Dear Diary

Folcan The Smith

0

The forge cast a sweltering orange glow on the walls of the smithy in Dalaran, the steady wheeze of the bellows filling the air.  A large human figure stood, one foot pumping the bellows, forcing air onto the coals surrounding a long bar of metal, slowly bringing it to a bright straw color.

His hair was held back with a leather bootstrap, left loose enough to keep him cool, but away from the hot metal and hammer strikes.  Folcan carefully pulled the blade from the coals, taking the smithing hammer to it, spreading it out to be twice as wide as it was when he pulled it from the coals.  His voice raised in a baritone, he sung wordlessly as he swung, performing his craft, the craft he knew before he took up the warhammer and Light, before he was called to serve by that same Light.

Smithing, his first vocation.  He remembered, there at the anvil, of the time long before he was a paladin, working at the anvil, making horseshoes and nails, and even weapons and razors.  His eyes traveled for a moment to the wall where his hammer rested.  He was being deployed soon to Stormheim, and things were…

They weren’t all that well with him.  First King Wrynn died, a hero, but a lost man.  And he died horribly on the Broken Shore.  And then Folcan saw Tirion Fordring die, the man that was his mentor.  He was part of the party that tried to retrieve him.  All they brought back was Tirion’s body.  It was painful to Folcan.  One man was his King, and a good man that had come to see good in the world.  The other man was like a surrogate father to Folcan, and had done much to make Folcan into the paladin he was.

But those weren’t the only problems. There was unrest inside of his heart, too.  His Vindicator armor was almost completely destroyed.  And there was the fight he and Izarre had about the hammer she had given to him.  He worried that the Legion might get their hands on such a thing and corrupt it.  She was less than pleased about him leaving it behind.  He still felt like it was the right thing to do.

But more than that, Folcan felt… out of step.  He felt like the world was moving just one second out of sync with him, or he was out of sync with it.  It kept him off balance, and ill at ease.  But this, the smithing, brought him back into line.  The creation, the exhaustion of the work brought him a measure of peace.

He remembered when King Wrynn had knighted him, proclaiming him a Knight of Stormwind.  Folcan had stood in his blue and gold plate armor, that same hammer that now leaned against the wall and gathered dust cradled in its holster on his back.  Nearby, Tirion Fordring stood in full armor, smiling in his helm.  It had been a good day.

Folcan walked over and put his hand on the haft of the hammer and hefted it up.  He stared at the pattern he had forged into the head all those years ago.  He remembered the fight where the Light called to him. Blackrock orcs swarming from Redridge into Eastvale, and standing between the village folk and the orcs.  He remembered the fire that had glowed inside of that same hammer head.

Without a warning, the fire shone again, pulsing in time to his hearbeat, quickening even as his own did.  He marveled.  It has been a long time since he had wielded the hammer.  But something about it felt right to him.  It cleared his thoughts.  That’s when it struck him.

This is who he is.

He is not a Draenei Vindicator, though he trained as one.  He was not really an Argent Crusader, though he had fought with them for years. 

This is who he is.  Just a man, called to stand where others could, or would, not.  He was a barrier between the world, and the evil that threatened it.  Varian Wrynn knew that, even to the end.  Tirion knew it, and saw it in Folcan, but let him discover it on his own. Yes, Folcan was a paladin.  No one could ever deny that.  But he wasn’t some Knight, or a Vindicator, or a cleric.  He was just a man.

The fiery light in the hammer flared, even as the Light inside of him did the same.  He felt a sense of serenity just then, settle on his shoulders like mantle.  The world caught up to him, or he caught up to it.  Either way, he knew. This was who he was meant to be.

 

He went in search of his armor.

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Even the medicines didn't dull the pain enough. His shoulder was a constant burning that beat in time to his heart. Sure, he was in damned better shape than Iz or Lam, but by the Nether, he hurt. He was sure he was going to catch some scolding for his actions after he dislocated his arm, but comrades, friends needed help.

He lay in the bed, uncomfortable in the comfort. He thought of M, Jo, Ordom, and Tally, still stuck down in Stormheim, weathering out the storm. Folcan sat up, biting back a pulse of nausea and pain. He whimpered as his left arm shifted in the sling, alternating between being hurt and pissed. He had gotten himself into a fel of a problem this time. What good was a Smith and a Paladin who could only use one arm?

