Part One: Another Time
Chapter One
"Sir Daellin Lightheart, I wish to speak to you," a strong voice from outside the door announced.
Of course. The one day I have to myself, I have to speak to him.
"You may enter, Lord Valdelmar," Daellin reluctantly sighed.
Lord Valdelmar entered the room with purpose in his stride. He was a heavily built man with armor to match. His bright-red plate, akin to any other Scarlet Crusader armor, brought some light to the dim room. His short hair, mustache, beard, and eyes were all dark brown. He had been known by the townsfolk and initiates for those piercing eyes, making many shake to their core. His long sword, Redlasher, was latched to his hip, as he rarely went anywhere without it. Daellin had heard tales how the pommel of the blade had met the business end of many young Scarlet recruits. Furthermore, Valdelmar's tabard, that of a Crusader Lord rank, was still stained with red and green from his latest battle against the Scourge. From the amount of blood, it was a well fought battle. A single droplet crashed upon the quaint room's floor.
"Yes, Daellin, I wished to speak with you," Valdelmar spoke, trailing off as he walked towards Daellin's bookcase. Since he had walked in, Valdelmar had yet to look in the general direction of Daellin, instead focusing on the plethora of tomes and books.
You've already said so...
"Regarding the latest Scourge detachment found near Corin's Landing," he went on, seemingly never finishing a thought. By now, he had pulled a book from the case, The Particulars of Interpersonal Communication, and flipped to a random page. The Crusader Lord swept away a layer of dust from the page and began to half-read. His small mouth mouthed the words he was reading, occasionally letting an audible word slip through.
The Scourge had controlled Corin's Landing for many months now, ever since the fall of neighboring Darrowshire and its brave warriors. Corin's Landing was once a large crossroad town that shipped food from the farms all around Lordaeron. The breadbasket of the north-east became another dead town with undead citizens. The Landing was heavily controlled by the damned and several attempts of purging it had been attempted yet all failed. Despite the losses, the Crusade was desperate in cleansing it. Any reason behind this is a safely guarded secret.
"Yes, go on..." Daellin urged, staring at his book and not his fellow man.
Valdelmar licked his finger to flip to another page. Something on the page peaked his interest as he gave a knowing smirk and reread the line several times, continuingly mouthing the passage. Suddenly, he broke his trance. "Well, Lady Abbendis is mustering the men to make another strike at the scourged town," Valdelmar's voice grew with pride with each word, "and this time, we shall be victorious!" Just Valdelmar finished his statement, the distinct sound of light rain on the roof filled the void of an awkward silence. After a few moments, the light rain escalated into a downpour almost as wet as Valdelmar's licked fingers.
What makes him so sure of our success? What is different about this time than any other attempt?
"Well, that sounds promising, to say the least," Daellin replied. His eyes sent darts to his fellow Crusader as his impatience grew. Valdelmar defiling his book was not helping. Why do we waste our time on a Scourge position when there are survivors throughout the land who need our help?
"Yes, it is!" Valdelmar exclaimed excitedly while slamming the book shut. The crusader tossed the book aside on the nearest table and perused for another from the case. "In fact, the High General herself will lead the charge! With yours truly close behind, of course." Once again, he took an extended pause from the conversation to pull out The Broadsword and You. Like before, he opened to a random page, licked and placed a finger on the page, and began to read. "Once the Landing is purged, the Scourge will lose much of their presence in the region. We can then push our charge against the damned further into Lordaeron."
Daellin tensed further into his seat. "With Abbendis at the helm, eh? Well then, our victory will be assured. Light bless us for our coming battle." Daellin, even with all of his support and love for the High General, knew his words reeked of sarcasm.
Valdelmar looked up from the book to stare down at his fellow Scarlet. "I shall see you in battle, Daellin. Light bless you." Valdelmar returned the sarcasm. He collected both of the books he was reading and held them close to his chest. He sauntered his way out of the door without giving further regards or closing the door. Daellin could hear each heavy footstep echo in the hall. The footsteps suddenly stopped and in its place was a furious cascade of crassness aimed at a poor soul. Thankfully for the poor soul, it stopped as soon as it started.
Daellin sighed and rubbed his temples. The encounter had been draining on the elder paladin. Nevertheless, despite the weight of the awkward conversation, he got up from his desk to close the door. As the door swung shut, he could hear the faint sound of erratic footsteps and sobbing down the hall. In addition, a choir of timid 'sir's and milords' carried all the way to his room. Daellin, relieved that he was not the victim of a verbal assault, plopped back into his rickety chair, closed his eyes, and wandered into deep prayer.
Light, I pray this endeavour bares fruit for your devout followers. We have lost so much in this war against the damned. I know you take up our mortal souls when our mission is done yet I pray for tangible progress. Guide us as we continue our crusade against the Scourge. The damned will be eradicated so we may restore Lordaeron to its former glory. Light bless.
