#orazio garibald

I originally wanted to make this one big story but thought it might work better in two parts. Important Arathor political/magical stuff, yadda yadda. And you get to see Orazio again. :)

Though this isn’t what I wish to write for terminalpleasure’s challenge, I do hope that in writing these more typical RP stories for the Arathor storyline I can find the voice, style, and skill to produce something with a more resonant meaning that the challenge calls for. To that end I invite anyone to give constructive feedback, if they feel up to it. Special thanks to princessprovost for already helping on that front.

In the lower districts of Hasic the foundries toiled through the night. Black smoke grasped up from every workshop in service, the tendrils disappearing under a gray blanket of clouds. The fog would soon come to the estuary, snow in the mountains; but none of that would hinder the city's efforts through the winter. The captains knew their ships. The lighthouse blazed as brilliantly as ever. And the portal still worked for whoever had the appropriate permit.

A flurry of activity followed Lord Garibald's wake wherever he deigned to venture. When he found the city again after his long departure it was comforting, almost sleepy in its peaceful nature, the hot-blooded politics of summer fading away as the cool winds blew in; but it was no time for hibernation, not yet. From his vantage point at the Free League's quarters he saw all, the docks and warehouses teeming with a frenzy he hadn't seen since his childhood.

It was no longer so easy for him. The actions of Diregate had left him crippled, directionless. He had never considered himself the greatest, the most forefront fighter; but he was a knight, so what was he without his right arm? He was no longer Lord Garibald’s right arm in Eastfold, or so he had been sure.

So it was not the hefty pension he received that surprised him as much as it was the appeal for help immediately afterward--build your estate, get comfortable, and run my duchy. “Duchy,” a deliberate use of the word, something the viscount would only say in the presence of Segelin or Sir Farnes. His ambition was plain, honest; and yet not even he dared voice just how badly he desired the rank that, in the lord’s mind, would finally seal his legitimacy in what had once been among Arathor’s richest, greatest provinces.

Segelin forwent armor. It did little in a true scuffle but to perhaps block the first blow--the second knifeman would always know where to strike next, under the armpits, to the groin. To win a war in Hasic one must be the first to strike, and preferably without bloodshed; for, if blood was spilt, noble or guild blood at that, there’d be no hope of resolving business in the anarchy.

And so Segelin forwent his knife, too. Clothing of his old house’s colors were replaced with black and gold, the right sleeve pinned to his buttons. His sword would be nothing in such a crowd, so he took it without fear of making a threat. This was how Segelin went to war now.

His bastion loomed over the central square of the city that had adopted him. It was a century-old monument to the Strom-sponsored count who had once ruled over the coast; then it was a home for the moguls and petty lords who had toppled him, but not the Garibald family that had saved them from Arathi wrath.

“Now all this will change.” Those were the first words the red-haired scion of House Harwyn and Garibald said to Segelin on his return.

To his credit much had changed, and for the better. The same multicolored penants fluttered over the Free League’s quarters in the old count’s home, but over that was the black and gold of House Garibald, and the sigil of House Albrecht over all that. The reaching oak had been carved over every doorway, his workstation as Eastfold’s viscount took a whole floor of the looming, fortified manor, and merchant and minister alike bowed to one of the last descendents of Arathi blood whenever he was near. All business came and went through his office, all ships stopped at his docks--others were merely allowed to collect his profit.

But now the lord was gone, and this had been his longest absence yet. In the darker parts of his mind, the reaches that still felt some tingling along his right arm and despaired, he doubted if the peace would hold without Lord Garibald.

By mid-morning all the men and women who were likely to show up had arrived, though they were no longer as punctual as before. The first order of business needn’t be announced or prefaced: they’d had this conversation weeks before.

The first speaker was typically the most insolent these days. Master Marca Guillam was no exception, a ruddy merchant of Kul Tiran stock. He paced around the meeting hall, not bothering to look up at Segelin’s elevated desk.

