((Because a friend has a writing thing, where she provides prompts and her friends provide content, I thought I'd participate, and so there is now a post-script to Griffonclaw's life))
Dear Diary,
This will be my last entry.
Probably.
Hard to write an entry when you're dead, and I do not expect to survive today. Duty, and loyalty to my Commander, will take me to the Icecrown Citadel today, and while the Argent Exodus has survived many, many things... this is Arthas Menethil.
I wish I had time to see my wife, my daughter, again, before we leave... I can only trust in the Light that they know how much I love them.
Here's hoping I'm wrong, and that there will be further entries.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Griffonclaw on SWC
((I consider the different servers to be alternate worlds of each other - base lore stays the same, but the details... ah, the devil is always in the details, neh? In any case, those of you who miss the rapscallion named Griffonclaw might enjoy his WrA analog, the fellow named Jon Greyhawk)).
Thursday, February 4, 2010
(68) - Before the Citadel (by Craft Ramsey)
((Written with my knowledge and consent))
With great thanks to Griffonclaw, who inspired this.
Lord Tirion Fordring called, and Azeroth answered. After months of massing, months of winning and losing skirmishes against the Scourge in Northrend, the Argent Crusade felt the time was ripe, and that Icecrown Citadel was ready to be sieged. The Cavalry of the Crusade had been doing their best to eliminate the soldiers stationed outside the Citadel for almost a year, but the small scale attacks on the Scourge were doing little to decrease their numbers. The heroes of Azeroth, however, had made good progress throughout Icecrown, pushing back Scourge forces, and establishing outposts and attack positions. Icecrown Citadel remained the last true bastion of the Scourge in Icecrown, but it would not be easy to take. Before they even set foot inside, they would have to win their way to the sturdy saronite gates that protected the citadel, defeating what forces the Lich King sent out to assault them. They would have to control the area around the Citadel while they broke through the giant gates, then establish their first position inside the citadel, the outpost they would strike against the heart of the Scourge.
So Fordring called, and members of all races answered. Commander Craft Ramsay was one of them, and with him, he brought his experienced members of Argent Exodus. Craft, a Death Knight himself, brought an insight against fighting the Scourge, and many of the men and women that followed him had done so for almost four years now. It was an odd mix of veterans and newly minted recruits who would get their first taste of battle at Icecrown Citadel. Craft knew many of his people would not survive the siege, and he wondered which new recruits he would have to send notice home about? Or, perhaps, which veteran who had long followed Craft would fight in his final battle. Craft stood frowning, as Fordring outlined the battle plan for the gathered forces. They had to clear a path to the gates of the citadel, and defend a large battering ram while it worked against the thick saronite doors. Fordring believed that the push to the doors would not be so dangerous as the assault they would face while defending the battering ram. Craft had to agree, sorties were made against the scourge outside of the citadel daily, with little retribution. The plan was straight forward, simple, and in Craft's mind, likely to have to change the moment the first blade was drawn.
The march to the Citadel was quick, as the army of the Crusade pushed hard against any Scourge that dared oppose them. By the time the main force had arrived at the Argent Camp in the courtyard before the citadel, the auxiliary forces had claimed and taken their targets.
"To the Citadel!" Fordring ordered, and Craft gestured for his men to follow him. The dwarven paladin, Asan, flanked Craft and grinned up at his Commander, "Time fer ah good fight, eh Crafty? I'm lookin forward ta it!"
Craft grinned, unsheathing his Runed sword, the markings on it glowing with power, "Aye Asan. Let's give these Scourge bastards a good ass kicking."
Craft looked back over his shoulder and saw him friends and soldiers following him. Redric and Aea, two druids were in deep conversation. Nikomus and Frostfall were in step with them, listening silently. Griffonclaw walked just behind them, the veteran paladin's face somber, for he had served Tirion longer then most. Gnifty rushed to catch up to most of the group, her short legs moving quickly through the freshly fallen snow. Ciann and Cecili, two mages who had been with Argent Exodus for years watched the skies intently, ready to fall any airborne threat to the army that marched to the Citadel. Coriolos stumbled along, distracted greatly by the large battering ram that was being hauled by bulky mammoths.
