For Commander Orman, sleep continued to evade him.

In the cabin of the Scarlet flagship Light's Fury, he lay on his cot, attempting to rest. He tossed and turned, mumbling and flailing around wildly as his attempts continued to fail him. Sighing, he sat up and sat on his bed, head on his hand as he rubbed his eyes irritatedly, with the rocking of the ship doing nothing to aid his efforts to sleep. Standing up from his bed now, he walked over to his desk where the tabard of his organization, the Scarlet Crusade, lay on the chair, neatly pressed and folded. Picking it up, he placed it over his armor and admired it in the mirror. The tabard was red and white, and had a flame covering most of the chest part. The Scarlet Crusade was a religious military organization dedicated to the liberation of Orman's home of Lordaeron, which had been consumed by the Scourge over a year ago. The Scourge was no ordinary organization - it's armies consisted of the dead. Civilians and soldiers raised after their deaths by necromancy fueled this terrifying war machine forward. Lead by their dark lord The Lich King, the Scourge had established their unholy control all across Lordaeron. What added insult to injury for the majority of the survivors was that the Lich King was once the Prince of Lordaeron Arthas Menethil. The Crusade was formed after the collapse of the government of Lordaeron and pledged the destruction of the Scourge. Now, the Ashbringer, leader of the Crusade, had appointed Captain-General Orman as military commander of a fleet, consisting of ten ships, that would sail to the Scourge's dark contient of Northrend and accomplish what thousands before them could not - the destruction of the Lich King and the liberation of Lordaeron.

Leaving his cabin caused the two sentries guarding the door to clasp their feet together in salute. Orman nodded and continued around the ship. The crewmembers of the Light's Fury were scurrying about, performing their duties. Sailors hosting supplies, swabbies cleaning the decks, cannoneers angling and setting up their cannons and soldiers patrolling the decks. As he passed by them, many of the crew saluted or otherwise payed respects to him as they walked. Orman returned their affections with a smile and a nod. Orman cared for all of his soldiers, as he considered them like family - all he had left after the destruction of Lordaeron. He had trained with many of them, laughed, shared victories and defeats - he was their commander, but more importantly, he wanted to be their support line. Striding to a staircase that lead up to the main deck, he stopped and looked around. "We will be victorious in Northrend. The Light will see us through" he said to no one in particular. Stepping up to the main deck, Orman felt the chill of the Northern winds hit him in the face much like the slap of a jilted lover. On the exposed deck of the ship, more sailors rushed around doing their duties. Cannons were covered with a tarp on this deck in order to prevent rusting. After two months of travel, the fleet of ten ships was stopped off the coast of Northrend in order to make fleet preparations. Walking over to the wheel, he stopped and spoke to the navigator, Renthran was a high elf, a member of a race who's home had also been destroyed by the Scourge and also had been admitted into the Crusade. Shivering as he walked over, his bald head attracting most of the cold, he nodded to him. "Renthran. How is the navigation now?"

Sighing, Renthran faced Orman, piercing blue eyes shining in the mid-morning and began, "Well sir, the ice is not as thick as we expected at this time of year. It seems that it has thawed considerably."

Nodding, Orman looked around - the ocean was indeed much less thick as initial predictions. Beside them was a massive iceberg that towered over the ships. Grasping a spyglass that lay on a navigational table, Orman opened it up and peered toward the Northrend coast.

The coast was eclipsed with snow, and the wind seemed to be pushing the snow toward the land. He could see large trees on the coast that seemed to appear like small blotches. Also, Orman swore he could see scattered hulks of shipwrecks at the limits of the spyglass, but he could not be sure. Closing the spyglass, Orman suddenly found himself standing beside a dwarf - Sergeant Hanthar Rockfist. Rockfist was one of a few Dwarven immigrants that arrived in Lordaeron before the Plague struck, and he was one of Orman's best warriors, responsible for training the Crusade's riflemen. "Ah! Sergeant, there you are." Orman shviered now, the cold wind whipping up stronger, howling almost like the cry of wolves.

"Aye, general! Wot kin I do fer yeh?" Rockfist's beard was large and red, characteristic of most of the Bronzebeard Clan of dwarves. He was covered in snow, flakes gently covering the top of his head and his shoulders.

"How are the training regimens of the marines going?" Orman inquired while he was shivering, wrapping the small scarf around his neck tighter as the cold intensified.

Rockfist grinned and chuckled. "Oh, well...They've go' the basics and a healthy fear o'the Light curtsey of the priests! We're almos' ready t'go!"

