The thundering of soldiers chanting their rites rattled through the stones of Valiance Keep. Their chants were incoherent, but the organization and synchronization was more than enough for any one person to assume that those who congregated in the courtyard were the highest of rank. The most elite soldiers in all of Azeroth; those who have followed the Alliance through thick and thin. The assault of the Scourge, the onslaught of the Burning Legion, and those who aided in stemming the tide of the Horde.
Inside, Archerus stirred almost immediately. His eyes opened and body jerked to life at the sound, startled by the unfamiliar song of soldiering. The paladin sighed. His calloused hands were pressed against the cold planks of wood that made up the floor of his temporary quarters. Over him was draped a meager blanket, but it was enough. Slowly, reluctantly and with a groan he would rise to his feet.
The hearth's warmth had long since died, and it could be seen that a new coat of snow had fallen from the sullen, ashen skies of Northrend overnight. The cool breeze made the stone frigid and the woolen socks which covered Archerus' feet did very little to warm him. He drudged over to the window, ignoring his comrades as they rested on the bed. He opted for the floor, which was an arguably grave mistake.
His back popped, then his neck and knuckles. It felt as if he had been chilled right down to his bone and cartilage, but he knew warmth would return to his body eventually. He sought to savor it as much as he could. There would be little of it to be had in the wastes of Northrend. He looked out and into the courtyard through the frosty glass of the window, giving it a slight rub with the sleeve of his shoulder to clear enough for him to see.
Their chanting was incoherent from where he was, but it was still as energetic as it was when he was stirred from his shallow sleep. The day was bound to be long, and he could have done with the rest, but he was capable of nothing if not able to endure a little bit of fatigue. He figured now was as good a time as any to log his thoughts. He turned, took up his backpack from the trunk at the foot of the bed and fished out what felt like his journal. It was not, and instead was his father's gospel. It still had a sheen of mysteriousness about it, and still he knew not why. The man laid it out on the windowsill and pried the lock open, letting it unfold on its own.
The book had changed considerably since he had last seen it. The language was no longer cryptic—literally ancient—and it was instead in fluent Common. It seemed as if it were equivalent to the normal holy writ which the churches of Lordaeron followed, but when he came to the end of what was 'written,' he found distinct differences.
"Kill me, savages, and I shall return! My brothers and sisters will walk alongside me in the Garden of Light, where we will congregate beneath the Holy Ones! Blessed are we, humankind, with glory and divinity!"
"Woe to you, Amani savages, for we the Holy Ones have given our blessing to those you war against! Turn from your masters, fall to your decrepit and weak knees and you will find mercy. Or you may stand and die by the blade!"
These new passages were referencing a time when the humans were then establishing themselves in Arathi. The tribe of Arathor, the ratification of a new and great kingdom in the temperate lands north of Stormwind and south of Silvermoon. This was the time of the Troll Wars, where the emboldened humans brought low the Amani. An empire of Trolls, once great, now decimated as the humans manifested their destiny to expand and make a home for themselves.
Further he continued, and the more puzzling things became. Surprised? Perhaps, but more puzzled than anything in the realm of surprise... Shock is what came to mind.
"Hear me now, those above and below the Heavens! It is with a heavy heart and troubling topic I speak today through my vessels to the people of Humanity, to my sons and daughters! Lo, I have watched you grow from savages in a strange land to a kingdom of glory and gallantry. The pride that I take, and the pride that the Maker takes in your ascension is truly to be savored and honored you will be in the annals of time.
While the pride I take in you, my children, is indeed great, I am afraid that it is time for the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven to close. Foresight I have been given, both a blessing and curse, and I have seen the corruption and war to come. Do no longer rely on the protection of the heavens, and learn to fend for kingdom, faith and oneself. Forget the guidance I have given you, and forget the guises of the Blessed.
The Blessed I have locked away in a tomb at your roots, far beneath your feet, and they will await the call of the follower I elect to be the herald of the Second Dawn. He will rise from the ashes of a kingdom long since shattered and bring glory to our names once again! He is the Lightbringer; righteous, uncorrupted and tempered by the wars to come. Let his suffering become wisdom, and you shall know him by his eyes. He shall bear the wisdom of a million holy men; that of the Maker himself.
