Stirrings in the North
Luc Valonforth gazed through soft blue eyes at the dark, murky, coast below him. Sitting atop the platform of the vaunted Rock of South Shore, he breathed in the fresh salty air of the ocean and sighed. Below him, industrious fishermen and dock workers bustled about their daily lives, as fish wives managed their children and cleaned clothes at the beach. All were hard working, but all were safe and more-or-less content. For now.
Luc turned his back to the scene of life and activity before him to stare at silent dead room he occupied. The room was utterly spartan in its furnishings; much like the fortress keep itself, with only a single table and two chairs to occupy it. The rest of the room was dull black and gray stone in color, a testament of the great burning the fortress had been forced to endure during the Second War.
Suddenly there was a noise at the door, and the sound of booted feet could be heard. With a gritty screech, the room's sole thick oaken door was opened, revealing a richly garbed, pale skinned man, and two armored soldiers.
"Wait outside," instructed the thin tall man, as he took another step inside the room. The two men –guards Luc assumed- nodded and closed the door with an equally loud screech and a forbidding silence filled the room.
"Well?" asked Luc finally. "Has it been approved?"
The lord of South Shore, stared at the Alliance captain, with sharp appraising blue eyes, unwilling to answer. Instead he asked a question of his own, "How long has it been Valonforth? How long has it been since you returned from Northrend and made you way through the shadow-wracked realm of Lordaeron?"
Luc stared at the man with a mix of surprise and frustration. He knew just how long it had been. He had to. Why was he asking such a pointless question?
"Four years, Ghealden. Four years since we fled the realm of the Lich King, and yet another since arriving here in South Shore."
"And in that time has your opinion swayed in the slightest? Has your appreciation and calculation regarding the threat that is the Scourge, changed in any fashion?"
"It has changed many times Ghealden, and has been influenced by many factors. But that does not change my opinion of what must be done to stop it."
"Not even the fate of the traitor Prince Arthas?"
"Arthas's fall was of his own creation. His own failure. I, and other survivors like me, are living testament that the Scourge is not all corrupting."
"So you believe yourself immune?" asked Ghealden, "You believe that because you did not fall in Northrend you can resist the Lich Kings call here in the Eastern Kingdoms?"
"Immune? No. But of the many whom preach disservice to the Lich King cause, I believe I may preach the loudest."
"So did Arthas. And look what became of him."
Luc sighed and fixed Ghealden with a hard blue eye, "I am not Arthas. Though I may have gone along with him to Northrend, I am not him."
"I believe you," said Ghealden slowly, "But you must understand not everyone agrees. Some; some, even say you are an agent of the Scourge, and that you are only alive here and now so that you can betray us when it would be most debilitating to our efforts."
Luc's face grew hard like stone and he glared at the lord.
"Then they are fools," he retorted.
Ghealden nodded, and then withdrew a scroll from a pocket in his coat. Clearing his throat, he scratched his stubble of a beard and murmured, "By the Decree of the Kings of Stormwind and Ironforge, and the sponsorship of Narain Sunseer of the Exiled Embassy of High Elves, Thane Stormpike of the Bronzebeard Clan, King Kurdan of the Wildhammer Clan, and Lord Ghealden of South Shore, General Luc Valonforth is hereby approved to lead the first stage of the Alliance reclamation of the Plaguelands!"
**
Baron Rivendare grinned silently to himself as he stared across the black ruined city of Stratholme. In the distance he could see the ruined parapets of inner Stratholme, the great city's fortress core. The Scarlet Crusaders under Saiden Dathrohan, lingered still in that center, staining the city with their life and warm running blood. It disgusted Rivendare, that these simple mortals could continue to cling to the city, infesting it like bugs.
He had tried to remove them; to purge them from the city. But likes roaches they preserved, refusing to die no matter how times he crushed them. And it was all because of one man.
Alexandros Morgraine.
The word was like a hissing curse in the death knight's mind. The so called "Ashbringer" and Highlord of the Scarlet Crusade. An infuriating thorn in the side of the Scourge, his wretched blade a bane against all the darkness and corruption he and the Lich King strove to create. The mere thought of the man sent fury rushing through the Baron's icy veins and his yellow orbs flamed maliciously as he imagined the thousand and one ways he would one day torment and corrupt the man's soul.
Soon Rivendare, he thought to himself, very soon the damnable paladin's day of reckoning would come.
"My lord," murmured a voice suddenly from the dark, "The others have gathered in the central hall and are waiting your arrival."
