#witchybella

[imordnir]

Preperations

“By the GODS! Could you not?!”

Mordnir’s hand came down to slap the arm of the man who was reaching far too close to his snowballs. The well dressed gentleman glanced up to the Death Knight and scoffed. “Sir, if I do not get your sizes correct I will not be able to make your clothes properly!” A grumble and a sigh, he was right. Truth be told, Mordnir had barely thought about the smaller, less obvious parts of Nobility before making the step to legitimize his name. It’s been almost a life time since he was a child in his father’s affairs and even that was cut short when he was sent off to train under the Silver Hand. Much has changed since then, he wasn’t even close to the same person as he was in those days.

Labella’s reaction to all of this was rather... well, tame. Mordnir had expected her to scoff at the idea, the woman so wild and free that the concept of nobility would have seemed almost like a prison than a privilege. He was glad that she was around, this would have been exponentially times harder if he did not have his Bella, the one woman in the world who knew him ALMOST better than he did.

His thoughts were jerked aside as the man brushed against his junk again. His Cyan eyes narrowed and judged the man with a look so cold, Northrend would be considered tropical. “Sir... I will end you if you do that again.” The man swallowed his fear and stood, “Very well, Ser. I believe I have everything I need.” Mordnir cut him off. “...And then some, I’m sure. The maid at the door has your purse, let her know when to expect your delivery.” The clothier nodded his head and stepped out, Mordnir taking a deep breath to shed his formalities. He stepped down off of the stool and walked to the window, gazing out to watch the keep go about their daily chores. Behind him walked a young man with a set of scrolls in his hands and a tabard marked with two blue Lions Rampant on a black foreground. “Ser, I have the reports from the border to give.”

The Knight nodded his head and stepped forward, taking the scrolls and reviewing them with the Herald from House Holt. This was a difficult situation he’s put himself in. The Keep laid just outside of the old borders of Lordaeron. This made him not only separated from the rest of the Alliance but also reminded him of the proximity to the Scarlet Monestary. Thankfully the majority of the keep laid into the mountainside and was not easily seen from the frequently traveled roads. Both the Silver Hand and The Ebon Blade were aware of his presence. Though they offered no military support (surprise, surprise) they did express their willingness to care for anyone who escaped the hold if it was under siege. This barely left a good taste in his mouth. Attackers rarely let anyone out of the gates of a town or keep during a siege, those who did leave were usually the defenders sallying forth in a final, desperate attempt to break their attacker’ s will. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. Cannons. I forgot about the DAMN cannons. This was troubling; The Scarlet Crusade had really expanded their armament since the last he heard of them, which was years ago. They fielded an impressive arsenal of field artillery in the Cathedral, though truth be told, he had no idea how they got them all in there, let alone get it back out. This left Mordnir in a rough political spot; Would he upgrade his own arsenal and fit his bastion with field guns? If he did that- how would he do so without bringing too much attention to him and the people who lived within his walls?

“Fuck...” He uttered, the herald looking at him with an elevated brow on his well kept visage. Mordnir’s eyes fall on the herald again. “What’s your name?”

“Brendon.” “‘Brendon?’ I always took you for a Jim...”

“No Ser, Brendon.”

“...I’m calling you Jim” The man furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Mordnir’s overly playful attitude. “JIMMY BOY, I need you to take THIS-” He picked up a scroll and flailed it in the man now dubbed Jim. “-back to Addlewood.”

Sigh.. “What is it, Ser?”

“The direction to your mother’s house- Are you a herald or... Never mind, I don’t know where I was going with that. Some kind of joke with messengers being to fucking nosey.” He narrowed his eyes at jim with a smile. The herald grumbled and took the scroll.

“If you open that, I swear to the grave I will let my fiancé turn you into a cucumber and leave you somewhere in the Mage’s Quarter of Stormwind- you know, with all the horny pandaren?” The Herald narrowed his eyes again, nodding and stepping out swiftly. Mordnir sat down on his chair, the furniture sliding a crossed the wooden floor with an obnoxious groan. He only hoped the letter would reach Addlewood unmolested.

My Lady Adhelin.

Preparations are underway to secure Neverbloom keep as a place for our eventual ‘conversation’ with the Scarlets. Hopefully this message reaches you safely.

PS; There is a new batch of wine ready in Addlewood’s cellars when you’re thirsty. A Pinot.

PSS; The guy delivering this is now called Jim. His real name starts with a ‘B’, I don’t remember what it was, breakfast or something.

[imordnir]

The Woods of Tirisfal

The fog hung heavily in between the trees, each clad in their cleaned and well kept mail and scarlet tabbards walked behind and beside another, four whide in column formation and moving at a slow march. The Sergeant broke away from the right of the formation, riding back up to the front from speaking to his scouts and joined his commander at the head of the convoy. 

“The wagons are still secure, Sir.” The Sergeant spoke after raising his visor to properly address his commander. The man of higher rank nodded his head, not bothering to return the respectful gesture either out of spite or hubris. The Sergeant kept his mouth shut and nodded, closing the visor over his head and falling into position next to the commander. It took only moments for the officer to grunt and wave the Sergeant off dismissively. “Go catch up with your scouts Sergeant, leave me be.” With a scoff, the Sergeant barely saluted back this time and stormed off after kicking his horse into a canter. 

