âIâm sorry, the Matriarch isnât in right now. Youâll just have to take the girl elsewhere for the night at least, apologies my lord.â
Lormeus has hissed lightly at the entire statement. The fact heâd have to watch over the Quelâdorei girl he had found and the fact the attendant referred to him as a lord. But, not being one to grumble and pout, he took the girl to his home in Eversong. It was a long ride and they didnât make it before night had fallen, but they arrived nonetheless. His home was not large, it was two stories. The first floor mostly his workshop with the entryway to the second floor also giving access to the kitchen.
He dismounted from his black furred wolf and picked the traumatized girl up and set her down. Finally able to get a good look at her, she was wearing an old white shirt and overalls. Her hair curly and short, the color of a fine silver. Her eyes shone the same color as her hair and her innocence was plastered across her features.
He motioned towards the home and started walking forward. âI have a spare room you can take until we figure out where you should go.â The girl followed along with her eyes glued to her feet, not saying a word. Lormeus unlocked the front door and opened it, allowing her to step in first before he moved in and closed the door behind them. âHead upstairs, find the bathroom and see yourself to a bath. Youâre filthy.â
She looked back at him suddenly, as if confused. She watched as the man took off his helmet and fixed his long crimson hair. He looked back at her puzzled and motioned to the stairs. âGo. Bathe. You reak of fear and oil, shite combination.â The girl slowly nodded and grossed off up the stairs to do as she was told.
ââââââ
It took her about an hour to get fully bathed and by the time she opened the door to the bathroom she found a pair of spare clothes on the floor before the door. Carefully, Arabella picked up the clothes, examining them and quickly finding that they were vaguely her size. She slinked back into the bathroom to change. The clothes being a simple red linen vest and brown leather leggings. That settled she moved down the hall towards the sounds coming from the kitchen. Finding her way back down the stairs and into the dining area.
ââââââ
Lormeus was waiting at the table in the dining room, one leg on top of the other and reading from a brown book. On the table weâre two sets of cutlery and two plates, glasses of water and trays containing chicken, bread, cheese, grapes and lynx jerky. The man himself had changed appearances drastically, wearing a loose fitting black vest and black leather leggings.
He closed the book noticing the girl come into the room and set it down. He held his hand towards the seat inviting her to sit down, which she did. âPlease, eat.â He said softly, allowing her to take from the food first.
He watched as the girl looked at the abundance of food with wide eyes and finally opened up for the first time all day. Grabbing a breast and leg of chicken, two pieces of bread, a bushel of grapes and three big chunks of the jerky. As well as some cheese. She immediately began to eat it but was distracted when she saw Lormeus raise his hand slowly in a stop motion.
âCalm, eat as much as you want. But first, clear your mind and thank the powers at work to be found and brought here.â Lormeus grabbed what he wanted for food and clasped his hands together, bowing his head. He began a prayer, not all anyone or anything in specific. âWe thank you for the food brought before us and the ability to live another day of our lives. We thank you for guiding my hand to finding...â
He trailed off, leveling his gaze back on her. She had clasped her hands as well, closing her eyes and bowing her head. But at the pause she looked up at him confused. After a long awkward moment she got the hint and stuttered our her name.
âA-Arabella, Ser Lormeus.â
âArabella.â He continued and resumed his prior posture. âContinue to guide us on our path through life and give us courage when our hearts fail us. May it be so.â He opened his eyes and raised his head. âIt is a pleasure to meet you, Arabella.â
âMay it be so.â She whispered and looked up at him. She looked nervous, a slight flush finding its way to her cheeks. âN-no, the pleasure is mine I-â
His hand raised again. âRule number one of living in my home. Wash yourself regularly. Rule number two, it is Lormeus and simply that. Rule number three, if you leave the table hungry it is your own damned fault.â The jest was clear in his tone, though his stoic nature did not communicate it well.
Arabella nodded and affirmed. âClean, Lormeus and eat my fill.â She nodded again and looked to her food, and then began devouring it as if she hadnât eaten in months.
Lormeus sat there for a moment, watching the frail girl eat away. His gaze softened and a slight frown formed on his lips. Was it pity he felt? No, no it could not be. It was something else unidentifiable to him. But, he dismissed the thoughts and followed his own rules, though he made them but seconds earlier. He began to eat.
