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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
Griffonclaw was not in Alliance territory when the first hints of the Plague attacked. He was in Brill.
Some weeks ago, he had been contacted by an ally within the Steamwheedle Cartel; a sin'dorei healer, in new possession of the Light granted the Sin'dorei race by the Na'aru after their ruler, Kael'thas, was revealed to be in the service of Kil'jaeden, and strove to summon his demon-lord to the world, abandoning his people for his own ambitions. During the chaotic days that followed in Silvermoon, the healer had come to the deserts of Tanaris to study what tomes and scrolls he could find, ultimately engaging the goblins to find him a teacher from the Alliance in the arts of magical and non-magical healing. Griffonclaw had spent some weeks with the sin'dorei Blood Knight.
Being a creature of habit, Griffonclaw had taken the opportunity to obtain some hair samples from the fellow. When he had discovered he needed to travel among the Horde to take word to them of a horrendous plot to assassinate Cairne Bloodhoof, he had sought out the Orc assassin Borak in the Shadowmoon Valley. He had done a favor for the orc some time past, in which Borak had disguised Griffonclaw as a sin'dorei; Griffonclaw had prevailed on Borak to do it again.
In the form of Dayn Farstrider, Blood Knight Healer of the Sin'Dorei, Griffonclaw had traveled to Brill, only to find the Forsaken town under siege. A new Plague had been launched by the Scourge. Crates of Plague-infected grain had been sent to Stormwind and Orgrimmar through goblin merchants; in some cases, the crates were opened and the grain consumed; in other cases, insects and vermin ate the grain as it rotted, and carried the contagion to those around them.
The Argent Dawn dispatched healers to the major outbreaks, but many areas were not so fortunate. The Plague infected the Alliance and the Horde alike, and those who could not get to a healer in time became shambling undead zombies, carrying and spreading the contagion to the living. In Goldshire and Westfall, in Brill and in Razor Hill, the zombies roamed freely, marauding across the lands of Azeroth.
Brill became an aid station, and it was into this chaos that Griffonclaw rode from Chillwind point. He had rolled up his sleeves and gotten to work, taking his orders from Zamboozle, known to both the Horde and the Alliance as The Medic. Griffonclaw had served the Horde that day, traveling to Orgrimmar, destroying pockets of the Plague Zombies and healing those infected; whether Horde or Alliance, he could not let Arthas destroy any who might stand against him.
He had met with his contact in Northtide Hallow, at the farm he had inherited after his mother's death, and returned to Stormwind.
The Plague was evolving; the time it took for an infection to kill, and then raise the victim up again accelerated as Arthas' Necropoli began to appear over the lands. The Argent Dawn sent notices of recall to those who had served them in the past, and Griffonclaw wore their tabard once more.
The Scourge secured landing points, establishing Necrotic Shards as foci for those in the necropoli to transport their minions to the surface. As hastily-assembled forces of mixed Alliance and Horde conscripts assaulted each landing point, the Plague itself became more and more virulent, as Alliance healers and Horde necromancers both sought cures.
One by one, the Argent Dawn and their agents destroyed necrotic shard after necrotic shard, only to find that another had been established elsewhere. Flameshockers and Pallid Horrors wreaked havoc in Stormwind and the Undercity. Other agents of Arthas appeared in the dark places of Azeroth, inciting and strengthening Arthas' reach; Tenris Mirkblood, one of the Darkfallen, took up residence in Karazan, the liche Balzaphon took up residence in Stratholme, and others.
The heroes of the Argent Dawn were bloodied and battered, but the Horde and Alliance auxillaries were relentless and implacable, and slowly... painfully slowly, the tide began to turn. New landing spots in Eastern Plaguelands and the Burning Steppes, in the Blasted Lands or Tanaris, in Azshara or Winterspring, all were destroyed almost as fast as the Scourge could appear. A cure for the Plague was found, and widely distributed.
While the Argent Dawn fought its difficult and dangerous holding action against the Scourge, preparations in Stormwind continued; the work that Tirion had set Griffonclaw months ago, to prepare for a crusade to Northrend, was now no longer covert. The stacks of provisions, weapons, and other supplies that the Universal Exports company had stockpiled in warehouses were released, openly stacked on the docks of the Stormwind Harbor. Merchant ships thought lost had been re-fitted with dwarven technology as ice-breaking steamships, ready to transport the brave across the waters to the shores of Northrend - to take the fight to Arthas, to make him divert his forces to his home ground.
