Chapter 4: Steps

Light's Hope Chapel

The smell of blood and wounds mixed with the smoky stench of ash and sweet decay. Sometimes it was cleared for brief moments by passing breezes, but cries of anguish from the field hospitals persisted no matter the atmosphere. Two days had passed since the battle and the vast carpet of wounded did not seem to shrink at all.

Beyond the temporary infirmaries and operation tents great swarms of men were gathering their campaign materials; rolled linen tarps and sticks for shelter, pots and pans for cooking, tobaccos and whatever else one might deem necessary. They donned themselves in boiled leathers and old chainmail their fathers had saved from their days in the Second War. The richest and highest born had their squires and adjuncts fit them into suits of rich plate saved from the destruction of Lordaeron.

Here though there was a pallid silence. Amputees and newly cripples looked at the procession of warriors gearing for battle with hollow eyes.

Alaric gingerly stepped around a man whose entire right side seemed one horrific burn. The sight of the blackened flesh mixed with fresh blood brought a quiet queasiness and sympathy to the elf.

Even though I have seen so much war, these hospitals never get easier.

When the man looked up at him he leaned down and offered a small prayer. The man rolled onto his good side. He didn't seem to care for empty prayers that could not extinguish the pain. Alaric moved on.

Hands reached out to his legs, eyes piercing him from all around. Moans and murmurs for help and water and peace filled his ears as he passed through. Ignoring it all, he pushed forward into to the far side of the camp where the least infirm and hurt had been placed. A few priests and tauren druids, much to Alaric's chagrin, had joined the healers in making their rounds about the field hospital. He would not act against them until they proved themselves a threat though.

I need to learn to cool my tempers. No need to end up in a cell again.

At last he caught sight of Osra Leone. Bundled in a plain brown scarf and linens she looked almost like the rest of the patients. She was kneeling with the nurses, helping hold down a man as one of the healers placed a red hot iron into an arrow wound to cauterize it. A scream and a sigh and the patient had passed out from pain.

"You are supposed to be sitting still and healing." Alaric chided Osra as he neared. Her face looked much better after Duncan had healed her shattered jaw. The purple, splotchy bruise had remained though, as well as any signs of her concussion. Her arm was splinted and bandaged at the wrist to hold it still.

"I am not so hurt that I cannot aid in some way." Osra backed away from the patient after the doctor thanked her and began bandaging the puncture wound. "In fact, I feel as well as ever. I could probably best you in swords right now."

Alaric could call her bluff if he wanted. Obviously she'd strained muscles in her neck the way it had twisted upon the impact of Zacharias' metal gauntlet. The pain from her jaw, though dulled, probably still throbbed and also her wrist was yet to be taken care of.

"Why are you here?" The young woman glanced at him as she washed the patient's blood off her hands in a brown clay bowl.

"I came to see if my friend was mending well."

"So we are friends now?" Osra chuckled slightly, her eyes glinting. "What is happening? Is there to be another battle?" Her blues eyes surveyed the buzzing activity of Light's Hope Chapel.

"Aye, but this time the Argent Dawn will sally forth to meet the Scourge." The elf smirked.

"I have a feeling this is your doing."

"Indubitably." Alaric's grin grew sly. "I convinced Tyrosus and the rest of his council on a plan of attack. The last thing Morde will expect is the bloodied and battered Argent Dawn attacking his rearguard from the Scourge's stronghold in the Noxious Glade."

"The Noxious Glade? It is a deep basin surrounded by mountains on all sides with but one narrow pass to enter by. The blighted ground is thick and the air putrid. Tens of thousands of all kinds of undead aimlessly march that forsaken place. No formation or army has ever marched through it and returned, let alone go unnoticed!" Osra was exasperated.

"I did. At the time I was busy both trying to escape my loyal hunters and outsmart the Scourge's most intelligent liches and death knights."

"So your swagger will carry the day then?"

"I have my ways." Alaric looked out to the muster.

"Then I shall accompany the Dawn." Osra stood.

"You shall not. You will remain here and guard the wounded when you are able." Alaric nearly commanded.

"But—"

"Who will help these people if bandits or undead attack once more? Nearly all the able manpower of the Argent Dawn will march forth. I recommended Lord Tyrosus a special order for you. You are to hold the command over the town whilst we take care of Morde."

