Renowned Alchemist, Arreis Juliander was reported deceased this morning by an unknown source. The letter explained very cordially, that she did not die of natural causes. The originator of this letter seems to come from a Tavern Arreis herself frequented, and a few suspect, it might have been written by her own hand. However there are now reports of different letters cropping up on the sides of walls within select Alliance Cities. These appear also to be done by Miss Juliander’s hand, and the guard is having some trouble removing them.
After receiving word of her passing, clearance was past to investigate her work. Several writings and affairs were reported missing, but there was enough solid evidence to suggest Miss Juliander herself had been behind the recent Nightmare debacle.
Arreis Juliander (Deceased)
Draped in dark purple and brown garments as of late, Arreis moves with a decisive step, as though one step could be the end of what is known, or the finding of the unknown. Her vestments are questionable in taste, and almost too identifying to be an honest representation of her personality, and habits. One might point, and suggest that she works for the Twilight Hammer based on the make of the garment. All the same, between the scents of herbs and choice of dress, one thing is certain. Arreis knows what she is doing, and she's likely damn good at it.
There is also no question as to what Arreis Juliander does, or is good at. She is a Warlock, and an Apothecary. Both of these things are common knowledge for one who might be interested in knowing. But neither are discussed in great detail, since those who do know are no more than pawns. The few that truly know her, well..Their description is just that, their own.
From an aesthetic point of view, Arreis appears to be well-aged, or lacking in it. Her hair, while turned silver, or gray. Depending on the describer, is but a feature. Her facial features are simple, but untouched by the stress of years.
The facts of Arreis' birth are hazy, at best. She has stated her origins in the past. However there are many reasons that the original story that she told is untrue. She claimed, rather voraciously. That she was born on a farm in Westfall, with an older brother and sister. Her mother was also allegedly mad, and a no-good shadow priestess, whom she claims, was the cause of the rest of her families death.
Leaving no trace of her family, anywhere.
Amongst those who know Arreis, it is no secret that she is a frequent liar, or bender of truths. So the rest of her history is equally debated except by those whom were present.
For In That Sleep of Death, What Dreams May Come Edit
Collectively, the scattered notes covered tables, filled with scribbles that likely meant little sense except to a trained alchemist – a very well trained one, in fact. She was known as Arreis Juliander. Though not all who recognized the name knew the face of the silver-haired Warlock, nor did they always recognize that she was both an Apothecary, and a Demonologist. Even fewer were familiar with her recent behaviors, and status as a hermit. However recently her figure had been seen in public, now was not one of those times.
Her pointed finger traced over the most recently scribed letters. Barely dry as they were, her eyes glanced from them, to the location of a familiar bubbling. It was brewing. The next batch was to be more potent than the ones before had been.
The chocolates had been brilliant, but her reluctance to use anyone else to disperse the product amongst the problems had cost her a bit of her secrecy. The Ale hadn’t been potent enough, and it had not affected enough of a diversity. –Great-, she poisoned drunks.
What results she had obtained from them, too. Arreis raised her hand to grab the scruff of her imp’s neck-fur, and toss it across the room. She was tense, such a feeling was something she did not often notice. But the muscles in her shoulders ached from labor, and concern.
Arreis emitted a half-groan and shuffled across the room of the Laboratory, the liquids still had time to boil, and she could feel her eyes growing bloodshot again just by staring at the small bubbles breaking the surface.
She crossed across the wooden floor deftly to a chair. Her nails scraping across the binding of a familiar journal as she reclined, eyes closing shut. She had gleamed a lot from her old memories, none were ever groundbreaking, but it gave her pause and she pulled it into her lap, flipping open the first pages to one of her earliest entries:
“I suspect in time, I will start to feel footsteps behind me. The solitude will last as long as I am able to breathe. I just wonder if I should stop lighting shrubberies aflame to keep them from keeping on my trail.”
The Apothecary paused in amusement, a slight huff of laughter escaping her normally pursed lips. How familiar the feeling of pursuit was then, and even still, her mind raced at the thought of footsteps. She could feel them even now, alone in the musty room. It was easy to imagine the breath on her neck, or the metaphorical knife to her back.
The thought was only momentary, and she turned the page again, flipping farther ahead now, as she planned to make an entry while it was boiling, she paused to look it over again, eyes focused on the pages:
"Every day I sit to write upon these pages, I look back and realize how much I have left out, how many details. How much I have not told, yet the story is still there. Burning within the pages, reminding me of things long past."
"And I realize, how much time passes between entries, and how much unfolds before my very eyes, and I realize the quill needs be dipped once more, and splattered across these pages. Soak them with the ink that feeds them, before I realize. How far I've gone, and how mad I've become."
