Griffonclaw looked down into the lands around Wintergrasp Fortress from the rock outcrop. The Commander had left him with a detachment of Alliance Vanguard rifle recruits to cover his retreat, while he had taken a task force of Argent Exodus regulars down into the surrounding lands to pay their respects to the Horde siege engine workshops.
With RPGGs
"When you see us, don't be surprised if it looks like a mob is chasing us..." Craft had said with a grin. "We'll have unloaded on the workshops, so be a good lad and give us some cover on our way back to the walls?"
"Yessir, Commander", Griffonclaw had replied, saluting. Craft Ramsey was one of the few Alliance commanders Griffonclaw saluted without hesitation. Craft winced as he turned to take his men to the assault.
Griffonclaw turned to his half-dozen men, clad in leather armor and iron caps; they were fresh from the Borean Tundra training fields, untested in battle. "Alright lads, gather 'round for a moment..." he said. "In a minute or two, I want you to find a good rock to hide behind until we see Commander Craft and his troop returning, but before then, I want to say something about what we're about to do here."
He looked each recruit in the eye for a moment, making sure he had their attention. "When they come into sight, I will be running forward; the slowest of them will be slow because they've taken wounds, and I'll do my best to help with that. You troops will be here, giving them what help you can by blowing the Hordies to hell."
He paused for a second as their cheers died down. "Light damn... they're so young... was I ever that young?" he thought for a moment before continuing.
"Let me tell you about Wintergrasp - you don't see a battle. You *hear* it. Black powder blasting by the ton on all sides. Black smoke blinding you and choking you and making you vomit. Then the Horde come out of the smoke, and they charge towards our thin line, yammering like hell and maybe a standard floating overhead. They run fast, but it takes them a long time to reach you, and you can't see them in smoke. But you can hear the yelling, the battle-calls, and the screams of the dying on both sides. They'll run out of the smoke of their own machines and gunfire and grenades, and you fire a volley. Some of their front rank will fall, and the next rank steps over them, screaming, and then their line will smash our line like Magni's own hammer breaking glass... and Thrall's boys will have won another battle.
But if you don't run - if you stand until you can smell their sweat and fear, and the rot of the Forsaken, and fire volley after volley, three rounds a minute - then they slow down. They stop. And then they run away, and the Commander and his troop will make it back. All you've got to do is stand, and fire three rounds a minute. Now, you and I know you can fire three rounds a minute..."
He paused into the silence.
"... But can you stand?"
Griffonclaw put on a fake smile, sick to his stomach, as his little squad quietly cheered, or grimly nodded. He'd given that speech before, and he knew it was a good one. None of them would want to disappoint the paladin, every one of them had a carefully-nourished hatred of the Horde, and all of them wanted to guard the backs of the Commander who distributed the finest ale in the camp.
* * *
"They did well, Griff..." commented the Commander later. The Wintergrasp Fortess had been defended, not the least of which because the Argent Exodus has paid the blood-price in the destruction of the Horde workshops; when they'd come into view, Griffonclaw had ran out to heal the hindmost as the Horde pursued them with bloody intent.
Griffonclaw's fire team had sent ragged volley after volley into the attackers, and had waited for Griffonclaw faithfully... until a Sin'dorei warlock had brought down a rain of Felfire that had ignited the riflemans' powder. The shockwave itself had almost killed the paladin, knocking him flat. Commander Craft had turned to wait for the last of his men, and had run forward to retrieve Griffonclaw from where he lay.
There had not been enough of the Griffonclaw's men to bury.
Objectively, Griffonclaw knew that the least of the Argent Exodus had much more tactical value than a half-dozen recruits. He knew that his men had died bravely, and that without them more of the Argent Exodus would have been lost. He knew that they had performed their duty, and he was proud that they had stood.
It helped.
A little.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
(65) - Brothers In Arms
Griffonclaw was almost in tears about the state of Brann's beautiful aircraft.
The flying machine of Brann Bronzebeard was smoking like a chimney badly in need of cleaning; Griffonclaw had helped the fabled explorer and hero assemble the Norgannon Shell and the Norgannon Core, and upon its completion the two of them had flown out of the depths of the Engine of the Makers, the massive tunnel in the middle of the Foot Steppes. Griffonclaw had needed to hold onto the fusilage and ride the wing, the words to the prayer to invoke the Light's Divine Shield on his lips the whole time. Scores of Stormforged Soldiers shot at them as they circled in slow ascent, the engines on both wings straining from Griffonclaw's additional weight, and Griffonclaw had been tempted to leap for the escarpments to give Brann a better chance at escape.
When the first Stormforged Soldier landed on the aircraft's wing opposite Griffonclaw, the paladin had given up that plan, and had carefully engaged the enemy before he could damage either aircraft or pilot. All told, Griffonclaw would boot, slam, or slice five ambitious enemy soldiers to their death below while bullets buzzed like angry bees past the paladin. Many of them passed through the aircraft fusilage, and some found the engines; both were smoking by the time they'd cleared the rim of the Engine of the Makers.
As the last Stormforged minion fell to his death, Griffonclaw heard Brann shout "We're coming up on Frosthold. I would be very appreciative if you would introduce me to King Stormeheart before you go. I believe we are both very much in his debt." Griffonclaw was indeed in the debt of the King of the Frostborn; it was he who had suggested that Griffonclaw follow Brann's path, and set all of this in motion.
Although the monarch of the Frostborn, all of whom had ice-blue skin, Yorg was not actually of the Frostborn; during Griffonclaw's test to see if he was worthy of becoming an honorary warrior of the Frostborn, Velog Icebellow, his proctor for the ritual test, and told Griffonclaw that he had been discovered by a band of Frostborn years ago. Shortly after they'd found him, one of the ice worms, a giant jormungar, and burst from the snow and consumed one the Frostborn before they'd even realized they were under attack. The found dwarf had grown in size, his skin taking on a stone-like texture hue, and his hands sizzled with lightning. The dwarf who would become Yorg smashed the beast's head almost clean off its body. Velog's father had named him Yorg, a name reserved for heroes of the Frostborn; Velog's father considered that in saving them thusly, he had earned the title. Yorg took over the war-training of the Frostborn, and the destruction of the giant jormungar at his hands became an example of how height matters little, and that stout arm and courageous heart can destroy dragons, at need.
Brann was himself the youngest of the Bronzebeard brothers, and had developed a wandering foot early in life, founding the Explorers' League. Griffonclaw had read his books and travel commentaries, amazed at the fellow's abilities to speak almost any language, and make friends with the oddest people. When Griffonclaw had been an aspirant in the Order of the Silver Hand, he had spent some time "apprenticing" in the Halls of Mystery and the Great Forge, and at night he'd heard stories of daring and adventure about King Magni's youngest brother. Griffonclaw had been thrilled to be able to - however slightly - help one of his childhood heroes with one of his adventures, and King Yorg's support and assistance had been integral to their success.
Brann had no sooner landed his aircraft than the poor abused engines burst into flame, catching the wings on fire. Brann watched its destruction with equanimity, merely muttering that his next craft would have some additional shielding around the engines.
Together, Griffonclaw led Brann up the icy walk to the King of the Frostborne. Before Griffonclaw could make introductions, Brann paused and looked the king over. "By all the gods..." the explorer mumbled, "...it can't be... Muradin?"
"What's that? You talkin' to me, lad?" Yorg replied.
"Come on boy, there's no mistak'n it - it's definately you" Brann challenged. "Don't ya recognize your younger brother?"
"My brother..." Stormheart muttered. "Yes... I do have brothers..." The king clutched his head and reeled for a short moment, as the memories rush back to him. Recovering, he said "...Brann?"
For almost the first time in his life, Griffonclaw was near speechless. The wandering amnesiac had been Muradin Bronzebeard, the warrior who had befriended a young Arthas Menethil, and taught him the passage of arms? The same one who Arthas had struck down after claiming - or being claimed by - the runeblade Frostmourne?
"I can't believe this! You were dead! All accounts said so... what happened, Muradin. How did you get here?" questioned Brann of his long-lost brother.
"I... I dunno, Brann. I've been 'ere a long time... all I 'ave of me life before this place are flashes and nightmares," York answered. "It's good te see you though, brother. More than words can say."
"Indeed! Magni will be so happy to see you too! He's gotten nothing but bad news for a long time now, but this changes everything!" Brann spoke, his enthusiasm making his words, with his thick Ironforge accent, almost unrecognizable. "Brann Bronzebeard says: He's here in Northrend, brother, looking for you. A seer in Wintergarde brought word that you were not dead, and he left Ironforge immediately to come find you."
All of a sudden, they heard a familiar voice shouting from the area below the ice ledge. "Look, Lagnus, I consider you a capable man, but my patience is wearing thin. I know that Muradin is here, can you point me to him or not?"
Brann chuckled. "Speaking of which..."
