#Randrice Frostcowl

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

An Iron Chrysanthemum In Her Hair

Part Two: The Space Between Two Worlds

Big place, Azeroth. Lots of people. Lots of places. Lots of points of view. Hard to imagine all of the little stories across the planet and beyond playing out day-by-day. Drops of feelings and desires in an ocean of emotions.

The hippogryph came to land on the platform without any fanfare or flash, brilliant blue feathers and graceful steel barding a far cry from the wyverns and gryphons typical of the port. Much of the morning activity across Booty Bay was in full swing, numerous ships and merchant caravans putting together the last of their shipments and supplies for the high seas and road to come.

Pratchett made no effort in putting in small-talk or any discernible amount of friendliness in the port; by all appearances, he was on business and little more. The human, not so young a man anymore as he self-described, quietly shifted though the crowding of dockworkers and sailors on his way down level after level of Booty Bay’s twisting and stacked terraces.

His destination was close-by; the official Port Authority building. Pratchett wasted no time outside, forcing his way through numerous burly-looking men and work as he picked his way through the crowded interior. Much of what was going on was official business; as official as a goblin port could be. Some shipments were inspected as they were claimed, with smaller batches being hand-surveyed by gregarious green goblins and their profit-inclined subordinates. Pratchett made his way around a group with quartz crystal in a massive chest, the cliche of the container enough to give him pause for a moment as the goblin overseeing it proclaimed its authenticity as ‘high-grade Azerite.’

Pratchett slipped into a side-alcove away from the crush, bobbing his head in a quick jingling nod. The gesture didn’t catch the goblin’s attention, but the sound of tungsten certainly seemed to grab him. “’ey, wha’cha need?” Will took a seat on the stool before the goblin’s little makeshift counter, noting that there was nothing comfortable about his position so low to the ground. “Inquiring on a pair of ships coming in to dock today. Steamscar’s Snarl and the Brinedragon.”

The goblin gave the human a look of brief confusion, before shrugging uncaringly and going for a set of paperwork before him. The green dockworker rifled through his paperwork before pulling out a brief manifest, scanning it over before turning it around and showing a pair of entries mid-list with a stubby finger. A few ship’s entries separated them, but not enough to make them difficult to group together visibly. “Here. On time. The Snarl is gonna be later in the afternoon, but the Brinedragon’s gonna get in sometime soon, once we get these FRIGGIN’ JABBERING GIMPS OUTTA HERE!” The yelling was directed outside, causing a crash of crystals and wood. Will simply nodded once, a firm gesture to cut the pleasantries with the goblin dockworker short. “Very well. Ah, keep it real, yeah?” Will offered a weak smile to the goblin as he stood from the small stool, immediately stepping out from the alcove as quickly as he had descended into it. The goblin just gave him a raised eyebrow and bland look, obviously not entirely enthused by the brief moment of cultural appropriation by the human.

Brinedragon was a ship of the line first and foremost. The sin’dorei fielded a great number of smaller ships across Azeroth for their work in the war and elsewhere, with the vast majority of their efforts going towards back-and-forth travel to Quel’Danas and supplies for their research outposts and what few townships they claimed. Seeing a full-sized vessel on the open seas sporting the colors of the Blood Elves and their styling was a sight to behold. The Brinedragon did not disappoint. A 128-gun first-rate ship, it was clearly from another time and another place beyond the current politics and industrialization of the Horde and Alliance conflict.

Will didn’t bother going to the ship himself. He stayed abroad in Booty Bay, settling in to a small bar with cheap ale and simple bar food for the sake of keeping a low profile while awaiting his first point of business.

“‘ey, yo! Get outta the way! Who do ya think ya are, standin’ around like an idiot huh?!” The voice outside was loud, clearly goblin, and very agitated. A few other voices spoke out in protest, only for the goblin to let out a stream of his native language before continuing. “And ‘yer mother!”

Will sighed.

This was not your standard example of a goblin. Molten gold eyes and light green skin aside, he just didn’t look much like the standard example of his people. A big, beefy green male humanoid, he wore a constant shit-eating grin and always seemed to be at ease wherever he stood or sat. Decked out in mail webbing and thick plate enough to crush a mortal figure, adorned in fiery regalia and engineering marvels, wielding a backpack of weapons at any given moment; Jax Deadhead was a pariah among goblins. Charitable work! Donations of goods to those in need! A bottom-line for his shipping interests that didn’t add unnecessary tax?!

These reasons and more were why Will could handle the goblin. In small doses, but handle him all the same. The human shifted in his seat as the goblin posed his question, draping an arm over the back of his chair as he looked to the not-so-diminutive man across from him. “I have seen no sign of them, myself. It could be the Dark Lady’s work, but I suspect the Disputation would have a number of emergency plans for such a situation.” Jax spit hot fire in response, his words coming out in very quick Common with the accent one could only dread to expect from a goblin. “So wha’cha sayin’ is, they done goofed or they straight-up bailed on everybody else?”