The air was cold as it whipped through his clothes and chain mail. They had left earlier in the morning from a Goblin post to the west to avoid being seen by the Forsaken. As the morning progressed, the air grew heavy with fog and the temperature rose for a while, however; once the Sergeant fell into a position to meet up with his scouts, none were there. Oddly enough the fog was getting thicker and the temperature suddenly dropped even more. The Sergeant spun on his horse, whipping the beast around in a circle to check where his scouts may be, but none were found. “Where are they?...” He grumbled under his breath, lifting his hand to raise his visor. He gave a call, an owl as was decided before the convoy left their origin. Nothing. Another call, this time fallowed by a shuffle outside of his field of view. The air grew colder still, his breath now giving out little puffs of steam. One last owl call. The call was returned, but not by what he wanted to hear. A horse’s whine but hallow, troubled. Almost in pain. He slowly turned his head, a figure coming into view. A Horse who’s mane was falling out, it’s bones sticking from it’s flesh and an array of boarding made of interlocking plates, Both Stormwind and Acherus in nature. Upon the Horse sat an armored, hooded figure, his eyes a piercing blue glow upon a black and shadowy backdrop of darkness cast by his hood. The undead horse shuffled in it’s step, seemingly restless to charge the Sergeant down on his own steed. With fear choking him, he turned on his horse and pursed his lips to let out a yell, but something caught him by the throat. He was suddenly yanked backwards and in seconds the worlds blurred and turned red. The crunch of his armor and helmet smashing against the rocky ground of the forest seemed to drown every other sound out and for a moment there was nothing but the wilderness. For a long moment he lay in the dirt, his steed already off to the winds and the fog growing thicker.

He could hear the thud of the figure’s feet against the dirt, the clinking of his armor and the grinding of his gauntlets as the walking visage of Death gripped the hilt of his sword and pulled the blade free. The ring of wicked steel sung in the foggy air and the steps he took as his greaves crushed the roots and twigs under his weight. The Sergeant eventually gained his vision back, but only in time to see the Death Knight standing over his body. The Knight leaned down and looked into the Sergeant’s eyes, his own cyan orbs piercing through his character. The tip of the Knight’s rune blade rested vertically on his chest, poking a hole through his Scarlet Tabbard. In the sudden and terrifying silence that fell the two of them in the middle of Tirisfal, the sounds of battle rang out in the distance. Screams and cries of pain erupted through the air. 

“Do you hear that, Scarlet?” His voice was heavy like the air that surrounded them. The Scarlet began to feel sick to his stomach. They were dying, being ripped apart by something. He couldn’t move, why couldn’t he move? The Death Knight stood, resting his palm against the pommel of the sword, it’s blue runes shining in the air. “Any last words?” He asked.

“Death to you and your bit- Guuuuuh” His voice was cut short, the air forced out of his chest as a blade slowly began to replace his lungs. Blood filled his throat and a gurgle of red erupted forth from his lips. His eyes went wide and his life faded away. The world spun into black, the sounds faded away and the last thing to be seen was the blue of the Death Knight’s eyes, those piercing, sad blue eyes. Why were they sad? Why....

Mordnir stood, pulling his hood back to run his fingers through his silvered hair. Another knight approached, her black armor and garb betraying the gaunt look on her Orcish face. “Captain, the convoy is destroyed. The Commander died like a coward and the supplies have been captured. You should come see.” She turned on her death charger and shouted it forward, riding back to the scene of the battle. Mordnir grunted and moved back to his horse, whiping the blood from his sword with the hem of his black cloak before sliding it back into it’s scabbard. Quickly he mounted and charged off into the woods.

Only moments passed before he was upon the scene of the fight, or rather- a total massacre. The Scarlets moved in too big a number to not be noticed by Acherus, so this was something sanctioned by the Necropolis of the Ebon Blade. Mordnir sat on his charger, the fog hanging over the corpses like their souls were inching their way into the atmosphere, his eyes beset the horror that was the almost unrecognizable mess of Scarlet disciples and soldiers in pile of severed body parts and blood. He dismounted and moved to the body of the convoy, looking over the carts that they were protecting. Sure enough, there was the commander, half hanging out the side of the cart, feces and urine staining his armor and clothes as he unsuccessfully attempted to flee the Ebon Onslaught. The Death Knight Baron grabbed the corpse of the commander by the belt, pulling his cadaver over the side and into the dirt, turning to look into the cart. 

“Siege equipment, cannon balls, gunpowder...” Mordnir shook his head, turning to the Orc that reported to him. “Prepare a report for Acherus. The carts contained war supplies.” The Orc Knight bowed his head and clapped her chest. “Suffer well, Baron.” 

He turned. “Suffer well.” The Baron mounted his steed again and pulled out a small roll of paper, writing a few words on it and rolling it into a tiny scroll. With a sharp whistle he signaled a small Frost Drake, her little wings carrying her body to the mane of his charger, though the undead steed seemed to barely care. He tucked the paper into her little harness, the small collection of leather straps, buckles and pouches made it seem like she was more of a courier than a pet. Sure enough, he nodded to the little creature and sent her on her way.

Mordnir yanked his hood back up and spun his charger around, moving to gather the rest of his Knights. “Knights, too me! There are Scarlet deserters that need to be rounded up!” His mounted detail shouted their approval in a unanimous war cry and in seconds they galloped into the mist, the riders of Acherus, the Bringers of Death.