It was a dark and stormy night. Rain cascaded in sheets against the dead trees of Tirisfal Glades, the sound like a constant static filling the air. In the moonless night I could barely see the road before me. My charger slowly plodded along the worn cobblestone path leading deeper into Lordaeron, the torch I carried flickering in the downpour. Cinching up my cloak, I saw a light in the distance. A lantern hung from a stopped wagon with a pair of Forsaken waiting the storm out under its awning. The two eyed me warily as I passed but didn't say a word. Forsaken can smell the living, especially a paladin, and unlike in Silvermoon I would find no welcome in these lands. Still, these undead commoners weren't about to pick a fight with a human so bold and so foolish as to ride through their homeland.

A broken sign pointed me up a meandering path deeper through the woods, the direction of the infamous Scarlet Monastery. Even though the Scarlet Crusade officially joined the Argent Dawn and Order of the Silver Hand during the Northrend expedition, there were still some holdouts. Religious zealots afraid of anyone that didn't swear fealty to their cause, those residing in the monastery were viewed as an embarrassment by all other Orders and a blight upon the Forsaken lands. So when they called for assistance with their alleged Death Knight problem, no one was particularly keen on lending a hand.

Personally I would have left the Scarlets to their own devices as well but the Silver Hand couldn't ignore the problem any longer. Goldshire was set ablaze under the shadow of a fiendish undead, cackling in the midnight sky and raining destruction in his wake. Villagers spoke of it as a Headless Horseman, like the one told in stories to human children. Of course those stories held a grain of truth, Sir Thomas was real and his madness did lead him to die in the Scarlet Monastery. As for his rising again, well, who could say? I'd certainly seen stranger in my time, especially after Northrend. If this mythical knight was the cause of such terrors though then the Scarlet Monastery was indeed in dire straits, but more importantly, so was Stormwind. Needing to respond quickly, and seeing as I was so familiar with the Horde and Death Knights after my term in Northrend, I was chosen to represent the Silver Hand in assisting the Scarlet Crusade.

In other words, I was being hung out to dry. Again.

My charger shook the water from his mane as the lights of the Monastery came into view. The enormous stone structure was positioned on the top of a cliff, built as much like a fortress as a place of worship. The military strength of the Scarlet Crusade, even in its current weakened form, couldn't be questioned. As my horse made it closer a pair of watchmen approached, their white and red tabards soaked through from the weather. I glimpsed their stern faces as they neared, weapons drawn.

"Who goes there!" one shouted, his blade flashing in the torchlight.

I lowered my hood, revealing my human visage in case there was any question as to my personage, "I'm Sir Abrams, paladin of the Silver Hand."

"The Silver Hand!?" the other shouted. "Your corrupt Order dares show its face here?"

I steeled myself against the guard's callous words. My mission was to stop the attacks on my people, not play nice with these Scarlet Crusaders. Still, I had to be let in first, and one paladin was hardly a match for an entire Order. Taking a deep breath I pulled out the request for help sent by High Inquisitor Whitemane herself, the rain-speckled parchment still bearing her seal. The guard snatched it from my hands and looked it over, his face growing more and more irritated as he read.

With a terse grunt he said, "Wait here." I watched as he walked inside the entryway, his partner eyeing me suspiciously the entire time. By now I was far too cold, wet, and hungry to care about what heresy I would see inside those walls, all I cared about was getting out of the rain and away from the haunted woods of Tirisfal. As the minutes dragged on my torch began to flicker out, just as the guard returned from dragging his feet through every hallway in the building.

"Alright, let him in," he said, waving me on. His tone seemed a bit more deflated this time. The other guard sneered as I handed him the reigns of my horse and dismounted. I quickly stretched before heading inside; riding all day in full armor was not easy on the bones, especially in wet weather. As I walked inside the lit entryway the smells of the oil lamps hit me. It was a sharp contrast against the dank and low level stench of undeath that permeated the Forsaken lands. The stone walls were tinted gold with the warm light as I was led up the stairs. Waiting at the top, dressed in her finest regalia and hat, was the High Inquisitor Whitemane. Standing at her side was none other than Herod the legendary Scarlet Champion, his bare chest and mighty axe as intimidating as the stories I'd heard in my time at the Cathedral of Light.

"Greetings, Sir Abrams," Whitemane said, her staff held tightly in her velvet glove. "It is generous of the Silver Hand to send one of their champions at such a dark hour."

"Yes, well, the pleasure is all mine, Inquisitor," I replied, removing my soaking wet cloak.

"You are familiar with me? Then I presume you know our Scarlet Champion, Herod."

"Of course, and please, call me Jack Radical."

The Inquisitor's face streaked with insult, "What?"

"Your letter mentioned something about a Death Knight," I said, ignoring her incredulity. "Just what is going on?"

Whitemane blinked and resumed her lofty, firm attitude, "The Death Knight of legend, Sir Thomas, has appeared in our graveyard on the verge of Hallow's End. Powerful necromantic energy is at work here, no doubt caused by the abominations lurking in Lordaeron."

Shaking my head I replied, "I don't think so. The Forsaken are experiencing just as many attacks from this apparition as the human kingdoms."

