Alina did not particularly care where she was sent or what she was told to do in service of the Dark Lady. But if someone had suggested that she would be spending days rowing a leaky boat across Lordamere Lake right under the eyes of the Scourge she would probably have suggested that person see the apothecaries for a clearly acute head wound.
Yet here they were, well past halfway across the lake trying to fit a dark ranger squad and two dwarves with their small mountains of travel packs inside a patched up river boat with three pairs of oars. The fact that the dwarves travelling equipment contained better tools than anything currently available in the entire Undercity said a lot about the Forsakens state of things. The sudden and indiscriminate onslaught of the Scourge and the plague of undeath had left a lot of stuff dropped as it was, many times literally, across the kingdom for those who could scavenge it. It was just almost always broken.
The dwarves. No. Alina didn’t want to think of them like that any more she realised. They were Runar and Halvdan and they were her…
Could the dead have friends?
Alina wasn’t sure. Friendship implied mutual feelings on some level and it was ridiculous to think that Runar and Halvdan would want anything but to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible from the likes of her. They were little more than walking corpses, for Belores sake! But both dwarves had acted with politeness, more than that even, and at least been kind enough to act as friends towards her. So Alina would do her best to act as a friend back. Because that was the only decent thing to do, even if none of this was for real.
Runar and Halvdan had even insisted on rowing along with one of the rangers during the day. The rangers would be rowing in two shifts during the evening and night. Runar had pointed out that dividing the crew into watches and splitting the duties was after all standard practice at sea and Amora had obliged them even though she had looked a bit sceptical.
But they could indeed row. At least after they had arranged their packs before them to have something to support their feet. And they didn’t quit or complain for a moment.
The small crew would seek out a shore some times during the day for the rangers to scout the surroundings and the dwarves to tend to the needs of the living in the meantime. They slept onboard though as the rangers rowed, propped up against the hull and whatever piece of clothing they had packed, waking stiff and clutching their necks.
The late summer would once have been a beautiful time for travelling. Of course it helped not being dead and not traversing blighted and withering forests filled with mindless ghouls. They had had to fend of packs of those twice, but it was no organized attack and there was no necromancer present so they stood little chance against their arrows and training.
The weather was mostly warm during the day and rowing forced Runar and Halvdan to strip down to their pants after wary glances at the surrounding forest. Alina was studying them in secret as she held the tiller. They weren’t what she expected. She noted that they had smaller noses and ears than the dwarves she had seen described or depicted and not the rounded bellies. Then again, they had not exactly been eating well in the Undercity and probably not too good before either if they had been travelling through wilderness. There was no such thing as a truly lean dwarf but those two came close, with thick upper body muscles that strained against the oars absent layers of bulk to conceal them.
Not that she was staring. But she was almost off duty and had to occupy herself with something.
Alina felt a small nudge in her ribs and looked up only to see Amora Eagleyes knowing smirk. Alinas commander had been giving her a lot of curious looks these last days but she put it down to herself losing her grip and Wailing. Alina couldn’t blame Amora for keeping close watch after that. Belore, she could have killed one or both of the dwarves!
”Do keep your eyes on them, they row twice as hard under your scrutiny.” Amora whispered in Thalassian.
Alina scoffed. Both Runar and Halvdan always did their best at the oars, they didn’t need anyone checking on them. Besides, she could mostly see Halvdan anyway since he had the aftmost seat. Not that she was staring or anything.
”Of course.” Amora chuckled. ”In any case it’s good to know someone keeps an eye on our short-legged allies, we can’t have them jumping overboard on us.” she commented with glittering eyes.
Alina attributed the comments to Amoras weird idea of humour and repeated attempts to cheer Alina up and keep her thoughts on things that would not provoke a Wail.
When it started to rain later in the night Amora still gave her that unfounded knowing look when she draped her ranger cloak over Halvdan and folded the hood into a tiny pillow between his ear and the bare planks. It wasn’t like Alina needed it when rowing anyway, it just got in the way and the cold didn’t bother her. She was just trying to act like a good friend.
Amora was just overinterpreting things.
Wasn’t she?