Baron Rivendare turned and gazed at the man prostrating himself before him. Dressed in the black signature robes of an Acolyte of the Scourge, the man's pale bony fingers could just be seen peaking through the long sleeves of his attire, his yellow nails curved and lengthened like talons.
"Thank you Achemus," he replied cooly, "Please inform them that I shall be arriving shortly."
Achemus nodded quickly, rising fast as he hurried to dispatch his orders, and the Baron caught only a slight hint of white hair and glinting pale orbs before he was gone.
The death knight smiled as the acolyte ran. Achemus was both eager and capable, and in Rivendare's opinion, perhaps the most promising of those still-human students among the Cult of the Damned. He would go far, the Baron was sure, provided he didn't do something stupid like angering him. Though he was not proud of it, Rivendare knew he had a temper, and though he had thus far had no cause to direct his rage at the young acolyte, the boy was his fourth assistant, and those previous in his position had not died due to mortal hands.
Standing, he brushed off the gathering dust on his black armor, and slowly worked the greaves of the mail as he walked. The halls were lit dimly to for the still living servants, but what little light there was seemed to dim and shy away as the undead lord walked by, skulking in fear of his mere presence.
Approaching a heavy double oak door, Rivendare whispered inaudibly, sending out a psychic command to the two hulking skeletons on either side of the entryway.
Creaking as they moved, the two undead latched unto the handles of the door, swinging it open soundlessly, revealing a great hall with but a single set of furniture. Four stone chairs, and a heavy round table in which a single green glowing candle sat in the center.
Walking inside, Rivendare took the most innate of the chairs, and made a signal with his hand. At the motion, three more figures emerged from the shadows. One, a slim form clad in a black silk robe, a cowl drawn over its face. Another, a stout figure garbed from head to toe in heavy grey mail, only red glowing eyes visible through the helm. The third, a tall golden haired man, with black armor matching Rivendares own, the blade of a lordaeron knight attached to his hip.
"Lady Blaumeux, Thane Korth'azz; Sir Zeliek. It has been some time. Come sit, sit, we have much to discuss. "
**
Korfax roared as he cleaved through the two undead ghouls, splitting their corpses in two, showering the ground in black blood.
"Never do learn do they?" he grumbled jokingly to the nearest Argent Dawn trooper, who in turn smiled weakly; his own eyes wide as saucers as he gazed at the clump of corpses before him.
"I see your title of Champion is well earned," murmured an approaching woman.
Korfax shrugged in response, resting his axe on his shoulder, as he examined her. Tall, slim, with shoulder length black hair and dressed in the complete armor set of a paladin of the crusade, Commander Marjhan was a sight to behold.
"This-" he grunted as he crushed a skeletal skull with his boot, "Is nothing. These undead should just feel fortunate that Tyrosus has placed your guardianship above all else. If it had been otherwise, I would have chased this marauding band to the walls of Stratholme and back!"
Marjhan response was a wry half-smile, caught as she was between the urge to berate the boastful man for his pride, and her belief that he meant every word he had stated.
"Korfax!" called out a blood stained soldier on horseback, "Our warriors have routed the last of the undead. We may proceed at any moment."
"Very well!" cried Korfax, grabbing for the reigns of his great mount, "As delightful as this little interlude has been, I do believe Maxwell was rather serious in his desire to speak to this woman as quickly as possible. Ride hard and fast lads, I want to be within the protection of Light Hopes wards well before nightfall."
There was a clatter of hooves, and then the company of a hundred or so odd warriors, was off, thundering down the half paved road toward Lights Hope Chapel. The Emissary from the Scarlet Crusade in tow.
A/N: A short chapter to be sure. But hopefully enough to grabs ones attention. The next chapter will be FAR longer but I really felt a setting of the general stage would be far more fortuitoust than getting into the beefy dialogue right off the bat. In case one was wondering, "The Rock of Southshore", is a name created by me to detail the squat keep that stands in the center of South Shore. Unlike WoW -which is limited by the game- the South Shore in this story is quite large, more on-par with a small bustling port-city then a simple street with some buildings on the side. In case you are also wondering who Luc Valonforth is, you may recall the unammed captain from Warcraft: Reign of Chaos who acts as Arthas second in leading the Alliance forces chasing Mal'ganis to Northrend. Luc is the name given to said captain via WoTLK. Though nothing too inappropriate took place in this chapter, the story has been rated M for future sexual content, violence, and mild language.