Sanctus Ignis (Closed)

No Regrets

On the coast of Tanaan a fire raged. The flickering flames and flashes lit up brightly in the night, forming a morbid mirror of smoke-riddled light towards the blanket of stars spanning the skies above. The sounds of battle carried far, the tremor of concussive cannonfire accompanying it. Volleys of shells bombarded the sands as several battleships of blue and gold skirted upon the sandy beach's border, their mighty cannons and armed men raining nothing short of hellfire down upon the tattered red banners and fleeing figures of a Horde encampment that had stood firm mere hours ago.

It had been late last evening when Commander Carmina Cloudweaver received the call to arms. A horde vessel had been intercepted by Marshal Bernard Brighttower, and some intriguing information on Horde movement had been retrieved. An encampment had slipped up upon the western coastline, unseen by the fel-touched dogs or the Alliance military's own scouts. It was a troubling place to have the greenskins crawling around, in marching distance from Lion's Watch and in a perfect position to survey or sabotage the Alliance vessels which passed through the channel from Shadowmoon. Documents had suggested they'd already been doing so.

It was for this reason that Carmina stood upon the deck of The Reckoning, the flagship of the small collection of vessels drawn under her command and by far the most formidable. Her eyes were closed, her ears listening on to the steady drumming of gunfire and the echo of their charges landing into the sands below. The scent of gunpowder was dense in the air, and there was surely enough orcish blood running to have turned the coastline to red. After months cloistered away in her office, it was as rewarding a visit to the front as she ever could have hoped for. To see the Horde fleeing into the treeline, to feel that reverberating clash of gunmen and cannoneers speeding them on their way- she had nearly forgotten this feeling. It was one she was fond of. At any moment she would have gladly disembarked to give chase to the fiends that still remained... but she could stand to merely watch them scurry for today. Better not to lose any men in that light-forsaken jungle after a victory so sound.

"Commander." a voice prods her from behind. The cannon's cry was steadily ceasing, and the smoke was slowly clearing from the shore to reveal the wreckage they'd dealt upon the encampment. Not a single standing structure or living soldier to stand against them. Nothing but char, corpses and shrapnel now. "Marshal Brighttower is signalling for a return. Have you had your fun?"

Carmina's hazel eyes glower over her shoulder to the gnome that lurked behind her, draped in blue and gold. Her adviser's voice sounded genuinely inquisitive, but the priest knew far better than that. Drawing a deep breath she collected herself, taking on her typical poise and taciturn tone. "Battle is exhilarating and rewarding in its own way, Miss Rozellia. Seeing these vermin driven out like the rats they are, knowing they'll not threaten our efforts or the lives of our soldiers? I suppose if you mean to ask me if that is 'fun' to me, then yes. I'm having a ball."

"Splendid!" her adviser grins, a roguish twinkle in her eye. "Ever so glad to hear it, Madame Commander." she adds, feigning an impression of the commander's own voice. "I wonder though, will it be worth it for the trouble it will bring?""

"Trouble?" Cloudweaver chimes back. "I've no idea what you mean, Miss Rozellia. Have we suddenly drawn a treaty of peace with the mongrels? Are we not in open battle with them in the east?"

"We're meant to be collaborating upon this front, as I understood it. High Command won't be pleased to hear we're stirring trouble with the Horde upon the Legion's foothold into Draenor."

"I have no regrets, Miss Rozellia." she answers promptly. "My conscience would be burdened only if had I failed to act."

"As you say, Commander. You know that there will be envoys from High Command within an hour of our return, don't you? By my guess there's a messenger from Lion's Watch out towards them already."

"Naturally! When we return set some fire under the innkeeper's feet. See to it we have a splendid meal and a few casks of wine on hand for the event, and have them tidy the place up for our guests."

"Surely you don't think High Command can be bought with some wining and dining, Commander?"

"Of course not. But before us I see a victory, won by men and women deserving of some merriment. Why should I deny them a celebration?"

"As you say, Commander." she replies once more, bowing her head as she turned and stepped away, beginning to channel a portal back to the fort. Cloudweaver turned her attention back to the charred shoreline, the last shot having been fired amid their talk. All was quiet. All was still. There was only the rolling waves lapping upon the sandy beach, cleansing the blood from the sand with the rising tide.

All was well.

Judgement

It was late into the night when the Commander arrived on the steps of the Stormshield Keep. The signs of battle were worn heavily on every inch of Ashran's sordid soil, it seemed. From here she could have sworn that the acrid scent of burning battlements could still be picked up on the wind. For the moment things seemed at a lull though. Footmen clad in shining, if highly scuffed and axe-bitten metal stood at attention, offering the gnome a prompt salute upon her approach. This battlefield had been one she had, surprisingly, gone without much involvement in. Perhaps it was predictable, when faced with the chance of facing off against the fiends of the First War.