"I'm meant to fight, not tell men what to do! I can't have that responsibility!" Osra spoke quickly in hushed tones.

"You're not going to fight until you gain some sense over yourself." Alaric's tone changed darkly. "What you did in the battle, rushing up headlong to attack that death knight was foolish and suicidal. You knew that. Are you trying to prove something?"

"No I—" Osra lost her words. "Zacharias Morde is purportedly the head of the Scourge in the eastern Plaguelands. If I could have killed him—"

"—another death knight or lich would take his cup and don his titles. What was his name? That hero you spoke so fondly of?" Alaric softened.

"Valdar Justax." She said the name proudly. He had never heard it.

"My father was cut down when the Scourge came trying to buy time for my mother and I." The young woman began. "I ran back to join him. I thought I could help. I had some knowledge of the blade from my brothers, but as I returned my mother came to drag me away. That was when an arrow took her in the chest. She told me to run so I did. I ran and ran until I fell in with a group of refugees. I ran from my past and my fears. I was weak." Her voice was strangely flat. No doubt a reservoir of emotion was behind it.

"Valdar saved me and took me into his troop. They were men and women pulled together from the various companies of the Alliance's scattered armies. They were farmers, urchins, and refugees like me looking for a home. We fought the Scourge up and down Lordaeron."

"Valdar was strong…so strong. Even when the world was collapsing he would bring the homeless and weak to his side and give them hope. He shared his strength with them and made them brave. Valdar's heart was kind and generous. I never felt like he was really made for war, but the circumstances made him the man he was. I fought at his side, ate with him, and joked with him for almost a year. I loved him. He died in my arms at the Second Battle of Dalaran." The young lady admitted. From somewhere she had produced the muddied feral dog pennant she wrapped around her arm in battle. Unconsciously her pale thumb caressed the cloth.

"You loved a symbol, not the man. You idealized him." Alaric prodded.

"You wouldn't know. You weren't there." Osra's voice turned to venom. "If it takes the rest of my life I will see his will carried out. I will help free this land from the undead, or else die trying."

That mission in her head is the only love she holds now.

"I understand the feelings of loss and love quite well. I have some advice for you. The hate and energy and sense of obligation you carry works better when you are not trying to shoulder the weight of the world and get yourself killed. Direct it better. You are smarter and stronger than you think yourself."

"If you truly loved him, then do you think he would be pleased if you died some futile death?" Alaric purposefully did not ask if this Valdar Justax had reciprocated her feelings. He already knew the answer and bringing it up would only enflame her more.

Only the Light knows how many times she's acted so irrationally due to that silly obligation. Enough with the counseling.

The woman stared at him incredulously, brushing a lock of hair out of her face.

"I must return now. Here, take this." He handed her a small bag.

Hopefully she takes my words to heart. It wouldn't serve well for her to try and get herself killed again.

"What is this?"

"Breakfast: salt beef and black bread. You'll appreciate it later. Alana bela torr'e." The elf gave the customary Sindarin farewell. The words felt smooth and like home.

A sense of loss washed over him. He could never return to Quel'thalas to live. Not after what had happened. Not after what he was going to do.

"This business with the Argent Dawn comes first." He reminded himself. The elf had pinned himself to the Dawn when he'd decided to attend that damned meeting. Foolishness, he told himself. He'd even begun to feel comfortable amongst these people. Perhaps in another life he might've called it home.

The death knight Zacharias Morde was an axe looming over the neck of Light's Hope Chapel. He would have to die.

"Damn her." Alaric said as he joined the columns of iron and wood and flesh.

The Argent Dawn had begun to move, prepared to take their fight to the enemy. Far above the marching men clouds began to brew, and a cold wind swept the land.

Eastern Plaguelands, Brandel Hills

A chilly breath had wrested the air from the previous day's temperate mugginess. Duncan Macallan snuck through the restive and wild hedges to the appointed meeting spot atop a stooped hill known as the Hook's Nose.

The paladin shivered when a fresh gust of nippy wind blew through his armor. He had donned only a light set, opting for speed and quiet rather than full protection. He'd left his vambraces, hauberk, pauldrons, gorget, and leg-plate at the camp.