***
Rhonin Redhair privately concluded that the people of Dalaran lacked a sense of humor.
At least it was underdeveloped. Perhaps starved from too little exposure to a healthy laugh now and then.
For the love of mana, it was just a joke about polymorphing the citys population into sheep to keep them warm during the winter and use the wool to knit new clothes by spring. There was no need to interpret it as Rhonin thinking them all to be a flock of sheep. It was just a suggestion. And where would they get the forage to feed all the sheep anyway, to start with? And who would shepherd them? Academic culture was doubtlessly in decline if you couldn’t air these kinds of innocent idle thoughts without someone losing their head over it. As if they hadn’t enough to be sorry for since the Scourge invasion and Archimondes devastation of central parts of the city. No need to make matters gloomier than they had to be.
At least his nephew-in-law had managed to keep his wit even after joining the somewhat stuffy ranks of the Alliances paladins. Rhonin missed Arator more every day, even if dealing with Dalaran restoration along with the elves magic withdrawal kept him and Vereesa busy. He hoped Arator wouldn’t do anything stupid and jump into strange dark portals like his parents or something similar. Much better to follow his and Vereesas examples and…go rescuing dragon matriarchs from their captivity among demon-worshipping orcs or so. Right… Perhaps Rhonin could enchant something for him, speaking of which. Paladins Polymorphing Poleaxe or something like that. Turning the enemy to sheep would keep Arator rather safe if he insisted on going into melee range and Light clerics always preached about their flocks so the iconography would be absolutely flawless.
Had nobody else thought about this before? Truly, people lacked vision sometimes.
He was on his way home, with another stack of reports to read in service of his pleasant city. This council business was interesting and all but all this report reading all the time…it was eerily similar to homework. And that was what you were supposed to have gotten out of when you got your archmage title, not gotten into. But at least he could be near Vereesa so that was well worth the inconveniences.
He was passing by the city gates, still mostly in shambles but with a decent palisade that kept potential wandering murlocs and gnolls at bay with a little luck. And with the obligatory nosy city guard detachment. Those had been an absolute pest when the city had been under Grand Marshal Garithos regrettable command. Nowadays they were a little more sane. A little. There appeared to be some sort of commotion. Rhonin decided to linger and hear what the matter was about.
”…look, if we presented ourselves as common tavellers, would that have led to us being admitted? If you doubt our credentials as envoys; fine, but may we enter Dalaran outside of any such capacity?”
”You already said you were an envoy from Lordaeron and that makes it extremely suspicious. Do you expect me to forget that all of a sudden, dwarf?” the gruff voice of the guard details sergeant sneered.
”No, I expect you to let us into the city like any other commoner since we are of no apparent threat to you and you have not stated any reason why we would be. Consider us peasants with delusions of grandeur if it pleases you.”. The other voice was controlled, but had lost any warmth by now.
”Dwarves don’t farm around here. Don’t try to fool me, mister!”
That does it, Rhonin thought. This had to violate some sort of limit of common decency for what a city could allow itself to tolerate and still call itself civilized. If the guard sergeant had not been one of Garithos finest he certainly could have qualified.
”What seems to be the problem, sergeant?” Rhonin interjected smoothly.
”Huh? Move along, this does not concern you, citizen.”. The sergeant waved him away dismissively.
”Oh, but I very much think it does.”. Rhonin stepped into his view properly.
”Do you have a hearing problem, mister…”
”’Councillor’ will do just fine, sergeant. Or ’Councillor Rhonin Redhair’ I suppose, though you simians may refer to me merely as ’sir’ if you prefer a less…syllable-intensive workout.”
The confused look shared between the sergeant and his subordinates confirmed Rhonins assessment that these gentlemen would indeed have been prime material for Marshal Garithos.
”Now, is there any particular reason why we are letting these two esteemed guests wait at our door, other than indulging ourselves in a liberating moment of spontaneous and unbridled impoliteness?”
”Esteemed guests?” the sergeant parroted.
”Certainly. As you so observantly noted, they are not from around here. Anyone brave enough to risk the journey to Dalaran in these dangerous times is in my opinion an esteemed guest at the very least, until proven otherwise.”
