Even in the most shattered of lands and broken empires, even the slightest glimmer of hope can banish all darkness. In Lordaeron, the plagued kingdom, there was once a glimmer of hope that could have been the salvation of all that its occupants held dear. The Scarlet Crusade, built upon the desperate want for redemption and justice for all those who once lived and loved in the old kingdom of Lordaeron. However, not all things were that perfect. The Burning Legion set their decrepit sights on the crusade, the Nathrezim Balnazzar corrupting and twisting the mind of Saidan Dathrohan, a founder of the Scarlet Crusade. The zealous organization's descent into madness and chaos was inevitable, with or without the grip of the Burning Legion slowly suffocating them.
This is the story of a young man's evolution from being destined to the droll life of a smithy to a proud warrior and leader. His name is Archerus Truesteel, born and raised in the town of Hearthglen. Talis and Syndala were the names of his parents, a blacksmith and seamstress respectively, each owning their own well-off shop. Born before the time of the Scourge and the Scarlet Crusade, Archerus always dreamed of being a great paladin. Knights of the Silver Hand were his idols, particularly Tirion Fordring and his own father.
Tirion would disgrace himself in an effort to retain his honor to an orc who would become his blood brother. Following the deaths of Sir Uther the Lightbringer and King Terenas Menethil at the hands of the insane Prince Arthas, the Knights of the Silver Hand and the Old Alliance of Lordaeron collapsed. Surviving the great wars that came as a premise to this fall, and a survivor of the fall of the Silver Hand, Talis would hide away his past in an effort to protect his family.
The old paladin stowed that tabard of his, concealed his hammer, washed the blood from his hands but kept his ideals on hand, and raised his son mirroring his ideals on him. The righteous ideals of a paladin were, in the mind of the elder Truesteel, the way which all young should be raised. Archerus proved to be a talented smith, but as he progressed through life, his talents and desire to learn soon diverting to a very different field of study. The Holy Light consumed his life. He practiced arduously, his father quenching his thirst in the knowledge of the church before its disgrace and bastardization. Pure practitioners of the Light, if not operating under their banner, were the enemy of the Scarlet Crusade. Anyone not under their banner, and not willing to live beneath it, were their enemies.
Talis never could have dreamed, though, that his son would rise to greatness in the way that he would. Unfortunately, though, his greatness would be masked first by scorn, and then by success.
The stench of death and dreariness wafted through the air, the sun beating down on the broken land of Lordaeron. Crisped, browned grass, dead trees and an aura of fear permeated this land. Juxtaposed against this disgusting scene was a quaint farm, just out of sight and boarded up well enough to house and feed only a single person. Into a hill a small shack was built. The was door shut. and barred from within. The tattered cloth that covered a small 'window' blew about in the eerie breeze, the faint flickering of candles dancing within. Pages turned and curious hums escaped from within, hasted scribbling following. Within, Archerus was at work, documenting his life and findings up until this very moment. In the event something were to happen to him, somebody deserved to know who he was, and what was done to him.
The worn quill with which he wrote swung about as he wrote, his penmanship considerably fine for a man who had spent much of his time working steel, rather than studying old texts. Line for line he continued, detailing just as best he could, but there wasn't enough ink in the world for him to write with. If he could, he'd fill a whole library with nothing but his own writs. A manifesto of grandeur.
His ink well would run dry and there would be literally nothing left for him to write with. His expression grew sour and he beat his fist against the small, shoddy desk which he was just barely able to construct of the broken and battered wood of Lordaeron's formerly beautiful forestry. In front of him were various pages and books; gospels, the published thesis' of wise men and scholars on the origins of the Light, and the documented musing and ramblings of Archerus himself. A collection of sorts.
Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Archerus ran his fingers into his long brown hair, halting at the start of his luscious hairline. Many days he had spent contemplating a move which he assumed would be his death: returning to Hearthglen, the very home which he left as the Scarlet Crusade—despite the just oversight of Taelan Fordring—sought to put an end to the blacksmith prodigy. He left a family effect of great importance to both himself and his research, but unfortunately, the mad crusaders thought his entire family to be a threat. And as such, they sought his head—even to that day.