Griffonclaw leaped down, and led his sworn monarch up to the ice ledge. The current occupant of the Iron Throne, Magni Bronzebeard, had granted a hapless, despondant, disgraced Griffonclaw a place in the Hall of Mystery and his personal service, in the dark days before the return of Tirion and the Silver Hand. Griffonclaw had long served Magni as a "privy agent", doing the dirty work while giving Magni clear deniability of Griffonclaw's activities. Magni's eyes blazed like hot coals in surprise and amusement when Griffonclaw knelt before him, and bid his servant rise. "I should have known I'd find you somewhere here, paladin..." Magni chuckled.
"I range wide in your service, your magesty," griffonclaw mumbled, his eyes still downcast. Since entering Magni's service, Griffonclaw and his king had classed wills on any number of occasions; a pardon and citizenship for a Dark Iron deserter who had since grown to be as family to the paladin, the legal juristidiction of the gnome refugees from Gnomeregan, the preparation - and Griffonclaw's joint service to Lady Jaina Proudmoore - for the Tirion's crusade to Northrend... but at the end of the day, when his leige commanded, Griffonclaw obeyed, taking the dirty assignments as commanded; spying, rescue operations, and even assassination. Griffonclaw was, every tallard inch of him, a King's Man.
When Griffonclaw brought him to where Brann and Yorg stood, Magni was amazed. "Brother! There you are! I can barely believe my eyes... you're alive!"
"Magn!" Yorg exclaimed. "Forgive me, the memories are comin' back slowly, brother."
Magni's grin was so wide Griffonclaw could see it beneath his King's beard. "It's so good to see you again, Muradin. And what's this I heard about you being a King in your own right now? The Bronzebeards were always destined to greatness!"
"The Fostborn have been very good to me. They're strong people" Yorg announced proudly.
"So it seems! And you haven't lost any muscle yourself. Do you remember anything of what happened, Muradin? Fate as turned ill in your absence," asked Magni.
"Not much, Magni. I've had nightmares of a human... tall... light hair... death black armor. His name rests on the tip of me tongue, but..." The monarch of the frozen north paused, and continued in a low voice. " ...Arthas."
Magni nodded. "He's not the boy of your memories anymore, Muradin. He's become something else entirely."
"Aye, I know. I watched him turn..." Yorg answered, sadly. "I watched him give up all that was right and I didn't lift a hand... I didn't even consider it until it was too late."
"That's in the past, Muradin," Brann said. "Regrets won't change anything."
Griffonclaw watched, grateful that he was unnoticed by the three dwarves. Their reunion, their family made whole again, was a reminder that nothing is altogether unamalgamated good or bad; while the crusade to Icecrown had cost the Alliance Fordragon, one of its best and brightest commanders, it had also allowed his King to regain his thought-lost brother.
The flying machine of Brann Bronzebeard was smoking like a chimney badly in need of cleaning; Griffonclaw had helped the fabled explorer and hero assemble the Norgannon Shell and the Norgannon Core, and upon its completion the two of them had flown out of the depths of the Engine of the Makers, the massive tunnel in the middle of the Foot Steppes. Griffonclaw had needed to hold onto the fusilage and ride the wing, the words to the prayer to invoke the Light's Divine Shield on his lips the whole time. Scores of Stormforged Soldiers shot at them as they circled in slow ascent, the engines on both wings straining from Griffonclaw's additional weight, and Griffonclaw had been tempted to leap for the escarpments to give Brann a better chance at escape.
When the first Stormforged Soldier landed on the aircraft's wing opposite Griffonclaw, the paladin had given up that plan, and had carefully engaged the enemy before he could damage either aircraft or pilot. All told, Griffonclaw would boot, slam, or slice five ambitious enemy soldiers to their death below while bullets buzzed like angry bees past the paladin. Many of them passed through the aircraft fusilage, and some found the engines; both were smoking by the time they'd cleared the rim of the Engine of the Makers.
As the last Stormforged minion fell to his death, Griffonclaw heard Brann shout "We're coming up on Frosthold. I would be very appreciative if you would introduce me to King Stormeheart before you go. I believe we are both very much in his debt." Griffonclaw was indeed in the debt of the King of the Frostborn; it was he who had suggested that Griffonclaw follow Brann's path, and set all of this in motion.
Although the monarch of the Frostborn, all of whom had ice-blue skin, Yorg was not actually of the Frostborn; during Griffonclaw's test to see if he was worthy of becoming an honorary warrior of the Frostborn, Velog Icebellow, his proctor for the ritual test, and told Griffonclaw that he had been discovered by a band of Frostborn years ago. Shortly after they'd found him, one of the ice worms, a giant jormungar, and burst from the snow and consumed one the Frostborn before they'd even realized they were under attack. The found dwarf had grown in size, his skin taking on a stone-like texture hue, and his hands sizzled with lightning. The dwarf who would become Yorg smashed the beast's head almost clean off its body. Velog's father had named him Yorg, a name reserved for heroes of the Frostborn; Velog's father considered that in saving them thusly, he had earned the title. Yorg took over the war-training of the Frostborn, and the destruction of the giant jormungar at his hands became an example of how height matters little, and that stout arm and courageous heart can destroy dragons, at need.
Brann was himself the youngest of the Bronzebeard brothers, and had developed a wandering foot early in life, founding the Explorers' League. Griffonclaw had read his books and travel commentaries, amazed at the fellow's abilities to speak almost any language, and make friends with the oddest people. When Griffonclaw had been an aspirant in the Order of the Silver Hand, he had spent some time "apprenticing" in the Halls of Mystery and the Great Forge, and at night he'd heard stories of daring and adventure about King Magni's youngest brother. Griffonclaw had been thrilled to be able to - however slightly - help one of his childhood heroes with one of his adventures, and King Yorg's support and assistance had been integral to their success.
Brann had no sooner landed his aircraft than the poor abused engines burst into flame, catching the wings on fire. Brann watched its destruction with equanimity, merely muttering that his next craft would have some additional shielding around the engines.
Together, Griffonclaw led Brann up the icy walk to the King of the Frostborne. Before Griffonclaw could make introductions, Brann paused and looked the king over. "By all the gods..." the explorer mumbled, "...it can't be... Muradin?"
"What's that? You talkin' to me, lad?" Yorg replied.
"Come on boy, there's no mistak'n it - it's definately you" Brann challenged. "Don't ya recognize your younger brother?"
"My brother..." Stormheart muttered. "Yes... I do have brothers..." The king clutched his head and reeled for a short moment, as the memories rush back to him. Recovering, he said "...Brann?"
For almost the first time in his life, Griffonclaw was near speechless. The wandering amnesiac had been Muradin Bronzebeard, the warrior who had befriended a young Arthas Menethil, and taught him the passage of arms? The same one who Arthas had struck down after claiming - or being claimed by - the runeblade Frostmourne?
"I can't believe this! You were dead! All accounts said so... what happened, Muradin. How did you get here?" questioned Brann of his long-lost brother.
"I... I dunno, Brann. I've been 'ere a long time... all I 'ave of me life before this place are flashes and nightmares," York answered. "It's good te see you though, brother. More than words can say."
"Indeed! Magni will be so happy to see you too! He's gotten nothing but bad news for a long time now, but this changes everything!" Brann spoke, his enthusiasm making his words, with his thick Ironforge accent, almost unrecognizable. "Brann Bronzebeard says: He's here in Northrend, brother, looking for you. A seer in Wintergarde brought word that you were not dead, and he left Ironforge immediately to come find you."
All of a sudden, they heard a familiar voice shouting from the area below the ice ledge. "Look, Lagnus, I consider you a capable man, but my patience is wearing thin. I know that Muradin is here, can you point me to him or not?"
Brann chuckled. "Speaking of which..."
Griffonclaw leaped down, and led his sworn monarch up to the ice ledge. The current occupant of the Iron Throne, Magni Bronzebeard, had granted a hapless, despondant, disgraced Griffonclaw a place in the Hall of Mystery and his personal service, in the dark days before the return of Tirion and the Silver Hand. Griffonclaw had long served Magni as a "privy agent", doing the dirty work while giving Magni clear deniability of Griffonclaw's activities. Magni's eyes blazed like hot coals in surprise and amusement when Griffonclaw knelt before him, and bid his servant rise. "I should have known I'd find you somewhere here, paladin..." Magni chuckled.
"I range wide in your service, your magesty," griffonclaw mumbled, his eyes still downcast. Since entering Magni's service, Griffonclaw and his king had classed wills on any number of occasions; a pardon and citizenship for a Dark Iron deserter who had since grown to be as family to the paladin, the legal juristidiction of the gnome refugees from Gnomeregan, the preparation - and Griffonclaw's joint service to Lady Jaina Proudmoore - for the Tirion's crusade to Northrend... but at the end of the day, when his leige commanded, Griffonclaw obeyed, taking the dirty assignments as commanded; spying, rescue operations, and even assassination. Griffonclaw was, every tallard inch of him, a King's Man.
