Per directive, I infiltrated the abandoned wing formerly designated “Crimson Hall” within Icecrown Citadel. The Scourge presence there has thinned to negligible resistance; most remaining undead wander like half-ignored memories. Ideal conditions for reconnaissance, though not without certain complications, which I will outline below.

Upon entering the precinct once maintained by the San’layn, I noted immediate inconsistencies:

Initial assumption: a ritual gone awry.
Revised conclusion: a ritual succeeded.

Evidence of the San’layn’s former habitation remains strewn across the chambers: splintered chests, decayed garments, and tablets brimming with half-burned notes. Most disturbing are the trees. Thalassian in shape, grotesque in substance. Their roots reach into stone like veins questing through flesh. Though dead, they still exude the distinct echo of blood magic. I advise we do not attempt to harvest them; the residue alone caused one of my retinue to experience auditory hallucinations.

At least so we believed at first.

Multiple operatives reported hearing quiet speech in the vicinity of the old vault corridor. Different words, different voices: a mother’s whisper, a lover’s lament, a command from an officer long dead. These were not illusions formed by the mind; my alchemical instruments confirmed a tangible, arcane vibration in the air at the moment each whisper manifested.

At the corridor terminus stood what remains of the Vault of Whispers. Its door has been torn from its moorings - not outward or inward, but sideways, as if dragged by something with no respect for spatial boundaries. The chamber beyond is simply gone. The stone ends in a raw, fractured plane of negative arcana.

Something took it. Or more accurately: someone took herself.

Fragments of research found in a study alcove reference a bound intelligence: “Sanguinaris,” also called “the sanguine consciousness.” The San’layn believed they controlled her. Fools, evidently; the notes imply she manipulated them through sentiment, vanity, and their own degenerative nostalgia. It appears the trees they planted as a tribute to their homeland were, in truth, the conduits for her escape.

Cross-referencing scorch patterns, residual energies, and ley fractures leads to one conclusion: she harnessed the roots as a runic lattice, siphoned power from her captors, and executed a mass translocation ritual during the siege. Not a small one. The event displaced the entire sub-wing into the Twisting Nether.

What remains behind is less a ruin and more a wound. The residual magic is still active, and the whispers continue. I recommend containment rather than exploitation, at least until further study can guarantee no lingering tether exists between Icecrown and whatever corner of the Nether she now occupies.