(51) - Road To Redemption

Griffonclaw strode to the dilapidated farmstead on the eastern bank of the Thondroril River, carrying a sack that was stiff with dried blood. As he approached, the farmer came out from his house, watching him and waving. Griffonclaw had spend the last week in the hills east and west of the river, hunting the plaguehounds that had infested the surrounding areas since the fall of Stratholme and the coming of the Scourge.

Plaguehounds were like wolves, although many of them were of a purple hue, with shaggy black manes, and a set of fangs that could strip a man of his life before he could blink. They had two small, black horns that extruded from their foreheads, and another pair from their shoulders. They were ravenous, fierce, and utterly fearless, and roamed the former kingdom of Lordaeron at will, killing for sheer joy of the kill. Some had speculated that these were native to the demonlands, others that they were corrupted wolfhounds that the Burning Legions created during their many attacks. For the unwary, they were silent death on four padded feet. Griffonclaw had hunted the hunters, and taken their left ears for the sack.

A few weeks ago, Griffonclaw had been lost; he had been destroying the massive cauldrons used by the Scourge for High Priestess MacDonnell; there were eight of them, each of them spewing poisons into the air, propagating the plague throughout the lands of Lordearon. She had asked him to destroy them, which required the keys held from each of the cauldrons' guardians. Griffonclaw had destroyed the cauldrons in Felstone Field and Dalson's Tears, but at Gahrron's Withering he had been struck down by Cauldron Lord Soulwrath, a ghost who commanded dread necromancies and a small army of wraiths. Beaten and soul-sick, he had fallen into the Thondroril River and sunk to the bottom; his lover Kestralil had given him a package of Nagrand cherries, one of which he ate as the weight of his armor took him to the river floor. The wraiths had given up the chase, secure in his demise, and he had swam upstream under the surface, eventually dragging himself onto the river bank, passing out from his physical and spiritual wounds.

He had awoken in a rough pallet, the only light a dim, half-burned candle. A farmer had found him, and hauled him from the riverbank to the farmer's bed. His armor and weapons had been removed and cleaned, and sat on a nearby chair. Griffonclaw had tried to sit up, but had fallen back, exhausted by the effort; his wounds had been tended, but he was still quite weak.

He had slept again.

When he had woken again, the farmer was sitting nearby, watching him.

"We almost lost you there, for a moment" the farmer had informed, watching him. "What brought you to this sorry place?"

Griffonclaw told him about the mission, and its near-fatal results. "My name is Griffonclaw" he informed, "and I am grateful for your hospitality".

"Well, you sure are a lucky one - you came some ways upstream, and had you passed out in the river you'd have kept the fishes fed for a week, big fellow like you..." the farmer continued. "Happy to help, happy to... I may not be as young as I once was, but then, who of us are? Kaldorei aside, of course."

He paused a minute. "You may call me Ford, young warrior, and I'm glad to have been able to help; I don't get many visitors. Woe to those that foolishly wander into the Plaguelands. All manner of foulness inhabit these woods - from the fanatical Scarlet Crusade, who will kill any that do not bear the mark of the Crusade, to the murderous Scourge, who only look to bolster their numbers by adding more undead to their ranks." He brought Griffonclaw a bowl of beef stew, thick with vegetables. "Not precisely beef, but cows are too scare to be slaughtering them for the meat, these days."

Griffonclaw didn't ask. He ate the bowl with relish while the farmer continued. "Even the wildlife have been transformed into rapacious, man-eating beasts... maybe, when you're on your feet again, you can help me with some of them - they have taken to preying on my livestock something fierce."

He spent nearly a week regaining his strength, and then began to help Ford eradicate some of the local predatory wildlife. Griffonclaw had taken sword in hand and killed nearly a score of Plague Bats, carnivorous bats of enormous size, almost a man's height in length. He had hunted the enormous Carrion Worms for their meat; Ford had said that while rather bland in taste, the meat of the worms could easily be preserved to last for months. Having Griffonclaw as an extra mouth to feed during his convalescence had depleted the farmer's stores, and so Griffonclaw had felt honor-bound to replace them.

Finally, Griffonclaw had gone into the hills, hunting the plaguehounds that had been stealing what few livestock the farm had, and had given his host some thought while on the trail of his four-legged demonic quarry. The farmer was a strange old fellow, with a salt-and-pepper beard; every morning just before dawn he got up and went out to the front, wooden practice sword in hand, and proceeded to work through the basic forms and the advanced kata of an adept of the Order of the Silver Hand. Ford also looked vaguely familiar, but then there had been hundreds of paladins at Stratholme, and that was years ago. If he had been one of the Order, he and Griffonclaw had something in common - both had been declared traitors to Lordaeron by Arthas when he had declared the Order of the Silver Hand disbanded.

Griffonclaw was content to help Ford, a perhaps-ex-Brother, as much as he could before resuming his tasks for the Argent Crusade; although nothing could ever replace the Order of the Silver Hand, the Argent Crusade was at least doing some of the work that the Silver Hand would have done, had Arthas not become corrupt.

And they paid well.

Ford took the sack from Griffonclaw, and opened it, grimacing at the charnel smell. "It seems you've harvested a good crop, Griffonclaw. Shame they aren't good for much."

"Well, its not so much that they're good for anything, so much as their lack is good for much" grinned Griffonclaw.

"You have worked hard, friend. Rest your weary bones, " the farmer said, "and allow me to properly introduce myself." He brought an ewer of milk and a platter of bread and cheese over to the table. "I haven't been... well, entirely forthcoming with you."

"You helped me when I would have surely died," Griffonclaw responded, pouring them both a pewter mug of milk. "A man's secrets are his own."

"Ordinarily, I'd agree with you, Griffonclaw" the farmer replied. "In this case, though, I wanted to see what sort of fellow you were, before I spoke out of turn... You wear the tabard of the Argent Dawn, and the arms and armor of a warrior... but you're not. You're a Lightbringer... like I am."

Griffonclaw grimaced. "In a time far passed, I was a Brother of the Order of the Silver Hand, under Sir Khalven Brightspur. Sir Khalven stayed with Arthas at Stratholme. I went with Lady Jaina after Arthas declared us all traitors and dissolved the Order."

Ford nodded. "I remember somewhat of that. My name is not Ford, Griffonclaw... my name is Fordring. Tirion Fordring."

