Eric wandered the smooth streets of Dalaran almost in a daze. Though recently rebuilt, too little of the city had changed and he found this to his liking. Oh, certainly, this was the place he'd been brutally gored by demons and revived as a mindless servitor of the Scourge, but why let that little incident mar his fondness for the city he'd come to think of as his home? Especially when he still had such good friends still living here...

He came to a halt in front of a stately mansion in one of Dalaran's residential districts. He sidled up to the door and knocked. A sour-looking old man answered, obviously a servant by his livery. It took only minimal persuasion to arrange a meeting with the master of the house; Eric always did have a way with words. Not in the poetic sense, maybe, but certainly in the devious, gently insinuating sense.

---

Archmage Gregory Denmore gave nervous little glances towards the door. Even through three walls, he could feet Eric's presence flooding him with anxiety.

"Did he say what he wants?" Denmore asked for the third time, shifting nervously.

"No, m'lord," the long-suffering servant answered, suppressing a sigh. "Perhaps it is merely a friendly visit."

"A friendly visit!" Denmore exclaimed theatrically. "When does Eris Wyliss ever make house calls without some horrid plan in mind?"

The servant did not answer.

"I suppose it is best you call him here," Denmore acquiesced. It had always been a strategy of his to invite guests into his lab. If a conversation veered into unpleasant territory, he could always pretend to be at a vital stage in his experiment and usher them out. And, also, because it made him look much more busy and important than he normally was.

Thus Eric was brought in. His appearence proved a shock to Denmore, however. Though the servant hadn't failed to mention Eric's divorce from life, the reality of the issue was something else to behold.

"Oh, my..."

"Yes, I know," Eric grinned mischievously. "As charming as I ever was, hmm?"

"Ah, Eric, quite good to see you... it's been... years, I think." Denmore took out a handkerchief from his robe pocket and dabbed at his forehead. When had he started sweating so profusely?

"Ten years, by my count," Eric agreed. "My, how things do change, don't they?"

"Hah, yes, yes, my friend," Denmore laughed nervously.

Eric casually strolled about the room as he spoke, studying beakers and crystals, gently tapping furniture and making appreciative noises at the quality of the wood. This seemed to increase Denmore's nervosity.

"I mean, things have obviously changed for me, haven't they?" Eric gave his jovial black grin again, the one that made the living recoil slightly.

"I-- I'm sorry--"

"Don't be," Eric interrupted with an indifferent gesture. "It's much better than living, really. I have not as much need for food, drink or sleep as I did before and thus I have more opportunity to expand my... business interests."

"Ah..." Denmore gulped nervously and leaned heavily on one of the tables.

"Besides, if business turns sour, it's easier to get patched back together than if I were still living," the undead priest added.

"Of course..."

"And what about you, Gregory? Life has been treating you well, I see." Eric turned to Denmore and continued effusively, "And you're an Archmage now! Quite an honour! A true testament to your skills, if ever there was! You must garner quite a bit of respect, I imagine."

"Ah-- yes, I--" Denmore gulped again, licked his lips nervously and straightened up, trying, perhaps, to look stately. "I'm doing quite well, thank you."

"A very impressive feat for someone who, a mere ten years ago, could not even complete his certification."

Denmore's relatively calm expression crumbled completely.

"I knew it! I knew it! You wouldn't be here, otherwise! You vile, vulgar little miscreant! I knew this was why you were here! No! No, I couldn't be certified as a mage! So?! So what?! Do you know-- do you know the things I've done for this city? Do you know the skills I've acquired? Do you know how much I deserve this title?!"

As he ranted, Denmore's face turned increasingly red and his breathing increasingly labored and he had to stop for air, even if it was obvious he had quite a bit more in mind.

Eric, for his part, managed to look completely astonished at this tirade.

"By the Light, Gregory, what is this all about?" the undead asked, looking genuinely surprised. "I was merely commenting on your progress since then! What did you think I was here to do?"

"I--" Denmore suddenly felt very foolish. Had he misjudged Eric? "I am sorry, but I've feared this scandal for a very long-- I am sorry for my outburst."

"Not at all," Eric shrugged. "I can only imagine the scandal, of course. You are right to fear it."

Denmore could say nothing more and merely nodded, sinking into a chair.

