It wasn’t often that Zaanthe found himself walking through the streets of Stormwind. He wasn’t a great fan of the city, in truth; he thought it dull and unremarkable. A color-washed grey that did little to inspire any emotion in the draenei, but the city did have its uses. Work was easy to find where the population was denser, after all. The vindicator wasn’t paying much attention to the world around him by the time the stranger popped out and started speaking to him.
“Hello! Festive Hallow’s End to you!”
Bright silver eyes widened as the scarecrow man spoke, though soon his expression soon returned to its usual, frowning state. Zaanthe’s reply came as a single flat-toned question.
“Who are you?” he asked, unimpressed with both the strange man’s outfit and his decision to interact with him.
“Are you familiar? Familiar with the tale? The tale of how the barriers weaken this time of year, of how close we are to the other side? Or how close the other side is to us?”
“Why are you talking like that? What’s wrong with you? … Did Mosur put you up to this? Did he pay you?” the vindicator demanded to know in a flurry of questions. He seemed to lack the same authority that his voice once had. Perhaps an extended time away from the fighting had finally dulled his edge. “No, Mosur wouldn’t waste his money like that,” Zaanthe answered himself, narrowing his gaze. “Firebrand. She put you up to this, didn’t she? Where is she?” he then asked again, gaze snapping about to look around. No-one he recognized was nearby.
“Tell me one of the tales you’ve heard–tell me and then come join us for our Hallow’s End party!”
Furrowing his brow, Zaanthe eventually gave a nod. “Fine. I’ll tell a story, and you’ll take me over towards whoever’s tipped you off to act like a escapee from a local institution,” he grumbled. The draenei took a deep breath to settle himself, then began to recant an old story from his days training with the Hand of Argus.
Zaanthe straightened out somewhat, rolled his shoulders, and carried on.
“One such problem happened when an exarch’s partner fell in battle. Her soul was used to power a Vigilant that patrolled outside of the Temple of Karabor, watching over the new recruits and trainees. As such, the exarch never liked to travel far from Karabor. He liked to be close to his lover’s soul. He even spoke of communing with her, about how she relieved the woes of his days. Rumors began to spread that he spend all of his free time sitting with the Vigilant, talking to it. The priests of Karabor weren’t too fond of this, of course, and tried to have him relocated. A plea was put through to the high priests, and the next day, the exarch was due to be sent to Farahlon.”
“Evidently, though, he found out about his fate. That next morning, trainers woke to find the Vigilant’s arms covered in dark blue stains, and the exarch’s sword was planted in the ground nearby, as though willingly discarded. No-one knows what happened, in truth. It was all hearsay.”
The vindicator took another moment to pause.
“The exarch was never found, and the Vigilant was never the same. It was as though it were controlled by two forces, constantly unsure how to act. It was decommissioned soon afterward, but its husk remained there for some time. Recruits often said they’d find it walking about at night to hunt down couples who would sneak off together and take their souls into its form. Worked pretty well to keep them on the straight-and-narrow.”
With that, Zaanthe gave a quick huff and brought himself back into the here-and-now. “Alright,” he grumbled. “Take me to the party. I want to know who sent you to bug me.”
Attend the party