Conquest of the Horde

If You Wish to Make an Apple Pie from Scratch...
Ivan Ashholder's creation of the universe of becoming an Archmage.
Updated Fridays and Saturdays!
This is an older character who was starting to become an Archmage before the first Prestige System closed down.
For those of you around Stromgarde like days, you will remember. Others, not so much.
This continuance has been approved by Kretol, and the application was approved a good long while ago.

Libram:
Chapter I:
Ain't That a Kick in the Head?
Chapter II:
The Court of the Crimson King
Chapter III:
Walk the Line
Chapter IV:
Godzilla
Chapter V:
It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Want to Rock and Roll)
Chapter VI:
Seasons of Wither
Chapter VII:
House of the Rising Sun
Chapter VIII:
Hound Dog (Coming Soon!)
Chapter IX:
For What It's Worth (Coming Soon!)
Chapter X:
Good Times Bad Times (Coming Soon!)
Chapter XI:
Good Company (Coming Soon!)
Chapter XII:
Death or Glory (Coming Soon!)
Chapter XIII:
House Burning Down (Coming Soon!)
Chapter XIV:
Helter Skelter (Coming Soon!)
Chapter XV:
I Get a Kick Out of You (Coming Soon!)

This thread's music theme is Pre-1985, keeping in Ivan's old style.
All of these songs are various songs from various artists to reflect the mood of the overall thread.

How lucky can one guy be?

I kissed her,

and she kissed me.

Like the fella once said,

Ain't that a kick in the head?

Chapter I: Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

Ivan felt like he had been kicked in the head. It wasn't a good kick like 'Hey, get your life together' or 'Oh man i'm sorry I just kicked your head, want free things', but rather 'oh man, that's gonna leave some hilarious scars' kind of kick. He sat up, looking around. Ivan Ashholder was currently living in a box in Booty Bay, one of the worst possible places to live at the moment, it seemed. Elves were everywhere. He scratched his dwarven beard, padding around his persons for his cigars. It was dark, save two holes shining light into the shipping crate. He took a cigar and snapped his finger, the tip of it lighting. As he puffed in, the box lit up. It was spacious, for a gnome, probably meant to hold something like whale in, there was a bed in the back corner and enough space for a desk. He may be living in the worst city in the world, practically broke, but Ivan Ashholder was a classy gentleman who did not live like barbarians. The crate was stuck behind a house, as a result of a bizarre shipping error years past, and the whole city seems to have forgotten about it. In protection of his hideout and his stuff, there was no opening or door save the two holes, which were both too tall for a Goblin to look into without stacking himself on others. Not much left to steal, either. Ivan slid off his bed, puffing out smoke, and without much thought, blinked right out of it. He landed on the deck of the bay and began to trod. The scruffy old gnome was a common sight along the Bay these days. He was scrounging for money in any way possible. Lethys had left the Sparkspin Bank Fund open to Ivan and Ivan only before he vanished, and as a such, the Gnome had been living off it. However, due to all Lethys expenditures on pants from all over, it wasn't too plenty. He had dipped into the GSF coin as well, and that didn't last long. He flipped a silver in his hands as he brambled over to the tavern. He blinked through the wall and stopped in front of the counter, looking half an inch over it at Nixxrax.

"Simple port as usual, Nixxrax." He said, and the goblin went to work. He exchanged money for alcohol, which seems all it was being used for these days, and teleported upstairs, already sitting at a table. It was here he began to drink. Throughout the day, he sat in the same position, only getting up to use the bathroom or get more alcohol. People seemed to pass in three times the normal speed, as Ivan sat and watched them all move about their daily lives. All sorts of races breezed through, none of them stopping to look or talk. He was just old bones now. Ivan pulled out another cigar, leaning back in his chair. Lighting it up, he puffed out smoke and watched the day go by as the light from the window seemed to crawl across the walls. He shook his head as the light turned into nothing, and stood up from his chair. Tipsy, as usual, he trodded downstairs and gave Nixxrax a nod as he walked out. The night crowd was far too violent and rough for him to enjoy a cigar around. Not exactly the type for fighting in a bar room brawl, sir Ivan Ashholder meandered his way back to his box and put his hands on the outside of it. Far too drunk to blink, he looked for the inevitable disappointment of finding a door. There was none. Ivan, sorrowed at being unable to wake up in a drunken haze in his bed, simply slid into the sand and slept there almost immediately.

As he awoke, he was clearly not in front of, next to or in the general vicinity of his box. In fact, the place he was in was far too nice to be Booty Bay. The bright light of the Northrend sun pierced into his eyes and he held a hand over his brow to prevent it. Ivan Ashholder stood, looking around. He was laying on the sidewalk of Dalaran, as people just walked around him gracefully. Atop his head was a small, purple barrier, clearly protecting him from the underbelly scum of Dalaran that showed at night. Ivan sat up, and a letter appeared in his lap, having clearly been waiting on him. It was a small purple rectangle, and the wax seal carried the glowing mark of the Kirin Tor on it. Ivan contemplated that had he been in serious trouble, they would have locked him up. But, this is to say that the Mages do truly like to make people miserable by using a court system on any and all offenses. Maybe Sparkspin was taking him to court? Who knew. Ivan opened up the letter, and a black paper folded out, with eloquent violet handwriting across it. It sparkled and glowed against the black paper in a very pretty fashion.

Ivan scratched his beard and stood up. Clearly, he was wanted somewhere. Dusting himself off the best he could, Ivan conjured a spot of water and ran it through his beard. It came out a pretty nasty black color. He scowled and plodded down the street, the barrier seeming to have gone with the letter being opened. No cigars were on him what so ever, and it was already turning out to be a bad morning. As he approached a mage bearing the Kirin Tor symbol, he tapped him on the leg and looked up. The Blood Elf looked down in contemplation.

"Yes, what is it?" He asked, holding a book that was turning itself page by page. Ivan scratched his beard in thought.

"Well, I got dropped here while I slept, and i'm ordered to look for Archmage..." Ivan stopped to look over the black letter again, which was in his gloved hand. "Rosemary Gray." He finished, looking back up at the elf, squinting from behind his glasses.

"Oh, you're needing Archmage Gray." He said, and looked off into the distance. Pointing at a tall building that was floating above air with his long arm, he spoke. "In there, good sir." He said, and Ivan tipped his head at him, trodding onward. He crossed his arms, unaware of what to do with his hands without a cigar, and looked at the building. It was floating a good ten or twenty feet up, and a giant glowing Kirin Tor eye was at the front door. Ivan blinked up to the steps and continued walking, until his nose scrunched up against the floating symbol. It seemed to be a barrier. Thinking that it'd be a simple task to just pop and appear on the other side, he did so and appeared inside. However, as the arcane cleared, it seemed the marble hallway ahead extended, well, into forever. It came to a tiny black point of outstretch far off into the distance, and Ivan blinked forward, and then teleported, only to be exactly where he started, in front of the door. Trying not to overthink what seems to be a clear puzzle, Ivan started walking, to no prevail. Eventually, he stepped onto three black squares in a row, and through them he walked through the illusion of the backside of the door. He was back exactly where he started. Grunting, Ivan ran forward, got to the three black steps and turned around in a skid, teleporting forward. He rolled out into a library, landing in a pile of books. The bookshelves towered, especially for a gnome, with enough height to crush a Tauren. He looked up in the silence as one fell off into the distance. The expansive library strung out into the distance as he looked around, clearly a use of hammerspace all over the place. Another one fell, in clear view, with a loud crash and the crumble of books. Ivan looked up as the four nearest to him started to lean. Lifting up his gloved hands, fire shot out of them in a quick burst. It rolled off of the shelf and it continued to fall, picking up speed. Pushing out an invisible arcane weight, it was nothing to stop it.