With this cold weather on the move our attack will be even less likely. That figures well for us, save the freezing.

It was mid-spring, but the weather in northern Lordaeron was unpredictable this time of year. As he climbed Hook's Nose his fears were confirmed. In the northern distance a grey wall of clouds bubbled. He had expected it since the spotting the frontal mare's tails clouds the past evening.

Behind lay the remains of the fishing and way-station town of Leather Hook. Not long ago its streets had been bustling with fishmongers with their fresh catch, and whores looking for their own catch. Though not a large town, its pious mayor and influential priests had garnered enough money and favor with the Church of the Light to commission a beautiful temple about a generation ago. It gained renown and fame across Lordaeron for its markedly gorgeous stained glass depictions of the founding of the Church as well as the holy wars against the Trolls.

Duncan shook his head and sighed. All of that was gone now. The glass had been smashed and the church desecrated. The populace of Leather Hook had tried to take shelter amidst the sanctuary of the church. When the Scourge came, it proved that no power protected the temples of the Light. Horrific acts were committed that day. Many of the soldiers of the Dawn would not even go near the remains of the temple.

"Light bless the dead. Keep them in thy graces and hold tightly their souls to thine warmth." The paladin offered a small prayer as he waited in amidst the tangled undergrowth atop the hill.

For a brief moment he wondered if he was still in the Light's graces after his sacrilege during the battle.

Best not dwell on it. I can still gather the Light and judge my enemies, he resolved.

Suddenly he saw movement. Four cavalrymen rode hard from the mountains feet toward him. The riders sped up the hill and swung around when they saw Duncan.

"My apologies! We've drew attention." A muffled voice said under his helm. The billowy blue plume marked him as Harryl, the hedge knight from Stormwind. He'd long held a middling command of Light's Hope's horse detachments. Though he looked funny with his missing front teeth, there was no doubt the man was a fighter. The two remaining horsemen wore no visors. One was Yorman, and the other's name escaped him.

"No matter. What have you brought to the plate, Harryl?" Duncan inquired.

"A wraith." The man uttered fearfully. "We were scouting Reynar's Pass into the Noxious Glade when we were set upon. We've lost no man, but the horses are spent."

"Then we make our stand here." Duncan unbuckled his hammer from the bronze girdle slashed around his waist. He felt his own apprehension rising.

"We'll fight that thing?" Harryl choked.

"Aye…and we'll kill it."

The hedge knight had reason to be concerned. Wraiths were among some of the most terrifying minions of the Scourge. Their blades of ice could freeze a man to death in his armor and their frosty breaths steal his wits. The paladin had fought one once, during the Siege of the Sanguine, and received a blow that had left a still-aching scar from hip to nipple. Even then it had taken the aid of another Knight of the Silver Hand to beat back that enemy. The power of the Light burned them like any other undead.

The wraith approached on a ghostly white steed that seemed to stretch and contort with every gallop. The mount's features were hideous and then a cold beauty and then amorphous. The wraith atop was cloaked on a flowing mask of blue mist.

The enemy was upon them before any of them had time to react. Suddenly the wraith had jumped off its mount, the mist spreading to cover the entire hill. It struck at Duncan but the blow parried off the hammer in a shower of blue sparks. He felt his arms absorb the impact, aching at the elbows. Cold air, even colder than the front that was already blowing in, washed over his face and made his teeth chatter. It was freezing. Duncan's first thought was of a warm hearth.

Much longer here and we'll freeze to death.

The wraith came into full view. Its flesh was pale blue like a frozen man's. The hair was a halo of milky white that floated around his neck and back almost weightlessly. Beneath the mane were two eyes like red embers. Its armor was like shiny black ice. The blade in its hand was a long and glossy bar of blue metal. Little flakes of snow and ice flew from it with every hit. There was none of the usual stink of rot and decay that the undead brought, only cold.

Duncan lifted his hammer above his head but the monster vanished into the mist. Beside him one of the cavalier's heads flew off and into the sky, a geyser of blood following it. The blood froze in midair, crashing down in shards of red glass as the wraith sped by the falling body. The other cavalryman, Yorman, stood as if taken by fear.