Daellin opened his weary eyes with an exasperated sigh. Among the various loose pages and bound books placed before him on his desk, a large tome dwarfed them all. He opened the book to a bookmarked page and grabbed a quill from his inkwell in one fluid motion. Gracefully, his pen flowed from one word to the next. The writing flow was not as eloquent as two young dancers but rather a more experienced duo. Nevertheless, the rate of writing was steady.
After a few moments and lines, Daellin set aside the book by the single lit candle. Outside, the steady downpour had turned into a fierce storm. Lightning pierced the earth from the heavens above outside Daellin's window while thunder shook the room's foundations. His room resided in the basilica of Tyr's Hand, one of several churches that lined the city. Originally a safe bastion during the Second and Third Wars, the grand city had been under constant assault by the Scourge. Due in part to the grand walls that circled the city and the strong devolution of the Scarlet Crusade under the leadership of High General Abbendis, the city would not fall.
"This storm is getting the better of me. I need to take a walk," Daellin sighed.
He got up from his desk and reached for his thick leather cloak from his bed. The cape had a large, red 'L', the insignia of the Crusade, with pronounced fire red embroidery. Daellin walked over to his closet and opened it. Inside, beside trivial things such as loungewear and a half-broken chair, was his trusty sword. It had a large leather grip, a blue jewel for the pommel, and a red-tinted broad blade. This majestic weapon was known as Dawncrier. Daellin slid it into his scabbard attached to his hip like he had done countless times before. He blew out the candle at his desk and went for the door. However, he stopped in his tracks. He reversed course back to his bookcase and pushed the books that were disturbed by Valdelmar's literature curiosity. After he was content as he could be, he left the room and made sure the door was locked.
Daellin walked into a narrow hallway that had two other rooms straight across from his. At the moment, they were unoccupied, with their residents elsewhere in Lordaeron fighting for the Crusade's causes. One was Inquisitor Norlen, who was a student of Grand Inquisitor Isillien himself, making him a high ranking member of the Inquisition wing of the Crusade. The other room was owned by Malor, an unremarkable young paladin from Stratholme. Their rooms were similar to Daellin's - one room, one bed, as simple as simple can be.
As Daellin proceeded down the hall, he found himself in the spacious basilica abbey. The abbey was full of Scarlets and peasants worshiping the Light in the pews. Dozens, if not hundreds, of residents of Tyr's Hand came in everyday to pray to the Holy Light, all bowing their heads in subservience. At the moment, an elderly priest was crying out words of repentance, struggle, and hatred against the undead. As much as he enjoyed tales of the Light's power, Daellin would rather clear his mind.
He opened the basilica's large service gate, made of worn wood and rusty iron, and stepped into the torrent. The rain was pouring down under a pitch black sky. Based on the prayer the priest was reciting in the abbey, it was just past noon. Usually by now, the sun would be glaring down on Tyr's Hand with great intensity. However, that would not be the case that day. Despite it being dark out, Daellin instinctually glanced over to the nearby garden next to the basilica. He could vaguely see the outlines of trees that had lost all foliage on their limbs. In addition to the sorry trees, the shrubs and grass lost their green color while only a few roses struggled to survive.
Another bolt of lightning stabbed the sky and the roll of thunder warned all those outside to return to the safety of shelter. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea… Daellin thought as rain began to drench his cloak. Oh well, better than being confined in my quarters with reports to read. The pub will be a better place than running into Valdelmar again.
Daellin took a hard right and hurried down the cobbled street. The lamps placed in window sills of residential homes and churches served as his guide as he rushed down the street. Occasionally, a shadow would float by in a lit window. The owners must be having a nice, warm time in their homes; not drenched out in the rain wishing to get away from people. The caped crusader rushed down the street a few dozen yards then spotted a large tavern on his left. Three stories tall, the tavern loomed over the humble homes around it with several lamps inside flickering. Many shadowy figures danced inside, far more lively than their counterparts in the nearby homes. Daellin rushed to the door and leapt into the warmth. The force of opening the door caused the hanging nameplate, The Seven Lights, to swing ever so gently.
This level of the tavern was one large bar room. In the corner was the bar, being attended by one lonesome bartender. The rest of the floor was decorated with a few long tables with about a dozen individuals sitting, enjoying themselves with food and drink. Nobody wore the colors of the Crusade but rather the humble apparel of farmers, laborers, and the common rabble. As such, Daellin did not see a familiar face behind a mug of ale. He was drenched from head to toe and his cape was soggy and dragged on the floor. Before continuing, Daellin wrung out his cape by the entrance and kicked his shoes. After these formalities, he glided over to the bar, a modest amount of droplets trailing behind. Not a soul in the tavern paid attention to the soggy crusader.
"Hey, barkeep," Daellin called out.
