"Good morning, Miss Cassie."

"Good morning, Mr. Spencer."

Simon, age nineteen and hair dark as night, flitted between the booths of the marketplace. Cassandra was on the opposite side of a fruit cart, inspecting the apples.

"Will you be making a pie, Miss Cassie?" Simon asked eagerly, his blue eyes glittering as he watched her. She was magnificent.

"I am," Cassandra responded, not really giving him her full attention. "Don't you have some horses to shoe, or somesuch?"

"I do," Simon admitted. "But I was wondering, Miss Cassie—" he maneuvered around the vendor's cart to confront her. "—I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to the Brewfest this weekend."

"Well…" Cassandra considered, hesitant.

"I'll win you a wolpertinger," Simon promised.

"Oh, really?" she grinned. "From what I've seen, that takes a sufficient amount of alcohol."

"Indeed it does, Miss Cassie." Simon beamed at her. He was ecstatic. It seemed she was actually considering accepting his invitation. He'd asked her out several times before, but was repeatedly shot down. Most of her excuses typically involved something about father's hair-trigger temper.

"Hmmmm."

"Please do me the honor, Miss Cassie."

"Alright, alright," she laughed. "But on one condition."

"Anything."

"Carry this." She handed over her fruit basket, and Simon took it eagerly. They strolled around the market together for several hours, discussing current events, the weather, and asking questions of each other. They settled for lunch at the small open-air extension of the pub.

"Where is your father?" Simon asked tentatively as he raked through his baked chicken breast with mushroom sauce. "There must be some explanation as to why you're willing to interact with me today."

Cassandra laughed, the sound clear and high, music to Simon's ears. He could make her laugh. That was good.

"You're so clever," she chided. "My father is away for a few weeks. So yes, I'm allowing myself a few liberties." Simon grinned.

"You must understand," she continued sternly. "As long as I reside with him I must obey his rules." She didn't elaborate, but it wasn't difficult for Simon to read between the lines—her father didn't want her fraternizing with a farm boy. She was of the higher-class sort, but that didn't intimidate him in the least.

"…Then perhaps you should move out," Simon suggested, gnawing on a thigh bone. Cassandra gasped.

"Mr. Spencer, you are too bold," she whispered with a subtle grin. He returned the smile, admiring her features. Her hair was like spun gold, light and airy in the afternoon sun. It almost hurt him to look at her, for the ache grew overwhelming at times.

He'd known from the first moment he saw this girl, he would marry her. He knew they could make each other happy for a lifetime.

Spencer and Constantina rode side-by-side through the Plaguelands, their horses plodding steadily down the decrepit cobblestone path. Malek and the trolls were ahead, deep in their own conversation. From what Spencer could tell, they were still trying to determine a concrete strategy. He rolled his eyes.

"So," Constantina finally broke the silence as they casually lumbered along. "Why a rogue?"

Spencer was thoughtful for a few moments. "Well," he began, "I never had much use for magic. Never really good at it, either. I was always pretty good with my hands, though…with tools. I was athletic…" he trailed off, thinking back to his younger days.

"Do you remember much? From before?"

"Before we were released from the Scourge?"

Constantina nodded.

Spencer furrowed his brow. "Not really. It got to the point where I dreaded sleeping. So I just stopped. I was having constant, horrific nightmares…I'm not sure if they were memories. Not that we really need to sleep anyway, but it's force of habit, you know? Routine." Constantina nodded again.

"But lately," Spencer continued without thinking, "My dreams have been much more—" he stopped.

"Much more what?"

"I…er, not so scary," he said quickly. "I've been sleeping much better." He had noticed a definitely change in his energy lately. He felt more vibrant, more alert.

He returned her inquiry. "So, why a warlock?"

Constantina turned her gaze away from him and looked straight ahead, her features slack. The side of Spencer's face twitched; she'd had a similar reaction when he asked why she looked so well-preserved. He expected her to shut down the line of conversation once again.

"I suppose I did say I'd tell you the story," she murmured, barely audible over the clopping of the horses.

"Well, you said we'd talk."

She stared ahead for several moments, as if trying to determine where to begin.

"I had eaten the infected grain," she finally said, her voice rigid. This hardly surprised Spencer; this had been the case with many undead. He already had many questions, but he let her continue.

"I didn't realize it was infected, of course. I learned afterward, when we discovered the soldiers were coming." She seemed to sag a bit in the saddle as she recounted her experience.

"They slaughtered everyone," she breathed, her shoulders quavering.

Spencer looked at her seriously. He felt an impulse to reach over to her, but instead tightened his fists around his reins.

"My entire family," she said, struggling to regain her composure. "Everyone except for me, because I ran. And then," she said matter-of-factly, "I killed myself."

Spencer jerked his head up to look at her in surprise. "…What?"

