#kialthos

“I hate this place, it sucks shit,” Casimir grumbled in low tones. “Why is moon so big? Where is the fucking sun? Did somebody shove it up their asshole when nobody was looking?” He hunched low over his horse’s saddle, sulking.

“You are so obsessed with assholes, Cas. It’s honestly kind of sick. Do you have something you want to tell us?” Christine feigned distance, picking at her painted nails.

“Funny joke coming from whore who takes it up ass every night.”

“I’m a whore? I heard you visit the brothel every night but no one wants to fuck you ‘cause you smell like old cheese.”

“T’bo’ay’ arr ‘amy-pamby arr’oles tha don’ae stack uh t’a para’on loi’ me.

“I do not smell like old cheese, you goat fuck!”

“Gurt, have you even taken a bath this week?”

While the three squabbled in their saddles, Kialthos brooded. It wasn’t exactly convenient or proper, but going alone to a mob funeral set off all of his alarm bells. The seven P’s -- Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance -- were sacred Company traditions that couldn’t be ignored. Even for a personal errand. Thus, the unlucky Cas, Gurt, and Christine were press ganged; not that they were up to anything useful anyway. They strapped up, grumbling, and stepped off a portal into Lunarfall.

The road to Karabor was a long one. They were not alone, so they received a few strange looks from the exiles that walked the path with them.

Shadowmoon rarely counted as “remote” or “sparse” these days, the roads filling with refugees from other parts of the continent. Shattrath was a burned out husk, Auchindoun was despoiled. The security of Nagrand and Talador was questionable at best. Though the war waned, the major settlements of the Draenei had been sundered, just like they had been before in another age. Only a strong Alliance presence had ensured that history had changed this time.

Instead of starving alone, they can all starve together, Kialthos mused, as he watched the unfortunates trudge along with them. He’d already gone through that hell.The years of solitude in Zangarmarsh. The despair as the oceans boiled away into nothing but vapor. Feeling hungry when the best foraging could find was dust and mold. It was difficult for him to summon up any pity for them, especially when those humbled were few and far between. That well was usually dry. So he liked to tell himself.

Still, their party muted as they began passing through the camps, ragged tent cities that occupied once lush, rolling indigo meadows. They weren’t so callous as to jape at the suffering. Many eyes were upon them, as they were foreigners, rare still, and not aid workers either, of which there were a few, administering to the hungry and the sick.

Kialthos’ gaze settled on a robed human distributing murky broth to her charges. Not even soup. They were down to bones and water.

A plaintive whimper brought his eyes back to the road. A boy, maybe ten, reached up to the saddled warrior. Another beggar; they had come across more than a few who had easily recognized the travellers as healthy individuals, perhaps willing to spare something. Most were turned off by their tough look and the glint of weaponry. This one was bold enough to come very close to him.

“Please, sir,” the boy pleaded, blue eyes bright.

A creeping pang of guilt slithered at the back of Kialthos’ head. He saw Cas shake his head in the corner of his eye, but he reached for his coinpurse anyway. A little pocket change couldn’t hurt.

Then Cas whistled through his teeth, leaned back to make a face at Christine, tongue out. His hand came up to his upper arm, lightly pawed there as if he was nursing an itch. A subtle signal.

Kialthos made a show of struggling to dig for a coin. He saw the boy, too, provide his own illusion of struggling to keep up with the pace of Kialthos’ talbuk. There was something else-- the faint outline of a hidden blade tucked beneath the boy’s tattered sleeve. The guilt evaporated, replaced with well-honed steel. It was more than likely he was somebody’s scout, maybe even Oak’s. They had to be on their guard.

“Fortune favor,” he grunted gruffly as he handed over a single Stormwind gold piece. As soon as he’d received it, the youngster scrambled off, ostensibly to report to a handler.

Cas rode up, smiled affectionately.

“Reminds me of me, when I was young boy.”

“Crime’s for degenerates, mister Bogdan.”

“Oh? That why you cheat your taxes, commit adultery, steal shit, play vigilante and execute people when you feel like it?”

“I only do one of those things.”

“Which one?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

When they arrived at the base of the temple, Kialthos was glad they had mounts. Gurt paled (as much as a Dark Iron could go white) at the numerous sets of steps that awaited them.

“ ‘ink o’im ‘unna be sick…”

Fifteen minutes and a lot of grumbling later, they reached the central intersection. A familiar face spotted them, then shouldered its way through the pack of pilgrims and refugees. He was squat like Oak, bare-chested save for the strap of a scabbard, and his swordsman’s hands were wrapped in pristine white cloth etched with arcane sigils.

“Orthox the Blade. Fancy seeing you here.”

The man wore a perpetual mask of contempt that only twisted further when he looked over his new charge and the company that followed. Orthox was another venerable, a nasty little killer that worked for Oak. He’d been their guide to the region in Diamond Valley, though not without friction. He had a low opinion of outworlders and an even lower opinion of aliens. Not that Kialthos would ask, but it was likely he was a career regulator for the old families, just like Oak.

“Took you long enough.” There was an impatient look to his eye, like every second they breathed was a waste. “He awaits you in the gardens.”

Kialthos twisted in his saddle to address his companions. “I’ve got this one. Get situated and get comfortable. Stop picking your nose, Gurt, you’ll pull out your damn brain.” Get comfortable was code to get ready to pull his ass out of the frying pan if things turned for the worse. They nodded, then dispersed. He wondered how lucky he was to have gotten such faithful friends.

