Chapter 2: Vagabond
The elf thrashed in his sleep. He had long scars on his wrists, as if he'd fought against manacles for quite some time. Osra wondered what Alaric'Quel seen in his days. She looked back for a moment to see him violently reach out with a fist, banging it into the stone wall. He woke with a start, groaning at the pain. Osra turned her head to survey the cave entrance once more, if only to hide a giggle. He was a strange one.
"We had best be moving soon. The sun will rise within the hour. I want to reach Light's Hope Chapel by midday if possible." She said.
"Yes, best we move before the sun rises. I don't want to pain my eyes leaving this cave into sudden light." The elf groggily sat up. He strapped his dagger and the leafblade he'd scavenged the day before onto his leather belt. His blonde hair fell behind him straight as if he'd just washed it clean. Osra was envious for a moment. Her own hair was a tangled mess from the extended ranging.
The diseased woodland returned as Alaric and Osra descended from the mountainside the next morning. The two moved quickly through the tall trees that once made up Lordaeron's majestic deciduous eastern forests. The female warrior followed the markers she recognized. Long had her position in the Argent Dawn been to scout this forest for Scourge movements. She knew it like the back of her hand.
Osra was still in shock of her find yesterday. The long missing Alaric'Faltron Quel; one of the last scions of Sunstrider blood, the Champion of Quel'thalas, the Alliance's Lion General during the War of the Ruins, a fearsome warrior with an unparalleled hatred of the undead, and a master mage of unfathomable power.
He'd instigated the War of the Ruins after an expedition to Kalimdor to retrieve magical artifacts. He then set a warpath through the heart of Lordaeron, even retaking the heartlands of Quel'thalas. Afterwards, he had even invaded Northrend and it was rumored that he'd dueled Arthas himself. As quickly as the Alliance's greatest hero had arisen, he had disappeared after the invasion of Northrend. Tall tales were told throughout the lands of the fate of Alaric'Quel, but she'd found him exhausted and on the run.
I always invisioned him different, Osra thought. I thought he'd be larger than life, but he seems so real…just like Valdar Justax.
The two unlikely companions passed a gutted town, the blacked skeletons of burned out buildings half overgrown with purple vines and unnaturally large, splotchy mushrooms. The Scourge had done more than kill the living in its time upon the earth. It blighted and transformed the land itself. Only two years ago this land had thick carpets of rich, green grass growing on it. Those vines had been healthy ivy, simply conquering what humans no longer up kept. Now they were poisonous, hateful things.
She avoided the graveyard, opting for the longer route. There was no telling what might appear from that place, even without necromancers, liches, and death knights around. They passed under a statue of an ancient hero placed in what was once a meadow. The bright bronze it had once shone was now tainted green by the air and water.
By the time the sun had risen into the sky, almost directly above them, Osra knew they had almost arrived. A quick running stream carrying clear, fresh water from the snowmelt in the mountains lay before them. Beyond it not far out was the base of the Argent Dawn in the Eastern Plaguelands; Light's Hope Chapel itself.
"Feel free to drink from it while you can. Another few months and the corruption will spread further south, infecting the soils at the head of this stream. For now it helps supply the Argent Crusade and Dawn with much of our water."
"First it's the Argent Dawn, now the Argent Crusade. Just exactly is this…thing?"
"You don't know of the Argent Dawn? How long have you been in the Plaguelands?"
"A few months, running and hiding in caves mostly."
"Ah…it's difficult to explain. I suppose this will be a story to fill the rest of our journey." The blue-eyed warrior climbed over a fallen log.
"Sing your song then, bard." Alaric said wryly. Osra glared at him. "I jest. Continue."
"As you know, after the end of the Third War, there were pockets of resistance. One such group made up of the surviving paladins of the Knights of the Silver Hand, gained a massive following among the survivors of Lordaeron and the other nations. Thousands streamed north to join." Osra explained.
"Yes, I remember such. They were led by the flame-haired Alexandros Mograine, a man I admired very much for his skill in killing undead." Alaric recalled. Before Mograine even unsheathed his legendary blade, the Ashbringer, hundreds of the damned would be turned to dust by his aura alone.