When Griffonclaw brought him to where Brann and Yorg stood, Magni was amazed. "Brother! There you are! I can barely believe my eyes... you're alive!"
"Magn!" Yorg exclaimed. "Forgive me, the memories are comin' back slowly, brother."
Magni's grin was so wide Griffonclaw could see it beneath his King's beard. "It's so good to see you again, Muradin. And what's this I heard about you being a King in your own right now? The Bronzebeards were always destined to greatness!"
"The Fostborn have been very good to me. They're strong people" Yorg announced proudly.
"So it seems! And you haven't lost any muscle yourself. Do you remember anything of what happened, Muradin? Fate as turned ill in your absence," asked Magni.
"Not much, Magni. I've had nightmares of a human... tall... light hair... death black armor. His name rests on the tip of me tongue, but..." The monarch of the frozen north paused, and continued in a low voice. " ...Arthas."
Magni nodded. "He's not the boy of your memories anymore, Muradin. He's become something else entirely."
"Aye, I know. I watched him turn..." Yorg answered, sadly. "I watched him give up all that was right and I didn't lift a hand... I didn't even consider it until it was too late."
"That's in the past, Muradin," Brann said. "Regrets won't change anything."
Griffonclaw watched, grateful that he was unnoticed by the three dwarves. Their reunion, their family made whole again, was a reminder that nothing is altogether unamalgamated good or bad; while the crusade to Icecrown had cost the Alliance Fordragon, one of its best and brightest commanders, it had also allowed his King to regain his thought-lost brother.
(64) - Light's Hopelessness
Griffonclaw stood at Tirion's side at Light's Hope Chapel, exhausted and weary, although more in body than in spirit, elated by his daughter Demolitia Lunafarae, who had earned widespread respect, and the affections of many of his compatriots in the Argent Dawn. Few gnomes served in their ranks, and her hard work, her skill with weapons, and her unflagging cheerful and generous nature, had earned her many friends. He would never embarrass her by saying so, but that she had chosen service with the Argent Dawn had been one of the proudest moments of his life.
Tirion had sent him orders to rendezvous at Light's Hope Chapel, to consult with the leadership if the Argent Dawn. While they had prepared for a crusade to Northrend, Arthas had been building forces for an invasion in one of those damned floating cities, hidden from Alliance eyes by the Scarlet Crusade, and had launched a series of attacks against both Alliance and Horde cities, as well as an increased offensive against the Argent Dawn in the Plaguelands.
Word had come from Dalmilandril that the Scarlet Crusade's enclaves beyond their fortress of Tyr's Hand had come under constant attack, and now - once again - the Order of the Silver Hand would fight on two fronts.
When the horde -- no relation -- of Death Knights poured down on Light's Hold Chapel, Griffonclaw fought on Tirion's left flank. He heard the opposing commander of the death knights shouting over the battle. "The sky weeps at the devastation of sister earth! Soon, tears of blood will rain down upon us!" the enemy leader shouted. "Death knights of Acherus, the death march begins! Soldiers of the Scourge, death knights of Acherus, minions of the darkness: hear the call of the Highlord! RISE!"
And upon them Scourge minions and what seemed like an endless procession of Death Knights descended upon them.
"Squire Griffonclaw! Attend me, boy!" came the shout from the enemy lines, and Griffonclaw turned, half-expectant, and half-fearful. Standing out from their lines was a human, long since corrupted in the service of Arthas, his sworn liege.
"Come, Dane... come to my service once more," the unholy creature spoke, his voice thundering with unnatural volume. "You served me well in Lordareon, hunting orcs who had escaped from the camps, at Brill and Andorhal... so you lost your nerve at Stratholme, and turned to the traitor Uther... I forgive you, Dane. Come - its clear you have grown in power" The spectral knight extended his black-gauntleted hand. "Come, and ride by my side again, Dane Silverlaine!"
"I left your service when your master turned from the Light, and slaughtered Stratholme to stop the Plague. History shows he chose poorly...." replied Griffonclaw, his voice pitched high enough to be heard above the din of battle. "I see you have stayed the tame cur to Arthas' hand." The paladin made a beckoning motion. "Come, Sir Khavren - shall we see whose path was correct? Shall we test my Light against your Darkness?"
The death-knight sprang forward with a snarl, his darkling runed blade matched against the sword Griffonclaw had taken from Sir Thomas, the Headless Horseman of the Scarlet Crusade. They strove long enough that had their been more time, it was clear that Griffonclaw would have been the victor, but the press of battle tore them apart before their conflict could come to a final resolution.
Griffonclaw focused on staying near to his Highlord, slaying minion after minion of the deathless Scourge. The forces of the Argent Dawn were only some three hundred strong, and Tirion's own safety was paramount. Griffonclaw and the other paladins guarding Tiron sent wave after wave of the Light's Wrath in overlapping circles, chanting prayers of consecration. Griffonclaw planted his standard of the Argent Dawn where Tirion stood as the Highlord shouted "For the Dawn! To me!", rallying the defenders alongside Lord Maxwell Tyrosus and his staff.
Slowly, the enemy commander, who Griffonclaw supposed was the Highlord Darion Mograine, moved through the ranks, closing on Tirion and Tyrosus. Again, Mograine called for his troops, urging the destruction, the Ashbringer held on high.
"Rise, minions! Destroy them!"
Griffonclaw was close enough in the battle to see Mograine pause, and close enough to hear him as he brought Ashbringer down before his visor, staring at it in amazement.
"Power...wanes... " he said, his voice redolent with incredulity. "Ashbringer defies me... You will do as I command! I am in control here!" He was practically raving at his blade, those around him looking at him uncomfortably.
"What is this?! My... I cannot strike... " he said, as Tirion's band broke through to where Morgraine and his guard were paused.
"You cannot win, Darion!" shouted Fordring. Death Knights began to flee the field, as Mograine's voice took on the timbre of despair. "Stand down, death knights. We have lost... The Light... This place... No hope... "
"Have you learned nothing, boy? You have become all that your father fought against! Like that coward, Arthas, you allowed yourself to be consumed by the darkness...the hate... Feeding upon the misery of those you tortured and killed!" pronounced Tirion loudly. "Your master knows what lies beneath the chapel. It is why he dares not show his face! He's sent you and your death knights to meet their doom, Darion."
"What you are feeling right now is the anguish of a thousand lost souls!" continued the leader of the reformed Order of the Silver Hand. "Souls that you and your master brought here! The Light will tear you apart, Darion!"
"Save your breath, old man. It might be the last you ever draw" sneered Darion, as the shade of Highlord Alexandros Mograine arrived.
"My son! My dear, beautiful boy!" Alexandros cried, seeing his son in such straits.
"Father!" Darion Mograine cried. "..what...is..." Slowly, the man who was the Highlord Darion Mograine faded, becoming a shade of his past. Years of hard fighting and torment shed itself like water falling from a stone as the shade walked up to his father.
"Father, you have returned!" the ghostly Darion exclaimed, embracing his father. "You have been gone a long time, father. I thought... " Griffonclaw stood, amazed, as the two shades reinacted a scene from Darion's youth.
"Nothing could have kept me away from here, Darion. Not from my home and family."
"Father, I wish to join you in the war against the undead. I want to fight! I can sit idle no longer!"
"Darion Mograine, you are barely of age to hold a sword, let alone battle the undead hordes of Lordaeron! I couldn't bear losing you. Even the thought... "
"If I die, father, I would rather it be on my feet, standing in defiance against the undead legions! If I die, father, I die with you! "
"My son, there will come a day when you will command the Ashbringer and, with it, mete justice across this land. I have no doubt that when that day finally comes, you will bring pride to our people and that Lordaeron will be a better place because of you. But, my son, that day is not today." The shade of Alexandros faded, his last exhortation fading in the silence that hung over the battlefield. "Do not forget..."
The shade of Alexandros disappeared, as Arthas Menethil, the Lich King himself, materialized. All the light and Light of the battlefield dimmed as the creature some considered Darkness Incarnate confronted Tirion. The shade of Darion solidified, and aged to become himself once more.
"Touching..." shouted the Lich King, mockingly.
"You have forsaken me, bastard! Face the might of Mograine!" shouted Darion, enraged.
"Pathetic... " commented Arthas, "He's mine now..."
"You're a damned monster, Arthas!" raged Tirion at his former Prince.
The Lich King turned to Tirion. "You were right, Fordring. I did send them in to die. Their lives are meaningless, but yours..." Arthas continued, "How simple it was to draw the great Tirion Fordring out of hiding. You've left yourself exposed, paladin. Nothing will save you... " The Lich King began to speak in a low gutteral voice, and a dark nimbus of dark necromantic power surrounded him.