Oak was waiting for them in the Tranquil Court. He was hunched over at a bench near an idyllic and artificial babbling brook, two young children playing nearby. Orthox took Kialthos past the loose cordon of rough-looking types that separated his boss and the guests away from the general rabble, then departed.

“Yours?” Kialthos questioned, gesturing. The old man shook his head.

“I don’t have any children. Long past time for that. They’re my wards. Son and daughter of my former employers. Died during the initial incursions into Talador.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Not that you really are.”

“I’m not a complete bastard. Even gangsters can deserve to live happy lives. And children deserve to see their parents grow old.” Kialthos pulled off his helm, then lit up a cigarette from the case at his belt. He took a seat on the bench. It was a nice day outside, considering Shadowmoon’s cool, almost misty climate. Peaceful. One could almost forget the war raging hundreds of miles north and the clamor rising from the mass of disenfranchised minutes away.

Oak’s nose wrinkled at the scent. “What is that?”

“Tobacco. Herb. It’s good. Want one?” He offered over a cigarette. Oak accepted it, and the flame that followed. There was a momentary twinge of distaste on his face.

“It’s shit,” Oak remarked blatantly. He didn’t spit it out.

“So what’s next for you?”

“I have a duty to fulfill. The children need guidance until they come of age. They have a lot to inherit. Money. Land. People. Wars end eventually. We’ll rebuild.”

“Rebuild what?”

“Something better.”

“You could go legit.”

“We could. I’ve considered it. That would require a vast amount of work. Restructuring.”

“Nothing better than having an honest night’s rest. Believe me.”

“That what you get? Selling sugar water and killing people, as you say?”

“It beats earning money on racketeering. I may be a glorified salesman, but you’re just a glorified landlord. Not to mention-- how much product do you think you put out? How do you think you’ll be at this before it becomes a cycle, and you turn into something that you, right now, won’t like?”

Oak said nothing. He inhaled deeply on the cigarette. The boy was showing the girl a magic trick he’d learned, one involving a silver coin.

“Pretty business you have,” he started, “but I don’t know if I have the same opportunities available to me.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“I’m not your uncle.”

“Doesn’t change a thing.”

“It damn well does. You seem to have some misconceptions about my character.”

Kialthos took a breath. Maybe Oak was right. He was forgetting who this person was, just a facsimile of somebody, and projecting his image onto another who resembled him so closely. Sorting the two was more difficult than he thought.

“Okay. I apologize. I’ll drop the proselytizing, I can see that it’s grating. It’s just difficult to see the divide. You’re very different in a lot of ways, but same in others. You’re the same fucking hard, stiff asshole, but you’re not teaching kids how to wrestle at the gym anymore.”

“It’s not so different, the things I did then and now. I still teach. I still lay out motherfuckers in the ring.” A smile crept into the hard lines of his face. “Maybe you didn’t see it as much, but I was always involved with the old families. More than a couple of your sponsors were criminal-based. Who do you think set that up?”

“I knew that there were a couple. Maybe at first. But all the way?”

“All the way to the top. Why do you think so many goddamn pricks joined the enemy?”

Kialthos scoffed. “I think I’ll try to forget that, chalk it up to temporal inconsistency.”

Oak nudged him. “Mind yourself. It’s time.”

A small crowd of maybe a few dozen had begun to gather nearby, distinct from the rest of the temple-goers; they wore dark, formal clothes for their mourning. Kialthos suddenly felt very under-dressed in his customary combat rig.

Not all of them had the same flinty look that Oak’s men had. Some were definitely in the advanced stages of poverty, but others looked more well-off. Amongst the column were a number of pallbearers bearing coffins, urns, and in some cases, simply candles.

A thought occurred to him. “Who’s this funeral for, exactly?”

“Everyone we’ve lost. Family and friends. If we had individual last rites, it would end up being years long.”

The old draenei went silent. That was Kialthos’ cue to emulate him. He took up position behind Oak as they joined the solemn procession.

He thought he recognized a few faces here and there: a spectacled older man with dark skin and swept back hair, a twitchy, taller fellow with a missing eye, a regal-looking elder with laugh lines and wrinkled eyes. Kialthos wasn’t sure whether they were amalgamations of people he’d known, like whispers in time, or fractured images straight from his own faulty memory. Should he dwell more? Was this the time for it? Muddled feelings gnawed beneath his skull as they walked, silent.

The introspection turned a couple of hours into what felt like minutes. A lower, base level of his consciousness registered all of it, the part of Kialthos that moved his limbs when he was exhausted, that killed quietly when his mind needed to be concerned with those alive. It told him that they had left Karabor, filtering into the woods southwest, off the main roads where urban development disappeared. It tracked the movements it thought to be pertinent to security, Oak’s men slipping into a wide formation around the procession, and the vague silhouettes of Alpha, flitting from tree to tree.

When they arrived,  it seemed to be darker. Their destination was a small grove, prepared ahead of time for their arrival. The land had been raised, smoothed, and circled with low fencing and pulsing wildlife repellant emitters. A pair of towering Vigilants stood by a number of freshly dug graves.

The procession neatly formed up, like soldiers called to fall in. Oak took his place at the head, with Orthox at his side. Kialthos slipped into the back line of mourners. A few were weeping. Most weren’t.

Oak’s sermon was short and sweet. Most if not all of these people had died months earlier; this ceremony was a formality, really. The people they had left behind had already had time to come to terms with the devastation. How charitable, Kialthos thought. Oak was either more sentimental than he presented earlier or he was making a play to solidify his position as the new head of the family.