"Mograine the Ashbringer died, but like a phoenix to his will, the Scarlet Crusade grew out of his following. The Scarlet Crusade fought long and well. They retook Hearthglen, garrisoned Tyr's Hand, militarized the eastern beaches of Lordaeron, and even reclaimed half of Stratholme. But there was always something wrong with the Crusade."
"They preached extreme xenophobia and religious intolerance, and it only got worse as the years passed. That was probably why they never joined your forces when you marched north in the War of the Ruins. They don't like you. You're an elf."
Alaric touched his long ears. "Why, you are perceptive."
Osra ignored the jape and continued. "Something was also happening within the leadership of the organization. Slowly may of the high ranking officers actions and commands were becoming…distressing. There were fatal floggings for trivial slips in conduct, suicidal assaults on Scourge strongholds...eventually it resulted in the slaughter of all non-humans in the organization as a direct order set down by the supreme leader, Grand Crusader Saidan Dathrohan. It was a move totally against what the Crusade had once stood for."
"The 'purge' prompted those in the Scarlet Crusade that were disturbed by the recent trend of corruption to break away and form their own organization; the Argent Dawn. We are the only true brotherhood focused on protecting Azeroth from those agencies that wish to destroy it, namely the Scourge and Burning Legion. We accept all those whom fight for our cause."
"It seems that you carry a noble motive." Alaric said, nodding as he slogged through the stream.
"I am glad you approve."
"Do they teach this whole history when you join the Argent Dawn?" The elf asked.
"No. I saw it happen with my own eyes. After the end of the Third War I joined the Crusade." Osra said, feeling ashamed.
The things she'd seen and let happen there…sometimes she felt like she would never forgive herself. She knew Valdar wouldn't have forgiven her. She shook her head. This was no time for self-pity. They had almost reached their destination.
"In any case," Osra continued "when the war against the Lich King began, Lord Tirion Fordring took a large contingent of the Dawn with him to Northrend. They call themselves the Argent Crusade."
A hill with a rocky crown stood before them. Behind them in the distance the mountains reliably loomed. Wispy clouds gathered around their peaks, tinged orange with the particulates in the air. The ground was suddenly trembling slightly. Alaric stopped in his tracks.
"Cavalry. They're ours." Osra stated.
Three horsemen appeared atop the hill, silhouetted in the sunlight. One of the horses neighed and pulled back onto its hind legs. They slowly made their way toward the two travelers, their gleaming armor coming into sight. Each bore the same sunburst-on-silver breastplates that Osra had. Silver roundels shielded the weak points of their armor, and beneath it all were shirts of black chainmail.
"What is your purpose in the realm of the Dawn." One cavalryman said, his voice slightly muffled by a fearsome wolf-headed helm. A heavy sable cloak fell behind his head. Thick armor plates sat on his shoulders and legs. Equally barded was his muscled war steed.
"I am a part of a whole, an arm that defends Azeroth and its realms. I am the servant of truth and a companion of justice. From me flows the will to judge the wicked and shield the weak. I fight for the new morning." Osra recited the words of the Argent Dawn.
"Aye, welcome back, Leone." The horseman said, lifting his visor to reveal a smile that was missing a few teeth. His face was lined with deep crags and crevices.
"It is always good to return from a ranging, Harryl." Osra returned the smile. "This is Alaric'Faltron Quel, a brave warrior and friend of the Alliance. He comes seeking refuge."
"I am surprised to see the same Alaric'Quel of the stories before me. I thought you were dead." Harryl sized up Alaric. "If you vouch for him, then I am sure he will be a fine addition."
The elf bristled. "I come not to join you. I have my own reasons. I seek only a night's rest before I am off."
"We shall see, good elf. The Lord Commander's words are usually quite convincing." Harryl laughed, planting his lance in the ground. "You and Osra may pass. May the Light shine on you both."
"And you, Harryl." Osra replied, leading Alaric past the pickets. The horsemen turned their mounts and continued on their patrol, riding hard toward the ruined town of Ten Bridges that lay in the distance. As Osra and Alaric crested the hill, Light's Hope Chapel came into view.
