The city of Theramore. The refuge of the survivors of Lordaeron's fall to the scourge. Home of the immensely powerful mage, Jaina Proudmoore. A city of pragmatism by necessity, close to the orcish capital of Orgrimmar, and thus proud, brave defenders of the Alliance ideals.
The docks of Theramore. Grit, grime and dirt. Burly men full of the dangerous concoction of boredom and rum. The ships that come in with the goods of an empire came just as readily as the stowaway thieves and criminals fleeing the law in Stormwind. A handful were hardly better than the rats that accompanied them.
Drecarious had worked there on the docks amidst the danger and shady dealers since he was just a boy. Between the hauling of weapons and armour that came by daily and the scrums that would happen no less frequently, he learned quickly that there were two forms of strength; strength in arms to fend off those sorry drunks, and strength in conviction to prevent himself from becoming just like them. This was his home, and this was his work. What he was set to do, he’d do well, with no less honour or duty than the guards wearing the white-and-gold tabard of Theramore. He took pride in his home and his work - even when others did not.
“Drecarious! Drec!” His dockmaster called out as he unloaded the last of yet another shipment of weapons. The orcish presence in the area seemed to be growing, and with the bellicose Garrosh Hellscream taking the mantle of warchief, not a soul felt safe in Theramore. “I’ll be needin’ ya for…” he paused to cough up some manner of unpleasantness, spitting off the dock. “Damned sea air, thought it’s supposed to clear the nostrils,” he mumbled. “I’ll be needin’ ya for a run to Stormwind. Big shipment coming, and they’re short staffed as it is down there. We’ll need you to help make sure everything comes intact. Some of these men,” he said, pointing a thumb at two clearly drunk stevedores, “I only trust them as far as I can throw them.”
“Aye,” was all he said. Drecarious never complained much. Rarely had to. Without delay he hopped on the next boat out to Stormwind. He gave a final look at the city of which he was proud to call home. As the waves crashed against the boat, he watched as even the Citadel, Theramore’s tallest tower and Lady Proudmoore’s quarters, disappeared into the mist of the ocean.
---
Drecarious had to admire the relentless efficiency of Stormwind. The ship came in, the dockworkers loaded their cargo, and they were on their way sooner than he could admire the spires of the Cathedral of Light. Perhaps the speed of the dockworkers had something to do with the looming Stormwind guard, always on patrol. That, or the weary adventurers that frequented the docks on their way to solve the world’s ills had little time for slack-jawed ruffians.
In short order Drecarious made his way to his bunk. He’d have to catch as much sleep as he could before arriving back in Theramore to unload everything he just put on. Fortunately for him, he’d never had much of a problem sleeping, even with the gentle sway of the boat. Normally, he’d sleep right through the trip. However, this was no normal day.
A strange smell awoke him from his bunk. He recognized it somewhere… it was one he’s known for a long time now, strangely familiar. Nothing from the sea, nor the wildlife, not even the docks. Curiosity getting the better of him, he got up and out of his bunk and made his way towards the deck. The smell was stronger there, and when the full blast of it hit him upon reaching the fresh air away from the stuffiness of the ship’s quarters, he knew it immediately. The strange, unique smell was the residue of arcane magic. He’d known it since he was a kid; the aura around Proudmoore’s tower was always recognizable for it. But why was it here?
A great number of the crew were on the deck as well, all piling towards the end of the ship, looking out in the direction of their good city. Some of them were… weeping. Hardened men of the sea, merchant traders and soldiers, unable to even face what they saw. What could it possibly be that troubled them so deeply? Shouldering his way through the crowd, he made his way to the front. The image he saw would never leave his mind. It would be carved into his memory more surely than the deepest scar. It was the smouldering, ravaged ruins of Theramore, obliterated by arcane magic. An eerie, pink-purple glow hung in the air, remnants of the devastation that came to destroy his home.
The docks on which he made his living since his youth were left in shambles.
His home, his people, disappeared in the blast.
The tower in which he bid farewell on his journey to Stormwind, vanished from the skyline. The journey that unknowingly saved him. Images of his own physical form, tossed about like a leaf brought out to sea in a storm, ripped and torn apart by whatever diabolical attack caused the destruction before him.
As they pulled into shore the hairs on his arm stood on end. There was still residual magic in the air, potentially dangerous. He and the others leapt from the boat, scrambling to look for loved ones amongst the wreckage. Scattered calls of “Horde!” and “Hellscream!” were passed among the guards, who, while desperate to maintain order, were irate at the wanton destruction of their city. They could just be rumours, but what other cause was possible?