Griffonclaw stared, remembering the tale. While he had never met the notorious Tirion Fordring, the paladin had been a legend amongst the boys of the Stormwind Cathedral. Tirion had been a paladin of the Order of the Silver Hand, and Lord of Mardenholde Keep, and had governed Hearthglen for the Order. A hero of the Second War, he had discovered an old orc hermit living in an abandoned tower. The two had fought, and some of the tower ruin had collpased, burying the paladin. He had been found by his lieutenant, another paladin named Barthilas; the orc had pulled him free from the rubble, and tied Tirion to his horse, setting it back on the road to Hearthglen.

Tirion had sought out the orc in peace this time, and left him in peace, telling his subject that the orc was not a threat and had been dealt with.

Barthilas had gone behind Tirion's back and called Saiden Dathrohan to take the orc. Tirion fought alongside the orc against Dathrohan's men, and was taken, bound and charged with treason, to Stratholme for trial. A jury of Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, Arch-Mage Antonidas, Archbishop Alonsus Faol and Prince Arthas Menethil had him stripped of his rank and ejected from the Order, and sent him into exile. Tirion had staged a rescue of the orc - who had been gravely tortured - and together they fled into the wilderness, where Tirion found that although Uther had been forced to eject him from the Order, that he still was blessed by the Light. The orc shaman Eitrigg was saved, and Eitrigg joined Thrall in rebuilding the Horde. Tirion had not been heard from again... until now.

"Your story was told as a cautionary tale in the Cathedral, you know..." Griffonclaw began. "...it was told to demonstrate the folly of disobedience. After the Order was disbanded, and all those who refused to follow Arthas into anathema declared traitors, some of us saw it in a different Light; of a paladin who was one fo the first not to bow to political expediency, and who did the right thing, regardless of the personal cost, cut from the same cloth as Sir Uther, may the Light protect and preserve his spirit."

Griffonclaw chuckled, remembering Grayson swearing at him in anger, calling him a second Tirion, just before he had released Griffonclaw from his vows to the Stormwind chapter of the Order of the Silver Hand.

Fordring pondered that in silence. "The cost was indeed high. My lady wife told my son that I had died, and made a false grave for me at the Undercroft."

Griffonclaw nodded. He could only imagine what it would be like to have to watch his son grow up from a distance, not able to kiss his wife, or hug his son ever again. Griffonclaw had himself paid a high cost for his own choices, but he could respect that the price Tirion had paid dwarfed his own.

"My son grew strong into manhood, and he had inherited my calling. He joined the Order of the Silver Hand, first as squire to Isillien, and later he took my position as Lord of Mardenholde" Fordring continued, his voice carrying an unmistakable pride and paternal affection. ""As you know, the remnant of the Order of the Silver Hand was utterly decimated when Uther was slain."

Griffonclaw nodded.

"My son held out for as long as he could, after, making his final stand at Northdale. It was there that his men were killed, and there where the renegade Isillien recruited him into the Scarlet Crusade. My son gave them Mardenholde, and it has become one of their most powerful bastions. He seems blind to the evil the Crusade spread, and works to retake portions of the Plaguelands back from the Scourge."

The older man looked Griffonclaw in the eyes.

"Griffonclaw, I want my son back."

* * *

Griffonclaw looked at his benefactor, the exile and traitor Tirion Fordring, and understood. "I assume you have a plan?"

Tirion smiled sadly. "Indeed. The Scarlet Crusade are an aberration of the Order of the Silver Hand. You must believe me, Griffonclaw; Taelan is a good man. He needs guidance. He needs to remember... remember what it is to be noble and honorable. I know that in his heart, he knows what he does is wrong. Will you help him? Will you help him remember?"

Griffonclaw looked away, thinking. He was not unaffected by Tirion's story - he felt an enormous amount of empathy with Tirion, and his son. Had the coin of fate spun just a tiny bit different, he could easily imagine himself in either of their positions. "I will help, Tirion. What must I do?"

Tirion sighed in relief - he had not even noticed that he had been holding his breath, waiting for Griffonclaw's answer. "Thank you, my friend. I have in mind several items that might help him to remember."

"The first such item is a toy that I gave to him on his seventh birthday. It was his most cherished possession: A miniature war hammer; an exact replica of my very own. After I was banished for treason, his mother told him that I had died, and when she took him to my false grave, he buried the hammer along with my memory - forever". His voice was calm, measured, and only the strain in his eyes told Griffonclaw that remembering that moment was intensely painful for the elder paladin.

"You must venture to the Undercroft and recover Taelan's hammer."

Griffonclaw nodded. "I will leave immediately."

"The morning is soon enough; you've just returned from a week of killing demon-dogs. Rest today, and I'll see you off in the morning"

* * *

The next day came all too soon, and although he had slept most of the night through, Griffonclaw was still tired. A thick fog - not unusual for the Plaguelands - and crept up during the night, and covered both the lands and his heart with a gloomy forbodding. Griffonclaw headed south, to the road that would eventually lead to the dead village of Darrowshire; the Undercroft was a graveyard south of the road outside of Darrowshire, nestled at the base of the foothills. Griffonclaw had been there, once before, at the behest of Caretaker Alen at Light's Hope Chapel. The Undercroft was over-run with undead dire trolls, some of the foulest things animate within the plaguelands. Alen had charged him to take their leader's head, and thereby discourage their raids on the mass pit graves of the Argent Dawn.

Griffonclaw had returned, the head to the troll chieftain hanging from his saddlebow.

Zaeldarr the Outcast might be gone, but Griffonclaw was pretty sure that his tribe remained, digging into the earth for their horrific repasts.

He circled south, and spotted the undead troll scouts long before they saw him. Griffonclaw was not particularly stealthy in his plate armor and tabard, but compared to them, he was the whisper of a fish's flatulence in passing. The scouts were easy to avoid, and so he avoided them rather than have dozens of the creatures descend on him fang and claw, wanting to devour the warmth of his living flesh. He found the false grave - Tiron had given him excellent directions - but as he was opening the dirt mound he heard wild screams, and a heavy weight slammed into him from behind. Claws scrabbled and ripped across his breastplate, seeking a weak spot, and he kicked and cursed as more weight was added to the pile. Fetid odors assailed his nostrils as he gasped for breath,. and over the snarls of his enemies he heard a rough, crude voice laughing.

