Dalmilandril sat in the common room of the Bruuk'a Corner tavern, off the plaza near the Hall of Arms, the muster-point and training hall for the Ironforge armed forces and militia. The ale was excellent and the bread and cheese were both hard as rocks, unsurprising given the venue.
He waited.
Dalmilandril had never been overly fond of dwarves. Any people whose idea of foreplay was "brace yourself, Bjorri, here I come!", whose definition of haute cuisine was a meal in which a physician was not required, whose social news consisted of articles beginning with "Among the injured were...", were not the kind of people he wanted to spend an over-abundance of time with. For Dalmilandril, Ironforge was a place to pass through, on his way to somewhere else.
Meeting here had not been his choice, but rather the choice of the person with whom he had requested a meeting. And he was late.
Dalmilandril's superior at the Cathedral, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, had approached Dalmilandril with taking up his role within the Scarlet Crusade again; under the leadership of Mikalylus, Dalmilandril had established himself within the Scarlet Crusade as a loyal officer, working for Inquisitor Vishas.
Lord Shadowbreaker had been approached by a paladin of Ironforge, who worked directly for King Magni Bronzebeard as a "privy agent", handling affairs for the Iron Throne that required delicacy and, occasionally, deniability. This fellow had submitted a proposal for an operation that required an inside source to be successful, and so Lord Shadowbreaker had requested that Dalmilandril take a leave of absence from the Crimson Horizon, and reprise his role within the Scarlet Crusade.
Mistress Aislin had granted leave, but before Dalmilandril left for Lordaeron, he had sent a letter; Dalmilandril believed in the work in which the Crimson Horizon was currently engaged, recovering and preserving knowledge against further disaster. Before he left and resumed his career as double-agent, he wanted to make one last, large contribution, one that might keep the scribes busy for the months - perhaps years - that he would be away.
He had sent a letter to his cousin, requesting a meeting.
When his cousin entered, ducking by reflex past the dwarrow-sized doorway, Dalmilandril rose. While his cousin made his way to the table, dodging the off-duty soldiers and veterans which filled the tables and walkways, Dalmilandril paused, wondering how to greet his long-estranged relative.
His cousin was bastard-born, and the legitimate children of the Silverlaine line had sought to curry favor with their Aunt by making the life of the living reminder of her husband's long-term infidelity a living hell. Dalmilandril had been older, but not old enough to have not participated. The persecution had culminated in the cousin striking back, scarring the eldest of Dalmilandril's brothers with his claw-like fingers, and earning him the use-name that was now so prevalent that nobody really called him anything else. The child had, at the age of nine, been summarily packed off to the Cathedral in Stormwind, given to the Order of the Silver Hand's service.
"Sir Griffonclaw," Dalmilandril greeted, stiffly, giving his cousin a covert appraisal. The Silverlaines had washed their hands of Griffonclaw FitzSilver ages ago; to their chagrin, he had prospered without their patronage. There was not a spot of land on Azeroth that his cousin had not trod in his duties for the Order, and his scholarly bent had inclined him to collect tomes and librams from obscure places.
"Cousin Dal," Griffonclaw returned. Clad in civilian garb, his steel grey hair was still cropped short, for better fit under a helm. He wore no weapons openly, but his reputation for unconventional - one might even say, dishonorable and disgraceful - tactical procedures belied the assumption that he could not defend himself in an instant.
Dalmilandril gestured to the chairs, and the cousins sat, facing each other. Griffonclaw sat silently, and both parties allowed the silence to continue for an uncomfortably long period. A serving wench refilled Dalmilandril's ale, and brought a fresh mug, apparently filled with moonberry juice, for Griffonclaw. "How curious" Dalmilandril thought, "that they already knew my cousin's preference". That Griffonclaw had stopped drinking ale and stronger spirits had been the subject of speculation within the family gossip vines.
"Lord Grayson has given me an assignment, and I may be away for some time..." Dalmilandril began.
"I know. In Lordaeron," Griffonclaw supplied, and Dalmilandril paused. Dalmilandril's assignment was supposed to be confidential; if it was generally known, it could easily become a death sentence for him.
"You know?"
"Cousin Dal... I have followed your career, such as it is, within the Cathedral since shortly after my return," Griffonclaw informed. When Griffonclaw had been missing, presumed dead, Dalmilandril had been taken from his position as commander of the Silverlaine guard and sent to the Cathedral, to replace Griffonclaw's loss; that Griffonclaw had apparently returned from death had not released Dalmilandril from his vows. Griffonclaw continued in a low voice. "You are going to be working for an emissary of the Iron Crown, one of Magni's privy agents... Dal, I am Magni's privy agent, and have been since I was recruited by the Hammer of Magni, years ago."