The curse of the wraiths, thought Duncan. The one he'd fought before had ripped a man's thought from him from a hundred yards and left him until his last comrades were dead. Before the end, they said, all the slaughter that they had witnessed would register. For a warrior, there was no worse death than knowing that you had left your fellows to die.

Harryl met the enemy with his sword. The two blades locked in confrontation just long enough for Duncan to approach from behind. Within the moment though, Harryl's weapon cracked under the unnatural cold. An icy coat began to envelop the knight's arms.

"I smite you, brute!" Duncan's hammer glowed with the fire of the Light as he broke one of the blessed seals. Devout heat and flame rushed forward, taking the shape of his weapon. The holy energy struck even before the physical brunt of the weapon, cracking the shiny guard that encased the wraith. The hammer then hit. Duncan could feel the cracking and straining of the wraith's armor under his weapon. It sounded like the moans and groans of a great glacier.

The wraith fell to the ground. It pushed itself up to look at him. Those red eyes pierced him, stabbing deep into his soul.

"When you return, tell your masters their lives are forfeit." Said Duncan.

The wraith's purple lips twisted in a hideous smile. The mist began to suck itself back toward the fallen wraith.

"You cannot kill what is already dead." It spoke.

"Not even the grave protects my enemies…the Light's enemies."

The monster's smile disappeared with the mist. Suddenly the wraith burst into a thick nebula that dissipated and carried with the wind. Duncan suddenly heaved forward, gasping for air. He'd hidden his exhaustion from the wraith. His body still had not recovered from the battle the other morning.

A simple crusader's strike took that much out of me…he thought, surprised. Crusader strikes were basic explosions of holy magic funneled almost instantaneously. They were simply brought forth by devotion to the Light rather than by extensive seals set up before battles or long incanting prayers.

The paladin staggered over to Harryl. The man was unharmed but covered in freezing ice and cursing like a sailor. He helped the knight undress out of the unbending, useless armor then went to aid Yorman. A quick slap sufficed to bring him back to the present.

"You killed it." Harryl sighed in relief.

"Nay. Wraiths are ghostly, ethereal monsters trapped in the skins of frozen water. With the armor gone, they simply return to the nexus of magic from whence they came, ready to be clothed and march upon the warm living again." Duncan explained.

"Then…they'll know we're coming. You warned them!" Harryl's face soured in confusion.

"Aye, they'll know…and they'll still lose. There can be no greater victory than one where the enemy's confidence is at its fullest. Shatter that confidence and that is how epithets are gained." Duncan stated.

But it is also blind idiocy. Alas, I cannot share the full extent of our battle plan with these men. There can be no trust at this time.

"Aye—Boldstrider." He heard Yorman whisper behind his back.

The two cavaliers caught their mounts which had turned tail at the wraith and saddled up to return to their camp. By the time they returned, Duncan had set a small pyre for Jarvis, the fallen man whom Harryl had identified. There was no burying these days. That ran the risk of resurrection by the Scourge.

"Let's go. There will likely be enemy spies investigating the smoke from the pyre soon." Duncan iterated. The men descended from the hill and retrieved the paladin's charger which he'd tied up at a post near Leather Hook. As the three galloped past ruined hamlets and fallow fields Duncan looked up to the graying skies. A fat white flake hit his nose. He shivered, both from the disturbing damage from the battle at Light's Hope and from the weather.

"Snow…and at the worst possible time."

The snowflakes began to stick, and the land turned to white.

Llachus, The Black Citadel

Zacharias Morde rested his head upon a closed fist. He sat like a king atop a throne made from blackened wood and headstones. A giant fire pit spat out embers from behind him, giving the impression of some deity.

The death knight was seated atop the peak of the floating necropolis pyramid, Llachus. Below the death knight stretched the entirety of the Noxious Glade. For years it had been a stronghold of the undead. The ground was soaked in the Blight, sucking the nutrients and minerals from the soil and feeding every morsel to the necropoli and nexus' scattered around the Glade. The very sky held a pallid, sickly green color from the pollution and smog of the undead factories and plague barrels.

Here and there old remnants of the past remained. At the pinnacle of the pyramid one could spot an old series of granaries and mills with their sails torn from wind and neglect. Over to the left a tiny hamlet had once stood. Only charred skeletons of the buildings remained.