Eradicating this threat was a great success up until it came time to strike down Archerus himself. His father and mother had already been slain, their blood soaking the floors of their shops beneath lifeless corpses. Archerus was prepared for this day to come, however, and as they beat on the door to the Truesteel residence, they would be met with nothing short of complete and utter forward aggression. Despite being a young man, his upbringing of manual labor built a considerable amount of discipline and muscle at a crucial age.
When the crusaders inevitably beat in the door to his home, they would be met with a great flash of light and the brutish grunt of a hammer being swung. The cracking of steel and the crushing of bone rung through the air, the noise proving to be sickening even to Archerus who had prepared himself for this moment for quite some time, but he had no time to feel remorse or disgust for what he had done. He collected his father's old tomes—save for one massive, silver-bound reliquary—and took off into the Plaguelands on his lonesome. He had no time to think about his friends, or whether his mother and father would receive a proper burial. His survival, and the survival of the knowledge he held was what mattered.
There was only one person who had any knowledge of his existence out here in the barren Plaguelands, and that was his childhood friend Gwenhyfar. Literally a farmer's daughter, Archerus and the fair skinned, amber-eyed, white-haired girl passed their time together enjoying the timid seasons. Running in her father's fields, playing in Talis' workshop... it didn't matter what they did, so long as they were together. They were close enough to be considered inseparable until he began studying with his father to become a paladin. Inexplicable, unrealized affections were what remained between them at the end of the day when Archerus would abandon Hearthglen and exile himself into the nothingness of the Plaguelands. Oh, how time had passed.
They met only once since the day he left. She recognized him at a trading post just inside of the gates of Hearthglen only once a year prior to the present, and even then he was hidden by a tattered cloth hood. Interrupting his purchase of some book binding materials, paper and ink, the girl pulled him aside and put him through the wringer for disappearing. Fortunately that was merely her knee-jerk reaction to it all. She pulled herself back down to reality, however, and reminded herself that he murdered to protect his family's legacy. So few things could justify taking the life of another, but that was all that Gwenhyfar needed.
Since then, Archerus hadn't returned to Hearthglen. He was just barely self-sufficient, to some extent, save for trading with the occasional transient for ink and paper. He had his father's armor, a weapon fit for a holy warrior and his own studies to occupy his time, but loneliness still plagued him. Before long, however, that would change.
Archerus would spring from where he sat, a sudden and frantic knocking on the door of his shack alerting him. Who in the name of the Light would come out this far in the Plaguelands and approach a stranger's home? Well, Archerus knew of but one woman who would attempt to do so, and as such he sprung himself up and pushed aside the tattered cloth which covered the window on his shack. It was built into the hillside to hide it, and the window was on the same wall as the 'door'. His eyes set upon snow-white hair, smooth and long, and a clearly frantic woman seeking refuge in his shanty.
It took little more than a second for Archerus to drop the cloth, unbar and swing open the door to pull the lady inside. The telltale, dried trails of tears stained the fair skin of the woman, her nose still stuffy from weeping, cheeks flushed and her chest heaving from running. Her legs trembled beneath a dress, hardly able to control herself well enough to stand. She wore little more than that white gown, the same one that she wore the day she recognized her old friend. Something had happened for her to seek him out this deep in the Plaguelands—something tragic.
"Archerus!" Her voice cried out, falling into his muscled form as tears once again would fall from her eyes. "The Light has forsaken Hearthglen," Gwenhyfar struggled with her emotions, her arms wrapping around her old friend and gripping at the back of his threadbare tunic, "The Crusade has murdered father and burned his fields... mother left me just enough time to get away before they came for her as well. She told me to go and find you, and to get away from here..."
Of course, nothing short of shock overcame Archerus as his old friend was suddenly reintroduced into his life. His heart was overjoyed, but his mind was still questioning what had happened. He swiped the sweat from his forehead and returned her embrace, his hand resting on the back of her head to settle her weeping. He glanced outward to the land barren land beyond them, seeing columns of smoke rising into the air. Gwenhyfar told him the grim truth.
"Why? What has happened?" Archerus questioned, looking down at her, "Has Isillien finally lost his mind? Did Taelan not try to stop them?"
"No! He was murdered by Isillien, and Tirion has returned from exile!" Gwenhyfar found the strength in her voice, pulling herself up to look at the paladin's rugged guise, "Tirion struck him down to avenge his son... The Crusade is in disarray, and now they seek to strike in Northrend with a great fleet launching from New Avalon... When they requested the entirety of my father's harvest to feed their expedition, he denied them. He argued I watched from the farmhouse as they cut him down!" She swallowed hard, drawing on what little courage remained in her. "They f-... they fed his corpse to the flames after they lit the granary and fields ablaze."
