Disclaimer:- With the exception of a few characters, all copyright belongs to Blizzard.
Preamble:- Firstly, I would like to apologize as, though this is a Warcraft story, it is decidedly un-Warcraftian in its style; heroism, magic, battles etc are few and far between. I have focused on the simple towns folk of Azeroth and how they function and interact within this world. There is a lot of cowardice, apathy, stupidity and corruption. I have also expanded the world, increasing the size of towns and distances between places just to make it bigger and more realistic. This was also written with those who are unfamiliar with the Warcraft universe in mind, so forgive me if I indulge in too much detail.
Chapter one
The town of Lakeshire was one of humble qualities. Although it had seen it's fair share of onslaughts and attacks in the past, being nestled in the vast Redridge Mountains provided it with relative security and was one of the last bastions of charm of the human race. Over two hundred buildings, both civic and private, snaked and meandered along the staggered slopes, each construction rooted deeply into the solid red rock. Centuries of mudslides and rockfalls had hardened this province into a strong and somewhat envious community of houses, workshops, farms and taverns. Upon the arrival to Lakeshire, a traveller would first notice just how stacked the town is; home after home precariously situated up the ever-ascending land with thin, winding chalk paths coiling their way between the buildings. It is said that one has no need of a town map; simply gazing at it from afar provides you with all the layout needed.
This method of deciphering this age-old settlement also gives clues as to its history. The dwellings far up on the slope, the agricultural and artisan buildings flanking on high, the tiny farmsteads desperately ploughing an acre of hilly terrain, they were the new. These constructions, some still in the state of formation, were easily defined as being a recent addition to this slowly growing outpost. As one moves their gaze inwards however, a scene of aging and inevitable decay begin to dominate, with roofs bent from time and discoloured by a multitude of harsh elemental forces. The once white walls that supported the roofs were now displaying a dirty red pattern, broken only by whips of vines lashing themselves with ease onto any surface they can. Wooden construction towers and platforms could also be seen pointing upwards here and there amongst the town, some being used for repair, others to prevent the collapse of entire buildings. Indeed, the oldest part of Lakeshire was completely devoid of any discernable common angle; all its buildings seemingly placed in position without any care of its immediate neighbour. The people of the town have centuries of runoff, landslides and subsidence to thank for that.
One of the oldest constructions was the town hall. It sat at the base of Lakeshire like a huge, pious, brick emperor, its subjects radiating around it and up the dusty red incline of the mountains. Its spire reached up over thirty metres and its bold slate roof reflected the Redridge sun with unabashed brilliance.
Its immediate neighbour was the inn, a more popular and frequented place than the town hall, much to the chagrin of the officials and councillors. To say it was a degenerative and seedy establishment would be unfair; it indulged in family and community activities from time to time as well as catering for the odd drunken group of wayward travellers. Its aesthetic appearance was nothing of note though, and little time was spent on restoring its once brilliant walls and was extremely rare that any income would be used to clear the paths and windows of the ever-present dark green ivy. Nevertheless, tavern and town hall sat side by side, like a mismatched couple, both seemingly responsible for the brood of domiciles surrounding them.
In front of both the inn and town hall laid a well-trodden, muddy pathway. Carts, horses and boots had unwittingly spent many a year churning up its earth, providing rain water with tiny havens during the stormy seasons. A vain attempt to maintain the much-used road had been undertaken, but no town hall budget could be justified in fixing what would always be broken. If one had sense, they would avoid this muddy route, and instead opt for the stretch of wooden platform that ran adjacently to it. This vast band of decking reached over a mile in length and was home to a huge array vendors, traders, travelling salesmen, and tradespeople. Children played there often, and in the darker corners, beggars knelt for alms. It was the one place in the whole of Lakeshire that could truly be called a community hub. It was alive from sunrise to the early morning hours and the air was always filled with voices, laughter and argument. But the main reason this road of wood was here at all was to provide the people of Lakeshire with a suitable dock, for flowing at the lowest point of all that is considered Lakeshire was a subsidiary of the great Lake Everstill.
The lake itself, a gigantic basin of fresh water, sat quite a distance away from the town, with only a slender portion of its contents reaching into the floor of the vale from which Lakeshire sprang. The wide stream of water which crept and swelled at the foot of the town provided many of its people with a decent livelihood. Fishermen and woman made up the most of the population of families there, and as the number grew over the years, so contracted the fishing space, causing much dispute between the various bank-dwelling people. Despite these occasional conflicts, Lakeshire was the one of the few places in the Eastern Kingdoms that had threat-free fishing. This was of vital importance to the people of Redridge as well as the towns and cities of the Alliance, to whom much of the fish was exported.