He slid out of the bed Amasira had rented for him in Dalatan. The infirmary was full of people that needed constant care, and he had had no coin and no place to go. The way he had lived before kept him from amassing any great wealth. She had been amazingly generous with him, considering all he had done was forge a sword for her.

Folcan shuffled out onto the balcony and looked at Dalaran. He never really felt atvease here. He was a country boy whose letters still escaped him often, and not more than a little intimidated by the power of magery. He ignored that minor discomfort and looked across the way to the smithy, remembering the ladt argument with Iz.

He bowed his head. It hadn't gone well.

They had parted on ugly terms, and with the ugly words and sentiments that only soured love can inspire. He'd been truly hurt by her seeming lack of belief in him and the others. He still remembered watching her walk away, dumbfounded and stricken, able only to slide to the floor and sit. He stayed that way until Ama had urged him to his feet. He had hurt since then, but gone through with his duties. He soldiered on, one of the few things he seemed to do well. 

And then he saw Izarre, laying broken on that spur of rock, and he just moved without thought, forgetting about his dislocated arm until hr was being dragged back up the cliffs by it, his bad arm lashed to the grapple gun, the autoreel winding in the cable. He didn't recall, but he was told he screamed on the way up, Izarre's limp form draped on his good shoulder, and held there by his right arm.

The wind whipped up, blowing his hair, and in the distance, he saw the lightning flash, and remembered Iz yelling about the Air in Draenic. He had no idea what it meant. He leaned on the railing with his good arm and watched the sky, hoping that enough of the Light would be renewed in him by morning to start mending his shoulder.

There was much yet to do, and the Legion wasn't just waiting.

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Folcan walked down the streets of Ironforge, and he swore he could still feel the tiny burden in his arms.  He had just given the poor little gnomeling over to his people in Tinkertown. He hated every step he took, his shoulders hunched forward. It was hell to deliver a child like that.  And it hadn't been the best of nights.

He and Zerov were of one mind on this, and Jenn as well.  They should have rode in and done what the could to save those kids.  But Ah'lam chose wisely.  He just wished they could have done more.  It didn't sit well with him that it turned into just a recon mission, no matter that it would lead to better preparation for a later raid.  It preyed on his mind how many more children might die, destroyed by those runes.

He half-heartedly waved to the dwarves he knew at the Gryphon station, climbing onto one of the swift beasts.  He took off for the Hinterlands, and home.  The whole ride, he let himself fall through his thoughts, depending on the Gryphon to do its job without his direction.  Why New Hearthglen? Was it a resurgence of the Scarlets? What were they doing to those poor kids?  What was the significance of finding that signet ring on the cleric? Was the Church involved in this, and if yes, how? Just more questions, but no answers.

And poor Lam. He meant it.  She really had hoped to save the kids, and in the end, lost one, with another soon to go.  For as much as he hurt inside over this, he was pretty sure she hurt worse. He pulled out his COMM and set to send a message to Z.  He needed a drink, and was pretty the big Draenei did too.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Folcan walked up out of the Keep, having just a soft buzz going.  He had made sure he hadn't drank too much with Zerov, but the Hearthglen Ambrosia was heady stuff.  He climbed aboard the stark white Gryphon that was his own. Taking to the air, he looked out over the Hinterlands, glad to see more real green than fel green. He had had enough of seeing suffering for one day, and flew out into the night towards Izarre's workshop.  He knew she would be there, since she wasn't at the barracks. It was a short flight, but long enough that his mind wandered back to the Grizzly Hills, the Dragonblight, and New Hearthglen.  By the time he landed, he was sober, and his mood was pulled down again.  Leaving the Gryhon to curl up for the night, he headed inside. 

Folcan walked up the stairs inside, peeking into her work area.  There she was, tall and beautiful as ever.  Walking over, he put his arms around her, holding her from behind.  Iz smiled, looking over her shoulder. 

"Haloo, Dearling. How is?"

He looked up into her eyes, sighed, and told her.

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