Will sighed. “I do not think it is that simple, but yes. Frostcowl would not be caught so unawares. And I seriously doubt, with all of my familiarity on the matter, that he would simply die ingloriously. He adores his plans and scheming for whatever reason.” The goblin threw his hands into the air and kicked back in his seat, almost toppling it over before throwing his weight forward and almost climbing on the table they sat at. “Thrall’s Heaving Man-Sack, so what’s the point? Ya think they’re gonna just pop up outta nowhere like ‘ey yo ‘sup bitches, we’re here to say the muthafuckin’ day’ or somethin’?”

Will just gave Jax a look; eyes staring straight at the goblin as he tilted his head down slightly and to the left. His face was expressionless, save for the small amount of disapproval in the corners of his mouth. “Yes. Absolutely. Unquestionably.” Jax threw his hands in the air again, a repeat performance of his prior response. Expect this time he did not lean forward; the goblin simply stayed up against the back of his chair, arms crossing over his chest and pouting visibly. “Fuckin’ drama queen. So what about you, kid? Ya fuckin’ bitches and makin’ it rain in Stormwind? Find any sayaad to neck yet? Any sign of the folks from The Call of Azeroth ya thought ya lost?”

Pratchett waited for the list of questions to end, greatly admiring for a few long moments the sheer patience and resolve Sunsheer must have shown to be able to share a building with the goblin; much less a table. Once Jax stopped Will shrugged, a helpless sort of questioning motion on his own answer as he gave it. “Not exactly. I am tracking down what I can of my publisher and printer; the both of whom have decided to continue producing my work even after I left. Residuals and payment are coming, thusfar. As for the rest... I don’t know.” Will lets out a breath at his own admission, looking to the side as he speaks. “I am in Stormwind to relax and figure things out. Met a few people. Been drinking as well, for better or for worse. Brief contact with the Black Harvest and running into The Deacon aside, I haven’t really been up to my usual. Met a lovely woman; a contortionist and dancer. Fairly skilled performer actually.”

“Aw shit,” Jax starts as he rubs his gauntleted hands together. “Now we’re gettin’ into the good shit. Give’er the ol’ One-Two Guitarist Special yet? Or ya just get shitfaced and went to pound town in that dwarf trash heap ya stay in?” “Light, no. No, nothing like that. She’s a good person, very friendly and good company. She has her own problems and difficulties going on at the moment, so I don’t...” Will takes in a breath, looking for the right phrasing for the goblin. “I’m not looking to go deep or go home on this, Deadhead. Intellectual companionship isn’t a foreign concept for you, I know.”

“Yeah well, the last chick I got that with got melted by Ember’s pet not-a-fuckin’-dragon, so I ain’t THAT familiar with it anymore man. Still though, ya ain’t gettin’ yer dick wet in the big city? Plenty of ‘fugees from across the world there! Enough strange to go weeks without tappin’ the same thing twice!” Will just blanked at Jax again, the corners of his mouth showing far more disapproval than before. “Light, please, change the subject. Got anything to smoke?”

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

Pratchett’s Journal March the 25th

Dealing with the Dark Consular is always interesting. And I always feel as if I've been played a little bit. Well, almost always.

We spoke at length on the matter of the book, “A Humble View of the Light,” as well as the journal. Learned a few interesting things as well.

Alurius reclaimed his family name when he returned to his senses and broke from the Lich King's grasp. Randrice didn't, however. He continued to use his title and shortened Common name once he had been raised, as his human blood made him susceptible to the Plague of Undeath. Before falling victim to it, he went by his elven name.

Ran'dracil Autumndrake.

I didn't understand why Randrice was telling me this until I got back on the road.

He formally offered me training. I should say, he and his Dark Rangers offered me training. It's a tempting offer to learn how to properly use a bow or train in a new style of combat, certainly. But I don't think I quite have it in me. There's too much shadow and corruption involved in their method of magic. And the touch of Necromancy-

I appreciate the gesture however.

Randrice offered the journal to me once I made it clear what I was doing, however. There wasn't any argument or real discussion about it, short of Randrice mentioning he had attempted to follow Brightsong's path as well. Emphasis on the 'attempted.' Legion invasions have that effect on a persons timetable.

The journal itself is very plain. I shouldn't be surprised, but I expected it to have some kind of otherworldly feeling to it. Some weight or heft, or at least a sense of what was within. Holding it now, it's just a flimsy leather-bound journal older than Genn Greymane.

The first entry I can pick up with shows Alurius going to Lordaeron, via Hearthglen. I can't imagine anything survived the Scarlet Crusade and their possession of the township, but I'll give it a shot.