Ivan, not to be outdone, leapt on a large book and took to the skies with it under his feet. He rose to the ceiling, which continued to raise. Bookshelves started shooting out of the walls like Goblin letter machines, books flying off in all sorts of directions. Ivan whipped here and there on his floating book plane, speeding through the library. He was slammed by a bookshelf onto his right side, and was sent flying through infinite space. The magic book was far off into the distance as he was slammed like a baseball in the seventh inning. The old gnome scrambled up on top of the shelf, the last books falling out. It coasted through darkness and occasional lantern bit light, as hundreds of other bookshelves flew out in all sorts of twisting and crossing directions. All at once, before he had time to react, the bookshelf slammed into a wall and Ivan Ashholder was sent flying through the window of the library. He rolled out, with no broken glass or shatter, into a quaint office. There at the desk sat a blonde young human woman, looking at him from a book she was clearly studying.

"Ah, I see you didn't die, sir Ashholder." She said, closing the book. It floated off absent mindedly into a bookshelf. "I am Archmage Rosemary Gray. Welcome to my home." She said, smiling warmly.

"Hmhph. Ivan Ashholder, miss." He said, head pounding. She offered a seat by picking it up with the arcane without movement and setting it a further bit away from the desk. He plodded over and climbed up onto the chair, turning around.

"I apologize about the test, but it is to prevent breakins from non mages. If someone's skilled enough to pass it, well, generally they should have the right to all of my possessions." She said, smiling the same homely smile as before. "I presume you're wondering why you're here, sir Ashholder." She asked, folding her arms on the table.

"You would presume correctly, miss." He responded, thinking about the 'test'. Hell, he had done it with a hangover, who couldn't pass that test?

"Well, you've been selected to join the rare ranks of the Archmagi in Kirin Tor, sir Ashholder." She explained as humbly as she had said hello. Ivan scratched his beard, a bit dumbstruck.

"... What?" He asked in sheer confusion.

What a way to start off the day.

Hell, he forgot it was even Sunday.

On soft gray mornings widows cry,

The wise men share a joke;

I run to grasp divining signs

To satisfy the hoax.

The yellow jester does not play

But gently pulls the strings,

And smiles as the puppets dance

In the court of the crimson king.

Chapter II: The Court of the Crimson King

'Said the straight man,
to the late man,
"Where have you been?"
"I've been here and,
i've been there and,
i've been inbetween." '
- "I Talk to the Wind", King Crimson, English Psychadelic Rock, 1969

It was at this point that the woman looked to him, expression soft, yet beneath seeming stern in outlook.

"Sir Ashholder, an Archmagi is nothing if he cannot find someone at any point in the world. I will be attending a very secret party today, in the court of The Crimson King. Lovely fellow, he. In fact, I am already there. You, sir gnome, must find me. I will not run from you, but I will be hiding in plain sight there." She said, moving her hand through a near by bust of a very old looking man. It passed through it vapidly not much unlike a ghost would move through walls of a haunted house. She looked at it longingly, before looking back to Ivan. "You've until eight in the evening, sir Ashholder, to find me. At that point, the party will end, and I will return to my house. If you cannot find me, you are not fit to be an Archmagi. The only hint i'm giving you is that I am underground, but not far. That, and i'm still on Azeroth, in case you were wondering." He was, in fact, wondering. She waved and the apparition vanished. Clearly, she was a skilled illusionist atop being a magi. Ivan was there at that point, alone within the walls of her home. Light shone through a tall, half circle window in which another bust lay above it. Atop the head of the bust was a living raven, watching. Ivan grumbled and slid off of his seat, plodding to the door and opening it. He stepped out into the Library, which had no damages nor flying bookshelves. In fact, it was quite small, compared to the illusion of size it once held. Weaving through bookshelves, Ivan Ashholder moved into the foyer hallway, which, in reality, did not extend out forever. He moved outside and squinted as the daylight hit his eyes once more. Bolding forward, he tapped some tall human on the knee. The human looked down, with an air of condescending, and spoke.

"Hmm... Can I help you, little one?" He said, as the rest of the group he was speaking to looked down to Ivan. The gnome scratched his beard in contemplation and spoke moments later.

"Good day, chap. I myself am interested in information, if you're willing to divulge. I'm looking for a party. Held by one Crimson King." Ivan said, and the human raised an eyebrow in a most curious manner.

"The Crimson King, hmm.. ? Quite uncommon knowledge for someone who doesn't live their life in the tabard of the Kirin Tor... I know who he is, but I was unaware that the exile was the party throwing type." The human said, looking back to the others, whom he consulted quietly with for a moment. The human turned back around, shaking his head. "We ourselves know not of a party, nor where the Exile is at within the world. I apologize." He said, looking to the group. Ivan nodded respectfully.

"I see. Well, good day sir, and thank you for the information. Any bit helps." Ivan said, turning on his boot heels and marching off down the perfected shaped cobblestone of the Dalaran streets. The day drew to noon as he had already asked fifteen people, including two drunks and a few people in Shattrath City. Everyone seemed to KNOW the Crimson King, but they were unaware that he was still alive, throwing a party and or not in a very locked jail cell. As time drew to two in the evening, Ivan sat on the steps of the toy store, thinking. He patted his pouch, which was adherently empty, and grimaced. Clearly, something had taken his cigars while he had slept, and chances are the specially rolled dwarven beauties were being sold through networks of pawn shops and black markets. The gnome with the beard as black as coal stood up and pattered down the stairs, looking around. Clearly, there must be a cigar shop or something of the sorts around Dalaran. Ivan peddled himself along the streets, and a big tobacco leaf shaped sign found its way into his view. Trodding in, Ivan blazed past the cigarettes and other fancy, Dalaran status quo objects to the cigars. They were laid out on a rich purple velvet table, at an angle and magically held in place to prevent rolling or falling. He looked them over, before noticing the dwarven type at mid section, right above his general height view. Ivan took to levitating upward with the arcane, looking the heavy rolled selection. He picked one out, and as he touched it, a number flickered magically in front of it, the word 'amount' displayed in purple script above the number, which was set at double zero. He scrolled his finger up a number and it clocked to one. Logic kicking in, he scrolled up for eight of them, tapped the screen, and eight cigars seemed to duplicate from the main one, rolling out into a nice box. It closed and sealed, floating over to the counter. Ivan dropped himself from Arcane levitation and walked on over to the counter, lifting himself up once more. The gnome exchanged money for tobacco and floated back to the ground, opening the box and pulling out a cigar, looking it over before lighting it to look around.