"I mean, should word get out, even a whisper-- good word, what if any of the old archives survived? Some curious little rat might poke his nose around and find all sorts of unsavory details from your student years-- Oh, don't look so worried, Gregory. For now, all those little stories are locked up in here--" Eric tapped his skull, which gave a sickening hollow sounds, "--and Light knows I would only entrust these secrets to someone else in death."

Denmore's hand twitched at Eric's words, but the spell died on his lips when he realised Eric was too smart to walk into a potentially dangerous situation without a sound contingency plan in place. He sighed.

"Anything I could help you with, Eric?" the Archmage asked in a strangely hollow voice.

"Why, fancy you should ask," Eric grinned. "I was just on the look-out for someone to sponsor a trip!"

---

Eric left the Denmore mansion with a hefty pouch of gold on his belt. Unbeknownst to him, he'd just proven Zidorah's point; extortion was, from a legal standpoint, something they were better off not knowing about.

---

Zidorah, much to her companions' surprise, had lead them straight towards the elegant spires of the Violet Citadel.

"Wat be da aunt's name?" Jan'ree asked, eyes boggling at the imposing building. Having grown up around the small and practical troll huts, he was completely mystified as to the purpose of these behemoths other species were in the habit of building. Perhaps because humans were so short, they felt the need to compensate by making their buildings exceedingly tall. Perhaps they were compensating for other things, besides height.

At any rate, Zidorah's answer floated over her shoulder, "Archmage Modera."

Jan'ree and Ogdor looked at each other. They had only a vague notion of Dalaran's leadership, most of it information that Zidorah had supplied them with. The name sounded somewhat familiar to both of them, though neither was exactly sure why.

"Impohtant lady, I tek it," Jan'ree commented.

"Oh, yes, one of the longest standing members of the Six," Zidorah replied airily.

Ogdor shot a questioning look at Jan'ree, but the troll shrugged and shook his head. The information did not reveal anything to him either.

"Wait here," Zidorah indicated to them as they came up to the entrance. "I will go and talk to her myself."

Ogdor and Jan'ree complied. They drew close to a wall and waited there, watching assorted adventurers of the Horde and Alliance pass by, receiving acknowledging glances from the former and suspicious looks from the latter.

But the minutes seemed to stretch, until nearly an hour and a half had passed and Jan'ree started wondering if boredom was a terminal condition. While Ogdor could sit still for hours at a time, the troll was more on the active side and patience was not a condition that afflicted him. Just as he threw baleful glances at the orc, envying his serenity, Eric appeared, shuffling along and giving Jan'ree something to distract him, at least momentarily.

"Ah, I see you've been waiting a while," the Forsaken observed unnecessarily.

"And where, may I ask, did you skulk off to?" Ogdor growled in return, demonstrating that Jan'ree wasn't the only one bored out of his mind.

"Just replenishing my funds," Eric replied with a shrug and a pat on his purse. By the heavy clink of coin, it sounded full of gold.

Ogdor only growled in return.

"Ya t'ink Zidorah ran inta trouble?" Jan'ree asked suddenly.

"Hmm? No, not really, I don't think. But gaining an audience with one of the Six is usually a bit time-consuming." Eric looked up at the Violet Citadel. "Still, Rovana and Thomas are the only ones intimately acquainted with Brittlecog's experiments and since nobody's heard from them since they left with the Proudmoore expedition, Rovana's aunt is the only possible link we have to them."

Jan'ree perked slightly upon hearing the Proudmoore expedition being mentioned.

"Did they fight at Hyjal?" Ogdor asked, just as Jan'ree was about to.

"I don't know. Possibly." Eric mulled on this for a moment. "They had a knack for hopeless causes. The fact that they left Dalaran, considered the safest city

in the world at the time, in order to join up with survivors and refugees in search of some mythical continent, proves they were not thoroughly invested in their own safety."

"But wasn' Dal'ran sacked by da Scourge, mon?" Jan'ree pointed out.

Eric didn't quite sputter, though he looked close to doing so. "Dalaran was a great city, filled to the brim with practitioners of the arcane! When I chose to stay, I made a calculated decision that should have ensured my survival."

"An' now ya rottin' on yah feet," Jan'ree snickered.

"A coward's reward, indeed," Ogdor added.