Drawing a deep breath she pulls herself upright, fastens her cloak and cap neatly upon her, and marches in. The bottom floor was filled with the usual- soldiers seated about, either eating, tending to their armaments or simply lounging in the brief respite they had from the battlefield. Her wandering eyes were drawn upwards as a call came from the upper floor, a man in decorated armor and a shaved head hailing her attention. "Commander Cloudweaver. Up here, please."

Subtle. She bears the suddenly attentive eyes of the room a simple salute before making her way upstairs. Though open to the mess hall below the atmosphere on the approach up was much more sobering. The thick walls muffled the merriment down below into distant echoes, and the bright light of the hearth was replaced with the flickering candelabras that set upon the walkway. The men who greeted her at the entrance into the office here offered a firm and mechanical sort of salute, snapping back to attention as soon as she passed by and entered into the room.

The office was a pleasant enough environment, at least. Well lit and populated with well-made furnishings of rich red wood, well carved and adorned with trophies of previous battles and personal endeavors. Of note was a model of the Skybreaker seated upon the shelf of one of the cabinets, with an engraving beneath. Gnomish. "In thanks for your brave service." She had one of those as well, from the Icecrown campaign. She could have sworn hers was smaller. Wandering her attention back to the paper-filled desk she'd find no one seated at it. Must have been out tending to some other duties. She was patient, though- she would wait. With a cautious hop she pulls herself up into the chair before the desk, easing back into the cushy chair and staring across at a faded map of Pandaria pinned up along the wall ahead of her.

In due time she heard the tromping of boots coming up from behind. "Is she here yet?" asks a scratchy voice, presumably answered with a brisk nod from a guard. "Good! Sorry to keep you waiting, there was an incident out in the training yard."

"Nothing major, I hope." the gnome ventures, peeking from around the back of the chair as the finely adorned man strolled by and pulled up his seat. He was a rugged looking human, face scratched up with pockmarks of faded scars, grown over with wiry hair that had gone unshaven out here on the front. He wore a mix of battle gear and his casual attire, partly dressed for a sudden affront and partly for a day of officework. Clearly he had a motley mix of both on a regular basis. Unmistakable was the badge pinned along his mantle- that of a field marshal.

"Spies lurking around again- nothing gained for them but a wounded soldier and their heads on pikes. They're handled."

"Ah, I see. That's a problem often out on this front?"

"Well, say what you will about the Iron Horde-- from what I've heard they don't have men skulking around poisoning your rations."

"Only one of their breeds. The others are more forthright in their destructive desires."

"Well, I'm sure you've had enough experience with that then." he shrugs, pulling up a file from his desk to browse through. "Commander Cloudweaver, then. Or Carmina?"

"I imagine whichever remains accurate would be best." she answers expectantly, gesturing him on.

"I suppose you'd prefer the former?"

"I suppose that I'd prefer the truth."

"Then I suppose we'll settle on Commander for the time being then, hm?" he asks, bearing a pleasant enough smile to her. She returns it, if with a clearly diminished mirth weighing it down. "Before we get into the matter at hand, do you know who I am?"

"Your name is Field Marshal Troy Silverbrook. You are a veteran of the Pandaren campaign, on the eastern front and the Siege of Orgrimmar. You served in battle against the scourge in Icecrown aboard the Skybreaker, and were dispatched to Outland to aid the Allerian Stronghold."

The marshal's face betrays some candid surprise. "Well! You've done your research, have you? I'm surprised you even remembered my name."

"I didn't." she admits, smiling gently at the puzzled look that struck him after. "You have a nameplate on your desk. The map behind you has holes littering the eastern coast from where your markers were pinned, and most of the officers who participated in that front were diverted to the siege. There's a model of the Skybreaker on your shelves, one of several sent out by the gnomish engineering crews. The remark regarding Outland was a bit of a guess, but I recognize one of your tapestries as Quel'dorei embroidery woven from Netherweave."

Marshal Silverbrook rubs his scruffy chin in thought as she recites her evidence, his gray eyes trailing around the room in silent appraisal. "...Well! You've got a keen eye." he says with a barking laugh. "Mostly right. I never saw Orgrimmar's gates. We were still cleaning up on the Isle of Thunder."

"Ah, kept back to root out the rest of the trolls then. I never set foot on that front, but I hear it was a sordid place. Very wet."

"Eh, to each their own. From the sound of it the alternative was being bone dry in Durotar."

"I preferred the latter."

"I suppose you would. Not only for the weather, but for the enemy, right?" he asks, grinning brightly to her. It waned quickly when he received only a tacit nod and a stony expression in return. He'd clear his throat, and continue. "You seem to have quite the history with the Horde and disciplinary reviews."