”Councillor, they claim to be from the kingdom of Lordaeron! But Lordaeron has fallen to the wretched undead and they are obviously lying.”
”Is that so? Thank you for you insight, sergeant, and I will take it form here then. Foreign relations used to be council business last time I looked, which was admittedly almost half an hour ago, so I will be happy to relieve you of the burden of bidding two travellers welcome to the city of Dalaran.”
”But…”
”That will be all, sergeant.” Rhonins tone remained smooth but it had taken on a certain crackling quality that brought to mind the merry sound of the fireballs certain mages had the habit of flinging when they were in a fouler mood. ”Now, allow me to be the first to welcome you to our somewhat dented city and humbly request that you join me for an early dinner if it would be to your convenience.” he added with an elegant bow to the two dwarves.
”With the utmost pleasure, councillor. Runar and Halvdan, emissaries of the queen of Lordaeron, at your service.”. The dwarves managed a bow that matched his, despite the travelling packs that weighed them down.
”Please call me Rhonin.”
***
”This is molten iron in disguise and don’t you dare tell me otherwise you sneaky spell-chucker!” an accusing brown-bearded dwarf gasped some time later and reaching urgently for a glass of water while Rhonin chuckled in amusement. ”A volatile concoction that is definitely a danger to the public… Could you pass the – rice, was it? – please?”
The ’Thundering Brewmaster of Flaming Righteousness’ was the newly opened pride of Dalaran cuisine in Rhonins opinion and his companys slack-jawed stare at the Pandaren staff as well as their terrified wide eyes upon downing the first spoonfuls of Pandarian red curry stew was well worth the extortionate rates.
”He’s definitely trying to murder us slowly.” the dark-haired Halvdan stated while scooping up a prodigious second serving.
”Sorry, gruesome deaths are from the green curry, not the red.” Rhonin winked.
”You sure? Well, further studies are needed.” Halvdan decided and dove into his plate.
The arrival of the spicy dishes had interrupted the most outlandish tale Rhonin had heard in weeks, which spoke volumes surrounded as he was by scores of Kirin Tor mages.
Lordaeron in the hands of a queen – a banshee queen – and rebelling against the undead Scourge with all it had. And Scarlet crusaders at their throats uncaring about the difference whatsoever. And these two dwarves acting as this unnamed queens ambassadors? Or were they simple messengers?
”Just to clarify; where do you fit in in all of these developments? Are you the queens envoys?”
”That we are, but our mission in Dalaran is honestly limited to handing over a letter of introduction and leave it to you how to proceed form there. We are due for Ironforge next.”
”Hmm, I can imagine. With the information unconfirmed I will make no promises other than that I could arrange for you to formally hand over this letter to the Kirin Tor Council – effectively the city council – at which you may have the opportunity to ask and answer a few questions.”
”May we take a moment to discuss that?”
”Of course.”
Rhonin busied himself with his neglected second serving as the dwarves spoke quietly in a language he did not understand.
Runar turned to face him again.
”I’d like to ask first – let’s call it out of professional curiosity – if that gentleman of a sergeant was acting or if he is actually that completely done?”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Rhonin snorted very un-councillorly and reached for his napkin. He used the moment of respite to consider how to answer that. The question was humorous but it touched on things that decidedly were not.
”I would like to be able to crown him the owner of the thickest skull north of Stormwind but I fear that the truth of the matter is far uglier.” Rhonin sighed and struggled a bit with how to continue. ”Until quite recently, Dalaran was under the command of a certain Grand Marshal Orthmar Garithos. His most significant achievement was driving the Blood Elves away from the Alliance and to who knows where, deeply insulting the dwarven contingents and by extension king Magni of Ironforge, as well as driving a wedge between the remnants of Lordaerons army and us Kirin Tor mages. The Grand Marshals opinions of other races than humans are as can be expected from these actions. And while Dalaran has regrown some measure of sense since then I fear there are a lot of sentiments and misguided blame of the same manner lingering here. Not least in said guard detail and the sergeant, who I think would have miraculously rediscovered a good deal of his brains and manners had it been a human envoy and not a dwarven approaching him.” Rhonin explained with a grimace.
