[below are completely canon things that should be considered completely canon. jk]


     With the excursion to Ulduar on at least a temporary hiatus, the long days in the Jade Forest had been rather tranquil. Zaanthe had little reason to travel far from the hut that Mosur called his home, and with the shaman and Saashenka away gathering groceries, Zaanthe had time to himself with his recent injuries to thank. He toyed with the tools at the table, the small shaping hammer and a pair of pliers giving him something to idle with. Clearing some room, he placed his palm down on the wood and closed his eyes.


     Memories flooded the vindicator, vivid stills of the ambient glow of crystals aboard the Exodar meshing with sweeping panoramas of what was once the plains of Farahlon. These landscapes seemed to linger for a while, but they soon faded and left. Their remnants formed a horrid mesh of broken planets, slain masses and a sickly green flame that were all soon encased in snow and ice, beset on all sides by tall arena walls.


     It had been almost three years. Three years since that feeling of being torn through the nether and re-emerging to face a group of grizzled and stern-faced adventurers, a handful of them those had had betrayed him. Ones loyal to the elder who had given up the destiny of his people, following the misguided priest. The fight that ensued was astonishing and terrible. Fel fire peeled flesh away from bone, corruption took root in pure souls, and monstrous creatures of the nether brought death to those who stood in their blistering infernos.


      Though, for all the effort brought forth that day, much was lost.


    'The men and women of Azeroth are quick to assume victory.', spoke the roiling voice of The Beautiful One. 'Stay on task. Ashjir modas bethad'lun.' The corner of the Man'ari's lips curved upward into a grin as the final blow was struck against him, his last few words taunting those who bested the Eredar lord;


     "Another will take my place. Your world is doomed."




     “Ered'nash havik yrthog.”, the voice that came forth from the vindicator's mouth was significantly different than usual. A far more grating and guttural rumble. “They know nothing. When your orders are given, I will drive the blade of our assault deep into the heart of the mortal races, and they shall know naught but sorrow and ruin. Our destiny shall soon be taken, by my hand. Galtak Ered'nash!”


     A foul green flame had spread from the vindicator's palm pressed against the table to coat the furnishings, yet none of it burned away. The blue that burned brightly in Zaanthe's eyes now blazed a fierce yellow and red, his lips peeled back to bare a malevolent grin. With a push against the table, the vindicator stood. The flames withdrew as he closed his eyes and the room's ambient light rid itself of the fel taint. Glancing down toward his hand, Zaanthe's tone returned to its unaltered pitch, smooth once more.


     “Insignificant gnats.”

Author Zaanthe
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