#withermore

[monipue]

Violent ghost man and his ex-cult living-undead BFF can have some relaxing times, as a treat

[shandaumath]

To Eastburg

[Withermore Hold, Redridge Mountains]

A fool.

Vynlorin felt like a fool. A complete and utter fool. A pretender who stood at the head and moved his pieces without a single clue of where they should go. He remained silent as he listened to the commanders debate around the war table, but in the end the choice always returned to him. He had seized control of the entire March of Withermore, but he had no business in running it.

He had no business in war, but somehow he found himself at the head of it, shoved there by the cruel hand of fate once more.

“Lord Colfax doesn’t have time to look north. The kingdom’s armies have broken into Redridge from the south, and they now sit on his doorstep just as he sits on ours. Compared to them, we’re no threat.”

Vynlorin dragged his finger from Withermore to Blackrock Pass.

“The dwarves helped break his hold in the Steppes, and now all that stops us from uniting with them is…”

His finger dragged back a smidge, stopping on the Searing Peak. He tapped thoughtfully at the name.

“Do we have enough soldiers to take them?” The voices around him rolled in.

“Do we have an estimate on the size of their army?”

“It’s difficult to tell how many they kept in reserves and how many were sent out.”

“Then they could very well withstand any push we make if we fight them alone.”

“What about Stormwind’s armies? We should strike from both sides.”

“Did the High Marshal ever reply?”

“No,” Vynlorin returned. He had sent a letter to Lord High Marshal Alia Beligarde after taking Withermore, but he had no confirmation that the kingdom would accept them. “I’ll travel to Eastburg tonight and plead our case.”

“With all due respect, my lord, I wouldn’t trust a man who was my enemy a week ago if he came marching into this room. They might attack you.”

“Then let them attack me, but they’d be damned fools to reject our armies.”

A low, discontent murmur filled the room as the ren’dorei pulled his finger from the map and stepped away. The commanders didn’t trust it – no, most of them didn’t even trust him after he had foreign armies blow up their walls, kill their comrades, and wrest control of their city away from their lady. But there was no point in trying to change his mind after he had made his decision.

In truth Vynlorin was deathly stubborn, but he was also drowning. He was drowning, and he knew of nowhere else to seek help than from the very people who wanted his head.

[shandaumath]

New Orders

[Dreadmist Peak, Redridge Mountains]

Fifty Knights of the Blue Lance sent by Duke Tirian Felo’dorah. He had pledged these men a day prior, and they slipped through the wreckage of the battle of Lakeridge. Men were lost during travel.

Fifteen monks specializing in the August Formation sent by Baroness Uozumi Silentgarden. She had pledged these men days prior, and they scaled the mountains from Elwynn to Redridge to safely arrive in Dreadmist.

Seventy-five soldiers and advanced weaponry brought by the ever-reliable Kazmaiers and their Stonemasons, pledged upon the passing of the House of Commons. Knowing the difficulty Dreadmist faced, they climbed the mountains and followed through when it was time to heed the call.

The armies of Rose Ridge from just south down the mountain. For weeks Sinthelyss worked to get the puppet there under her grasp, and now the humble soldiers marched for their own justice.

And finally the meager army of Dreadmist, young and fresh within the growing barony. Alone they stood no chance, but the allies who stood beside them now would bring them to victory. 

The united armies would march to Withermore and claim it together.

…

[The path to the Three Corners, Redridge Mountains]

Led by Sir Kinley of the Searing Peak and two men beside him, Dreadmist’s footmen followed first, then the magi of Withermore, trailed by Rose Ridge and Amberwood’s soldiers. The cities’ troops totaled a dozen, and the magi upwards of one hundred.

They had been marching for a day, and the Three Corners was close.

Silence. Unbearable silence except for the metal, the leather, and the hooves shuffling through the dirt roads. Birds chirping. Wind blowing on what would have otherwise been a perfect day. Silence, until–

–K-K-POW–

Sir Kinley suddenly slipped off his horse, and then the others, and the banners of the Searing Peak were left fluttering without riders.

“ARE YOU FUCKING MAD?!”

A mage caught sight of the pistols in the hands of the soldiers of Dreadmist in front of him. Horses squealed, frightened by the sound, and flames sparked on the fingers of the magi who were first to react, but a letter from a soldier jutted into the air. It bore the mark of the lord of Dreadmist.

“New orders, kids.”

The mage-commander grabbed it, ripping the letter open while the soldiers found a ditch to dump the bodies in.

“Eastburg?!”

“Yeah, Eastburg. Got it on good word that we’ve got allies there. – Damn, this is a nice horse.”

“And our allies here?”

The Dreadmist men hoisted themselves up onto the now stolen steeds. One of them waved to the letter that was already in the mage’s hand, and behind it was a pamphlet. The bold words SPAWN OF ONYXIA caught the mage’s eye first.