The old man had prepared carefully. He knew each one of the fallen by name, and how they were connected in the hierarchy, whether they were friends of his low level runners or relatives of his lieutenants. A small image recorder and display device projected chosen moments of likeness into the air when there was archived footage available.

Kialthos remembered more than a few of those faces. History had repeated itself for far too many people. For a moment, his composure wavered.

Were they destined for millenia of pain? How many times would they have to go through this? Years of stomached grief began to well up in his throat.

He swallowed it, tried to push back against the wave of sorrow. Fuck, he was losing it, again. The place was poison. This was a bad idea from the start.

Thankfully, the ceremony ended quickly. The mourners walked forward to place effects on the graves or leave their spirits with final words. Kialthos trudged forward, making his way to Oak.

“Listen, I--” Kialthos started. Then he stopped.

Oak was standing, arms folded, at a headstone. It wasn’t laden with tokens or final pieces of love. Just a pair of names, and a static image constructed out of faint light. Two women-- one older, one younger. A mother-daughter portrait. It read: Parvaneh, daughter of Paanela, then Paanela, loving mother. Find peace in the Light.

There were two coffins behind it. Unburied. A dark-skinned, spectacled man stood over them, wrapped up  in his grief.

“I know these two. I know-- one. The other, the mother. She’s familiar.” Kialthos kept his voice down. He looked up, saw Oak studying him.

“These two were...dear to me. But not part of my family. His,” Oak gestured discretely to the spectacled man, whose attention was otherwise occupied. “I wanted them to be here for this. But they’ll go with him, to his family’s plot.”

Kialthos took a breath. “The daughter. She’s alive, on my world.”

Oak’s face was completely blank for a few seconds. “Alive?”

“Yeah. I see her every now and then.”

His eyes crinkled. “And her mother?”

“I don’t know. Dead, I think.”

“Kialthos. There’s…” he began.

Oak didn’t get to finish. Kialthos heard the scrape of steel on wood and whirled, his revolver already in hand.

Oak’s men were turning on each other, drawing swords, knives, raising crossbows and rifles. Someone screamed, and then all hell broke loose. The mourners panicked, began to scatter. People were shouting to run, men were spouting obscenities and ordering others to disarm. Kialthos wasn’t sure who to aim at, or if he should fire at all.

Orthox calmly approached Oak and Kialthos, shouldering his way through the crush of armed men. He had a manic smile on his face, and his sword in hand. Oak didn’t look surprised. Kialthos made a quick connection, then aligned Orthox along the top of his weapon sight.

“Didn’t think it would be here. Now. I didn’t think anyone would stoop that low,” Oak spat.

Kialthos fired. He brought the weapon low, fanned the hammer, and unloaded all six shots into Orthox. Nothing touched him-- he strode right through the hail of bullets, grinning. The air faintly shimmered over him, revealing the source of his defense; a very subtle arcane shield.

The gunfire kicked off a battle. The fighters, undoubtedly split between those loyal to Orthox, and those loyal to Oak, clashed with fury. Quarrels, gunshots, and clanging steel began to fill the air. Oak spat on the ground, and marched forward to face off against his former protege.

“Fuck! Oak, we’ve got to go!”

The old man didn’t answer. He stepped forward, challenging the spellblade. A feint, then a nasty hook. Surprisingly fast. It caught Orthox in the head, sent him sprawling into the dirt.

“Get everyone out of here!” The man wouldn’t budge an inch, not even if he was facing down a god.

The vigilants began to lumber in, flashing warning lights. Oak sprinted for Orthox. The towering automaton looked like it was leaning in to aid him, but instead it grabbed Oak in two massive hands, squeezing him tight. The old man cried out in pain.

“Keep him alive! Bring me some prisoners! Grab them!” Orthox rose to his hooves, directing his men with a pointed sword. That point fixed on Kialthos. “Kill that one!”

One of the vigilants twisted, and began to slink towards Kialthos. Its hand morphed, replacing fingers with a long, crystalline blade the length of a spear. A purple blur cut through a pair of fighters who were unfortunate enough to get in its way. Kialthos’ heart was hammering. His mind raced for options.

There was no way he could win against that thing, not alone. Anyone that could help was currently being stabbed to death. Oak’s men were in the process of being finished off. The hostages-- if he tried to help the hostages, he’d be quickly cornered. He reached for the grenades on his belt, pulled the pins, and tossed them. As it lumbered towards him, the gravesite started filling with thick, obscuring smoke.

Then he ran.

He was half-blind, but so was the machine. Kialthos started sprinting to his left, then doubled back, heading right. If it caught a glimpse of him before he had complete cover, it would be thrown off. He wasn’t sure of that fact, so he ran extra hard anyway.

As soon as he exited the smoke, he hit the treeline. A quick glance at his watch told him that he was on the northeast side, near where they had come in.

“Friendly! Friendly coming in!” Cas called. He was squatting near a tree, firing his rifle into the chaos the draenei had just left.. Kialthos heard a death rattle behind him as the shot struck home. A fireball sailed over his head and splashed down in a burst of extreme heat Kialthos felt on the nape of his neck.

“We’re on the bounce. Move!”

“What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know,” Kialthos hissed out as they retreated, running through the woods at full speed. He didn’t see anyone else besides Cas, Gurt and Christine, who materialized from their cover.

“Where are we going? Like, back to Karabor? We should tell somebody.”

“We can’t. It’s--”

“What, complicated? Fucking perfect.”

