. Alas, a second armada of heavy clouds, towed across the abyssal ether by some celestial wind, obliterated the moon and the solace it offered with an assertive opacity. Instantaneously, Proletaire drew back his hand as if it were burning coal he touched, and once more embraced the Shadow.

“I return to recover what I had most haplessly lost, and that which is rightfully mine”, he bellowed, wasting no time. Still, the Lord did not stir. Glancing around, he immediately caught sight of a browning envelope with a broken crimson seal on the bedside table just beside a tome with a gold-embellished cover. It was entitled ‘Redemption’ in solid silver. Heeding no subtle message the book might have intended to convey, Proletaire snatched the letter from the table and hurried towards the door. He had tarried a little too long. In his haste to flee from the compound, he took no notice of the two guards apparently scouring the sanctuary for a phantom one of them claimed to have seen breaching the Cathedral entrance. In fact, the priest was taking hurried steps directly into the path of the two patrollers, who were just about to leave the area.

It was only when the shield of one of the two caught the glimmer of moonlight filtering in from the tinted glass at the altar, that Proletaire realised his folly and oversight. As they swivelled around to confront the uninvited guest, Proletaire instantaneously exploded into a cloud of dust that dispersed rapidly. A circle of shadow ran below the confounded two, who frantically scanned the hall for the intruder.

“’Twas a bomb, wo’nt it? Where’s tha’blast’d scum?!”

The circle stopped at the ground just behind them. Proletaire reappeared from the residual dust that followed his temporary banishment, instinctually unsheathing his dagger from his side. Tempted to draw blade on them, yet compelled to flee for his safety, he hesitated, turned and sprinted silently down the Cathedral stairs, taking refuge in a corner cloaked in shadows cast by nearby torches.

“Those of Ravenholdt have taught me well,” he thought to himself with a fiendish glee.

Stuffing the reclaimed letter deep into the pockets of his robes, Proletaire endeavoured to regain his composure and regulate his breathing after the short sprint, clutching his heaving chest in an attempt to induce some semblance of calm.

"Xelas!"

The name, uttered in hushed astonishment by a female with a Draenic accent startled Proletaire into a fit of paranoia, compelling him to jerk his head this way and that to forage the darkness for an entity all too familiar to him.

"I hope you are joking, poor as it is," continued the sharp reprimand that might have sounded much like muffled whispers to anyone further away.

As two distinctively dissimilar silhouettes phased into the Cathedral grounds, the pall, previously thick and swirling, now subsided strangely into a diminished velvet that seemed almost invisible.

The elf and his Draenei companion emerged from the ebbing haze, the former muttering something matter-of-factly about hanging, finality and a solution.

The shrouded priest watched in clandestine from his vantage point with a curious intent, pricking and straining his ears to gather fragments of their conversation. He snarled at the elf, swearing he would have personally disposed with a clean dexterity the loathsome creature and his priestly friend if he weren’t still convalescent from his staff-to-blade battle with his colleague, Mekaya. He stamped his foot in repressed fury, resisting the urge to dash out of his cover and garrotte the two, all while fixing his glare on the both of them, who seemed completely oblivious to his presence.

He caught something being said about being redeemed, before the duo made a turn at the Cathedral steps, now almost devoid of any cloud. The draenei seemed to pause in hesitation momentarily, before taking swift steps to the elf’s side as they made their way to the entrance.

A blast of frigid wind permeated the midnight air, rudely replacing the warmth shed by the night watch torches with a deathly, uninviting cold. The lights flickered violently, cowering in its howling wake.

The shadows rose up, then receded as the flames gained strength again. All shadows but one, and it smiled.

Proletaire broke into a chuckle, with the knowledge that the pesky duo would be very much alarmed to enter the Cathedral realising that company had found its way there before them.

Turning his attention away from them, Proletaire muttered to himself, “It seems that I’ll have to deliver this note to the higher authorities myself, for it has been proven that eyes reside in those blasted mailboxes. The master will not be pleased with such a blatant delay. And carrying it on foot would have the parchment reach no earlier. Perhaps… "

His voice trailing off into an ominous silence, the priest drew back his sleeves and clawed his hands with a steady focus. From the shadows carved out by the torches and moonlight, a gurgling construct phased into existence. Even as its features remained concealed by the blackness, the outline of its physique was itself horrendously unnatural. It reminded one of a two-limbed salamander with wicked claws that could eviscerate with tremendous ease. Its ruthless snarling was almost unbearable.

Nonchalantly, Proletaire fished from his robes the opened envelope, then ran his fingers across the broken seal. A deep lavender glow held the flap in place. Following that, he directed the parcel to his restless minion, who willingly received it with an almost selfish snatch. The letter was suffused with the same fel lavender.