He wandered around the shop, smoking his cigar, in which something caught his eye. A burnished red poster hung in a corner of the shop quietly, looking frayed and torn. Ivan pattered to it and craned his neck, peering at the poster carefully. It seemed to be slowly falling apart before his very eyes, as if magically attuned to do so.

Ivan peered at the poster for a good long while before bolting out the door to the streets of Dalaran, cigar still smoldering in the corner of his mouth. He looked around for any sign of red within the slur of white, blue and purple on Dalaran. Catching his eye, a very slender and very creepy looking man walked in a red robe that dragged behind him, hood up. Ivan ran forward and slid to a stop on his heels, tapping furiously on the knee of the man. Under the hood, a very sorrowful looking Blood Elf peered at him.

"Yes.... What do.. you need... ?" The elf murmured out in a melancholic voice. Ivan scrambled with his cigar for a moment.

"I was wondering if you were one of the men giving out invitations to the Court of the Crimson King." Ivan declared, placing one hand on his hip, the other grasping the cigar in a firm manner. The blood elf, lamenting being alive, nodded slowly.

"Yes... Yes I am... However.. I just gave away the last one... To that fellow..." He said, pointing off. His finger shot out an arcane laser that pointed to the back of a dwarf that was plodding away. Ivan nodded, thanking him and taking off after the Dwarf before he got away. He was small and agile, but still not any younger than he was the day before, and stopped to catch his breath half way through the city. The dwarf ahead trodded onward and Ivan once again ran to catch up with him. He sprinted until he was just about to pass out, and managed to clap the dwarf on the shoulder, heavy and out of breath. The dwarf, carrying a heavy, orange beard, turned and looked at the bearded gnome.

"Whot can ah do yeh?" He asked, and Ivan held up a finger politely as he held his hands on his knees, catching his breath. Moments later, he spoke.

"I... would request that invitation from you... Whether through... purchase.. or charity.." He wheezed out, having dropped his cigar about ten meters back. The dwarf ran his hands on his beard in thought, the orange fuzz puffing.

"Ah say. Whot've yeh got?" He asked, clearly a bartering dwarf. Ivan, having pretty much one possession at the moment, pulled out the box of seven remaining cigars. He opened it, and the dwarf took one, looking it over. "Ah see. This'll do." The dwarf commended, and took the box of cigars, leaving the invitation in Ivan's hand. Ivan looked it over carefully, seeing it was small and black, folded in. He opened it to reveal crimson red text on the black square, and a red wax seal on the bottom.

He scratched his beard, fixed his goggles and did as the card instructed him to, which was pressing his thumb on the seal. Everything went black in his view momentarily, and when he solidified, everything was still black. Ivan stuck out his index finger and lit a flame. He was in a closet, it seemed, and there were coats all around. Opening the door, he stepped out into what seemed to be a loud club. People, magi looking folk, were standing around everywhere, all talking and drinking. The lighting, walls, floors and seemingly everything, were all the lush, burnished crimson. He padded around, looking upward at all the tall folk, for the woman of interest. He bumped into a few folks, profusely apologized, and kept on walking, looking around the entire club. Reminding himself that she was hiding in plain sight, Ivan cast a spell of invisibility on himself, as everyone else vanished and she appeared. She smiled, waving at him curtly. Ivan padded forward, becoming visible again as she too appeared.

"Ah, sir Ashholder. What a lovely surprise you could drop by." She handed him a small note, in an envelope, which felt weighted by something. "This is the location and key of your new home in Dalaran. Every day you will report to me to see if I have something new for you to do, as your training has officially begun. Oh, and since you came across the card of your own devices, a few angry looking folk are coming you way." Rosemary said cheerily, pointing over Ivan's shoulder. The gnome turned around to see two very ominous looking men in robes, hoods up, striding in a smooth, hovering fashion to him. He looked back to Rosemary, who was gone again, and then back at the forms as they surrounded him. Everything went black again, and when Ivan rematerialized, he was in the air. Immediately dropping, he looked around while freefalling at a higher and higher speed. He was in Northrend, somewhere, and about six miles upward. The ground came closer and closer as he pulled open the note he was given and read it over. It was Deck Fifteen in Dalaran, and he concentrated on where it would be, teleporting there a few seconds before hitting the ground. He landed gracefully on his feet in front of a small house.

He scratched his beard, still a little shaken from being teleport-dropped, and plodded up the steps as the evening drew.

As sure as night is dark and day is light,

I keep you on my mind both day and night.

And happiness I've known proves that it's right,

Because you're mine, I walk the line.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine,

I keep my eyes wide open all the time.

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds,

Because you're mine, I walk the line.

Chapter III: I Walk the Line

'If for a tranquil mind you seek,
These things observe with care:
Of whom you speak, to whom you speak,
And how, and when and where.'
- Anonymous

Men of all sizes and shapes walked around Dalaran. Ivan pushed open his door after a long night of sleep, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. He grumbled and padded down the steps sometime before noon and patted his belt contents for a cigar. He had naturally forgotten that the last cigars he truly owned were lifted off him by goblins, the last pair he had yet to enjoy was given to a dwarf. Ivan grumbled again, walking on the smoothed cobblestone in the shining, artic daylight of Northrend. It was fairly warm in Dalaran, seeing as it was whatever temperature the mages wanted it to be that day, and Ivan's black clothing was heating up as he crossed the street to the floating house of the Archmagi. He blinked forward and continued walking without losing his stride, past the door and turned into the library. He crossed that as well and opened the door to Rosemary Gray's office, where she sat, face on her desk, obviously asleep. Ivan padded across the office and hopped up into a chair, folding his hands on his lap, and proceeded to sit in the silence. A few minutes passed before Ivan took the initiative to wake the Archmagi. He lifted a small pen from her desk with the arcane and floated it over to her, tapping her on the head with it quietly. She looked up, seeming exhausted, and proceeded to rub her eyes while sitting up and leaning back in her chair.

"You're quite early, sir Ashholder." She quipped, to that Ivan nodded, leaning back in his his chair and folding his hands in his lap once more.

"Punctuality is key, Archmagi Gray. I must ask, if it's not prying mind you, what exactly happened yesterday?" The gnome of many lands asked, raising one of his bushy black eyebrows. She exhaled, leaning an elbow on her desk complacently and absentmindedly.