After minutes of running, they splashed through a shallow creek. This far away, the sounds of the fight had disappeared entirely. Or maybe it was just over. Kialthos stopped. He looked to Alpha, then back at the direction they retreated from.

Even with his face obscured, Cas could read the draenei like he was a morning newspaper. The dishevelled man spat out a series of obscenities, and kicked angrily at the water. A few seconds later, a tenuous calm came over his face.

“Alright, goat fuck, but you are buying me -two- whores after,” he vehemently indicated with his fingers.

Christine glanced between them, unsure. “So...like, what are we doing, then?”

A creaking floorboard announced the passage of an individual in the hallway adjacent; likely Thrana coming in from her day’s work in Ashran. Kialthos looked up and tapped his stylus against the edge of his desk.

“You work too damn hard,” he called out to her, a faint smirk on his face.

Thrana Fogwalker was the only member of Alpha whose downtime involved combat. She had served several centuries in the Sentinels until the arrival of the Warsong on Kalimdor, at which point they cut out her tongue. After that, years of silence and contemplation had tempered her nationalism, but not her taste for the fight. She became an independent contractor, entering the international mercenary scene, although she never completely trusted orcs again.

Kialthos was slightly worried when he took her on that she might prove a problem when they dealt with Horde contacts, but she always deferred to him. She never bothered him about his loose associations, and he never bothered her about her own personal activities. That was the way it went in the business.

The person that opened the door and walked in was not Thrana.

He was shorter than Kialthos remembered, definitely leaner, but his face was the same; a familiar crooked nose, a short, compact crest, and eyes like flint. Kialthos could see a prominent, flat jawline on him-- utter novelty without fat to give him his signature double chin.

Oak -- Uncle Dong’thao -- crept in with a light, airy step. He glanced around the room like he it was his first visit to a doctor’s office, posture casual, his arms loose at his sides.

Kialthos had pulled his revolver on the older draenei as soon as he had seen his face. It was loaded, like always, and he applied gentle pressure to the hammer and trigger with his fingers, ready to fire. Oak was unarmored, and in close range. There was no chance that he would survive. All Kialthos had to do was twitch.

Oak’s cold gaze finally swept over him. Kialthos felt naked for a moment, vulnerable: indoors, in the sanctuary of RBM property, he was without his oft-donned helmet, one of his first sets of defenses against the world. It made him uneasy. Something about Oak’s look shook him, but to put his helmet on now would be too telling about how he felt. He scowled lightly-- one of his go-to masks, brow furrowed, teeth clenched.

“You’re not my brother’s son,” the old draenei announced. “But you do have an uncanny resemblance to him.” He spoke in the common tongue of the exiles, but his accent had a distinct homeworlder’s lean to it.

“Good for you. Get out.” Tone even, but high in volume.

They locked eyes, each trying to read the other.

This was one of the last things Kialthos ever wanted to do. Over the course of the Draenor campaign, he had seen almost every exile he associated with fall into the death trap they called nostalgia.

Kialthos had always considered it one of their civilization’s greatest failures, right along with the rigid traditionalism, theocratic emphasis, hero worship, and the obnoxiously bright glowing crystal aesthetic. They saw their old loves ones alive again and their defenses and memories crumbled into ash, completely forgotten. Emotional amnestic. It was just fucking insulting.

“What are you afraid of?” Oak challenged.

“Dying. Not getting it up. Women taller than me. Being poor,” Kialthos rattled off without much thought. He maintained his mask.  Like his helmet, it was familiar, practiced, though not as effective.

“My nephew also liked humor as a deflection tool. It came easy to him, because there was always a hint of truth to support it. Honest lies.”

“What are you here for, old man?”

“Indulging my curiosity.”

“Well, consider it indulged. Leave.”

“Why are you so vehemently opposed to my presence?”

“Get out or I’ll fucking blow you away.” Kialthos fully thumbed the hammer and extended his arm to rest the weapon’s grip on the desk.

Oak eyed the weapon dubiously, assessing the situation behind a cool mask of his own.

“You won’t.”

“Believe me, I will. I’ve done more for less.”

“So have I. You’re rattled. For you I’m a dead man, aren’t I? Otherwise you wouldn’t have such a reaction. Must have been painful. I can see it all over you.”

“Fuck you.”

Oak sat down in the chair opposite him, and stared down at the weapon.

“I won’t be dissuaded. And I know you won’t shoot me; you’re just as intrigued. You won’t be able to fight me, either. I’d win. I don’t know why you bother with the intimidation. You should know me. I certainly know you.”

Silence settled in between them. Oak had him dead-on.

“I’ll hear you out,” Kialthos finally admitted, uncocking the revolver and setting it down on the desk.  He had to know at least a little. Millenia of regret might be unburdened. Or piled on. There was no way to know. But Dong’thao wasn’t the sort of person who indulged in sadism. So it was a good chance Oak wasn’t, either.

“Good.” Oak’s face didn’t soften. There was no indication that the tension had been released, or that he was about to open up. A million creases and microscopic scars lined his face.  It was a far cry from the soft, ever-smiling Dong’thao, a popular community member that was constantly surrounded by a flock of young pupils. Oak was etched from shale. He was large of body, but seemed small of posture; there was a weight to his shoulders that suggested a long sorrow.

“In order for us to proceed, we need to establish point of reference. I’ve heard a lot of things, but there are still many holes. We can assume correctly that the Exile goes on as planned for both of our histories, up until this point-- the arrival of outsiders, yes?” the old man started.

“More or less. The main disparity is that the orcs turn green and ravage the territories much quicker and more people die.”