Smiling, Orman nodded approvingly. A fear of the Light, Orman believed, would help the troops fight on. "Good. We must be ready - all and all, the Scourge have the major advantage in numbers. We, however, have the Light...and determination that the foul beasts do not."

Nodding, Rockfist grinned and clapped his hands together once. "Aye! We go' th' best lads on our side..th' Scourge've got nothin' bu' their foul necromancy tha'll be done in easily!"

Nodding, Orman sighed and looked around the seas. The other ships floated behind the Light's Fury, flying the Scarlet colors and staying in a defensive formation. All of the ships had battle-tested, well-trained crews that Orman knew would be just right for this operation. "Now...where is the Admiral?" Orman inquired to Rockfist. "The Admiral" in this case was Barean Westwind, appointed by the Ashbringer to head the naval aspects of this operation. Westwind was a seasoned naval officer, serving for many years in his home nation of Kul Tiras before joining the Crusade; his leadership had been instrumental in securing old Loraderonian fleet ships and appropriating them for use in the Crusade. Orman could think of no one better to lead the navy in an operation such as this.

Rockfist shrugged. "Dunnae. 'Aven't seen 'im since last nigh' when he went t'the mess."

Westwind was much more of a hands-on leader then Orman, something Orman considered his own personal failing; Twice a week for the last two months since the fleet set out from New Avalon, Westwind would dine with the sailors, eating the same rations they did. It had earned him much respect with his men. "What about you, Rentharan? Have you seen him?"

Shrugging, Renthran looked to Orman before answering, "No, sir. I would try his study. He spends a large amount of time there. Either that or the chapel." Each ship, as per Crusade regulations, was equipped with a chapel, for all soldiers to worship.

Nodding, Orman prepared to set out to the chapel. Turning to Rockfist, he spoke. "Sergeant, I want you to keep the training up at the pace it is at now. We must be at peak efficiency before we make landfall." Nodding, Rockfist saluted Orman, who returned it. "Light be with you, gentlemen." he exclaimed, before heading back to the lower decks.

Walking through the mid-ship deck, Orman entered the chapel. The chapel was in a room that was formerly used by the ship, in its day in the Lordaeron navy, as a recreation centre. Now it was converted into a full-use chapel: the altar to the Light was a massive affair in the room, with candles being lit at all times on the altar, and to the midle was the symbol of the Church of the Light, adorned with gold and shining like the Light itself. Carpeting with the Light symbol was affixed to the floors, and banners of the Church of the Holy Light* were on the wall. All-in-all, the room was a pleasant sight for most of the men, including Orman. He was not a spiritual person before the coming of the Scourge, but like many came to see the Light as a wonderful thing after the destruction of Lordaeron. To Orman, secularism and lapsation into sloth was part of the sins of the people that had caused the destruction of their kingdom. Of course, even on a ship crewed by the most holy, some would commit unholy sins, and as such, a confession booth was provided off to the right of the altar. Orman felt the need for confession and, seeing no sign of Admiral Westwind, stepped into the booth. Sitting in the small chair provided, he rapped his knuckles on the screen.

Promptly, the screen opened to reveal one of the many ship friars sitting on the other side, red headband ready and robes polished for service. "Yes, Commander? Have you come to confess your sins?" Orman nodded solemnly. "It is always good to know that even in a time of urgency such as this, that you have not forgotten the need for confession."

Orman nodded once more, before he spoke. "Yes, friar. I have sinned...I have had violent thoughts and my mind was consumed with hatred for most of this journey. It has clouded my judgement many times." Orman was known amongst the sailors as having a strong temper; his many faults that he blamed himself for included punching a sailor in the face who had failed to tie a tack-line the right way. Nodding, the friar sat in thought a moment before speaking.

"Hatred is a normal emotion, sir. But you have, as you have said, let it cloud your judgment. It is a common sin, that the Light can easily forgive; for we have a hard mission ahead of us. But know this, General - we cannot always blame outside factors for our own faults. Sometimes the faults lay with ourselves...and we must accept that at times."

Nodding, Orman knew the Friar was absolutely right; he had always blamed the mission or others in the past, but in his heart, he knew it was all his doing. "What can I do to make things right, friar?" Orman asked, consumed with regret.

"A simple tithe will satisfy the Light's love for you, sir."

Nodding, Orman reached into his pocket and pulled out three pieces of silver; tithes for absolution of sins was a common practice, one that had been happening since the Church's near-destruction at the hands of the Scourge. Placing the money in the small tin the friar had slid over, he bowed in respect. The friar then nodded and smiled.