There are pages of thoughts between dated entries. Some of them written in one color of ink, others written with obviously different implements. It seems as a young man, Alurius questioned everything about the society he came from and those he visited. The first dozen pages aren't even entries, so much as rantings about the shortsightedness and general ignorance of the elves in the face of their history and the relationships they have with the human kingdoms.

His first serious constructed entry is on Northdale, and the people there. The stark contrast between elven and human settlements caught him off-guard, with the generosity shown at his visit giving him pause. The people were kind, but they were also very happy with what he at first saw as nothing. They didn't eat well, and they were poorly armed and equipped. Their tools were simple iron, repaired and handed down over the years throughout family and friends. They were at risk from the trolls to the north and gnolls to the east almost constantly, and banditry this far from Lordaeron's capital led to the roads being a hazard as well.

One of the local farms, run by the Allerton family, took him in for the night after he spoke with their people, offering him a place to stay and what hospitality they could. He was put off from it at first; the forests of Quel'Thalas offered more  from foraging than he could expect from what he described as 'simple hill people.' But the next entry has him expressing gratitude. Not for what they offered, but for the fact they offered it. Once he saw what they had and how little the people of Northdale worked with in comparison to his people to the north, he began to understand the generosity they expressed in offering him anything at all.

The journal entry ends with the musings of one of the local priests he encountered, whom later traveled with him further south to the small chapel of Light's Hope. Alurius states that he was dismayed at the state of things in Northdale, and wondered to the priest if this was the way all humans lived in this kingdom.

“Any man making his daily bread on the Greenrush is the king of the world as far as I know, Alurius.”

[ Image ]

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

Pratchett’s Journal April the 5th

Hillsbrad. Southshore. Tarren Mill. Beautiful townships of their day, now ruins in the face of the Forsaken.

Don't misunderstand; people of different cultures are inherently different. But the Forsaken tend to destroy the world around them more than other species do. The shu'halo live in harmony with nature. Humans tend to not outright devastate the countryside. Even goblins- well almost everyone is a good example I suppose.

There isn't any sign of him here. He writes in his journal of visiting these townships and areas with awe and wonder. He sees them as the true frontier, where men and women struggle to be free and live their own lives. Places where the Light touches the common people of the land and embraces them through hardship and strife. In return for giving their all to survival and their kin, they are fulfilled.

As I write this, I sit in a burnt-out farmstead. A band of gnolls must have made it their camp briefly, considering the paw prints and crude graffiti. There are no corpses left. No valuables. No hint of who lived here, just a shell. A corpse of a home.

Much the same as this entire land is a corpse of its former self.

The next series of entries from Alurius are all about visiting the people here. Seeing the sights. Spending evenings in fierce debate with the locals on their beliefs. He encounters people that believe in a single deific being, and those that see the Avatars of Wisdom as deeply spiritual totems of their representative beliefs.

I can see how it shaped his writings later on.

I'm going to thumb through the next few entries to see where he went. But from what Randrice said, I should go north to follow the passages.

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

Pratchett’s Journal April the 7th

I'll transcribe this, as I don't think explaining it in my own words can do it justice.

"It is with vast trepidation and a small portion of excitement that I find myself visiting a Lodge once again. Quel'Danil is one of the few functioning and well-traveled Farstrider Lodges outside of Quel'Thalas, with the keeper of the lodge being a fair-minded and open quel'dorei by the name Saldor. Immediately upon my arrival I have found myself answering questions and sharing what I knew of Silvermoon politics with the local population. Of particular note is the sizable half-elven population here; The High Peak has functioned as a diplomatic envoy as much as a protective measure in dealing with the Witherbark trolls, with humans mingling in the population as much as the dwarves recently transplanted in the foothills. I look forward to speaking at length with the young man I have been assigned as a guest; Ran'dracil seems as eager as any youth I have encountered yet."

It explains a lot. Randrice knew Alurius in life. Before the Plague and their untimely death.

And what's more, they seemed to get along very well if the remainder of the entries are any indication. There are literally pages of Alurius musing on the interpretations of the Light with Ran'dracil and the various drake-suffix families. Even mention of a young human woman whom seems to have caught Alurius' attention. I can only assume so, as he hasn't described anyone he has meet yet physically except for her. And he makes her sound delightful.

I've dropped my sin'dorei illusion and taken shelter with the Highvale elves for the time being. Mentioning a certain family I once stayed with in Alterac helped put them at ease, as well as mentioning Alurius and Ran'dracil once I got that far into the journal. It seems one of the local Farstriders, Jalinde, remembers Brightsong and the young woman he spent time with.

I get the distinct impression there may very well be a half-elven Brightsong out there somewhere, the way she describes the relationship.