"Well, sir Ashholder, it seems a man that the Kirin Tor forgot about has come back to haunt us. A particularly vicious man who simply goes by the name of the Crimson King. Our records and our memories have long forgotten what he was truly named of. However, it was once recorded that after he decided to start calling himself that, he also wanted to control Dalaran. He is an extremely powerful magi who attempted to gain control over the city, and we spent a long time fighting him, apparently. I was just a young mage in training when this all went on, not even thirteen or so. He killed a good amount of people before we managed to banish him from the lands and nearly kill him. Perhaps it was best if we did. However, the long written seals still remain on Dalaran but not the rest of the world. He could be anywhere, sir Ashholder, now that the magic is fading and none of us can get close enough to sting him. His resurgence has been small scale, nothing violent as of yet, but it can take so long." She said, pausing momentarily to turn her chair around, stand up and walk across the heavy wooden room of books to the window, looking out into the Northrend sunlight. "I managed to secure one of those invites, they were given out to non magi only in an attempt to surpress the Kirin Tor, and investigated under cover. Unfortunately, since you arrived, they could tell your magic over my supressed type and they almost caught me as well. The Crimson King has your mark now, sir Ashholder, and i'm certain he will stop at nothing to smudge out anything that attempts to undermine his uprising. First it will be your life who is under danger, then mine, and then all of Dalaran. Were he to seize control again, only the spirits know what would happen to the rest of the world."

"I see. What am I supposed to do of this, though?" Ivan inquired in the pause of speech, sliding off his chair and padding around the desk to the window, in which he lifted himself up and stepped onto the ledge.

"Normally, you would be tested in all fields of magic by the appropriate Archmagi, myself, and eventually signed on to the Kirin Tor. Unfortunately, the resurgence of the Crimson King has caused us all to divert all training to something more important. Provided that he is stopped, your training may begin afterwords. Provided he isn't, well, we'll all be dead. We can occasionally see what the Crimson King is doing due to our fading magic, but it shifts." Rosemary said, sweeping her hand softly across the window they were looking at. The light turned black and the vision was gone, providing a dark mirror for what was to come. On the outside, viewed a man dressed in a very, very long red robe. A hood covered and shadowed his eyes, and his hands were long, protruding claws for fingers. He was surrounded by floating books and sitting at a table, as the vision cleared itself somewhat, and soon a long, silver blade was visible laying across it. He ran his fingers down the flat edge of the blade, face obscured. Eventually, the vision died out and the view of Dalaran was returned. "He has a very different blade with him, sir Ashholder." Rosemary said, going over to one of the bookshelves. Ivan got off of the ledge and followed. "A dwarven forged blade that's been in the hands of many men. First created about the time Dwarves first met humans and learned of a more refined sword system, it was named Legacy and presented to a high ranking military officer of Stormwind, as a peace gift. It's one of the reasons we were allied with the Dwarves from the start. Upon it's lifetime, it's killed at least one member of every race, and that is an understatement, Ivan.

Legacy had fallen out of the hands of the Commander when Stormwind was razed. An orc took it up, another military handler, as they pushed upward on the Eastern Kingdom. He too was slain by a Quel'dorei ranger. As Thrall and his men moved across the sea, the blade killed at least one of the Horde races in the hands of the Quel'dorei. Unfortunately, the Quel'dorei returned to the Eastern Kingdom in time to meet the Scourge and become a Forsaken. In those hands, it slew every other race that was missing. This is, however, just a tiny sample of where it has been. As the Kirin Tor can guess, it had killed off perhaps thousands, all over the world. Fortunately in the heat of battle, a Kirin Tor official managed to secure it and bring it back to Dalaran. There had been marks of all different races on it, and we sealed it away. There may or may not be magical power on it, but we did not want to trifle with such possible evil. Unfortunately, the Crimson King got his hands upon it, and it's killed even more since then. Unfortunately, we know not what he plans to do with it at this point, but it could be the downfall of the city.

You, Ivan, are hereby assigned with stopping the Crimson King at all costs. The entire Archmagi division of Kirin Tor is working on this as well, and you've managed to mark yourself against him. If you do nothing, you will surely perish. We cannot keep him out of the city forever." Rosemary finished, turning and looking at Ivan. The gnome was deep in thought, sitting upon a stack of books with his knuckles to his chin and his brow lowered heavily onto his glasses.

"I see. This is quite the predicament. Where exactly do I start, Rosemary?" He said, looking up to her. The Archmagi shrugged with a frown, clearly sympathetic but unknowing. Ivan nodded and leapt off of the stack. "I see. Well, I suppose I must surely be able to find him myself." Ivan continued and walked to the door, opening it with the Arcane. Rosemary cleared her throat and he turned around.

"He is a dangerous man, sir Ashholder. Your life may be in grave danger from now until he is stopped. Walk softly." She said solemnly, and Ivan nodded, going out the door. Within the hour he was already out in the catacombs beneath Karazhan, where all sorts of evil ran rampant. Fortunately, there wasn't a psychiatrist at the front gate giving out morality checks and Ivan walked in unquestioned. He stopped at a nearby table and inquired whether or not any of them knew of the Crimson King. Unfortunately, none of them did. He sighed and left for Dalaran again, scratching his beard. Shortly after, a blonde Sin'dorei caught up with him, someone who had been in the Catacombs previously. She introduced herself as Sonya and that the Crimson King had shown up mere seconds after he had left, looking for him. She handed him a scroll and quill, saying that he wanted his address on there, and instructed Sonya to throw it into the fountain for him. Ivan took it and wrote a quite unfriendly message, tossing it into the Dalaran Fountain, in which it dissolved and vanished. He thanked the magi and kept upon his way, scratching his beard. Elsewhere in the world, the Crimson King approached a dark woman with the intent to forever curse the blade to cruciate pain upon those struck with it. He heralded Legacy to the skies as the runes upon it shone in the dark night, a wicked grin painted upon his face.

In the dark of night, the Crimson King vanished into the shadow.

With a purposeful grimace and a terrible sound,
He pulls the spitting high tension wires down!

Helpless people on subway trains,
Scream bug eyed as he looks in on them!

He picks up a bus and he throws it back down,
As he wades through the buildings toward the center of town!

Oh no! They say he's got to go!
Go go Godzilla!
Oh no! There goes Tokyo!
Go go Godzilla!

Chapter IV: Godzilla

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Bring me the blade."

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Y.. Yes sire.."

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Click.

The servant returned into the chamber with the silver blade. He trembled in, looking somewhat broken in the low light. It was a cobblestone chamber, with high, gothic arches and twisted, standing torches that burned a low, orange light. The walls were draped in a heavy crimson soft cloth, spilling and piling on the floor. Down in the back, far reaching from the chamber, was a tall, tall throne. Stairs were leading up to it, and it was an offset color from the rest of the chamber. As the servant approached it was clear of the thrones origin. A spiraling tower of skulls, atop it a tall figure dressed in red clothing, which like the banners and decorations spilled downward on the tower. His face was shadowed in the low light as the servant climbed the flattened skulls, holding up a silver, long blade that seemed as pure as a freshly made one. The figure on the throne reached out and grabbed it with long, bone claw fingers, wrapping them around the blade handle slowly and pulling it back. He looked over the blade for a moment, in slow, dragging motions to examine both sides. After moments of silence, he secured it within a jet black holster, tying it to his belt. The shadow rose, looking down to the servant. He lifted his hand and all the torches in the room were lit or burned higher, and the entire room was illuminated in a sharp orange hue. Standing guard were strong, masked servants, all heavily armed.

"I am leaving. I will return soon, or I will die outside."