“Go now, my pet, and take this letter to my master in Silvermoon. Should you encounter any adversary that might engage you for the sole purpose of acquiring that which you hold, dispel your existence, as well as that of the parcel. Also, in whatever language decipherable by those concerned, send word that I shall be ready for the final ritual at Dire Maul. My time draws near.”

Then casting the fiend away, Proletaire retreated away from Cathedral Square, taking flight to the city gates as he left the compound.

Elexius and his burly partner departed from the Cathedral looking flustered.

“Well, had I not the discretion and common sense to hold a torch to their faces, you’d have hewn the heads of ‘em!”, to which his amused colleague replied, “Heh, the’were some good ‘untin’ game back thar!”

In the distance, at some partially lit nook before the portal to the Canal District, Elexius could have sworn he saw a beastly black mass navigate the corner and vanish.

He gave chase.

(( Elexius "Two-Blade" Swiftshadow is featured in the pirate story Captain Olvyn Teere and The Moonlit, a project by The Indelibles. He is a minor character in this one sub-plot, and plays no further role in Proletaire's tale, for now, at least. ))

Act XI : The Scryer Proposition

Following the final confrontation with his father, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, Proletaire took flight once more to seek sanctuary in Silvermoon City, where he augmented his anti-magical abilities with the steadfast aid of the Lesser Circle. Prior to his adjournment to the Sin’dorian land, the priest sent word before his arrival at Shattrath City, expressing his interest in allying himself with the Scryers against Kael’thas and, less conspicuously, the Aldor.

The Scryers, as with any Blood Elven organisation fresh from the ravages of war and imbued with a renewed resolve, perceived Proletaire to be an invaluable asset to its ranks – maybe even the trump card that would propel the Scryers to the heights of glory and power that once were attributes of the Quel’dorei. They had conceded that with his subversive magic amplified and employed in clandestine on Kael’thas’ bastions of authority in Netherstorm and Shadowmoon Valley, those bent on serving the crazed prince would eventually be coerced into abandoning his megalomaniacal creations and swearing allegiance to the Scryers. As far-fetched as the strategy might have sounded, Voren’thal’s advisors were quite convinced that Proletaire’s investiture, first as an emissary, would make all the difference, and so inducted the refugee priest into its ranks, completely oblivious to his unglamorous affairs back in Azeroth.

Presently, he serves the organisation as the Scryer Ambassador to Stormwind City, a title which makes a strident mockery out of his ignominy throughout the city. With the full knowledge that the diplomacy between the Alliance and the Horde hangs in delicate balance even in Shattrath, Proletaire had wittily seized the opportunity to seek shelter under the protection of the inherently Horde-biased Scryers, confident that his policing jailors and even the Council itself would not have the temerity to apprehend him under the watchfully possessive eyes of the Blood Elves. Now, the runaway priest walks the streets of Stormwind City in his characteristic Scryer garb, complete with a mocking satisfaction at all who detest him and wish him dead.


Act XII : The Clandestine Collaboration

(( Ashriel has just left a letter with Inkeeper Allison of The Gilded Rose expressing her keen interest to share in Proletaire's device in eliminating the elven vindicator Xelas. ))

It was an hour past midday and the sun had just exceeded its zenith, its searing rays casting sharp and solid shadows of the surrounding estate on the weathered grey bricks running through the heart of the presently bustling hub that was the Trade District. All around there was a constant emanation of nondescript utterances that undulated in collective intensity ever so often, and coupled with the snorty grunts of yoke-bearing mules dragging along rickety carriages replete with grain and wares, the effective clamour sounded very much like the brimming waters in descent from the monolithic Stonewrought Dam.

Merchants donned their most presentable garbs, which amounted to several layers of thick wool, despite the blistering heat that swirled in waves about them, all in proof of their rabid enthusiasm at the long-awaited arrival of loyal patrons with bursting coin purses from the Cathedral, where the midday service had just come to its timely conclusion. Seemingly oblivious to the pandemonium that currently ensued in the business district of Stormwind, vigilant City Patrollers, their right gauntlet to the hilt of their blades, scanned their immediate fronts for any potential ruffian that might in the flurry of indecipherable commotion empty the pockets of unsuspecting patrons. Their professionalism in detaching themselves completely from the overwhelming pulses of noise that reverberated from every direction was indeed laudable, for never once did any of them flinch at the push and tug of the crowd, or blink as cartons and coin changed hands in their faces. Nonchalance was their game. They could stare the normal citizen out with their stoicism.