"I have a history of fighting a bitter enemy of the Alliance whenever the opportunity presents itself for a meaningful victory." she replies calmly, voice raising ever so slightly. "If you have reviewed my previous incidents you will see that every one of them was not without reasonable cause for engagement. Under typical circumstances I would have been commended. And as you are aware by my still being enlisted at this point, I was later exonerated for many of them."

"You were under review in the Northrend campaign after ordering a capture of several Horde officers in transit from Argent territory."

"They were found to be ferrying information regarding our movements upon the Isle of Conquest, retrieved by an informant during a summit. A few weeks later the Horde instigated the massacre at Angrathar."

"The Forsaken did, Carmina. And their source was never verified." he corrects. "In the Kalimdor theater, in the wake of the cataclysm, you were responsible for shelling a workcamp staffed with noncombative technicians."

"Unfortunately this was some time after they had contributed to the bomb used on Thal'darah. The camp was located in Ashenvale, and was supplying explosives and vehicles. I doubt any of the night elves we assisted would have complained."

"There are still rules and procedures to war." the human begins. Carmina can't help but smile inwardly. His confidence was flagging, and his voice betrayed it. She was difficult to argue with among other soldiers, and she knew it. "Well, what do you have to say of the civilian casualties incurred in several of your attacks, Commander? You justify that as well?"

"What the Horde calls civilians are merely soldiers without an axe and shield. Do you believe a single blighted beast in the Undercity would be incapable of tearing a man apart, given the chance? Do you really think an orcish peon to be the same as a Stormwind merchant? The Horde does not produce civilians, Marshal. They are creatures of war. Our children are given gadgets and dolls to amuse themselves in their youth. An orc is given a spear."

"You seem quite prepared for this argument."

"Well as you know, I've recited it many times." she says gravely, leaning forward in her seat until she can prop herself upon the marshal's desk with her hands. "Which is why I would like to ask- do you think I am wrong?"

"It doesn't matter what I think right now, Carmina."

"Perhaps not to High Command. But it matters to me." she nods, sitting back in her chair. "Either way. We've delayed it long enough. What news is there regarding my position?"

"You know, I was only promoted to Field Marshal during the end of the Pandaren campaign."

"That does not answer my question, sir."

"You've been a Commander since when? Northrend?"

She relents-- she can see where this is going. "I received my position during the Outland campaign, actually."

"I've heard about you. If you could keep out of these situations you might be in my seat right now. Have you ever considered that?"

"I have. But a position of higher power at the cost of my integrity is not something I find much favor in. I would sooner be a mercenary who takes action than a gilded general who sits in an office commanding from afar."

Silverbrook brings his shoulders up, dragging them down with a heavy sigh. There wasn't any reasoning here, he could see. He had been told this before taking the meeting- Carmina Cloudweaver was as stubborn as they came. He'd reach a hand up, running his calloused fingers along his brow. "Well, Carmina, it seems like you'll have that opportunity." he begins, the gnome's already slight frown deepening. Silverbrook raises a hand for her silence, seeing some sort of protest already welling up within her. "Let me finish, please. Due to your record of previous infractions with the Horde, command has decided to place you on leave. Your position within the Alliance military will be suspended until future notice."

"You mean to tell me I leave here both a Commander of the Alliance military and an unranked civilian?" she asks bemusedly. "I am not only a leader, Marshal. I am a healer as well. If you will not allow me to be one, I would ask to be another."

"Command wants you to remain uninvolved until you are needed. When the Iron Horde and the Burning Legion's operations in Tanaan are handled, and should we end up engaged with the Horde again, your reinstatement will be considered." he tells her firmly, drawing a document from beneath his hands to read directly from. "Until that time has come you will be acknowledged as a honored veteran for your years of service to the Alliance. You will be allowed to enlist in efforts outside of the scope of the Alliance military proper. You will not be allowed to retake a position of command in any other branch of the military or serve in any official capacity until further notice has been given. Should you attempt to circumvent this decision through any means you will be subject to serving this time in prison instead."

She sits and listens, her hazel eyes staring back at the marshal with a sort of tranquil contempt. "Do you understand?" he asks as he draws the scroll back down. She nods. "Good. You have until the week's end to collect your personal belongings and remove yourself from your fort."

Without a word Carmina eases forward to her feet, carefully dropping down to the ground beneath the large (to her height) chair. "Will that be all?"

"Yes. You're dismissed. Keep out of trouble, Miss Cloudweaver."

And with that she was gone.