“... I was hoping the First Chair would speak on His Lordship’s behalf, truth be told. How many times do we think he can escape from captivity? Twice in a row, well, that would be an exceptional feat--wouldn’t it? That would certainly justify his recklessness! Just what will we do without the viscount here, or even able to send a message?”

Segelin tapped his gavel, more to get the man’s attention than to silence him. After many years of being the First Chair he still never considered himself a political operator--in fact, he was sure that was what kept him employed--but he knew well the value of being recognized, not ignored.

“There will be negotiations on how to release his lordship from Argent custody, but it is yet too soon to say if our men have even reached Blackmarsh, let alone the front.”

Marca huffed with a twitch of his brown mustache. “There’ve been executions before, sir knight. Lord Garibald is an arcanist--skilled, I’ve been told, if not that wise apparently. They won’t release him!”

“I did not know we had such a master tactician in our room today! And an archmagus at that!” Walter Bonezzo drew himself up, looking every bit like his mercenary father. “You forget yourself, Guillam. And more pertinent to the conversation, you forget Lord Garibald’s command. He is not in control of the front, most likely led by that… Duke. The Gilnean.”

“I forget nothing--not even your purchased title, my lord.” The merchant gave an elaborate bow, rising with a sneer. “Even given his general, it would have been the viscount’s fault for obeying whatever foolhardy command he was given that night. More importantly, be it his own mistake or no, Lord Orazio Garibald’s absence hurts us. Who can bring support from Lordaeron? Who can ensure that business runs smoothly in our great city? We allowed his rule because he protected us--”

Were Segelin younger, and still right-handed, he would have reached for his sword instead of the gavel. But he was interrupted, as was Master Guillam, by a gentle touch on the squat merchant’s shoulder. Where most would be happy to be in such close proximity to the black-haired beauty beside him, Marca looked nothing but flustered at being surprised so mid-rant.

“Bah--well, Lady Sienna. I take it you’ve something to add?”

“I thank you for being so kind, Mister Guillam.”

The Free League’s meetings were anything but a stand on ceremony, being barely as old as Segelin’s 40 years, but when Lady Agnese Sienna stepped into the clearing between the two camps she made the buzzing forum as silent and as stately as any proper court. With a knowing smile she bowed her head to the first chair, where Segelin resisted the urge to stand in her presence. Instead he gripped the arms of his chair and nodded back.

“... Lady Sienna, of Headsman’s Hill. I think I speak for all when I say that no one expected your presence at a meeting of the Free League.”

“No, I suppose none of you did. My husband was never fond of tradesmen, and he found the idea of their running a city, let alone an entire… viscounty, questionable at best--no offense to you great lords and moguls, of course.”

“None taken, my lady. You were to speak?”

She gave that soft smile again, a hint of her intelligence and mockery behind it but still as disarming as it ever was.

“Oh, heavens. Right. Regardless of my husband’s feelings, he has long departed and I fear our esteemed Lord Garibald may never find him. And with the viscount himself gone, I fear you are the men running this viscounty. Interesting it is, then, that you say you ‘allowed’ Lord Garibald his suzerainty over Eastfold. I believe it was his--our queen who appointed him as lord, not any of you.”

“You imply one could rule over this land without popular support, Lady Sienna.”

“You imply he sought that support through you. Lord Garibald arrived with an army on your doorstep, casting out the Syndicate thugs who had looted your town for years. Do you really think he needed your support to be Eastfold’s protector? You gave him his father’s title, other gestures which were empty to you, but strengthened his legitimacy. None of you spoke against his claims of Arathi blood. Some of you gave him household troops to fight Lady Marlow; the rest schemed against him… and failed.

“Hasic has always been a rather… rambunctious city, but I found it strangely quiet on my arrival. You may think the people are holding their breath for who might take over next, but in reality, well… if I were but a commoner in these streets I might simply wonder if you could manage a month sans his lordship without murdering each other in this very room.

“You people, those who have the audacity to call yourselves the Free League, had a choice. You could have asked my husband for help; but you chose not to, just as Lord Garibald chose not to support Niccolo’s campaign against the Alteraci invaders. It is too late now. You best hope the viscount survives, for there is not a soul left in this land that can keep you rats from fighting over this sinking ship.”