“The Horde,” Drecarious mumbled under his breath. Amidst the anguish and cries of fear and confusion, there still may be members of their army lurking. He’d never raised a weapon with intent greater than a broken bottle in a dockside bar, but he rushed back onto the boats. He grabbed a helmet, notably of the Theramore style by its brilliant white gleam and tail feathers running behind, and smashed the lock of a weapons case. He pulled out a shortsword, thought better of it, and took out a much larger one befitting a man of his size and strength. After hauling cargo all day since his younger years, his arms were strong, corded muscles ready to strike with the rage of his broken home. They’d taken everything…
He moved through the wreckage, searching for survivors or Horde assailants. Stepping over and around lingering pools of arcane energy, he found little hope for survivors. Save for one, up on a hill, just inside the city gates which had since been locked and barred as a temporary safety measure - a symbolic gesture, considering much of the city walls had been obliterated anyway. As he approached, he saw it was a young boy, not yet even into his teenage years. He was watching, awestruck, alone and unnoticed by the frantic chaos circling around him.
The arcane magic - something of which he understood little - seemed to cause his mind to play tricks on him. For a moment, he thought he saw a shift in the shadows in the willow trees just beyond him. Just a glimpse, for a moment. Nothing more. “Boy,” Drecarious called out. “Boy! You’re not safe here! We don’t know of the threat that’s-”
He saw it again. Just a brief shimmer in his peripherals. And again - this time closer to the boy. There was no time for caution. No time for doubt. With a roar swelling up from deep inside of him, harnessing the rage and anguish at all he had lost, he charged at whatever ghostly presence was there that dared still further bring pain upon this city. His swing was wild, but strong, carrying with it a savagery of the mighty but untrained. To his surprise, it connected with something where there appeared nothing. It plunged deep into the flank of a goblin, revealed now right before his eyes, cutting so deeply it nearly severed the small creature in two. Daggers dripping viscous green liquid fell from its hands. The eyes of the goblin bugged out in shock, unable to so much as even scream as its lung that was punctured from Drecarious’ attack.
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“A goblin,” he mumbled, aghast. “In my city… in Theramore...” His shoulders tensed and his grip on the sword tightened. “A goblin, in my city!” Breathing heavy, his sudden, previously undiscovered bloodlust coursing through his veins, he realized the child was still staring glassy eyed into the town. Drecarious’ shoulders relaxed, and while he still kept watch, he knelt next to the child.
“Where is your home, boy? I’ll bring you there. Help me find your kin” he said, desperately hoping the obvious truth was not what lay before him. To his great sadness, the boy replied only in a nod of his head towards the rubble in front of him. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He stood. “Come. We must not wait here any longer. There may be more of them.” Drecarious didn’t give him a moment to mourn. He couldn’t.
The boy followed dutifully in tow until they passed by one particular house. The remnants of one, more accurately. A glint of metal caught the boy’s eye, and he veered away from his dockworker saviour.
“Boy!” Drecarious called out. “Boy! With me!”
The boy tried desperately to lift a plank that was caught under heavy stone that had fallen from the tower. With all his might he tried to lift it to no avail, until Drecarious came and cleared it out of the way with one strong hand. Underneath, the boy grabbed a small sword. It was little more than a dagger - more of a replica than a real weapon. The boy held it tight against his chest, and without a word started back in the direction they had been moving before spotting it. Drecarious noted the Theramore colours, a tabard of white with a gold anchor, covered in dust and debris hidden amongst the rubble. He grimaced, but made no mention of it.
Back near the docks they came upon a guard. The woman was shouting, pointing frantically this way and that, directing what she could. Her uniform marked her as a higher ranking official, and her tone solidified it. “More men to the perimeter!” she called out. “Get the citizens safe inside, and -” She finally noticed them. “What do you want?” Her tone was harsh, but Drecarious hardly faulted her for it.
“This boy. It’s not safe for him here. He needs passage to Stormwind.”
She pointed off vaguely towards the ocean, assuring them that soon enough there’ll be boats to bring them to safety. Until then, she had better things to do.
As for the two of them, they found a spot to sit and looked out at the water. The boy still held the sword close at hand, and Drecarious realized that he, too, had not lost the grip on his. He inspected it closely. It was razor sharp, fresh from the forges in Stormwind. More notably, it was splattered with goblin blood. “I don’t think I’m a dockworker anymore,” he said.
The boy said nothing.