The men saluted.

He walked the length of the chamber, along the crimson red strip that lead from the throne to the door. He opened the heavy wooden door, inscribed with all sorts of runes, and slammed it shut. At that time, all the lights in the chamber extinguished at once, and on the other side, he was gone. Far from the underground reaches of Dun Morogh, he appeared near Karazhan, amongst the spirits of the wretched damned. The man kept a nasty grimace as he strode in long, gliding steps across the gray stone. The grayscale area was a sight to see, the tower that once held the most powerful mage in the world now home to the underlife and cretins. He teleported upwards, having been here before, and continued walking as if he had not moved at all, gliding up stairs. The man rounded a corner to look a nasty woman in the eyes.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" She snapped, a vile tone on her tongue. The man made a note of it to try and cut it off once his problems were dealt with.

"I've come for a proposition, you see.
I need my blade cursed by one like thee."

"I don't do these kind of things for free." She said in return, still spatting.

"Oh yes, money, the key to the door.
I believe I have something your heart will implore."

He extended his hand, and from his chamber a carefully placed object was ripped through space. It then appeared, floating between them. It was a heart frozen solid, black as night and its purpose as clear as day. Her eyes changed sharply as it appeared. Clearly, the Fel Sworn human was understanding the game now. Surprising she hadn't been cut down yet. A few more words were exchanged and she took Legacy with eager ease. He withdrew the heart, now on his person, and left down the stairs. His nature of death was most normal, and so he sat at the base of the tower and waited, sleepless, making sure that Legacy did not leave the grounds. If only she knew how it truly was. He rapped his fingers on the stone, carving in a thousand times over a circular eye, always watching. The sun rose, and the sun set. Twice over, and he walked back up the stairs. The woman was no longer lingering like a filthy whore on her veranda, and so he rose to the chamber atop and knocked on the door with his hardened knuckles. She threw the door open and he repelled. She smelt like burning skin. Wretched. However, the man floated inside, and the blade was prepared. Adorned with glowing runes, sharp and green, he left her the heart and vanished the way he came. Not before carving his signature into her wall. Horrid fashion sense anyway.

The man appeared, back within his home. He threw open the chamber door, the lights flaring on, his servants still in forever undead post. He strode, the glowing green Legacy in his hands, turning and bringing it down on his throne. The skulls shattered into a lightning flash and spread amongst the chamber, the sound settling down. He breathed in, heavy, uselessly, and breathed out, also uselessly. He was hunched over upon his ruined throne, blade heavy in the ground. He looked over and in his blind rage, cut down the nearest servant. He walked to his desk behind the throne, amongst the lab equipment and mountains of books, grabbing the paper. The Archmage had thrown it into the Dalaran Fountain, unknowing it was tracing him. The man in red walked off and out of the chamber, the cut in half skeleton putting himself together. He slammed the door, and the fire perished again. He walked down the hallway, gripping Legacy. He pulled out a pocketwatch, flipping the hunter case open, looking at the time. Midnight in Dalaran. He continued walking down the corridors, the lights turning on as he approached them and extinguishing as he walked off. Without notion, he vanished as he rounded a corner and appeared in Dalaran. Banished for life, not a soul was around. Not even the Kirin Tor would detect him for a few minutes. He was in front of a small home, blinking past the door simply and floating himself through the hallway. He was slow, silent, Legacy still within his grip, pointed at a downward angle. He blinked past another door, envisioning himself into the bedroom. Below him, the Archmage slept. He drew back Legacy, and as he shot it downward, the Archmage vanished and reappeared in front of his window, fully dressed and in a defensive stance.

"The Crimson King!" He declared, his hands setting on fire.

"You have been a thorn in my side for far too long.
Soon, you will be singing your sweet dying song."

The Archmagi clashed in a blaze of fire and Fel.

Ivan had his own shortblade, but Legacy was a work of ruining art. The blades clashed, sparks flying of green and red, and Ivan's blade was cracked. The Crimson King drew back and lunged forward again, swinging the blade that had slew a thousand men. Ivan held up his shortblade but it was shattered at that point, the hilt flying out of his hand with the weight of the pommel. The Crimson King snarled, revealing his grotesque face as the air pushed his hood backwards as he swung again. Ivan vanished, appearing on the other side of the room. The small bedroom was not a battlefield, in the dark area, and the space was hard to work with. The Crimson King turned around like a vicious animal, teeth bared from his rotting skin. He swung forward again and the cursed blade struck Ivan in the chest as the Gnome rolled away, and held up both of his hands. The whole room engulfed in fire at that point and the Crimson King was gone. Within seconds, Archmagi teleported themselves into the room, armed. Ivan fell to the floor, bleeding black. The wound was turning green, and the man in red was back underground, vanished without a single trace save the line across the Archmage's chest. He sat on his ruined throne in a vile disgust, Legacy on the ground before him, clearly thrown. He rapped his fingers on a broken skull, staring with an intent furor at the door, contemplating his failure.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Hotel, motel,
Make you wanna cry!

Lady doin' the hard sell,
Know the reason why!

Gettin' old,
Gettin' grey,
Gettin' ripped off,
Under-paid!

Gettin' sold,
Second hand,
That's how it goes,
Playin' in a band!

It's a long way to the top,
If you wanna rock 'n' roll!

Chapter V: It's A Long Way to the Top (If You Want to Rock and Roll)

Ivan certainly did not feel like he was making it to the top through rock and roll. He was in a blur when he woke up, but he was being carried by someone. His vision was a blur of smeared violet and white, a clear vision of Dalaran still. However, he was no longer in his house, and moving at a high speed, the breeze slipstreaming his bald head. All the sound of the wind, however, was quickly vacuumed away and the cold transfer of arcane breathed over him, and whoever had him. Everything was a white blur, and then Ivan blacked out from the process. It wasn't long, because the next thing he felt was water. Rain was dripping in heavy, hard droplets across his glasses, which were cracked, and forehead. He blinked heavily, as the person holding him was clearly running. The sound of boots on stone ground was all he could hear, before he passed out again. All he could feel was the pain in his chest, growing by a slight bit by every heartbeat. What seemed like weeks turned into months, and Ivan opened up his eyes. It had been only hours. His vision was growing clearer, as he was staring at the high breadth of the ceiling in the Stormwind Cathedral. Dalaran wasn't much for holding the worshippers of the Light, it seemed.

"It is good to see you're awake, sir Ashholder." A voice called to him, and he sat up with a grimace and a grunt, looking around. He adjusted his broken goggles, peering through the kaleidoscope glass. Sitting in a chair was Archmage Rosemary Gray, hands folded in her lap. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you what happened." She continued, looking up to him. Ivan nodded, looking down on himself. Through his fancy vest was a cut, and on his chest was a sealed wound. Beneath it, his veins glowed a faint green.

"Legacy. I saw the name printed on the sword." Ivan muttered out, and the Archmage nodded.