With furious anger and vengeance in his heart he shall turn to the North, to our root, and he will strike at the heart of corruption, defeating the first of many evils. He soldiers not to be enthroned, and those who dare accuse him of such will be subject to our wrath.
He will awaken the Blessed and the gates of Heaven will be open again. They will crown our mighty herald as their rightful leader, and he shall be immortalized and sustained in the Council of Heaven."
The rest was unwritten. Still, there was a vast majority of the book that missed its content, telling him that his journey of his did not end in Northrend... or even after that, for this matter. With a solemn expression, he knew that his fate was not that of a simple man, that much he'd been able to accept. There was no simple life, with a simple wife, a simple child of his own living in a simple cottage in Elwynn.
Perhaps the book did end there. Maybe this was where the Prophets of Heaven scoured their premonitions across the Eastern Kingdoms and the people of Strom, Stormwind, Lordaeron, Kul'Tiras, Gilneas and Alterac burned the old writs, per the insinuations of the Holy Ones. Those that had drug Archerus into this mess were the ones who spoke to these "Prophets."
There was still much he wanted to know. How this ordeal involved his father, and why it became his vocation to see this prophecy out. Mayhaps it was all some clever and impressive orchestration by Veritas and his council, but from what he had heard from the celestial, his council was at war not just with the corruption on Azeroth—the cancer that would destroy the church—but also at war with itself.
As he would slide his hand under the face of the book and close it, his eyes slid shut and a heavy sigh left his lips. His mind and body were fatigued. He wished to stop and rest, at least for another week and let this war go its course, but there was no turning back. He was an officer—not on his own volition—but he now had an undeniable duty. The volume of the soldiers' chants grew with the cadence in his quarters. The reluctant and frustrated groaning of his allies could be heard behind him as well. Soon it would be time for them to depart again.
"Archerus?" A heavy exhale followed a yawn from behind him. The soothing tone of Astraeah's voice calmed his troubled mind. "You're a knight... go out there and ask them to stop for a little while... They'll understand, surely..."
The paladin grinned, his eyes turning up to look out through the frosty window once again, to the congregation of the Alliance's elite. Before he could open his tired maw to reply to Astraeah, perhaps even to shout over the chants beyond their peaceful bedroom, a knock could be heard on the door. The paladin turned and Astraeah pushed herself up, grasping at the covers to cover her bare midriff. Gwenhyfar, despite the noise, slept as sound as ever.
In came the man who granted him his impromptu but impressive and honorable promotion: The Marshall. Behind him came two men pushing a heavy cart with black cases stacked on it. His hands were folded behind his back and the exhausted men snapped their posture straight and stood beside the cart.
"Knight-Lieutenant Archerus Truesteel, I trust you are having a pleasant morning. My apologies for the interruption of our soldiers; they too prepare to leave, but not for Fordragon Hold. The Horde has again interrupted our operations and now struggles with us in the region of Wintergrasp. We shall show them the error of their ways in time," the Marshall began, "That is not why I have come here, though. Your orders are unchanged. It came to my attention by way of our mutual friend, Silvana, that the status of your armor is not ideal. As such, I requested some unique sets be requisitioned for you. Usually reserved for the Sword of Wrynn, I managed to secure sets for you. It is befitting of your status and telling of your calling at the same time."
The Marshall made a brief, nonchalant gesture to the servants who aided him in bringing the cart, still stacked high with those unbelievably large cases. Quickly they would offload the cargo, but a set of six different sized cases. They laid it out on the floor and began to flip the locks off. The painted black cases would soon have their lids pushed open, and the sight Archerus was graced with was something he couldn't have expected.
"The armor of the 'Lightbringer,' as our smiths have dubbed it. Through this armor courses the power of the Light, and when a paladin is at their highest, those pauldrons would serve as a beacon of justice, rallying your allies to you in all your holy radiance." Cyrus folded his hands behind his back again, rolling them just slightly. "From what Duchess Amaren has told me, you are more than capable of calling an army to your beacon of strength. There is also a cloak... royal blue with a truly beautiful trim of golden thread. It seemed fitting."