”I see. The obvious next question is of course if similar sentiments can be expected among the Kirin Tor councillors.”
Rhonin wanted dearly to answer an assured no. He wanted to denounce the mere notion that the senior Kirin Tor members would allow themselves to be clouded by something so petty as racial bigotry. And he would also like to pretend that the centuries-old rivalries between elven and human mages were just a series of overblown misunderstandings, now that he was at it.
But reality was sometimes not so accomodating.
”I honestly don’t know for sure. I would of course very much like to believe that my closest friends are above such things but…” he shrugged.
”Then if we leave the letter to you we have an unknown factor in the shape of your potential rogueishness…” Runar began and Rhonin grinned at him ”…and if we leave the letter to you and also accompany you we add another in the shape of your councils potential shortsightedness and flaring instinctive jealousy at the sight of our impressive beards. So the choice seems pretty clear.”
Rhonin couldn’t argue with the logic there. But neither could he deny that there was a bit of a shame to miss seeing his fellow councillors faces as they were introduced to dwarven sarcasms of the highest order.
After lightening his purse to a worrying degree and showing his guests a respectable inn and the way to the local flight master from where they could continue to Ironforge the next morning, Rhonin bid them good evening and continued on his way home, his head full of thoughts as he glanced over the envelope. There was something familiar about it.
The handwriting. If anything, it had a distinctly elven elegance to it.
Rhonin quickened his pace. He would have to ask Vereesa about this.
They lived in a relatively small apartment in a part of the city that was becoming something of an elven enclave. It wasn’t too close to the flight areas. Rhonin feared the rowdy late night noises of the street might upset the gryphons otherwise.
Rhonin knew his wife well enough to gauge that it had been an average day when Vereesa buried herself in his arms. The magic withdrawal symptoms waxed and waned by the day. For the thousanth of time he wished there was a spell to transfer mana from one person to another or something similar to counter that damned affliction.
And the loss of Quel’Thalas was less than a year in the past. Rhonin winced at the thought of upsetting Vereesa if the letter turned her thoughts to that, but keeping it to himself would feel dishonest and they had promised one another not to keep their troubles to themselves.
”Hey dear, you’re home late.” Vereesa whispered into his neck. ”Long meetings or something?”
”No, I actually had dinner at the ’Brewmaster on the way home with a couple of new friends.” Rhonin whispered back.
”That’s great!” Vereesa praised. ”Finally you’re obeying orders to take some time to yourself once in a while.” she teased. ”Who did you meet?”
”I’ll get to that, it is a bit of a weird story. Let’s go and sit down first. How’s your day been?”
”Spitzamina came by in the afternoon.” Vereesa remarked.
”Spite? That’s nice of her. Did she want anything special?”
”Not really, just ask when we both can come out with her to party a little, and for me to help her untangle her tangled love life.”
Rhonin laughed.
”Your rangers must miss their mother something terrible.” he said fondly.
”That lot. Sometimes it surprises me how they manage to tie their shoes on their own.” Vereesa shook her head. ”Now, what about the mysterious dinner company?”
”Right.” Rhonin produced the envelope. ”Do you recognize this handwriting? It’s familiar in some way but I can’t place it. It looked quite elven to me…”
Rhonin noted that he apparently had better wash up in order to not taint such an elegant letter with the potential remnants of a spicy Pandaren stew, and had just removed himself to the bathroom when he heard a strangled, wounded sob from Vereesa and hurriedly tip-toed back to the living room
Vereesa was white as a sheet. She was shaking like in the worst throes of magic withdrawal, and crying rivers, bent over the envelope that she clutched close to her as if it was the most precious item in the world.
”You must open it, Rhonin. You must, or I will!” Vereesa whimpered.
”Alright…shhh. I will. I better read it in advance if I’m going to present it tomorrow anyway.” Rhonin said as gently as he could and lifted Vereesa into his lap. She felt so small in his arms all of a sudden when she buried her face into his neck.