The actual chapel itself, a rather dilapidated, old looking building, occupied another hill a mile away. Panels of wood were missing from the walls, and the roof was missing half its tiles. Behind it were quarries dug into the mountains. The stone provided by those quarries was thrown up into thick walls with alternating sets of watchtowers and crowned turrets. The walls themselves were incomplete, with great gaps in them and no gateway.
A few squat, stone buildings were scattered about the area, with many tents of all sizes filling in the lanes between. Everywhere there flew banners of black, and silver, and gold. Soldiers passed through the crude dirt roads and peasantry, refugees from old Lordaeron, tilled the small, fallow fields. The small city around Light's Hope Chapel was the second largest base of the living in the Eastern Plaguelands, after the Scarlet Crusade held Tyr's Hand.
Osra felt as if she were home. She looked on with pride in her heart, turning to see the look on her elf companion's face. She was met with a plain look of neutrality. Either he truly was a dispassionate bastard, or he hid those emotions well. Disappointed, Osra continued forward into the heart of the encampment. The two wound through the narrow roads and up the hill.
Osra avoided large crowds. She knew Alaric's reputation with the Horde was not a savory one. His expedition through Kalimdor had not been friendly to the members of the Horde, particularly the orcs and tauren.
Here there were members of Horde affiliated races, namely the bull-like tauren, working with the Argent Dawn. They usually gathered by themselves in the opposite corner of the small city, but there was no knowing what would happen if they saw him, or he them.
"Light's Hope Chapel watches over its children." Osra said, guiding them up the slope to a long set of dusty stairs. The elf wouldn't expect her to take him straight to the leaders of the Argent Dawn here.
He most likely has valuable knowledge on the Scourge's positions in the Plaguelands. Even if he doesn't, a man of his power and influence is desperately needed, she thought. She knew that the elf already knew what she was up to. Hopefully she or Lord Commander Tyrosus would be able to convince him to join their cause. The Light knew they needed the help.
The Argent Dawn was not a very large organization. Their strongest base of operations here at Light's Hope Chapel only had about 1,500 swords when fully mustered. In comparison, the Scarlet Crusade's stronghold of Tyr's Hand had over 10,000 souls ready to fight at one point before the death knights of Acherus had burned it to the ground.
Much good their numbers did them, Osra said to herself. The Scarlet Crusade had been dealt a number of deathblows in the past six months. The disastrous fall of Tyr's Hand was only the latest. Ever since the great city's burning, a looming sense of doom had fallen over the warriors of the Argent Dawn, even after the incredible victory in the Battle of Light's Hope Chapel.
"…just because Lord Fordring and Eligor the Dawnbringer took half of our forces and most of the paladins to Northrend for the Argent Crusade doesn't mean that the Scourge won't strike at us again! We must hold fast here." Osra heard voices arguing. They were at it again. The leaders of the Argent Dawn squabbling at what to do next.
"You are a fool! The Horde and Alliance offensive in Northrend holds the Scourge at bay for the moment. We should assemble ourselves and strike now! There might never be such a chance again." Another raspy voice spoke up.
"If we march out and are surrounded by the undead in the open fields, we will surely be cut to pieces." The first reacted. "They outnumber us a thousand to one."
"I like not those odds." Someone else said.
"This is the problem with having so little structure in the chain of command…no one to give proper commands." She muttered. Osra threw out her hands, opening the doors in a rather dramatic fashion. Light poured into the central chamber of the church revealing numerous high ranking members of the Dawn's Eastern Plaguelands forces gathered around a table matted with crusty, old maps.
There was eye-patched Lord Maxwell Tyrosus dressed in a simple doublet. Field Marshal Even Chambers garbed in his massive battle armor poured over the maps, his usually shaved head bristling with new growth.
The beautiful ambassador from the Scarlet Crusade, Elise Marjhan, stood next to her counterpart for the Dawn, the handsome Sir Duncan Boldstrider. Behind the crowd the Argent Dawn's soft-spoken archmage, Teresa Fireweaver observed the meeting.