“I’ll come with you to Stormwind. There’s an…” he decided against saying orphanage. Couldn’t, not yet. “I’ll come with you,” he repeated. They waited hours for the boats to arrive to take them to the capital. They waited, neither of them quite ready to look back at the city, opting instead to stare out at the ocean. It took the boat’s leaving for them to look back and bid farewell to their home. Their lives. The pride that Drecarious had taken in his work and the reputation he had built, all gone in a single blast. What the boy felt, he could hardly imagine. Looking at the skyline, there was no longer a tower. Just a pillar of ash that had risen in its wake. The last remnant of the life they led, fading away with the dust and dirt.
---
They waited in line at the Stormwind barracks just inside the Old Town. The air was heavy with the smog from the forges of the Dwarven district, a marked difference from the fresh ocean air of which Drecarious was accustomed. They had learned Proudmoore had managed to escape with a small number of survivors. It was little comfort to either of them.
A fumbling Stormwind guard pushed papers aside as they reached the front of the line. “Name?” she asked, her throat clearly sore from the smoke and long hours she had worked as a result of the crisis, as it came out in little more than a rasp.
“Drecarious, and…” The child still had not spoken a word. When he tried to deliver him to the orphanage, he refused to leave, opting to stick by his side regardless. “Drecarious and… boy.”
“And what is the boy’s name?” the guard asked with a sigh.
“That’s all you need.”
The guard sighed again. It seemed a common action for her. She scribbled something on a scroll heavy with ink and directed them towards a makeshift pile of tents they had piled in the courtyard just inside the barracks, usually reserved for a training ground for would-be protectors of the city.
Drecarious laid his sword down beside his assigned bunk. He had hardly remembered he was carrying the thing. It felt far more comfortable than he would have ever expected. It was then he also realized that he had never even so much as wiped the blood off the blade. It had dried to an ugly shade of brown. He’d never taken a life before. Never thought he would. Neither did it bother him, however. To Drecarious, it was much the same as shipping cargo; there was a job to be done, and he did it well. A point of pride that he thought had been lost in the explosion had returned.
The boy planted right onto the bunk next to him and was asleep faster than he could say goodnight, if he were to have spoken a word. Before Drecarious went to sleep as well - a task that, in spite of the fury he still felt and the shock at the day, would come easy to him due to the weariness he felt - he noted the boy had placed his sword beside his bunk just the same as his.
--
“Name?” was what he woke up to. He blinked his eyes, trying to dispel the fog that filled his mind. “Name, please, sir.”
“Drecarious,” he mumbled. “Of Theramore.”
“Apologies,” the guard replied quietly, likely having said it far too many times today already. “Refugee status, then? Or a soldier?”
“I’m thinking I’ll wake up first, before I declare the path my life is taking,” Drecarious groaned. Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was the smoky air from the furnaces, maybe it was the cot that didn’t sway like the boats, but his head throbbed terribly.
“Apologies again. But I need an answer, sir. You and - is this one yours? The boy?”
He looked over to the child, already sitting up in his bunk, wearing a stoic, rigid stare. The boy had seen far too much for a lifetime, let alone one of his age. It was up to him to do what he could to help him. “Yeah. With me.”
“Refugees, then. When you’re ready, head on to-”
“No.” It was the child that spoke. He said it with conviction. Surety. A warrior’s bravery expressed in a young voice and a single word.
The guard smiled. “I’m afraid you’re a little too young, child. You’ll have to-”
“Soldier,” the boy said.
“You heard him,” Drecarious agreed. “He’s my squire. I told you he’s with me.”
The guard looked over his papers, running a hand through his hair and put on a puzzled, frustrated expression. His sergeant had told him to accept near anyone who applied for the military. The same sergeant had also told him not to bother him again for ‘pointless nonsense.’ “Just throw a helmet on him and say he’s a gnome. I don’t have time for this.” Scribbling on his papers, he went on to the next bunk.
---
The years passed. Drecarious served his part in the Stormwind army, travelling from the beautiful lands of Pandaria to the island chains of Kul Tiras. No mission was too dangerous, no task too daunting. The same sense of pride in duty he had at the docks had followed him with every swing of his sword and every roar of challenge to the enemy. It was a new world to him, but he was the same man.
With considerably different accolades, of course. The people had taken to calling him “Drecarious the Noble” in light of his deeds. The same dedication to duty had followed him from the docks to the military. Still, with every mention, he’d clear his throat and tilt his head towards his squire. “Drecarious the Noble, and the boy,” they would correct.
Now, a new challenge would find him in the realm of death. “No place for a boy,” he’d say, knowing his travelling companion wouldn’t blink at the thought of danger. “It’s a land of horrors,” he’d warn to be met with only a shrug. “You’re welcome to remain here. I cannot promise your safety.” The boy looked up at him and gave a nod, placing his hand on the hilt of his tiny sword from Theramore, knowing that one day he’d be wielding one just the same as the soldier at his side.