”It’s her, Rhonin! It’s from her. I would know her handwriting anywhere!”
Rhonin slowly pried the enevelope from Vereesas hands, still shaking from sobs that racked her body. He unfolded the letter inside, written in the same elegant writing.
It was direct, concise, relevant and to the point. No needless embellishments. Not they way a royal ambassador would express himself, more what you would expect from the professional reports of an experienced soldier. Of a Ranger-General.
True enough.
Vereesa did not need to look to know.
Rhonin carefully put the letter down. The world was spinning before him for a brief moment and he held on to Vereesa to steady himself as much as her. Vereesa took a few ragged breaths, evidently struggling to speak.
She whispered in the saddest voice Rhonin had ever heard.
”I want my sister. I want my Lady Moon.”
***
”Of all the insanely stupid things we have done this has to be the most stupidly insane!” Runars voice rang out to the rider on the gryphon slightly to his left.
”It is insane of us not to have tried this out earlier!” Halvdan answered merrily. ”My beard, just look at the view from up here!”
”Trust the master spy to become bedazzled by such details!”
”Trust the royal diplomat to attempt to renegotiate the terms of the transport service just moments after taking off! One would expect a little more trust in our current allies!”
”On the contrary, I have complete confidence in their abilities! I would be perfectly happy to leave the flying business completely in the talons of these obvious experts!”
”How long would it take us to reach Khaz Modan on foot do you think!? Personally I want to get there before I am ready to join the restless dead ranks of our dark lady!”
”Are you sure!? Because to me it looked like you were happy to join the ranks of a certain ranger of hers!”
”I am just being considerate! It is called common courtesy, which I would expect even a mediocre diplomat to be aware of!”
”But of course! I had better follow your fine example and ask her to join me for dinner when we get back, provided the Undercity has acquired something edible by that time!” Runar shouted gleefully.
”If you so much as think about it I can arrange a date with my aaaaaaaaaaxe!”
”Yaaaaaaaaaah!”
The two mighty gryphons of Aerie Peak suddenly tucked in their wings and dove at dizzying speed, only to spread them out and skillfully sweep along the ground and climb further up again.
”You did that on purpose!” Runar accused.
”No! He did!” Halvdan indicated his gryphon.
The dwarves silently agreed to postpone further discussions about the up- and downsides of gryphon riding until they had firm ground a bit closer under their feet than at the moment. Halvdan was not sure if the gryphons had tired of their admittedly loud conversation or if they just enjoyed the occassional prank with new travellers, but discretion was always advisible.
Pranksters or not, the gryphons were impressive creatures and could carry immense burdens. A whole dwarf (reasonably lean and in shape but still) and his pack, including a not insignificant amount of Lordaeron gold. If he left the baggage on the ground the gryphon could most likely carry another passenger at the same time without any trouble. Especially if the passenger was rather lithe and not too tall for being, say, an elf.
Ah, damn, now he was doing it again. They had a mission to finish as per agreed and then they could see about how to proceed to get to Northrend and deal with the apparent dangers there, foremost of them doubtlessly this Lich King and his scum of a knight. Halvdan unconsciously bared his teeth at the thought. Well, perhaps gryphons could be trained to pick up enemy commanders with their claws and deposit them in more convenient places…like in the middle of that vast ocean to the west… Otherwise, he could always use an opportunity to practice his hammering backhand. He was sure that Runar would find it beneficial to their latest alliance to help bury that particular grievance rather permanently.
And now he was doing it again, again. Blast it!
Their travel path (or rather flight path) took them along the shoreline west, passing the town of Southshore and then veering south into the human kingdom of Stromgarde. It was a sight to behold, as the northern border was protected by an enormous fortification, Thoradins Wall if Halvdan recalled correctly. The kingdom was reputedly in some disarray bu the had to admit that the humans here knew how to build at least. It still felt a bit, well, exposed with defenses out in the open like this. Where were the mountain halls to fall back to?