Bitter Farewells

It was Carmina's last night within the fortress of Light's Beacon. The office was cleared completely, for once- no report strewn upon the desk for her to review, no supplies dropped within to be carted about or books for her to peruse. Her personal effects had been stored away for travel, and the maps and charts drawn down and sealed for her taking as well. For the first time since she'd taken this post she sat at her desk and stared at the bare wooden surface, dabbing her fingers along some of the ridges and scratches that she'd only barely felt a the end of her quill. It was rather bittersweet- she had hated the drudgery of this station for most of her time here. She loathed the notion of an 'armchair general', and yet that as more or less her position for the last few months of her service. Too busy to take to the field, barely available for healing duties save when the need was the greatest. And now, she was leaving it behind on such sour terms. It wasn't the parting she'd anticipated.

She drummed her fingers upon the desk, glancing up to the clock set on the wall nearby. Mere hours left. She had everything prepared, and had already been receiving inquiries from the new officers who would be replacing her as to when she would be able to depart. She had neglected to give an answer.

With a fond glance about she stepped down from her chair-- the new Commander could have their fun removing the step she had installed-- and made for the door. Her mind had been a flurry of thoughts over the last few hours. At first it was procedural- duties to assign as her personal staff was disbanded, recommendations to write, belongings to pack and prepare... it was only now she was truly considering what would come next. She would be spirited away from Ashran back to Stormwind, where... where what? She wasn't a civilian. She -couldn't- be a civilian. That thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wouldn't be a mercenary, either- She wasn't a hired blade, and she didn't often work well with their type.

She'd consider her options more later. Right just thinking about it was stoking her ire all the more. She opened the door, only to stumble to a halt as she saw a box resting upon the threshold. Plain and unassuming, with scrawling writing which read- 'Commander'. She reached down, opened it, and hoisted out a necklace- crafted of brilliant silver, with a blue gem upon the amulet. It held the shape of a lion's crest, gilded finely with gold. There was a letter within.

'Commander,

We heard they're taking away your badge. We pooled some money and had got you a new one.

Thanks for everything.'

A stream of signatures lay below. It seemed that the barracks had been busy. Carmina turned the amulet about in her hand a moment, regarding it in silence as light bounced between her dewing eyes and the beautiful jewel. She put it on, and folded away the letter to keep. She took another look back into her office before closing it up, and began to march out. She drew a deep breath, held her head high, and prepared to say her goodbyes. But before she could make it out of the keep she'd hear a few slow, firm knocks against the wall behind her. Turning back she'd find her adviser perched upon one of the tables in the hall, legs crossed daintily over one another as she stared back towards her with a sly grin.

"Miss Rozellia. You've been waiting there long?"

"Not at all, Carmina. I came just in time for the waterworks."

"That's rather unkind of you." Carmina replied, voice a little muted at first. It quickly became bolder, teetering back into the usual state of calm she projected. "Your tone with me has been a bit more... curt, as of late. Did I offend you?"

The mage let out a mirthful laugh. Gracefully she'd slip off of her perch and down to her feet, her eyes staring back into the priest's own as silence hung between them. "You never pay attention, do you?" she asks flatly, her rosy face finally drained of it's sly grin. "You should be on your way."

Carmina's lips wavered between a frown and a reply, but Rozellia was already heading to her office. She'd clench her jaw and turn away, marching out and into the waiting assembly of workers and soldiers she'd worked with over the course of the campaign- some, longer. She put on a bright and shining smile, went from crowd to crowd to say her goodbyes, did a tour of the men on duty and the other posts around the fort that couldn't afford to go unmanned, and then finally she departed by gryphon on to Ashran.

She had her thoughts caught up in that hallway the entire time.

[Now that the intro is done- back to writing random vignettes.]

A Man Named Hammail

Hammail was born upon the Genedar. He was one of three born to his mother and father, and the first. His father was a great man. A warrior of the Light and a wielder of holy power. His mother was a healer. Faith was strong within them both. As he grew, it would become strong inside him as well.

When he was young he wanted to be much like his father. He heard him tell grand tales about how he protected his friends and family when they fled Argus in the years before their journey across the stars had begun, and how he had fought the demons who pursued them bravely several times after. Hammail wanted to be like that. He wanted his father's strength, his wisdom, his compassion; he knew, at a young age, that he would follow in his footsteps as a paladin.

When he was still a child his younger brother, Danaar, was mocked by other children. He was a meek child- Hammail often tried to comfort him. But one day a boy had brought him to tears. Hammail was so angry that he struck the boy, and threw him to the ground. When he and his brother returned to their parents he was quick to boast about his heroic deed. But... his father was not pleased. Not at all. He scolded him. "The power of your words are always your first weapon, Hammail." he had told him. "Your fists, your force- they are for the truly wicked."

Hammail was angry. He resented that lecture. ...But he knew his father was right.