The Highlord Tirion Fordring gasped for air, and Griffonclaw was not the first to lunge forward as Lord Tyrosus called "ATTACK!!!"
The Lich King raised his own hand and shouted "APOCALYPSE!", and the charging forces of the Argent Dawn fell down, dead. Had Griffonclaw been among the first, he would have died on that field; as it was, he could not stand, and fell heavily to the dirt. Unconscious, he would not see Darion throw the corrupted sword Ashbringer to Tirion, purifying the blade in Darion's act of selflessness, and breaking the spell that held Tirion. He would not see Arthas run from the field, driven by the uniting of the Order of the Silver Hand and Argent Dawn. He would not witness the alliance of the Silver Hand with the Knights of the Ebon Blade, broken from Arthas' control.
But he would awaken, healed by his Highlord, to be one of those who would take the battle to Northrend.
Tirion had sent him orders to rendezvous at Light's Hope Chapel, to consult with the leadership if the Argent Dawn. While they had prepared for a crusade to Northrend, Arthas had been building forces for an invasion in one of those damned floating cities, hidden from Alliance eyes by the Scarlet Crusade, and had launched a series of attacks against both Alliance and Horde cities, as well as an increased offensive against the Argent Dawn in the Plaguelands.
Word had come from Dalmilandril that the Scarlet Crusade's enclaves beyond their fortress of Tyr's Hand had come under constant attack, and now - once again - the Order of the Silver Hand would fight on two fronts.
When the horde -- no relation -- of Death Knights poured down on Light's Hold Chapel, Griffonclaw fought on Tirion's left flank. He heard the opposing commander of the death knights shouting over the battle. "The sky weeps at the devastation of sister earth! Soon, tears of blood will rain down upon us!" the enemy leader shouted. "Death knights of Acherus, the death march begins! Soldiers of the Scourge, death knights of Acherus, minions of the darkness: hear the call of the Highlord! RISE!"
And upon them Scourge minions and what seemed like an endless procession of Death Knights descended upon them.
"Squire Griffonclaw! Attend me, boy!" came the shout from the enemy lines, and Griffonclaw turned, half-expectant, and half-fearful. Standing out from their lines was a human, long since corrupted in the service of Arthas, his sworn liege.
"Come, Dane... come to my service once more," the unholy creature spoke, his voice thundering with unnatural volume. "You served me well in Lordareon, hunting orcs who had escaped from the camps, at Brill and Andorhal... so you lost your nerve at Stratholme, and turned to the traitor Uther... I forgive you, Dane. Come - its clear you have grown in power" The spectral knight extended his black-gauntleted hand. "Come, and ride by my side again, Dane Silverlaine!"
"I left your service when your master turned from the Light, and slaughtered Stratholme to stop the Plague. History shows he chose poorly...." replied Griffonclaw, his voice pitched high enough to be heard above the din of battle. "I see you have stayed the tame cur to Arthas' hand." The paladin made a beckoning motion. "Come, Sir Khavren - shall we see whose path was correct? Shall we test my Light against your Darkness?"
The death-knight sprang forward with a snarl, his darkling runed blade matched against the sword Griffonclaw had taken from Sir Thomas, the Headless Horseman of the Scarlet Crusade. They strove long enough that had their been more time, it was clear that Griffonclaw would have been the victor, but the press of battle tore them apart before their conflict could come to a final resolution.
Griffonclaw focused on staying near to his Highlord, slaying minion after minion of the deathless Scourge. The forces of the Argent Dawn were only some three hundred strong, and Tirion's own safety was paramount. Griffonclaw and the other paladins guarding Tiron sent wave after wave of the Light's Wrath in overlapping circles, chanting prayers of consecration. Griffonclaw planted his standard of the Argent Dawn where Tirion stood as the Highlord shouted "For the Dawn! To me!", rallying the defenders alongside Lord Maxwell Tyrosus and his staff.
Slowly, the enemy commander, who Griffonclaw supposed was the Highlord Darion Mograine, moved through the ranks, closing on Tirion and Tyrosus. Again, Mograine called for his troops, urging the destruction, the Ashbringer held on high.
"Rise, minions! Destroy them!"
Griffonclaw was close enough in the battle to see Mograine pause, and close enough to hear him as he brought Ashbringer down before his visor, staring at it in amazement.
"Power...wanes... " he said, his voice redolent with incredulity. "Ashbringer defies me... You will do as I command! I am in control here!" He was practically raving at his blade, those around him looking at him uncomfortably.
"What is this?! My... I cannot strike... " he said, as Tirion's band broke through to where Morgraine and his guard were paused.
"You cannot win, Darion!" shouted Fordring. Death Knights began to flee the field, as Mograine's voice took on the timbre of despair. "Stand down, death knights. We have lost... The Light... This place... No hope... "
"Have you learned nothing, boy? You have become all that your father fought against! Like that coward, Arthas, you allowed yourself to be consumed by the darkness...the hate... Feeding upon the misery of those you tortured and killed!" pronounced Tirion loudly. "Your master knows what lies beneath the chapel. It is why he dares not show his face! He's sent you and your death knights to meet their doom, Darion."
"What you are feeling right now is the anguish of a thousand lost souls!" continued the leader of the reformed Order of the Silver Hand. "Souls that you and your master brought here! The Light will tear you apart, Darion!"
"Save your breath, old man. It might be the last you ever draw" sneered Darion, as the shade of Highlord Alexandros Mograine arrived.
"My son! My dear, beautiful boy!" Alexandros cried, seeing his son in such straits.
"Father!" Darion Mograine cried. "..what...is..." Slowly, the man who was the Highlord Darion Mograine faded, becoming a shade of his past. Years of hard fighting and torment shed itself like water falling from a stone as the shade walked up to his father.
"Father, you have returned!" the ghostly Darion exclaimed, embracing his father. "You have been gone a long time, father. I thought... " Griffonclaw stood, amazed, as the two shades reinacted a scene from Darion's youth.
"Nothing could have kept me away from here, Darion. Not from my home and family."
"Father, I wish to join you in the war against the undead. I want to fight! I can sit idle no longer!"
"Darion Mograine, you are barely of age to hold a sword, let alone battle the undead hordes of Lordaeron! I couldn't bear losing you. Even the thought... "
"If I die, father, I would rather it be on my feet, standing in defiance against the undead legions! If I die, father, I die with you! "
"My son, there will come a day when you will command the Ashbringer and, with it, mete justice across this land. I have no doubt that when that day finally comes, you will bring pride to our people and that Lordaeron will be a better place because of you. But, my son, that day is not today." The shade of Alexandros faded, his last exhortation fading in the silence that hung over the battlefield. "Do not forget..."
The shade of Alexandros disappeared, as Arthas Menethil, the Lich King himself, materialized. All the light and Light of the battlefield dimmed as the creature some considered Darkness Incarnate confronted Tirion. The shade of Darion solidified, and aged to become himself once more.
"Touching..." shouted the Lich King, mockingly.
"You have forsaken me, bastard! Face the might of Mograine!" shouted Darion, enraged.
"Pathetic... " commented Arthas, "He's mine now..."
"You're a damned monster, Arthas!" raged Tirion at his former Prince.
The Lich King turned to Tirion. "You were right, Fordring. I did send them in to die. Their lives are meaningless, but yours..." Arthas continued, "How simple it was to draw the great Tirion Fordring out of hiding. You've left yourself exposed, paladin. Nothing will save you... " The Lich King began to speak in a low gutteral voice, and a dark nimbus of dark necromantic power surrounded him.
The Highlord Tirion Fordring gasped for air, and Griffonclaw was not the first to lunge forward as Lord Tyrosus called "ATTACK!!!"
The Lich King raised his own hand and shouted "APOCALYPSE!", and the charging forces of the Argent Dawn fell down, dead. Had Griffonclaw been among the first, he would have died on that field; as it was, he could not stand, and fell heavily to the dirt. Unconscious, he would not see Darion throw the corrupted sword Ashbringer to Tirion, purifying the blade in Darion's act of selflessness, and breaking the spell that held Tirion. He would not see Arthas run from the field, driven by the uniting of the Order of the Silver Hand and Argent Dawn. He would not witness the alliance of the Silver Hand with the Knights of the Ebon Blade, broken from Arthas' control.
But he would awaken, healed by his Highlord, to be one of those who would take the battle to Northrend.
(63) - Plagued By The Scourge
Griffonclaw was not in Alliance territory when the first hints of the Plague attacked. He was in Brill.
Some weeks ago, he had been contacted by an ally within the Steamwheedle Cartel; a sin'dorei healer, in new possession of the Light granted the Sin'dorei race by the Na'aru
after their ruler, Kael'thas, was revealed to be in the service of Kil'jaeden, and strove to summon his demon-lord to the world, abandoning his people for his own ambitions. During the chaotic days that followed in Silvermoon, the healer had come to the deserts of Tanaris to study what tomes and scrolls he could find, ultimately engaging the goblins to find him a teacher from the Alliance in the arts of magical and non-magical healing. Griffonclaw had spent some weeks with the sin'dorei Blood Knight.
