Bringing a Sister Home (Open)

                It took Folcan the better part of a half of an hour to read the letter that Brommidor had sent him. His direct commander, when Folcan saw the seal on the missive, he knew it would be important. He sat at the dinner table in the house he shared with his wife. There was a warm fire blazing the hearth behind him, keeping the home nice and warm, comfortable in the coming winter. Winter Veil would soon be upon them, and he was already working with Izarre, teaching her to make apple pie.  It was a comforting time for both of them, full of giggles and chuckles, and soft moments to soothe roughened spirits.

                He sat patiently, sounding out each syllable of the letter. The words constantly swam in his vision, but he had long ago become accustomed to it, and hand learned how to track the letters, making sure they stayed in the correct order.  Once he had puzzled through it, all the breath left him. He set the letter down, staring off into the night, out one of the windows in the dining area. It was a dark task, but he was honored to be asked it. Both honored and sorrowful.  After a few moments though, he walked into the adjoining room to a chest, unlocking it and pulling out a small kit, replete with cloths, polish, and brushes, and set to work cleaning the armor within, piece by piece.  If he was taking a Sister home, he had best look as presentable as he could.

                He was going to Hearthglen.

The Next Day…

                Folcan walked the halls of the Keep, headed for the armory and adjoining locker room. He was in his lightforged armor, his colors bright on the mourning tabard background of black. He had a somber look on his face, a chest cradled in his arms, adorned with the symbols of the Servitors, the Argent Crusade, and the Silver Hand.  In addition, a new seal had seen added, that of the Westfall Brigade, newly made and attached.  Somber, he set the chest down in front of the lockers, carefully opening one with a key given to him by Brommidor. He felt like he was invading another person’s privacy, but he was following orders. Carefully he looked through the locker, not seeing much that was personal, but collecting the small pieces of Jennalyn’s gear that she had specified in her will.

                He hoped no one say, but his hands shook as he reverently laid them into the chest, which was lined with a dirty white cloth that was once his cloak. He had carried her remains home wrapped in that cloak, and found it fitting to allow her earthly possessions to rest there as well.  Finishing up, Folcan carefully locked the locker back up, tucking the key away to leave on Brommidor’s desk before he left.  Moving to the armory, Folcan looked on the armor setting on its stand, next to a rack holding Jenn’s weapons. Her weapons. The fel-blackened sword that pierced the orb of the Lightbreaker before it could kill them all. In his mind, he heard the echo of her last cry: “FOR AZEROTH!”

                He teared up, remembering it. A righteous anger kindled in his chest, accompanying the sorrow of the memory.   Shaking it off for now, he shuffled over, taking each item, piece by piece and setting it in the chest. Everything had been cleaned after they brought her home; Folcan had seen to that. But that sword would not come clean, stained by the felfire, and in Folcan’s mind, the sacrifice of the woman.  They had both served in Northrend, though not together, and had not spent immense amounts of time together outside of combat, but they had broke bread together, and shared drinks. They had shared stories and laughed, and were members of the Servitors. And the death of her had hit him hard, just as it had Izarre.  And everyone else.  The Keep was somber these days, darkened by the loss. The reality of what was happening had struck everyone.

                Finishing his dark task, Folcan closed and locked the trunk, taking a moment to look through the room and make sure he had gotten everything. The shaking of his hands had finally stopped as he hefted the chest onto one of his shoulders, carrying the burden outside to the flight pad. There, Izarre was waiting for him, standing stoically. He could see the restraint in her stance when she saw the chest on Folcan’s shoulder.  He set it down next to the snowy white gryphon he was taking. Walking over to Izarre, he leaned up on tiptoes and kissed her softly, whispering to her.

                “I have to take her home, Beloved. Please… be here when I return?”

                She nodded to him, speaking softly to him in Draenic, something private for them both.  Folcan touched the topaz gem set into the epaulet of his armor, his helmet shimmering into being on his head. His “Bug Head” as Izarre and Zuriah called it, would protect him from the cold of the altitudes he would have to fly at. With a murmured word, the war maul appeared on his back, the head of it pulsing with that golden-red light in time with his heartbeat. Folcan took his time securing the chest to the back of the gryphon, so he would not lose it.  He felt an iron cold core forming inside of himself. He had done this so often in Northrend, but it never got easy. Not once.

