Prologue
On the first step of a journey, question your purpose.
If you can find no fault in your reason for going, take your next.
On the second step, question your destination.
If it is clear and familiar to you, take your next.
On the third step, question your supplies.
If you are amply supplied, take your next.
On the fourth step, question your equipment.
If they are of quality construction, take your next.
On the fifth step, question your self.
If you are fit and capable of making the trip, take your next.
If, on the sixth step of your journey you have no doubts,
take your seventh, and every one after that, knowing that
your destination will soon be within sight.
-Dwarven Proverb
The room was as dark and stale as a tomb, only the indistinct grey outlines of shapes visible to all but the keenest of eyes. Slivers of light the thickness of knife blades were thrown by the shuttered window, cutting away the gloom in a few places, revealing thin shards of color there; green leather, wood-stained oak, faded parchment. The chamber was nearly silent as well, the only clues indicating that time had not somehow come to a stand-still within this room were the motes of dust dancing languidly in the shafts of light. There was too, the regular cadence of inhalation and exhalation from its sole occupant which swirled the minuscule glitters on unseen eddies. Faint strains of noise, shouting voices, horse hooves clopping on cobblestone streets or gulls crying crept unbidden and unwelcome into this sanctuary of morose reclusion, seemingly as alien to it as a snow flake landing on a sand dune.
There was then a sharp and crystalline clink of finely cut glass striking stone lightly, seeming like a roll of summer thunder in the stifling and oppressive quiet. It was trailed closely by a shuffling of cloth and a sound only a set of lungs and a pair of lips could give birth to, a sound beginning its existence as a despairing sigh and evolving into pained croak near the end, its lifespan measured in moments. None of its like followed in the gulf of silence that followed, however, its creator slipping back quietly into the rum-drenched seas of blissful unconsciousness.
There was another sequence of sounds then, coming from outside the locked and shuttered room, the ascent of booted feet on stairs, marching onwards to the beat of inescapable duty. The clomping of stiff, boiled leather soles came to a stop with a slight shuffle just outside the chamber door then remained still for some time, as if considering what task had to necessarily follow, a pair of dark shadows blocking the slim horizon of sunlight along the door's bottom. The boots shuffled again, heralding three sharp raps on the portal and the barely detectable clinking of mail armor and creak of folding leather. With a noise akin to the whisper of a dainty maiden's footfalls across stone a folded and sealed letter of cream-colored vellum was injected into the room under the door, and, with duty discharged, the boots clomped gratefully and quickly away.
The three knocks disturbed the room's only occupant, rousing him from his drunken slumber and forcing out a pained grunt from deep within his throat. Unhurried by curiosity's prodding touch the lone figure sat still for a time, his reverie broken only by an air-hungry yawn and the light squelching noise of bleary eyes being rubbed. Those same eyes looked to the door, then to the crisp and clean intruder on the floor that the wooden guardian had allowed to slip by. More time passed, and despite the calmness of the setting a fierce war was being waged, an internal conflict between the will to act and the mindless desire for self-gratification.
" Haven't you taken enough from me? " a harsh voice whispered finally to the darkness, an empty question posed to a vacant room.
Muscles strained and clothing slid and shifted as a humanoid shape, hunch-backed and shambling, formed itself from one of the inanimate fixtures residing within the oppressively hushed chamber and moved towards the letter. With a creak of stiff joints and a breath made tight by a curled back pale, slender fingers grasped the missive by a corner and hefted it upwards, as if loathe to touch any more of it than was necessary. Fingertips traced along the cool ridges of the wax seal with the scrutiny of digits long starved of tactile sensation, relaying to the mind what the eyes could not. Spurred to further action by their findings the occupant moved to where the shuttered windows leaked beams of sunlight. With a few insistent open-palmed slaps the flood-gates parted to allow a chaotic rush of illumination, sounds and fresh air into the stagnant pool of cloying shadow and silence the room had been allowed to become. The figure, harshly revealed by that which he had sought refuge from, recoiled as if wounded by shielding his eyes and wincing.
The now starkly illuminated man was revealed to be one of the Quel'dorei, or Highborne, though there was little about his appearance or bearing that would give any indication of such a noble lineage. Blonde hair, tangled and knotted, still managed to catch the rays of the sun, giving it an almost golden sheen, with gleams of pure red throughout. Contrasting sharply to the burning crimson of his eyes the pupils shone like rings of frigid blue steel, laying thick and heavy around the now tiny black pupils. Like some sort of grotesque rooster heralding the morning a belch rumbled out from the elf's sagging belly and issued out from his slightly parted lips, as foul and sour as the very things that had been tossed in there to ferment the night before. Patting his sternum with his right fist lightly the elf, arrayed in a mismatched suit of a yellow wool tunic and blue leggings carrying the scent of too many days without a wash, shifted himself so that he was shielded from the harshest of the sun's light, while bringing the letter more into focus.
