Griffonclaw sealed the package, feeling a coldness as deep as the ice of Everlook inside him.
He had traveled from the Altar of Storms to a small garret in Stormwind, and waited.
He had known that someday this information would be useful, since he had heart Catrionae's account of her initial attack, when they had first sought her for sacrifice. He had traded favors with Elias Trias for weeks for the address.
The rogue was still asleep; it was the equivalent of morning for him, a time when all decent citizens were retiring for the night, extinguising candles and lamps.
Griffonclaw stood there in the darkness, staring down at the rogue. Doombringer was naked in his fist, the demonic shadow energies of the blade pulsing in the shadows like a malignancy in time and space.
He weighed. He considered. And then he raised the blade to guard position, and thrust home, burying the mithril alloy into Gaaron's chest, cloth and skin parting almost effortlessly, bones snapping under the unclean blade as a hot knife through ice. The blade howled softly as it fed, tendrils of nothingness seeking the life therein, and draining it... utterly.
He severed Gaaron's head, and packaged it for delivery to Keruptis, writing "First payment on account". It was the first soul that Griffonclaw sent to be damned in the Twisting Nether, but it would not be the last.
Tomorrow, Keruptis would need a new spy and assassin in Stormwind.
It was much earlier than usual when Griffonclaw stepped out the door of the his Stormwind home, and almost ran to the griffon pens. He had been very late in getting in, and had no sooner hit the threshold of his house than he had collapsed, sleeping on the hardwood floor, still wearing his armor.
Fighting the Scourge put a new meaning to the phrase "Dead Tired", after all.
When he had awoken, he had felt very disoriented. Someone had stripped him of armor, arms, and weapons, and wrapped him in the fur rug. His armor and weapons had been cleaned, sharpened, and put in their accustomed place.
And Dathala, his slave girl, had slept curled up to him, but on the other side of the furs. He felt guilty as he stirred, and did his best to disengage from her without waking her, settling the fur over her body.
She had done this, had taken care of him. He smiled, with something resembling regret. Part of him wished that he could give her what she needed, what she craved... but he could not.
His heart - and all the things that connected to it - was owned by Selvaggia.
He had dressed in silence, making sure she had enough food, and that the household account had enough money. He felt guilty for not spending more time with her, and resolved to remedy that soon.
But not today.
On his way to the griffons he bought a selection of confections and a dozen roses for his love, and before long was winging his way to Darkshire. His thoughts on the journey were all of her; he had not seen her the day before, and he felt that deprivation keenly.
He practically leaped from the griffon before it landed, and ran down the hill to the inn where she rented a chamber. Swiftly climbing the stairs, he knocked.
No reply.
He knocked a second time.
She was angry with him.
It would not be their first fight, although Griffonclaw prefered to use the term "fiercely enthusiastic discussion". But usually she did him the courtesy of answering. If she wasn't answering...
No.
His armored form smashed the door in before he had a chance to think; if she could not answer might mean that she was... and the thought of her in peril moved him quite swiftly beyond volition or thought.
She was there, but in bed still.
And she hadn't woken when he smashed in her door.
He moved to her side, and touched her cheek gently. "Love?" he whispered. Are you OK?"
But his hand confirmed that she was not; she was hot to the touch, moreso that was usual for her.
"Selvie?" he said, louder, trying to wake her.
"Sleepy," Selvaggia muttered, snuggling down further onto the down comforter and mattress.
Her hair looked damp and her face was flushed. Concerned, he knelt beside the couch and reached up to brush her hair back from her face.
"You're burning up!" he exclaimed. "Have you been laying here sick all day yesterday?"
"No, I just got back late," Selvaggia murmured, pulling away from his touch. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep our date... I was in Tirisfall..."
"I'm taking you to the physician" Griffonclaw said, rising to his feet. "Your fever is much too high."
Selvaggia struggled and shoved at him when he tried to help her up. She turned away from him and pulled her blanket tighter around herself, as though shielding herself from him. However, Selvaggia had little strength, sick as she was, but she struck at him when he tried to pick her up. Her nails caught his arm, raking over her skin enough to scratch him.
"I hate the physicians" she grumbled when he had finally let go of her. "I'll be fine. Just let me sleep."
"At least let me put you to bed," Griffonclaw said, rubbing his arm where she'd scratched him.
Selvaggia snorted. "This is my bed," she told him. "Now leave me alone."