Arcing over the stretch of water that graced the floor of the town, and linking Lakeshire to the rest of the world, was a large, dual-arched bridge and was in the final stages of repair. It had been partially destroyed some years ago in an attack from a band of orcs. The people of Lakeshire always knew what was out there in the mountains and forests, beyond the roads and their havens, and it was either denial or a strategic mental block that prevented them from being affected by such imminent threats, or worse, paranoid rumours. The Redridge citizens were not warriors or fighters. Many of them had never left town, and those that had, stuck fiercely to the roads and paths. Even the fisherman held firmly to the local waterways and never ventured beyond the bridge, past which the great lake laid with its deep, mysterious waters. As well as the threat of orcs, tales of fishpeople and mountain beasts had also permeated the culture, and was forever discussed and even fantasized by the younger folk who constantly nagged the elders for stories. Occasionally, one was lucky enough to hear from someone who knew a neighbour who swore they saw something in the trees or a face in the midnight waters. A popular pastime of the town's adolescents was to see who could venture out the furthest in to the rocky monolithic mazes and gnarled woods that made up the surrounding terrain. If one were really brave, throwing a stone into some thick, dense woods or over a large boulder, followed by shouting insults and running away was deemed highly respectable by your contempories.
However infrequent the encounters with beasts and orcs may have been, the people knew that the danger was real. Reports were occasionally heard about wandering travellers who had lost their way and were attacked, beaten, robbed or killed. Supply convoys would sometimes arrive with arrows wedged into the side of the wagons. A notice board was erected outside the town hall by Magistrate Soloman, plastered with wanted posters, demanding justice and promising rewards. Some accused the Magistrate of fear-mongering , and that if one wishes to venture off into the wilderness, they do so at their own risk. But Lakeshire's elected official was not a man of calmed conscience. He was partly driven by anxiety and partly by wanting to appear to care about the town he was tasked with administrating. Strange footprints found six miles away? Go home and lock your doors! Mysterious sounds heard from the other side of the lake? Grab your weapons and defend our town! These reactions were highly criticised by the other citizens and they felt far too much money was spent rewarding travelling adventurers and hiring mercenaries. Much to Soloman's delight, a platoon of soldiers had been dispatched from the great human city of Stormwind to guard the town whilst the bridge was under repair, yet they were under no orders to venture out into the mountains to carry out operations or executions based on hearsay or rescue irresponsible citizens. All, the same, Magistrate Soloman was happy to have these soldiers march endlessly through his streets, get violently drunk in the tavern and bully the municipal peacekeepers if it meant the town had a strong, fortified appearance.
But for all the troubles Lakeshire had, it was amongst the most desirable places to live. Many people sought retirement here, usually those who had seen years of combat and warfare. They came from all over the Eastern Kingdoms to find relative peace (no place was completely peaceful), and with them came stories of battles, magic, strange races and far off distant lands. This was how the townsfolk knew of the world in which they lived. Lakeshire had no real library and as such, they could only rely on recounted tales, however misremembered, doctored and falsified they may have been. Once all the stories and songs had dried up, however, the inquisitives no longer bothered the old people for tales and information, and left them in peace to wither away, dreaming of their youth.
So the houses and buildings of Lakeshire still needed repairing, tasks, jobs and duties continued to occupy its citizens and it was seven months since a soldier had reported seeing something conspicuous in the woods. The hot seasons were on their way and the people of Lakeshire were happy. Complacent, but happy.
It was morning and the sun shone through the shifting canopy of elms with sparkles and shades in equal measures. It had risen early and burnt the rocks of the mountains a horrific blood-red to an almost blinding brilliance. Summer was approaching and all the windows in Lakeshire were wide open, as if the contents of each building were gasping for breath. A wild, potent fragrance meandered through the morning air and wound its way into the homes and domiciles of the townsfolk. The heat of the morning sun seemed to awaken the people, like lizards in a desert and the ever-present sound of songbirds coupled with the trampling of hooves and boots heralded the start of the working day. Many people delighted in such wonderful mornings and even indulged in the odd greeting as they passed each other. To walk eastward across the town meant that one could look up at the sun as it danced through the lazy leaves of the elms or gaze down at the ground as the rays illuminating plumes of dry, airborne dust.