Tirion's voice shouted from the head of the column, and though Craft could not make out what was said, he knew what was being warned. They were in the shadow of the Citadel, and they were under attack.
"Finally!" boomed Asan from Craft's side, "Either needed to be fightin' or drinkin' soon, after all this blasted walkin'!"
The dwarf threw himself as the first undead that approached the column, his hammer swinging wildly, knocking undead back. With a massive overhead blow, he brought the hammer to the ground and unleashed holy energy, sending it radiating out from him, consecrating the ground, "C'mon you piles of rotting flesh! I've got judgement to bring to you unholy bastards!"
Aea was the next into the fray, shifting quickly to her cat form and dashing towards a charging abomination. In mid leap, Aea shifted again, growing in size, changing from the sleek cat into a massive, muscular bear. Aea roared as she collided with the abomination, knocking it from it's sturdy feet, and slashed viciously at it's dead flesh. As another abomination approached to smash Aea, she shifted again to her cat form, darting from the clumsy powerful blow of the second abomination and leaping to it's back. Sinking her claws in, Aea shifted one again to her bear form, and with a triumphant roar, tore at the abomination and dropped it to the ground.
Gargoyles began to join the fray, and were met by all the elemental forces of the mages, being blasted with ice and fire and sent reeling from the sky. Craft grinned and raced to the head of the column where the fighting would be most intense, his blade glowing in anticipation of battle.
"Commander!" Griffonclaw shouted as he dashed after Craft, but his cry fell on deaf ears.
Craft arrived at the head of the column, and stepped over the fallen, both living and scourge. Fighting still raged, with abominations, ghouls, geists and all manner of scourge creature locked against all the races of Azeroth. Craft's blade sang as it swung through the air to slash through a ghoul, with Craft spinning after the strike, directing his hand towards an abomination and summoning the cold to surround and freeze the large stitched horror. Craft charged at it, unleashing bolts of unholy energy as he did, and as he approached, he leapt forward, ready to drive his blade deep into the guts of the great scourge creature. With a roar, Craft pulled his blade from of the beast as it fell, spraying dark ichor as he did, and falling to the trampled ground. Grinning, Craft pulled himself up to his feet, and placed his horn to his lips, blowing and summoning the rest of his men to the gate of the Citadel.
Exhaling deeply, Craft turned to face his next challenge, a pair of geists leaping at him. Craft hacked, but was just not quick enough to make contact with the nimble leapers, his sword swinging through empty air where the geists had been mere moments before. Cursing in frustration, Craft hacked again, and this time as he missed, he reached out and grabbed the thick rope that the geists often wore as nooses around their necks. Yanking at it, he brought the first geist to him, and thrust his sword through it. As Craft tried to wrench his weapon free of the first leaper, the second pounced on his back, it's long slender arms wrapping around his neck and torso gripping tightly. Craft gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air, as he knew that despite the fact he was a Death Knight, he needed to breathe, and as he did, the geist squeezed tighter. Craft's cold blue eyes dimmed, and a haze started to set over his vision, weakness forcing him to fall to one knee and drop his sword.
Unintelligible gibbering flooded in Craft's ear as he tried to force himself to remain conscious, and with an expenditure of energy Craft sent what power he could to his weapon. In an instant the blade came to life, slicing through the air and connecting with the Geist, who let go of Craft, leaving him gasping on the ground. The leaper tried to evade the blade, but the rune-empowered sword, while slow and powerful in Craft's hands, was quick and deadly for the few short moments it could act on it's own. The Geist found itself skewed by the blade, which soon lost the power it had, and dropped to the ground.
"Bloody things..." Craft coughed hoarsely and looked around. The battle was going well, the Argent Crusade had cleared a path to the citadel and the ram was there. With a loud clang, the Titansteel head of the battering ram collided with the cold saronite gate as Craft stepped on the fallen Geist's head and pulled his sword free.
Craft turned to move to the ram, and Tirion Fordring when cold cruel whispers began to echo in his mind. Whispers he had not heard in over a year. They started quiet but soon grew louder and louder, eventually making Craft's skull ache as if it wanted to split.
"You cannot escape me, I command you. You will obey me." The whisper turned to shout commanded.