"I fled into the Alterac Mountains," she went on. "I refused to be run through like some ailing animal. After I'd seen my parents slain like defective cattle, I couldn't stand the thought of enduring the same luck. So I decided I would kill myself rather than allow those butchers the satisfaction.

"There was a frozen lake; all I had to do was tread on the thinnest parts of the ice until I fell through. And that— " she shrugged—"that was it." She paused for a moment to straighten her posture and flip her hair back over her shoulder.

"Of course, it didn't really matter in the end. We all came back anyway. I naively thought that if they couldn't find my body, then it wouldn't be desecrated."

She was visibly angry now, and Spencer was a total loss for words.

"And why a warlock?" he asked again, after she seemed a little more collected. Constantina coughed out a short, bitter laugh.

"I tried everything. The priests sure as hell didn't want me. The mages shunned me. And—no offense—but could you imagine me as a rogue? Or a warrior?" She didn't wait for him to answer.

"No…it seems that since I had the audacity to off myself, to commit suicide, it seemed I was only 'worthy' of powers suitable for Hell. Holy magic refused to course through my veins."

"I never knew it worked like that," Spencer said with quiet surprise.

"Well," she said stiffly, "I suppose we all get what we deserve."

"None of us deserved this," he snapped.

Constantina fell silent; Spencer was having a difficult time trying to decide how he felt about her story. He reminded himself that he too had once tried to kill himself, despite the fact that he was already a corpse.

Before they'd realized it, the entrance to the palatial Scholomance loomed before them, the stench of time and decay emanating forth. The air was thick with a vague odor reminiscent of vomit. The group dismounted and stood before the heavy wooden door, mentally preparing themselves for the skirmishes that lay ahead. Now that they were lingering in the doorway, the reality of Spencer's impending vengeance suddenly struck him. He felt empowered. He felt lethal. And he knew that in the end, he would feel triumph.

"Anyone have the key?" he asked.

Everyone looked around at each other.

"You've got to be kidding," Malek snorted. "Spence, can't you pick it?"

Sighing, the rogue pulled out a leather kit. He unrolled it out onto the ground, and selected two funny hook-ish tools. He worked at the lock for a good five minutes or so, interchanging utensils, until he hit the door with his fist in vexation.

"I can't pick it. It's a bicentric cylinder."

"What the hell does that mean?" Constantina asked.

"It has two plugs and two sets of pin chambers instead of one. And the lever pack has some sort of security barrel around it. We don't get training for that…and needless to say, the tool kits we get are pretty substandard."

"So you're saying you only have rudimentary lock pick training?" Summertree asked scornfully.

"The locks in Azeroth aren't usually too challenging," Spencer retorted. "Most of the time we're only asked by people like you to open up cache chests and lockboxes."

Everyone looked around at each other again. The group stood in silent deliberation for several moments, trying to resolve their dilemma. Sighing, Spencer leaned against the door, puzzled and distraught. Perhaps, if they were lucky, someone else with business here would arrive with a key. And then, of course, he would kill them and take it.

Cassandra had been the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He'd first met her in the marketplace when he was a teenager, but it wasn't until he was twenty-two when he finally convinced her to be his wife. He never thought he could love someone so unconditionally.

They'd tried for years to start a family, with no success. When the idea of becoming parents began slipping away into futility, Cassandra finally conceived. It occurred to Spencer now that she may have invoked some sort of dark magic to achieve that. It didn't matter. He had loved his son. He had loved his wife. And now, he had neither. He was left with nothing but a cursed state of decrepit immortality.

Constantina reminded him of his younger years, during a time when he was carefree and in love. He hated that. He hated that she invoked that foolish sense of peace within him. He didn't want to be at peace. He wanted to complete his mission and have his closure. He wanted his retribution, to balance the scale; to pay what was owed. It was so ingrained within his being that it was difficult now for him to imagine any other sort of existence.

He snorted. The thought of an undead 'living' happily and carefree was completely ridiculous. What was his purpose in undeath, if not to punish those that had wronged him?

"I need your finger," Constantina's voice came, disrupting his thoughts.

"Wha-at?" Spencer said in alarm. She grabbed his hand, folding all his fingers back except his index. Turning, she maneuvered his hand and leaned back onto it, so that his jagged digit was pushing up under her shoulder blade.

"Ahhh, yes," she encouraged. "That muscle always bothers me after riding."

Spencer was rigid with terror, blinking rapidly. After a pause and a great deal of hesitation, he shifted his hand to press his thumb into her back to facilitate the massage. Malek, still struggling with the door, turned and stared wide-eyed at him.

"Mm," she heaved a sigh and lolled her head to the side. He watched as she craned her neck, her hair falling away. There was something vaguely familiar about this…

He held his breath as he gently kneaded the tense muscle with the blunt side of his thumb. He pushed deeply and slowly, in a wide circular motion. She exhaled slowly in relief, and leaned back toward him a bit more. There was some sort of ignition within him then, and that's when he knew it was imperative he stop. Abruptly, he pulled his hand away.

