For every time, there is a season. A time to sow, and a time to harvest. A time to hate, and a time to love. A time to kill, and a time for mercy.
So it is for the City. The Walker looked upon the width and the breadth of its City, and gathered itself, preparing. It was time. The time of preparations were almost complete. It extended its consciousness far and wide, beyond its realm, into the Reality as we know it.
Dalaran, a year ago, just after the demonic incursion into the Vault.
A man in dark clothes smiles as the dwarf lights up a cigar. “Aye, I got what ye’ wanted. N’sure how ye knew tha’ attack was going to happen, but ye payin’ me enough t’ not ask any questions. As long as ye got the rest…”
The dark man nods under his hood, and places a heavy sack on the table. The tinkle of gold is heard from the sack, and the dwarf puts his hand on the sack. The dark man’s grasp does not relent, however. “My request?”
The dwarf grimaces, and places a large, leaden box on the table. “Fine. Don’ open it near me. Or in here.”
“Of course not, Master Pyre.”
The Dark Iron hesitates a moment, then nods. The dark man’s grip releases the sack, and the dwarf takes the gold, humming to himself as he puffs on the cigar.
The dark man smiles and picks up the large leaden box, walking out the door. The prize secure, the Master’s Goal achieved, and for the time in so long, he hears its voice.
“Our time begins…”
Thirteen years before the War of The Spider.
The Beast scuttled through the dark once more, chasing the fleeing spider lord. Juicy, wonderful meats. The wonderful things he found in deep below the earth, gifts from the Master. The claws tore about the shell of the fellow Nerubian, and the Beast buried his fangs into the sweet, sweet flesh. The screams, cut too short too soon, were long and warbling, before fading to silence and the crunching, sucking sound of flesh and fluid flowing into his mandibles.
The hunger abated, just for now. It was always with him, his constant companion. The hunger was a gift from the Master as well. It kept him sharp. Kept his instincts strong, his strength up. Soon, his Master’s constant voice always said. Soon.
It could never be soon enough, he thought, as he tossed the spider lord’s corpse to the side. When, he always thought. When?
“Our time begins…”
The Beast chittered in sudden, hungry excitement. Now was the time. Now was the time.
He would dig. He knew what to do. It was time to dig, and dig, and dig, and dig…
Tiragarde Sound, Now.
She smiled as she looked over at the young pandaren, who was currently wandering towards the keep. She was a cutie. She hoped her Master might save her for last. The Master was kind like that. If only the Master was available….
She shivered a bit, thinking of her Master. It wasn’t right, she knew, but she didn’t care. Why should anyone care what anyone thought. All that mattered was the Master’s will, and that’s why she followed it. Ever since she found It three hundred years ago, it was the best (most terrifying) thing that ever happened to her in her life.
So she sighed, gripped her daggers, and watched the Pandaren.
“Our time begins…”
The not-young young lady gasped silently for a moment, the presence entering and exiting her mind just as rapidly. He heart raced in sudden surge of love (fear), and nodded to herself. Not the time to lose control of herself. Not yet, at least. Maybe later tonight. She walked to the Pandaren, as she was distracted looking for some sort of arcane material, and dropped a Tirasgarde coin in the Pandaren’s coin purse, and walked on.
The chaos would be…. Glorious.
Thirty years from Now, location Unknown.
She smiled. She knew what was coming, she’d read about it in her own diary. It was what she needed. She would begin as she waited the call.
She patted her grandson, kissed him on the forehead. She would miss him, she knew. But her faith demanded it. And he would understand. She left everything to him, and he would save her… or he wouldn’t.
The Void knew.
She moved to the outside, looking upon the patio, feeling the edges of the cobblestones with her bare feet.
She knew she put her hands on the railing before the call came, and she hesitated. She knew what she had to do, but failing now, failing in any part of the path, would damn them all.
She couldn’t do that. Her faith demanded that she walk the path. She’d already walked it, a thousand times. The first step was always the hardest, she told herself, but knew that was a lie. The path was long, and it was hard.
But she was ready.
“Our time Begins…”
She took a breath, as the portal opened, and she walked through.
It was time. Before the harvest, the seeds must be sown.
It released Its hold, and returned to its realm, the communications have been sent.
The City creaked, as the last piece of the puzzle came together.
Just outside the City, a woman clad in deep red robes the color of dried blood walked to the Gates of Tragedy, a massive grey stone block hovering close. Her lips, colored the same as arterial spray from a cut throat, parted in a blithe smile as she saw the gates and who was there to greet her.
The Marquis bowed deeply to the Lady in Red as she approached, and he waved to the Gates. There was a screech of pain as the gate of living flesh and torn bone creaked open, and the Marquis waved a hand to the City.
“The Agreement of Tarask stands. The Walker awaits you at your pleasure, Lady Claret. Welcome back to the City.”