It did indeed carry the seal of the Theramore ruling council, the purple wax seal marbled with white the very image of an identical letter he had received almost…what was it? Nearly a year ago? Frowning even more as he tried to remember exactly how long it had been since that day a flicker of grief passed over his already pinched features, an image of who had delivered the previous letter to his very hand flashing through his mind. Had it been so long already? The sparked curiosity and brittle framework that was the elf's lingering sense of duty prompted his finger, his nails long and unkempt, to pry the seal away from the vellum, chips of dried wax joining crumbs of bread on the dusty floor. When it finally broke the elf pushed the two sides of the folded letter apart, his eyes having to refresh themselves by blinking several times before they were able to grasp the smooth, elegant chains of letters inked there and hold fast.
To all persons currently in military service the rank of lieutenant or higher, Magi and Clerics of at least ten years experience, and guild leaders within Theramore and its environs,
A long time has passed since we, formerly of Lordaeron, Dalaran, Kul Tiras and many other fiefs and baronies, were forced to leave our homes with the Scourge on our heels, lead by visions promising safety on distant shores. Two years have passed since the titanic battle at the foot of Mount Hyjal, where Orc, Kaldorei, and the Alliance stood shoulder-to- shoulder to save our world from the clutches of the Burning Legion. Word now comes from overseas that the Kingdom of Azeroth is seeking to re-establish economic and political ties with its estranged brethren from the north continent in the form of regular shipments of goods, information, and needed personnel that would mutually benefit our respective interests.
All persons reading this notice are asked to decide who they would be able to part with for such an exchange, be it themselves or one of their subordinates. Those selected will have a chance to present their case to the council, and based on the respective needs of both Theramore and Stormwind, it will be decided who will be allowed to travel back across the ocean. Understand that this exchange does not free any from their oaths of duty, and even upon their return to human lands those chosen will not simply be allowed to leave when and to where they please. Those who appear to believe that they can will be indefinitely denied to partake in this exchange.
The first ships will be arriving in ninety-two days, by best estimations. All persons interested are to contact the council via the regular channels as soon as possible with names and their relevant skills, as the cut-off deadline is sixty (60) days from the issuing of this notice, dated the Fifteenth of Summersky, 845 P.A.
Governess Jaina Proudmoore,
High ruler of Theramore.
The elf blinked in astonishment, re-reading portions of the letter to make sure his sleep-addled brain wasn't deceiving him. Every word, written in the governess's elegant hand and likely magically copied for the massive distribution befitting such an announcement, rang true. The elf's eyes caught sight of more lines of text underneath the main body, fewer in number, a post-script. These he read next, with anticipation and dread growing with each beat of his heart. These were intended for him alone.
Let it be known, also, that persons who have in the past provided exceptional service to Theramore or the Alliance as a whole will be considered for this transfer, provided that they can prove, under the strictest of guidelines, that they can once again serve in a competent manner. Eligibility and the terms of service will be judged on an individual basis.
The elf looked up from the paper, gaze fixing on a blank spot on the wall, his mind drinking in the ramifications of the words he had just read like his mouth had drunk rum the night before. Slowly his eyes traced a path along the lines of mortar between stone blocks until they arrived at a tapestry on the wall to his left, its multi-hued and finely crafted surface depicting a great and beautiful city of white towers and walls amongst a verdant forest; Silvermoon, his former home. This was a chance to do something he had only brushed against in his deepest imaginings. His duty and discipline had broken down after the defeat of the demonic Burning Legion, he was a man without a purpose, a home, a family. It was this that had turned him into what he had become, a bitter recluse drowning in alcohol and self-pity.
He had always believed that if he had a chance, no matter how slim, to once again travel back across the ocean and search for the remains of his former life, he would take it. This was it. This letter and its contents were a balm to his tortured mind, letting it entertain possibilities that he wouldn't have permitted otherwise, lest the false hope drag him even deeper into sorrow. No longer would he be a prisoner on a tiny rock clinging to a hostile and alien continent because of circumstance, a prisoner in his tower because of his own jaded views. He would seek out his home, or what was left of it, and he would then seek out the only blood relative that he knew might still be alive, a sister who swore to stay behind and defend their already ravaged lands. A sister whose face and name, because of the most cruel and dark magicks, he could not remember. Taking in a deep, cleansing breath of sea air Crys'annadath Skychaser dared to look out his window, finally convinced that he could crawl out of the pit of despair and apathy he had allowed himself to fall prey to. Now he just had to convince the rest of the world.