"Pinkskin thought he could dig in our larder, did he? Rip him apart and serve him up, brothers! We shall feast well tonight!"

"Shovel some shit from the surface, and there is always another turd to rise to the top" Griffonclaw growled, beginning a chant.

"Unholy creaures, cease your toil
Leave hollowed ground, which you despoil
I call the Light to light my path
And smith these things with Holy Wrath"

As he chanted, his whole body seemed to glow, borrowing for a moment a radience as bright as the sun, and when he finished the Light exploded from him radially in all directions. The ghoulish trolls that had pinned him were knocked back by the holy Light, their necrotic shadow-imbued flesh burning under the power of Life itself. Griffonclaw regained his feet, and brought his blade to the guard position.

"This land is host to those who fell
Who ascend with Light or descend to Hell
Cast out shadow, Light to the fore
Consecrate this ground once more!"

More of the holy energy of the Light leapt to his hands, and thenceward down into the ground, imbuing and suffusing the ground with its presence. As the dire trolls closed on him again, the ground itself burned their feet, and their screams of pain were music to Griffonclaw's ears. Their leader charged, his tusks bared, ignoring the agony, and Griffonclaw met him squarely, shield at the ready, his Fireguard's blade gleaming in the pale misty gloom. "Avaunt and begone, Creature of Darkness!" Griffonclaw called, and a bolt of Light leaped from his fingertips, eating the cheiftain's flesh like acid. The trolls screamed with rage and pain, the paladin roared his defiance.

In the end, five troll bodies lay, their undead flesh cleft wide, the consecration of the ground sowly smouldering the remains to nothingness.

Griffonclaw found the toy warhammer, restored the ground over the false grave, and without a backward glance returned to where Tiron Fordring awaited his return.

* * *

Griffonclaw hated fighting elementals.

If you fought an air elemental, you'd find yourself flying backwards, usually into a rock outcrocpping that the powers of the universe perversely put there. If you fought an earth elemental, you'd find yourself pounded senseless, and were you to be victorious, immediately look for a water elemental to fight for that free bath that, win or lose, you always got, looking like a wet wargen after. Fire elementals? Baste your skin in butter before fighting, because it would be petty to let all that meat burn when it could be basting a delightful crispy golden brown.

He stared down at the banner her had been sent to retrieve - the standard of the Order of the Silver Hand, fallen in Taelan's last stand against the Scourge at Northdale. It was clearly visible at the bottom of the lake.

The lake infested with water elementals.

Griffonclaw hated elementals.

He pondered again the words that he had exchanged with Tirion, Taelan's father, over breakfast that morning. The night previous, Griffonclaw had brought back a toy warhammer as part of an effort to create some momentos that might make Taelan remember what it was like to fight the good fight, instead of miring himself within the fanatics of the Scarlet Crusade. Next on Tirion's list was Taelan's battle-standard, that he had lost at Northdale.

"As you know, the remnant of the Order of the Silver Hand was utterly decimated when Uther was slain" Tirion had said, pouring them both some tea. A mound of fresh eggs, rashers of bacon, and toasted fresh bread with preserves were set out on the table, along with a pitcher of fresh milk. Tirion might be sending Griffonclaw on perilous missions, but at least he fed him well.

"The boy held out for as long as he could. Pushed to the war torn hamlet of Northdale, he made his final stand," Tirion continued. "He and a small group were all that were left, the last men standing, surrounded by shambling ghouls and floating wraiths, all of them certain that they were about to die. They had started the last battle when Grand Inquisitor Isillien and his men clove into the Scourge ranks like a thunderclap. "

"Taelan wondered 'Are there any of the Order left alive? And if so... does it matter anymore?'. He had just seen his men slaughtered under Scourge claw and dark magic, only to be saved by what many thought were the only effective forces left active in the fight - the Scarlet Crusade."

Griffonclaw looked away; he had worn the tabard of the Argent Dawn almost since resigning from service as guard and messenger for the Steamwheedle Cartel. He could not wonder how Fate would have turned out if it had been an Argent Dawn force that had rescued Taelan; then again, the Argent Dawn had been much weaker than the Scarlet Crusade in those days, and had yet to make its alliances with both Alliance and Horde.

"It was with that thought that Taelan threw down the standard of the Order and renounced all that he had known. His honor left upon the blood soaked ground of Northdale," Taelan's father continued. "You must travel to Northdale and recover that symbol of lost honor."

And so Griffonclaw had mounted up and ridden for Northdale, only to barely find where the town had once been; hardly a ruin of a building had been left standing, and the small lake outside of the town had not been there before the Scourge and their Fel magics.

It was here now.

And filled with angry water spirits.

"Well, nothing for it, I guess..." mumbled Griffonclaw, reaching into a small pouch at his belt, removing a small preserved fruit. To supplement the supply Kestralil had given him, he had sought out his own source. Elementalist Lo'ap had given him his own supply at the Throne of the Elements, so that he could hunt corrupted water spirits there. Of course, before he had done that, he had made Griffonclaw collect the dung for the digested remnants of the Nagrand caracoli, a rare bean that was often eaten by the fauna in northern Nagrand. Griffonclaw unwrapped the lozenge, and placed it under his tongue.

It tasted like... well, like shit (or at least like bitter, disgusting herbs), but once it dissolved, it would allow him to breathe the water as if it were air. If one had to fight beings who could smother you with columns of living water, that was one of the less painful ways to do it.

Griffonclaw chose his first target, and reached forth with his spirit, channeling the Light. His incantation focused his mind on the desired result, and the Light moved to fulfill his prayer.

"Holy Light, spring you forth from unworthy hands
And fill this being, who before me stands
Judge its heart, for woe or weal
Smite the wicked, let the virtuous heal!"

Griffonclaw hand always found that particular prayer, learned from the Silver Hand healers, particularly useful; if its target was evil, or was likely to want to cause Griffonclaw harm, it would burn like fire. If the person was innocent, and meant no harm, the Light would heal instead. In the middle of battle, it was dual purpose, and if an ally accidentally stepped in front of the bolt of Light the ally would be encouraged.

"Friendly fire" injuries stank on ice.

Griffonclaw grinned as the bolt struck the water elemental that stood between him and the banner; given the rage it seemed to inspire in it, Griffonclaw was willing to bet it had not been healed. Instead, it came charging out of the water, where it was weaker and slower, up the shore slope to were Griffonclaw stood ready.

