Chapter 1: Arrivals
Alaric Cyrin had not set foot in the mighty Stormwind City since a sharp-eyed Lady Eris had spotted him in his ruined bassinet and borne him away from the smoldering ruins of Goldshire into the relative safety of the nearby citadel. He, of course, had no memories of Goldshire's routing or the subsequent desperate flight to Stormwind… and, for that matter, he had mercifully few of the First War at all. If he had ever indulged in a childish wish that he could remember his parents, it was quickly tempered by the fact that though Lady Eris's golden face had supplanted his mother's as the smiling face over his crib, though it was Lord Eris's strong hands and not his father's that had picked him off the ground and put him back in the saddle, he had been lucky indeed, far luckier than most. Any lingering memories fortune might have granted him of his parents would invariably have been tempered by the violent deaths they had met under orcish blades.
He had seen enough of those in the Third War. He certainly didn't mind being spared a few others.
"Been a while, eh?"
Cyrin didn't bother to tear his gaze from the gently swirling chimney smoke rising above the lush greenery ahead of them. He suspected that the last time he'd been in the town, the smoke rising above the trees had not been nearly as pleasant, nor the sounds of Elwynn's green havens nearly so tranquil. He wondered briefly if the songbirds currently flirting in the trees ahead would have escaped the forest ahead of the Horde's advance or if they, too, had been subjected to an indiscriminate, violent cleansing. "Quite a while," he agreed.
"It didn't have to be as long a while," Dieter said pointedly, reining his horse in next to Cyrin's.
Cyrin fixed a tired look on his companion and Dieter raised his hands in immediate surrender. "I know, I know. War this. Political upheaval that." He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, grimacing, before shooting a baleful look at Cyrin. "But the least we could have done was take that gnomish wonder from Ironforge instead of riding. The last time my ass hurt this much, I was -"
"Good morning, m'lady!" Cyrin said loudly, raising a hand in greeting to an approaching figure. "Mind your manners," he added out of the corner of his mouth without affecting the welcoming smile.
The woman – young and pretty, Cyrin noted with a detachment Dieter clearly had yet to master, if the expression on his companion's face was any indication – dropped into a sloppy but obviously well-intentioned curtsy, the hem of her blue skirt dipping into the dust. "Good morning, sirs," she said pleasantly. Her eyes swept over them quickly and Cyrin realized that for all her charming youth, she had managed in a single glance to take in their heavy armor, weary horses, small packs, and unfamiliar tabards. Either she was a particularly skilled saleswoman or the occasional Horde raiding parties through the area had taught her caution at an early age. The latter, he mused to himself, would be infinitely more useful.
A side glance at Dieter indicated that he had yet to progress past observing the 'charming youth' part. Cyrin resisted the urge to sigh.
"May I interest you in any drink or bread?" the young woman continued. She smiled at them both, though she directed her next comment to Dieter who, with the appreciative expression on his face that he was trying and quite obviously failing to disguise, was clearly the more receptive. Cyrin added a point to the 'skilled saleswoman' column. "Surely after such long travels, you must be in need of refreshment!"
Cyrin didn't really have the heart to tell her exactly what kind of refreshment Dieter no doubt thought he needed but he spoke quickly anyway, lest Dieter not have the same reticence on the subject. "No, thank you," he said politely. "We're on our way to Stormwind. Will this road take us to the city gates?"
A flash of disappointment crossed the young woman's face – young indeed, Cyrin thought to himself, for it was far too brief a flash; a few more years, and she would know the exact type of pout to produce to pull a sucker like Dieter right in – but she answered promptly and sincerely. "This road will take you to Goldshire." She turned around and gestured to the swirls of chimney smoke. "It's just up ahead. Once you get into town, take a right." She smiled impishly up at them. "There's a sign post, if you need it, but if you miss the one and only turn in town, you might need more help than just a sign post."
Ah, the impish smile. Perhaps not so young as he thought… though young enough that the technique was still more endearing than desperate. "Thank you," he said.
"Be careful though," she added. "Mr. Perelli just came through and he mentioned that something bad had happened at the Cathedral."
Cyrin exchanged a quick glance with the suddenly serious Dieter. "Something bad?" he repeated, keeping his voice casual.
The young woman shrugged her slender shoulders. "Mr. Perelli didn't know anything more," she said. "He just said that the Cathedral was surrounded by guards."
Cyrin glanced at Dieter again and saw his own concern mirrored in his friend's eyes - if there had been an incident at the Cathedral, a bastion of Light in the heart of a walled city, that Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker himself could not handle, he doubted very much that he or Dieter would be of much use at all – but he smiled at the young lady nonetheless. "The Cathedral was to be our first destination anyway; we shall certainly offer our services," he reassured her. He nodded briskly at Dieter, then nodded down at the young woman. "Thank you again for all of your assistance."
She dropped into another slipshod, though charmingly enthusiastic, curtsy, and said, "Well met, sirs!"
Cyrin prodded his horse to the fastest pace possible that would not unduly alarm the young woman or any of the Goldshire townspeople as they rode through. Dieter matched his pace effortlessly and drew his horse close. The two mounts, well-trained warhorses as they were, did not break stride despite the close quarters. "What do you think?" he asked quietly.
