Into the Cold
There was a literal indent in the table from his incessant tapping. Sure, the Shadow Vault's bleak tranquility brought with it an inherent, thoughtful nature; but the table wore thin in the span of finger's drum. Solid oaken wood permanently flaked with scars of northern cold, maps and daggers, leatheren sheaths and quills strewn about .And tapping, Commander Raymond Ashbury forever at the tables helm, always tapping. Adopting Menethil's architectural style had been a necessary evil following the seizing of many such places, but the mile high ceilings and vast expanses of the vault plagued Ashbury more than ever. The troops return would fill some of the deafening silence, but nothing would ever bring the expanse to bustle, not any more. The armies of the Lich King that had once amassed here, filling these halls with ghastly shrieks of Banshees and the regrets of once fallen warriors, were long gone; ousted once upon a time by The Ebon Blade, adventures big and small, and a particular Crusadesman and woman in a show of solidarity.
Such memories incense ears to ring, as they say, and Commander Ashbury rose as he heard bone gryphon's squawks, and the arrival of those he had sent. Grabbing his rune blade Death knights are want to have, he left his table and trekked across the vault to the incoming lumbering visage of a tauren, helming the cadre. The parties met, silent nods and grunts, subtle looks back as Ashbury peered for his quarry. He'd stop at the smallest of them taking up the rear, dawning some morbid smile as he approached.
"Is this as fast as the crow flies, then?" the commander asked.
"I'd like to think I'm at least as smart as a Raven." returned Stanhis, shaking the commander's hand in a gruff up and down.
"Indeed, just smart enough to know you own name" he'd jeer, met with stopped feet and the stare of one brown eye, one gray. Ashbury would bow his head in minimal apology, "Come on, Dilenta...."