“When do I die?”

“You don’t make it off the homeworld. Please tell me that I at least make it off-world.”

A snort, a thin smile. The first crack from the boulder. “You do. You died relatively recently. Post-planetfall, shortly after the colonization stabilizes.”

“Better than I thought. Might line up a bit with my own history. What did you do during the long years? Re-open a new gymnasium?”

Oak’s expression darkened. That would be a no, then.

“The years weren’t too kind. Colonization-- well, there wasn’t much room for jed’hin masters.”

“Marines, then, I guess? I did that too.”

“Yes. I trained up each generation. Sent them off. Fought bloody hard for each step of ground we stood on. You drifted-- odd-jobbing. Mostly the self-defense forces. It went on like that for a long time. I saw you occasionally. Holidays. It was a busy time. You seemed to be doing alright.”

“I remember. Not that, obviously-- but the starving years. The long sleep. A lot of hell packed between those decks.”

“Well, we made it through. You and I, we’re of strong stock.” Then there was a pause. “How did I die?”

“You’re sure you want to know?” Kialthos wished he didn’t.

“I do.”

Kialthos almost made a joke, but thought better of it. It was his reflexive counter. This was one of those long-buried memories. Not really a memory-- more of a nightmare. As the first details flooded back to him, Kialthos felt his heart rate increase, anxiety gripping at the periphery of his mind. Was that happening now, or was it just part of a vivid remembrance?

The city was on fire. He had never felt anything so hot. Bodies, everywhere. The sidewalk was paved in corpses. Blood was pouring into the storm drains on the central road like the aftermath of a heavy rain. It was sixty steps to get to the gymnasium’s main entrance. Thirty seconds. If he was spotted on the street, he would be swarmed--

Kialthos’ flesh hand curled into a tight fist. “Caught in the gymnasium. Outnumbered. Fighting. Is that good enough?”

Oak ran a thumb along the edge of his jaw, analyzing Kialthos’ disturbed expression. He was gracious about it. “I am. One more question, then it’s your turn. How did you lose your arm?”

“It’s a longer story. Has to do with where the outworlders come from.”

“I’ve got the time.”

“Fine. Well, to start off--”

Three knocks at the door. A pause, then a fourth. Thrana.

“I’ve got a guest. Come in,” Kialthos called out.

A night elf with deep blue hair carefully opened the door, assessed the situation, then took a languid step in. Her hand was clutched around something hidden, likely a slender blade. Oak noticed, too, but did not react strongly. Once Thrana was sure everything was alright, she slipped it into her belt, grunted, then began signing to Kialthos.

<You alright?>

His grasp of the physical language was not as fluid, but he made do. Oak watched them with a puzzled look. He had never seen anything of its like.

<Fine. Old friend. Did  you need something?>

<Company problem. Need you. Micro.> She lifted her chin, pointed, indicating outside. Kialthos sighed. There was no way he was going to make it home in time for dinner. Someone would have to run ahead and tell Alzea.

He looked to Oak. “We’ll have to continue another time. Where can I find you?”

The older draenei grunted as he lifted himself out of the chair. Bad knees, it seemed.

“Can you meet me in three days? There is going to be a funeral.”

“For who?”

“A lot of people. Can you do it?”

“I can.”

“It will start in Karabor. Look for me there.”

Oak didn’t even glance back as he left the room. Kialthos slumped back into his chair as Thrana watched, confusion clear on her face. It was plain enough that  he was troubled, and he would talk to her when he needed to talk to her. 

Anyway, that’s meant I haven’t been out of the house too much since. Just been resting, trying to recover as best I can, doing a little work ‘round home here and there so I don’t get too bored. Bit of paperwork. Bit of tinkering with this old mechanostrider Pensife gave me to have a look at. Wound up running into him the night before the battle, spent a little while talking. Filled him in on what’s been happening while he’s been off on that submarine trip he mentioned he was taking a little while back. Got onto talking a little about mechanostriders, after that. Mentioned I’d been trying to learn a little about machines, but figured it’d be a fair while ‘til I’d be up to building anything quite as fancy as that. Like I said, he was kind enough that he figured he’d lend me this old one of his. Not quite as fancy as the one he normally rides around on himself, but not the sort of thing he’s likely to miss too much if it winds up getting damaged or anything. Means it’s well-suited to me taking it to pieces to see how everything works, how it all fits together, maybe being able to figure it all out a little better than I’d be able to just reading through books and schematics and that sort of thing. Don’t know it’s likely to be enough that I’d be able to build anything like that myself, at least not until I’ve gotten more of a grip on the basics, but has been pretty interesting so far. Good way of keeping myself busy without moving around too much, doing anything that’s likely to disturb my ribs while they’re still healing up.

He wondered if perhaps his perceptions were changing. It could be old age, or maybe it was intense exposure to arcane radiation from constant portal travel. It was noticeable. It was worrying. And if it was worrying, it was a potential health problem, and was thus worth looking in to, later. He awkwardly shuffled in place as his awareness poured back into his head and limbs.

“Sir?”

The Alliance orderly stood by, waiting for Kialthos to respond in some way. Corporal Thompson was a recent addition, a small gift from his benefactors in Alliance High Command for his-- and his company’s-- cooperation and excellence in the war effort. He was prim, proper, and utterly precise in all aspects. He was experienced at his particular job. Kialthos was fairly certain that Thompson was originally a head servant or some sort of castellan originally, perhaps in service to a lord that was now dead.