                The flight was longer than it usually was, or at least it felt that way. Every so often he would hear an echo of Jenn’s cry, and a flash of the scene. He gripped the reins tightly, gritting his teeth, and pushing it away. He was coming up on Hearthglen, the home of the Argent Crusade, alongside Light’s Hope. He circled the area, giving time for the lookouts to see him and wave him in to land.  Bringing the gryphon to earth, Folcan waited for the a welcoming party to approach, dismounting and untying the chest carefully. Hefting the weight, the burden of it far more than the pounds that it weighed. He turned in time to see a group of paladins approach, their leader a captain by the rank markings on his epaulets.

                Folcan bowed his head, unable to salute with the burden he carried. His helmet magnifying his voice a bit, Folcan called out.

                “Greetings, paladins of the Argent Crusade. I am Folcan DelUrlar, and I am bringing a Sister Home.”

Izarre had her own orders to see to. She waited until Folcan was gone, put on her Vindicator plate and mourning tabard, fixed her hair somewhat and went to look for Zuriah. A portal there, a portal back, and she would no doubt be back before Folcan.

Her first stop was Alliance High Command in Stormwind. She walked slowly up the stone path of the keep, face like stone. She had a job to do and there was no place in it for her emotions. After getting direction she made her way to the desk of the most pitiful clerk she had met. She knew the job. She had counted the dead before and the registry of names of the fallen weighed heavily on her through the ages. His desk was full of letters, bloodied paper work and tags of various kinds. The raw evidence of the bodies that now littered her homeworld. The poor clerk looked up at her with red eyes. "Vindicator...good morning....reporting, looking for someone, or claiming a body?" "Reporting." She replied and handed him the letter Bromm had left for her. The clerk took the letter and gave her a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry for your loss." Izzy smiled replied a "Thank you.", said her farewells, and left his office. Halfway to the city gates she stopped, turned, and made her way to the local bakery. She bought a cup of coffee and one of those ham and cheese "Kurastants" people seemed to like and returned to the keep. She smiled, set them on the clerks desk and thanked him for the work he did. It was a shitty job and she hoped that it had made it just a hint better. 

She walked to Westfall. She needed the air. She needed the time to herself. The keep and Folcan could be a bit suffocating of late. The gloom around the keep was horrible and even though she understood that Folcan needed her, and didn't like her to be alone during times like these, he didn't understand that sometimes she needed solitude. That her need to be alone had nothing to do with him, or them. Here, in the forest of Elwynn, her burden seemed just a little bit further and the air a little bit lighter. Slowly she made her way to Sentinel Hill and once there, looked for whoever was in charge of the militia. It seemed this...Marshall Stoutmantle fellow was not present at the moment. She was instead, direct towards his aide-de-campe, a fellow known as Corporal Danuvin, a youngish, handsome fellow. She sighed softly and walked up to him, extending the letter out to him. "I sorry to bring news of one of yous who fell in Argus." she said with a soft tone. He took the letter, opened it and took a moment to read it. "Jenn?"Izzy nodded. "I sorry." It took him a moment to compose himself. "I...we knew each other growing up...and through a lot of things...how did she..." Iz kept her warm sympathetic smile on and forced her voice to remain steady. "Like a hero of Azeroth. Saving me...much of I unit, and us vanguard into the fortress of Antorus. She killed a mightiest demon with her last breathe that could has stopped us advance." 

They sat together for about an hour talking about Jen. Sharing stories of her life. It eased the pain at times, made it sharper at others, but it was nice to learn more about her from someone who had known her before she was a Servitor. Before she left she asked the Corporal for parchment and quill and sat to write a letter. "Could you deliver this to Jen's momther in a weeks or two for me?". "Of course", the corporal replied. She smiled,thanked him, said her farewells and made her way back to the keep. 

The letter read: 

"Dear Missus Montgomary,

You isn't know me, and maybe hasnt even heard of me. I is Izarre, one of your datters companians in the Servitors of Lothar. I know much to well a mother's pain, and know that there is no words I can say to makes it less. I only want you to know that you isn't alone, that you has the love of all us unit with you. I wants you to know that ifs you needs a friend, someone to spend and evening with and has tea, or to helps with the farm, you is can always call on I. 

Yous always,

Izarre