An Alliance army had marched into it with their pennants and heraldry flying high. All the pageantry of its nations and allies had come down the Triumphant Highway intent on re-conquest. The steely flower had advanced in their crisp lines with spears and swords and arrows and magic all at the ready. They were met with the unorganized hordes of undead that rose all about them. The undead tore the petals off the pretty flower, despoiling it and raising what mangled bodies could still be salvaged. 9,000 men had died here on top of the once peaceful commoners and smallfolk.

Kirkessen remembered the day with savor. He had reveled in the bloodshed and partaken in the atrocities.

"A disturbance."A Morde announced. The death knight rose from his throne.

"I see." Kirkessen felt the feedback as if it were his own body, his own eyes. The higher tiers of the Scourge's command could sense the movements and actions of their minions everywhere. At first Kirkessen had found it an incessant annoyance like a buzzing in the back of his mind. When he discovered the power that came with it, the buzzing became beautiful singing.

A warding wraith had encountered several horsemen and given chase atop a hill outside another ruined village. There the horsemen had stopped running and turned to fight alongside a paladin.

"Boldstrider." Zacharias licked his lips.

"I see. He is the one that inflicted the damage on you in your little squabble the other day." Kirkessen laughed. His voice echoed as formlessly as his body down the halls of Llachus.

"Quiet, before I rip your parasitic crumb of a spirit from my citadel! I shit on the weak like you." Morde growled. His face twisted and his eyes burned like blue flames beneath his hideous skull helm.

Kirkessen silenced himself. The death knight truly frightened him. Once he might have contended or even held sway over this animalistic upstart when he was whole. Kirkessen was what some would call a ghost. Once a lich that was a hero to the Scourge and the left hand of King Arthas beside Kel'thuzad himself, he had fallen from grace. During an assault on one of the Argent Dawn's strongholds the warrior Maxwell Tyrosus had inflicted such a blow that it had cracked his phylactery (the object containing the soul of a lich, buried deep within them). The crack had allowed his soul to escape the sure destruction of his body, and with the black citadel of Llachus nearby he was able to reconnect himself with the nexus of the Lich King's energies before fully dissipating.

His once majestic black citadel had become a jail the moment Zacharias Morde stepped foot in it. He bound the soul of the lich to the very walls of the floating fortress. Kirkessen had lingered within the confines of Llachus, his former citadel, for years. Though he could still direct the lowest of Scourge minions, his power waned with every passing day. Now he was but a prisoner.

Imprisoned without a body to suffer, he thought. Only my soul torments in this. But…

If Kirkessen still had flesh, he would have smiled. Soon he would not have to suffer under this pretentious death knight. Soon he would be whole again…

But he must never know the plan until the time comes, he reminded himself. If he so much as hinted at his plan to retake Llachus when the death knight was weakened again, he would be rent to a million pieces. That agony would be greater than the torment of slowly fading into oblivion.

He looked inward again to see through the wraith's eyes. The paladin loomed over him after delivering a mortal blow. His eyes were blue-grey and light stubble covered the square of his jaw. Behind him sparse trees hung dark and dead.

"When you return to your masters, tell them their lives are forfeit."

"A declaration of battle?" Morde brooded.

Similar information began to flood into Kirkessen. Reports from various underlings near Reynar's Pass trickled forth. The Argent Dawn was on the move; all of it.

The death knight felt the reports as well. He burst into laughter. It was a terrible, grinding sound. If Kirkessen had ears, he would have covered them. If he had a face, he would have cringed.

"Now they march to my doorstep. I will line Reynar's Pass with their entrails." Morde unsheathed his blade, Darkbane. Brilliant gold and sapphire runes shone down its serrated length, dimly lighting the death knight's scarred face.

"I must also prepare a warm welcome for my old friend, Bartholomew." The death knight continued. Kirkessen recalled the stories the death knight had told him. Once he and Leonid Bartholomew had been closest friends and warriors for Lordaeron before Arthas Menethil returned to Lordaeron. Morde had struck out for power and offered his soul to the Lich King.

When he aided in the assault on Dalaran where Leonid's wife lived, he had sought her out, raped and then flayed her until death. Ever since, the two had engaged in an epic dance of battle and hate that had lasted even beyond death.