Though she kept her gaze low, her voice steady and clear, Lady Agnese’s bitterness was all but palpable to Sir Segelin. He had heard it before, and seen the lady on the verge of tears. Though no one dared speak it, it was nearly certain that Lord Garibald had had Lord Sienna killed, or exiled. He couldn’t bring himself to cast the woman out, and yet her words could hardly go without a response. He found himself rising from his seat and yet couldn’t muster the strength to step away from the dais. Instead he looked to the assembly, ready to rail against her, and cut off their scathing words.

“My lady, I assure you that Eastfold will not fall in his lordship’s absence. It is not the Free League that protects the Eastrun and its tributaries--it is I. And by the power granted to me, and by the support of all those in this city who love Lord Garibald, I will not allow this assembly to fall into anarchy… as it has in the past.”

The room rose in such an uproar that it pained the knight’s ears, made it feel as though the building itself were shaking. The camp of Marca Guillam were making the most fuss, but even the retainers of House Rosso, by far the smaller crowd and loyal to Lord Garibald, passed several scathing glances and fussed among themselves.

“You shall not speak that way of the Free League! We freed this city of Stromic tyranny, we appointed the viscount, we run this land! And no noble, no matter how popular, no matter how esteemed, will insult us so boldly--let alone his pet knight and his strumpet!”

With eyes shut he recalled days when he was nothing but a bravo on the streets, eager to cut down any man who spoke ill of a fair girl. They were comforting memories now. He could do no such thing today, and needed his gavel to do twice the work of a sword. It clamored against the desk, the knight hoping that its lack of use would make its effect more potent now, when it was most needed.

“Captain Muzio! Guofu! I need both of you inside, if you will!” He nearly shouted himself hoarse.

His bidding quieted the crowd more than any loud noise or threat, for their presence itself carried a threat no one could ignore. With a creaking the doors to the chamber opened, the magnificent carvings parting to show a Pandaren and a man. The human was short, wiry, aged, dark from his many years of retirement on the frontier. Guofu was unmistakable. No one had ever seen a creature both so comical and so intimidating in full plate, his grayed snout smiling good-naturedly to the lords as he bowed. In one hand there was an intricate, massive dragon halberd, in the other a cruel falchion of Stromic make.

They both looked expectantly to Segelin. For once he felt in control, secure with a competent command to fall back on. “Send a messenger to today’s plaintiffs, tell them they may enter when ready. In the meanwhile, could you stay here? I am afraid our assembly has grown somewhat rowdy.”

Muzio belatedly doffed his wide-brimmed hat before gesturing behind him, the sound of running down the side corridor following him. “‘Course, sir knight. I don’t want none of the ladies here feeling worried.”

He smiled, forgetting the charged air and relaxing back in his seat. “Talk of Lord Garibald’s capture has been tabled for now. Masters of the Free League, may I introduce you to Captain Muzio Fisher? To some of you older masters he may be familiar, but long ago he left Hasic for… ah, the weather had turned against him, almost in spite of his loyal service to our city. My lord’s champions found him on the frontier, guarding his family and friends with nothing more than a scratch militia, and they have provided excellent protection out on that bloody moor.

“His people are still out there, on the open plain. Two hundred, two and a half? Against thousands of Trolls, against a legion of undead. It is because of the meager bastion they clawed out on the high plains that there are no such armies threatening Trollgarde or Firstpass.”

Instinctively Segelin looked to the crowd among Marca Guillam, and found the tall, lanky figure of Lord Anwyl Clyff, his blonde hair and Arathi features standing out. He returned the look, nodded once. “Lord Garibald’s knight is correct. His militia have acted nothing short of valiantly in Eastfold’s defense.”

“Indeed, in all Arathor’s defense. Master Guofu has been so kind as to keep the peace in our city, and his presence has ensured that his fellow Pandaren settlers are treated with respect, dignity. He’s saved my lord’s life more than once, and, most importantly, makes an excellent cup of tea.