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âI do not hesitate when ordered to do something, that is not my place. Nor do I hesitate when I give an order that shall see men and women under my command die. For it is expected of me to do so. But, leaving you for even a small time causes me great pause. By the time you read this I will have been gone for hours. All I will say is that I love you, that I will return, and you are the one thing bringing me from the brink of becoming an irredeemable monster. What I do, I do for you.â
He folded the parchment and wrote her name on the fold he would face towards the bed. In careful script it said âTannaâ. He set it on her nightstand and looked back down at her one final time. She slept so peacefully and it nearly caused him to throw the letter away, then see himself back to bad. However, he kept his resolve and turned to leave the apartment in Dalaran.
In truth, he would not be far away from the apartment. He would still be in Dalaran to see to his task, one he had made sure to inform the Matriarch of as well. If all went according to plan, he would have the brand on his forehead nullified in just a days time. If not, well, he would have to take matters into his own hands. Though that was filled with risks and low likelihood of success.
As he walked through the quiet streets of Dalaran with the moon overhead, he thought on the events that even led to the branding. He knew the general gist of things yes, but the process had addled his mind to the point of not remembering any specifics. Such as when it happened, by who, and where. He recalled then an Archmageâs office, purple glowing orbs illuminating the room with a slender figure standing over him. He was on his knees, arms held to his sides and his body bare save for his undergarments. The words spoken in the incantation were nothing more than a mumble, and then nothing else but searing pain filled his memory. The worst pain in his life being felt as his body was severely inhibited to the use of higher level magics and limited on the extent of lesser ones.
He was snapped out of his remembrance by the crash of a bottle by the Heroâs Call. He turned his lip up as he saw those of the Alliance within being merry. He would abide the laws of the Kirin Tor in their city and not cause any problems, of course, but he did not have to like them still. He turned away and came to a grate to the sewers, lifting it with his right arm, he fell into the sewers.
His feet crashed into the stones below and sent water jetting up, his scarlet colored armor almost appearing black in the lowlight. His golden hues scanned the surroundings to ensure he was where he needed to be, then turned to his left and moved on to where he arranged a meeting with an Archmage fallen from grace.
Two days had passed since he first set out on his journey to solve the conundrum of his arcane inhibiting brand. With no success of note, the Archmage having turned him away based on his principles. He had to admit, it was a very infuriating thing and he found himself close to simply returning home. Effort was what mattered, surely, but to him he could not fathom going home empty handed. He would have his old ways back, or die trying.
He had secured a small shack within the sewers from a vagrant for a small sack of gold and made it into a makeshift study. He had not taken his armor off since he left and so it showed. Grime and icor from the environment clung to the metal and gave him a sickly appearance. His hair though was still tied up in his usual fashion and seemed to be at least washed today.
On the ground in the middle of the shack was a large arcane rune, dozens of smaller ones making up the composition and adding more to the spell it would be made to perform. Lines stretched from the edges facing closest to the corners of the room and traveled up the corners to the ceiling. Where they all met once more was an identical formula, mirroring the bottom version perfectly.
Lormeus walked to the middle of the circle and took his gloves off slowly for they would interfere with the work to come. He closed his eyes and focused intently on a practiced spell from his time as a magister. The metal encasing his body shuddered, purple lines began creeping out from the brand on his forehead and caused his veins to pulsate. Gradually his armor came apart and floated to a nearby table, then came to rest perfectly upon it. Already his eyes were bloodshot from the trivial spell, but it was only the beginning.
Through his research he had identified a few ways to remove the brand without the aid of the Kirin Tor, something he resigned himself to at the onset of it all. He lowered himself down to the ground and sat on the rune at its center. Holding his hands in a passive casting stance, he began a low chanting.
The rune began to glow and flicker as he fought through the pain coursing through his mind at the usage of arcane. The room was illuminated in a strong purple glow and he simply continued through slowly unlocking that which had kept a part of him untouchable for so long. Minutes became hours. Hours, became days. Time stopped making sense to him.
On the sixth day of his incantation when he felt the last of his resolve begin to fade and his mind start drifting to madness, he felt lighter. At first it was a small trickle from a wellspring of power buried deep within him, but it slowly began to pour out until finally- it surged out in a torrent. His eyes shot open, the rune on his forehead sparked and vanished and his form was cloaked in a barrier of whirling arcane energies.
His fists tightened and he rose from the ground into the air, his feet pointed down at the ground just a few inches from touching. He slowly held out both hands in front of him and runic formulae snapped into existence over his palms. He felt his original power finally return to him in the rush and exhilaration of it all.
He looked to his armored and waved a hand with authority. The metal flew into the air and wrapped itself around him once more until he was fully encased in the suit. He let out a shuddering breath and a wide grin formed on his features. âWell, a little test run is in order.â He crossed his arms and slowly turned them in a circle. More formulae formed on the ground and in a flash of brilliant arcane, he and the house were gone from the sewers.