“I’m fine, Corporal.” Kialthos said once he had fully awakened from his stupor. “Little disoriented, but it’ll pass. The usual, then? Let’s grab breakfast at the chow hall.”

The orderly nodded, then led the way. They made their way to the officer’s mess near the heart of the base, passing through the crowded streets of the soldier’s town. The cool morning air was beginning to fill with the sound of production; merchants’ hawking, hammers on steel, cadences from marching men.

The change of scenery threw Kialthos off a little. Back home, Stormwind was still waking up. But these people lived on military time; early rising was a staple that the brass stuck to, and usually forced upon the enlisted. Even the numerous camp followers that made up the other half of the infrastructure stuck to it, the better to accommodate their patrons.

It suited him, most definitely. Everyone around was in the business of war, and he had his hand in both business and in war. The people were for the most part, agreeable, meaning they were rough, and anything the company could possibly need was located nearby.

Muriel could browse the scrap yards and garages like the highborn ladies window shopping back in the Trade District, and the beach was close-- and the tropic climate didn’t hurt-- so Waverider could surf to his heart’s content.The soldiering population gave Gurt and Cas an endless number of people to cheat or con, and provided Christine with a suitable pool of attractive men with which to distract herself. Cuthben was low maintenance, so all he would need would be a steady flow of herb. Any vice a soldier could have was attended to. It was a camp follower’s dream hot spot.

The only person on Alpha that could possibly be unhappy would be mute Thrana, who prized her solace even more than Kialthos. The night elf liked her peace, especially when she could meditate in a wooded area; something Stormshield lacked. The nearest forest would be in Tanaan (a major combat zone) or Stormwind (out of the way). She would have to make do with clucking after the other team members like a mother hen.

Breakfast was eggs, bacon, and bread-- all freshly cooked, without preservatives because it would all be eaten quickly. The eggs and pork came from animals slaughtered just behind the building, and the bread was made in a bakery down the road. Delightful smells were wafting out of the kitchen and drifting through the dining area.

There were days that Kialthos felt guilty about the luxury of officers’ dining. He abhorred the lavish indulgence that stood in stark contrast to the standard fare of infantry field rations, just one mark of the disparity between enlisted and officers. On the other hand, it was much more healthy, and he needed to be in top shape to do what he needed to do.

It was also much more delicious, he thought as he chewed and swallowed. Maybe he was getting soft these days. He’d built himself a sizable fortune, not comparable to the one he’d earned on the homeworld, but still respectable for the contemporary economy. There was a great deal of land, property, capital, and coin under his thumb. It could all be going to his head, subconscious greed sapping at his will. Another thing to check up on, along with radiation damage.

As he shoveled tasty aristo-meal into his mouth, Thompson updated him on recent events, noteworthy news, and general orders from High Command. The remains of the decimated 19th PCAD had been disbanded, then attached to understrength units. Two miles of no man’s land in Tanaan had been earned after three platoons from the 20th Foot Guard had perished. Black Eagle Global Security had secured some contracts in Stormshield concerning equipment upgrades for the Seventh Legion. Some ethereal Consortium investors were making a visit to Stormshield, interested in cutting into the monopoly the Steamwheedle had on the xeno-archaeology business.

“...and after lunch there will be a briefing at 1300 hours. Field Marshal Johanien, Rear-Admiral Burke, Field Director Richmond, and Lord Aquinos will be present. Commanders Fauxpoint and Bloodsap will also be in attendance. I believe it is a reserve force assessment. “

Kialthos dabbed at his mouth with his kerchief, disposing of the grease he found there.

“Lot of big names, guess I’ll show up. Could be something interesting there. Got to get my house in order, first. Take the day off, Corporal.”

He considered tipping the man, but thought that it might be taken in offense. The idea of an orderly both bothered and intrigued him; they served an important role in a military organization sense, but a clerk didn’t exactly appeal to Kialthos’ warrior cult mentality. It did appeal to his older, more ingrained notions of what wealthy people were supposed to have, what he used to have: excess to the point of sickness, and retinues to help spend that excess.

Kialthos used to think that he had grown out of decadence. Then he started earning more money selling sugar water than he did killing people.

The draenei instead reached up and tapped his visor, in his own version of a salute. Thompson returned the gesture more crisply, and strode off.

“...three acre of hash, burning like fucking goat on stick. Fucking shame, you know? So sad, whole unit take a break. Hour later, the commissar come out, and find us stoned out of our minds. Took the whip for that, but was worth it.”

Lazy laughter, along with a cloud of pungent smoke, leaked out of the barracks door as Kialthos crept into the common room

A nude woman was draped over the lap of a half-naked man with sunken eyes and dark brown hair quickly growing out of its original, spartan cut. Across from him was a short, broad, coal skinned dwarf, also with a lady friend of similar stature to himself. Scattered on the table in front of them was an assortment of weapon pats, herbal paraphernalia, and bottles of liquor. They looked up when the draenei stepped in, nonplussed at their state of affairs.

“Morning, alien. Look like shit. Want to smoke?” Casimir Bogdan offered his usual greeting, and a joint.

A grunt and a wave of rejection. “Think I’m getting my daily dose of secondhand. Did I miss a party?”

“Life is party when you are part of big monkey cult company,” the man declared as he took a toke. He squeezed the woman’s breast, eliciting a giggle.

“Yeah, well, this big monkey cult company also does actual soldiering and real work to pay for all the mind-bending, drug-addled, daisy chain orgy buttfuckfests that you get up to.” Kialthos almost reached for a cigarette to scratch the itch tugging at the back of his cranium. His fingers drummed near the steel case on his belt-- it wouldn’t do any good to encourage them further.