"Know now thou ist forgiven in the name of the Most Holy Light. Amen."

Smiling, Orman stood up and thanked the man before leaving the confession feeling almost as if a great weight had been lifted from his soul.

Continuing on down the corridor, Orman came to the Admiral's cabin. Westwind had chosen a cabin on the mid-deck much like Orman, but unlike Orman, his cabin was both smaller and unguarded. Westwind trusted the crew of this ship with his life, and they, in turn, trusted their lives to him. Rapping on the door with his knuckle, a voice beckoned him to enter. Orman turned the handle of the door and entered. Westwind's cabin was simply one room, with a bed, a desk, a chair, armoire, and many books. Westwind sat at his desk recording presumably more journal logs. He was an avid record-keeper, and Orman could not help but admire the man for that.

Westwind looked up from his desk and nodded. "Ah! Orman..there you are!" Barean Westwind was older then Orman, and it did show; his wrinkled face was testament to it. Hair grew off to the sides of his head, but not at the top - he was bald much like Orman. He had, however, a fatherly warmth to him. While strict and almost authoritarian during duty, when he was not on duty he treated his crew like family.

Orman bowed slightly out of respect and spoke. "I was hoping to talk to you about the fleet preparations, Admiral."

Nodding, Westwind offered him a seat, pulling out another chair from the corner of the room. Orman nodded and sat down. "What is it you wanted to discuss about it?" On Westwind's desk were naval maps, navigational charts, and the like - his journal was off to the side. Orman sighed and took a deep breath before continuing.

"Sir, we need to make preparations for when we do make landfall. It seems that so far, no plans have been made. Correct me if I am wrong, but...is that the case?"

Westwind placed his navigational compass down and sighed before nodding. "You're right, General. We haven't made many plans for it...it seems that I was expected to come up with them myself at the drop of a hat." Orman detected bitter frustration in his voice as the Admiral spoke, "I wish that I could have had an advisory team help me with this, but...the only one who seems to be offering me help is Captain Jeffcoat." Christoph Jeffcoat was captain of the Light's Fury, and the man that was considered, due to his position, as Westwind's second.

Orman sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are serious? Well...I would like to help you, Admiral. We must work together on this if we're to come out on top, even with the Light's Grace. How about supper?"

Westwind nodded, patting his desk with his left hand. "Very good. Who else would you like to be there? I'd like to bring Captain Jeffcoat, if you don't mind."

Nodding, Orman waved his hand. "That's fine..I want Sergeant Rockfist and Invar there." Invar, also known as Invar-One Arm, was the Chief Assassin of the Scarlet Crusade and a man that Orman knew very well. He was very eccentric and reserved, but was a ferocious fighter and was credited with making many blows against the Scourge back home in Lordaeron. He had lost his arm in the Second War, but was still credited with the deaths of several Scourge sub-commanders even with his disability.

Nodding, Westwind put down his compass and faced Orman. "Of course. I'll see you all tonight, then?"

Orman nodded and stood up. After standing up, he saluted Westwind, who returned it. "Light be with you, Admiral."

Smiling, Westwind nodded and patted Orman's hand. "And you, General."

Orman stepped out of the cabin and closed the door behind him. Setting out toward the lower decks, he suddenly paused at a corridor leading to the stairs to the lower deck. A figure was moving around in the shadows of a storage door. Peering curiously into the darkness, he was surprised as a voice spoke up behind him.

"Orman. Glad I finally found you."

Startled, Orman jumped up, spinning around like a whirling sandstorm. "Invar! May I humbly request that you do not sneak up on me like that again." Invar was roughly the same height as Orman, but was much skinnier. His left arm was missing, and he used his undershirt to cover the stump. His face was clean of hair, but several scars ran across parts of his otherwise unblemished face. His hair was pulled back into a small bun that was unkempt and messy. His blade Serilias, a longsword that glowed purple, was sheathed at his side. Little was known about Invar's past beyond what he chose to volunteer. He had claimed service in several pirate organizations until he was saved by the Light, and had fought for the Crusade since. Feared and respected by his peers and superiors alike, Invar was a valuable asset on any mission. He was also known as very unorthodox and nonconformist; he refused to salute, wear a uniform, attend meetings, or even wear the Crusade's tabard.

Invar broke into a harsh laugh, grasping at Orman's arm with his right hand. "And why not, Orman? You know as well as I do that a little humor can diffuse a tense situation."

Sighing, Orman could not help but muster a small smile. "Well..I suppose you're right. I was hoping to find you, anyway. Admiral Westwind is having a dinner, and you're going to be there."