“Do you wonder what these two men need?” A rumbling came from below, far stronger than the sound of the messenger’s boots earlier.

“It was something Lord Garibald freely provided on his own, personally, using the great wealth this city provides to directly ensure its protection. He is, unfortunately, a prisoner, and as such can hardly access his own vaults. His wife, Light keep her safe, is also fighting desperately for our kingdom’s survival, and my lord’s speedy recovery. In short, my friends, Masters Guofu and Fisher need their money.”

The rumbling became a small quake as two dozen armored halberdiers stormed in two neat files from behind the captain and the bodyguard, lining the walls neatly, making a perfect formation. Segelin and Farnes had drilled the Hasican companies endlessly to form to perfect parade; in the absence of a victory to celebrate, their parading skills would be needed here. They could not have been more perfect if they had tried, and a warm rush of pride left Segelin grinning at the intimidating display.

“Not just the captains, though. Their people, our people, the men and women who march to war for your continued profit need pay so that they might continue their brave service. The House of Garibald’s words are ‘Spent and Spilt.’ More than enough blood has been shed in service of our city, my lords and ladies, and until now Lord Garibald has spent all the coin he could. Now it is your turn to follow his example, for however long it takes. Paymaster!”

The sergeant stepped forward into the center, a crisp salute offered up.

“I trust each and every one of you will be kind in your dealings with the companies’ paymaster. He is a patient man, but can’t stand clamor and loud noises. Do him a favor. Once you are finished arranging his further funding, this meeting of the Free League shall be adjourned.”

Only then did the first chair allow himself to step down from the dais, leaving the desk and with it the weight upon his shoulders. The two masses of nobles and businessmen merged into a spiraling queue--among them, Lord Clyff and Lady Sienna. With one hand he caught the paymaster’s attention, the man seeming alarmed at the sheer amount of money brought to the chamber for bribes and sealing deals.

“Sergeant, you will refuse all payment from House Sienna and House Clyff--not that I suspect they’ll insist.”

The young man blinked. “Aye, but--they’re prominent folk, like to have more money than most from the rural estates.”

“No, they’ve done enough. What’s been paid with blood need not be paid again with coin. Remember that.”

“‘Spent’n Spilt,’ sir.”

Before the sun had even set the nearby Ebontide was pitch black, proving its namesake as it seemed to swallow all light between the shore Orazio stood on and Highpass, White Haven clinging to the near mountainside. Beyond that the many vales and valleys. Beyond that, the desolate Myrwood.

Divinity's Reach would never be Babak's first choice for revelry, let alone a public house in the commons; but it was not his choice to make.

It was his man's favorite retreat, after all. And retired Seraph had earned their comfort, questionable as that comfort was to the Kournan lordling.

The man who caught Babak's eye from the entrance of the Busted Flagon was familiar, as much as any fuzzy image could be. He was the sort of man to be left on the fuzzy periphery, smiling in spite of fate's dictation that he be irrelevant. Retirement suited him well--almost as well as his belly, not quite making him unhealthy but certainly marking the good life at home.

Babak grinned despite himself, exhaling the sick air of the sick city. This was no time to be dour.

"Seraph Petrus!" As though Babak wasn't aware of his own massive figure he threw an arm up. "Come here! I've many rounds to buy you!"

Brown-haired, only dusted by gray, and that same handsome, unknowing smile--Petrus had not yet been struck low by his five-and-forty years. The lack of armor certainly made him look different, but he was recognizable enough for a former footsoldier. As he sat across from Babak he was no longer so exuberant. As he laid his coinpurse over the table the guard's eyes sought out his for a look more thoughtful than he hoped would be given.

"Ba--m'lord," the graying man began, "I know how hard times were after the lord's passing. Please, I can pay."

Were it a man less a friend to Turan Varesh Babak might have felt like throwing him out the tavern; but Petrus had been nothing but. The hot tightness in his chest subsided after a second. His right hand clenched briefly under the table while his left tipped the purse back to the softened guard.