When the Draenei landed upon Draenor, he was a paladin. Their journey had been long, and the many worlds they had passed on their journey here had not been kind. His father had perished to the demons in one of their escapes, and his youngest brother had not survived. But the years were not without some blessings. He had his mother and his brother Danaar. He had found love and married, and now as he stepped into Shadowmoon's lush valleys he had the greatest hopes that this would be where he would make his new home.

For a time all was well. The orcs were a peculiar neighbor to have, but they had peace among them. His people settled the valley's center, on to the eastern shore where they built a great and shining temple. Inland Shattrath grew. Hammail was filled with joy to see his people thriving at last. He and his brother became proud guardians of the Draenei of Shadowmoon, and took great joy in keeping their people safe as their civilization blossomed once again. It seemed so perfect, after so many years of hiding.

But then, the orcs turned. They became wicked savages that called upon the power of iron and fire, and hailed destruction down upon their people. They waged war all over Draenor, and their cruelty was without limit. Hammail grew to hate them. He watched the atrocities they committed and seethed with rage. He enjoyed bathing his weapon in their blood, watching them flee and fall before him- there was no greater joy than seeing these monsters writhe in pain, before he sent their souls to the nether with his blade.

But despite all that he and his kin fought, the orcs grew stronger. In time Shattrath was overrun, and strangers streamed in through the hellish portal that the orcs had created. Hammail did not like them either. They were peculiar people, who seemed eager to line the valley with their fortresses, and swallow up the resources his people would need to thrive. He said nothing of it though. The exarchs welcomed them, as did the prophet- and the others accepted. He let his doubt fester in silence, welling up within him... until he felt others who felt the same.

They were like him. They wanted to see the orcs burn, and the outsiders gone. They wanted to reclaim Shattrath, and join the Draenei in unity as the true masters of Draenor. He listened to their sweet lies, read their traitorous texts, and before long he had pledge his hand and that of his brother to the service of Exarch Othaar. He had become a Sargerei.

He would turn a blind eye as supplies were stolen for their uses. Some sacrifices had to be made, for the greater good.

He would be silent as innocents were slain by them. Some could not see the great ambition as he did.

He would incite others to join them- he would help them to see their future.

He would kill for them. Greatness did not come without a price.

One day he realized that the Light had left him. He struggled with this for weeks. Again and again he repeated excuses that he had kept lodged in his mind as he spilled blood and ignored pleas for help for his wicked allies. He told himself that he simply no longer needed the air of the Light, or that it would return when his people found their true glory, but in his heart he knew what he did was evil, and it left him in tears.

Soon after, Exarch Othaar was exposed by the outsiders, and they were forced to leave. He went to his wife and pleaded for her to join them and come as well- but she was disgusted with him. She called for the guards, and he fled Shadowmoon.

Talador was their next aim. He and Danaar travelled there together and made new names, and were scarce among the other Draenei. News would travel quickly, and they could not remain in one place for long. They marched towards Auchindoun, with a grim task at hand. Though Hammail knew what he did was wrong, he helped the corruption of the Sargerei spread, by word or by blade. Danaar did not survive it all. He was slain at Auchindoun's gates, when a group of vindicators charged their forces. All was going wrong.

By the time Hammail reached Shattrath, he no longer cared. His guilt and grief was replaced with a fixation on the dark power of the demons his allies had introduced him to. To feel that power course through his body was more satisfying than any golden glow the Light could provide, and he wielded it with great fervor. When the Sargerei came upon the already battered city of Shattrath, he as told to rain hellfire down upon the city. He did so gleefully, watching as orcs, draenei, and the offworlders alike all scattered like ants beneath his dark magic. Their iron, their Light, neither was a match for the power of the Sargerei- the power of the true Draenei.

As Hammail walked among the ruins of the Shattrath Commons he gloated at the burned bodies of warriors, shaman and sorcerers that lay lining it's streets. They were proof of his strength. He walked along, until he came to a pile of rubble that caught his eye. And...

Things seemed to stop. He walked slowly towards the broken building, his mind beginning to churn with thought. He knew this place. He knew this wreckage. With each step closer he heard a voice speaking to him, and then another, until a crowd was filling his mind. He looked around as his feet carried him forward. His father stared at him disapprovingly. ""Your fists, your force- they are for the truly wicked."

He looked aside quickly, eyes wide. His wife lurched towards him, her face one of hate and fury. "You are NOT the man I married!"

"Is this right, brother?" Danaar asked, his beaten form walking alongside him as he approached the collapsed, jagged piece of wall that before him.

"What have you done?" asked his mother. "What have you done?" she cries again, biting and fearful.

"We are guardians of the innocent." said his father, as he reached down and lifted up the broken stone. He did not want to. He now knew what lay beneath. He had seen this all before, and he knew what came next. He tried to drop it- he tried to turn and run! But he could only lift the rubble and stare down at the broken body beneath it.