Blinking in surprise, Invar laughed again. "That's priceless! What did you have t'tell him to get me to show up? I am honestly curious at this one, Orman." Invar reclined against the bulkhead as Orman spoke.

"All I had to say to him was that I wanted you there. You're a valuable asset to the Crusade and more importantly, to me." Invar and Orman were close, as Invar did not see eye-to-eye with many of the Crusade leaders due to his unorthodox quirks.

Invar nodded thoughtfully before looking out toward the storage room door. "Well, I'd be glad to show up. Light wants me there, Light will have me there." Invar walked toward the stairs leading to the upper deck, and was joined by Orman.

"Tell me something though, Invar" he began, "What drives you to act the way you do? You know that the priests whisper that you are acting against the Light...you do not want to risk your soul, do you?"

Invar laughed harshly as the duo trudged up the stairs. "My friend" he started, "The Light doesn't care about how we dress. It cares about our actions. The Light drives me, just as strongly it does for you. We in the Crusade share the same goals - the destruction of those that destroyed our homelands. It should not matter about what we say, do, or act - all that matters is that we have devotion to the Light in our own ways, and that we have a burning desire to destroy the Scourge. You know that I have both." Reaching the top of the stairs, the duo prepared to part, Orman heading toward his cabin while Invar headed toward the mess.

Before they departed, Orman spoke. "Keep at it, Invar. I feel that everything will work out - The Light will see us through. Before long we will be at the gates of Icecrown and the Lich King will lay dead at our feet, as we hold his head in triumph and show the Scourge that the power of the Light can overcome all!"

Invar grinned before the two departed. Orman could not help but think, as he walked toward the sentries near his cabin, that things would work out, and that victory was theirs - because the Light willed it.

"As I've said, gentlemen - Command did not give me any word of a fleet plan for landfall. I was expected to come up with it on my own, it seems." Westwind spoke, just after putting his glass of wine down. Westwind, Orman, Invar and Rockfist were dining in Westwind's cabin to discuss fleet matters; Captain Jeffcoat could not attend due to fleet exercises. The men nodded at Westwind's revelation before Rockfist spoke, placing the chicken that he held in his hand down.

"Ye say tha' no one gave yeh plans fer it, Admiral? Bu' wot 'bout the Ashbringer? Surely 'e musta said somethin'."

Shaking his head, Westwind sighed. "Not a word. I know that he was busy, however, in the preparations for attack upon Stratholme."

Invar chuckled at this, placing his goblet down. "Face it, Rockfist - they either did not have time for us, or they wanted us to fail. One or the other."

Rockfist growled and pointed a stout finger accusingly at Invar from across the table. "Dunnae say tha', lad! Jes' cos yeh haven't got any faith in our leaders, dunnae try t'sway this table into yer treason!" Orman sighed; his head was hurting already; in the less then half-hour period since dinner began due to all of the bickering, accusations had been flung about; Invar had no faith in the Crusade's leaders, accusing them of purposely sending the expedition off without proper information, while Rockfist accused Invar of treason and attempting to divide the fleet against each other.

It was Orman who spoke now, raising his head up past his meal and staring at both combatants. "Enough!" he pounded the table, dishes and silverware rattling, making all three men sit up in startled attention. "We continue to fight about the what ifs, and not discussing at all the plans for landfall! We should work on that now, and fight later, gentlemen. The Light guides all of our hands, but that doesn't give us the right to slap the hands of others."

Nodding in agreement, the men fell silent. After several minutes of quiet interrupted only by the sounds of eating, Westwind felt confident enough to open his mouth. "I agree with Orman. We need to stop these bickerings and focus on our plans for landfall. I suggest that we should not deploy the fleet to shore all at once - it could be very dangerous and leave our flanks open to a sea attack."

Scoffing, Rockfist chuckled, bits of chicken hanging off his mouth. "Tha's not gunnae happen and I'll tell ye why: Th' Scourge have got no ships. They've go' no undead shite that kin attack from th' sea. What we should do is deploy everythin' an' make our push t'wards Icecrown right off the bat. Tha' way we kin take 'em by surprise and wipe em out without 'em even knowing wot hit 'em!" Slamming his fist down onto the table for emphasis, Rockfist smirked triumphantly.

Again, Invar spoke next, still laughing. "How wrong you are, dwarf. You know as well as I that while the Scourge lack naval capabilities, they do have air based capabilities, which we do not. They could take out our fleets using their gargoyles easily, if we just park it all on shore. Leaving most of our ships off the coast will allow them to shoot down any aerial support the fiends get." Orman had to agree with Invar; the Scourge possessed massive numbers of gargoyles, beasts that flew in the air and would pluck people from the ground, eviscerate or decapitate them, and drop the bodies down onto others like morbid projectiles.