"Put that away," he insisted. Softly. A bemused chuckle followed.

Petrus wouldn't insist, himself. He was used to taking orders. A shrug, and the pouch was gone. "Don't let no one say I refuse free drinks, even from the poor."

"If I was poor, Petrus, you wouldn't be here now."

The irreverent smile was gone for a moment. Awkwardly he brought up a finger to scratch at his nose, head tilted down. He had to catch himself, halt a bit before speaking again loud enough to carry over the insane din.

"Ye--yes, I heard 'bout that! And m'not here to haggle, m'lord. Can't get by on a pension--I thank the Six for Queen Jennah, but..."

Babak nodded, smiled. The smile came easily: their situations were similar, though for Petrus a loss of income was no great tragedy. It was life, a reality that needed fixing.

"... but it is not enough. I understand. You heard about the offer, then?"

"N'how couldn't I?! Word is you've half Queensdale's Winter harvest pouring into the market, you were asking for former Lionguard to take on. And after all that--then you send word to me."

He could feel his cringe, and it was too strong to stop. Already his windfall of gold--plus the savings--had dwindled to just enough. Just. Enough.

"I've no need to brief you, then!" His fingers drummed on the table. He couldn't quite make sure if Petrus had noticed the grimace. "I could have sent word sooner, yes, but I had to make sure the venture itself would work."

"And it will." The former guard leaned forward. Babak saw the hope in his eyes, and held onto the table to keep from reeling.

"It will."

Petrus nodded, scratched his nose. "... My pa was into the whole business thing, yes. He, uh, made damn sure I was aware of this: labor is expensive. An' I know those roads south can't be safe, heard that news after what happened to Lion's Arch.

"I've got some boys I know'll be interested. They're all old Seraph, the good ones. With us and those little Lionguard cubs you've been lookin' for... yeah, we'll show 'em how it's done. We're all lookin' for proper work, and with a proper lordling too. We talk out the price, we'll send it to ya. How bout it?"

Banded labor was almost as much trouble as a guild. Worse yet, they were soldiers; they would stick up for each other. But if there was any man living to whom they would show half the respect they gave each other, it'd be the son of the late Lord Varesh. Babak counted on this.

He nodded. He had no choice. The guard was overjoyed.

"Good! Good. We'll, uh--well, m'lord, I was worried your family fell off the edge after the lord's death, heard nothin' of ya."

"Save for Kartuk." Babak did nothing to hide his rueful smile. Petrus looked nigh embarrassed. He looked eager to change the subject, Six bless him.

"Well, yeah. But I have to ask, m'lord, what brought you to this? Runnin' caravans, well, I always figured you for a Seraph-to-be huh?"

"Father did, too." The lord bowed his head briefly in respect to the dead. 

What brought you to this?

His mind brought forward images of smuggled goods, hiding in warehouses. Blonde-haired ladies, so charming and skilled at discussing nothing, all eligible and beautiful. Families of the Ossan, all scrambling to keep their fortunes and cultures afloat. Oranges, too. Oranges and dusty old tomes with gold inlays.

Was he to explain that it was the smiling smuggler with smokey eyes? His itch to flee Divinity's Reach and never look back? A drunken tour around Salma markets? Or was he to give the boring answer, the most proper and perhaps most accurate: a man like Babak needed coin to trade for prestige, a good marriage, a suitable family name.

Somewhere in the moment between the question and Babak's race to find an answer Petrus looked up, looking something between shocked and delighted.

"Nevermind--this, this is the man. I've been meaning to tell you 'bout him! Not a bad one, for someone from the Arch. Knows his way in a fight, I'll tell ya that: ORAZIO!"

The weight of economic slumps and a boring home life left the old Seraph's shoulder's as he flagged down a red-headed man at the entrance. The years had been kinder to him, Orazio thought, until he saw the scarred and sunken face, the hollow beauty of a young man robbed youth, and robbed of more as he passed his prime. Even the gossipy comrade's smile he gave Petrus looked depressing--it only highlighted his wasted features.