"I..." Gwenhyfar stammered and stumbled over her words, "I have to go back. I have to find mother. She's got to be alright!" Fresh tears fell from the corners of Gwenhyfar's eyes, "Archerus, come with me! Help me find mom!" In her mind, she refused to accept that the Crusade would kill her mother. It hurt her heart too much to even humor the thought. She moved a hand from the small of his back to form a fist against his chest, beating on him as she wept and whimpered. "Please, Archerus..."
Sweat dripped from Archerus' forehead, blood throbbing in his ears and mind now racing. What options did he really have? He could not stay anymore in this shanty hovel of his. Soon, the Crusade will have picked up on Gwen's trail. But, by the time they would get here, they needed to be gone. Archerus let loose a heavy sigh, his heart sinking as he was faced with such a difficult situation. He wrapped his arms around Gwenhyfar, guiding her over to the rickety cot that he spent every one of his nights on.
"Rest Gwenhyfar, just for a moment." Archerus whispered, peeking out the window once again before taking a bucket of water that had been sitting and cooling for the past while. A somewhat clean rag was dipped into the previously boiled water, wringing it out and taking a seat next to the dismayed lady. With the cloth in his right hand, his left rested on her shoulder as he would clean her cheeks.
"Look at me, my friend. Everything will be just alright. I promise you." He would whisper, wiping away her tears and polishing away the dried imperfections on her alabaster skin.
"How could you ever be certain?" Gwenhyfar asked.
"I have no way of being certain. I have the Light, and it is my shield and guide. I will be your shield and guide as well, until we have found home again."
"Nothing will ever be home again, Archerus." Gwenhyfar's amber eyes were cast on the dirt floor of the shanty, her heart sinking to the deepest pit of her chest.
"Do not say such things," the paladin replied, "Dry your tears, Gwenhyfar. There's a long road ahead of us, and I need you along it just as you need me." His arm wrapped around the young lady, pulling her into a friendly embrace.
Gwenhyfar knew he was right, as unfortunate as it was. Oh, how badly she wanted to return to her father's farm. She wanted to see her father again. Give him another hug. Get another kiss from her mother. But all that she had now that was important to her was Archerus, her dear old friend. She grabbed the cloth from his hands and dabbed her eyes again, looking back up at Archerus as she summoned the courage in her to nod in agreement. "Let us go then. Mother is waiting for me..."
Oh, how it broke his heart to hear her say that. He knew just as well as she did that the likelihood of her being alive was practically nonexistent.
Swallowing his breath and pushing himself up, Archerus picked up the old but glimmering set of silver plated that were given to his father all those years ago. He took it long ago when it came time for him to escape Hearthglen. The armor fit him perfectly, and once it was all on and his hair had been pulled loose from the breastplate, Archerus collected that small book which he'd been writing in. He was intent on carrying his legacy with him, so that whoever might stumble upon him in his death would know him, and his story. Threading a silver chain through the spine and binding it to his waist, Archerus rolled his shoulders and pulled loose a knife from his belt. A dirk, sharp and dingy, but that was all he could give her then.
Archerus reached out and took Gwenhyfar's wrist, holding her hand upright and placing the hilt of the dirk in her hand. A look of surprise, and curiosity filled her eyes as she brought the cloth-bearing hand upon it, closing the hilt in her hands. It felt odd in her grip. The worn leather strips around its handle were juxtaposed against her pristine skin, that which never saw the chaos of battle or the hardships of working the field.
"If you have to use it, cut their neck. Carve them from ear to ear if you must to protect yourself." Archerus would speak in the most solemn voice which he could muster,
"Light willing, you will not have to."
To all of my readers, thank you so very much. Your reviews and support have pushed me to write more and more with every chapter, and I hope I can continue to deliver the best content I'll ever put out. I have a new project underway, and I could certainly use the support of my lovely readers to push it forward. A friend and I have launched a Tumblr page titled The Broken Quill, and it is there that I will be posting new chapters. Fear not! I will continue to post here as well, but commentary, character profiles and sketches by my partner will be posted there. Thank you again for your ongoing support.