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| Details |
| Author: | Mishell |
| Summary: | A speech delivered by Captain Zath Tyrrell of the 7th Legion to the members of the Stormwind House of Nobles. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Ringside Seats
Six years ago, after the battle of Mount Hyjal, this House voted to legalize the study of fel magic and use it on behalf of the Alliance. Once that vote was passed, you moved onto the next. Meanwhile, twenty men and women, veteran mages and priests without families or dependents, volunteered to become the first Alliance warlocks.
There were no guidelines. Who was to guide us? We had scraps of forbidden text confiscated from those demonologists that the Kirin Tor had discovered and executed over the years. We had rumor and hearsay and items looted from the bodies of orcs. There was nothing for it but to experiment, to make educated guesses as to the best way to proceed. Of those twenty volunteers, eight survived to pass on what they had learned. Eight. Five of them came here to Stormwind and requested a space in which to teach. And so you cast another vote.
What did you decide? You voted to hide these shattered, nightmare-plagued remnants of a foolhardy experiment away in a basement in the mage quarter. A basement. Five warlocks and their students, forced to hide from the light of the sun, discouraged from mixing with "proper" mages and with the citizenry at large. Because Light forfend that anyone should have to see the horror you had voted into existence. You chose to bury them, to give them no company but one another.
What in the name of the Light did you expect? It is a fact of human nature that if you pen a handful of slightly unstable people in a room together, give them no social recourse but one another, you end with a handful of absolute madmen. The sort of people who believe that the proper way to end a dispute is with poison.
For six years the 7th Legion has attempted to demonstrate another way. For six years I have worked under the command of a paladin, commanded a paladin and a priest in my own unit. They call me "battlemage" in the records, so as not to upset anyone, but I am still every inch the monster you made me. I am the same sort of creature you've penned up in the dank darkness underneath a tavern, and yet here I stand, littered with medals, awarded land, a credit to the Alliance. Why? Because every day I am grounded by my contact with people both holy and commonplace. My life is more than my study of the fel. Every day I am surrounded by and reminded of what it is that I serve.
For six years those of the Slaughtered Lamb have looked askance at me, seen me as an interloper, because I am not one of them, the true warlocks, the long-suffering pariahs forced to spend their days in darkness. Of course they are bitter. Of course they see you as the enemy. First you demand that they exist and serve, and then you cage them, ostracize them.
Do you want us or not? If warlocks are an abomination not to be beheld by decent folk, then leave them to the Horde. Let us fight and destroy them all. If that is your decision, I will gladly lay my head on the block for the good of the Alliance, just as I gladly inflicted torments on myself for the good of the Alliance. Those basement-dwellers began as dedicated to the Alliance as I am; they risked their lives to bring new magics to your arsenal. But after six years in darkness, darkness is all they know.
For you, it was perhaps a day's debate and then a vote, and then you moved on. Because none of you have had to live with the consequences. Your profound ignorance of demonology, your obliviousness to the daily struggles of Alliance warlocks, has led to the death of one of your own. It wasn't necessary. You chose to shut the door, to hide your monsters away where you didn't have to behold them. But that doesn't mean they disappear. We continue to exist, whether you see us or not.
At one time you must have seen some worth in me, to judge by your vote to grant me lands in your kingdom. So as a peer of Stormwind, as Count Zathary Tyrell, as Captain Zath Tyrrell of the 6th Expeditionary Unit of the 7th Legion, and also as a warlock, I beg of you, whichever of you has a scrap of integrity that might begin to mitigate your ignorance and fear, to listen to my words, to stop hiding from what you've created.
Warlocks must not be left to themselves, breathing nothing but their own fel stench, an echo chamber of evil, an incestuous cabal with only themselves to rely upon. Warlocks should do comparative studies with arcane mages and priests to unlock a greater understanding of the entire spectrum of magic. And above all, they should be supervised by those not channeling the fel, and their supervisors should observe and understand their daily struggles.
The warlocks of the Slaughtered Lamb will fight this supervision, because you have already turned them into a cult of the shunned, unaccustomed to accountability. But that fight is one you have brought upon yourselves. You and you alone have made the fight necessary, and it is you and you alone who can end it. Do not turn your backs on the warlocks of Stormwind for another day, or each of you will eventually find a knife in yours. The Slaughtered Lamb must be cleansed of those you've already ruined, and those who remain should be treated as what they are: volatile assets who must be protected and stabilized. And listened to.
You made this mess. Now, for the love of the Light, clean it up.