Griffonclaw tried to avoid fighting water elementals in or under the water; they were bad enough on land. Under the water, a mortal combatant was restricted to either thrusts or spells; the water itself made slashing tactics ineffective. Further, Griffonclaw used a Fireguard blade he had himself forged in Shattrach; if he tried to use it under the water, half of its effective power would boil off harmlessly; but on the shore it was a different matter. Griffonclaw stood under the repeated blows of the thing, its columns of water battering his shield and armor, tendrils of water around his mouth, trying to drown him, while he slashed home into its body again and again with the Fireguard, its molten heat landing with a sizzle, boiling off parts of its corporeal manifestation with an antithetical industry.

Three more such battles, and he was able to descend to the bottom of the lake - clad in plate armor, the descent was effortless - and take the prize. He walked slowly and carefully across the bottom of the lake and up to the shoreline, breathing the water easily under the aegis of the Nagrand Cherry he'd earlier consumed.

His heart twisted with regret and pain as he beheld the ragged banner in his hands, folding it with reverence and respect. Before Uther's death, he had fought alongside comrades, the Order of the Silver Hand a unified, cohesive whole under its commanders. Doubtless there had been politics, and differences of opinion; those differences had shattered the Order into many shards after Arthas had declared Uther and all those who stood with him, refusing to slaughter the innocent of Stratholme. Griffonclaw had been barely in his twenties when that sundering had happened, and while it had not killed him, it had broken his spirit; gone was the shining standard of the Silver Hand, and in its place had been the murderous fanatics of the Scarlet Crusade, the fatalistic Argent Dawn, who would even make allies of the Scarlet Crusade and the Horde - even the Forsaken - to drive the Scourge from Lordaeron. The Cathedral in Stormwind and the Hall of Mysteries in Ironforge both had claimed the mantle of the Order of the Silver Hand, but neither of them had legitimacy; none of them had stood with Uther; the dwarves had not sent many into Lordaeron, having their own battles to fight, and the commanders of the Stormwind branch were those who had been garrsioned elsewhere, and had not stood with Uther, seen the horrors of Stratholme. They were armchair commanders, sending newly ordained paladins out to fight in their stead. A commander led from the front - if his friend Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker would lead a force to the assistance of the Argent Dawn, Griffonclaw would gladly ride with him, regardless of which banner was flown; instead, he stayed in the Cathedral and sent others instead.

Regardless of what they might claim, the Order of the Silver Hand had died with Arthas' betrayal, and with the death of Uther.

All of this resurged from the cellars of his mind where he had imprisoned it - the dark despair that had followed, the years of fighting who he was told to fight, the mercenary nature of his life. Not all was dark; he often rose in the middle of the night, mantled in dark clothes, going to the slums and wards, healing the sick, defending those on the streets from the Night and Darkness, whose black agents were unceasingly active. He would loot the dead rogues and warlocks and shadow priests who sought victims, and give their wealth to the orphanage anonymously; the woman he loved was herself a walker in the shadow, a theif and a cutpurse at need. She sought wealth and power, but as a means to an end - helping others.

Griffonclaw chuckled. She was as fierce as a wounded badger in a fight, but had a kind and gentle heart, with a touch of an experienced grifter in her makeup. Universal Exports had lost the occasional shipment of foodstuffs and the like, about the same time that mysterious shipments of relief supplies had been delivered anonymously to the refugees at the Gilneas Wall. The company had collected the insurance -- amazing how only insured shipments disappeared -- and no questions were ever asked.

A paladin healed whoever needed assistance at no cost. A paladin stood before the innocent and the encroaching Darkness. A paladin buried the dead, and then sought vengance for the slain. He kept only enough to maintain his mission; the rest of his money went to feed the hungry, to provide shelter to the cold.

Not to buy mead to wash away the memories of his own failure.

The fabric of the banner almost burned him where he touched it. Even has ragged and destroyed as it was, he was unworthy to bear the standard.

He was unworthy.

That thought echoed in his mind as he rode back to Tirion, tears from the memories scorching down his cheeks.

* * *

Griffonclaw unfolded and held forth the ragged banner that had once been a battle-standard of the Order of the Silver Hand, and offered it to Tirion Fordring, who took it from him with a hushed reverence. "It is as glorious now - even in its tattered state - as the day I looked upon it and took my oath of allegiance," the disgraced paladin had said, his voice almost cracking with emotion. "My son's redemption comes, and perhaps mine with it..." he concluded.

"I pray that it be so, Brother" murmured Griffonclaw.

"There is one last item we need for my 'present' to Taelan, my friend" Tirion said. "When Taelan was a child, we would oft visit Caer Darrow on family excursions. On our last visit, an artist by the name of Renfray painted a portrait of us poised along the beachside. It is my fondest memory of both Taelan and Karandra. For it was at that moment, with my wife and son in my arms, that I felt a bond of love and family that I would never know again."

Griffonclaw nodded. He had been to Caer Darrow in the time since then; it was no longer a place to take vacations.

"If this painting still exists, you must find it, Griffonclaw," Tirion pleaded, and this time his voice did break. "Travel to the ruined island of Caer Darrow and see if the painting or the artist remain."

Griffonclaw rode, following the river to where it emptied out into Darrowmere Lake, which held the island of Caer Darrow. he followed the lakeshore around to the land bridge that connected the island to the shore. He could see the ruined castle, once a mighty fortress dating back to the Empire of Arathor. Its crypts had been made by Kel'Thuzad into a school for his Cult of the Damned, where its students learned foul necromancy.

Once the island had been the resting place of an ancient runestone, sacred to the high elves of Quel'Thalas, but the Horde had taken the island in the Second War, and the stone had been carved up and used to create the cursed Altars of Storms, which had allowed the Horde leader Gul'dan to create the first of the Ogre Magi. After it was restored, the people of Caer Darrow had managed to defend the island from the Scourge for months after the fall of Lordaeron - at least until the fall of Andorhal.

The grounds were a haunted place, with the specters and ghosts of the town forced to re-live Caer Darrow's happiest day for all eternity - when Uther Lightbringer had retaken the island from the Horde and the traitors of Alterac.

Not a single living creature - nor any undead, either - bothered Griffonclaw as he entered the ruins. Tirion had given him directions to the artist's studio, and he headed in that direction. Renfray had occupied a cottage near the wharf, combining studio and living quarters. She had been talented, and many of the wealthy of Andorhal had sought her for portrait commissions. Her cottage, once a bright and airy place, was now half-burned, and like the whole island, seemed to suck the hope from the very air.