"I will meet them now. Enjoy your sojourn in my citadel, lich. Upon my return I may yet yearn for screams." Zacharias smiled an evil smile. His black cloak flapped behind him as he swiveled around toward the exit. Kirkessen remembered the last time his soul had been stretched to its limits by the death knight for sheer pleasure. It was not something he wanted to relive.

Soon…I must be careful. Soon…the disembodied lich reminded himself. All was careful calculation. One misstep and all would be lost.

Argent Dawn Column

"They are aware of our approach." Duncan Boldstrider announced as he joined his fellow commanders at the head of the column.

"Good." Alaric responded. "The first step of winning a battle is to let your enemy think they know you."

The elf looked up at the mountains that loomed nearby. The Argent Dawn's force had hugged the mountains all day and night during their march. He then glanced at the forces arrayed behind them. It was a motley force, some thousand or eleven hundred strong. These men and women knew the Scourge though. The terrors of the dead had less effect on hardened veterans. Too many times he'd seen green men run in the face of simple skeletons, triggering an entire route.

Several tauren, muscles rippling and veined, carried the heavy siege equipment. They wore crude skins and frills and had bony décor in their hair. Despite their savage appearance, Alaric had almost grown to admire their strength. Even in the battles throughout Kalimdor that he'd taken part in, they were a noble people.

A shame they threw in their lot with the Horde.

Shivering, he pulled his fur cloak closer. The snows drifted gently, slowly blanketing the ground in their essence. The Argent Dawn had provided him with new armor and what winter clothing they had left. At his hip was a dented but well balanced falchion he'd scavenged from the armory.

Luckily they were not too far from their destination. Much more and the terrain would be difficult to cover. Due to the relatively short distance between Light's Hope Chapel and the Noxious Glade, the men were all carrying their own supplies. It was logistics made simple.

"It will be as we discussed then. As we pass Leather Hook, I will take five hundred men along with Alaric and Sir Duncan through the tunnels and into the Noxious Glade. Marshal Chambers and Master Bartholomew shall take the remainder of our force as the frontal diversion. You will turn the Scourge's numbers into disadvantage with the narrowness of Reynar's Pass. You are to hold until you receive the signal." Maxwell Tyrosus reviewed. Snow had caught in his beard and hoarfrost was beginning to form.

And not a bad strategy at all, thanks to my part, Alaric sheepishly thought. The majority of the ploy had been his brainchild, right down to the forced march through the night with archer pickets to snipe away wandering undead.

"Gentlemen, I have no need to remind you of the importance of our job today." Maxwell continued. "Zacharias Morde represents one of the most violent and anarchic factions within the Scourge. He is the strongman of the eastern Plaguelands, and by eliminating him and his hierarchy, we go a long way to reclaiming Lordaeron."

"Hopefully with the success of Lord Fordring and the Alliance and Horde offensives in Northrend we can fully win this war at last. May the Light watch over us all."

The commanders nodded and broke. Huge Field Marshal Chambers lumbered off toward his men. He was a soldier's cut to the boot. The elf surmised he had once been a lifetime soldier, and after the fall of Lordaeron had carried on his services here.

The one they called 'Boldstrider' circled around. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, as if something was keeping him up at night. The paladin looked almost in pain, as if slightly wincing at each footstep.

I indebted to him for helping Osra. Hell, he singlehandedly defeated the Scourge attack. He deserves his epithet. This paladin is powerful indeed.

Leonid Bartholomew had hung in the background like a shadow. Every time Alaric saw his sagging features and grey flesh, he felt the urge to attack. His fingers twitched and his eyes darted about. It was still hard to imagine or think of this undead creature as one of his own.

I will have to deal with it…for now.

The archmage, Teresa disappeared into the snow like a passing shadow. Alaric still misliked that one. Her eyes saw too much.

Maxwell lingered for a moment, his eye catching Alaric.

"Why did you join us?" The Lord Commander of the Argent Dawn asked.

"Perhaps I have some investment in this venture?" Said the elf.

"What exactly?"

"Maybe I simply want to prove my superior strategic mind." Alaric jested. "I will help you for now, but afterwards I intend to resume south."

"To where?"

"Stromgarde."

"Why?"