"We cannot just deploy everything on a whim, Rockfist." Orman began "We need to be cautious about landfall. Even still - we have no idea where we plan to land!"

Rockfist scowled darkly, but nodded solemnly. "Aye, Orman - I kin say tha' yer righ'. Bu' we still kinnae give in t'Invar an' his treason - th' Light speaks through our leaders back at Avalon. We kinnae say tha' they dun't care. " Nodding, Orman had to agree; to be divided on an issue now is possibly the worst thing that could happen.

Westwind spoke up now, filling his goblet with wine. "Then what do you propose, gentlemen? We must act, now - landfall is less then a day away."

Orman stood up at this, put down his glass, and spoke. "What we should do is this..."

"I...will...break...you.."

The voices in Orman's head continued to resonate as he lay in his cabin, tossing and turning in the futile act of troubled sleep. Orman's nightmares had plagued him since the expedition set out from New Avalon and had denied him many nights of rest. This night, they seemed to be intensified. His dream was one of chaos and death; he stood in a city that he recognized as Lordaeron's former capital, which was aflame and full of dead bodies. Skeletal soldiers of the Scourge surrounded him, glaring and growling with malevolent ferocity. Orman stood with his sword broken at his side and blood caking his head. He was weakened and slouched over. The fires raged all around him, roaring as if tempting him to jump. "You...will..die. Like...all...of...the...others." The voice returned again. Orman grasped his sword tighter as the mob of Scourge surrounded him more and more, the eyes and soulless stares of the figures looked ready to penetrate his very soul. And, like the other dreams before him, Orman charged into the mass, but just as he reached them, the dream shifted; Orman was in a cage now, suspended over a pit of swirling darkness. Screams and moans echoed from it, and shadowy hands reached up in an attempt to pull Orman down. On all sides of the cage were bones and skulls, and Orman shook the cage futility, trying to escape. The pool of darkness rose and rose until it was just below him. The hands batted at the cage now, but they too could not break it. Just then, the Lich King appeared above the cage, standing on a ledge that the cage was suspended from.

"All will serve me in the end, human. Come...the mightiest champions of Lordaeron have fallen at my feet. Frostmourne hungers!"

Blackness took Orman's dream now, as an echoing scream began in his head. Soon the lone scream was joined by another, then another, until in no time it sounded like a twisted chorus of screaming. Just as the voices grew, Orman shot awake, tumbling out of his bed.

Groaning in pain, he grasped his head and stood up slowly, shaking the covers that had fallen with him off his body. "Light save me...these nightmares are getting worse." Returning to his bed, he lay back down and attempted to return to sleep, but just as his eyes closed, a loud knock came at his door. "What is it?" Orman sighed sleepily.

Opening the door was Admiral Westwind, who came in and stood by the entrance. "Oh, Admiral...What is it?" Orman responded, eyes being caked with wrinkles and dark spots indicating a lack of sleep.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Orman, but I thought you might want to know - we've arrived."

Blinking in surprise, Orman jumped to his feet and grasped his cloak, throwing it over him. He and Westwind departed the cabin, sentries saluting as they parted. Silence was their only companion as they trudged toward the entrance of the upper deck. Around them, sailors and soldiers scurried to and fro, attempting to make the ship ready for landfall. Bells chimed as officers rushed with their soldiers, opening up compartments and grasping rifles and all sorts of other weaponry to prepare for the landfall. Reaching the entrance of the upper deck, the two men walked up the stairs and stepped onto the deck. Most of the sailors were clustered at the bow of the ship, staring out to the shore. Westwind and Orman walked over to the other side of the ship, staring out over the ocean toward the shore. The coast was more visible now then when Orman spied it days ago. Crystal clear snow glistened in the sunlight as more of it sprinkled down to join the ever-growing piles of it on the land. Shipwrecks dotted the landscape, and scattered ruined buildings dotted the grey shore that the fleet approached. Trees grew everywhere except the beach, and the trees formed a canopy overlooking the beach, almost like fingers trying to embrace a baby. The clouds were grey and stormy, as snow fell onto the ships now. Westwind and Orman stared in awe, snow falling onto their uniforms in a steady stream now. After several minutes, it was Orman who finally spoke up as the wind rustled his tabard and the ship.

"Arthas...we're coming for you."

END OF PART ONE