Being a creature of habit, Griffonclaw had taken the opportunity to obtain some hair samples from the fellow. When he had discovered he needed to travel among the Horde to take word to them of a horrendous plot to assassinate Cairne Bloodhoof, he had sought out the Orc assassin Borak in the Shadowmoon Valley. He had done a favor for the orc some time past, in which Borak had disguised Griffonclaw as a sin'dorei; Griffonclaw had prevailed on Borak to do it again.
In the form of Dayn Farstrider, Blood Knight Healer of the Sin'Dorei, Griffonclaw had traveled to Brill, only to find the Forsaken town under siege. A new Plague had been launched by the Scourge. Crates of Plague-infected grain had been sent to Stormwind and Orgrimmar through goblin merchants; in some cases, the crates were opened and the grain consumed; in other cases, insects and vermin ate the grain as it rotted, and carried the contagion to those around them.
The Argent Dawn dispatched healers to the major outbreaks, but many areas were not so fortunate. The Plague infected the Alliance and the Horde alike, and those who could not get to a healer in time became shambling undead zombies, carrying and spreading the contagion to the living. In Goldshire and Westfall, in Brill and in Razor Hill, the zombies roamed freely, marauding across the lands of Azeroth.
Brill became an aid station, and it was into this chaos that Griffonclaw rode from Chillwind point. He had rolled up his sleeves and gotten to work, taking his orders from Zamboozle, known to both the Horde and the Alliance as The Medic. Griffonclaw had served the Horde that day, traveling to Orgrimmar, destroying pockets of the Plague Zombies and healing those infected; whether Horde or Alliance, he could not let Arthas destroy any who might stand against him.
He had met with his contact in Northtide Hallow, at the farm he had inherited after his mother's death, and returned to Stormwind.
The Plague was evolving; the time it took for an infection to kill, and then raise the victim up again accelerated as Arthas' Necropoli began to appear over the lands. The Argent Dawn sent notices of recall to those who had served them in the past, and Griffonclaw wore their tabard once more.
The Scourge secured landing points, establishing Necrotic Shards as foci for those in the necropoli to transport their minions to the surface. As hastily-assembled forces of mixed Alliance and Horde conscripts assaulted each landing point, the Plague itself became more and more virulent, as Alliance healers and Horde necromancers both sought cures.
One by one, the Argent Dawn and their agents destroyed necrotic shard after necrotic shard, only to find that another had been established elsewhere. Flameshockers and Pallid Horrors wreaked havoc in Stormwind and the Undercity. Other agents of Arthas appeared in the dark places of Azeroth, inciting and strengthening Arthas' reach; Tenris Mirkblood, one of the Darkfallen, took up residence in Karazan, the liche Balzaphon took up residence in Stratholme, and others.
The heroes of the Argent Dawn were bloodied and battered, but the Horde and Alliance auxillaries were relentless and implacable, and slowly... painfully slowly, the tide began to turn. New landing spots in Eastern Plaguelands and the Burning Steppes, in the Blasted Lands or Tanaris, in Azshara or Winterspring, all were destroyed almost as fast as the Scourge could appear. A cure for the Plague was found, and widely distributed.
While the Argent Dawn fought its difficult and dangerous holding action against the Scourge, preparations in Stormwind continued; the work that Tirion had set Griffonclaw months ago, to prepare for a crusade to Northrend, was now no longer covert. The stacks of provisions, weapons, and other supplies that the Universal Exports company had stockpiled in warehouses were released, openly stacked on the docks of the Stormwind Harbor. Merchant ships thought lost had been re-fitted with dwarven technology as ice-breaking steamships, ready to transport the brave across the waters to the shores of Northrend - to take the fight to Arthas, to make him divert his forces to his home ground.
Griffonclaw leaned against the dockyard scaffolding, exhausted. There was more to do until the ships launched, and no rest for the weary; and yet, he smiled through his fatigue. The man who had broken the Order of the Silver Hand, the man who had declared Uther Lightbringer and his army traitors, the man who had killed his own father to usurp the throne of Lordaeron, awaited his final judgement in Northrend.
The paladin smiled, and in a barely audible voice, whispered.
"We're coming"
Some weeks ago, he had been contacted by an ally within the Steamwheedle Cartel; a sin'dorei healer, in new possession of the Light granted the Sin'dorei race by the Na'aru
after their ruler, Kael'thas, was revealed to be in the service of Kil'jaeden, and strove to summon his demon-lord to the world, abandoning his people for his own ambitions. During the chaotic days that followed in Silvermoon, the healer had come to the deserts of Tanaris to study what tomes and scrolls he could find, ultimately engaging the goblins to find him a teacher from the Alliance in the arts of magical and non-magical healing. Griffonclaw had spent some weeks with the sin'dorei Blood Knight.
Being a creature of habit, Griffonclaw had taken the opportunity to obtain some hair samples from the fellow. When he had discovered he needed to travel among the Horde to take word to them of a horrendous plot to assassinate Cairne Bloodhoof, he had sought out the Orc assassin Borak in the Shadowmoon Valley. He had done a favor for the orc some time past, in which Borak had disguised Griffonclaw as a sin'dorei; Griffonclaw had prevailed on Borak to do it again.
In the form of Dayn Farstrider, Blood Knight Healer of the Sin'Dorei, Griffonclaw had traveled to Brill, only to find the Forsaken town under siege. A new Plague had been launched by the Scourge. Crates of Plague-infected grain had been sent to Stormwind and Orgrimmar through goblin merchants; in some cases, the crates were opened and the grain consumed; in other cases, insects and vermin ate the grain as it rotted, and carried the contagion to those around them.
The Argent Dawn dispatched healers to the major outbreaks, but many areas were not so fortunate. The Plague infected the Alliance and the Horde alike, and those who could not get to a healer in time became shambling undead zombies, carrying and spreading the contagion to the living. In Goldshire and Westfall, in Brill and in Razor Hill, the zombies roamed freely, marauding across the lands of Azeroth.
Brill became an aid station, and it was into this chaos that Griffonclaw rode from Chillwind point. He had rolled up his sleeves and gotten to work, taking his orders from Zamboozle, known to both the Horde and the Alliance as The Medic. Griffonclaw had served the Horde that day, traveling to Orgrimmar, destroying pockets of the Plague Zombies and healing those infected; whether Horde or Alliance, he could not let Arthas destroy any who might stand against him.
He had met with his contact in Northtide Hallow, at the farm he had inherited after his mother's death, and returned to Stormwind.
The Plague was evolving; the time it took for an infection to kill, and then raise the victim up again accelerated as Arthas' Necropoli began to appear over the lands. The Argent Dawn sent notices of recall to those who had served them in the past, and Griffonclaw wore their tabard once more.
The Scourge secured landing points, establishing Necrotic Shards as foci for those in the necropoli to transport their minions to the surface. As hastily-assembled forces of mixed Alliance and Horde conscripts assaulted each landing point, the Plague itself became more and more virulent, as Alliance healers and Horde necromancers both sought cures.
One by one, the Argent Dawn and their agents destroyed necrotic shard after necrotic shard, only to find that another had been established elsewhere. Flameshockers and Pallid Horrors wreaked havoc in Stormwind and the Undercity. Other agents of Arthas appeared in the dark places of Azeroth, inciting and strengthening Arthas' reach; Tenris Mirkblood, one of the Darkfallen, took up residence in Karazan, the liche Balzaphon took up residence in Stratholme, and others.
The heroes of the Argent Dawn were bloodied and battered, but the Horde and Alliance auxillaries were relentless and implacable, and slowly... painfully slowly, the tide began to turn. New landing spots in Eastern Plaguelands and the Burning Steppes, in the Blasted Lands or Tanaris, in Azshara or Winterspring, all were destroyed almost as fast as the Scourge could appear. A cure for the Plague was found, and widely distributed.
While the Argent Dawn fought its difficult and dangerous holding action against the Scourge, preparations in Stormwind continued; the work that Tirion had set Griffonclaw months ago, to prepare for a crusade to Northrend, was now no longer covert. The stacks of provisions, weapons, and other supplies that the Universal Exports company had stockpiled in warehouses were released, openly stacked on the docks of the Stormwind Harbor. Merchant ships thought lost had been re-fitted with dwarven technology as ice-breaking steamships, ready to transport the brave across the waters to the shores of Northrend - to take the fight to Arthas, to make him divert his forces to his home ground.
Griffonclaw leaned against the dockyard scaffolding, exhausted. There was more to do until the ships launched, and no rest for the weary; and yet, he smiled through his fatigue. The man who had broken the Order of the Silver Hand, the man who had declared Uther Lightbringer and his army traitors, the man who had killed his own father to usurp the throne of Lordaeron, awaited his final judgement in Northrend.