"Excuse me," Constantina complained. "But that was hardly a decent back-rub."

"Sorry," he said unconvincingly. "I'm a rogue, not a masseuse." She turned and gaped at him, visibly irate. With that, he simply turned and walked away.

That had been too much. Even the evening prior by the fire had been too much. He'd been careless. Sloppy. He'd let it get out of hand, and he couldn't allow it to continue.

Bitterly annoyed with himself, he stalked off into the forest, ignoring the inquiries of concern by his comrades. After several moments, he stopped to lean against a tree, too disgusted to go any further.

A hand gently gripped his shoulder. It was Constantina; of course she had followed him. He knew without looking. It was always her. She was always there.

"What do you want?" he growled, refusing to turn his head.

"…I'm sorry," she said, barely audible. "For whatever I did."

He looked back at her then, his eyes searing. "What makes you think it's anything to do with you?"

Well, it was, really. If she'd never come on this ridiculous jaunt, he wouldn't have had any problems. He would have been distraction-free. He could have been as cold and ruthless as was required, without being burdened by unwise ruminations. He would have been focused. He felt impeded.

Constantina raised a condescending eyebrow. "Come now. I'm not blind. I may be undead, but I'm still a woman. I'm still capable of sensing…things."

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath as she drew her fingertips lightly down his back.

"Please go," he rasped.

"No," she murmured. There was no tenacity or defiance in her voice, only quiet patience.

Spencer narrowed his eyes at her, examining her expression. This was panning out to be, yet another, confrontation.

It was pointless to ask her what she wanted from him—he already knew. It his opinion, she had a silly little crush. Silly and insignificant. He knew that he could not give her what she needed—he was no longer capable of providing that sort of care for someone. He'd succumbed to that sort of emotion before, and he was left with nothing but darkness and revulsion. He'd been ruined.

He searched Constantina's face, and finally, he slowly shook his head.

"I…can't," he said in a low voice.

"But you can," she insisted. "You're so hellbent on vengeance that you've forgotten how to be happy." She clasped her hands and looked at her feet. "Deep inside, you're still a man. That hasn't changed."

It all sounded too simplistic to Spencer. Too foolish. Too wishy-washy. Happiness?

"Happiness…is a luxury," he snapped, curling his lip. "This isn't a fairytale. We are at war. There are evil creatures in this world that insist on destroying everything that matters. It's not realistic to anticipate or afford something as trivial as personal happiness." He spat the word with disgust. Constantina blinked at him.

"Trivial?" she echoed. "Are you a masochist? You're the only one keeping yourself shackled. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you're still capable of every human aspect. I've seen it in you, Simon."

The all-too-familiar spark of vehemence began to rise within Spencer once again.

"I am not human," he snarled. "They betrayed us. Took everything away that we loved. Condemned us."

Constantina gazed at him sadly, and he couldn't stand to look at her. The look on her face was too much like pity.

Ruffled, he turned and began to trudge away. Something occurred to him then, and he turned back momentarily.

"Why are you so content to just let your family's death go unpunished?" he asked.

"I'm not," she admitted. "I'm not content at all. But if I let it consume me, then I'm no better than those that have been committing these atrocities."

Spencer faltered a bit at her words.

"That's how I know," she continued. "That we're not still cold, mindless corpses incapable of compassion or remorse. We can make choices. We have free will."

The rogue looked at her wordlessly for several moments. He was unsure of what to say.

"I need to do this," he finally uttered, trembling slightly. "She took everything from me."

"I know," Constantina affirmed. "We're all here to help you, remember?"

Spencer set his jaw as she approached. "Is that really why you're here?" he inquired. "To 'help' me?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

Constantina heaved an exasperated sigh. "Because I care about you, Simon. I know you've never really considered me a friend aside from being guildmates, but it's hard for me to see you so tormented."

Spencer closed his eyes. He refused to perpetuate her girlish infatuation. She didn't know him. She didn't realize what he was capable of, and how completely frightening and unattractive those things were. It was sad, really.

Simon Spencer hadn't always been a rogue. In life, he had not been a holy paladin of the light, nor one of the king's brave soldiers. He'd never been adept at wielding magic, nor did he have the desire to be. He'd been a simple farmer, who enjoyed simple pleasures. He tended orchards, raised horses, milked cows and goats, and planted his crops.

His demise, however, had some adverse effects on him. The death of his son and betrayal of his wife had warped his personality. After his awakening, he was reclusive and avoided most public areas. He shrank away into the shadows from passers-by, out of sight and out of mind. His fascination with the glittering dagger was the ultimate decisor for his profession, along with his ability to fade away into nothingness.

He'd been used as a horrible tool indeed, and once he'd regained his individuality, he was left with nothing but fear, hate, and a thirst for revenge.

"Just remember, Simon," Constantina said as she turned to rejoin the group. "Things can change. Things always change. And I'm going to prove to you right now just how helpful I can be."