Craft staggered forward, and noticed that all the members of the Ebon Blade who had joined the assault were crumpling to the ground, their heads clutched.
"SERVE ME!" the voice boomed and Craft looked to the sky. There, hovering over the battle field was a Val'kyr, garbed in black saronite armour, with a long wicked spear, serated with a hook near the tip. On her face was a cruel looking ram's head helmet. From his dreams long past Craft recognized creature as more then a regular Val'kyr. This was the Herald of the Lich King, the one that had brought his broken body to the master of the Scourge. The one that had empowered him and created a monster who only served the Lich King.
"Serve, and be rewarded."
Craft cried out, refusing to listen, but around him, many of the former Knight's of the Ebon Blade accepted the offer, and joined the service of the Lich King again. It was chaos as Crusader fought against many of their allies, those Death Knights strong enough to resist had little power left to do anything other then lay on the ground and wait to be killed.
"Enough!" boomed one voice, that of Darion Morgaine, who had somehow forced himself to he his feet, "You must not listen! You are free!"
His voice was not heeded, and Craft tried to force himself to his feet to add his voice to the Leader of the Ebon Blade's, as Morgaine found himself swarmed by attacking scourge. His blade hacked at the ghouls and geists that surrounded him.
"Craft Ramsay...." The voice echoed in Craft's mind and infront of him, as the herald floated infront of him, "You will serve us. We will give you all you desire."
"No..." Craft gasped as he started to raise his blade.
"Yes." The Herald countered, and Craft's sword fell from his hand.
"No!" came another shout and Craft soon felt himself enclosed in a shield of holy energy.
"No! The Commander does not serve you!" roared the voice of Griffonclaw fitzSilver, who moved to stand between Craft and the Herald. His armour glistened and his eyes raged with holy power, "Back you unholy beast!"
"Back?" The Herald laughed, "I have delivered the soul of many a paladin to my King, and they served him willingly enough. The Light will not protect you. Even the greatest can fall. And you, paladin, are no-where near the greatest."
The Herald thrust her spear, crackling with dark energy, but it was deflected by Griffonclaw's shield. He swung his hammer in counter, with a strike so surprisingly powerful, the Herald staggered back.
"You surprise me child, you will serve the Lich King well."
"Never," Griffonclaw spat.
"Forever." The Herald countered calmly and swooped forward, a flurry of strikes with her spear only barely blocked by Griffonclaw as he stepped backwards under the assault. Griffonclaw slipped as he staggered backwards, and he quickly empowered his hammer with holy energy tossing it with all his might at the Herald.
Griffonclaw groaned as he hit the ground, and saw through blurred vision his hammer of light deflected away by a swat of the Herald's wing.
"Enough of this. Serve!" The Herald commanded and thrust with her spear. Griffonclaw felt his chestplate shatter and the spear pierce his flesh. He cried out in pain as the spear was twisted, blood pouring from his wound and his mouth.
"No..." Craft groaned, and forced himself forward, grasping his blade once again. The sight of his fallen friend enraged Craft, he felt an all too familiar rage boiling inside of him, and he was able to ignore the constant whispering inside his head. Fueled by this rage, Craft charged forward, and for a brief moment in time, he was no longer a Death Knight, but rather a warrior like he once was. He felt no unholy power coursing through his blood, only rage, and using that rage he brought his runeblade down onto the spear that the Herald held piercing Griffonclaw and shattered it.
The Herald screamed, and flew backwards, away from Craft, "You cannot resist me forever, Ramsay. You will serve me again!"
Craft glared up at the Herald, the cold blue glow returning to his eyes, "No. Never again. None of us will!"
The Herald laughed coldly and flew up to the upper reaches of the spire. Craft heard in his head, one final voice as the Herald vanished, "Then come into the Citadel and find me."
Craft sighed and fell to his knees beside Griffonclaw.
"C...Commander..." Griffonclaw spat, as Craft took his hand, "I... I think I can no longer... ser... serve you.... Sir..."
Craft shook his head, "You'll be fine Griffonclaw. We'll have a healer over here in a moment! Morales! You're not going to die, damnit, that's an order."
Griffonclaw laughed chokingly, "I'm sorry sir... I'm going to ... to have to disobey this one... Commander... Craft..."