Cyrin shook his head slightly and said merely, "I think we just spoke to a lovely young woman who was born in Goldshire, will live and die in Goldshire, and revels in new and interesting bits of information that come from anywhere but Goldshire."
Dieter snorted. "So you're making me ride this fast because my ass isn't bruised enough already?"
"A mere perk," Cyrin said. He drew is horse up abruptly, noting a group of townspeople congregating in the center of the upcoming town. Though he supposed a small part of him might have been curious about the idyllic little town that had sprouted from the ruins he had left, he had not the patience to navigate through a horde of curious townspeople. He jerked the reins, murmuring a soft apology to his mount when she snorted her displeasure at him, and started forging a path through the trees. They would hit the road to Stormwind on the outskirts of town.
As Dieter caught up, he asked rhetorically, "Isn't it odd that Brother Karman suggested we leave duty – a Captain and his Lieutenant, mind you, leaving Theramore while Greyshield insights desertion, even sedition, from the ranks of the Guard – and make a pilgrimage to study under Shadowbreaker… and the day we arrive, there is trouble at the Cathedral?"
"'Odd' isn't the word I'd use to describe that, no," Dieter said. "Shadowbreaker may be on Karman's short list of esteemed colleagues but I never thought I'd hear him – or anyone back home, for that matter – actually tell us to leave the city for Stormwind. Hell, I'm already wondering how I'll explain Wrynn's perfume on my tabard when we get back."
Cyrin did not take his eyes from the foliage ahead of him to shoot Dieter a warning glance, instead saying merely, "You forget which side of the sea we're on, Dieter, and you've let political machinations blur the sides of the war. We are on Stormwind's side of the ocean and Stormwind is on our side of the war. Don't forget that."
They came upon the main road to the Stormwind city gates and they silently urged their horses faster, though not fast enough to miss the slightly narrowed, not-quite-hostile gaze from a Stormwind Guard as they flew past her.
"I won't if they won't," Dieter muttered. Before Cyrin could lash him with the expected rebuke, he quickly returned to their topic. "So Karman sends us out here to see Shadowbreaker and the day we get here, there's trouble at the Cathedral. If you're suggesting that the good Brother is a fortune-teller, Cyrin…"
"Brother Karman does Lady Proudmoore's bidding," Cyrin said shortly. "As do we."
Dieter paused. "And if M'Lady suggested we come…" His voice trailed off. Cyrin's suggestion suddenly didn't seem quite so far-fetched.
Cyrin abruptly reined his horse in as they cleared the white gates of Stormwind, his mount's hooves clattering against the white stone as he guided her slowly towards Stormwind's High Commander, mounted imperiously at the inner entrance to the city. "Exactly," was all he said to Dieter.
He drew his mount to a swift stop directly in front of the general. He executed a swift, crisp salute. It was a sign of respect which as a member of the Theramore Guard he was not technically obligated to give, but one which he could not justify withholding on those grounds alone. The general's stance alone was that of a battle-hardened veteran who had already spent a lifetime in service of his people and an intercontinental political tug-of-war between human strongholds seemed somehow insignificant by comparison. One engraving in his glistening armor was painfully familiar to Cyrin: that of a commander in the pivotal assault on Blackrock Spire during which Lothar fell and Turalyon rallied. He remembered the craftsmen that had come to his home in the wake of the pallbearers to engrave the very same pattern on his fallen guardian's armor.
"Captain Alaric Cyrin and Lieutenant Bowen Dieter of the Theramore Guard, sir," he said.
The general, a powerfully built man easily bearing both the weight of engraved plate armor and the responsibility of the brilliant blue and gold of the Stormwind tabard, returned the salute. "At ease," he said. His eyes swept over them quickly, efficiently, and Cyrin was unsurprised when after just a few moments of observation, the general said, "Lord Shadowbreaker may not be available to provide training at this time. If you are unable to meet with him, I highly suggest lodgings at the Gilded Rose."
Cyrin spent a valuable moment trying to come up with a particularly tactful way of honing in on Shadowbreaker's unavailability but gave up almost immediately. Instead, he said merely, "We heard from a young lady near Goldshire that there has been an incident of some sort at the Cathedral. Our services are available as necessary, sir."
The general eyed him for a long moment and when he spoke, his voice was mild. "Stormwind City is an ocean away from your jurisdiction, Captain."
"Understood, sir," Cyrin agreed easily.
The general was silent for another moment as he calmly perused Cyrin and, apparently finding what he was looking for, he then nodded briskly. "Visit the Cathedral first, Captain," he said. "If anyone is in need of your services today, you will find them there." He scribbled quickly across a small piece of parchment and handed it to Cyrin, explaining, "Authorization to work in accord with the Stormwind Guard. If the Knights or the cloth at the Cathedral do require your assistance within the city walls, you may be challenged – and rightfully so – by members of the Guard throughout the city. Keep that in case."
"Thank you, sir," Cyrin said, tucking the scrap of parchment carefully into his saddlebag. He nodded once at Dieter and they guided their horses slowly into the city proper.