Griffonclaw leaned against the dockyard scaffolding, exhausted. There was more to do until the ships launched, and no rest for the weary; and yet, he smiled through his fatigue. The man who had broken the Order of the Silver Hand, the man who had declared Uther Lightbringer and his army traitors, the man who had killed his own father to usurp the throne of Lordaeron, awaited his final judgement in Northrend.
The paladin smiled, and in a barely audible voice, whispered.
Griffonclaw laid the valise open, and began to pack his desk.
A bottle of ink and a scribe kit; sand, parchment, a half-dozen or so quills, and a small knife with which to sharpen them. A small black leatherbound book, filled with notes that had struck his fancy during sessions with his students. A small stack of correspondence between himself and the Headmistress, mostly concerning student's progress.
So little to show for the time he had spent here, as an instructor at Stormwind College.
Griffonclaw, in his resignation letter to the Headmistress of the college, Perspicacity Spacklenox, had been the first to admit that his other duties had rendered his academic career undistinguished.
"As we had discussed at the beginning of my tenure, my various other obligations - to the Iron Throne, to the Argent Dawn, to Highlord Tirion Fordring, have prevented me from taking a more active role within the College. While I am honored to have held the Chair of Philosophy, as we near the crusade to Northrend, I fear that even that meagre, pathetic effort will fade. There is much to do, and not much time in which to accomplish it"
There were pangs of regrets; that he had not gotten to know the students as well as he might have, that Maxyne in particular felt as if he had deserted her on numerous occasions, but the work would not wait; Griffonclaw had hoped it might, but it had been made very clear to him that the Darkness was gathering faster than he'd hoped. The scouting missions to Northrend had been destroyed, and Arthas was on the move.
The question now was whether or not Tirion's actions and preparations had begun too late.
He heard his office door open; the Headmistress had found his note. He could not decipher the expression on her face; she was one of the few gnomes he had met whose emotional control was highly disciplined.
"Headmistress..." he greeted, nodding and continuing to pack.
"Griff. I got your note. You know you always have a place here; whether the battle's finally won or you're just tired of fighting it. I suppose I knew you weren't really ready for a desk job even when you took the post."
Griffonclaw kept packing, and the tiny headmistress sighed and spoke, leaning against the door. "That's not why I'm here, though."
"No?"
"No." She walked a bit further in, stopped, and removed her hat. Standing straight, holding her hat lightly yet protectively in front of her, she leveled her eyes at the paladin's back and asked "Professor FitSilver, have you started drinking again?"
"Yes ma'am, I have... not only because its Brewfest, but also because... Persi, there is only one person whose continued existence makes me more... angry, more frustrated, than Arthas', and he has returned from the Twisting Nether again."
Griffonclaw stopped and faced the warlock. "It passes my comprehension that Keruptis SaDiablo has returned, and yet - as he claims - has no further purpose, and wants to live out a life without some nefarious machination at its base. In some ways, he is much worse than Arthas; Arthas is many things, but subtle is not one of them."
"I'm tired, Pers... MacLhir, my nephew, was maimed by the Black Irons to get to me. I used to have a ward named Catrionae - she was sacrificed by Keruptis on the Altar of Storms to get to me. Arthas may reduce Stormwind to a cinder..." the paladin continued, chuckling bitterly, "but at least the Lich King doesn't strike at me indirectly, through my family."
"And so... I will not have those of the College endangered - not Max, not my other students, not the faculty."
Persi looked puzzled, then furrowed her brow deeply.
"There are always those who'll lash out at someone through those they care about. It's an extremely potent technique, the power from the rage generated in that way defies description. One triggers the the most primal emotional centers in the subject, resulting in enormous, tappable energy spikes beyond what the subject could normally produce. Furthermore, once the subject has produced those spikes of emotion, they come more and more easily unless the subject develops..." Here her lips hardened slighty - "absolute, iron-clad emotional control over him or herself.
In fact, the subject often finds him or herself seeking out those emotional spikes, even offering them freely to the initial instigator. This pattern will not even stop on the instigator's death, but will often continue until both parties have been annihilated.
If you have found this person, this instigator, proactively seeking him out before he strikes at those you love will likely give him more power. You are offering him your emotions instead of forcing him to take them."
She sighs again.
"You know all this, I think. Maybe not the mechanics. Take this, it connects to the one in my earring. If you need someone objective, someone he can't touch, call. Good luck, Professor Fitsilver."
Perspicacity Spacklenox walked to the Paladin and patted his hand. As she turned to leave, he noticed she had slipped a delicately-fashioned transmitter earring into his hand, the craftsgnomeship unquestionably her own.
"My thanks, Headmistress" he said as she began to walk away.
"My feeling is in that the days to come, I will need all the help I can get..."
