A flap of mighty wings, a whirling screen of sand, and as the dust settled a lone form. In the darkness a tiny light sparks. Malosuerte exhales the fragrant smoke from his pipe and looks around warily. “Where am I now” the thought flies through his mind and is ripped away in the cool night breeze. He stands surrounded by rolling dunes. It is the apotheosis of all deserts. Tanaris? No, that doesn’t seem right. Further south? The whispers tickle at the back of his mind, they are always with him now, he has stopped trying to fight them, opting instead to triumph through apathy. It may be the reason he doesn’t recognize the whisper of chanting figures until he is surrounded. The moon passes behind a cloud and it is hard to make them out. Their chanting swells, and Malosuerte stumbles as a sudden and violent tremor runs through the ground. His pipe falls to the ground as the dune before him shakes, coming to life and rising, spreading wings and turning towards him. He tries to transform, but it doesn’t work. Tries to cast a spell, but his throat feels dry and rough, and no words come. The Moon moves out from behind the cloud, and in the sudden, nearly blinding reflection he sees the cultists faces. There is Boktheg, Thuugom, Nimithriel! These are the Grin not the twilight cult, but what truly catches his attention is the leviathan in front of him. The great Wyrm turns to him, and he sees recognition in its face, the same recognition he can feel dawning on his own. The moonlight reflects off of bronze scales, broken and cracked by bright golden stone. It is broken and disfigured, extremely powerful, yet full of madness.
The Beast is him.
Malosuerte turns to run, but the chanting grows louder, reaching a feverish pitch and he feels hands drawing him back. The whispers assure him this is the only way. He tries to scream, but he chokes as a stream of sand issues form his mouth. He coughs and more sand pours forth. The hands grab him tightly, and throw him into the jaws of the Wyrm. As the maw closes, Malosuerte is blinded as he feels sand pour through his eyes. All is black as the chanting continues, merging with the heartbeat of the beast, himself, as he is devoured “The sands, the sands, the sands, the sands…”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Malosuerte sat bolt upright, clawing at his throat, a throat raw from screaming. He cast about, he was in his rooms, the silk sheets knotted and tangled around him, the soft salt air blew in from the sea, cooling the perspiration running down his chest. He jumped up and grabbed a robe, he synched the belt around his waist as he hurried to the door, throwing it open and nearly crashing into the servants who stooped near the door, obviously having peered through the keyhole to see what could cause their master such horrible distress. The usually composed mage roared at them “Out of my way if you value your lives!” He gestured and knocked several of them back with a burst of harmless energy, rushing on past without a second glance.
Into his library he rushed, calling forth the flying carpet and soaring up to one of the topmost shelves. The whispers pounded in his head, “the sands, the sands…” The nightmare had sparked a memory. When he had been a mere whelp, and the land of Azeroth barely cooled. A powerful artifact, primordial magic, a power that was ancient even before the old gods were put down. He had thought it a legend, nothing so powerful would be allowed to exist. But if it were, what better place than hidden by the bronze dragonflight? Malosuerte finally found the tome. An old purple leather volume. He flew to a small table and lit a lamp with a gesture. He opened the book, and with a gesture the pages turned to the back, the rough papyrus covered by hieroglyphics. The ancient artifact had been separated, its many parts distributed throughout the ancient kingdoms of the south. It would merge him with the time stream, he would be all that he was, all that he had been, and all he ever would be at the same time.
But it was guarded. Malosuerte’s hand drifted over the page and hovered over the seal of Nozdormu. If he were to attempt to search for these implements, the bronze dragonflight would certainly sense him. The whispers tickled at the back of his mind almost comfortingly, and the mage smiles. Here too the nightmare gave him an answer. Malosuerte found a blank volume and enchanted quill, and set about making an exact replica of the tome, making only a few minor changes, referencing the old gods and disguising the nature of the power hidden under the dunes.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Malosuerte watched through his scrying orb as Thuugom closed a book and replaced it on the shelf of the library in Karazhan. He turned to walk out. The death knight paused, glancing around, possibly sensing some presence, then he shrugged and left the room. Malosuerte promptly turned and opened a portal, leaping through into the sanctum of the Lak’gora. He glanced around, ensuring he was alone, then scanned the shelves. The mage found a shelf that was out of the way enough to avoid suspicion, yet close enough to a high traffic area to be unhidden. Placing his specially prepared tome on the shelf, Malosuerte muttered a few words, enchanting the spot to subtly draw the eye of any who passed. With a gesture, the mage disturbed the dust around the shelf and book, so when it settled it left no trace of his presence. Satisfied with his handiwork, the mage leapt back through his portal and shut it with a snap.
The whispers teasing his mind, Malosuerte sank into a divan in his rooms and lit a pipe, chuckling to himself. Now he had but to wait, if the Lak’gora were anything like the power hungry ones he knew them to be, they would leap at the chance for the hidden relic, and after gathering the pieces all signs from the book would point to consulting the humble mage who was raised in the sands of Tanaris to identify them. As he exhaled the fragrant smoke, the whispers seemed congratulatory. An evil gleam settled in his eye as a gazed out across the ocean. Yes, all he had to do now was wait, and Malosuerte el Tridor Delamuerte, who in another time was called Malosdormu, was nothing if not patient.