Craft was speechless, for a long moment there was no sound but the crash of the Titansteel ram head against the gates of the Citadel.
"One last re...request sir..."
Craft nodded, squeezing his fallen friend's hand.
"Take me to Ironforge, to Kestralil. Take me home."
Craft nodded, and bowed his head as he felt the life leave his friend.
With the final crash of the ram against the door, Griffonclaw died on the blood stained snow, and the Citadel was breeched.
Craft and Tirion Fordring carried Griffonclaw from the Citadel on his shield. Neither saying a word. When they arrived at the camp at the base of the Citadel, Ciann was waiting and created a portal to Ironforge. Together they carried Griffonclaw through it. To Ironforge. To Home.
With great thanks to Griffonclaw, who inspired this.
Lord Tirion Fordring called, and Azeroth answered. After months of massing, months of winning and losing skirmishes against the Scourge in Northrend, the Argent Crusade felt the time was ripe, and that Icecrown Citadel was ready to be sieged. The Cavalry of the Crusade had been doing their best to eliminate the soldiers stationed outside the Citadel for almost a year, but the small scale attacks on the Scourge were doing little to decrease their numbers. The heroes of Azeroth, however, had made good progress throughout Icecrown, pushing back Scourge forces, and establishing outposts and attack positions. Icecrown Citadel remained the last true bastion of the Scourge in Icecrown, but it would not be easy to take. Before they even set foot inside, they would have to win their way to the sturdy saronite gates that protected the citadel, defeating what forces the Lich King sent out to assault them. They would have to control the area around the Citadel while they broke through the giant gates, then establish their first position inside the citadel, the outpost they would strike against the heart of the Scourge.
So Fordring called, and members of all races answered. Commander Craft Ramsay was one of them, and with him, he brought his experienced members of Argent Exodus. Craft, a Death Knight himself, brought an insight against fighting the Scourge, and many of the men and women that followed him had done so for almost four years now. It was an odd mix of veterans and newly minted recruits who would get their first taste of battle at Icecrown Citadel. Craft knew many of his people would not survive the siege, and he wondered which new recruits he would have to send notice home about? Or, perhaps, which veteran who had long followed Craft would fight in his final battle. Craft stood frowning, as Fordring outlined the battle plan for the gathered forces. They had to clear a path to the gates of the citadel, and defend a large battering ram while it worked against the thick saronite doors. Fordring believed that the push to the doors would not be so dangerous as the assault they would face while defending the battering ram. Craft had to agree, sorties were made against the scourge outside of the citadel daily, with little retribution. The plan was straight forward, simple, and in Craft's mind, likely to have to change the moment the first blade was drawn.
The march to the Citadel was quick, as the army of the Crusade pushed hard against any Scourge that dared oppose them. By the time the main force had arrived at the Argent Camp in the courtyard before the citadel, the auxiliary forces had claimed and taken their targets.
"To the Citadel!" Fordring ordered, and Craft gestured for his men to follow him. The dwarven paladin, Asan, flanked Craft and grinned up at his Commander, "Time fer ah good fight, eh Crafty? I'm lookin forward ta it!"
Craft grinned, unsheathing his Runed sword, the markings on it glowing with power, "Aye Asan. Let's give these Scourge bastards a good ass kicking."
Craft looked back over his shoulder and saw him friends and soldiers following him. Redric and Aea, two druids were in deep conversation. Nikomus and Frostfall were in step with them, listening silently. Griffonclaw walked just behind them, the veteran paladin's face somber, for he had served Tirion longer then most. Gnifty rushed to catch up to most of the group, her short legs moving quickly through the freshly fallen snow. Ciann and Cecili, two mages who had been with Argent Exodus for years watched the skies intently, ready to fall any airborne threat to the army that marched to the Citadel. Coriolos stumbled along, distracted greatly by the large battering ram that was being hauled by bulky mammoths.
Tirion's voice shouted from the head of the column, and though Craft could not make out what was said, he knew what was being warned. They were in the shadow of the Citadel, and they were under attack.
"Finally!" boomed Asan from Craft's side, "Either needed to be fightin' or drinkin' soon, after all this blasted walkin'!"