Dearest Tribune Namaraen,
At one of the local villages west of the Woods, there has been talk of villagers losing personal items, and even livestock to rebellious bandits. I know this task is something that must at first have gotten you to wonder why it is that I wrote to you of all people.
Luckily, a trusted source told me that the leader of this growing Mafia used to run beneath my fatherâs banner when he once held the Patriarchy to House Venâtorum. It seems as if they are selling and trading the goods they have stolen from those around them, and have been using their currency to purchase weapons.
This would not have been as interesting nor curious if days after those weapons were purchased, a body trail has been found scattered among Silvermoon. Trails of high class Nobles, and even a few family members. I wrote to you in hopes of you finding, and finishing this ordeal once and for all.
Be careful, Lormeus. These are dangerous people who reside beneath the, âCrimson Mafia.â May the Eternal Sun bless you.
Blessings,
Imperator Phaeith Bellaâviere Venâtorum,
Matriarch of House Venâtorum
âYour will, my hands.â The Tribune said aloud after reading the letter he had received from the Imperator. He turned the letter over and then folded it back up, knowing there was nothing remaining on the parchment to read. He slid it into one of the few hidden compartments of his simple looking desk before standing up to go and don his armor.
-----
Later that day, Lormeus had rode out from the Venâtorum estate lodgings he was give with his goal in mind. Atop the trusted Dragonhawk he had taken into battle more than a dozen times. He sailed into the air, his dark red armor seeming to absorb the light that shone from the fading sun as day turned to dusk. His left hand on the reins and his right holding his favored spear out to the side.
It took him only half an hour of flight to reach the area she had detailed for him to find, knowing that flying any further would give him away he decided to land. The Dragonhawk veered down and soared to the ground in a fast descent, its profile lost in the canopy of the trees. It landed in the cradle like top of one of the bigger trees and allowed Lormeus to dismount.
Lormeus pulled an a bit of food for the beast out of the saddlebags and fed it. Running a hand along its snout to relax it from the quick ride and heavy load. âStay here old friend.â He said in a hushed tone. âIâll be back.â Whether he was promising the Dragonhawk or himself, he was not too sure. However, he did not let such things make him falter in his step. He stepped towards the egde of the tree and dropped down off the side to begin his hunt.
-----
Night had fallen, and so Lormeus used the cover of darkness to hunt for the camp of this supposed Mafia that preyed on the weak off of the roads. Everything about the foe made him disgusted with their very existence. By his oaths to the Kingdom, the Imperator and to the Light, he would not suffer them any longer. As he seethed in his discontent, he spotted a few dim fires deeper into the woods.
Following the unintentional beacons he came upon their camp, quickly ducking behind a tree before a sentry spotted him. He slowly slid down and crouched behind some thick brush. He kept his spear in his right hand on the ground and set his left hand on the nearby tree to keep himself steady.
He slowly crept his head up and peaked over the brush to count the enemy contingent. Four sentries, that alone spoke to at least another twelve in the camp if they dedicated so many to keep the perimeter. He observed the sentries all holding finely crafted Dwarven rifles, a particular oddity. A deadly one even for one in full plate.
He could take them out and then move through the camp and try to avoid detection as best he could, but they would no doubt have a guard change. Likely starting with the one near the front of the camp, being the most integral. He chewed on his lip in thought, debating his best course of action. He looked down to his spear and then back to the man near the front of the camp. A hum of thought resonating from him.
-----
The camp had gone quiet, the moon full and at its apex in the sky over the camp. Illuminating the now dark camp. Most having gone to bed, but guard change had come around. From within the camp a few men stirred in their tents, coming out to walk their paths to their sentry posts. Hushed callouts came from the East, West and North sides having been the flanks of the camp.
The man bound for the main entrance of the camp didnât see any reason to call out to his comrade to find him. He was standing guard under the moonshade of one of the trees, his rifle close to his chest. His friend was probably cold, a good thing he was being relieved. As the new guard approached within five feet, he slowed to a stop, his friend wasnât moving. At all. Not even breathing it seemed.
âArthaniel, you alright?â The man said to the guard quietly, coming a little closer. âYou didnât fall asleep standing up did y-.â
A shining silver blade with a few lines of green running along its length. A hand cupped over the manâs mouth as he squirmed and was eased down to the ground. He was laid on his side and a figure stood over him, a man in armor with a gleaming sword. Lormeus had made his move. He turned to the standing up man and moved around to his front. He had propped him up with his spear, the sharp end piercing the ground and the spiked pommel pushing him up right through his chest.