"You are wicked." he heard them say. He dropped to his knees and reached for the small frame with his shaking hands. He felt his dark deeds weighing his heart heavily. He felt the searing pain of a guilty mind, and the fiery tears that ran down his cheeks. He looked up to all of the faces of those who he had loved and protected, and felt their judgement. He tried to speak, but he was overpowered as they shouted now, as one-

"YOU ARE WICKED!"

Hammail awoke in a dimly lit chamber, screaming. His heart was racing, his brow beaded in a cold, fearful sweat. His eyes were blurred with tears, and his mind wracked with a dull ache. He shook himself as the sight of a small gnomish woman came to him, seated over him with her hand outstretched. He weakly reached up, but his hands were chained down to the stone beneath him. Instead he spoke, voice hoarse and dry. "She was... so young." he croaks out, blinking back tears as his eyes looked up into her own. They looked... compassionate. Filled with pity. He cried openly, his head falling back against the cold slab of stone he was bound to. "I did not know, I did not know! I did not know they were there!" he insists, only to be silenced by a soft hushing hiss. The gnome leaned over, resting a hand against his shoulder. She offered him a glass of cool water, and he drank to soothe that burning throat.

"Your sins weigh heavily upon you." she says. He had heard her say this many times. Before he had spat curses and threats- but these last few hours had worn him down. Each time a new memory. Each one worse. Each one burned his soul with grief all the more. "They will continue to do so until you repent. You have the chance to begin doing so now."

"No... No, I cannot, I-" he began to protest, only to let out a sharp shriek as her hand came back overhead.

"Then the Light shall guide you further until you find the strength to repent."

"NO! Do not! I cannot see them again! I beg you, have mercy!"

"The light is abundant in mercy, and it awaits you. Until you accept it, it's wrath is all you can hope to know."

His glowing eyes stared wide and wild as her hand began to pulse with that familiar light. It looked so divine and beautiful, through his tear-stained eyes. He tenses in his bonds, cringing as he feels that creeping nightmare beginning to return, but he can take it no longer. With a sharp, shuddering cry he gives in. "I will tell you! I will tell you anything. Please, make these visions cease!"

Cloudweaver drew her hand back, her expression softening. She'd reach aside, taking up a chalice of iced water and pouring another cup for the haggard man. She would gingerly hold it out to his cracked lips, the draenei's heaving chest slowing as he calmed himself. She let him drink before resting the glass aside, folding her hands neatly before her lap, and speaking up, soothing and soft. "You've made the right choice, wayward child. Please, breath easy, and confess."

'Friends' in High Places

There were three different types of people Carmina Cloudweaver knew personally among the nobility.

Those that liked her.

"Carmina!" rang a bright, boisterous voice, peeling out across the embellished foyer stretching out between the nobleman and his guest. House Atwood was in fine enough state, for all the troubles the world had been through in recent years. It was no surprise, really, nor that he had such a warm reception towards the former military gnome.

He was, after all, a purveyor of arms, and an enthusiast for the Alliance's use of them. Some might have called him a bit of a war hawk. They'd be right.

"Good evening, Sir Atwood. I hope this beautiful day finds you well." Carmina chimed with a bow of her head.

"Ah, better that it finds you, my lady. You look like hell." he chuckles, bridging the gap between them as he strode closer. He was a man of older years- a long gray mane and a bushy beard, both neatly groomed. His brow always had a stern look on it, creased heavily with lines of age. She knew the mirthful twinkle in those pale gray eyes though, and that broad grin. She'd await patiently as he approaches, bowing her head in respect before turning her attention back up towards the broadly built noble.

He wasn't wrong. Her eyes looked more than a little worn. "A late night among the infirmary, sir. One does not leave a duty like that well rested." she replies with a warm smile of her own. "I thought to rest myself before coming about, but I'd not wish to bother you once you're neck-deep in the courts."

"Hah! Considerate of you. Come, won't you have a drink or two then?"

"So early?"

"What am I, a whelp? I shall drink anytime I please." he grins back, gesturing along.

Well. Perhaps a few glasses then.

...Some that feared her.

"Is she here?"

"No sir, your guest has not arrived."

Lord Collingwood hurried downstairs, straightening up the neck of his suit and peppering orders out onto his staff. He dreaded these visits. He had never thought that he, a man of wealth and power, would find himself squirming beneath the hand of a simple -gnome-, and yet each visit from this one left his chest thrumming in anxiety.

"My mistake, sir- I could not spot her beneath the hedges. She is soon upon our steps."

"Damnation! Have those infernal bushes trimmed to stubble when this is done!"

"As you wish, sir."

Carmina knocked on the door, and was left but a few scant seconds before it was drawn open. An elderly servant offered her a polite bow, and upon the stairwell up further into the manor stood the man of the house, a far younger noble than most in her list of acquaintances- merely a man of twenty-seven years, ascended to the mantle of his family's patriarch following the Cataclysm's toll upon Stormwind's people.