Griffonclaw woke from sleep, his wrist aching as if decapitated.
Some time ago, Griffonclaw had been invited to the Crypt, the sanctum of Lord Keruptis SaDiablo, sometimes called the Thrice Damned. During the visit, Griffonclaw had been offered to black manifestation of the Elder Dark; to escape, Griffonclaw had slit his left wrist and sent nine drops of his lifeblood as a token offering. He had healed the minort wound and escaped, but it had left him with a sensitivity to certain things.
The paladin only knew one thing was certain.
Keruptis had returned once more to Azeroth.
* * *
Griffonclaw found him in a dark, desert alleyway in Gadgetzan.
When he had felt the change, he had reported to the Cathedral, to the Archbishop. Shortly thereafter, as he sat on the stairs, he was joined by his friend, April Owens.
"So... what are you going to do now, Griff?" she'd asked.
"Well, I just spoke to the Archbishop. He is of the belief that I am mistaken; that the strain of torture under Blackrock Mountain, followed by the conviction of embezzlement and fraud in Undercity, followed by the stream of assassination squads from the Syndicate, have driven me to a place where I am imagining the whole thing. He recommends I take a leave of absence and spend a week or two fishing somewhere..."
"I see... I'm sorry, Griff," April sympathized.
Griffonclaw nodded, deep in thought.
He had followed the command of the Archbishop to the letter, taking a leave of absence so he might take a vacation. Someplace he had not been in some time, with a relaxing beach and gentle waves; Steamwheedle Port, in Tanaris.
If he also took some time to visit the SaDiablo farmhouse while in the area, who could blame him?
As luck would have it, the ache in his wrist took him to the goblin trading city; like a blazing arrow, it led him closer and closer to his quarry. When he dismounted from the griffon upon which he had traveled, he was surprised to find the warlock Noctarre Bane waiting for him; clearly, he was not alone in his contention that Keruptis had indeed returned.
"Warlock" he greeted her, his voice the essence of icy courtesy. His history with the warlock had been a long and contradictory one; sometimes bitter opponents, sometimes torrid lovers, they circled each other like two alpha wolves. Noctarre had once stood high in the councils of the Scions of Darkness, along with Annaliese and Ravenlore; he was surprised that the other two were not also on hand.
"Paladin" she returned, managing to sound both amused and disdainful at the same time. He passed her, entering the city; she followed.
Following the pulse in his wrist, it was not long before Griffonclaw had sighted his quarry leaving the inn, heading down the alleyway, behind the bank. Griffonclaw had followed, suspecting a trap; surely, if he could feel Keruptis, then Keruptis likewise would know of his nemesis' proximity; and if a trap, . When they were in the narrow between bank and city wall, Griffonclaw spoke.
"Good evening, milord"
The figure turned, slowly and carefully. "Good evening. With whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The figure was much as Griffonclaw remembered, and more, the voice was precisely the same; low, seductive, the kind one imagined could sell beer to Ironforgers.
Griffonclaw bowed. "You are looking well for a dead man, Lord Keruptis SaDaiblo the Thrice-Damned."
"I beg your pardon.... who do you think I am?" The voice held more than a tinge of amusement.
"I know who you are, milord, your protestations to the contrary notwithstanding," answered the paladin. He had dressed carefully for his search, and wore ordinary black leather boots, dark trousers, and a blue pirate-style shirt. No armor. No weapons. "May I offer you some wine?"
"I am just a peaceful traveler... whoever you are..." maintained the warlock.
"I have made some inquiries, milord; all outstanding warrants and charges against you were dropped after your first death, and your identity thereafter was never proven. Mikaylus and Donovan had asked me to identify the body upon the Cathedral altar... and I told them it was not you; a homunculus perhaps, but not you. In any case, there are no outstanding crimes charged against you - all were considered discharged with your death."
The figure said nothing, digesting this news. Griffonclaw continued, "But I have not forgotten Catrionae, Keruptis."
"Who?" the figure asked ingeniously, his eyes glowing under his hood with demonic power.
"I shall see that you remember her in detail, erelong," concluded the paladin. "Until then... fare well." Griffonclaw left the alley, leaving Noctarre and his old nemesis alone.
"I look forward to our renewed acquaintance... Griffonclaw FitzSilver" the figure laughed at his retreating back, his laughter tinged with the familiar edge of malice.... and madness.
