A squire of ill news
"Vingor Stormcrow?" came the call from the open doorway, which beckoned the druid away from his struggle in the rubble. The entire west wing of his home had caved in as a nearby tree fell from the trembling earth a few days past. A sigh escaped his lips, at this rate he would never be able to sort out his own home. On his way to the door he brought his simple wooden staff. Roots were shaped into the wood, quite simple yet elegant at the same time. Each step from the right foot of the tall elf was echoed with the harsh crash of the wooden staff striking the floor in his own home. Furious at the interruption he looked down at the squire standing in front of his elven residence. The frame of Vingor's glasses hitched onto the long eagle nose, as he glanced at the gnome in an unyielding way.
"Who is the squire here, me or you? Even if the door is open you will knock politely and await a response, gnome. I do not enjoy being summoned by anyone, not even Lady Tyrande or Malfurion himself. Do I make myself understood?" the blue-haired druid hissed in his, from his point of view, just anger. Not only were gnomes the most annoying race he had ever had the misfortune of encountering, which had over the years led him to understand the tauren activity they called gnome punting, but they did not even take notice of their own knack for pissing off other people. This was the third time Vingor had to lecture one of the sassy buggers for interrupting him while he was trying to rebuild his own house. One would think that the lack of a wall, and a tree lodged into the side of his house, would hint to the fact that his home had suffered major trauma from the upheaval of the earth itself. The earth shook from time to time, which made it hard to rebuild anything at all.
The gnome was clearly not the same as the previous two. A white-haired creature, if you could call it hair, which stood up around a very bald skull as if it was a snowy crown. The refined druid grinned briefly, wondering if electricity had something to do with the hairstyle. They usually had a less acceptable look, involving pink or other disgusting colors that mixed efficiently with their obvious lack of height and manners. A very painful scar in the scenery and not something Vingor Stormcrow enjoyed to have at his doorway. In fact, one of those Sentinels with their stubborn opinions, their most prominent trait by far, would be a more welcome guest at his home. The little creature seemed nervous, enough so that the old elf took some matter of pity upon him.
"If you intend to soil your pants do give me a warning first, or give me the message you were sent here to relay onto me. Then you could run out on the grass like a fledgling and soil yourself. I do not give the slightest flicker of thought on it as long as you do not pee on my threshold." while his intentions were to be humorous it all came out heavily sarcastic from the tip of his tongue. The little gnome grew pale in a pace that was unheard of for most races. Vingor Stormcrow leaned against the doorway, observing the gnome in silence before removing his glasses calmly. "You do have a message for me, I take it? Or did you actually just drop by in order to piss me off, by leaking poor quality oil on my lawn, as I suggested?"
The wind blew across the green hillside and caused the grass to shiver in its wake before the gnome dared to talk. "Greetings, I'm sorry for disturbing you, Master Stormcrow. I meant no offense, for sure. I even took the liberty of scurrying here as fast as my little legs could carry me. Honestly, Sir. These are important news and must be told!" said the gnome as he pulled a piece of parchment out of his strange utility belt. A strap of brown leather wrapped about his waist with several small bags attached to it. The druid snorted at the gnome abruptly and motioned for him to hand over the parchment at once. The mood changed as Vingor began to read the letter addressed to him:
To Master Vingor Stormcrow,
I plead for your mind's rest as I will have to report that Atelniar Shadowrunner did not report back to the fleet before we sat sail for Teldrassil in great haste. We did not have the time for retrieval of all who were wounded and many were left behind in Gilneas. I am afraid Knight-Captain Shadowrunner met the same fate as many of our kin. The Priestesses informed me that he had no known next-of-kin and that I was to relay these ill news to you.
It grieves me greatly to inform you of such grave news, but his efforts did contribute to securing the safety of the gilnean people from the grasp of the Horde.
Yours sincerely, Talar Oaktalon.
The silence reeked from both parts. On one side was the grim elf, towering above the little gnome while his fist began to crumble the parchment and its contents. To read a statement of death about someone you considered your own pupil for many years was not a pleasant experience for Vingor Stormcrow. His throat grew dry and his fist clenched in frustration before he spoke again. "Am I supposed to weep or laugh, is this some third-rate joke you gnomes find entertaining?"
"Pardon, Sir? I don't know the contents of the message you just read and clearly disliked, I may add, but it was given to me by Master Oaktalon himself. If you're questioning my credibility. I'd very much like it if you refrained from implying that I'm some sort of poor jester." demanded the gnome while he placed his fidgety little hands at the utility belt, attempting to indicate the level at which he took offense of the elf's misgivings about him. Dalbur Fitzzcrankle was not the kind of gnome that enjoyed being made a mockery of. "My work here is done, have a nice day!" he had said what needed to be said and clearly felt no need to exchange any further pleasantries with the obviously disgruntled elf as he turned away and walked down the hill, with childishly small footsteps compared to elves and men alike.
The gnome left his land. Clouds far above began to cluster together and grew darker. Vingor stood in silence and contemplated the letter he had read. He suspected his former apprentice to be a tad foolish still, but to freely join a war effort in the Easter Kingdoms was folly even for that lad. Despite all his faults Atelniar was not a mindless grunt, yet he was not the heroic type either. Something was off the mark. The young druid he had known would not fall behind enemy lines in such a way.
He sighed heavily, tilting his head to the side as he observed the skies above. His steps trailed the path that lead from his door and down the hillside. Vingor stopped a few steps from his own doorway, planting the cane into the dirt with a firm thrust. Roots sprouted out of the earth, tearing the lawn up as they embraced the elf's residence and sealed it from trespassers. It would do, he did not know how long he would be gone. With dark thoughts looming over him, he walked clear of the sealed residence and stepped onto the moist grass. A shiver ran through his arms as they morphed into wings. Feathers sprouted out of his body as the druid changed his form into that of a stormcrow. Dark wings stretched outwards before the mighty bird thrust itself into the air, with a fierce screech that caused nearby critters to seek cover between roots and bushes.