The paladin smiled, and in a barely audible voice, whispered.
"We're coming"
(62) - Exit, Stage Left
Griffonclaw laid the valise open, and began to pack his desk.
A bottle of ink and a scribe kit; sand, parchment, a half-dozen or so quills, and a small knife with which to sharpen them. A small black leatherbound book, filled with notes that had struck his fancy during sessions with his students. A small stack of correspondence between himself and the Headmistress, mostly concerning student's progress.
So little to show for the time he had spent here, as an instructor at Stormwind College.
Griffonclaw, in his resignation letter to the Headmistress of the college, Perspicacity Spacklenox, had been the first to admit that his other duties had rendered his academic career undistinguished.
"As we had discussed at the beginning of my tenure, my various other obligations - to the Iron Throne, to the Argent Dawn, to Highlord Tirion Fordring, have prevented me from taking a more active role within the College. While I am honored to have held the Chair of Philosophy, as we near the crusade to Northrend, I fear that even that meagre, pathetic effort will fade. There is much to do, and not much time in which to accomplish it"
There were pangs of regrets; that he had not gotten to know the students as well as he might have, that Maxyne in particular felt as if he had deserted her on numerous occasions, but the work would not wait; Griffonclaw had hoped it might, but it had been made very clear to him that the Darkness was gathering faster than he'd hoped. The scouting missions to Northrend had been destroyed, and Arthas was on the move.
The question now was whether or not Tirion's actions and preparations had begun too late.
He heard his office door open; the Headmistress had found his note. He could not decipher the expression on her face; she was one of the few gnomes he had met whose emotional control was highly disciplined.
"Headmistress..." he greeted, nodding and continuing to pack.
"Griff. I got your note. You know you always have a place here; whether the battle's finally won or you're just tired of fighting it. I suppose I knew you weren't really ready for a desk job even when you took the post."
Griffonclaw kept packing, and the tiny headmistress sighed and spoke, leaning against the door. "That's not why I'm here, though."
"No?"
"No." She walked a bit further in, stopped, and removed her hat. Standing straight, holding her hat lightly yet protectively in front of her, she leveled her eyes at the paladin's back and asked "Professor FitSilver, have you started drinking again?"
"Yes ma'am, I have... not only because its Brewfest, but also because... Persi, there is only one person whose continued existence makes me more... angry, more frustrated, than Arthas', and he has returned from the Twisting Nether again."
Griffonclaw stopped and faced the warlock. "It passes my comprehension that Keruptis SaDiablo has returned, and yet - as he claims - has no further purpose, and wants to live out a life without some nefarious machination at its base. In some ways, he is much worse than Arthas; Arthas is many things, but subtle is not one of them."
"I'm tired, Pers... MacLhir, my nephew, was maimed by the Black Irons to get to me. I used to have a ward named Catrionae - she was sacrificed by Keruptis on the Altar of Storms to get to me. Arthas may reduce Stormwind to a cinder..." the paladin continued, chuckling bitterly, "but at least the Lich King doesn't strike at me indirectly, through my family."
"And so... I will not have those of the College endangered - not Max, not my other students, not the faculty."
Persi looked puzzled, then furrowed her brow deeply.
"There are always those who'll lash out at someone through those they care about. It's an extremely potent technique, the power from the rage generated in that way defies description. One triggers the the most primal emotional centers in the subject, resulting in enormous, tappable energy spikes beyond what the subject could normally produce. Furthermore, once the subject has produced those spikes of emotion, they come more and more easily unless the subject develops..." Here her lips hardened slighty - "absolute, iron-clad emotional control over him or herself.
In fact, the subject often finds him or herself seeking out those emotional spikes, even offering them freely to the initial instigator. This pattern will not even stop on the instigator's death, but will often continue until both parties have been annihilated.
If you have found this person, this instigator, proactively seeking him out before he strikes at those you love will likely give him more power. You are offering him your emotions instead of forcing him to take them."
She sighs again.
"You know all this, I think. Maybe not the mechanics. Take this, it connects to the one in my earring. If you need someone objective, someone he can't touch, call. Good luck, Professor Fitsilver."
Perspicacity Spacklenox walked to the Paladin and patted his hand. As she turned to leave, he noticed she had slipped a delicately-fashioned transmitter earring into his hand, the craftsgnomeship unquestionably her own.
"My thanks, Headmistress" he said as she began to walk away.
"My feeling is in that the days to come, I will need all the help I can get..."
A bottle of ink and a scribe kit; sand, parchment, a half-dozen or so quills, and a small knife with which to sharpen them. A small black leatherbound book, filled with notes that had struck his fancy during sessions with his students. A small stack of correspondence between himself and the Headmistress, mostly concerning student's progress.
So little to show for the time he had spent here, as an instructor at Stormwind College.
Griffonclaw, in his resignation letter to the Headmistress of the college, Perspicacity Spacklenox, had been the first to admit that his other duties had rendered his academic career undistinguished.
"As we had discussed at the beginning of my tenure, my various other obligations - to the Iron Throne, to the Argent Dawn, to Highlord Tirion Fordring, have prevented me from taking a more active role within the College. While I am honored to have held the Chair of Philosophy, as we near the crusade to Northrend, I fear that even that meagre, pathetic effort will fade. There is much to do, and not much time in which to accomplish it"
There were pangs of regrets; that he had not gotten to know the students as well as he might have, that Maxyne in particular felt as if he had deserted her on numerous occasions, but the work would not wait; Griffonclaw had hoped it might, but it had been made very clear to him that the Darkness was gathering faster than he'd hoped. The scouting missions to Northrend had been destroyed, and Arthas was on the move.
The question now was whether or not Tirion's actions and preparations had begun too late.
He heard his office door open; the Headmistress had found his note. He could not decipher the expression on her face; she was one of the few gnomes he had met whose emotional control was highly disciplined.
"Headmistress..." he greeted, nodding and continuing to pack.
"Griff. I got your note. You know you always have a place here; whether the battle's finally won or you're just tired of fighting it. I suppose I knew you weren't really ready for a desk job even when you took the post."
Griffonclaw kept packing, and the tiny headmistress sighed and spoke, leaning against the door. "That's not why I'm here, though."
"No?"
"No." She walked a bit further in, stopped, and removed her hat. Standing straight, holding her hat lightly yet protectively in front of her, she leveled her eyes at the paladin's back and asked "Professor FitSilver, have you started drinking again?"
"Yes ma'am, I have... not only because its Brewfest, but also because... Persi, there is only one person whose continued existence makes me more... angry, more frustrated, than Arthas', and he has returned from the Twisting Nether again."
Griffonclaw stopped and faced the warlock. "It passes my comprehension that Keruptis SaDiablo has returned, and yet - as he claims - has no further purpose, and wants to live out a life without some nefarious machination at its base. In some ways, he is much worse than Arthas; Arthas is many things, but subtle is not one of them."
"I'm tired, Pers... MacLhir, my nephew, was maimed by the Black Irons to get to me. I used to have a ward named Catrionae - she was sacrificed by Keruptis on the Altar of Storms to get to me. Arthas may reduce Stormwind to a cinder..." the paladin continued, chuckling bitterly, "but at least the Lich King doesn't strike at me indirectly, through my family."
"And so... I will not have those of the College endangered - not Max, not my other students, not the faculty."
Persi looked puzzled, then furrowed her brow deeply.
"There are always those who'll lash out at someone through those they care about. It's an extremely potent technique, the power from the rage generated in that way defies description. One triggers the the most primal emotional centers in the subject, resulting in enormous, tappable energy spikes beyond what the subject could normally produce. Furthermore, once the subject has produced those spikes of emotion, they come more and more easily unless the subject develops..." Here her lips hardened slighty - "absolute, iron-clad emotional control over him or herself.
In fact, the subject often finds him or herself seeking out those emotional spikes, even offering them freely to the initial instigator. This pattern will not even stop on the instigator's death, but will often continue until both parties have been annihilated.
If you have found this person, this instigator, proactively seeking him out before he strikes at those you love will likely give him more power. You are offering him your emotions instead of forcing him to take them."
She sighs again.
"You know all this, I think. Maybe not the mechanics. Take this, it connects to the one in my earring. If you need someone objective, someone he can't touch, call. Good luck, Professor Fitsilver."
Perspicacity Spacklenox walked to the Paladin and patted his hand. As she turned to leave, he noticed she had slipped a delicately-fashioned transmitter earring into his hand, the craftsgnomeship unquestionably her own.
"My thanks, Headmistress" he said as she began to walk away.
"My feeling is in that the days to come, I will need all the help I can get..."
(61) - Ghosts from the Past
Griffonclaw woke from sleep, his wrist aching as if decapitated.
