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Smoke and Fire
Jul. 16th, 2019 08:03 amTeldrassil Burns!
That’s how it had all begun, at least for Zandros Alter. A voice shouting in the night, waking the manor despite the hour.
Teldrassil burns.
Days had passed, and it was all that could pass the lips of each dour face he met. A gift from the dragons, the last great stronghold of the Night Elves, a place said to be blessed by the so-called Goddess Elune, burned. Every face was fallen. After a tenuous peace, once again achieved only by the near-destruction of their world, it was war again. The Horde demanded blood. The dead, more of their own.
In just a day Stormwind's streets were over-full with the homeless, their clothes and their faces still soot-stained and bloodied. Refugees who could escape by portal and – days later – by hippogryph or boat slept in the streets without possessions or direction. They crowded the walkways, some searching for their loved ones, some resigned to their loss. The spiritually and physically wounded blocked the shops and alleyways and stared sightlessly at the people who passed.
Those who had not lost hope rallied for war. They donned their armor and their weapons, and those who had lost their own found replacements from the blacksmiths who toiled at their forges. It was a sweltering summer, and hotter and louder in the Dwarven district than Zandros had ever felt or heard. The whole city radiated like a furnace and screamed with the pounding of hammer on metal. He passed veterans ten lifetimes older than himself and felt the hated in their scarred and twisted faces as strongly as if it were directed at him.
For the first time in a decade, Zandros Alter felt unsafe in his own city.
Perhaps because he knew. He knew that despite it all, there would be consequences. For Sylvanas. For the Horde. Perhaps even for him. Evil had to be met, battled, and bested. He knew that. But for the first time in his life, he wished he could reject it.
He had rejected his duties as an officer, after all. He had resigned his title and returned fully to civilian life, where he had, most vexingly, been forced to continue the fight. And hadn’t he just won? Hadn’t he done what he had to do, won what he had to win?
And now this. This summons.
Zandros crushed the paper in his fist and shouldered his way, increasingly angry, through group after group of the righteous warriors of Elune. The Grand Marshal’s office wasn’t far, but it would take another half hour of sweating in the summer heat, pushing past the vengeful and the lost only to find himself on the wrong end of a long line of men and women waiting for their chance to see the commander. He didn’t frequently wish for the foreign luxuries of the world of his family-to-be, but he couldn’t count the times he wished for air conditioning in the hours that followed.
Finally, his moment came to meet the Grand Marshall.
He entered the office with the fury of the elves, gripping his summons like they held their glaives.
And he left with silence of the lost ones.
That’s how it had all begun, at least for Zandros Alter. A voice shouting in the night, waking the manor despite the hour.
Teldrassil burns.
Days had passed, and it was all that could pass the lips of each dour face he met. A gift from the dragons, the last great stronghold of the Night Elves, a place said to be blessed by the so-called Goddess Elune, burned. Every face was fallen. After a tenuous peace, once again achieved only by the near-destruction of their world, it was war again. The Horde demanded blood. The dead, more of their own.
In just a day Stormwind's streets were over-full with the homeless, their clothes and their faces still soot-stained and bloodied. Refugees who could escape by portal and – days later – by hippogryph or boat slept in the streets without possessions or direction. They crowded the walkways, some searching for their loved ones, some resigned to their loss. The spiritually and physically wounded blocked the shops and alleyways and stared sightlessly at the people who passed.
Those who had not lost hope rallied for war. They donned their armor and their weapons, and those who had lost their own found replacements from the blacksmiths who toiled at their forges. It was a sweltering summer, and hotter and louder in the Dwarven district than Zandros had ever felt or heard. The whole city radiated like a furnace and screamed with the pounding of hammer on metal. He passed veterans ten lifetimes older than himself and felt the hated in their scarred and twisted faces as strongly as if it were directed at him.
For the first time in a decade, Zandros Alter felt unsafe in his own city.
Perhaps because he knew. He knew that despite it all, there would be consequences. For Sylvanas. For the Horde. Perhaps even for him. Evil had to be met, battled, and bested. He knew that. But for the first time in his life, he wished he could reject it.
He had rejected his duties as an officer, after all. He had resigned his title and returned fully to civilian life, where he had, most vexingly, been forced to continue the fight. And hadn’t he just won? Hadn’t he done what he had to do, won what he had to win?
And now this. This summons.
Zandros crushed the paper in his fist and shouldered his way, increasingly angry, through group after group of the righteous warriors of Elune. The Grand Marshal’s office wasn’t far, but it would take another half hour of sweating in the summer heat, pushing past the vengeful and the lost only to find himself on the wrong end of a long line of men and women waiting for their chance to see the commander. He didn’t frequently wish for the foreign luxuries of the world of his family-to-be, but he couldn’t count the times he wished for air conditioning in the hours that followed.
Finally, his moment came to meet the Grand Marshall.
He entered the office with the fury of the elves, gripping his summons like they held their glaives.
And he left with silence of the lost ones.