Griffonclaw entered, and focused himself on the First Meditation, a exercise taught every first-year noviate; it cleared the mind, and attuned them to their spiritual side. He saw her spirit immediately. Her ghost appeared as a young woman, pretty, with auburn hair piled atop her head in a style pragmatic for her work. He approached her slowly, and as he did, she turned, and smiled sadly at him.

"Are you who was once the Artist Renfray, she who painted a portrait for the paladin Commander Tirion Fordring and his family? Do you remember?" he asked. "Speak, spirit! I entreat you!"

In a warm, musical, and yet somehow hollow voice, the spirit answered. "How could I forget? Many of the spirits on this island are cursed to relive their last happy memory before they met their tragic end. I too am cursed, but not as they - I am one of the few that remembers all..." The ghost wailed then, and Griffonclaw's heart shuddered in sympathy; at least the other ghosts were essentially mindless automations, and while they were not at rest, at least they were focused on repetition. To remember all, and to be locked here with nothing but memories... that was indeed a curse.

"Perhaps this thing that you ask me is why I haunt these ruins. Perhaps this thing I tell you shall set me free," the spirit mused, sadly. "The painting... It hung on the wall of my workshop - inside the Order's barracks - for years. After Tirion's trial was over, I knew that I could no longer keep the painting visible. I hid it in a place that they would never think to look. I painted over it, coving it with a landscape of our twin moons. Chip away at the paint, and you will uncover my master work!"

"Where is the painting to be found? Somewhere here?" Griffonclaw demanded, eager to be on the trail.

"Unfortunately, no... the new work caught the fancy of one of the renegades of the Scarlet Crusade, who passed through here some time ago. It was taken by one of their Archivests.... the others called him Galford. Back to the their Scarlet Bastion in accured Stratholme they rode... seek for it there, and may the Light bless you as it has failed me"

And with that, the spirit turned from him, and would say no more.

Griffonclaw turned, mounted his warhorse, and turned away.

Stratholme, the city where Arthas had declared those who would not join him renegade and traitor.

Stratholme, where Arthas had disbanded the Order of the Silver Hand.

Stratholme, where Griffonclaw had been declared traitor to his King.

Griffonclaw rode north. To Stratholme.

* * *

Haveloque was a gnome. A gnome with claws. On his right hand he wore a Nexus Claw, and on his left hand, a Void Talon. With his admantine plate, greaves, and full helm, he resembled nothing so much as a giant azure boring beetle. Griffonclaw stood just behind him and to the left; from this position he could both heal Haveloque with ease, and stop any flanking attempts by their enemies. Behind Griffonclaw and slightly to the right was Noctarre, clad in her re-tailored robes, whose material clung as if by magic to every delicious curve of her Warlock's body. Her enormous demon Shaaghun stood in front of her, for now guarding Haveloque's right flank. Once the battle started, the Fel Guard wouldn't keep formation, but as he would swing his enormous axe in high arcs, sending opponent limbs, head, or other body parts flying, they still considered that flank "secure", if that was a sufficient description of the carnage the demon would wreak.

Somewhere around the edges, Griffonclaw's wife, the rogue Kestralil, was stalking the shadows, waiting for a fight to begin before making her presence obvious. She was a stone-cold expert at "hide and seek".

They had crossed the bridge that spanned the moat to Scholomance some hours ago, leaving a trail of necromances and Scourge minions behind them. Griffonclaw had been tasked with recoving a painting for Tirion Fordring, as part of an attempt to shock his son, Taelan, away from the excesses of the Scarlet Crusade, and back to service to the Light. Griffonclaw had discovered that the painting had been painted over, and the new painting taken for his office by the Scarlet Crusade's Chief Archivist, a fellow named Galford.

So, nothing would do but to go to Scholomance.

The city of Stratholme had been the northernmost city of the Kingdom of Lordaeron, and was the city where the Order of the Silver Hand was founded. The largest city after Lordaeron's capital, Stratholme was destroyed by Prince Arthas, its population massacred after they were infected by the Plague of Undeath. Uther and many of the Order of the Silver Hand had refused to participate, and Arthas had disbanded the Order and declared Uther and his followers traitors. Griffonclaw had been among those who had refused to participate; the knight he had served, Sir Khalven, had sided with Arthas. Griffonclaw had lost his mentor, lost his Order, and been declared traitor in a single hour. He had ridden away, following Lady Jaina's banner, but from that day, he had been lost, drifting from conflict to conflict, winding up as a bitter winesack of a courier and guard for the goblin Steamwheedle Cartel.

As they approached the barbican, Griffonclaw noted that the accursed city was still burning; while held by the Scourge, it would always burn, and the dead of the city would always roam, guarding its streets for the Scourge with a rapacious hunger.

Ironically, the only force that challenged the Scourge for contol of the accursed city was the Scarlet Crusade; they held the Scarlet Bastion, a fortified cathedral located in the western district of the city. The Bastion served as a stronghold of the Scarlet Crusade, where Grand Crusader Dathrohan commanded the ongoing struggle to regain the ravaged city, his elite Crimson Legion, barely able to hold their own ground against the waves of fresh Scourge attackers.

The Scarlet Bastion was their destination.

They had slowly carved a path through the city, fighting packs of mangled animate cadavers, mindless skeleton warriors, and plague-carrying ghouls. While the Scourge's minions didn't present an overwhelming challenge per se, there were a seeming unending supply; the old adage "Quantity has a quality all its own" had never been illustrated so clearly. They moved forward, for if they stayed in one place too long, other wandering bands would charge them, and behind them, the streets slowly filled again. After all, they had the entire population of the second largest city of Lordaeron as fodder. They could destroy the Scourge for a week, and they'd barely make a dent in their forces.

The barbican and courtyard of the Scarlet Bastion were a welcome sight, even if it was a subject of much pain; before the slaughter at Scholomance, it had been Uther's headquarters, the home of the Order of the Silver Hand; but the Order was dead, sundered by Arthas, its parts having drifted to either the Scarlet Crusade or the Argent Dawn. Griffonclaw didn't consider the pitiful attempts at restarting the Orders in Ironforge and Stormwind to count for much; aside from a small core cadre, the paladins it produced were mavericks, without effective rule or discipline. This had been the heart of the Order, and seeing it besieged thus, and occupied by ruthless, explotive killers who committed outrages and excesses in the name of the Light filled Griffonclaw with a rightous rage.