"...." said Dalmilandril, as several things fell into place. Griffonclaw being released from his Cathedral vows. The irregularity of Griffonclaw becoming a paladin of Ironforge's Mystic Hall. The ultimate deniability of a privy agent; he wasn't even dwarvish.
"Well, in any case... I have a favor to ask."
Griffonclaw nodded, waiting for Dalmilandril to continue.
"While I am gone, I would like for you to loan the Crimson Horizon your library" Dalmilandril asked.
"I'll do better than that... I'll donate my library to them, and they can copy it at their leisure," the paladin replied, smiling. "There is a storm coming, Dal, and when the Order of the Silver Hand moves, I will move with them; it will put my mind at rest that my books will find a good, safe, home."
Dalmilandril nodded, relieved. He had not expected it to be this easy, and it left him suspicious.
Griffonclaw chuckled at the look on Dalmilandril's face. "Look... Dal," he began, leaning foward. "Family issues are long past, and even if I held a grudge, its unimportant compared to the work we're doing. We can't fight a holding action any longer; the Argent Dawn is straining to hold the Plaguelands in check, and every day new disturbing reports come out of Lordaeron, about what the thrice damned Apothecarium is up to, with their own versions of new plagues. The Burning Legion has not forgotten us; the Sin'dorei prince tries to open the Sunwell to them even as we speak."
"We will face a war on three fronts if we do not move swiftly, Dal - the Horde, the Burning Legion, and the Lich King. They bleed us daily in the Plaguelands, and the Horde itself has traitors within; the Forsaken want all who breath safely dead, including their putative Horde 'allies'. if we don't go on the offensive soon... we will be overwhelmed. They breed horrors faster than we can breed fighting soldiers and battle mages."
"What you ask is no favor; what you ask is common sense, given that I'll likely die on the hills around Stratholme, or on some icy beach in Northrend." Griffonclaw rose, and turned to leave.
"Griffo... Dane. Cousin Dane," Dalmilandril blurted. He was awash with a sense of regret, of time wasted with the petty politics of his family; while they schemed and plotted, their bastard outcast was fighting for the survival of the whole of the Alliance. For the first time as an adult, Dalmilandril felt ashamed of the way they'd treated his cousin, the causal dismissals, the cruelties. He extended his open hand to his cousin, possibly for the first time in his life, and smiled as Griffonclaw stepped back to take it.
"Farewell, cousin Dane Silverlaine. May the Light protect you," Dalmilandril bade.
"May it shield both of us, Brother of the Silver Hand" Griffonclaw smiled, surprised but pleased. "In the dark places both of us must now tread."
He waited.
Dalmilandril had never been overly fond of dwarves. Any people whose idea of foreplay was "brace yourself, Bjorri, here I come!", whose definition of haute cuisine was a meal in which a physician was not required, whose social news consisted of articles beginning with "Among the injured were...", were not the kind of people he wanted to spend an over-abundance of time with. For Dalmilandril, Ironforge was a place to pass through, on his way to somewhere else.
Meeting here had not been his choice, but rather the choice of the person with whom he had requested a meeting. And he was late.
Dalmilandril's superior at the Cathedral, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, had approached Dalmilandril with taking up his role within the Scarlet Crusade again; under the leadership of Mikalylus, Dalmilandril had established himself within the Scarlet Crusade as a loyal officer, working for Inquisitor Vishas.
Lord Shadowbreaker had been approached by a paladin of Ironforge, who worked directly for King Magni Bronzebeard as a "privy agent", handling affairs for the Iron Throne that required delicacy and, occasionally, deniability. This fellow had submitted a proposal for an operation that required an inside source to be successful, and so Lord Shadowbreaker had requested that Dalmilandril take a leave of absence from the Crimson Horizon, and reprise his role within the Scarlet Crusade.
Mistress Aislin had granted leave, but before Dalmilandril left for Lordaeron, he had sent a letter; Dalmilandril believed in the work in which the Crimson Horizon was currently engaged, recovering and preserving knowledge against further disaster. Before he left and resumed his career as double-agent, he wanted to make one last, large contribution, one that might keep the scribes busy for the months - perhaps years - that he would be away.
He had sent a letter to his cousin, requesting a meeting.
When his cousin entered, ducking by reflex past the dwarrow-sized doorway, Dalmilandril rose. While his cousin made his way to the table, dodging the off-duty soldiers and veterans which filled the tables and walkways, Dalmilandril paused, wondering how to greet his long-estranged relative.
His cousin was bastard-born, and the legitimate children of the Silverlaine line had sought to curry favor with their Aunt by making the life of the living reminder of her husband's long-term infidelity a living hell. Dalmilandril had been older, but not old enough to have not participated. The persecution had culminated in the cousin striking back, scarring the eldest of Dalmilandril's brothers with his claw-like fingers, and earning him the use-name that was now so prevalent that nobody really called him anything else. The child had, at the age of nine, been summarily packed off to the Cathedral in Stormwind, given to the Order of the Silver Hand's service.