Eric looked just about to shoot off a nasty comment when his jaw suddenly clamped shut and he flung himself behind Ogdor. The orc blinked at this and looked to see what had spooked the undead so. Zidorah was coming, accompanied by an unassuming human woman in light armor.

The human woman-- Rovana's aunt, Archmage Modera, they guessed-- had grey hair styled in a bun and moved quite gracefully, despite her age. As they approached, Zidorah introduced her, confirming who she was.

"Pleased to meet you," Modera said, bowing her head regally. "And hello again, Mr. Wyliss."

An undignified squeak was heard from behind Ogdor's bulk, and not even the squeak of joints that many undead emitted. No, this was the squeak of a child caught hiding from an angry teacher and Eric made no move to reveal himself even after being discovered, prompting Ogdor to take a generous step to the side.

Eric froze in place under Archmage Modera's level gaze.

"Ah-- Oh, m'lady-- er, ma'am-- Archmage-- ma'am-- I wasn't hiding!"

The three other Hordelings watched in amusement as Eric's smooth facade crumbled completely when faced with this calm, almost kindly human female.

"I wasn't implying you were," the Archmage responded, perking an eyebrow. "I was merely greeting you. Surely, you have recovered fully from our last... encounter... Yes?"

"Yes. Yes, ma'am, absolutely, recovered, yes, yes, ma'am--"

By this point, it was obvious that whatever had happened during that encounter must have been something more than merely a polymorph spell, if it traumatised him in such a manner. Eric's panicked babble was interrupted by Zidorah giggle-snorting loudly. Eric threw her a sharp look. What happened next was, perhaps, a bit out of character for the business man, who was always so solicitous of his own well-being. But it happened, nonetheless.

"And that's enough from you," he hissed towards the blood elf, "Zidorah'maralla'diriminia Duskweaver."

Zidorah balked instantly. Archmage Modera's lip twitched almost imperceptibly. Eric seemed to come to the realisation that another polymorph spell was coming his way.

And indeed, in the next moment, where once stood a Forsaken priest, a rotting sheep took his place.

"Never use my full name, ever again!" Zidorah shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at the sheep, who seemed to be nodding rapidly. Then, just as quickly, the blood elf kicked said sheep, which turned back into a slightly more shaken-up priest.

"I say, either Mr. Wyliss needs to watch himself, or he needs to stop being around mages," Modera noted, with some amusement.

"Possibly both," Zidorah added angrily. She then shot the most frightening looks she'd ever given to Ogdor and Jan'ree. The orc merely blinked, but the troll raised his hands appeasingly.

"Ken't even pronounce dat name, girl. Ya ain't nevah hearin' it from me."

Ogdor nodded as well, while on the ground, Eric moaned. Changing shape so rapidly had given him psychosomatic stomach flips (because his stomach had not been alive in the traditional sense for nearly a decade) and it was probably for the best he did not get up right away. Vomit is, as a matter of course, disgusting. Undead vomit is something to be genuinely feared.

"Good." The blood elf calmed visibly and gestured towards the human at her side. "Now, Archmage Modera has graciously offered to make a portal for Booty Bay, where Rovana was last seen."

"She been tah Booteh Bey befo'?" Jan'ree asked, trying to picture this harmless-looking old lady in the racuous goblin port city.

"Vestiges of an adventurous youth, I'd wager," Eric muttered darkly.

"He learns slowly, doesn't he?" Modera sighed.

"More like he probably knows you don't kick a dog while he's down," Zidorah shrugged.

That, at least, seemed true, because despite the slight, Modera made no motion to punish Eric.

"Good luck on your journey," the Archmage said, instead, and with sparks of arcane light, a portal appeared, the edge just close enough to Eric to singe his robes a bit.

---

---

Author's note: The delay in updates has been mostly caused by apathy. Meh. But two of my favorite authors have updated their fics lately and that reminded me that I still had this thing to finish. Honestly, guys, we were supposed to be well on our way to finding Thomas already, but Eric keeps side-tracking me! (That's also the reason I was so cruel to him this chapter...) And now I have an idea for another fic, inspired by the info about the next expansion and I REALLY need to finish "The Good Old Days" because it isn't even supposed to be that long, in the first place. I think we only have two or three more chapters to go, max, and I must seriously get my ass into gear.