The gryphons held the course unerringly, crossing from roost to roost overseen by different flight masters and gryphon stablehands. Runar and Halvdan could have sped up their travel by continuing on fresh mounts but they quickly found themselves rather attached to their original ones. For all their antics – sudden dives were not an isolated occurence or the only mischievous behaviour when the journey appeared too routine – even Runar admitted that they were looking out for their riders and both he and Halvdan came to trust them implicitely.
Besides, a few days of sleeping in beds rather than bushes and eating warm food wasn’t an unwelcome change of pace. And it also let them listen in on the topic debated in the smoky confines of the Stromgarde taverns. Two additional dwarves travelling aroused no particular suspicion it would seem and with a few extra coppers and toasts along with one or two prodding comments Runar and Halvdan soon had a rough picture of the spirit of this kingdom.
Stromgarde was isolated, fractured, on its own for long time, insular, divided and patriotic at the same time. It was the northernmost Alliance realm now that Lordaeron had fallen and sentiments shifted between a longing for recognition long overdue and reluctance to be at the forefront of a gathering of nations many felt had not benefitted Stromgarde too much. After a brief council, Runar and Halvdan shelved any plans on approaching the kingdoms rulers spontaneously. This was an unsteady and unknown theatre where they would need far more intelligence to negotiate effectively.
It was clear however that if the rest of the Alliance was met with suspicion, Stromgardes relative reprieve from the Scourge had not mitigated its hatred of the undead. Droves of battered soldiers and terrified refugees had fled south from Lordaeron, each with a more dreadful tale than the other. Carefully planted flippant remarks about what it would be like if some of the Scourge would have rebelled and fought the Lich King were only met with grunts and gruff remarks about how they would be welcome to destroy one another in that case, and rid the world of the plague. The plague referring here to the existence of undead, and not the actual plague that had been used to spread the curse of undeath and destroy Lordaeron in preparation for the Scourges attack.
Halvdan reviewed his findings with Runar who shared his pessimistic conclusions and they raised their last tankards to the hope that the dwarves of Azeroth would prove more reasonable. It was hard to sleep after such days. Images of angry throngs of shouting dark shapes passed by Halvdans eyes, closing in around pale long-eared faces weeping red tears.
***
South of Stromgarde lay the Wetlands, mile after mile of water-logged marshes dotted with patches of woods and firm ground. A haven for some and a menace for others, they effectively guarded Stromgardes southern flank and Khaz Modans northern. Runar and Halvdan could only stare from above at the myriad of roads, paths, villages and small towns that huddled around the larger areas of open land or rivers.
And then the mountains grew taller and taller and the Wetlands gave way to the heaths and pine forests of northern Dun Morogh. In no time the gryphons soared high over snow-capped peaks that shone in the sun. It was a truly majestic realm (not that the dwarves were partial in any way) that spread out before them and Runar and Halvdan felt their spirits soar along with their mounts.
After hours of flying, the could see a particularly high mountain ridge where grey stone jutted out among the snow and ice. Rounded towers looked down on the valley below them, seemingly growing out of the mountain itself. Halvdan felt like letting out a great sigh of relief. Finally, here was a hall were one could feel at home and lean back in peace inside proper walls and not rubble and soot-blackened ruins. He was so captivated by the sight of the central keep with its enormous gate and stonework decorations that he almost yelped when theyw ere suddenly flying inside the massive structure under stone archs the size of castles in caverns that could hold several human towns with space to spare.
Gryphon Master Gryth Thurden greeted the two somewhat shaky travellers with hearty exclamations and a few slaps to their backs and recommendations to seek out his favourite taverns whenever they had the chance. Runar and Halvdan thanked him and bid their tireless mounts goodbye with some regret and took in the new surroundings.
Ironforge.
The capital of Khaz Modan and oldest and greatest of all dwarven cities, Ironforge was a grand marvel of stoneworking and dwarven architecture, but fairly easy to navigate. Unlike the city-planning terrors of the human kingdoms Ironforge was logically and symmetrically carved out in a circle centred on the Great Forge that gave the city its name. From there one reached the Commons area next to the gate, the Mystic Ward, the Military Ward and the Hall of Explorers.