“Can you put your big boy pants on? I want a team assessment and planning session.” He tapped the watch strapped to his steel forearm to indicate speed. “Not everyone can spend all their time off-mission balls deep in a bottle of liquor. Some of us have to stomach things like military budget meetings and aristo circlejerking. Or having a child to go back home to.”

Casimir reluctantly slid the girl off of his lap. “You are fucking slave driver, you know? Real goat fucker.”

“Pig porker.”

“Prostate tickler.”

“Microprick.”

“One time I hear that you fuck yourself so hard, your cock came out of nose.”

“I must have an enormously long dick, then, unlike yourself.”

“I have big dick! I have enormous dick! Dick so long and big, your fucking mother orbits it because she is so fucking fat!”

“Well, your mother is so fucking fat that your dick orbits around HER!”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

By the time they had finished, Gurt had gotten the girls dressed and hurried out of the headquarters. “Th’ lo’ye’ goh nothi’compar’ame,” he quipped. “Anehwa’, do’ fiddlin’?”

Kialthos pulled off his helmet, clipped it to his belt, and snatched up a cigarette. Nobody cared anyway; Alpha wouldn’t be dissuaded from their bad habits by his example any time soon.

“Yeah. Get them together.”

Muriel and Waverider came in immediately; busy, but punctual. It took fifteen minutes to lure in a hung-over Christine, who angrily stomped down the stairs into the common room. Thrana keyed in twice on her radio; unable to comply, busy in Ashran. Cuthben was discovered to already be present, buried beneath the couch cushions. There was a whimper about “moon thieves” when Kialthos accidently sat down on him. He left the boy to his sleep.

“Fucking hell, dude. It’s like...nine in the morning,” Christine moaned, running her hands through her tangled blonde hair and baggy eyes. “I was up way late last night. I’ve got a killer hangover”

“Just like every night. Don’t you guys ever do anything wholesome? Charlie’s proper evangelical,” Kialthos chastised, clicking his tongue.

That earned a look of utter scorn from Cas and Christine. At least it woke them up.

Muriel snorted. “Don’t be goin’ on no tirades, ye ken? Heard it all already, and ah’ve only only had one cup of coffee.”

“Shit, can I have some of that?”

Kialthos cleared the table of detritus with a single sweep of his arm, then laid down a peach-sized, smooth silver orb onto the table. Despite its perfect roundness, it did not roll in any direction. At a tap on its crown, and the room filled with projected blue light, which formed into an approximation of a tree-strewn landscape; specifically, the Tanaan jungle peninsula.

A sweep of Kialthos’ finger, and it magnified and twisted. A gesture, and new points of light appeared in different colors. Red--hostile. Green--friendly. Orange for territory covered. A great deal of the peninsula was swathed in red, and very little in orange or green.

“Alright, my children, debrief me on the past three day’s exciting adventures.”

Casimir led in; he was team leader. “Covered three klicks here, twenty west from line. Moo-riel dropped us before dawn, marched rest. Turned out to be ammo dump, material storage. Burned fuel, grabbed what was possible. Encountered few squads of infantry, five, six.” He waved his hand over the image, adding on points of orange over the blue.

“Then next day here, tank manufactory. Did not have enough ordnance to destroy all. Left at night. Resistance moderate, didn’t run into active armor. Cakewalk.”

Kialthos looked down to Muriel. “Aerial assessment?”

The dwarf crossed her thick arms. “Flak was about as expected, kept to a low altitude, flew straight. Almost nae rylak cover.Lots of lights helped. Buggers can’t help but advertise themselves, with all their glowin’ green goop. Almost took a bolt up me arse, but it was nothin’ I couldn’t handle.” Her finger traced on the map as well, outlining their approximate flight path to and from the AO. She even added in probable triple-A locations.

Next was Christine. “Magic?” he inquired.

“Totally all over the place. Even out of the pools, we could practically smell the fel like Cas’s cheap cologne.” A scowl, muted snorts of laughter. “Lots of mutated orcs, at least one in every second squad we saw. Shamans have got to be dwindling, getting replaced by warlocks. Got us cleaned as soon as we RTB’d.”

“Grab anything?”

“A few tags, both ours and theirs, couple tokens. Requisition orders. Recorded what I could. Pictures.”

As well as being Alpha’s magic specialist, she was also their squad scribbler; all memorabilia, salvage, loot, anything of note went through Christine. She had a penchant for being meticulous; good habits built during her school days at Dalaran.

Then Gurt. Kialthos took a breath and mentally prepared himself. “Right, any sign of prisoners of war?”

The answer was about as thick and rough as gravel mixed with molasses. “ ‘Tworn’t no’in lak’a seller ara’brew’est.”

“No,” Cas clarified helpfully.

“Any other observations? Any important intel whatsoever?”

There was silence for a few seconds.

“You--we, will not find what we seek, if we continue to search by grid,” Waverider rumbled, chuffling. “They do not hold the continent any longer. Prisoners are a luxury. So is time. They will be rare, kept close, and only few. High-value. Unlikely to be amongst the common stock.”

“And they’re getting liquidated, quick. And getting close to an objective like that would be difficult. And we don’t have time to analyze the entirety of the enemy’s written intelligence. Yeah, I know all of your reservations, and you know mine.” An annoyed swat of his hand sent the light map tumbling, spinning like a planetoid through a solar system.