"Yes indeed, sir Ashholder. Were it not for the Archmages detecting such high volume of magic, you would be dead right now. He cut your heart open." Rosemary said, looking up to the stained glass. Outside was visibly dark, gray overcast skies. The sound of rain poured onto the windows. "I brought you here. There are many more powerful healers here than there are in Dalaran. Naturally." She continued, and Ivan nodded again.

"Yes, well, sometimes I feel I am getting too old for this shit." He said, running his fingers over the sealed wound. The fel blood pulsed within him.

"Your house was almost destroyed. By your hand, unfortunately. On top of that, it will be a long time until you're no longer tainted with the curse he had put on that blade. We are already analyzing marks it left on your broken sword and furniture. Seems something powerful had done it, he's definitely no fel user or enchanter. I'm certain he's becoming more dangerous by the minute. Unfortunately, you left a good mark on him, there's a cut away of burns on your wall. I think you're quite safe for a while. As for our business, and you're training, we still have to locate where he is. After he is defeated, well, you are well deserving of your Archmage rank within the Kirin Tor, Sir Ashholder. As for now, you need to start reading up on tomes of magic. The Archmage Library in Dalaran is now open to you, and you're free to come and go as you please." She stood up, brushing off her robe, looking down to Ivan. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that there are some dangerous things written in those tombs. We trust you to overcome temptation and dark power. You never know what is captured inside of a book. As for now, I will be on my way. Stay safe, and stay low, sir Ashholder."

With that, she vanished. Ivan looked around the cathedral, where a few priests were onlooking. He looked up to the rain rattling window, before looking back forward and shaking his head, vanishing as well. He reappeared, in the midst of his home. Rain poured in and was ruining the carpet, but it was largely useless, everything else was covered in burn marks. The wall leading to the streetside was completely gone, only bits of wood stuck out, metal fragments hanging. His bed was in a thousand pieces, his door was broken in half. He pattered around the place, looking at all the damage.

"Where is Spinpistol or Sparkspin when you need them..." He muttered, kicking through dust and ashes on his floor. Marks on various things glowed a faint green, tainted with fel. He ran his gloved hands over them, as they reacted with his corrupted self. The gnome shook his head, leaping down from standing on his desk, which was also ruined, and pattering over to the center of the room. There on the ground lay his short sword, broken into a thousand pieces. The hilt, handle and pommel were all still in tact, however. He picked it up and placed it on his desk, examining it closely as he stood in his ruined chair. The edges too, were frayed with fel markings. The sound of rain was all he could hear as he recalled what had happened. Thunder, lighting, a clash of blades. Legacy had ruined his shortsword, which he had crafted himself, and nearly killed him. All that was left were fading embers of fel markings. Ivan ran his hand over the blade hilt, and it froze with the arcane, suspended in time. Ivan wrapped it in one of the good clothes he could find in his room and placed it in his hammerspace backpack. The gnome hopped off of his chair and pattered out into the streets through his ruined wall. The gnome stopped into a tailor shop and dropped off his fancy vest and white shirt for replacement, and put on his old greaser vest from the Gnomish Special Forces days. Walking along the streets, he entered the Kirin Tor tower, teleporting up a few floors. He opened one large, violet door, the seal of the Kirin Tor eye letting him pass. A few mages, all working at desks, looked up at him. Another approached him politely, smiling.

"What is it we can do for you, sir Archmage?" He asked, and Ivan summoned up the handle. He held it out to the man, who eyed it carefully. "What do you wish for us to do with this, sir?" The man questioned again, and Ivan scratched his beard.

"I need to know where the origin of those markings are. Certainly you can track where they came from, yes?" Ivan asked, hopeful. The man studied in silence for a bit longer, looking through a spying glass.

"I suppose we can, but with such a small sample, we will need about three days to do so. How important is it?" The scryer asked, looking to the gnome.

"Life or death, sir." Ivan stated, and the man nodded, walking back to the largest table as all the other scryers converged on him. Ivan turned and walked out of the doorway, teleporting to ground floor and stepping out into the rain again. Ivan scratched his beard, exhaling slowly as he walked down the stairs, head full of memories from days long past. He rounded around the hold end of the staircase, walking to the back. Behind the tower was a grim door, which was clearly heavy metal, and sealed with the eye of the Kirin Tor, something people have yet to magically break, save Archimonde, who just smashed it all. The door was guarded by two soldiers, both conjured like golems. They gave him not a look as he pushed open the heavy door, using both hands and grunting, passing through the Kirin Tor eye without harm. Down the way was a spiraled walkway, strangely, with torches lighting the way. Ivan began to walk and felt a bit nauseous as his walkway naturally curved and he went along with it, spiraling upsidown and rightside up a few times before he reached the library door, which was normally rightside up. He opened it, and within was a library that extended as far as he could see, rows and rows of books and ancient magic tomes. He moved to one of the shelves, pulled off a book at random and opened it. The book, as he flipped through it, seemed to be an ancient incitement of dark magic, daemonic writings all within it, careful drawings of demons. It seemed to be all hand done work as well.

Ivan closed it and placed it back on the shelf, looking around for some sort of indication of general location. The shelves were all unmarked, and so were most of the books. Ivan wandered here and there, pulling out books whose spines were scrawled with information. The whole place was eerily silent, only a mage visible every other half mile or so. Ivan soon began to float himself on a large book to get where he was going, legs tired. The rest of the books followed him around in order, curving around bookshelf corners and the likes. He eventually had a sizeable collection and came to the center, sitting down at one of the many, many empty tables, opening the first book. It was a book on illusions, and how mages could transform themselves into something else to trick or deceive. He shrugged and continued reading far into the night...

Fireflies dance in the heat of

Hound dogs that bay at the moon.

My ship leaves in the midnight,

Can't say I'll be back too soon.

They awaken far far away,

Heat of my candle show me the way.

Seas of a thousand drawn to her sin,

Seasons of wither holdin' me in.

Chapter VI: Seasons of Wither

"Do you think this is a joke, Archmage Ashholder?"

"Erm.. What?"

"Do you think you can just walk in here not wearing pants and conjure a meeting?"

"I'm wearing pants, sir."

"Preposterous! See, you aren't!"

Ivan looked down, and lo and behold, he was not wearing pants. He looked up, and apparently everyone residing in Dalaran was there, as Ivan's underwear fluttered in the cold breeze. He opened his eyes and fell backwards out of his chair in surprise, scrambling. He was in the Library of the Kirin Tor, which was incredibly dark, the candles dimming themselves when they believed nobody was around. However, as Ivan rolled backwards due to his small shape, the candles gleefully lit up and a few of the books resumed their conversations with each other. He hit one of the endcaps of the bookshelf before he was stabilized, standing up with a dizzy outlook. The gnome scratched his beard, looking back at his table as the mountain worth of books began to fall, having been knocked by his jolted awakening. Before his magic hands could move magic things, they all hit the ground in a flurry of knowledge on paper. However, one he had not gotten to yet rolled, unusual for a book's rectangular form, and fell open, facing upward. The only child of two engineers signed, padding forward on his small feet, to the singular book. As he did, the pages began to stand up on their own in a fan assortment. He stopped, staring at the book. It began to flip through itself, and open to a specific page, and within the next quarter microsecond, all Ivan could see was a rush of blue and purple, and when that subsided, he could feel the wind of movement and the darkness of the library's infinite roof, landing on the ground about thirty feet backwards. He opened his eyes again, who knows how long later, and before him, hovering above the book, was some sort of spirit-magic beast. It was much like a shade, but it's shoulders were not broadened, and the colors were estranged. It was an incredibly thin monster, with long, clawed arms that waved slowly back and forth, as the beast watched Ivan. It's skin was covered in runes, lightly drawn in a lighter blue against its dark purple skin. The runes faded in and out slowly, always shifting. Ivan scrambled up, wincing as the slash across his chest stung like needles. He clenched his fist, waiting.

