A hand covered in a fine leather glove waved through the images of the battle’s final moments, dissolving the illusion.
The owner of the hand was covered in an old and dirty yellow cloak. Some of his clothes were visible under it, and they were as old as the cloak.
The only thing visible of the creature under the clothes was his glowing white eyes and the skeletal hand that held a staff, with a large green jewel on it, in a tight grip.
“So they disappeared from their world?” His voice sounded as if it came from the other side of the grave and judging by his appearance, it probably did.
“Yeah, I’ll have to ask Weiila to have someone beat Rakadra up, again, for that.” Was the absentminded answer.
The one who answered was the only one, and only thing, else in the room.
He was a young man, probably in his late teens, with blue hair but an otherwise unremarkable appearance.
“So what has their disappearance got to do with me?”
“Simple. I want you to get rid of them, Teron. Send them home, keep them, kill them… Doesn’t matter how; just make sure that they aren’t moving around in worlds where they don’t belong.”
“I see. And I never gave you permission to use my name.”
“Whatever, Gorefiend.” He said it in a way that said: “I will call you whatever I want, whether you like it or not”.
“Just one question. Why? Why is it so important to get rid of them?”
“Sometimes one question can be one too much, but since it’s about things that you won’t understand, it doesn’t matter.” He paused. “So I might as well tell you. Laziness.”
“Yeah, I’m just too lazy to write a sequel, and a crossover.”
Gorefiend was silent for a moment and then he shrugged.
“Any reason is good enough, as long as you keep your part of the deal.”
“I will, if you get rid of them for me.”
“Don’t worry about that. I will get rid of them.” With those words he turned around to leave, and the wall in front of him faded away.
“Outside” there was nothing.
Nothing and a horse.
Or the reanimated corpse of a horse, to be more precise, floating in nothingness. Teron walked over to his horse and was about to leave when the young man called him.
“Teron! Just remember this:
‘Even the most well laid plans of mice and men’”
Teron interrupted him.
“I am not, and I have never been, a mouse nor a man. And then he rode away, fading into the nothingness.”
The blue haired one looked at his back until he had faded completely, and then he said to himself.
“Not a man? And who’s body are you using, Death Knight?”
He turned around as the wall returned. This room wasn’t much, but it was calm and quiet. And now there was a desk and a chair there.
He walked over to the desk and sat down. There was a notepad on the desk.
The young man thought for a while, and then he laughed as green semitransparent pen appeared in his hand and he continued plotting the fate of the world.