"You consorted with the Forsaken!?" Herod shouted at me. His tone would have sent a chill up my spine if I wasn't already frozen from cold and wet.

"I don't consort with the Forsaken or any other un…dead." Thinking back to my companion in Northrend I almost choked on that last word, but I held my composure. "I do however gather intelligence. Whatever brought this Sir Thomas back isn't affiliated with those of Tirisfal."

"Be that as it may," Whitemane interjected, "The issue at hand is the same."

"But High Inquisitor," Herod said, "What does this paladin possess that the host of devoted followers at our disposal do not?"

The High Inquisitor looked at me skeptically, "This is something I'm beginning to wonder myself. I expected the Silver Hand would send more than just a single fighting man."

I shifted my weight from leg to leg as the two of them eyed me over before cluing them in, "Well, I recently returned from the Northrend campaign where I slew a lich and dismantled an entire Scourge city."

The two looked at each other, then back to me, "A Scourge city?" Herod asked.

"Yeah."

"How?"

"With gnomes."

Even through his red steel helmet I could tell his brows were furrowing.

"Gnomes in planes dropping bombs… never mind. The point is I'm well acquainted with Scourge tactics and have fought the worst they have to offer. Between the three of us, this Death Knight will fall, you have my word."

"You had better be right, Sir Abrams," Herod said, stepping towards me. "For if you are not and that creature escapes into the night again, those lives will be on your head."

"I'd rather like to think they would be on your head for allowing him to be raised in the first place," I replied callously.

"What did you say to me!?"

"Enough!" Whitemane shouted, slamming her staff into the ground with enough force to echo off the walls. "If we fail tonight I will have both your heads, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am!" Herod said, backing away from me.

I remained silent and the High Inquisitor shot me a lethal glare. Gripping the hammer on my belt tightly I said, "Understood."

"Good," she spat, "Now, head to armory and make yourselves ready. I need to finish my preparations in the cathedral."

With that, Whitemane walked down the hall, leaving me alone with the hulking warrior. I looked up at him, he was a full head taller than me and with a frame to match. Other paladins at the Cathedral of Light regarded his battle prowess with a sense of awe and fear, a rare show of respect towards an Order so misaligned as the Scarlet Crusade. As bitter as I was to be here, this man was one I didn't want to cross.

"Follow me," he said, walking towards one of the massive oaken doors across the hall.

I followed him inside, past another hallway and into the training grounds. Most of the recruits around me were too busy with their drilling to notice the outsider. Every now and then I would catch a wary glance but the presence of their battlemaster disarmed their usual hate and fear. Those whose gazes lingered contained curiosity, I could tell these soldiers were cloistered here for years. The efficiency of their drilling was enough to inspire envy in an Orc but their senses seemed dulled. They reminded me a bit of the initiates I'd seen in my time in Silvermoon.

As Harod led me on we entered the armory proper and I began to appreciate the true military strength of the Scarlet Crusade. Walls containing racks upon racks of weapons ran down every hall. Some of the blades looked as old as the monastery itself. Herod threw open an ornate cabinet and pulled from it his axe. It was a brutish weapon not unlike the Orc axes and just as sharp. He swung it from side to side like it was a toy, demonstrating his cruel strength. Then he pulled another weapon from the cabinet and handed it to me.

Taking it in my gauntlet I nearly dropped it, the weight was tremendous. It was a mace, long and with a many-pronged pummel at the top that elegantly swept upwards like a scepter. I could feel the magical power flowing through it, as though simply holding the weapon affirmed my faith in the Light.

"What is this weapon?" I asked, wielding it with both hands.

"It is Morgraine's Might, so named after its former bearer," Herod said.

"Wait, the Morgraine? The Ashbringer!?"

"His son, Renault," he reiterated. "He used to command our entire Order until his untimely demise upon the return of his brother."

I knew this story well. The traitorous Renault was undone by the return of his brother, Darion, and the reunion with the corrupted Ashbringer blade. His own father's spirit reached out from beyond the grave and took his life. This left a void in the Scarlet command that apparently had yet to be filled. At first I'd assumed Herod himself filled that role but apparently not. Perhaps his martial prowess didn't endow him with the ability to command an entire Order, or maybe he preferred slaughtering on the field of battle instead. It seemed to me Whitemane was handling the affairs of the Scarlet Crusade then.

"Do you expect me to use this?" I asked, shouldering the enormous mace.

Herod placed his own hefty weapon on his back, "I do. This Headless Horseman will be struck down with weapons forged by the Scarlet Crusade. I would have it no other way."

I tried swinging the weapon, the effort almost toppling me, "I can barely control this thing."

"Then you had better get used to it quick. The High Inquisitor will be waiting for us shortly."

Shaking my head I replied, "This stupid thing is going to get me killed."

"One can only hope," he muttered, starting towards the door.

Author's Note: What better way to celebrate Hallow's End than by bringing Jack Radical back for some fun in one of my favorite instances, The Scarlet Monastery? After so much doom and gloom I plan on making this more like his previous lighthearted adventures and updating every week in October.