Griffonclaw left the alleyway, brooding all the way to the griffon pens. He had not been deluded; Keruptis had returned. Although he had denied being himself at first - had he really expected that to fool Griffonclaw, or was he merely baldly denying Griffonclaw to his face to needle the paladin? - he had let the guise drop, and spoken with Griffonclaw as they had used to. Griffonclaw had himself, in a way, returned from the dead, drifting for weeks like a corpse in the twilight of the Twisting Nether; why should he doubt that the self-proclaimed Master of the Great Darkness could reappear at will?
He was up to something; he always was. Griffonclaw was well aware that he had left Keruptis in the alley with one of his most powerful adherents, although Noctarre was nobody's catspaw these days. If Keruptis thought that she would be an obedient minion, as she might once have been, he did not remember the woman as Griffonclaw did; she was darkling power itself, these days, and her willful stubbornness had only become more steadfast over time.
Griffonclaw smiled. While they would both bear watching, the paladin did not know who might prove the larger threat in the fullness of time, the teacher or the student, now post-graduate. A thought struck him, and he chuckled, despite the grim tidings; it might well prove that Noctarre was a greater threat to whatever Keruptis planned than himself.
Griffonclaw picked up the monograph. Written by his maternal uncle, Elias Trias, whose shop in Stormwind was well-stocked with all manner of cheeses; surely the man was something of an expert, if not one heck of an importer.
It began:
"The making of cheese is a multi-step alchemical process, and takes weeks, months, or even years to produce the desired product. There are several common steps to the crafting of cheese; culturing, coagulation, draining, scalding, and ripening.
The beginning of the cheesemaking process is to culture the cheese. The cheesemaker brings milk in the cheese vat to a temperature required to promote the growth of the culture, which may be the native culture of the cheese, or an additive of starter stock from various herb extracts, such as Peacebloom. When the fermentation of the culture is at an appropriate level, the cheesemaker adds rennet, which is produced my extraction from the fourth stomach of baby cows, lambs, or goats (the age of the calf will determine the strength of the rennet, which in turn will widely affect the flavor of the cheese). This is the coagulation of the cheese, and the fermenting milk will form into cheese curds. These curds are drained through cheesecloth, and the dehydrated curds are then scalded. Scalding involves cutting the curds into small cubes (the process called "cheddaring", where the curds are cut, turned, and stacked) and then heated to about 100 degrees. The scalding the cheese produces whey, which is drained from the curds, which are then milled into ribbon shapes and mixed with salt. The salted 'green cheese' curd is put into cheese moulds lined with cheese cloths and pressed overnight to allow the curds to meld. The pressed blocks of cheese are then removed from the cheese moulds and are waxed. The cheeses are then stored for maturation, which may take varying times in accord with the type of cheese.
Common types of cheese made throughout Azeroth include:
Darnassian Blue - Darnassian Blue cheese is made from a mixture of sheep and nightsaber's milk. The final product is spotted or veined throughout with blue or blue-green mold, and aged in the caves east of Auberdine. The characteristic flavor of Darnassian Blue tends to be sharp and a bit salty. The smell of this food is widely considered to be pungent, even compared to other cheeses. It can eaten by itself or can be crumbled or melted over foods.
Dalaran Sharp - Dalaran Sharp is produced primarily in the areas around Ambermill area, although some does come through Southport from Pyrewood by merchants whose sense of timing is precise. This cheese is colored a deep orange by annatto, an extract made from the silverleaf plant, and often packaged in black wax.
Dwarven Mild - Dwarven Mild is produced from goat's milk, and like all chesese made from goat's milk, has a slightly tart flavor. It is usually packagewd in red-wax encased wheels of great size.
Stormwind Brie - Stormwind Brie is a soft, cows' milk cheese. It is pale in colour with a slight greyish tinge under crusty white mould; very soft and savoury with a hint of ammonia. The white mouldy rind is moderately tasteful and edible, and is not intended to be separated from the cheese during consumption.
Fine Aged Cheddar - This cheese is made from cow's milk, and matured longer than most, giving it a delicate, subtle taste.
Alterac Swiss - This cheese has a distinctive appearance, as the blocks of the cheese are riddled with holes known as "eyes". Alterac Swiss is known for its nutty, bittersweet taste. Since the destruction of Alterac, most of this type of cheese is produced in the Southport region in Hillsbrad.
Garadar Sharp and Mag'har Mild Cheese - These two cheeses were first produced by the Mag'har orc tribes in northern Nagrand, and much of its production comes via the black market activities around Halaa.
Spiced Onion Cheese - This cheese is produced almost exclusively for Brewfest by Ironforge clans, and is flavored with herbs, spices, and onions. Many dwarven clans have their own jealously-guarded recipe for this seasonal delicacy."