"My Lords and Ladies, I bring—" She froze as she surveyed the room.
Leonid Bartholomew met her eyes with his. They were whitish with the stalled decay of the Forsaken, and his blue-grey skin hung loosely from yellow bones, some of which were visible through the unhealed wounds of battle across his ribs and legs. Strapped to his back was his famed claymore, 'Death's End'. He had once been a mighty warrior of Lordaeron, but had fallen and been revived by the Scourge. After the Forsaken were formed, Leonid was 'awakened from his slumber', as he put it. Distrusting the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas Windrunner, and the Forsaken's motives, he'd left them to join the Argent Dawn nearly a year ago.
Osra looked back at Alaric, holding her arms out to prevent him from entering the room. She hadn't expected Leonid Bartholomew to be here. He was supposed to be on a mission to scout the remains of Northdale. It was too late though. The elf had already seen into the chamber.
Rage filled Alaric's eyes and his face twisted into a dark scowl. He pushed aside Osra with a strength she didn't think he had. With a ragged yell, Alaric'Quel jumped forward, drawing his leafblade in midair. He landed on top of the map table amidst all the commanders, swinging downward at the Forsaken warrior.
Leonid instinctively drew Death's End, the air around the weapon shimmering like a mirage. The two blades met in a shower of sparks that danced off the floor and table. The sound of scraping metal on metal filled the room. The deadlock broke quickly, Leonid backing up as Alaric's leafblade screeched upward then down in a wide arc.
"I see a ghost of the past." Bartholomew whispered audibly. "I thought you long dead."
"You'll die twice before the grave takes me." Alaric answered, veins standing out in his temples.
"Alaric, stop this!" Osra shouted out. The words did not reach him. She tried to move closer but was blocked by the massive bulk of the Field Marshal.
"Guards! Seize and bind him!" Maxwell Tyrosus shouted. His face was red with anger.
Even Chambers unleashed his battle axe, crushing the table the elf stood upon. A shower of splinters flew across the room. Alaric jumped up, grasping the chandelier with a single hand while warding off Chambers' attacks with his sword hand. He twisted and landed, parrying a hit from the undead soldier. Alaric danced away from Field Marshal Chambers' battle axe, advancing on Bartholomew with a flurry of strikes.
Suddenly he was caught between two storms; Bartholomew countered, going on the offensive. Behind Alaric Chambers swung again. Alaric ducked beneath both their blows, changing his footwork every second. He began to spin a hurricane of his own, twisting and twirling away from the weapons falling all about him.
Argent Dawn soldiers burst through the doors, filling the room. They found themselves unable to restrain the elf however. He'd moved in such a way as to position their own man, Chambers, between them and himself, with Bartholomew on the other side of him. The elf drew his dagger with his off-hand. Two weapons, pointed at two enemies. There was a momentary lull.
"Why do you not use your magic, Alaric'Quel? The tales tell of you being a master of the arcane arts." Bartholomew said. His voice sounded like silky death.
"Why would I need to use magic to defeat you?" Alaric quipped.
"It would seem you need all the help you can get." Even Chambers at last spoke, his tones deep and bass. Alaric frowned as he looked about the room quickly.
"I've faced worse."
"He cannot use his magic. I don't know how…" The archmage Teresa said softly. "It feels like he's a void in the field of magic itself. Something has torn him from the Ley-energies."
"Alaric!" Osra shouted. "Enough! Leonid Bartholomew is one of us! He's joined the Argent Dawn and proven himself time and time again. I told you the Argent Dawn takes all manners of people as long as they are willing to give up their old affiliations to fight those that threaten the world!"
"How can you be friends with this thing?" Alaric spat, glaring at Leonid Bartholomew. "All undead are the same; Scourge, Forsaken…they all want the same thing. They want us to be like them. They're unnatural abominations that deserve to be snuffed out forever."
"Lay down your weapon. This is your last chance, boy." Maxwell Tyrosus stated with his strong voice.
"Please! We need you! Azeroth needs you!" Osra pleaded.
"I'd rather die than side with even one member of the undead." The elf said.
