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Eschaton picked his way carefully through the scorched remains of the Stormwind throne room. Steam still rose from the pieces of cracked marble that were now half melted into the mosaiced floor, witness to the events that had unfolded here only hours before. Through the shattered stained glass windows, the night's full moon shone wanly on the scene of destruction that had been wrought at the heart of human power on Azeroth. Beyond the locked and barred throne room doors and down the long entrance hallway, Eschaton could hear the steady footfalls of the guard patrols, grimly fulfilling their duties, no doubt anxious to forget the events of earlier that day. It had been an easy task for Eschaton to craft a portal through the Nether that allowed him to appear in the locked throne room unknown to the other inhabitants of the castle, for what occured here definitely warranted further investigation.

Kneeling to examine the floor near the raised dias at the centre of the room, Eschaton carefully scraped some half dried blood into a small vial. Dragonkin blood of any kind had many uses and was, obviously, somewhat difficult to come by. Tracing the black-red stains across the floor the Warlock also picked up the remaining fragements of scale that lay strewn accross the base of the dias, scale that was of particular interest to him since he had learnt the particulars of the rituals involved in the summoning of a Dreadsteed of Xorath. Having finished collecting what he needed, Eschaton rose from the floor, absently brushing the fine marble dust from his robes, and slowly walked up onto the dias where until that very afternoon the so-called Lady Katrana Prestor had stood, whispering her malicious poison into the collective ear of Stormwind's elite. Eschaton smiled inwardly to himself, once more the cream of Stormwind society had shown themselves to be credulous fools. Even the great Bolvar Fordragon had stood only feet away from the chimera that was Prestor and not known anything was wrong until Reginald Windsor's stunning return earlier that very day. It simply reinforced what Eschaton already had decided long ago, that Stormwind must eventually burn, as must all this wretched planet.

But apart from his Great Work, the Warlock had a new dilemma, what to do about the reappearance of a scion of Neltharion. From his sources in the Nether, Escahton was well aquainted with the ancient betrayal that had transformed the mighty leader of the Black Dragonflight into the apostate Deathwing. Pride and the promise of power, it was ever the downfall of mortals and immortals alike. But so many questions remained; what was Onyxia's intent, was she merely amusing herself, playing with the pathetic humans as a human child might poke and prod an anthill, or was there a grander intent ? Did Onyxia know where her Sire was, and if so, was she privy to whatever plans that ancient malevolance was hatching in his brooding, insane mind ? Too many questions, and only one being with the answers.

Speaking the appropriate words, Eschaton tore a hole in the fabric of space within the throne room, passing through the rift to return instantly to his Sanctum. There was only one course of action available to him. He would travel to Onyxia's lair and question the brood mother directly, and if she was not forthcoming with the answers...well, the dragon would learn that there are powers older and far more potent than even the Daughter of Deathwing.

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