Dalmilandril sat in the common room of the Bruuk'a Corner tavern, off the plaza near the Hall of Arms, the muster-point and training hall for the Ironforge armed forces and militia. The ale was excellent and the bread and cheese were both hard as rocks, unsurprising given the venue.
He waited.
Dalmilandril had never been overly fond of dwarves. Any people whose idea of foreplay was "brace yourself, Bjorri, here I come!", whose definition of haute cuisine was a meal in which a physician was not required, whose social news consisted of articles beginning with "Among the injured were...", were not the kind of people he wanted to spend an over-abundance of time with. For Dalmilandril, Ironforge was a place to pass through, on his way to somewhere else.
Meeting here had not been his choice, but rather the choice of the person with whom he had requested a meeting. And he was late.
Dalmilandril's superior at the Cathedral, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, had approached Dalmilandril with taking up his role within the Scarlet Crusade again; under the leadership of Mikalylus, Dalmilandril had established himself within the Scarlet Crusade as a loyal officer, working for Inquisitor Vishas.
Lord Shadowbreaker had been approached by a paladin of Ironforge, who worked directly for King Magni Bronzebeard as a "privy agent", handling affairs for the Iron Throne that required delicacy and, occasionally, deniability. This fellow had submitted a proposal for an operation that required an inside source to be successful, and so Lord Shadowbreaker had requested that Dalmilandril take a leave of absence from the Crimson Horizon, and reprise his role within the Scarlet Crusade.
Mistress Aislin had granted leave, but before Dalmilandril left for Lordaeron, he had sent a letter; Dalmilandril believed in the work in which the Crimson Horizon was currently engaged, recovering and preserving knowledge against further disaster. Before he left and resumed his career as double-agent, he wanted to make one last, large contribution, one that might keep the scribes busy for the months - perhaps years - that he would be away.
He had sent a letter to his cousin, requesting a meeting.
When his cousin entered, ducking by reflex past the dwarrow-sized doorway, Dalmilandril rose. While his cousin made his way to the table, dodging the off-duty soldiers and veterans which filled the tables and walkways, Dalmilandril paused, wondering how to greet his long-estranged relative.
His cousin was bastard-born, and the legitimate children of the Silverlaine line had sought to curry favor with their Aunt by making the life of the living reminder of her husband's long-term infidelity a living hell. Dalmilandril had been older, but not old enough to have not participated. The persecution had culminated in the cousin striking back, scarring the eldest of Dalmilandril's brothers with his claw-like fingers, and earning him the use-name that was now so prevalent that nobody really called him anything else. The child had, at the age of nine, been summarily packed off to the Cathedral in Stormwind, given to the Order of the Silver Hand's service.
"Sir Griffonclaw," Dalmilandril greeted, stiffly, giving his cousin a covert appraisal. The Silverlaines had washed their hands of Griffonclaw FitzSilver ages ago; to their chagrin, he had prospered without their patronage. There was not a spot of land on Azeroth that his cousin had not trod in his duties for the Order, and his scholarly bent had inclined him to collect tomes and librams from obscure places.
"Cousin Dal," Griffonclaw returned. Clad in civilian garb, his steel grey hair was still cropped short, for better fit under a helm. He wore no weapons openly, but his reputation for unconventional - one might even say, dishonorable and disgraceful - tactical procedures belied the assumption that he could not defend himself in an instant.
Dalmilandril gestured to the chairs, and the cousins sat, facing each other. Griffonclaw sat silently, and both parties allowed the silence to continue for an uncomfortably long period. A serving wench refilled Dalmilandril's ale, and brought a fresh mug, apparently filled with moonberry juice, for Griffonclaw. "How curious" Dalmilandril thought, "that they already knew my cousin's preference". That Griffonclaw had stopped drinking ale and stronger spirits had been the subject of speculation within the family gossip vines.
"Lord Grayson has given me an assignment, and I may be away for some time..." Dalmilandril began.
"I know. In Lordaeron," Griffonclaw supplied, and Dalmilandril paused. Dalmilandril's assignment was supposed to be confidential; if it was generally known, it could easily become a death sentence for him.
"You know?"
"Cousin Dal... I have followed your career, such as it is, within the Cathedral since shortly after my return," Griffonclaw informed. When Griffonclaw had been missing, presumed dead, Dalmilandril had been taken from his position as commander of the Silverlaine guard and sent to the Cathedral, to replace Griffonclaw's loss; that Griffonclaw had apparently returned from death had not released Dalmilandril from his vows. Griffonclaw continued in a low voice. "You are going to be working for an emissary of the Iron Crown, one of Magni's privy agents... Dal, I am Magni's privy agent, and have been since I was recruited by the Hammer of Magni, years ago."