"Hurry and dress yourself. Leave your old armor and we will have it set aside for you to claim on your return to Valiance Keep. Your new allies have been assembled just by the gates and they await you. Horses have been set aside as well to hasten your journey. Time is of the essence, Knight." Cyrus said. With not a single word, the cart was pushed from the room and they were left alone again.
Archerus looked down on the immaculate set with awe. Never once in all of his days working the forge or reading books telling tales of the great forgeworks of Ironforge and Silvermoon. Never, not in his wildest fever dream could he have imagined such amazing work. The sheen of the steel, the layered plates and glimmering gold. If he knew no better, he would have wept at the mere sight of it. But it was as Cyrus had said: time was of the essence.
"Get up and dressed. We've somewhere to be." Archerus commanded, a muted yawn following his words.
The streets of Valiance were about as lively as those of Stormwind—or better yet, Stromgarde. Soldiers marched down the way, humming their songs as they patrolled the great stronghold of the Alliance. As Archerus passed them by, ignoring the idle chatter of his 'guards,' the soldiers stopped and saluted him.
"Glory to you, Knight." They said, their voices humbled by his presence but postures still strong, utterly unchanged.
Archerus paid them no mind, though, and instead continued on his way, the harsh winds of Northrend causing his glorious cloak to flutter behind him, along with the colors of Stormwind that now graced him by way of an immaculate tabard. His comrades also wore the colors, which had been delivered to them the night before by Silvana. She had done quite a bit to aid them in their journey, to what end he did not know, but it wasn't his place to be concerned about receiving much needed aid.
Snow had been shoved out of the street by the groundskeepers and the dockworkers were hard at work making deliveries of rations and other amenities to Valiance Rest. Crates of ingots to the forge, pelts to the tanner and gold to the fledgling counting house. There was but one thing missing that he could see, though: there was no chapel. Not even a soapbox in the commons for the holy men to stand and preach to those ragged pilgrims from Stormwind. Perhaps that could be the roll he filled when he would inevitably return to Valiance.
The gates were opened and the backs of three persons were turned to Archerus. Their silhouettes seemed familiar from where he stood, but there was no way to be sure. And then he came into earshot of a very distinct accent. That of a Gilnean. The cloaked figures turned and he was met with the faces he had seen not too long ago.
"It's good to see you again, Archerus." Spoke the Proctor, "My fiancee insisted that I come to Northrend aboard the next outbound ship from Menethil to join up with you. I brought with me a cohort,"
"Aye. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in a more official capacity. I am Arcil. They dubbed me Rimeclaw during my time in Alterac, so you are more than welcome to call me either of those." Arcil said, crossing his arms and giving him a neutral smile. Something a bit more welcoming and certainly less vulgar than their first meeting.
Both of them were clad in what seemed like standard issue armor. Plates for Rimeclaw, mail and leather for the Proctor. And of course, at their side, stood the devilish sin'dorei that made all this possible. He dare not ask how she managed it. To accent their new digs, they wore the tabard of the Alliance, flying proudly the great lion crest of Stormwind.
"Milla said that if it were possible, she would have come in my place. She seemed eager to pay her debt to you." The Proctor replied, "I wish it weren't so cold here... It feels like the our's march on Alterac all over again. That was some time ago."
Arcil cleared his throat and gestured over to the saddled horses. A fleet of six waited to take them onward eastward. "Shall we? It's a long ride to Fordragon Hold. It should take a few days, if we're to make the most of our time."
"I do suppose. The war will not wait for us, ladies and gentlemen." Archerus said, stepping on and past his entourage to the horse at the front of the fleet. It stood tall, clad in armor and huffed out as the paladin began to load its saddlebags.
Archerus slung his heavy, armored self onto the top of the warhorse and took it by the reins. He looked down on himself, now clad in glorious armor, and it was now in his charge to sift out the hearts of man and lay judgment on the wicked. Just as it should have been from the start.
Ahead of the paladin was a pretty clearly cut sign. It pointed to the right, and painted on it very clearly was "Farshire," a settlement to the east. If the roads were in decent condition, then that would be their first stop on this journey through the tiring rime of Northrend.
Just to say it ahead of time, I might be doing a one-off sort of deal in the relevant future. I lost a bet, and that's about all I'll say on the matter.