He cut the rope binding the rifle to his chest and unloaded it, then cleared it. Tossing it then into the brush where he had stashed the others from the other guards. He was hoping the rest didnât have their own rifles, otherwise it was still going to be a hard fight. He counted tents enough for at most, twenty men. Meaning he theoretically had to count on their being at least fifteen others within the camp to dispose of.
He nodded to himself, ready to carry out the remainder of his mission. He gripped the spear and pulled it up from the ground and then out of his enemyâs chest. The body slumped and fell onto the other one from a solid kick to the chest to make it so. The sound muffled enough to not carry too far. He could see the three other men who were trying to rotate, coming back to the camp in a hurry.
Lormeus sprang to action, hoping he could stop them from alerting the others and that his running didnât wake any of them. He leapt over a fallen log and closed in on the first who then turned from hearing him coming. He started to yell as Lormeus closed in. âIntrude-!â He bellowed the beginning of the warning before a spear was shoved into his open mouth and pierced through the back of his neck.
The Tribune forced him down to his knees and pressed his boot to his chest, then shoved him off of the spear. With a quick flick, blood splattered the ground as it fell from the spear. He looked towards where he had seen the second sentry last, but it was then he realized he was too late. The warning had gotten through.
Men rushed from their tents as the others relayed the warnings, lanterns flaring to life, swords hissing as they left their sheathes. He couldnât be faulted for trying to take the stealthier route, but it indeed had failed. He turned to the camp and planned his path through the area to meet the rest head on. They all began to stream in his direction in their night clothes, unarmored. Most armed with swords, but a few seemed to have mauls as well, the only true threat to him.
He would prioritize them as he could. He sprinted forward, the small mob of men rushing towards him. Within seconds he was within range of the first man charging sword in hand. He thrusted his spear forward into the manâs chest, and then ripped it back out. Sliding against the gravel beneath his feet, small clouds of dust being kicked up.
He spun around the first and slashed the head of his spear across the neck of the second. Blood spewed forth from the wound and he fell over from the smack the came with the follow through punch to the head from Lormeus. The third came, wildly slashing at him. He stepped back once, twice and then dashed into his guard, slamming his forehead against the manâs head. The adamantite helmet cracking the manâs skull with the forceful impact.
The fourth and fifth came together, seeing that solo combat was not something they would win with this man.One swung his maul at Lormeus while the other came from his flank and slashed at him. Causing him to move to his unattacked flank, but this allowed him to get enough room to cock his spear back. He thrusted it forward at the sword wielder, but before he could free his weapon from the man, his comrade slammed the maul into the shaft of the spear. The metal vibrated and transferred enough kinetic energy to cause Lormeus to release his grip.
He rolled backwards and came back up quickly. His hand moved to his sheathed short sword on his hip and pulled it from its ornate scabbard. The metal sang and seemingly whispered in the gentle breeze of the summer night, the light of the moon catching its fine edge and making it appear like it was sparkling. He held the blade in his right hand and balled his left fist, moving quickly forward once again.
He ducked under the swing of the heavy maul and sliced the man just above both knees in two quick strokes. Causing him to stagger back and give Lormeus an opportunity to recover and drive the blade through his chest. Carrying the motion through and slamming him to the ground.
He stood up, pulling the blade from the corpse and looked to the next group that charged him. He sighed, and let them come, his blade already dripping with blood.
-----
Lormeus stood before a pile of corpses, more than a dozen men all laid one on top of the other, surrounded and supported by dry logs, brush and other flammables. In his left hand was a torch, he stepped forward and slowly paced around the pyre, lighting it at the base. Once it had caught enough, he moved around the camp, igniting tents, boxes and other items of interest to the mafia.
Once everything had been lit, he looked up to check the time of night. By the position of the moon, he reasoned that it would be morning in a couple of hours. Time to head back home. He dropped the torch and pulled his left gauntlet off, bringing two fingers to his lips and whistling sharply for his Dragonhawk.
He slid the glove back on and looked himself over. Seeing now, in the bright illumination of the pyre at his side, his armor was caked thick with blood. Bits of gore sticking to it like little adornments. He grumbled under his breath, complaining to himself about the time it would take to clean up. The Dragonhawk finally arrived, and he mounted once more, flying back home.
-----
Imperator,
Mission success, all hostile entities in the vicinity put to death. Unknown if this was the only element, will keep my eyes on the lookout for any further activity. Will execute any others if found. Faith and honor.