Some time ago, Griffonclaw had been invited to the Crypt, the sanctum of Lord Keruptis SaDiablo, sometimes called the Thrice Damned. During the visit, Griffonclaw had been offered to black manifestation of the Elder Dark; to escape, Griffonclaw had slit his left wrist and sent nine drops of his lifeblood as a token offering. He had healed the minort wound and escaped, but it had left him with a sensitivity to certain things.
The paladin only knew one thing was certain.
Keruptis had returned once more to Azeroth.
* * *
Griffonclaw found him in a dark, desert alleyway in Gadgetzan.
When he had felt the change, he had reported to the Cathedral, to the Archbishop. Shortly thereafter, as he sat on the stairs, he was joined by his friend, April Owens.
"So... what are you going to do now, Griff?" she'd asked.
"Well, I just spoke to the Archbishop. He is of the belief that I am mistaken; that the strain of torture under Blackrock Mountain, followed by the conviction of embezzlement and fraud in Undercity, followed by the stream of assassination squads from the Syndicate, have driven me to a place where I am imagining the whole thing. He recommends I take a leave of absence and spend a week or two fishing somewhere..."
"I see... I'm sorry, Griff," April sympathized.
Griffonclaw nodded, deep in thought.
He had followed the command of the Archbishop to the letter, taking a leave of absence so he might take a vacation. Someplace he had not been in some time, with a relaxing beach and gentle waves; Steamwheedle Port, in Tanaris.
If he also took some time to visit the SaDiablo farmhouse while in the area, who could blame him?
As luck would have it, the ache in his wrist took him to the goblin trading city; like a blazing arrow, it led him closer and closer to his quarry. When he dismounted from the griffon upon which he had traveled, he was surprised to find the warlock Noctarre Bane waiting for him; clearly, he was not alone in his contention that Keruptis had indeed returned.
"Warlock" he greeted her, his voice the essence of icy courtesy. His history with the warlock had been a long and contradictory one; sometimes bitter opponents, sometimes torrid lovers, they circled each other like two alpha wolves. Noctarre had once stood high in the councils of the Scions of Darkness, along with Annaliese and Ravenlore; he was surprised that the other two were not also on hand.
"Paladin" she returned, managing to sound both amused and disdainful at the same time. He passed her, entering the city; she followed.
Following the pulse in his wrist, it was not long before Griffonclaw had sighted his quarry leaving the inn, heading down the alleyway, behind the bank. Griffonclaw had followed, suspecting a trap; surely, if he could feel Keruptis, then Keruptis likewise would know of his nemesis' proximity; and if a trap, . When they were in the narrow between bank and city wall, Griffonclaw spoke.
"Good evening, milord"
The figure turned, slowly and carefully. "Good evening. With whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The figure was much as Griffonclaw remembered, and more, the voice was precisely the same; low, seductive, the kind one imagined could sell beer to Ironforgers.
Griffonclaw bowed. "You are looking well for a dead man, Lord Keruptis SaDaiblo the Thrice-Damned."
"I beg your pardon.... who do you think I am?" The voice held more than a tinge of amusement.
"I know who you are, milord, your protestations to the contrary notwithstanding," answered the paladin. He had dressed carefully for his search, and wore ordinary black leather boots, dark trousers, and a blue pirate-style shirt. No armor. No weapons. "May I offer you some wine?"
"I am just a peaceful traveler... whoever you are..." maintained the warlock.
"I have made some inquiries, milord; all outstanding warrants and charges against you were dropped after your first death, and your identity thereafter was never proven. Mikaylus and Donovan had asked me to identify the body upon the Cathedral altar... and I told them it was not you; a homunculus perhaps, but not you. In any case, there are no outstanding crimes charged against you - all were considered discharged with your death."
The figure said nothing, digesting this news. Griffonclaw continued, "But I have not forgotten Catrionae, Keruptis."
"Who?" the figure asked ingeniously, his eyes glowing under his hood with demonic power.
"I shall see that you remember her in detail, erelong," concluded the paladin. "Until then... fare well." Griffonclaw left the alley, leaving Noctarre and his old nemesis alone.
"I look forward to our renewed acquaintance... Griffonclaw FitzSilver" the figure laughed at his retreating back, his laughter tinged with the familiar edge of malice.... and madness.
Griffonclaw left the alleyway, brooding all the way to the griffon pens. He had not been deluded; Keruptis had returned. Although he had denied being himself at first - had he really expected that to fool Griffonclaw, or was he merely baldly denying Griffonclaw to his face to needle the paladin? - he had let the guise drop, and spoken with Griffonclaw as they had used to. Griffonclaw had himself, in a way, returned from the dead, drifting for weeks like a corpse in the twilight of the Twisting Nether; why should he doubt that the self-proclaimed Master of the Great Darkness could reappear at will?
He was up to something; he always was. Griffonclaw was well aware that he had left Keruptis in the alley with one of his most powerful adherents, although Noctarre was nobody's catspaw these days. If Keruptis thought that she would be an obedient minion, as she might once have been, he did not remember the woman as Griffonclaw did; she was darkling power itself, these days, and her willful stubbornness had only become more steadfast over time.
Griffonclaw smiled. While they would both bear watching, the paladin did not know who might prove the larger threat in the fullness of time, the teacher or the student, now post-graduate. A thought struck him, and he chuckled, despite the grim tidings; it might well prove that Noctarre was a greater threat to whatever Keruptis planned than himself.
Some time ago, Griffonclaw had been invited to the Crypt, the sanctum of Lord Keruptis SaDiablo, sometimes called the Thrice Damned. During the visit, Griffonclaw had been offered to black manifestation of the Elder Dark; to escape, Griffonclaw had slit his left wrist and sent nine drops of his lifeblood as a token offering. He had healed the minort wound and escaped, but it had left him with a sensitivity to certain things.
The paladin only knew one thing was certain.
Keruptis had returned once more to Azeroth.
* * *
Griffonclaw found him in a dark, desert alleyway in Gadgetzan.
When he had felt the change, he had reported to the Cathedral, to the Archbishop. Shortly thereafter, as he sat on the stairs, he was joined by his friend, April Owens.
"So... what are you going to do now, Griff?" she'd asked.
"Well, I just spoke to the Archbishop. He is of the belief that I am mistaken; that the strain of torture under Blackrock Mountain, followed by the conviction of embezzlement and fraud in Undercity, followed by the stream of assassination squads from the Syndicate, have driven me to a place where I am imagining the whole thing. He recommends I take a leave of absence and spend a week or two fishing somewhere..."
"I see... I'm sorry, Griff," April sympathized.
Griffonclaw nodded, deep in thought.
He had followed the command of the Archbishop to the letter, taking a leave of absence so he might take a vacation. Someplace he had not been in some time, with a relaxing beach and gentle waves; Steamwheedle Port, in Tanaris.
If he also took some time to visit the SaDiablo farmhouse while in the area, who could blame him?
As luck would have it, the ache in his wrist took him to the goblin trading city; like a blazing arrow, it led him closer and closer to his quarry. When he dismounted from the griffon upon which he had traveled, he was surprised to find the warlock Noctarre Bane waiting for him; clearly, he was not alone in his contention that Keruptis had indeed returned.
"Warlock" he greeted her, his voice the essence of icy courtesy. His history with the warlock had been a long and contradictory one; sometimes bitter opponents, sometimes torrid lovers, they circled each other like two alpha wolves. Noctarre had once stood high in the councils of the Scions of Darkness, along with Annaliese and Ravenlore; he was surprised that the other two were not also on hand.
"Paladin" she returned, managing to sound both amused and disdainful at the same time. He passed her, entering the city; she followed.
Following the pulse in his wrist, it was not long before Griffonclaw had sighted his quarry leaving the inn, heading down the alleyway, behind the bank. Griffonclaw had followed, suspecting a trap; surely, if he could feel Keruptis, then Keruptis likewise would know of his nemesis' proximity; and if a trap, . When they were in the narrow between bank and city wall, Griffonclaw spoke.
"Good evening, milord"
The figure turned, slowly and carefully. "Good evening. With whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The figure was much as Griffonclaw remembered, and more, the voice was precisely the same; low, seductive, the kind one imagined could sell beer to Ironforgers.
Griffonclaw bowed. "You are looking well for a dead man, Lord Keruptis SaDaiblo the Thrice-Damned."
"I beg your pardon.... who do you think I am?" The voice held more than a tinge of amusement.
"I know who you are, milord, your protestations to the contrary notwithstanding," answered the paladin. He had dressed carefully for his search, and wore ordinary black leather boots, dark trousers, and a blue pirate-style shirt. No armor. No weapons. "May I offer you some wine?"
"I am just a peaceful traveler... whoever you are..." maintained the warlock.