For one citizen of this idyllic haven however, the sun was a nuisance. It wasn't a gentle, golden ray of warm solitude but a rude, pointy stick. The particular window which allowed this intrusion faced east, allowing for maximum annoyance. The streams of light, after finding their way through a layer of leaves, barged into a room on the top floor of a large domicile and onto the face of Carod Osmund. His head was the only part of his body that emerged from a coarse blanket on a rough-looking wooden cot. He was dead still; the eyes barely acknowledging the morning vista. The sun hadn't actually waked him up; he had been awake for a while, but the sun was certainly not letting him sleep anymore. The window was ajar and the poorly made glass deformed the sun into all sorts of shapes. The sound from the street below was becoming unbearable for him, not in so much as the volume but that he could no longer deny that it was time to get up. A thousand thoughts of depression, despair and boredom swam round his head yet his face displayed none of this and remained inanimate.
Eventually he sighed and slowly pulled his covers down. He rose slowly, his movements exhibiting the same amount of life his face was. Had anyone seen him rise from his bed, they would have assumed he was a puppet or zombie, devoid of any human expression as he was. He sat upright and swung his legs out over the cot, his body hunched over like a decrepit old man, his face slowly morphing into a façade of disappointment and regret. He remained there for a minute or so, his hands clutching the side of the cot. He let out a sigh, then a moan, then another sigh, and stood himself up. Wobbling a bit on his tired feet, he turned his head and looked around the room. It was a tiny rented accommodation, a converted loft, to be exact, with numerous supporting beams straggling the low, angled ceiling. There were no joyous colours on the walls and no art. Only his few possessions brought any life to the place, and even they were hidden away and insignificant.
Still standing at his bedside, he rocked a little, causing the boards beneath him to squeak. Then he just stood still, his eyes locked on nothing at all, almost glaring through the cheap wooden walls in front of him, through the trees outside, through the miles of rock and through the other side of the world. The gaggle of noises from beyond his window that had been playing at a steady and constant performance suddenly lulled and he held his breath and only the distant slamming of a door seemed to stir him. And so Carod, this unenthusiastic and mournful soul, span on his heels and shuffled towards a bowl of stagnant water in the corner of the room.
Above this bowl was another window, the only other one in the room. This faced north and showed nothing but a jigsaw of olive green leaves, pale branches and dull brown rock. Carod plunged his face into the bowl. It was cold and partly woke him out of his dark reverie. A quick scrub with a bar of soap and a slice of stale bread for breakfast made him more human again, and after searching around for clothing that was vaguely presentable, he got dressed, picked up an apple from a table and passed through a narrow, flimsy door and down an internal narrow staircase.
He exited the house onto a small porch that lay round the side of the main building. The smells and sounds of the summer morning struck him instantly. It awoke in him memories of being a child and being carefree, devoid of tasks and responsibility. He wasn't sure if there was a part of the brain that was somehow modifying these recollections to make them more palatable and considered the fact that his life may have always been an annoying struggle. He thought about these spurious memories for a while and then, upon realising the time, he bent his neck to the right until it cracked then stepped off the porch on the dusty, chalk path and headed southwards.
The incline of the hill made it easier to go to work in the mornings even though the momentum made each of his footsteps slap heavily upon the hard ground. He weaved his way downwards through the town like a water droplet finding its route down a bumpy rock face. He didn't make eye-contact with anyone, never returned a greeting, barged his way through a group of school children and narrowly missed being hit by a rider on a horse. He stooped down a thin alleyway and emerged the other side at the docks. It was 8:30am and the place was already heaving with commerce and activities. He quickened his step and marched past vendors barking deals and offers into the morning air. He eventually arrived at the town hall, where he ascended up the few steps at the entrance and dived into a small side door in the lobby. After climbing a small wooden staircase, he came out onto a claustrophobic, cluttered room. Rows of bookshelves and cabinets, packed with legal tomes, ledgers and documents walled the edges, with two desks nestled amongst piles of paperwork which had no home. Carod stepped over a hedge of scrolls, slipped through a gap between two poorly positioned cabinets and seated himself at a tiny disorganised desk.
He scanned the mountain of paperwork before him and sighed. Upon hearing this muted tone of discontent, an old withered face sprang from behind a grandfather clock on the other side of the room. Carod had not noticed this presence and began to thumb lazily through the parchments with little indifference their importance. The old face continued to stare, and eventually began to move in the direction of the other empty desk, being closely followed by a skinny, bent skeleton on tired, withered legs. So light as he was, this aged creature barely made a sound on the floor boards and almost seemed to float across the room. Carod looked up suddenly at the old man, who continued to traverse through the cluttered mess and with eyes still fixed on the recent arrival, emitted either a smirk or a grimace. Eventually sitting at his desk, which had been placed directly facing Carod's, he picked up his malting quill, dunked it in a pot of ink and began scribbling away. Carod knew it was time to start work.