Room was made between the first former guard and the thin, dour-looking man on his right. Orazio plugged the gap. Babak made sure to have his hand out to greet him as he sat.

"Orazio, I haven't heard much but... I suspect I was about to get an earful." As the two shook hands he chuckled, avoiding the hollow green stare. "But you are from the Arch, yes? Lionguard? I can't see Petrus here making friends with civilians."

"Neither can I, my lord." Orazio's rejoinder was tempered by something in his eyes--he pointedly avoided looking at Petrus.

"... I am afraid I'm not here to enjoy a drink, my lord Varesh. Petrus here spoke much about you but--well. There has been an incident."

"An--what?" The brunet blanched. He seemed to already know. Orazio looked to Babak with a tight grimace.

"A moment, my lord?"

They departed in a silence louder than the din around them, briefly ducking out the door. A few minutes later, and only Orazio returned.

"... His daughter took ill last week. I imagine he told you nothing about this, but you would be at a disadvantage after seeing that whole display. A horrible way to make an introduction, is it not?"

Orazio's eyes seemed to sink in even more now. Something about the look he cast down onto the table wasn't right. 

"... No, my friend, it is quite alright. Dwayna bless his girl."

"Yes, all the Six bless her. Might as well stop at all the shrines." He nodded down at the table. "He told me all about you, Petrus. You and your father--both an impressive pair. Said you even fit his old armor perfectly."

"Ah, well, I've much to live up to. Yes."

The former Lionguard lit up with a grin, strangely seeming more sincere than anything else he had said or done in their short meeting. He leaned forward.

"From one highborn's son to the other: I am quite sick of that talk. You are your own man, regardless. That you seek to prove it, here with this caravan? It is proof enough."

"We have yet to see it, my lord--but you are nobility?"

The depressed-looking man no longer looked so depressed as he threw his head back with a bark of a laugh. "HAH! Am I nobility? I cannot say one way or another, my lord. All I know is that I found a life where my blood means little, and it strangely suits my needs!

"You have been in Lion's Arch, Lord Varesh?"

He nodded. "That I have, before the attack and after. Awful mess, though at least it had the spark of life before."

A shrewd smirk. A wagging finger. "See, my lord, I had figured I saw you before. Never knew your name, but when I saw you, when I walked in the door..."

"We have met, then? There was a Lionguard ball, I remember. I attended, as a patron."

The look grew no less shrewd. Aside from his eyes, the former lord looked nearly embarrassed as he bit his lip. "No, I am afraid not. My lord..."

Clenching heat in his chest. Babak thumped the table, once.

"You mean to say you think you saw me in a... less flattering light?"

The other shook his head. "A less consistent light, I should say--less lamps down at the warehouses, I am afraid. Could have been anyone, but he did strike quite an imposing figure. Dressed in the most burly, exotic armor too. Long, black hair. A very similar man to yourself, very unique."

Orazio spoke quietly, every bit the rueful, meek, embarrassed former civil servant except for those keen green eyes focused on Babak's own. Strangely enough he was crystal clear over the tavern, which only seemed to whisper as the former nobleman lowered his voice.

"The one warehouse in particular... was the object of an investigation, once. We figured the syndicate responsible had cleared out by the time there was any suitable evidence--no names or faces to attach any accusations to!

"Anyone who was found near the Baroness Marlow, though... All interesting figures, I should say."

"Lady Marlow is my dear friend. You will make no accusations about her here, and never in front of me." Babak felt his hand ball into a fist. He brought no blade to level against the slanderer, but a gloved hand will do well enough against this one.

Orazio held both hands up, retreating in all but physical space. "--My lord! I, I cannot make any accusations! I am, after all, a former guard. But seeing you here confirms more than I would like to admit. And if rumors happened to spread..." He simply shook his head, eyes downcast once more.

"You are not here to guard my caravan." He could feel the back of his teeth gritting as he voiced the realization.

The beginning of a multi-part story. The next chapter should come very soon when I feel like it.

It was rare for Charlotte Marlow to find herself dreaming, but when she did it was the same dream, each time.