The dwarf threw himself as the first undead that approached the column, his hammer swinging wildly, knocking undead back. With a massive overhead blow, he brought the hammer to the ground and unleashed holy energy, sending it radiating out from him, consecrating the ground, "C'mon you piles of rotting flesh! I've got judgement to bring to you unholy bastards!"
Aea was the next into the fray, shifting quickly to her cat form and dashing towards a charging abomination. In mid leap, Aea shifted again, growing in size, changing from the sleek cat into a massive, muscular bear. Aea roared as she collided with the abomination, knocking it from it's sturdy feet, and slashed viciously at it's dead flesh. As another abomination approached to smash Aea, she shifted again to her cat form, darting from the clumsy powerful blow of the second abomination and leaping to it's back. Sinking her claws in, Aea shifted one again to her bear form, and with a triumphant roar, tore at the abomination and dropped it to the ground.
Gargoyles began to join the fray, and were met by all the elemental forces of the mages, being blasted with ice and fire and sent reeling from the sky. Craft grinned and raced to the head of the column where the fighting would be most intense, his blade glowing in anticipation of battle.
"Commander!" Griffonclaw shouted as he dashed after Craft, but his cry fell on deaf ears.
Craft arrived at the head of the column, and stepped over the fallen, both living and scourge. Fighting still raged, with abominations, ghouls, geists and all manner of scourge creature locked against all the races of Azeroth. Craft's blade sang as it swung through the air to slash through a ghoul, with Craft spinning after the strike, directing his hand towards an abomination and summoning the cold to surround and freeze the large stitched horror. Craft charged at it, unleashing bolts of unholy energy as he did, and as he approached, he leapt forward, ready to drive his blade deep into the guts of the great scourge creature. With a roar, Craft pulled his blade from of the beast as it fell, spraying dark ichor as he did, and falling to the trampled ground. Grinning, Craft pulled himself up to his feet, and placed his horn to his lips, blowing and summoning the rest of his men to the gate of the Citadel.
Exhaling deeply, Craft turned to face his next challenge, a pair of geists leaping at him. Craft hacked, but was just not quick enough to make contact with the nimble leapers, his sword swinging through empty air where the geists had been mere moments before. Cursing in frustration, Craft hacked again, and this time as he missed, he reached out and grabbed the thick rope that the geists often wore as nooses around their necks. Yanking at it, he brought the first geist to him, and thrust his sword through it. As Craft tried to wrench his weapon free of the first leaper, the second pounced on his back, it's long slender arms wrapping around his neck and torso gripping tightly. Craft gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air, as he knew that despite the fact he was a Death Knight, he needed to breathe, and as he did, the geist squeezed tighter. Craft's cold blue eyes dimmed, and a haze started to set over his vision, weakness forcing him to fall to one knee and drop his sword.
Unintelligible gibbering flooded in Craft's ear as he tried to force himself to remain conscious, and with an expenditure of energy Craft sent what power he could to his weapon. In an instant the blade came to life, slicing through the air and connecting with the Geist, who let go of Craft, leaving him gasping on the ground. The leaper tried to evade the blade, but the rune-empowered sword, while slow and powerful in Craft's hands, was quick and deadly for the few short moments it could act on it's own. The Geist found itself skewed by the blade, which soon lost the power it had, and dropped to the ground.
"Bloody things..." Craft coughed hoarsely and looked around. The battle was going well, the Argent Crusade had cleared a path to the citadel and the ram was there. With a loud clang, the Titansteel head of the battering ram collided with the cold saronite gate as Craft stepped on the fallen Geist's head and pulled his sword free.
Craft turned to move to the ram, and Tirion Fordring when cold cruel whispers began to echo in his mind. Whispers he had not heard in over a year. They started quiet but soon grew louder and louder, eventually making Craft's skull ache as if it wanted to split.
"You cannot escape me, I command you. You will obey me." The whisper turned to shout commanded.
Craft staggered forward, and noticed that all the members of the Ebon Blade who had joined the assault were crumpling to the ground, their heads clutched.