"Or is that sanity I'm feeling for the first time?"
With a restrained sigh, her hand forces the remaining entries to fade from her vision, flipping to the first blank page. Her hand raised and she motioned to her faithful, long-snouted companion to an inkwell and quill on one of the various tables not covered in papers.
Biztuk rose hesitantly from his perch atop a bookcase, where he had been lodging spare change up his nostrils, in what he thought was secrecy. The creature emitted a variety of disgruntled noises, but moved to bring her the treasure she sought.
Warm fingers curled around the quill still nestled within its inkwell; she touched the end of the implement to her lips and took a deep breath before pressing it to the pristine papyrus. The ink dispersing slowly into the fibers, and then finally forming words, and sentences:
I don’t recall ever – well, I hardly recall at all, actually. However, by evidence, I never addressed this diary, or journal as it may be, in the past. On the contrary, it seems the only place my thoughts were truly recorded, and preserved. Perhaps that’s just as well.
This entry is no different in that regard, though I suspect if anyone ever reads this besides myself, they would note the differences. Or perhaps they would recognize the disturbing similarities and patterns in my surprisingly estranged entries. I don’t know the person who wrote the others, at least, not anymore.
I won’t lie, and pretend that I have truly changed. My nature remains the same from what I can gather, and while I know the courses my mind and body have been through, such a thing would be naked and barren to any who would set their eyes upon it.
Am I different? Yes.
Have I changed? By the nine eternal hells – or Uther’s Holy Balls (Your choice, reader), I have not. I have given my life to my selfish pursuits, and my energy to executions of an inhumane nature. But even now, I do not change my course of action. Cause and effect, problem and solution, I am neither. No, I’ve never truly been the cause of decimation, and destruction, I’ll never be that. Always, I have been the enabler, the in-between.
Many may label my work as Destructive, the work of a monster. I do not – I dare not even comment what people will claim I am, because of that statement. Maybe it is Destructive, but is it the root of the problem, the true source? No, call it what you will. What I have done is not creating, but facilitating, I have provided the ferry for the fears that were already within humanity.
Maybe it is Destructive, but is it the root of the problem, the true source? No, call it what you will. What I have done is not creating, but facilitating, I have provided the ferry for the fears that were already within humanity.
I am the Catalyst to a grander problem. Weakness within a War Machine, and you, the Alliance, you consider yourself to be safe, ranks filled with Crusaders, Soldiers. Your backbone is kept straight by the strength, and brawn of men and women – Warriors, Knights, Magisters.
You can take me away, you can destroy me – and if you’re reading this, someone likely has. You cannot take away the emotions or the caustic mental instability within your ranks.
Your simpletons, the ones who base their emotion based on chemical reactions are, without a doubt in my mind, weak. As weak as a man wielding a sword, you have proven yourself susceptible to the darker emotions that brew within. The irrationality, and impulses of a human mind – and, might I add, those other quote, on quote “Immortal” races, has been affected, too?
Surely you’ve noticed by now, the sheer number of Ex-Scourge Knights we have within our walls. Perhaps a sad few were turned by misfortune, but if I, and my research experiment is any indication. I would say, the vast majority fell to their weakness – emotion.
Cast me out, burn me, kill me, maim me and label me a Heretic as you always have. But do not blame me for your faults, Alliance.
You know Humanity cannot survive on the backs of fear, and even worse so, one man, Crusader.
Arreis straightened her back, looking over the words with narrowed eyes. Her mouth forming a thin line as she debated the words she wrote. Mello-dramatic she thought, but a shake of her head indicated a lack of care.
She didn’t underestimate her predator, nor did she overestimate herself. While her motives had never been truly full of care for what others did, at the least, she mused, she could pass as a Martyr, in her mind, and be the bringer of a message no one really wants to hear.
With that, the Warlock ripped the page from the book, and handed it to her imp who stood nearby with his fingers up inside of his large gaping nostrils. The demon began feverishly transcribing the letter or diary entry into the book once more before creating a couple more copies of it.
The sound of boiling liquid caught her eye again, and she moved back to her lab, methodically measuring, and then filling etched vials before stowing them within a large crate. The label on the side read simply “Valience Keep: Handle with Care.”
With the last shipment headed overseas to Northrend, Arreis sent for her letter to be posted on buildings within Stormwind, ensuring that they were sealed carefully, so that they would permeate her end, not wanting overzealous guardsmen to take them away.
She went now, to watch the next batch sail to Northrend, awaiting sight of her killer, musing upon some of her final private thoughts with a semblance of a smile until she began the final fight for her life.
History would tell it that she lost.