Runar and Halvdan spent several days familiarising themsleves with the city and its major sights and shops, and consequently also its people. The dwarves of Azeroth were quite similar to their own kind and the place brimmed with an enterprising energy that was hard not to be swept up in. There were always myriads of things happening in every direction. Still laden with a good deal of Lordaeron gold, both Runar and Halvdan invested in more local outfits and not least winter clothes. The gryphon flight had left them feeling a bit too numb afterwards for anyones comfort.
King Magni Bronzebeards clan had rod eout a civil war by eventually allying with the Windhammers against the Dark Iron dwarves that were now exiled and a bitter and relentless foe. The troubles at home however paled compared to the grief caused by the undead and costing the dwarves Alliance contingents dearly, including the kings brother and former ambassador in Lordaeron Muradin Bronzebeard, allegedly betrayed and murdered by none other than Arthas Menethil himself. Despite everything, Khaz Modan remained firmly comitted to the Alliance and its king lusted for vengeance against the Scourge. He was said to have forged an especially terrifying blade to counter that of the fallen prince, named Ashbringer and reoutedly capable of destroying any and all undead. Every dwarf clan was itching to have their share of reanimated bones to break and only the multitue of domestic troubles around the homeland seemed to be keeping them from marching out in force.
To say the least, it was not looking bright for relations between the Forsaken and Khaz Modan, Runar adn Halvdan concluded as they gathered at Firebrews Inn by the western part of the commons. There was no point in putting off their task any longer.
But it did not sit well with any of them.
”Well, here we are.” Runar began. His tone was off to say the least, Halvdan noted. His best friend and decade-long travelling companion was wry, amused, professional, irritated, angry or outright silly, but not deflated like this. It was a tone of someone about to concede defeat, not congratulate himself on succeeding.
And it mirrored Halvdans mood perfectly.
”Indeed. Just an introductory letter to hand over and then we’re done.”
A long moment of silence followed.
”What would you say about the odds of Ironforge even penning a response to the Forsaken?” Halvdan muttered.
”Almost irrelevant in my opinion, given the odds of anyone of note being willing to actually read their letters in the first place rather than tossing them into the nearest fireplace.” Runar remarked with an empty stare into his plate.
”They are given no damn chance of proving themselves, or their intentions!”
”To be frank, that could actually turn out to be the better outcome. What if all this accomplishes is provoking hostile attention and paint a target on Lordaeron for those who would rather see every undead destroyed?”
Their predictions grew ever gloomier, but the strategic realities were undeniable. Lordaeron was the undead stronghold on the eastern continent and if the Alliance should want to make a push to reclaim it, now would be the time. And with the fanatical Scarlet Crusade well established in Lordaeron, there was little doubt about which side of the Forsakens story was the most likely to be listened to by the rest of the Alliance.
”So all in all it seems downright suicidal for any living being to voluntarily keep serving the banshee queen of a shunned undead kingdom.” Halvdan mused, seemingly absent-mindedly.
”Complete madness.” Runar agreed. ”Just as addled as someone obsessing over the idea of returning a smile to the delicate lips of one of her delightful dark rangers.”
”Utter lunacy.”
”Insanity in its purest form.”
They both sipped on their ale.
”I suppose we could always…belay delivering this introductory letter until the circumstances are more to our sides advantage. Until they have been…wrenched to our sides advantage.” Halvdan suggested to nobody in particular. ”After all, it wouldn’t be particularly flattering for a master emissarys reputation to have orchestrated a colossal and irreparable diplomatic fiasco in a sensitive political situation.”
”Terribly shameful.” Runar concurred. ”And it would certainly be rather embarrassing for the spying department to have failed at gathering the background information needed to prevent a diplomatic blunder of such magnitude.”
”There’s that, after all.” Halvdan nodded.
There was a moments silence as the dwarves looked for confirmation in each others eyes. An onlooker might have noticed how those eyes narrowed as both dwelled on the injustices of Azeroth.
”For the sake!” Runar snarled defiantly.
”Of the Forsaken!” Halvdan growled.
The sound of engraved dwarven tankards clanging together and slamming down onto the table echoed along the mountains of Khaz Modan.