She rolled over again, turning her back to him.
"Hardly."
What she needed was a priest or a physician, but he knew full well that she loathed both, and he was reluctant to force her if she truly didn't want to go. The problem was that with her fever so high, she might dehydrate. "I can't leave her like this", Griffonclaw thought, looking around. He stepped out of the chamber while she dozed, and made arrangements.
He stepped back in, and held her while he waited. The innkeeper and servants obeyed his instructions, and left them alone.
He wrapped her in the blanket, making sure her feet were tucked under it, then lifted her up. She was a tiny little thing and light as could be. Granted he was no puny little twig, but she just felt...small. Like something that needs to be protected, Griffonclaw thought, settling her more comfortably in his arms.
"No physician..." Selvaggia murmured, struggling feebly in his arms.
"No physician," Griffonclaw promised.
She mumbled something incoherent and snuggled up against him, letting her head rest against his chest. Poor thing, Griffonclaw thought, leaning down and kissing her forehead gently. Selvaggia was barely coherent. "Maybe I should take her to the physician anyway...", Griffonclaw thought, but decided against it. With his oath of vengance still pending, and her loyalty to the Scions of Darkness... they had enough potential conflict without adding a knowing betrayal of trust, even witht he best of intentions, into the mix.
Suddenly, she she wriggled out of his arms so that he couldn't hold her. Somehow, stumbling and half-blind, Selvaggia made it to the privy pot. Griffonclaw tossed the blanket onto the bed and followed her, in time to hold her hair back from her face.
"Shhh..." Griffonclaw soothed, rubbing her back gently as she threw up.
He could feel her trembling. Griffonclaw continued stroking her hair back as she sat down hard, and held her close. Her soft, lovely witch-eyes flickered up to look at him. Through the blur of sickness he could see such vulnerability that it made him want to scoop her up and hold her tight. Griffonclaw held onto her shoulders as she straightened up and wiped her mouth.
"I feel...gross..." Selvaggia said, her voice shaking with exhaustion. "I want to be...clean..."
"Good idea" Griffonclaw told her, as he rose and began helping her to her feet. "Glad I thought of it."
He hooked an arm around her and held her against his chest carried her back to the main chamber. Griffonclaw let Selvaggia lean on him while he slowly and carefully undressed her, and lowered her into the copper tub full of hot water. She closed her eyes and moaned as the heat made some of her aches subside. Using a cloth and the bar of soap they'd left, he bathed her from head to foot, washing her raven-black hair as well. Ordinarily her pale, white skin would have aroused him, but there was nothing of lust in his actions... merely care and solicitude.
"I...I hate feeling this way..." she mumbled.
"I know, love... I know... " he responded tenderly, using a brush to begin untangling her hair.
When he was done brushing out her hair, he enveloped her in a big, fluffy towel, and picked her up, cradling her carefully in his arms.
The servants had also replaced the linens, as instructed. They knew he was a healthy tipper.
"Now, here's how this works," he said, as he dried her off. "Tonight I'm going to stay here. Shortly, I'm going to go downstairs and get the chicken broth they're making now" Griffonclaw draped the towel over her shoulders and went over to his pack, pulling out a blue tunic. "Which, by the way, you'll get to have several times throughout the night, and plenty of it."
"I hate chicken soup," Selvaggia muttered, lifting up her arms for him to pull the tunic over her head.
"I should savor this while it lasts", Griffonclaw thought, "because I'll never see her this docile ever again." Out loud he said, "You're going to drink it anyway. If, by the morning, your fever hasn't gone down some—or if it spikes up again during the day—I'll be taking you to the physician whether you like it or not, even if you get mad at me."
He didn't mention that there were still occassionally cases of the Plague or related ailments that one could catch in Tirisfal, from both the Forsaken and the Scourge, who were still making nasty weapons of that nature.
When she was curled up beneath the blankets, dozing, he sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to brush her hair back from her face. He leaned over and gently kissed her forehead. "I will be here, love... now sleep".
Somewhere in the deep caverns of Khaz Modan, Griffonclaw slept the sleep of the dead, and dreamed. He imagined his adopted nephew, a gnomish lad by the name of MacLhir, was playing the gnomish lute and singing the song they had produced from Griffonclaw's first exposure to the folk of Ironforge, the folk who had taken him in and made him one of their own.
