This is where the trail faded, like smoke upon the wind. A paltry community situated in the heart of a forest that did not know the kiss of the sun for many, many years. A gloomy world who's closest friends were the cold fogs and twilight nights of a curiously cursed existence. The faults and reasons for such a stain upon the lands obtained by Human conquest were unknown to nearly all, known to very few...and inconsequential to the individual that hugged tattered robes taught around his emaciated frame.
The spoor ends here, at last. Thought the undead creature; a pair of softly glowing pyrelights flickering in eyes that worked despite the laws of nature demanding otherwise. It had paid many debts to find his way across the seas; from where the trail had been a blazing fire of magical residue in his mind's eye, following and hunting for any trace of what had remained of this honeyed path of power. The Worgen that he had stumbled across...he had not cherished the encounter within Durotar's dusty soil as much as the Forsaken had, in that regard.
Thin fingers, clad in flesh that looked as if they clung to bone by will and fool's hope alone, reached down to the book at his side; bound in thick leather, the tome's back and front were laden with runic carvings cut directly into the material that even now began to pulse a soft, silent sapphire against the darkness of the forest. Overlooking the tiny outcropping of civilisation, the meager defence of Darkshire could not possibly notice him with the weaving of enchantments he had placed upon his dead flesh; no Night Watch, no 'heroic' intervention to percieve that which demanded he remain unseen, his was to watch and wait, and plan the next step of his oddysey for knowledge.
There are more then what would be considered appropriate for a garrison of such a small town. Ah, so the 'Outlaws' are a reality. He thought to himself. The mild annoyance of being unable to merely swoop in, take what he wished and move away with little intrusion on his part had a side effect on the land around him; the soft rasp as flora solidified under the magical embrace of ice, the crack as soil seized by frost shuddering in response to his thoughts. A mere moment of this, before all was as it was - aside from the roots and flowers that had felt his touch, now wilting at such an abuse of the natural order. No matter. If they intervene, they will be removed from the board; pawns that think themself kings and queens are the quickest to fall. A small, rueful smile touched at the corner of one of his lips, standing up fully while snapping the book in his hands closed with a *clap* of parchment rendered hidden.
Riftwalker's Tomes will be mine. Those of her mother's. Those of hers - everything that she was, and what she could have become, will be mine. Another piece to be captured, and moved to conflict with my enemies. Woe to these Outlaws...if they intrude on the great game.
With this, the Forsaken disappeared; true disappearance, like sand tossed into the air and his presence a mere bad dream, or a trick of the light of the ugliest sort. What did the Forsaken have planned?