"Sir Griffonclaw," Dalmilandril greeted, stiffly, giving his cousin a covert appraisal. The Silverlaines had washed their hands of Griffonclaw FitzSilver ages ago; to their chagrin, he had prospered without their patronage. There was not a spot of land on Azeroth that his cousin had not trod in his duties for the Order, and his scholarly bent had inclined him to collect tomes and librams from obscure places.
"Cousin Dal," Griffonclaw returned. Clad in civilian garb, his steel grey hair was still cropped short, for better fit under a helm. He wore no weapons openly, but his reputation for unconventional - one might even say, dishonorable and disgraceful - tactical procedures belied the assumption that he could not defend himself in an instant.
Dalmilandril gestured to the chairs, and the cousins sat, facing each other. Griffonclaw sat silently, and both parties allowed the silence to continue for an uncomfortably long period. A serving wench refilled Dalmilandril's ale, and brought a fresh mug, apparently filled with moonberry juice, for Griffonclaw. "How curious" Dalmilandril thought, "that they already knew my cousin's preference". That Griffonclaw had stopped drinking ale and stronger spirits had been the subject of speculation within the family gossip vines.
"Lord Grayson has given me an assignment, and I may be away for some time..." Dalmilandril began.
"I know. In Lordaeron," Griffonclaw supplied, and Dalmilandril paused. Dalmilandril's assignment was supposed to be confidential; if it was generally known, it could easily become a death sentence for him.
"You know?"
"Cousin Dal... I have followed your career, such as it is, within the Cathedral since shortly after my return," Griffonclaw informed. When Griffonclaw had been missing, presumed dead, Dalmilandril had been taken from his position as commander of the Silverlaine guard and sent to the Cathedral, to replace Griffonclaw's loss; that Griffonclaw had apparently returned from death had not released Dalmilandril from his vows. Griffonclaw continued in a low voice. "You are going to be working for an emissary of the Iron Crown, one of Magni's privy agents... Dal, I am Magni's privy agent, and have been since I was recruited by the Hammer of Magni, years ago."
"...." said Dalmilandril, as several things fell into place. Griffonclaw being released from his Cathedral vows. The irregularity of Griffonclaw becoming a paladin of Ironforge's Mystic Hall. The ultimate deniability of a privy agent; he wasn't even dwarvish.
"Well, in any case... I have a favor to ask."
Griffonclaw nodded, waiting for Dalmilandril to continue.
"While I am gone, I would like for you to loan the Crimson Horizon your library" Dalmilandril asked.
"I'll do better than that... I'll donate my library to them, and they can copy it at their leisure," the paladin replied, smiling. "There is a storm coming, Dal, and when the Order of the Silver Hand moves, I will move with them; it will put my mind at rest that my books will find a good, safe, home."
Dalmilandril nodded, relieved. He had not expected it to be this easy, and it left him suspicious.
Griffonclaw chuckled at the look on Dalmilandril's face. "Look... Dal," he began, leaning foward. "Family issues are long past, and even if I held a grudge, its unimportant compared to the work we're doing. We can't fight a holding action any longer; the Argent Dawn is straining to hold the Plaguelands in check, and every day new disturbing reports come out of Lordaeron, about what the thrice damned Apothecarium is up to, with their own versions of new plagues. The Burning Legion has not forgotten us; the Sin'dorei prince tries to open the Sunwell to them even as we speak."
"We will face a war on three fronts if we do not move swiftly, Dal - the Horde, the Burning Legion, and the Lich King. They bleed us daily in the Plaguelands, and the Horde itself has traitors within; the Forsaken want all who breath safely dead, including their putative Horde 'allies'. if we don't go on the offensive soon... we will be overwhelmed. They breed horrors faster than we can breed fighting soldiers and battle mages."
"What you ask is no favor; what you ask is common sense, given that I'll likely die on the hills around Stratholme, or on some icy beach in Northrend." Griffonclaw rose, and turned to leave.
"Griffo... Dane. Cousin Dane," Dalmilandril blurted. He was awash with a sense of regret, of time wasted with the petty politics of his family; while they schemed and plotted, their bastard outcast was fighting for the survival of the whole of the Alliance. For the first time as an adult, Dalmilandril felt ashamed of the way they'd treated his cousin, the causal dismissals, the cruelties. He extended his open hand to his cousin, possibly for the first time in his life, and smiled as Griffonclaw stepped back to take it.
"Farewell, cousin Dane Silverlaine. May the Light protect you," Dalmilandril bade.
"May it shield both of us, Brother of the Silver Hand" Griffonclaw smiled, surprised but pleased. "In the dark places both of us must now tread."
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