They waited like this in a standoff for quite some time. As Ivan watched it closely, the beast shot upward, it's lower portion stretching outward and dove down, gliding along the ground at Ivan with a gross top speed, flying to him in silence. Ivan blinked out of the way, rolling behind it. It curved and came at him, as Ivan reared back his fist and flung a huge bolt of ice at it, but it just passed through harmlessly. The beast struck Ivan at the high speed, sending the Gnome flying through the air. He hit a bookshelf, slamming into the books and going through them, hitting the other with his speed incredibly slowed. He fell to the ground and blinked before he hit, landing on his feet a further down. The beast turned around a corner and flew at Ivan, books flying off the shelves in a flurry of snow white paper and leather bound books, as Ivan blinked into another aisle, but the beast just smashed through a shelf and kept at him. Ivan spun around to face it and held up a magic barrier right before it hit him. The beast struck the barrier and was daunted for a second, but launched at Ivan again, passing through the barrier and striking him with a fury. Ivan flew backwards, slamming into a table, his chest burning like fire. The table was smashed and books went everywhere, some of them screaming for dear book-life, and Ivan kept sliding along the ground. The beast struck him in the chest, driving him into the ground with an increasingly crushing force. Ivan cried out in pain, tears welling at his eyes as he felt his ribs beginning to strain. The second one caved in, Ivan vanished. He couldn't portal out of the library due to the Kirin Tor sigil guarding the door. He doubled over where he reappeared, as he could hear the beast swoop upward in it's smoke like form, growing louder and louder. Ivan took a breath, and vanished with the crackle of arcane lingering in the air just as the shade came crashing into the ground, breaking the dark tiles in all directions, sliding. Ivan reappeared near the door, facing the wall. The sound of air moving pushed upward and forward, as Ivan looked up and the shade was flying down the wall he was facing at a top speed. Ivan jumped backwards, as the shade missed the ground by an inch and flew at him. As they held in air, Ivan vanished to the very back, just as the shade was preparing to strike.

The beast came smashing into all of the bookshelves, unable to stop but unable to pass through them. They came smashing down, one by one in a domino effect, as the beast flung through them, catching on the edges just to be pulled out through momentum. Ivan watched as destruction reign through, smashing all. He walked into the center as the beast became level with him through his downfall, and shot out of the side with extreme force, slamming into Ivan. The gnome and the beast were in clutch, the throes of war, as they hit another endcap of a bookshelf, shattering the wood. Ivan punched his fist onto the beast, right where it was striking him. It stuck, yet the beast took no notice. He clenched his arm as ice covered it, spearing into the runic demon, as they pushed through a bookshelf like cutting a vehicle in half. The beast cried out and let go, turning back into intangibility, the ice falling and hitting the ground with a shatter. Ivan rolled out of the bookshelf, landing on the ground on his hands and knees. The shade ripped around, dripping black blood onto the tiles. Ivan rolled out of the way, creating a stream of ice from his hand to the ground, which continued upward and shot at the beast like a snake, narrowly missing. It reaped through the bookshelves and tore at him, as he vanished back into the center isle. The beast slithered sharply through the shelves, dragging its claws on the ground. Ivan took a deep breath and shot out a wave of fire at the beast as it neared. It passed through harmlessly, but Ivan held on, the wave of fire turning into a wall of fire that engulfed everything around him. The shade was caught by the fire just as it was about to strike and engulfed, spraying black blood. Ivan rolled, running through the flames back to the table he had slept at. The shade burst through the lingering fire like a dragon, spearing at him in desperation as the flames clung to it. He lifted up the book that the spirit was contained in, and it caught on fire just as the beast struck him. Ivan rolled through the air, slamming into the tile, another one of his ribs breaking. He looked up, and there was no more beast. Half of the library was on fire, but the Kirin Tor kept a couple magical backups of everything, apparently for this reason. As he sat, a piece of scorched paper fell in front of him. It read:

"Congratulations, sir Ashholder.
While you wait to find the Crimson King, we presented you with your first test to becoming an Archmage.
Whichever one comes first, whether completing the tests or slaying the Crimson King,
will solidify your position as an Archmage of the Kirin Tor.
Be on your guard as you were not the first time. There are four more to go.

Signed,
Archmage Rosemary Gray."

He looked up from reading, and the entire library was back to what it once was. The candles shone brightly and a few books were talking as if nothing had happened. Ivan stood up, dusting himself off and wincing, his ribs and chest stinging, the rest of his body thudding dully in pain. He turned and walked to the door, slowly and surely. The gnome passed through the sigil of the Kirin Tor, the guards paying not much attention to him as he did so. He stepped out into the rain covering Dalaran, blood washing away from his face. The gnome continued through the wet grass, a few people onlooking yet not doing anything. He walked back to his own home, just stepping through the blown out hole that was once his bedroom. He moved into the sitting room and collapsed on the couch, exhaling. He felt around his person for a cigar yet found none, letting his arm hang off, the other resting on his stomach.

"All could have been avoided if I was wearing pants."

He snapped his fingers, and the lights went out.

Well I got one foot on the platform,

The other foot on the train,

I'm going back to New Orleans,

To wear that ball and chain.

Well, there is a house in New Orleans,

They call the Rising Sun,

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,

And God, I know I'm one.

Chapter VII: House of the Rising Sun

My father was an engineer. Created everything I made. My father was a strong man, down in Gnomergan.

"Anythin' can be created, shortstack. All yeh need is a hammer n' some iron, ay say." Bootshine said, quickly hereafter striking a bent plate of iron to warp it outward, the metal glowing the fever of red, the outside edges as white as snow. Sparks jettisoned outward in all directions as he did, bouncing off his mask and beard protector. "Anythin'. Create shit yeh'll never know yeh'll need. Who'da thought yeh'd hold some iron in front of yeh at war? Orc'll think of everythin'. 'Cept they did it with wood, yeh? Well, we've got 'em one better, ah say." He continued, looking over his shoulder at the young gnome. He struck the plate one more time and held it up with his metal plated hands. The crest of Stormwind lay in the center, a blazoned, white hot shield. Flawless.

Ivan awoke, the world turning from the penumbra out of view into clarity as his eyes adjusted. His ruined temporary home came into view, and it was then he realized he was soaking wet. Rain was pouring from a hole in the roof, quietly and steadily. It was raining in Dalaran. He rolled off of the couch, wincing in a pain as his torso bent. He landed on his feet, hardly, and looked at the table in front of him. Laying on top of it was the handle to Legacy, and a note. He opened it, breaking the mystic seal of Dalaran.