Suddenly Leonid Bartholomew struck. Even Chambers attacked as well. Alaric barely blocked both of their weapons. He fell to a knee under their pressure.
Teresa Fireweaver stepped forth, her staff pointing at her target. Alaric's eyes opened wide just before the mage fired a bolt of magic, filling the room with white light for a split second. The elf fell to the ground, stunned and unable to move.
"How peculiar…I'd like a chance to study his—unique case, if it pleases you, Lord Tyrosus. I've never seen such a strange situation as this. He was entirely cut off from the magical flows of the world." Teresa said, voice distant with curiosity.
"It does not." The Lord Commander of Light's Hope Chapel sighed, blowing his drooping mustachios out of his mouth. "Clap him in irons and take him to the dungeons. I will deal with this later."
"My apologies, Lord Commander." Osra said, falling to her knee. "I did not think he would react so badly."
"What troubles have you brought us now, Osra." Tyrosus turned to survey the damage as his guardsmen dragged the unconscious elf out of the chapel.
"I'm not quite sure myself, milord." She replied, her blue eyes following Alaric.
One Day Later
Alaric squinted as the light neared him. He'd been in the darkness for what seemed a lifetime. He was still trying to piece together the events that had led him to this point. Blurry objects approached from down the narrow corridor.
"Water?" Alaric asked with a papery voice. A canteen was thrown and landed between his feet. He reached down to drink, swigging with gusto. The chain lashed to his manacles rattled as he moved.
"What have you to say for yourself?" A stern voice asked. Alaric's eyes had adjusted to the torchlight. A tall man with a long mane of red hair and an eye patch held the torch. He was the man they called Maxwell Tyrosus. Behind him Alaric saw Osra and the damned mage that landed him in here. She looked at him with drilling, curious eyes, like he was some project or specimen to be observed. Those eyes irritated him. Lastly was his gaoler, a stocky man called Dio with a filthy blonde beard.
"This isn't my first time in a dungeon. I find the process so tedious." Alaric said, finishing the last drop of water. He'd never tasted anything so good in his life.
"Shut up! You'll show respect to the Lord Commander!" Dio called out.
"Your japes and jabs are off point, Alaric'Faltron Quel. Vanguard Osra Leone has told me of who you are. I'd expected more from a person such as you. I had great respect for you before that show you put on yesterday. I'd heard you were an orator, master planner, an idealist, and an agile politician on top of being a battle commander." Tyrosus stated.
"I cannot speak for you, but the undead have been my constant enemy for many years now." Alaric replied. "That one upstairs is no different."
"Leonid Bartholomew is a loyal and obedient soldier in the Argent Dawn. He came to us when he could not trust anyone else. Though his body may seem like it is one of the living dead, both he and we consider it to be a mere condition—an affliction like any other. It stops him not from fighting for our cause as adamantly as any other." Tyrosus explained.
Dio nodded stupidly.
"The Argent Dawn is few. Our enemies are many. Here at Light's Hope Chapel we have barely fifteen hundred souls. The entire Plaguelands is against us. We need minds and powers like yours to aid us defend this world from the Scourge. We fight a war against pure evil, against very obliteration itself. This is not a war for ideals or causes. It is not a battle for reputation or love. It is a fight for survival. We stand stronger together than alone."
"I don't want to help you. Your cause is admirable, however, I would not have helped you before, and especially after I found that creature in your employment." Alaric told Tyrosus.
"I will not stand to listen to this. I have preparations to make. Osra, see if you can convince this—guest of ours against his idiocy." Tyrosus swiveled around and walked indignantly away taking his mage companion and the gaoler. At least he'd lit a small brazier with the torch. The thick-set Dio gave him a look that said he didn't deserve even that as he turned.
"Exactly what is it that you intend that is so much more important than the survival of the mortal races of Azeroth? You can trust me." She added softly.
The elf looked around for a moment. He realized the truth in her words. She would keep his answers secret. He just couldn't bring himself to tell her the whole truth though. Too much had happened to explain it all, and she would never truly understand.
"My power was stripped from me. I am cut off from the Ley-lines and ambient magical energies of the world. I must journey south to restore them and then return to Quel'thalas to finish my business there with the tyrants that led my foolish people into oblivion."