"I have made some inquiries, milord; all outstanding warrants and charges against you were dropped after your first death, and your identity thereafter was never proven. Mikaylus and Donovan had asked me to identify the body upon the Cathedral altar... and I told them it was not you; a homunculus perhaps, but not you. In any case, there are no outstanding crimes charged against you - all were considered discharged with your death."
The figure said nothing, digesting this news. Griffonclaw continued, "But I have not forgotten Catrionae, Keruptis."
"Who?" the figure asked ingeniously, his eyes glowing under his hood with demonic power.
"I shall see that you remember her in detail, erelong," concluded the paladin. "Until then... fare well." Griffonclaw left the alley, leaving Noctarre and his old nemesis alone.
"I look forward to our renewed acquaintance... Griffonclaw FitzSilver" the figure laughed at his retreating back, his laughter tinged with the familiar edge of malice.... and madness.
Griffonclaw left the alleyway, brooding all the way to the griffon pens. He had not been deluded; Keruptis had returned. Although he had denied being himself at first - had he really expected that to fool Griffonclaw, or was he merely baldly denying Griffonclaw to his face to needle the paladin? - he had let the guise drop, and spoken with Griffonclaw as they had used to. Griffonclaw had himself, in a way, returned from the dead, drifting for weeks like a corpse in the twilight of the Twisting Nether; why should he doubt that the self-proclaimed Master of the Great Darkness could reappear at will?
He was up to something; he always was. Griffonclaw was well aware that he had left Keruptis in the alley with one of his most powerful adherents, although Noctarre was nobody's catspaw these days. If Keruptis thought that she would be an obedient minion, as she might once have been, he did not remember the woman as Griffonclaw did; she was darkling power itself, these days, and her willful stubbornness had only become more steadfast over time.
Griffonclaw smiled. While they would both bear watching, the paladin did not know who might prove the larger threat in the fullness of time, the teacher or the student, now post-graduate. A thought struck him, and he chuckled, despite the grim tidings; it might well prove that Noctarre was a greater threat to whatever Keruptis planned than himself.
Monday, July 20, 2009
On The Making of Cheese
Griffonclaw picked up the monograph. Written by his maternal uncle, Elias Trias, whose shop in Stormwind was well-stocked with all manner of cheeses; surely the man was something of an expert, if not one heck of an importer.
It began:
"The making of cheese is a multi-step alchemical process, and takes weeks, months, or even years to produce the desired product. There are several common steps to the crafting of cheese; culturing, coagulation, draining, scalding, and ripening.
The beginning of the cheesemaking process is to culture the cheese. The cheesemaker brings milk in the cheese vat to a temperature required to promote the growth of the culture, which may be the native culture of the cheese, or an additive of starter stock from various herb extracts, such as Peacebloom. When the fermentation of the culture is at an appropriate level, the cheesemaker adds rennet, which is produced my extraction from the fourth stomach of baby cows, lambs, or goats (the age of the calf will determine the strength of the rennet, which in turn will widely affect the flavor of the cheese). This is the coagulation of the cheese, and the fermenting milk will form into cheese curds. These curds are drained through cheesecloth, and the dehydrated curds are then scalded. Scalding involves cutting the curds into small cubes (the process called "cheddaring", where the curds are cut, turned, and stacked) and then heated to about 100 degrees. The scalding the cheese produces whey, which is drained from the curds, which are then milled into ribbon shapes and mixed with salt. The salted 'green cheese' curd is put into cheese moulds lined with cheese cloths and pressed overnight to allow the curds to meld. The pressed blocks of cheese are then removed from the cheese moulds and are waxed. The cheeses are then stored for maturation, which may take varying times in accord with the type of cheese.
Common types of cheese made throughout Azeroth include:
Darnassian Blue - Darnassian Blue cheese is made from a mixture of sheep and nightsaber's milk. The final product is spotted or veined throughout with blue or blue-green mold, and aged in the caves east of Auberdine. The characteristic flavor of Darnassian Blue tends to be sharp and a bit salty. The smell of this food is widely considered to be pungent, even compared to other cheeses. It can eaten by itself or can be crumbled or melted over foods.
Dalaran Sharp - Dalaran Sharp is produced primarily in the areas around Ambermill area, although some does come through Southport from Pyrewood by merchants whose sense of timing is precise. This cheese is colored a deep orange by annatto, an extract made from the silverleaf plant, and often packaged in black wax.
Dwarven Mild - Dwarven Mild is produced from goat's milk, and like all chesese made from goat's milk, has a slightly tart flavor. It is usually packagewd in red-wax encased wheels of great size.
Stormwind Brie - Stormwind Brie is a soft, cows' milk cheese. It is pale in colour with a slight greyish tinge under crusty white mould; very soft and savoury with a hint of ammonia. The white mouldy rind is moderately tasteful and edible, and is not intended to be separated from the cheese during consumption.
Fine Aged Cheddar - This cheese is made from cow's milk, and matured longer than most, giving it a delicate, subtle taste.
Alterac Swiss - This cheese has a distinctive appearance, as the blocks of the cheese are riddled with holes known as "eyes". Alterac Swiss is known for its nutty, bittersweet taste. Since the destruction of Alterac, most of this type of cheese is produced in the Southport region in Hillsbrad.
Garadar Sharp and Mag'har Mild Cheese - These two cheeses were first produced by the Mag'har orc tribes in northern Nagrand, and much of its production comes via the black market activities around Halaa.
Spiced Onion Cheese - This cheese is produced almost exclusively for Brewfest by Ironforge clans, and is flavored with herbs, spices, and onions. Many dwarven clans have their own jealously-guarded recipe for this seasonal delicacy."
It began:
"The making of cheese is a multi-step alchemical process, and takes weeks, months, or even years to produce the desired product. There are several common steps to the crafting of cheese; culturing, coagulation, draining, scalding, and ripening.
The beginning of the cheesemaking process is to culture the cheese. The cheesemaker brings milk in the cheese vat to a temperature required to promote the growth of the culture, which may be the native culture of the cheese, or an additive of starter stock from various herb extracts, such as Peacebloom. When the fermentation of the culture is at an appropriate level, the cheesemaker adds rennet, which is produced my extraction from the fourth stomach of baby cows, lambs, or goats (the age of the calf will determine the strength of the rennet, which in turn will widely affect the flavor of the cheese). This is the coagulation of the cheese, and the fermenting milk will form into cheese curds. These curds are drained through cheesecloth, and the dehydrated curds are then scalded. Scalding involves cutting the curds into small cubes (the process called "cheddaring", where the curds are cut, turned, and stacked) and then heated to about 100 degrees. The scalding the cheese produces whey, which is drained from the curds, which are then milled into ribbon shapes and mixed with salt. The salted 'green cheese' curd is put into cheese moulds lined with cheese cloths and pressed overnight to allow the curds to meld. The pressed blocks of cheese are then removed from the cheese moulds and are waxed. The cheeses are then stored for maturation, which may take varying times in accord with the type of cheese.
Common types of cheese made throughout Azeroth include:
Darnassian Blue - Darnassian Blue cheese is made from a mixture of sheep and nightsaber's milk. The final product is spotted or veined throughout with blue or blue-green mold, and aged in the caves east of Auberdine. The characteristic flavor of Darnassian Blue tends to be sharp and a bit salty. The smell of this food is widely considered to be pungent, even compared to other cheeses. It can eaten by itself or can be crumbled or melted over foods.
Dalaran Sharp - Dalaran Sharp is produced primarily in the areas around Ambermill area, although some does come through Southport from Pyrewood by merchants whose sense of timing is precise. This cheese is colored a deep orange by annatto, an extract made from the silverleaf plant, and often packaged in black wax.
Dwarven Mild - Dwarven Mild is produced from goat's milk, and like all chesese made from goat's milk, has a slightly tart flavor. It is usually packagewd in red-wax encased wheels of great size.
Stormwind Brie - Stormwind Brie is a soft, cows' milk cheese. It is pale in colour with a slight greyish tinge under crusty white mould; very soft and savoury with a hint of ammonia. The white mouldy rind is moderately tasteful and edible, and is not intended to be separated from the cheese during consumption.
Fine Aged Cheddar - This cheese is made from cow's milk, and matured longer than most, giving it a delicate, subtle taste.
Alterac Swiss - This cheese has a distinctive appearance, as the blocks of the cheese are riddled with holes known as "eyes". Alterac Swiss is known for its nutty, bittersweet taste. Since the destruction of Alterac, most of this type of cheese is produced in the Southport region in Hillsbrad.
Garadar Sharp and Mag'har Mild Cheese - These two cheeses were first produced by the Mag'har orc tribes in northern Nagrand, and much of its production comes via the black market activities around Halaa.
Spiced Onion Cheese - This cheese is produced almost exclusively for Brewfest by Ironforge clans, and is flavored with herbs, spices, and onions. Many dwarven clans have their own jealously-guarded recipe for this seasonal delicacy."
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