The Scarlet Crusade and he had a long and bloody history of conflict - and most of the blood had been theirs.

Was this the final legacy of the Order of the Silver Hand? A debased cult of fanatics, embracing zealotry approaching madness, with Crusaders killing anyone they believe to be undead, any mortal they believe may soon be undead, any mortal they assume to be carrying the plague, mortals who stand between the Crusade and undead, and mortals who may sympathize with undead? The thought was more than Griffonclaw could bear.

"All of them," he said quietly.

"Pardon, love? What was that?" asked Kestralil, who had been returning from scouting the formations of the Crusaders manning the barracades; they seemed to be a mixture of paladins and elementalists. Kestralil had not shared the visceral, burning hatred of the Scarlet Crusade until she had spoken with Noctarre about her history, and about others who Noctarre knew had once once been persecuted by them..

"I said, I want to kill all of them" he repeated grimly.

Kestralil paused; her lover and husband was often efficient, sometimes cold in matters of violence, but she had never seen him this... ruthless. She clearly saw the burning hatred of the Crusade, and understood too well that, for him, the Scarlet Crusade represented and embodied everything a paladin feared that they could become; fanaticism replacing mercy, expediencey replacing justice. It tore at her heart to see him so, burning hatred consuming him, regardless of the cold expresssion. It was a black, gaping wound in his soul, and she wanted it healed, even as she recognized that she would never be able to do the healing herself. She felt frustratingly helpless, and that feeling itself was her own worst fear - having to watch while her loved ones suffered.

"I got no problem with that, Griffonclaw" commented Haveloque calmly. Recently, Haveloque had gone by another name, and under that name had been a warlock, suffering under the same persecution for which the Scarlet Crusade was reknowned. Kestralil felt a surge of gratitude for not only his presence here with them, but also that he had joined her company. Haveloque had once been a sergeant in the Gnomeregan Home Guard, and had been in the thickest of the fighting when his homeland had fallen. He was a soldier's soldier, at his best when commanding a squad force; his own unit had fought a protective rearguard action as the troggs and radiation sickness had filled the passages and chambers, and he had been hailed as one of heroes, he and his men sheparding and guarding a stream of civilian refugees to Ironforge. He had resigned thereafter, when the High Tinkerer had made the decision to not attempt an immediate reclaimation of the homeland, and drifted to warlockry and diabolism, before repenting following the most expeditious ways to Darkness and arcane power. In many ways, he was an antithetical product of Gnomish society; grim and determined, he was focused and serious about the art of war, and a soldier's discipline. In a society famous for its eccentric individualism, he was a dedicated team player, and his loyalty, once given, was unshakable until betrayed.

He was the steadfast rock, upon which enemies broke themselves.

They left a trail of broken corpses behind them as they took the barricades, and then the front hall.

As they penetrated the halls of the former cathedral, the Scourge filled in behind them, taking first the courtyard, and then spreading inside. Calls of alarm were spreading throughout the Bastion, rousing and alerting its garrsion. After securing an antechamber, Noctarre called a halt.

"Griffonclaw, Haveloque, strip them of their livery" she said, pointing at some of the fallen Crimson Legion. Griffonclaw and Haveloque did as she ordered without question.

"There are no gnomes mad enough to wear that tabard" Haveloque countered, spitting his contempt.

"Then we shall be your guards, and you our prisoner. The Scourge themselves are covering our tracks; let them bleed each other dry" she commented, turning to Griffonclaw. "Kestralil can hide from them and follow behind us... or in front of us, whichever suits her best.

"Your revenge will have to wait, love" Kestralil said softly, regretfully. "Which is more important - the painting, or their lives?"

Griffonclaw shrugged, his mask of cynical indifference firmly in place, the fury of his hatred tempered by his exhaustion.

"The painting then. Tirion waits, and I won't fail him" he replied, busying himself with a tabard and cloak, replacing his own helm with one of theirs. In the chaos of their defense, it should serve well enough to disguise him as one of their own. Noctarre made them turn their backs, her eyes twinkling, as she stripped and donned the robes of one of their fallen elementalists, and dismissed her Fel Guard.

They continued, passing groups of Scarlet Crusaders running, heading into battle to reclaim their bastion from the Scourge minions who had taken advantage of their passing inward. To the guards, they were just another group taking a prisoner inward to be questioned; they had more important things to do. The halls behind the guards were emptying rapidly of their usual patrols and guards as more and more rushed to the front.

Noctarre stopped a monk, and asked for directions. "Prisoner to Chief Archivist Galford from Tyr's Hand" she said, naming another of the Scarlet Crusade's fortifications, "for questiong. Where is his office?" The monk gave her simple instructions -- the office they were looking for was at the end of the great hall, opposite the great domed basilica. The monk hurried to fight, and they continued.

As they approached, they noticed that the basilica door had a heavy guard, a last ditch defense against the Scourge intruders. As they approached, the leader of the guards stepped forward to meet them, flanked by her men.

"Prisoner to Chief Archivist Galford from Tyr's Hand, for questioning" Noctarre repeated. Haveloque looked down. His hands were behind his back, as if tied; in actually, his cloak had been draped over them, hiding his claws.

The guard sergeant looked at them suspiciously. "If you're from Tyr's Hand, why do you wear a Legion tabard. And... " She got no further; Haveloque leaped forward like an enraged wolverine, claws carving through the chain under the breastplate like a hot knife through cheese, eviscerating her. Griffonclaw flung his cloak over a priest's head, and his Fireguard cut a fiery path through the air, cleaving coif and gorget of another. Noctarre spoke in a loud voice, invoking her Fel magics, and hellfire rained down upon their enemies, burning through burnished steel. Kestralil garroted one acolyte from behind, her wire chord ripping through the caster's throat like a dwarf through a cask of ale. In no time at all, the guards were dead.

"It was a stupid conversation anyway" commented Haveloque as Griffonclaw kicked in Galford's office door.

The office was empty, which suited Griffonclaw fine. He'd be back, and see all of them sent to hell.