"Sir Ashholder,

The blade has been scryed. The location is portkeyed into the handle tip. Just simply touch it to bare skin and you'll be teleported to whence it came. Be careful, however, as we know not where it's from personally. We simply traced the object's markings and remotely keyed it. Dangers may lie in great numbers ahead.

Titan's Blessings,
The Kirin Tor Scrying Team"

Ivan waved his hand and a bottle of red liquid appeared, rolling on the table in a circle as it sat on the bulb, with the opening rolling on the side. He picked it up and took a great drink of it, exhaling a breath of transient red. He stretched as his wounds were healed, and quickly touched the bold handle tip of the blade. All at once, the wisp of teleportation took hold, and he twisted across the ley lines to a port key spot. As the smoke cleared, he viewed where he was. The sky was a looming gray, everything that had the possibility of life was clearly black from necrosis. He himself was on a rotting boardwalk on a tower, the wood creaking loudly from the unexpected weight, however light he was. He was in a certain of all place, Deadwind Pass. The tower was of dark stone and darker mortar, looming over the grayed, unbleached sand. Atop a small staircase of the outreach was a large wooden door, one of which was hanging off the edges. He trotted forward, careful not to disturb anything. The pulse of magic around was faint. Ivan crept inside the height of the tower, looking around. The place was largely abandoned, save for a few tables and a very ugly chair, which was in partial ruin. He looked around, grimacing. No signs of life recently were around at all, by the looks of it. Ivan wiped dust off the table and shook his head, turning around. Along the wall next to the door, however, there was a most curious engraving. Along the wall, in sharp strikes that curved along the stones slowly, was the engraving of an eye, thin and sharp in a strange design.

It engraved in a faint red along the wall, staring off to the right. Ivan pattered up quietly in the throes of silence, and reached up, standing on the tips of his toes. He tapped the eye with his hand, and all the color drained out, vanishing. He shook his head, the pulse of magic completely gone. The gnome closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he was back in his home, the burst of teleportation pushing off the letter of his desk and a few strewn bits of house wreckage. Rain still poured in, the floor within an inch of water. There on the floor, lay the handle of the blade. On the broken edge of the sword, along the tip in a very thin, crimson thread, glowed the pulse of magic upon it. The end of the letter Y was still visible, filled with mana that faded in and out from the lines. Ivan took the blade, wrapping it in a fine cloth and placing it into his hammerspace bag, where it rested in the vaults of the Kirin Tor. He waded through the water to his front door, opening it as water poured out. He simply left it open as he walked into the streets of Dalaran, where a few mages and such walked, covered in anti-material barriers in which the rain poured off of. Ivan waved his right hand, and such rested over his arm a clinking cloak of crystals. He swung it open and over his shoulders, the prismatic cloak deflecting the rain. He walked across the streets silently, the steady rain scattering through the sky. Throughout the city, people occasionally looked, others talked in hushed words to one another. He steadied onward, keeping his head low as rain poured off of the smooth top. He eventually stepped into the tower of the Kirin Tor, around Rhonin's throne, the head of Dalaran gone for the day, and up the majestic stairs, whisking away his prismatic cloak back into nothingness, rain being absorbed by the floor. Ivan Ashholder placed his hand on a stone wall that was inside of an archway, and the bricks all began to sink in through a complicated pattern and design, twisting and turning like locks in keys, as a pathway opened up. He walked through gently, careful not to disturb anything as the archway of stone refolded itself. It did so in silence this time, however, as Ivan walked through the long hallway, flanked on each side by occasional candle stands.

There was a constant, low bellow of ambient noise, growing louder and louder as he walked, approaching a very, very large doorway. It towered over Ivan, and he was incredibly far from the handle and keyhole. He closed his eyes and gently floated upward, manipulating the air around him. It wasn't flying, but it certainly helped. About twenty feet upward, he simply floated through the keyhole of the door, and went back down. Upon sight, the room beyond the towering door was an atrium, rectangular in design, and abrasively empty. It was an intricate stonework at the high ceiling, hardly visible from the ground level. Ivan stood in there alone, and as his feet touched the ground, the atrium sank into a swelling darkness. At his feet the crescent silhouettes of a vibrant blue held on strong. The atrium at this point was in pure darkness, save the light from beneath his feet, and Ivan breathed in, the feel of mana filling the room. Like being hyper-oxygen, the atrium filled with capable mana, his spirit absorbing what had been lost recently, and he closed his eyes as the swirl of the ley lines took hold. He opened them again, and the Atrium was lit up more, yet still the edges and walls were darkened, and the blue still held beneath his feet. The gnome extended his hands, breathed in, and breathed out. From them, tendrils of flame exhumed. From that, they wound together to his opposite sides, extending outward into a pillar of flame. He brought his hands together in a mighty clap, and a wave of fire rolled out. From his lost mana, the atrium refilled his spirit, and the fire continued to burn outward. His eyes closed, Ivan began to clench his muscles, his mind starting to waiver in great focus, the rage of emotion taking hold with the fire element. The flames in front of him flourished out into the darkness until they weren't visible, and at the apex of the cast, Ivan's mind flashed elsewhere, just for a moment. At that time, he saw the Crimson King, exactly where he was, and what he was doing. The living dead poet was sitting on a cacophony of skulls, and at that time, he sharply looked up and around the dark chamber, aware of the connection. Ivan gritted his teeth in a furor, and from his hands expelled a wave of fire that was only like the great fire storms he had once helped control outside of Stormwind.

All at once, he let out a great cry of anguish and rage, the scar across his chest burning like a fire. From his hands unleashed a great wave of flame, burning across the Atrium and bounding across the walls. From it, the great form of a crow burned forth, leading the flame as it swung around and behind Ivan. He dropped his hands, no more fire coming from them, as it continued to move freely, bounding up and around. The bird of flame was nearly fifty feet long and swirled around, before slamming into the wall of the Atrium in a grand flourish, exploding into sparks and loose flame. Ivan collapsed onto his seat, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his eyebrows downward. Flames lingered on the ground and eventually went out, as the mana regained into him. The atrium lit up again, light pouring in from the top once more. The sun came in softly from the height of the tower, as Ivan stood. He turned around, fingertips still sparking slightly, and began to walk to the door. It swung open, slowly and surely, a grand fashion as he continued to walk outward. He moved back outside into the rain, foregoing the prismatic cloak this time around. From the sky, a note fell once more, landing beneath his feet.

"Ashholder,

You have created something powerful, and your working has been observed. Use everything you can in your conquest. Three more trials remain.

R."

Ivan looked up at the sky, just as it began to clear into nighttime, the clouds scattering and the stars piercing through. Miles below and beyond, a man who lived forever looked up at the same sky, gripping a railing. Flourishes of red hung from his shoulders, and in his hand cut the blade of a sword, handleless.

Anski

Anski

Anski

Anski

Anski

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