A thoughtful nod from Waverider. The gnoll was cautiously satisfied.

In the business, you had to learn to compartmentalize. That was common sense for any professional killer; from the basic infantryman to the highest brass. Hurting people, causing death-- these weren’t easy things to do for people that could both be honest with themselves, not be sociopaths, and carry violence as a way of life free from “higher ideals”. Even immortals struggled with cognitive dissonance. Kialthos certainly felt it often enough. To avoid biting a bullet one day, a professional had to learn to put up his walls.

Alpha was not green. They were all veterans, molded from the same clay, even across cultural, racial, and spatial divides. Before Kialthos had met any of them, they had already spilled blood. They didn’t need him to hold their hands. They had gone through the same trials and tribulations that he had, though on a smaller scale. They kindled that trust until it had become a bonfire; they became family.

So when he asked them to do something, really asked, they worked their asses off to do it. When he asked them to form a company with him, they did it with glad smiles; it would be lucrative work. When he asked them to follow the war into Draenor, they grinned with pleasure; that was their business. When he asked them to bend their jobs towards an ulterior motive? It wasn’t as well received, but they still did it.

The problem was that the people who they were looking for were not family to them. Liotuse and Vandrin-- especially Vandrin-- were specific to Kialthos. They were missing. Months gone, last seen as prisoners of war. It wasn’t confirmable whether or not they were still alive. The leads to find them were weak, and the environment was hostile.

But Kialthos, the epitome of dogged stubbornness, soldiered on. History had shown him that prisoners of war under brutal captors rarely saw the light of day again in the long term. It had also shown him that people whose bodies weren’t identified had an annoying tendency to pop back up somewhere again. He had become the very last person that poured the majority of his resources into the effort. He was in the best position in which to act on the problem.

Which complicated things. His resources were also another family. The obligation to not willfully over-endanger his company men clashed with his ties to men who he also valued as brothers. There was no such obligation for Cas, Gurt, Thrana, Christine, Waverider, or Cuthben. He  was using them. Yes, they were getting paid for it, and they were willing to help him because he was Kialthos, but it didn’t change the fact that they had no real stake in it. It tore at him.

What was the correct choice, if any, in this situation?

If Liotuse and Vandrin were already dead, and a team member was hurt in the process, Kialthos wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. If Vandrin and Liotuse were killed because he wasn’t willing to push his resources forward, he would also not forgive himself. Did a clear conscience for himself even matter, as long as everyone came home? Was the priority safety for the living? How far was he allowed to go in deploying Alpha without compromising their choice? Business hadn’t changed, but there was an undercurrent of intensity to it. If it wasn’t traditional, there would always be a little bit of doubt in their minds, and that troubled him. Doubt didn’t suit them.

Every day he walked a thousand moral and strategic minefields.

Compartmentalization. It helped.

The problems, the overlapping circles of responsibility, risk, and fear, they were all sealed up and boxed, hidden away in Kialthos’ mind palace. Like an archive for an intelligence service, they would be opened on a need-to-know basis, preserving the structural integrity of the whole. What he needed was clarity of purpose. He’d made his choice, and so did the rest. He’d say nothing else until someone objected. That was that.

“Ffffuck me. Alright, get some rest, people. I’ll be sharing this with command and my other contacts.” A breath. “P.T. in the morning. I’ll be ‘supervising’,” he added, much to the audible distress of slackers Casimir, Christine, and Gurt. Cuthben wouldn’t like it much, either, but he was still fast asleep, caught in his fantastical dreaming. He’d have to fix his sleep schedule sometime.

Wandered off not all that long after he did. Figured it’d be for the best to get out of the main part of the Square, just in case all that yelling was something to be worried about. Ran into Dinna, once I got off to one side of it. Don’t know she even heard all the commotion, having her nose stuck in a book like she did when I got there. Anyway, spent a little while talking to her. Sounds like she’s getting on alright, for the most part. Recovering well enough from the fighting over the weekend. Actually, speaking of the Iron Horde, hadn’t known, but turns out she’s got a personal stake in the fight. Turns out her family were in Theramore when Garrosh bombed the place. Didn’t make it out in time. Guess with all the stories floating around of him being somehow involved in the Iron Horde getting to the stage it’s at now, means she’s got a good reason to want to see them get put down. Not that the rest of us don’t, but guess for some of us at least it’s not all that hard of a problem to ignore. All happening off on another world, not likely to affect any of us still on Azeroth directly. Not so easy when you’ve got friends and family and that who’ve died on account of the orcs.

Didn’t wind up staying on that topic too long, in the end. Changed onto talking about lighter stuff when Odessii showed up, Kialthos not all that long behind her. She had her kids with her, to start off, but ended up stepping out to drop them off home quickly after a brief vocabulary lesson, courtesy of Kialthos. Kinda makes me worried for what Gloria’s vocabulary turns out to be, if she winds up growing up around the guy…guess kids learn that sort of language sooner or later no matter what you do, but still, though of a five year old going ‘round spouting off curses every second word’s a little, uh…concerning. From my perspective, anyway. Get the feeling Kialthos’d probably have a different point of view on that. Then again, seems to have a different point of view on a lot of things to do with parenting. Seems to be of the opinion that being cool’s one of an ideal parent’s higher priorities, for one thing. Seemed to think it’ll be enough to keep his daughter from turning against him, as she starts getting further into the teenage years myself. In my experience, not sure there’s a whole lot capable of accomplishing that…long as the guy’s been alive for, think there’re still a few things out there he’s still gotta learn.