They took the painting, a landscape showing their two moons in the midnight sky. All four of them invoked the magic of their hearthstones rather than carve an exit through both Scourge and Scarlet defender; they'd had enough for the day, and a few more deaths here and there wouldn't help. From Shattrack, Griffonclaw made his way back to Tirion, presenting him with the painting.

Tirion carefully chipped away the outer paint to reveal the masterpiece beneath. The painting made the ex-paladin weep.

"Griffonclaw, you have done all that I have asked thus far. Only one step remains in your quest of redemption," Tirion said when he had finished. "You must deliver the items you have collected to Taelan. Unfortunately, Taelan and his Scarlet Crusaders will attack you on sight. There is only one way in which to deliver my message and that is through a guise of deception. To the south you will find Uther's tomb. An old and trusted confidant of mine, Myranda, now resides there - seek her out. Show her the items and she will assist you."

Griffonclaw nodded. "I'll leave in the morning, Sir Tirion". He was exhausted, and tomorrow was soon enough.

* * *

For the second time in his life, Griffonclaw was wearing the livery of the Scarlet Crusade.

The first time had been several days before, when the warlock Noctarre had made him, so that they would not have to fight past an already-alerted Scarlet Bastion. The second time, the disguise was illusory, and even covered his facial features.

Tirion had prepared a package for Griffonclaw to deliver to his son Taelan, containing items which they hoped would reawaken his sense of honor and virtue. Taelan had fallen from the Light and joined the Scarlet Crusade, where he had been appointed Highlord of Mardenholde Keep, now one of their major establishments. Griffonclaw had fetched the items for Tirion, and now was charged with their delivery; Tiron had suggested he speak with an old friend of his, the gnomish mage Myranda the Hag.

Griffonclaw had found her near Uther's Tomb, and requested her help.

"I was Tirion's most trusted advisor when he held rank as Lord of Mardenholde. I openly dissented the verdict passed by the Order of the Silver Hand and was banished for my insolence," she'd replied. "He has been through much heart ache and disappointment in his life, Griffonclaw. Are you prepared to right the wrongs set upon the Fordrings?

"I am what you would call an illusionist; though I may be able to create an illusion to allow you entry into Hearthglen, be warned; my powers have their limitations," she continued. "Should you travel too far from these lands, the effects of the illusion will cease. The spell itself takes a great amount of concentration and power from me, and thus, I can only sustain the effect for a short time."

Griffonclaw had confirmed that he was ready to proceed, and she had cast an illusion that had made him the picture of a Scartlet Crusader paladin. He had summoned the spirit of his Holy Steed, Stormwind, and had made all haste to Mardenholde, ever conscious of the duration limitations, and that he must find Tirion before it expired.

As he passed through the gates of the city, he returned the salutes of the Scaret Crusade guards. He paused, and asked one of the guards "I have a mesaage for Highlord Fordring -- where might I find him?"

"He's usually in the great hall of the keep itself, at this time of day, sir" answered the guardsmen. "I'd much rather be on the gate than dealing with the paperwork the Lord has to wade through every day."

"Well, I have only one small satchel for him" Griffonclaw said, indicating the pack containing Tirion's gifts. "It shouldn't add too much to his pile. Light preserve and protect you, Brother". Griffonclaw nudged his horse forward, heading for the keep ahead.

He was admitted without question, and Griffonclaw wondered at the lack of security; granted, he looked the part, but no watchwords? In similar circumstance, he never would have been able to thus infiltrate the Silver Hand... but then, the Crusaders were fanatics, secure in their own zealotry and superiority. "Of course, so am I..." Griffonclaw chuckled to himself, striding up the stairs, passing more Crusaders on his way up.

Tiron Fordring was sitting at a large desk in the main hall, attended by four guards. He looked up as Griffonclaw approached and saluted. "What's this, then?" he grumbled.

"Package for you, my Lord, from one who holds you close in heart" Griffonclaw responded with care.

"Oh indeed?" replied Taelan. "Bring it forward then."

Griffonclaw approached, handed him the satchel, and bowed low, waiting. This was the most dangerous of moments; surely he would recognize his old warhammer toy, his battle standard of the Silver Hand, and the small painting; his reaction would determine how fast Griffonclaw would need to run, to escape alive.

Taelan opened the bag, and examined the contents in silence. He looked up, a faraway look on his face, and spoke to Griffonclaw.

"For so long, I have been a puppet of the Grand Crusader. What reason was there to fight against what the Scarlet Crusade had become? It has been decades, yet the memories of my father; those precious memories, they are what have kept me alive," he told Griffonclaw. "I have dreams, stranger. In these dreams my father is with me. He stands proudly at my side as I am inducted into the Order. We battle legion of Scourge, side by side. We bring honor to the Alliance, to Lordaeron."

He seemed to focus on Griffonclaw, who felt very much like a mouse under a hunting hawk's gaze.

"I want not to dream anymore" Taelan said. "Take me to him." He stood, his guards looking on him strangely.

"Highlord Fordring, are you all right?" asked one of them, a worried expression on his face.

"What the..." began another, as the Highlord freed his long two-handed broadsword from it's baldric.

"Sir?" questioned another of the cavaliers, his inquiry soon turning to alarm. "Something is wrong with the Highlord! Lord, you must stop..." The guard got no further before Taelan bellowed "Noooooooooooooo!" and attacked those who would restrain him. Griffonclaw dropped the illusion, running to intercept one of the cavaliers who had turned to summon more guards.

The resistance was futile, as the saying went.

The Highlord seemed in a fury; having shrugged off the enchantment that had bent him to their will, he seemed to have nothing left for his former comrades-in-arms but the rage in his heart and the razor edge of his steel. Griffonclaw followed him as he carved his way through the keep and to the front gates, letting Taelan set the pace, guarding his flank and keeping him healed. Griffonclaw even managed to have sympathy for the guards who sought to restrain their former Lord, whom they must think mad; Griffonclaw himself would not have lasted long under Taelan's furious onslaught.

When they reached the stables, Taelan fetched his mount, saying "I wil lead us through the Hearthglen to the forest's edge; from there, you may take me to my father." Griffonclaw nodded, summoning Stormwind once again. They rode through the open gates, leaving the guard Griffonclaw had previously joked with dead against the wall.

They paced along, and neared a tower checkpoint. Taelan turned to Griffonclaw, reigning in. "It's not much further, cavalier - the main road is just ahead."