Amidst the swelling hubbub characteristic of a crowd hungry for lunch, a solitary figure, bearing the same unaffected, forward gaze the guards held, albeit with a slight furrow in the brow, emerged from the sea of bobbing heads undaunted by the unruly background, and entered The Gilded Rose with a triumphant grin, as if he had just defeated both the jostling multitude behind him and the blazing celestial titan above him. It extended into a smirk as he engaged the innkeeper.

“My dear Allison, ever so beautiful you look, even in those dreadfully discoloured garments which make a mockery out of that which lies concealed. Perhaps we should take a much-needed walk to the tailor’s at the Mage District soon. You would do better with a more decent looking dress than this horrid piece of scrap-cloth!”

Somehow, his initially smooth and calming tone of voice regressed into one tinged with faint irritation at the mention of ‘scrap-cloth’. Indeed, unwitting eavesdroppers sitting by the hearth on velveteen couches thought the man to be one of the upper class, a social elite respected purely on grounds of his status, and nothing else. Yet they wore a look written with apprehensive respect as they set sight on his magisterial robes, which were threaded with gold that stretched down its length, ending in a runic swirl. A midnight cowl was draped over his head, dissembling his face in a mask of shadow.

A gem of crimson tint glittered against the licking flames of the distant hearth. A Scryer’s Bloodgem, the curious onlookers almost instinctively knew. A Scryer.

Then as if in fearful reverence at the man, the occupants of the common room left the vicinity – some departed from the inn while others adjourned to their respective rooms. Not long after the uncanny exodus, Innkeeper Allison and Proletaire Lightfall were the only ones alive in the common area. The former’s lips were tight with a suppressed terror.

“How thoughtful of them to have cleared the room for us. Allison, behold me, I am a changed man, do not fear me…”, Proletaire remarked in a low voice, sounding very much like a barrage of falling rocks.

With the last of his words, he chuckled tacitly.

“As changed as your filthy rags, that is!”

The lady did not flinch but was blue from holding her breath. Her dress seemed creased at where her clenched fists, white from the strain, were. Apparently struggling to preserve what morsel of normalcy that remained, she uttered in halting Common something only audible to her visitor.

Proletaire nodded without expression.

“Bring it to me”, he commanded. On this occasion, his mind-bending entry was not warranted for the innkeeper to elicit the response desired. He smiled once more with a twisted triumph.

The Scryer emissary marched out of the inn, momentarily returning under the watchful rays of the sun, before he swiftly strafed with grace to a shadowed corner and broke the seal of a freshly written letter meant only for his eyes. The lunchtime crowd had waned considerably, and the once enthused merchants were weary with glistening sweat.

… not before The Heretic can appreciate what he has lost.

Wishing you continued victory

Ash

So the letter ended, and with its conclusion, Proletaire raised his head slowly in contemplation, his eyes occasionally shifting from side to side in an attempt to scour the sparsely occupied street for the author.

Perhaps if he reciprocated in kind, that is, with a parchment bearing his afterthoughts on this phantom’s musings, a mutual agreement – a collaboration – could be established between them, and with its genesis, a premature, but much-desired end could be exacted on the one who started it all. Yet the element of stealth was required for it to be seen to the upshot. Neither his superiors, nor the one in contention, must know. He had risked everything once for freedom and lost all, and now he was placing everything at the stake once more for vengeance.

At this thought, Proletaire smiled a smile of knowing something someone else didn’t.

This was too easy.

(( Following this event, Proletaire meets Savandri, who is under Xelas' tutelage at the Cathedral, in-game, and seeks to establish an amicable friendship with her without her mentor's knowledge. Underlying this desire to create rapport with her is the malicious intention of using her as a weapon against Xelas. Savandri possesses a Snowshoe Rabbit, and it is through charming the animal with his extensive powers of mind-control that Proletaire observes and eventually manipulates the girl. This event is ongoing. ))

I will not be surprised, nor offended, if what you've just read or browsed through appears as gibberish to you. The entire roleplaying web has drawn in a multitude of characters, each with his or her own unique encounter with and impact on Proletaire. There are many gaping rifts in the storyline which I have yet to explain, or rather, lost memory of due to the fact that they occured as spontaneous roleplay in-game. If you've managed to reach Act XII, I applaud your patience and appreciation. /thank target

Truth be told, there is potential for so much to be done and elaborated upon, but due to real-life circumstances, it is almost impossible for me to draw realistic and feasible connections between Proletaire's course and that of those in Eternity. I have therefore contented myself with the confines of this singular overarching plot - Pro's conversion.

Vindication has since the beginning been a prevalent theme here and I hope to effect a 'paradigm shift' in the mindset of this seemingly deranged priest soon, so that a transition of themes can be put into place.

I shall end here.

To many more nights in the grand halls of Eternity,
Proletaire Lightfall.