“Like I said. We got allies in Easburg, and that’s where we’re going. We ain’t helping these dragon babies any more, and right about–” He looked up at the sky. “...Oooh right about now, ol’ Shandaumath is probably sitting in your pretty little mage castle.”

He kicked the horse forward. “...Like I said. New orders, kids.”

[shandaumath]

Checkmate

[The March of Withermore, Redridge Mountains]

“Withermore is marching.”

Withermore is marching.

Withermore is marching.

The council met early in the morning, an unusual day at an unusual time, all for the announcement that Withermore is marching at the request of the lord of Searing Peak. From Withermore to the Three Corners, a day or two to get there, they would be led by Sir Kinley of the Searing Peak.

Led by their neighbor, like dogs on a leash.

The council stirred in discontent, but orders were orders. The magi of Withermore, the march’s strongest military bred for ranged, untouchable combat through their specialties of conjuration and abjuration, were to be gathered immediately, as well as any other soldiers the march could muster. Each lord offered a dozen soldiers, but the guards in Withermore Hold and the smaller cities’ armies would remain in the mountains in case of the worst.

With a day to prepare, each ruler and every commander met with their people. Vynlorin picked his most trustworthy, most brutal, and most daring from Dreadmist, meeting with them personally in a private setting. He offered the commander a letter bearing his wax seal.

“Tomorrow, before you arrive at the Three Corners. Any questions?”

“No, m’lord. Good luck.”

A faint, ghastly grin pressed onto Vynlorin’s lips, and he nodded. “You too. Be safe.”

And after a pat on the commander’s shoulder, the soldiers marched out of Dreadmist to gather with the others in Withermore Hold. Tonight they would march to Lakeshire. In the morning they would continue to the Three Corners. And by the evening, the mountains would be bleeding red.

Checkmate.

[shandaumath]

Check

“...Yes, but you are doing something she isn’t. Something that people respect and gains you loyalty over her any day.”

“And what is that?”

“You give us a choice, Vynlorin. You told us what your plan was and then told us we could choose. We could choose to fight. We could choose to follow. We could choose to leave. She isn’t. She told you she sides with Colfax and gives you no option to do otherwise. Asking for blind loyalty is what gets rulers overthrown and killed. You are not that. You have never been that.”

…

[Withermore Hold, Redridge Mountains]

The council of Withermore met again this afternoon, and Vynlorin listened loosely to the lords and ladies and magi and generals while the prior night’s conversation continued to echo like a ghost in his mind; like a devil and an angel tugging him back and forth.

His plans. He had so many of them, and it felt like they changed every day. Though he had gotten letters out, he received few responses.

But to one lord that he hadn’t sent any letters, he received an unexpected request for… something. A dirt ramp. A pit of hay. Although Vynlorin couldn’t quite piece together what it was for, the intentions seemed pure and the requester a good acquaintance, so the ren’dorei would soon construct a dirt ramp and a pit of hay somewhere in Dreadmist to be used for… something.

“Lord Shandaumath.”

He snapped out of his thoughts when his name was called at the council. Lady Milhelis Wells, Marchioness of Withermore, was staring right at him.

“Have you received any word from Lord Colfax?”

“No. After the push into Elwynn failed, he’s been quiet.”

“Hmm…” The lady fell silent with her face scrunched up in thought.

Silence, and then –

“Shouldn’t we move our magi south?” The general who warmed the seat of Rose Ridge spoke up. For years he had earned the lady’s favor and been rewarded for it, and for years he had hidden his sins of treachery and backstabbing to do it. Now those sins, brought to light by Sin herself, were being held around his neck like marionette strings that made him speak where Vynlorin couldn’t. “If the kingdom’s armies break into Redridge, their momentum will carry them all the way here. We need to move before we’re backed into a corner.”

“Elwynn isn’t the only entrance into Redridge,” a tactician refuted. “We’ve heard of activity stirring within the Steppes. If we send our magi south we’ll leave the northern border open, and who else will be here to defend it?”

“The armies in the Searing Peak are still here, are they not? Can’t they defend the pass?” Another voice spoke up.

“You know that one man’s army isn’t enough to defend a choke point lest the worst happens.”

”Then let’s move the magi to the pass.” And another.

“There are already armies holding the Steppes. Why should we send our people so far?” Again, another.

More voices swirled in. Stay, go, south, east. They debated, each one believing their way was the best way. Some agreed, some disagreed. Everyone had an opinion, but Vynlorin held his tongue. He had quietly been moving his pieces over the last few weeks, and sending the magi out of Withermore was all that remained before he could claim his checkmate. It was all he needed, and he let his puppet fight for it.

“Lord Shandaumath.” When Milhelis spoke up, everyone else grew quiet once more. “Send word to his grace. He told us once to stay in Redridge. See if his plans have changed.”

Check.

Vynlorin dipped his head. “Of course.”

And soon, if fate didn’t twist its gangly fingers within his plans, checkmate.