The bartender slowly looked up from cleaning a stein glass in his hand. His face was marked with two scars running across his forehead. He had bushy eyebrows and a matching shaggy beard that contrasted his bright blue eyes and white-blond hair. The man towered over everyone in the tavern in stature and presence. The most noticeable feature, though, was how half of his face drooped down more so than the other half.
The bartender's scowl quickly turned to glee. "Daellin! Great to see you, brother! I don't get to see a lot of noble faces around here, just townsfolk and lazy watchmen!" The bartender exclaimed. "Why might you be down here amongst the rabble? Oh, and you're awfully wet," he added.
"Oh, Ahran, I had to get out of my tiny room in that cramped dungeon. Needed to take my mind off things," Daellin chuckled. "And yes, I am a tad bit wet."
"Well then, stay awhile to dry off, eh?" Ahran sat aside the glass he was cleaning to grab a pitcher. He raised the pitcher above shoulder length, showing off his bartending skills, and poured out a dark brown liquid from an unmarked bottle into the glass. Without hesitation, he fluidly pushed the filled glass to Daellin.
"Will do, Ahran." Both of them were beaming greatly. Daellin grabbed the glass and raised it to his nose. The overpowering smell of hops made it clear it was one of Ahran's specials, Double Delight. With a raised cheer, he took a big gulp of his beverage and sighed happily. "I wanted to take my mind off current things. I'd much rather talk about the good ol' days with good ol' company," he said as he stared into his ice cold beverage.
Ahran looked down at the dirty rag in his hands, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. The beaming smile relented to a more tame smirk. Without looking, he grabbed a large mug from below the bar and poured out more of his Double Delight into a mug. When the mug was full to the point that the head poured over the brim, he brought his gaze back up to Daellin who was finishing his second sip.
"Something wrong?" Daellin asked his friend before he wiped his mouth.
After a brief moment, Ahran answered, "No, it's nothing. Yes, the good days, before everything, right?"
"If by 'everything' you mean war, then yes," Daellin sarcastically remarked.
"When we lived our best days in Andorhal..." Ahran reminisced. His verbal thoughts were clinging onto another time. He momentarily thought about what else to add to the conversation, "We were some arseholes full of life back then."
Daellin nodded before he took another swig of his drink. With refreshing ale in their hand and warmth in their bellies, the two discussed their days as boys. He and Ahran spent many days frolicking and playing around in their youth. Each other's families had been close for generations so their children grew up through boyhood almost like blood brothers. In fact, they were closer than blood ties. The city they called home, Andorhal, was to the far west of Tyr's Hand. It was a large farming community, bested only by the Capital City and Stratholme in size and population. The city rested on the shores of Darrowmere Lake, the body of water that connected the entire kingdom together. Bridges constructed by the finest engineers the nation knew allowed ease of access in and out of the city. Several walks of life resided there, and it wasn't uncommon to see a smug high elf salesman trade with a dwarf-human business partnership.
"I will never forget the time you stole those cabbages right off of Old Hag Gertrude's wheelbarrow!" Daellin snorted.
"We didn't even eat the damn things! Just threw them at her house!"
Daellin shook his head slightly. "Yeah, mom did not appreciate that at all…" he said.
"We were just two troublemakers, eh? Especially with the girls! Remember that one gal from the outskirts of town? What was her name again? Layla?" Ahran asked.
"How could I forget? After that night, I couldn't bear to sell off the bales of hay out of fear of losing those precious memories," Daellin recounted, tracing the brim of his mug with his finger. "You were awful on the lady front, though!" The two chuckled. Ahran, perhaps a little disheartened from his patron's remark, clinked their drinks together, then took another swig.
Ahran looked down into his mug and swished it around. Without pause, he grabbed his pitcher and poured another round for himself. "Alas, we all have to grow up sometime..." Ahran trailed off as he looked for the rest of his thoughts on the mug. Of course these words rang true; all men have to grow up and answer life's call. Unfortunately for the two farm boys, the call was war.
They were in their early twenties when the First War broke out. Abominations of life entered Azeroth from a strange portal to the far south. These savage bloodthirsty "orcs" waged war against the human nation of Stormwind. After several months of intense war and bloodshed, the humans of the rural nation lost. The people of Stormwind lost more than just a war, however, as they had to recover from a lost city burned to the ground as well as a dead king. With fleeing refugees pouring in daily, Lordaeron knew that conflict would arrive on its shores soon.
"What inspired us to join the Silver Hand?" Ahran pondered aloud as he swished his drink around in his hand. It had been a while since his last sip of his drink.
Daellin rolled back in his chair before answering, "We thought it was our duty. Or maybe we were young and looking for glory." He took the smallest sip of his drink, as he had noticed that Ahran slowed down his consumption. "Can you imagine where we'd be if we didn't enlist?"
Ahran looked into his mug once more, then to the common rabble in the tavern, shuddered, and responded, "I think I have an idea," he chuckled before adding, "Or dead."