"...." said Dalmilandril, as several things fell into place. Griffonclaw being released from his Cathedral vows. The irregularity of Griffonclaw becoming a paladin of Ironforge's Mystic Hall. The ultimate deniability of a privy agent; he wasn't even dwarvish.
"Well, in any case... I have a favor to ask."
Griffonclaw nodded, waiting for Dalmilandril to continue.
"While I am gone, I would like for you to loan the Crimson Horizon your library" Dalmilandril asked.
"I'll do better than that... I'll donate my library to them, and they can copy it at their leisure," the paladin replied, smiling. "There is a storm coming, Dal, and when the Order of the Silver Hand moves, I will move with them; it will put my mind at rest that my books will find a good, safe, home."
Dalmilandril nodded, relieved. He had not expected it to be this easy, and it left him suspicious.
Griffonclaw chuckled at the look on Dalmilandril's face. "Look... Dal," he began, leaning foward. "Family issues are long past, and even if I held a grudge, its unimportant compared to the work we're doing. We can't fight a holding action any longer; the Argent Dawn is straining to hold the Plaguelands in check, and every day new disturbing reports come out of Lordaeron, about what the thrice damned Apothecarium is up to, with their own versions of new plagues. The Burning Legion has not forgotten us; the Sin'dorei prince tries to open the Sunwell to them even as we speak."
"We will face a war on three fronts if we do not move swiftly, Dal - the Horde, the Burning Legion, and the Lich King. They bleed us daily in the Plaguelands, and the Horde itself has traitors within; the Forsaken want all who breath safely dead, including their putative Horde 'allies'. if we don't go on the offensive soon... we will be overwhelmed. They breed horrors faster than we can breed fighting soldiers and battle mages."
"What you ask is no favor; what you ask is common sense, given that I'll likely die on the hills around Stratholme, or on some icy beach in Northrend." Griffonclaw rose, and turned to leave.
"Griffo... Dane. Cousin Dane," Dalmilandril blurted. He was awash with a sense of regret, of time wasted with the petty politics of his family; while they schemed and plotted, their bastard outcast was fighting for the survival of the whole of the Alliance. For the first time as an adult, Dalmilandril felt ashamed of the way they'd treated his cousin, the causal dismissals, the cruelties. He extended his open hand to his cousin, possibly for the first time in his life, and smiled as Griffonclaw stepped back to take it.
"Farewell, cousin Dane Silverlaine. May the Light protect you," Dalmilandril bade.
"May it shield both of us, Brother of the Silver Hand" Griffonclaw smiled, surprised but pleased. "In the dark places both of us must now tread."
Aurenox sneered at the figures surrounding him. "You are hardly fit to live, let alone stand in judgment of me!" he sneered at them. "Where is your precious Dark now? Your guild mistress dead, the Burning Legion defeated in the Sunwell Plateau?"
He laughed all the way to the altar, where he was securely chained. He seemed remarkably unconcerned that his was to be a painful, lingering death; that they intended to sacrifice him to their Darkness slowly, using their knowledge of haruspicy to divine omens in his living entrails.
"Did not the fate of The Great Lord," he ranted, "teach you nothing?"
"Death is only the beginning!"
======================
When the attack came, Dalmilandril was leading a patrol to Tyr's Hand, to reinforce the the Scarlet Hold in New Avalon. Weeks ago, he had been recalled to his position within the Crusade, his reports of the activities of the Crimson Horizon having dribbled to nothing - there was nothing to report, after all, except that the witch Aislin seemed sincerely dedicated to building a bastion of knowledge. It had been a relief, knowing that he had not had to lie in his reports - and he would have, had there been any deeper game to report.
Spying for Keruptis among the paladins of the Golden Hand. Spying for the self-styled Ashbringer, Mikaylus, from within the Scarlet Crusade. Spying for both the Grand Inquisitor and Leahalani on the change in the Crimson Horizon.
The onslaught of the Death Knights and their Scourge minions had caught them by surprise, and they were swiftly overwhelmed. Dalmilandril's last thoughts before he faded into blackness was his cousin Griffonclaw's voice, singing.
We spill out lots of our blood and hopes and tears Resisting their shadow bolts, hellfire and fears They think they can roll us up without a fight Oh no no no I'm a Paladin Paladins, holding back the Scourge in Lordaeron
"Light damn him... why did he have to be right?" he thought, before consciousness left him.
======================
MacLhir sang at night for the money, and then slept perhaps two hours in the wee hours of the morning.
