Adisor had fallen easily into the simplicity that came with overseeing House Dragonblade's lands in Redridge and Arathi. He had always had a diplomatic mind, and managing all that fell under his purview came naturally to him, if it had taken some learning in the beginning.
More than anything, though, there was a comfort in the simple tasks. The hard labor that came with these farming communities, their local markets, their wildlife problems. Lift a crate, bring it over here, set it down; it was simple, easy... Good. This, he imagined, might have been his life had his fate been other than it was.
He felt unburdened, both in the lack of his armor, and in the freeness of his spirit. In casting away his saronite armor, he felt as though he'd left behind what he had done when pulled back into the ranks of the Ebon Blade. The Legion was no more, and Mograine's knights had no need of him. The voices... Quieted.
He could never undo what he had done, but he could move forward, and forge a new path. Perhaps this simple life, one of anonymity and simple day-to-day tasks, would suit him.
"Lord Dragonblade! M'lord, there's trouble over the hills!"
Adisor turned towards the voice, coming from one of Stillwater Grove’s younger scouts. He was out of breath, and his hood had fallen back to reveal blonde hair, partially matted to his forehead with sweat. Adisor set down what he’d been carrying, going to give the boy some support. “Easy, lad... Take a breath, what happened? What sort of trouble is there?”
The boy choked on his own breath before finally catching it enough to look up into Adisor’s eyes, the fear in his own shining through. “The Horde! They’ve massed troops North of Stromgarde! There's already fighting in the field."
Adisor wrinkled his nose - it had been all too easy to assume the Eastern Kingdoms would be relatively safe after the Alliance's victory at Lordaeron. But of course, the Horde had presences elsewhere on the continent, not even limited to the Northern regions.
People had gathered around now, fretting over the news. The walls that had been built during the Legion invasion could be reinforced, but if the Horde chose to march through, with weapons like what they'd had at Lordaeron...
"My Lord, word from a Lord Bennas of Summerfast.”
Adisor turned to greet a courier who worked her way through the crowd and handed him a rolled parchment with a seal Adisor had learned only recently. His lich-blue eye scanned over the letter’s contents, brows furrowing at the thought of battle raging in this region, so close to so many innocents. But that, he knew, was the nature of war - and the soldier’s duty was not to bring death to the innocent, but to hold back the effects of war from them.
Slowly, he rolled the parchment back up and tucked it into his belt for safe keeping. The Courier looked at him, expectantly, and Adisor pursed his lips as he paused in thought.
Two years. Two years, he had fallen back to the old ways of the Ebon Blade. Two years, he had made concessions in regards to his own principles, his convictions, his very moral code. Two years, filled with blood, death, torment, anger - and here he was, once again on the precipice of war, people looking to him.
Another moment passed in silence before Adisor sniffed sharply, turning back to the courier. “Send word to Lord Bennas. House Dragonblade will provide what food is not needed for our own people, at fair market price as he said. On your way, stop in Redridge; tell the mayor of Cullfield we’ll need a quarter of our troops in the region - preferably those who volunteer - to make their way North, where the need is greater.”
The cold blue gaze that had always held a certain warmth behind it turned to the West, where the sun hung in the sky, ready to set. His eyes narrowed, though not to fight passed the light that shined upon his face. “And I’ll need armor...”
One of the soldiers local to Stillwater peered on, raising a brow. In all the time he’d been here, Adisor had worn only the bracers he needed to keep hold of his mind, and to control his runic abilities. “My Lord?”
Adisor turned, his boots digging into the dirt as he walked towards the nearby town hall. A pack of his lay against the stairs that lead to the hall’s entrance, next to a long object wrapped in an oiled cloth. “I have been called... I must answer.”
A hand usually covered in plate reached out, and grabbed the object, pulling the cloth aside enough that Adisor could take hold of the hilt underneath. His free hand gripped the cloth that remained, and pulled it away from the blade. Edge as sharp as the day it was forged, and with red jewel inlaid down its entire length. Runes were etched into the flats of the blade, binding an enchantment that made the weapon as stalwart and unbreakable as his family was meant to be.
Adisor stared at his reflection in the sword, as one hand gripped the hilt, and the other wrapped around the blade. The edges cut into him, if only slightly - he was among his own kind once more. The dead had no more need of him... But the living did.
In a moment, Adisor turned back about, standing taller than he had in years as he rested the blade back upon his shoulder. The people of Stillwater that were gathered looked on, some smiling, others already turning to make ready for the battles ahead of them.
There was a pride that stirred within Adisor’s heart as he watched them - it was not the pride of one who had built this House, for he could no longer take the credit for that. But he was proud to be here, to be alive... To know where he belonged once more.
(( Mentions of @theodorebennas ! ))
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