"SERVE ME!" the voice boomed and Craft looked to the sky. There, hovering over the battle field was a Val'kyr, garbed in black saronite armour, with a long wicked spear, serated with a hook near the tip. On her face was a cruel looking ram's head helmet. From his dreams long past Craft recognized creature as more then a regular Val'kyr. This was the Herald of the Lich King, the one that had brought his broken body to the master of the Scourge. The one that had empowered him and created a monster who only served the Lich King.
"Serve, and be rewarded."
Craft cried out, refusing to listen, but around him, many of the former Knight's of the Ebon Blade accepted the offer, and joined the service of the Lich King again. It was chaos as Crusader fought against many of their allies, those Death Knights strong enough to resist had little power left to do anything other then lay on the ground and wait to be killed.
"Enough!" boomed one voice, that of Darion Morgaine, who had somehow forced himself to he his feet, "You must not listen! You are free!"
His voice was not heeded, and Craft tried to force himself to his feet to add his voice to the Leader of the Ebon Blade's, as Morgaine found himself swarmed by attacking scourge. His blade hacked at the ghouls and geists that surrounded him.
"Craft Ramsay...." The voice echoed in Craft's mind and infront of him, as the herald floated infront of him, "You will serve us. We will give you all you desire."
"No..." Craft gasped as he started to raise his blade.
"Yes." The Herald countered, and Craft's sword fell from his hand.
"No!" came another shout and Craft soon felt himself enclosed in a shield of holy energy.
"No! The Commander does not serve you!" roared the voice of Griffonclaw fitzSilver, who moved to stand between Craft and the Herald. His armour glistened and his eyes raged with holy power, "Back you unholy beast!"
"Back?" The Herald laughed, "I have delivered the soul of many a paladin to my King, and they served him willingly enough. The Light will not protect you. Even the greatest can fall. And you, paladin, are no-where near the greatest."
The Herald thrust her spear, crackling with dark energy, but it was deflected by Griffonclaw's shield. He swung his hammer in counter, with a strike so surprisingly powerful, the Herald staggered back.
"You surprise me child, you will serve the Lich King well."
"Never," Griffonclaw spat.
"Forever." The Herald countered calmly and swooped forward, a flurry of strikes with her spear only barely blocked by Griffonclaw as he stepped backwards under the assault. Griffonclaw slipped as he staggered backwards, and he quickly empowered his hammer with holy energy tossing it with all his might at the Herald.
Griffonclaw groaned as he hit the ground, and saw through blurred vision his hammer of light deflected away by a swat of the Herald's wing.
"Enough of this. Serve!" The Herald commanded and thrust with her spear. Griffonclaw felt his chestplate shatter and the spear pierce his flesh. He cried out in pain as the spear was twisted, blood pouring from his wound and his mouth.
"No..." Craft groaned, and forced himself forward, grasping his blade once again. The sight of his fallen friend enraged Craft, he felt an all too familiar rage boiling inside of him, and he was able to ignore the constant whispering inside his head. Fueled by this rage, Craft charged forward, and for a brief moment in time, he was no longer a Death Knight, but rather a warrior like he once was. He felt no unholy power coursing through his blood, only rage, and using that rage he brought his runeblade down onto the spear that the Herald held piercing Griffonclaw and shattered it.
The Herald screamed, and flew backwards, away from Craft, "You cannot resist me forever, Ramsay. You will serve me again!"
Craft glared up at the Herald, the cold blue glow returning to his eyes, "No. Never again. None of us will!"
The Herald laughed coldly and flew up to the upper reaches of the spire. Craft heard in his head, one final voice as the Herald vanished, "Then come into the Citadel and find me."
Craft sighed and fell to his knees beside Griffonclaw.
"C...Commander..." Griffonclaw spat, as Craft took his hand, "I... I think I can no longer... ser... serve you.... Sir..."
Craft shook his head, "You'll be fine Griffonclaw. We'll have a healer over here in a moment! Morales! You're not going to die, damnit, that's an order."
Griffonclaw laughed chokingly, "I'm sorry sir... I'm going to ... to have to disobey this one... Commander... Craft..."
Craft was speechless, for a long moment there was no sound but the crash of the Titansteel ram head against the gates of the Citadel.
"One last re...request sir..."
Craft nodded, squeezing his fallen friend's hand.
"Take me to Ironforge, to Kestralil. Take me home."
Craft nodded, and bowed his head as he felt the life leave his friend.