"Do you speak only in questions?" Alaric grew irritated.

"I speak only in sense. I am wondering why you changed your tune so quickly. A few days in the dungeon cells could not have convinced you of all people. I have heard your tales. 'Strong, willful, and proud', the veterans of your campaigns tell me. Stubborn I say, heh." Maxwell shielded his eyes from a gust of wind and snow.

"I know what is the right and wrong thing to do. Your soldier Osra explained it well." Alaric said.

"I see. Then you should understand why we need you. The Scourge is still strong as ever in the Plaguelands. Though King Varian Wrynn, Warchief Thrall, and Lord Tirion battle in the wastes of Northrend, the threat here remains. We are a forgotten front. We need all aid possible."

"My heart bleeds for your cause." Alaric replied, half sarcastic. "I said I know what is right and wrong. That does not mean I will always follow my heart. I have…other duties to attend to."

"Very well. I thank you at least for helping us in this battle. If you'd still had your magical powers, between you and Duncan we would be unstoppable." Maxwell sighed.

Aye and the loss of those powers is felt every day. I feel a great gaping hole in me. Once I could sweep aside my foes without lifting a finger. Once I fought on par with the Lich King. I am but a runt compared to what I used to be able to do.

But in Stromgarde…

"Alas, my powers were stripped from me. Come now, Lord Tyrosus, we have a battle to win." Alaric surveyed the troops as they passed by.

They were all hard souls, ready to fight and die for their country and cause. The smell of an army washed over him: the smell of the unwashed bodies, the leather, and the greased metal and smoky campfires. The whole affair reminded him of his younger days. He almost felt inspired.

"I will meet you at the fore." Tyrosus told him. His squire brought him his mount, a great grey mare blanketed with a blue and gold cloth saddle. The snow crunched under the horse's hooves.

Two big blue eyes under a half-helm caught his from the midst of the column.

"Osra?" The eyes looked away. "…no. It cannot be." Alaric shook his head. He turned to join the thundering march.

The Argent Dawn advanced north, walking straight into the mouth of the blizzard.

Character Bio: Maxwell Tyrosus

Standing around 6'0, Maxwell Tyrosus gives an air of dashing and bravery that so few men truly exude. He wears a mane of red hair and red drooping mustachios that easily distinguishes him from others. He was born in southern Lordaeron, in the shire of Tarren Mill situated amongst the Hillsbrad Foothills. Despite his age, Tyrosus is still a fierce warrior and likes to fight alongside his common soldiers in the heat of battle. This preference is what led to the loss of his eye during the Third War.

Tyrosus was one of the founding members of the Argent Dawn organization, joining after its paladins split with the Scarlet Crusade. Before, he was a member in one of the local pockets of resistance left over from Lord Garithos' army. Due to both his valiance and intellect he holds command over all Dawn forces in the eastern Plaguelands.

Tyrosus is a devout follower of the Light, and honestly believes that one day his hard work along with that of the organization's will bear fruit in the liberation of Lordaeron and the destruction of the undead Scourge.

Factoid: Bloodline of the Quels

The blood of the Quel (meaning 'High' in elven) family is both storied and bloody.

Legend has it that the family began from a union between the Redstaars and the Sunstriders during the exodus from Kalimdor. Each of these families were amongst the most powerful and legitimate houses that shared rule over the Highborne. Supposedly both these breeds, along with the Quels, helped settle their people in modern day Quel'thalas.

Afterward, in an argument as to whom would rule over the new kingdom, the Redstaars were wiped out by the Sunstriders. The Quels themselves were hunted down almost to a man, but some survived in obscurity to much later regain their rightful place in high elven politics.

While this story is doubtful, it is certain that the Quels have within them bastard blood from the Sunstriders, attributed to the coupling of Aerron Sunstrider and Lysina Tar'Quel 3,000 years ago. Since that time the Quels have held some office within the Convocation of Silvermoon and retained lordship over the lands of Tranquillen.

The last scion of Quel blood is Alaric'Faltron. His father, Ruahal Tenar'Quel, perished forty years ago in the Tragedy of the Weepwood.

A/N: Hey all, don't forget to review after you read! All reviews help spur my imagination and excitement to write. See you all soon!

-Omegatrooper