"You speak of slaying Lor'themar Theron? The regent of Quel'thalas?" Osra's eyes went wide with shock.
"He is but one elf. There were also others." Alaric said, looking past Tyrosus. He could see the faces of his enemy, as if they were standing before him. The trio of elves was burned into Alaric's mind and the memory itself made him sick with hate.
"Alaric, listen to Lord Tyrosus. Put aside the blind hatred. You are a better man than this." Osra said desperately.
"How would you know?" Alaric shot back.
"I can hear it in your words. I saw it in your eyes when you talked about your past."
"What truth?" For a moment there was only the echo of their voices through the cold walls of the dungeon.
"The world has changed. Let go of this foolish pride and stop living in the past. I don't know everything that you've been through, but things are not as they were in the era that you seem to refuse to leave."
"Leave me be." Alaric grunted, sitting back. He kicked Osra the canteen.
"You truly are miserable." Osra said pitifully, turning to leave the elf alone in the cold darkness.
Character Bio: Leonid Bartholomew
Leonid Bartholomew was once one of the most noble and lauded heroes of Lordaeron. He fought in almost every major battle in the Second War, rushing from front to front to encourage and revitalize soldiers. He formed deep bonds with the common men and women of the nation in his travels and warring.
After the war he courted and wed the love of his life, Adrianna Teringas. The two lived the outskirts of Lordegarde, but when the Plague spread to the city, Adrianna was infected. Leonid destroyed the undead corpse of his wife. Vowing to avenge her and those who perished while he sat idle, Leonid once again went to war. He was slain in the Battle of Northdale and revived as his wife was: a common Scourge minion.
Leonid Bartholomew was freed from the control of the Scourge after the rebellion of Sylvanas Windrunner. Perhaps due to the situation with his wife, the warrior saw his undeath as an illness and malady that needed curing, never seeing himself as truly one of the Forsaken or undead. He fought for his new allies for many long months, rising up in their ranks quickly, but became disenchanted with Sylvanas' methods and plans.
Bartholomew defected from the Forsaken after finding the Argent Dawn. There he became a trusted and popular commander and resumed the role that he'd intended to take up years ago when he left Dalaran.
Factoid: The War of the Ruins
The War of the Ruins is an event that evoked many popular myths among the people of the Alliance from the disappearance of the general-commanding and Lord of the Blood Elves, Alaric'Quel, to the legendary battles in Northrend.
Two years after the end of the Third War, the mage-warrior Alaric Faltron'Quel gathered a small following of blood elves to his cause. Bargaining with local Alliance commanders who were distraught and disheartened with the Alliance, Alaric'Quel forged an expeditionary force that set sail across the Great Sea to gather a portion of the Waters of Eternity from Mount Hyjal in order to bring the fight against the Lich King to a more even playing field.
After brief but decisive conflicts against both the Horde and the night elves, the expeditionary force returned to the Eastern Kingdoms. With the reaffirmed support of all the current nations of the Alliance, a massive army of nearly 100,000 was assembled in southern Lordaeron, Alaric'Quel commanding.
A long campaign ensued that left a trail of battles from Southshore to the Capitol (Lordegarde), from Silvermoon in Quel'thalas to Northrend itself. This main action in the Eastern Kingdoms has thus become known as the War of the Ruins.
Though short, the War of the Ruins left a bloody but important legacy. It hampered the Lich King's invasion of the world for several more years, allowing the mortal races of Azeroth time to catch their breath after the cataclysmic Third War. Most of the realm of Quel'thalas was also reclaimed and resettled by the blood elves, paving their path back to the forefront of the world's powers.
Author's Note: Hey all, just wanted to point out the timeline for this story is set during the World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King. The story kicks off about 4 months after the beginning of Wrath of the Lich King and will continue from there. I'll also post this on an updated Prologue so as to avoid further confusion.
Thanks for helping me started in this new endeavor. I think I'm more excited for this story than I've been for any others I've written, so I hope that excitement bleeds over into you all as well.
See you all soon!
Omegatrooper