With the final crash of the ram against the door, Griffonclaw died on the blood stained snow, and the Citadel was breeched.
Craft and Tirion Fordring carried Griffonclaw from the Citadel on his shield. Neither saying a word. When they arrived at the camp at the base of the Citadel, Ciann was waiting and created a portal to Ironforge. Together they carried Griffonclaw through it. To Ironforge. To Home.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
(67) - Candlemass
"Ho there, young Master... I hae a delivery for the Cathedral!" called the teamster, climbing down from his pony cart. Brother Benjamin paused on the steps, and turned to the dwarf. "What is this, then?"
"Special delivery from Mistress Bryllia Ironbrand of Ironforge... some paladin ordered them, special. I'm supposed to deliver them to Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker? He dwells within?" the dwarf asked, beginning to unload the wooden crates from the cart.
"Lord Shad... oh yes. These are for the Day of the Dead observance," the cleric answered, remembering the last year's somber rite. "One of the Order came up with the idea of honoring those who've fallen with candles of different colors - red for those who were warlocks, green for druids, black for death knights, and so forth. The flames throw colored light. Its really quite striking... you should come and see it with us, friend Dwarf," he invited.
"The offer does ye credit, Holy One... perhaps I shall. Do ye need help taking the crates inside?" the teamster said as he heaved the last one on the pile.
"No indeed, but I thank you for your offer in return... we have noviates a-plenty, who will not suffer overmuch from a little honest labor." The priest chuckled; given the groaning when he fetched them, you would think that honest labor was anathema."
The dwarf chuckled. "Very well, Holy One..." The dwarf turned, and began to climb back on the cart.
"Wait..." the priest called. "Don't we need a bill of lading, or a bill?"
"Nae, the costs were already paid for, good Brother. They're a gift from one of our own to his brethern in Stormwind, from Sir Griffonclaw to his brothers and sisters in the Light."
Griffonclaw raised his head from where he had knelt, and issued a final prayer at the graves of his mother and sister. "May the Light keep your spirits safe" he intoned, the lights from the white candles flickering on the night breeze. "I'll be back as soon as I'm off the rotation again." He walked past the rotting wood of the old house, where he had left his ram to graze on the weeds and grass, surrounded by the still, unmoving bodies of the Rothide Gnolls that roamed his master's farm, and that his master had struck down each time they made the trip to his family grave plots.
"Special delivery from Mistress Bryllia Ironbrand of Ironforge... some paladin ordered them, special. I'm supposed to deliver them to Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker? He dwells within?" the dwarf asked, beginning to unload the wooden crates from the cart.
"Lord Shad... oh yes. These are for the Day of the Dead observance," the cleric answered, remembering the last year's somber rite. "One of the Order came up with the idea of honoring those who've fallen with candles of different colors - red for those who were warlocks, green for druids, black for death knights, and so forth. The flames throw colored light. Its really quite striking... you should come and see it with us, friend Dwarf," he invited.
"The offer does ye credit, Holy One... perhaps I shall. Do ye need help taking the crates inside?" the teamster said as he heaved the last one on the pile.
"No indeed, but I thank you for your offer in return... we have noviates a-plenty, who will not suffer overmuch from a little honest labor." The priest chuckled; given the groaning when he fetched them, you would think that honest labor was anathema."
The dwarf chuckled. "Very well, Holy One..." The dwarf turned, and began to climb back on the cart.
"Wait..." the priest called. "Don't we need a bill of lading, or a bill?"
"Nae, the costs were already paid for, good Brother. They're a gift from one of our own to his brethern in Stormwind, from Sir Griffonclaw to his brothers and sisters in the Light."
Griffonclaw raised his head from where he had knelt, and issued a final prayer at the graves of his mother and sister. "May the Light keep your spirits safe" he intoned, the lights from the white candles flickering on the night breeze. "I'll be back as soon as I'm off the rotation again." He walked past the rotting wood of the old house, where he had left his ram to graze on the weeds and grass, surrounded by the still, unmoving bodies of the Rothide Gnolls that roamed his master's farm, and that his master had struck down each time they made the trip to his family grave plots.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
(66) - Can You Stand?
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.
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.
(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.
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