A voice rang out from the watchtower steps. "You will not make it to the forest's edge, Fordring!"

"Isillien!" snarled Taelan, turning back to Griffonclaw. "This is not your fight, stranger. Protect yourself from attacks of the Crimson Elite; I shall deal with the Grand Inquisitor!". Spurring his mount forward up the steps, he leaped from the saddle at his tormentor. Griffonclaw dismounted and once more warded his back from the Crimson Elite soldiers that formed Isillien's bodyguard.

As Isillien defended himself from Taelan's rush, he taunted his former protoge. "You disappoint me, Taelan... I had such plans for you. Grand plans... alas, it was only a matter of time before your filthy traitor's bloodline caught up with you." Griffonclaw hardly had time to pay attention; his Fireguard blazed, cleaving armor, plate and flesh. His opponents were skilled, and they outnumbered him; he wished that Kestralil was here beside him, if only so he could say goodbye.

They were losing.

Isillien had begun to drive Taelan back. "It is as they say... 'Like father, like son'. You are as weak of will as Tirion...perhaps more so," he gloated. "I only hope my assassins have succeeded in ending his pitiful life."

Scarlet blade cut across Griffonclaw's shoulder, driving pieces of the chainmail joints into his flesh. Even were Isillien and Taelan equally matched, there was no way that Griffonclaw could conquer four of the Crimson Elite. He was going to fail, again. Taelan would die, hopelessly outnumbered. Griffonclaw faltered, but lashed out with the diamond-like point of his shield, and through chance it found a weak joint in one of his enemy's greaves, smashing through bone and flesh. Griffonclaw took full advantage, and, heedless of his own defense, charged another. Flames followed in the wake of his blade's edge as it caught the foe by surprise, and smashed through the fellow's gorget, severing his head from body. His other two enemies took advantage of Fafhr's rush, however, and he felt mace-head smash his ribs just above his kidneys.

Griffonclaw continued forward, sweeping his sword behind him as he turned, parrying the spear-head that had sought his spine. He ignored the pain of his wounds, and mumbled a healing; he might die. They might lose; that was expected, and the eventual fate of all who served the Light. There was no dishonor in defeat, he realized; only in despair. He laughed then, as his enemies closed, and he sung a snatch of song he'd written long ago, far away from this battlefield, startling his opponents.

"Paladins of the Light don't raise no kids
We face an early death
We die, bleeding out in the hills, all alone
The Dark is strong, I don't give a damn
Doubts are for the weak"

He turned his attention on the woman wielding the mace, and feinted low with this sword. As her shield dropped, he slammed his other shoulder into her, disrupting her footing. Her mace grazed his head, ringing it like a bell, and he stomped down as she fell, armored sabatons driven by his armored muscle snapping her jaw and neck. Spinning to face the spearman, he could not parry in time, and the barbed head punched through the lower edge of his chestplate, angling down, ripping through his intestines. His torso turned to agony, and he dropped his sword, which lay dangling from his wrist, held their by a steel chain. With both hands, he grabbed the spear-shaft and violently lunged, screaming as the point penetrated his lower back - but bringing its owner in range of his plate gauntlet. The Crimson Elite guard had chosen to wear an open-faced helm, and now he paid the price in full as Griffonclaw's fist broke his nose, and with a snap of his wrist, Griffonclaw's Fireguard came to his hand once more.

Griffonclaw lunged forward, praying to the Light for luck. The fireblade, driven by his last desperate lunge, ripped through the steel of the Crusader's breastplate with an angry noise like the scream of a thousand fire elementals, its fiery blade killing the guard almost instantly.

Griffonclaw collapsed to the ground, finished. He could hear the battle between Taelan and Isillien, but lacked the power to stand, let alone help. He lay there, pain almost overwhelming him, feeling his life slowly - agonizingly slowly! - slip away.

"The Grand Crusader has charged me with ending your life, Taelon!" the Grand Inquisitor cackled, pushing Taelan back. While Griffonclaw had been fighting his enemies to a standstill, Taelan had taken several wounds, and they were slowing him. "Did you really thing you could defeat me, whelp? I taught you! I know every move you are going to make before you make it." With that, the Grand Inqusitor made a final flurry, and stepped back as Taelan fell down the remaining steps, lifeless.

Griffonclaw heard, as if in a dream, Tirion's voice boom out. "What have you done, Issilien? Once you fought with honor, for the good of our people... and now, you have slain my boy". Even as the pain made him insensible, Griffonclaw could hear the raw agony crack Tirion's voice; he had come too late.

"Tragic... that the elder Fordring lives on, that is. Begone, old hermit - lest I send you to join your pathetic whelp in the Twisting Nether!"

"Light grant me the strength to send your soul to burn in anguish!" cried Tirion, attacking. "Face me, coward! Face the faith and the power of the Light that you once used to protect the innocent!"

Issilien and Tirion fought then, and as far beyond Taelan's skill Issilien had been, so too was Tirion beyond Issilien. it must have not lasted long - or perhaps Griffonclaw had passed out from the pain - but it seemed almost immediately he heard Tirion's voice again, filled with grief and weariness.

"A thousand more like him exist. Ten thousand. Should one fall, another will rise to take the seat of power," he said, falling to one knee. "Look at what they did to my boy... my son..." Tirioon gathered Taelen's lifeless body into his arms, and softly sobbed. "Too long have I sat idle, gripped in this haze... this malaise, lamenting what could have been... what should have been... "

Griffonclaw heard these words, to the depth of his soul, and recognized the truth of the waste of his own life since Uther's death, and the fall of Lordaeron. Tirion looked up, surprised; he had thought Griffonclaw dead, as well. "Griffonclaw yet lives, having fallen in defense of my son?" Tirion turned Griffonclaw over, and removed the spear from his body, healing the wound as best he could. Griffonclaw's heard Tirion's last words as he fell into sleep - a healing slumber, this time, his oath.

"Your death will have not been in vain, Taelan," Tirion swore. "A new Order is born on this day... an Order which will dedicate itself to extinguishing the evil that plagues this world. An evil that cannot hide behind politics and niceties."

"This I promise... This I vow..." He bundled up Griffonclaw and Taelan onto his horse, leading them away. Talean would be buried with reverence, but Tirion would leave Griffonclaw with the Argent Dawn to recover, at Chillwind Point; although he honored both their sacrifices, he had no time now to play nursemaid.

He had much to do.