When Craft Ramsey had returned his lifeless body to his wife, Kestralil Shadowhawk, she had in turn given it over to Griffonclaw's adopted people, the Order of the Silver Hand of Ironforge. When the human Order had released Griffonclaw from his vows because the paladin had dared to kill Alliance soldiers who were raping Horde civilians, the dwarven Order had re-sworn him, and King Magni Bronzebeard himself had made Griffonclaw a "legal dwarf", granting him full citizenship, swearing Griffonclaw to his personal service as one of his "privy agents of the Iron Throne".
They had taken Griffonclaw's body with reverence; he had died protecting his Commander from the rapacious minions of the Lich King in desperate defense of his final citadel, and had fallen, his Ironforge tabard and the armor underneath shredded. He was given the full funerary rites of a fallen Ironforge paladin, and as the Sworn of King Magni, was laid out in the Royal Crypt so that his spirit could guard his King in death as he had in life.
Visitors to his sepulcher didn't realize that the stone effigy of Griffonclaw was the paladin's actual body, turned to stone.
Griffonclaw's spirit listened from where he sat in his King's Hall, listening to the song. As the song played, he sipped at his never-empty tankard of dwarven stout and wept unashamedly, listening to the words spawn memories of that horrid, wonderful day.
As a squire, Griffonclaw had made the choice to cleave to the path of Uther rather than follow his sworn master down the path of Arthas at Stratholme. When Arthas declared the Order dissolved, he had followed Lady Jaina Proudmore to Kalimbor, and eventually to the slopes of Mount Hyjal.
As the Burning Legion had drawn near, the defenders of Hyjal had asked for volunteers to fight a desperate holding action in the mountain road which led up the slopes, to give them time to finish their hastily-erected defenses. The Hammer of Magni, an elite dwarven unit sent by Magni, had responded to the call, and as they were short-handed, Griffonclaw was assigned to them to supplement their own paladins.
While Arthas had officially dissolved the Order of the Silver Hand, that action had resulted in no effect upon the strength of Griffonclaw's sword nor his ability to manifest the Light to heal his compatriots. Griffonclaw had spent the hours before battle at the forge, doing any task requested of the Master Smiths, putting edges on weapons, helping the dwarves arrange their defensive works that sat athwart the road.
"They say Azeroth is bleeding
When every warlock soul is born
Beckoning to the infernal
Brimstone eyes are full of scorn...
We are forty against thousands
Facing demons and deadly strife
Our task - delay the Burning Legion
Buying more time with our life
They will charge us come the morning
When the midnight becomes day's sky
The felhounds will feast upon our bodies
Our clanmates and our wives will cry.
Ironforge, we're coming home
To the deeply delved dark tunnels
And the great halls carved from stone.
Our souls are running fast
leaping o'er the gorge
We're coming home to Ironforge.
Our Lady Captain, she lays bleeding
And she then calls out to me
"The defenders need at least twelve hours
for even hope of victory"
I look up all around me
And see Rogue, Paladin and Priest
Sharpening blade and making ready
To buy them half a day, at least.
Ironforge, we're coming home
To the deeply delved dark tunnels
And the great halls carved from stone.
Our souls are running fast
leaping o'er the gorge
We're coming home to Ironforge.
The sun rises over mountain
We see the land below quite clear
Distant sacrifices sscreaming
As our enemy draws near.
No more words need to be spoken
Just a drink to say good-bye
They descend upon our battle-line
To the sound of dwarven battle cry!
Ironforge, we're coming home
To the deeply delved dark tunnels
And the great halls carved from stone.
Our souls are running fast
leaping o'er the gorge
We're coming home to Ironforge."
The demons and other fel beasts had come shortly thereafter, and no quarter had been given, nor expected. The Hammer of Magni, already having taken many casualties in the various skirmishes up to this point, had proven that they had iron in their spirits.
They had held for six hours. Three of the dwarves had survived the battle; the warriors Skallagrim and Orri, the battle-priest Tbelle.
And Griffonclaw. He had been wounded, and his body had been buried under other casualties while the battle raged past him. He had awoken to the gentle touch of a kaldorei healer, who had pulled him back from the brink of death with her druidic magics.
The four of them had recovered, and gone their separate ways, but friendships, bonds of mithril and steel had been forged that day between them, bonds that would be renewed in Thelsamar, years later.
((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.
((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)).
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.