Grave-robbing had been a new low for MacLhir, but when he had heard the news of her passing, he could not just leave it... like that. She had been special, the first of her kind, and with the exception of her Mother, nobody knew her as well as MacLhir.
She could be repaired, if he could just learn enough. If he could just make the right connections. If he could... prove himself worthy, he could see her again, hear that voice.
Already, he thought if he listened carefully, he could almost hear her, telling him what to fix. And Tilly's voice, too...
======================
Griffonclaw stood at Tirion's side at Light's Hope Chapel, exhausted and weary, although more in spirit than in body.
His daughter was dead. She had fallen like a true Paladin on the hills of Lordareon, and Griffonclaw had bled in North Tides Hollow to bury her remains next to his mother and sister's graves; he had tried to speak to Tilly, but she had ranted at him, placed the death of their daughter firmly on his shoulders. "She had to be like YOU! Well damn you, paladin, damn you and yours to the Twisting Nether!" had been her last words before she had vanished into the Ironforge mountains and her lab.
Griffonclaw had himself placed the stone, translated into Gnomish.
Demolitia my Daughter Done to death by Duty Uther smiles down on You A Parent should never outlive the Child
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.
The Scarlet Crusade had been their first target, 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, focusing on warding his Lord from the onslaught, until he heard his name called out.
"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!"
Some say that it was the last push on a mind that had been pushed beyond care or judgment. Some that it was a great act of courage, and re-affirmation of the Light and its principles. Others that Griffonclaw sought death at that moment, having seen too much of it for far too long.
He charged the Death Knight once know to him as Sir Khalven Brightspur, who had chosen to follow his Prince in the slaughter of Stratholme.
Had this been a story of bards, the fight between Sir Khalven and his squire would have been between the two of them, and Light would have stood against the Unholy power of the Scourge; this was fought in less than a minute, with Griffonclaw overwhelmed in seconds by Scourge minion and Death Knight power.
Griffonclaw would not see the hardened features of Tirion as one of the first sworn to the new Order was struck down, nor know that one lone tear that Tirion shed that day in silence was for him. He would not see Tirion confront the army's leader, Darion Mograine. He would not stand with Tirion as Arthas himself took the field, incapacitating Tirion with his foul sorcery. 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, now allied with the Death Knights that had betrayed their Lord, the Knights of the Ebon Blade, broken from Arthas' control, pledged to seek his destruction lest Arthas repay them in kind.
The third death of Dane "Griffonclaw" Silverlaine would be his final one.
Griffonclaw wore no armor, nor his usual panoply of weapons, when he visited Booty Bay; there was still a large price on his head, offered by the Venture Mining Company, no questions asked. Dark leather boots, grey cotton trousers, and a plain blue tunic replaced his armor, and just a plain serviceable steel shortsword hung at his side. A plain brown hooded cloak mantled his shoulders and hid his face from common scrutiny - he appeared at best to be a middlingly-prosperous merchant, which was his intent.
He stopped at one of the lower levels of the city, built over the waters of the bay; many of the buildings in Booty Bay had been built in conjunction with the wharves and docks, becoming integral to the structural integrity of the goblin trading town. The lower levels were the least prestigious; it was from these lower docks that the fishing smacks left each morning, heading up and own the coastal waters, bringing their catches. Many of the buildings had guarderobe outlets, the raw sewage mixing with the salty waters near the piers; the stench alone would have made the lower levels less desirable, but the depressed rents had made these levels attractive to certain types of businesses, whose processes produced undesirable fumes - undesirable only in comparison to fresh air, in any case.
He knocked thrice, kneeling next to the low door. A sliding panel in the door opened, and bloodshot red eyes observed the paladin from within briefly, before closing again. Sounds of the locks and latches being undone were heard, and finally, the door opened, the goblin behind the door beckoning Griffonclaw in.
"Master Springvale!" the goblin cried, "Thrice welcome, oh generous and worthy partner! What brings you out of Thelsamar?" Griffonclaw had assumed an alter-ego for several long-term investments, using his mother's surname and his birth-name; technically correct, if long out of use.
"Master Gvilken, it is always good to see you! Things go well, then?" Griffonclaw inquired.
The goblin chuckled. "Business is as good as it ever was, I suppose; your contacts with the Stormwind Academy and the Cathedral of Light have been good for us. Our problem is one of supply, not demand; we can't produce enough fine paper fast enough for their scribes. I hope that is one reason why you have come...?"
"Indeed it is... I have brought you a draft so that we may expand our production. I have additional customers waiting in the wings, both for the paper, and for the bound books of which we spoke." Griffonclaw took a sealed envelope from his pocket, and handed it to the Gvilken. "This should let us lease the next-door building, and buy more raw materials."