"Have you copied those land deeds?" the old man enquired, after fifteen minutes of silence.
"Almost. I have done Wilson, Trelene, Heddings…" said Carod
"Robinson?" the old man interjected
"Doing it now" replied Carod, frantically searching the mess for the relevant sheets.
Carod hated this job but it was all he knew how to do. His skill with ink was once thought by some to have artistic value, but was soon quashed by his peers who recommended some administrative job as this was more useful. He had described the job as "soul-crushing" on many occasions and when asked why he didn't just quit, he would simply reply "And do what?" It was this mindset that had him locked into his own cycle of misery. He had the will to escape but not motivation. He had been at this post for nearly five years and the effect was numbing. Many times he would glance over to this ancient scrivener that was perched opposite him and would see himself in years to come. The arched back, the buzzard neck, the weak, hollow eyes, the dead tree fingers. He had also noticed that from the moment the old man sat down till the time he got up, his posture would never change. It was as if his body knew of no other position and that to try something different would only break him.
The old man continued on with his work, never pausing or hesitating and the scratching of his quill sounded like a dog stuck in a constant pant. Carod eventually found the land deed he was looking for and made room on his desk to begin the process of copying. He laid out a fresh sheet of parchment and, with his quill inked, began.
Midday arrived and Carod's neck and shoulders were aching. The influx of newcomers into the town had created an unbearable strain on the legal proceedings and it was not uncommon for Carod and the old man to work into the night in order to stay on top of things. He reclined in his chair slowly; the cracking of the old wood echoing what he was feeling along his spine. He flexed out his writing hand as if he was casting a spell and yawned. The old man was fast asleep, still at his desk and still in his writing position, pen and all. Carod mulled over an idea and he gently rose from his chair, moved from behind his desk and very quietly slipped through the archway that led to the staircase. After dashing across the town hall lobby, he stepped outside and breathed in the warm air.
Carod was a man in his early thirties but carried himself as someone far older. His reddish-brown hair swam around his scalp in a mess and his head slunk forward, stretching his neck out from his thin shoulders. His mouth sat in a rigid horizontal line, almost lipless, but was also capable of great expression, rare that those times were. He possessed dark green eyes, which had the appearance of potentially being quite sinister yet due to his often blank façade, were merely translated as eyes of boredom. His brow too, seemed to be a feature of two moods, being both worried and angry simultaneously. The clothes that were thrown on that morning, (a dirty white shirt, a deep red velvet waistcoat, faded black trousers and way-too-big-for-him ankle high boots) hung loosely over his stooping frame. He was rather thin and instantly gave them impression of someone who had never done a day's work of physical labour in their life, which he hadn't.
He stretched his back, swung his arms about and decided to make his way down towards the bridge, kicking his legs out from under him as he went, as if riding himself of parasites. It was a much more preferable spot to the docks, hating the smell of the fish stalls as he did. Upon reaching the end of the boardwalk, he came to a sudden slope which descended into the brown, murky shores of Lake Everstill, or at least the part that offered itself to Lakeshire. After slipping slightly a few times upon the wet grass, he eventually settled on a large flat rock, one of many that doted the lesser used areas of the shore. To his left was the bridge, at which he then gazed and began to ponder over. He had only ever crossed it twelve times in his entire life but had always admired its architecture and its purpose. The side that was facing him had been completed many months ago; only the side hidden to him remained to be repaired. He could hear the tools and the shouts of the workmen above. It was midday and the bridge builders were still working, enduring the high sun in order to complete this great construction. Carod felt somewhat ashamed of his midday repose as he brought out an apple from his pocket. He looked it over, took one bite then put it back in his pocket.
"Hey there Carod!"
Carod span round on his rock and looked back up toward the town. Precariously working his way down the embankment was a rotund looking young man, sporting tightly cropped hair and an exceedingly weak moustache.
"Hey!" the approaching figure repeated
"Hello Brandt" Carod said quietly, slightly aggravated by the disturbance.
The man, Brandt, attempted to jump the last two foot of the slope but slipped on the wet, soggy earth and fell on his side. He immediately stood up, wiped the dirt from his trousers and carried on as if nothing had gone wrong. Sitting down next to Carod but on a lower piece of rock, he produced a large wedge of cheese from a sack he was carrying and immediately took a huge bite.