"Gentlemen."
At the sound of the general's voice, Cyrin immediately reined his horse in and spun her around. Dieter did the same. "Yes, sir?"
The general's expression was cool. "Do not embarrass yourselves, your Guard, or Lady Proudmoore while in my city."
"Understood, sir," said Cyrin.
The general nodded once in acknowledgement, then turned away, effectively dismissing them. Cyrin and Dieter exchanged brief glances then turned their horses around again and continued on.
Dieter, surprisingly enough, kept any quips about the general to himself as they guided their horses past the inner city gates and into what looked to the be the heart of the city's trade center. As the din of the bustling center swirled around them, Cyrin considered momentarily that the younger man had perhaps finally learned some manner of restraint.
"It's not so different from home," Dieter said, his eyes raking across the center as they followed the cobbled path towards the heart of the city. He pointed to the left. "I lost my virginity in a tavern that looked a lot like that one."
Or perhaps not. Cyrin shot him a tired look and went back to observing the city as they rode, memorizing the layout and noting several interesting architectural features which, despite the lively and prolific marketplace swirling around them in obvious and oblivious prosperity, quite easily spoke to the city's storied and tragic history. Only survivors, he noted, would reconstruct their city with such defensible perimeters under the guise of white-stoned elegance , with such architecturally stunning series of aqueducts, bridges, and archways hiding the military significance of chokepoints and geographical force multipliers. He wondered briefly if after the incident at the Cathedral, the Guard had effectively quarantined that district.
"When were you last here?"
Cyrin's answered evenly without taking his discerning gaze from the city around him, "I escaped with Lord and Lady Eris to Lordaeron as the city fell in the First War. The Lord and Lady assisted in retaking the city in the Second War but did not live to return. I began my training with the Silver Hand shortly thereafter and have not seen the city rebuilt until today." He jerked a nod to his right, gesturing down the length of an large aqueduct. "The Keep is in the far north-northeast of the city proper in that direction. The Cathedral is directly ahead of us, across the aqueduct and through that arch." He gazed around him for a moment, the continued, "The Guard seems to be adhering to standard patrolling cycles. No unusual activity around the Keep and no active containment on the Cathedral segment."
Dieter matched Cyrin's gaze, attempting to see what his commander did. "So… either the action is all over or…" He paused slightly before guessing, "They're trying to keep it quiet?"
Cyrin shrugged slightly, nudging his horse into movement again. "Stormwind City is far removed from the wars. The Scourge strongholds are far to the north. The city is not nestled between Horde strongholds as we are. I would not insult the General to suggest that his citizenry is complacent… but I suspect that he can easily see the value of avoiding undue alarm in a potentially unprepared population."
"Diplomatic as always," Dieter snorted.
They passed easily over the next bridge, their well-trained warhorses unfazed and unimpressed by the deep water below them, and passed beneath the last remaining archway, bringing the Cathedral square into easy view. To this point, Stormwind had yet to truly impress Cyrin – the white stone glimmering in the sunlight, the guard towers reaching high into the blue sky, the stone walls encompassing the city and protecting its citizenry were all impressive achievements, to be sure, but all reminded him of Theramore's own similar accomplishments – but as the Cathedral of Light came into view, its etched and polished walls glistening, the stained glass of its mighty windows sparkling brilliantly against the sun, and the rich, brilliantly colored carpet blanketing its gleaming white steps, he found himself momentarily agape. Theramore was a stronghold, a military presence, and recently, even a trade center. It was not and never had been a haven of the Light or a center of the arts. The Cathedral was both and not even heavy sprinkling of uniformed Guards around its perimeter or the small clusters of curious onlookers could compromise its majesty.
"Whoa," said Dieter.
Whoa, indeed. Cyrin glanced around the square, then, unsurprised to see no stable in the immediate area, swung himself off of his mount's back and looped her reins loosely over a bough of the nearest tree, leaving her enough slack to reach the fountain for a well-deserved drink. He ran a hand affectionately over her flank then strode toward the steps leading into the Cathedral, Dieter in his wake.
He stopped two steps from the guard perimeter and held up the parchment the General had given him. "Captain Cyrin and Lieutenant Dieter of the Theramore Guard," he said without preamble, "here to see Lord Shadowbreaker."
The guard scanned the document quickly then handed it back to Cyrin with a brisk nod. "Up the stairs, sir. Please keep your weapons sheathed."
Excellent procedural training, Cyrin noted. Crisp adherence to an obviously predefined procedure, despite the fact that this was likely the first lockdown this young soldier had experienced. Confident delivery. Exactly the necessary amount of information but exactly no more. "Thank you," was all he said.
He and Dieter ascended the stone staircase, Cyrin noting in professional approval that not a single member of the obviously well-trained Guard afforded his Theramore tabard more than a cursory glance. It was something each noted, he was sure, much as they noted the sword at his hip and the shield strapped to his back, but he was pleased to note that today would apparently not be the day a Theramore captain became the exclamation point at the end of a political statement. A good start.
He paused at the top of the stone stairway and glanced over his shoulder at Dieter. Exchanging brisk nods, they rounded the corner into the Cathedral.