He had, though he denied it, never quite felt comfortable near a park since that whole ordeal.

He stood perched upon the staircase in a clearly rehearsed pose, one foot a step down, his chest puffed out and his finely combed head of gold resting the circlet of his family's house upon it. He gave her a broad, confident grin, calling out with far too boisterous a voice. "Miss Cloudweaver, a pleasure to see you again!"

It wasn't. In honesty Lord Collingwood was... actually not completely sure of what the gnome knew. It had been late! He had been but a boy in his father's shadow, and he had been one to drink far more than he should have been allowed, especially in mixed company. Suffice to say the gnome had a lengthy conversation with him, and while much of it was a blur she had, on some occasions, made hints towards... things she shouldn't have known. Arrangements he'd made that were not strictly in good order, some dealings beneath the law...

He was quite cautious of the woman, especially as an already youthful lord whom might be easily laughed out of the court.

The gnome stepped in without invitation, but at least offered a bow. "Wonderful to see you as well, my lord. I hope my visit is not at an inopportune time."

What? No, no. Just in the break of morning. He smiled all the same and shook his head.

"Not at all, my lady! Always a pleasure to house a guest of such prestige. How goes the war on Draenor?"

"Ah, I am afraid I'm not quite tethered to the place anymore. Complications. I now work beneath a different banner, but one with just as noble a purpose."

That was... a relief? No, perhaps not. The military had little need to extort him. Damn! The was free of that and no she'd come to squeeze a 'donation' for whatever company she'd taken up with, surely.

"A-ah! Well, my sympathies for that, I had not heard. I hope your new allies are indeed virtuous and wealthy."

"Pardon?"

"Wise, and wise rather. Shall we be to business?"

"Ah, if you would like. I quite hoped to share some stout with you." she grins, fetching the bottle she'd been gifted from her previous visit. Atwood always had the fine stuff on hand. "It's Lagrave! You're certain you wouldn't take any?"

He stared suspiciously at the bottle and the gnome.

...Nope. Never again.

Regardless he invited her back into his parlor and spoke with her, briskly lending an ear to what the gnome had to say. ...He seemed rather enticed by it.

She'd depart with a cordial farewell and be off to the next noble on her list. She always felt quite bad for the poor boy, seeing him wriggle around as he did. Perhaps one day she'd tell him that his night of drunken chattering had only really amounted to some deeply embarrassing flirting with her.

...The rest she just bought off his servant.

...And a few which hated her.

It was coming upon noon when Carmina stepped under the roof of House Spearing. It was a bit further of a travel, but one she had made often enough before. The lord of the house, Sir Alan, had not sent anyone to greet her- instead she was simply let in and told that he awaited in his study.

He was always a bit of a dour man. Gilnean descent and ties deeply into Alterac had left him a bit of a lesser noble among the halls when those nations fell silent. Still, he was resilient; his house had weathered quite a few storms, and had remained atop their lofty perch. It seemed as if all had finally been turning around for their house. Well. Until...

Alan looks up as a knock rings out from the door into his chamber. After taking another shot of stout he leans back into his chair and lets out a gravelly "Enter".

The gnome looked tired. Good, he thought. He himself did as well. He'd made no attempt to make himself presentable, hair wild and his clothing disheveled. He set his dim brown eyes upon Carmina as she entered and lazily directed her to a seat across from him.

"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.

"Sir Spearing! Must we be so direct?" the gnome chirps right back, hopping up upon the offered perch. 

"Yes, we must. If you don't want to be you should be leaving."

She sighs, resting her hands together. "Ah, I am sorry if I'm intruding upon your time, my friend. But I have matters at hand that I've been asked to share among my noble acquaintances. They're of utmost importance. You might find them quite alluring, in fact."

"That so." he more states than questions, "Well, get on with it."

"It concerns one 'Lord Baron' Ridola. Know of him?"

"I've heard of the name." Alan answers with as vague a gesture as he can manage. But his eyes are on her. She has his attention.

"Recently it's come to my attention that the man has been making a habit of amassing knowledge of interest to the court and quite selfishly fettering it away for his own gain. Keeping the company of an abductor and..."

She began to go on, but the nobleman was only partially listening. She'd come on an agenda against another nobleman, had she? Well, he would certainly tell someone. In fact, one specific person. He subtly scrawled the beginning of a missive to Sir Ridola, nodding faintly as he scratched his quill against the paper.

"--And for that reason I believe it would benefit us all if you were to spread the word about. Gather some curious, probing eyes for the good Lord-Baron. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes. Certainly." he half-heartedly replied, continuing to scrawl away at his letter. Cloudweaver sat there, her eyes falling down to his pen. She'd remain a moment in silence, simply watching before speaking once more.