A light almost as bright as the sun lit the goblin's face at the prospect. "By the Holy Profit, I had my doubts about you as a partner, but you have proven to be an Asset Unlooked-For!" Nothing was worse to a goblin than an opportunity that went unexploited, especially as the only impediment was the lack of capital.
Griffonclaw and Gvilken had met through what Gvilken had assumed was an accident of fate; one day, a week before his creditors were to close in and take his business from him, Griffonclaw, in his guise as Master Springvale, had made an offer to become Gvilken's minority partner, providing funds to buy up the debts from his creditors and to find Gvilken more customers. Gvilken had been suspicious, but had really had no choice; his family had been paper-makers and book-binders since the first discovery that you could press reeds together to make papyrus. Paper was the glue that held goblin society together; their way of life required contracts and record-keeping, account books and ledgers, envelopes and stationary. Commerce consumed paper like goblins consumed beer. Gvilken had been the latest of his generation, and was a master of his craft; but like most Master Craftsmen, he was at the mercy of accountants and legal advocates - it didn't take much diddling of the books or finagling of contracts before an independant business would find its debts rising, and have to seek the protection of one of the cartels or conglomerate companies, who would gladly save the business - for a controlling interest. Griffonclaw's agents had discovered such an assault by the Venture Company, and Griffonclaw had decided to intercede - anonymously, as a "silent" partner.
Gvilken gave Griffonclaw the usual tour, as he always did when Griffonclaw visited, explaining the processes to him as they passed from room to room. Griffonclaw privately thought that the ritual was to show Griffonclaw that his continual re-investment of his share of the profit was sound, and that the supplemental funds he was investing well-spent.
"We make our paper from linen; we put them in a slight acid bath, and leave them to rot for five days" Gvilken began, walking Griffonclaw past the six large vats that lived on the bottom level; one was empty, and would be filled with the linen cloth, rags, and other fibres, depending on what the desired texture. Gvilken produced several different grades of paper, from the fine, soft, paper sold for use in privies to the hard-surfaced paper used for contracts.
"This beast is our stamping mill!" the craftsman explained proudly as they mounted the stairs to the next level. "We put the rotting rags into the mill, which crushes it into pulp... then we send it to the heating vat." The vat room was horrendously hot, and the two goblin workers wore nothing but lionclothes. "My son, Mishvik, is the vatman! He fills the moulds..." Gvilken indicated one of several wooden frames with a fine rectangular wire sieve, "... and fits the deckle!" Gvilken indicated the removable wooden rim which could be fitted on to the mould, making a tray with a raised edge. "The pulp drains, leaving a layer matted fibers on the mould. Then Mishvik gives it to Glorkam, who is the coucher!" Gvilken's daughter was clad in little more than a lioncloth, with her breasts modestly covered. "She rolls the paper onto a piece of wool felt, and stacks it, along with many others - we call the pile of wet paper between the layers a 'post' - into the screw press, over there." The goblin pointed to a huge contraption with gearing, and a large wheel. "When its ready, we all pull on the wheel until its as tight as we can make it."
He kept Griffonclaw moving, up another staircase. "When the post is dry, we separate the post, stacking the paper into another press, and do it again, and again. Then we take it to the drying loft, where drying the paper in groups keeps it from wrinkling."
"When its dry" he continued, bringing Griffonclaw into the final workshop, "we size it, dipping it into resins - which resins depend on what the intended use is, of course - to prevent the paper from absorbing too much! Then we burnish it, polishing the surface smooth with a fine stone; this closes the pores of the paper so that the ink won't bleed."
Gvilkin pointed to the final device, a blade press. "Then we stack it in there, and cut it down to a uniform size before we bundle it together for shipping! With the money you're providing, we'll be able to increase our production by double, and have enough room to put in a small bindery!"
Griffonclaw smiled - binding the paper into a leather book was almost as time-consuming as making the paper itself. The large sheets were gathered in pairs of leaves called biofolia; these were stacked four biofolia deep, called a quire, and these were sown together to a binding. Covers for the binding were often of wood covered with leather, with the binding sewed to the leather backing. It was a labor-intensive process that the Academy and Cathedral would welcome not having to do anymore, and allow them to focus on scholarship rather than craftsmanship.
And of course, the more supply, the easier it would be to spread education and learning - in many ways, Azeroth was shrouded in the darkness of ignorance. The more books in the world, the cheaper they'd become, and the easier it would be to bring the Light of Knowledge to all corners of the world.