A loud scream echoed throughout the large estate, pottery and wood crashing with the sound of metal impacting them. It came from Arabellaâs room, so Lormeus sprang to his feet and ran down the hallway. Seeing the door to the girlâs room cracked open and Arabella herself sitting on the ground. Still armored, but her now mechanical left leg missing. The fake limb on top of a heap of splintered wood and glasses. The girlâs face was stained with tears and she curled into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest.
Lormeus slowly raised a hand to the door, but stopped just short of opening it. He chewed worriedly on the inside of his cheek as he debated what to do. While he tarried, the girl got up and grabbed the leg, then hopped to her bed. She threw the mechanism to the ground again, speaking as she cried. âI hate this thing, and I hate those who took the real one from me.â A loud bang and the sound of plaster being cracked under the force of a fist greeted his ears next. For once, Lormeus genuinely did not know what to do. He could be a nurturing father, and lover even. But, helping his daughter with such a life changing loss was beyond him.
Whether or not it was the right call to make, he turned and walked away from the door. Leaving her to work through it on her own. He walked back down the steps of the grand entryway and went to his armory to get suited up. He had a role to play in the fight to come, so that people like his daughter might not suffer more.
---------------------
Two days later
The bite of cold sea air and the spray of saltwater bracketed the ships and their crews. The Crimson Fleet, the naval arm of the Warband was sailing around Tol Barad, intending on getting all the way to the coast of Hillsbrad. Seven ships, two of them being Third Rate Ships of the Line, four being escort class, Brigs and Djongs, and a First Rate Ship of the Line. The First Rateâs name was the King Anasterianâs Revenge, often referred to as a dreadnaught for its size and firepower alone. The Revenge, as it was referred to colloquially, was the flagship of the Crimson Fleet.
At the helm was the Captain of the ship, Altiel Crimsonheart. A man most known for his skills with the shadows and a blade, but trusted with the captaining of the flagship by Lormeus. At his right was the same man who trusted him, the Warlord and Admiral himself. White hair tied back into a tight bun and tucked under an Admiralâs hat. His attire was standard for a naval officer, ribbons and medals lined the red coat he wore. A pair of thick black leather boots leading up to a pair of bright white trousers.
Rain began to pour down from the sky as the ships came into sight of Tol Barad at midnight. Their ships would not be seen, not until they were right up on the smile little isle. For tonight was a new moon. This was not explicitly planned with the rushed action that this was, but the coincidence was very much welcomed.
As the ships came round the isle, the small Alliance fortress on the other side seemed to not notice. However, in the path of the fleet were four Alliance warships anchored off the coast. Lormeus smirked as he saw the lights from within the enemy warships, having been smart enough to order his own into darkness. Accepting the casualties that might come from it. In a low tone he called over the First Mate and relayed his orders. âSignal the fleet into line formation, third rates on the front and rear, the Revenge in the middle with escorts filling the gaps.â
The First Mate nodded. âAye, Admiral.â And then went about the complicated process that was signalling the other ships under blackout orders.
Thankfully, with pre-planning they had worked out a system with small brief flashes of light off the stern of the ship. Length and number conveying a set of simple orders. Within twenty minutes they were formed up and sailing a quarter of a standard league from the Alliance warships. Everyone on the ships were waiting eagerly at their stations. Cannons were readied as were the mortars. Those not manning weaponry were prepared for anti-boarding actions or repairs just in case.
When the line formed a devastating crossfire, Lormeus raised his hand and chopped the air. Yelling. âFire! Show them the might of the Horde!â
And so the maw of hell was opened. Fuse sticks were lit by arcane or elemental means, then lit the cannons. Fire, slag, and the sound of thunder erupted from all seven ships. A broadside of one hundred and eighty three guns slammed into the four unsuspecting Alliance ships. Tearing through hull, glass, masts and sail. Two of the ships exploded into a firestorm, their magazines being hit. The third began taking on water and its mast snapped and fell to the stern, crushing the helmsman. The fourth began lurching to the side and sailed forward into the shore, its anchor having been blown off the prow from the volley.
âSail on!â Lormeus bellowed over the cheers of the crewmen of the fleet. âLights on, they wonât be following us anytime soon!â The sounds of dying men and women on the enemy ships slowly became apparent as the celebrations died down.
âAdmiral.â Altiel said sternly. âWeâre reloaded, do we finish them?â
He shook his head without delay. âEven if they wanted to come after us, it would take them at least a month in drydock for the remaining two. There is no point in doing so.â He did not give further reasoning, and the captain did not question further. The Fleet sailed on towards Hillsbrad once more.