"Alright?" he garbled, mouth half-stuffed.
"Yes. Just getting some air"
"Had a good morning?". He rammed some more cheese into his mouth, before swallowing the present lot.
"Yes. You?"
Carod was in no talking mood and was disappointed that Brandt didn't respect that. Had Brandt bothered to take into consideration other people's right to wallow, Carod thought, he would have left him well alone. While Brandt was a friend, right now he was just another intrusion. The oafish manner at which approached the lake side, his pig like fashion of eating, all of these were the direct enemies of the tranquil inner self-loathing that Carod was currently enjoying. He just wanted to be left alone. Of course, Brandt was well aware of this and took clandestine pleasure in aggravating his pensive friend. As quickly as Brandt had come down the slope to the banks, as he had finished the cheese and was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He turned to Carod and beamed a smile. Carod forced out a reply.
"Carod."
"Brandt?"
"What are you doing this time next week?"
Carod hated this type of question more than anything. He didn't want to do anything or go anywhere, but more than that he hated of thinking up believable excuses.
"Working." he replied "Why?"
Brandt smiled again and looked around him.
"Tower of Illigar!" he whispered
"Eh?"
Brandt looked around again and moved a bit closer.
"The Tower of Illiagr!"
"The Tower of Illigar?"
"Yes!"
Carod blinked a few times, trying to make clear without opening his mouth that he had no idea what his friend was talking about.
"Well?" Brandt asked
Carod had started to wonder whether there was something funny in that cheese he was eating.
"Well what?"
"Wanna see it?" Brandt spun his body around to face Carod directly and was now perched excitedly on his rock like a child about to receive a very big present. Carod didn't know what to say. It wasn't one of Brandt's usual ideas. Still confused, Carod asked him to expand on the proposal.
"See it where?"
"Where? On the other side of the mountains! Where else?"
"But… how?"
"I can't explain that now. Suffice to say, I know someone who knows someone who can get us there. But do not tell anyone. They'd stop us if they knew we were going out there."
"But who knows how to get there?"
"Someone who works at the logging shed."
Carod, no wiser than before, sat staring at Brandt whose face was still lit with excitement at the prospect.
"Trust me" Brandt said " It's all safe. We'll be fine. It's completely safe!"
Carod slouched down on his rock. At first, he thought it would be a very bad idea, and that he would have to now convince his friend not to go either. But then something in his mind suggested that it would be, somehow, alright. He had no details, no information; he knew very little about the Tower of Illigar other than some great sorcerer lived there. He moved his head back and forth as though a marble made of pros and cons was being rolled about within. Carod took so long in mulling it over than all excitement had drained from Brandt's face.
"I really thought you'd jump at this chance." Brandt complained.
"Well hold on…" replied Carod
"You're gonna say 'no', I can tell. We need at least five people. I suggested you and told them you would come." Brandt stood up and looked down on his friend."We will be going anyway, whether you decide to come or not. I'll just find someone else."
"Can you tell me the details?"
"Argh!" bellowed Brandt "You're always thinking ahead. Live, Carod!"
Carod's brain had never worked that way. He always thought things through. He weighed the good points against the bad, he took into consideration all dangerous factors, the risks. Never could he do something without considering the ramifications and the implications, even of the simplest of tasks. His mind was a giant web of interconnecting pieces, all representing people, places, lives, death…
"I'll go." he said.
Carod was as surprised as Brandt when he said it. He wasn't even sure if it was him that uttered it. Had he just abandoned all his reasoning and logical faculties? Had he swapped meticulous thought for pure whimsy?
"Yeah, I'll go." He looked up at his portly friend whose smile had returned. Carod sat still for a second, uncertain of what he had let himself in for. Without thinking about it, he pulled his apple from his pocket and took another bite.
"I will let you know the details later, in a few days." Brandt said "OK?"
"Yeah" replied Carod who, in a slight state of shock at his answer, was now deep in a whole new reverie, one in which he was pondering the future. He was about to take another bite out of the apple when Brandt snatched it from him.
"You buy your fruit from Veisilli?"
"Yeah, why?" said Carod, looking up at Brandt. He span the apple around to reveal a light brown sludgy mush emanating from the core.
"There are things in this town that are really rotten" and with that he hurled the apple into the murky waters of Lake Everstill, where it eventually bobbed to the surface and floated away.