"Well. Suppose that will be all then. I've sleep to make up for before a meeting today."

"Right."

She slipped down from her chair and made for the door... only to halt and glance back towards the morose looking nobleman. "How fares your son these days, if I might ask?"

Alan clenched the quill in his hand and squared his jaw. His eyes shut as he shook his head. "You shan't."

"A pity."

Another hanging silence. He waited for the reminder.

"I do hope he's found better company than the Twilights."

There it was.

"Well, I'm certain it's all ironed out now. The folly of youth, hm?"

"Mm."

"Well. Farewell, and Light bless."

"Get out."

With a respectful bow she did just that. As she walked down the corridor she could hear parchment being crinkled and the noble's seat creaking as he fell to a slump within it.

...Time to pen a letter and catch what sleep she could manage, then. All in all, quite a fine day already.

Sifting Through Ashes

She sat at a table overlooking a sprawling vineyard, watching laborers drawing the day's harvest. In the distance upon the mountain ranges on the Thondroril the sun was starting to set, bringing the night close after. The laborer's day was done, but for those in higher spheres of society things had only just begun. She was, by a thousand strokes of luck, among them- at least in part. Her eyes wandered about, taking in the fine azure and gold drapery, the sprawling collections of literature and art, and the bustling staff serving the household.

She remembered thinking, at that point, that she would someday hope to live like this man.

Today she sat in a cramped building wedged into the dwarven district of Stormwind. The scent of the forge's bellows still wafted in, despite the windows being closed tight. This building was no mansion, not even anything worthy of the title of an estate. Dust collected upon the single bookshelf in the room ahead of her, clear marks made where it had been 'cleaned' with a simple swipe of a hand. A bust of some human woman was beside it upon a table, her nose chipped from a fall. The lighting was dim. The boards underfoot groaned with age as they bore each step upon them, and the air felt still and dead. Beneath she could hear the lord of the house preparing tea, for he had no servants. Aside from her calm breath and his movements, the house resounded with emptiness.

Carmina had been to many noble households already today. She had treated over wine in manors, entertained old war stories in the halls of high command, and gossiped with noblemen and petitioners in the lesser halls of the keep. She had chosen this as her last stop. She did not dislike the man who lived here, unlike many of the previous lords and ladies she had visited- in fact, she felt something entirely different for him. Among the courts of nobility those of distant kingdoms and fallen kings could find favor, in part. Some of grand old Arathi had managed to flee with much of their wealth and status intact. Those of Kul Tiras, though distant from the seabound kingdom of their heritage, often held much of their wealth in investments on the sea. Even lords of Gilneas remained in some standing thanks to Greymane's influence, even with much of their belongings washed away into the Great Sea.

This man was born of Lordaeron. And while some had the fortune of escaping the worst of their kingdom's ruin with their lives, their family, or their wealth intact, he had not. It had been many, many years since she sat in his estate upon Brightwater Lake's shores, and those years had not been kind to him. Still, among the nobility of the fallen land of Lordaeron, this was the sole man she knew enough to trust. Much like herself, his only remaining connection to that circle of the higher life was among the friends who inhabited it. It was not with ease that she called this favor from him, but she did so all the same.

"Here we are." A polished kettle and cup are set down in front of her. In the back of her head, she has to wonder if part of prolonged time below had been cleaning and polishing the things. She accepts it with a smile and he pours her glass, offering her a smile from behind his beard of speckled brown and gray. "Apologies for the wait."

"You'll have no complaints from me, sir. It was poor of me to come unannounced."

"Yes, well the place was not quite prepared for company, but I'm pleased to speak with an old friend."

She didn't imagine it ever really was 'prepared', either way.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry of that. You've no need to impress me. Might you have a seat?"

The conversation went much as she imagined it would. How had she been?

She'd been well, considering. She didn't ask in turn. What had she been about lately?

She recounted her time on the Broken Isles for a time, watched his eyes widen at tales from the distant shore. She recounted tales of the nether and of demonic imposters.

Finally they spoke of the past. For about the next hour she fell silent and listened on to him speak about the glory days of Lordaeron. He spoke about his family, his household, his ambitions. It was like this on most of her visits. Though she too had seen the terror of the scourge and the fall of Lordaeron, she had traveled away and left it behind, while he had simply remained there in spirit, sifting through the ashes since.

When Carmina left Lord Pallus' home she did so with a folded piece of parchment in tow. Notes she had taken, and more leads to follow. Unlike the other nobles she had visited she did not need to coerce him with threats or favors. The only cost had been some heartache for the past.

She unfolded her parchment, reading again the name she'd penned down and struck under atop it. 'Lord Ardente'. Another glance over, and she was set off for the Peak.