Prelude

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There is a kind of strong pride that comes from a long pedigree of impecable service and the Virtils had every reason to feel that pride. The family line could claim service as Champerlains to Lordaeron's Royal Palace on three occasions, a Vallet on the same establishment, two butlers in the Graymane Mansion, another in Stromgard Keep and other positions in lesser households but of high esteem nontheless. And that was only from the male ancestors. The female ones presented housekeepers, governesses, maids and cooks on all or most of the afore mentioned establishments, while Aleena Simgen, later named Mrs. Virtil, was the governess of King Terenas Menethil, tasked with His Highness' education during his early years. And, while not carrying the name of Virtil, many close and distant relatives could be found through the generations, under service of various noble house-holds of the Eastern Kingdoms and, rumour had it among the family gossip, a distant cousin in Kalimdor's Night Elves.

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Apart from pride, however, such a pedigree was also the source of a certain detached yet caring professionalism, as every generation made sure to instill to the next the necessary mindset and virtues that would keep the family name at the top of all house service tradition. Inevitably, most Virtils ended up with a rather stoic view of all things, as good service has as a necessary skill the ability to control your thoughts and actions while the world around you moves, it seems, with the sole purpose in mind to keep things from being done Properly. This skill or ability or even talent, as some of those who are not willing to try their best called it sometimes, served one of the last Virtils in what became the most changing, in more ways than one, experience of his life. And it served him in the sense that it allowed him to keep his sanity intact. Lesser men would probably had lost their mind.

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"Lesser men". The term seemed fitting. Much like their employers, the Virtils valued lineage and social standing. Despite their role in society as servants, the Virtils had never considered themselves commoners. To live in the Royal House, to breath the same air that the Kings and Queens did and to know in the greatest detail their likes and dislikes, to be there when the heir to the throne utter his first word and to listen to every meeting that decided the fate of a nation... Yes, it was only natural to feel closer to nobility that the common folk. And, in an ironic yet fitting way, Riat Virtil had thought bitterly many times, they had shared their decadance. A line of esteemed servants would seemingly end with him serving as a, Light be merciful, secretary and, assuming he was still alive, his cousin Garran Virtil as a coach-driver to the King of Gilneas. A sad end indeed to such a proud family.

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To be fair, however, he had noone to blame but himself. Had he fled to Stormwind after the fall of Lordaeron, like many of his countrymen had done, he would probably be working for one of the best noble houses at the very least, if not for King Wrynn himself. His credentials certainly suggested so. However, showing both a sentimental patriotism that was usually dormant, as well as a distrust to the judgemental abilities of the less refines nobles of the South, he had decided to stay in the north and seeked employment there. He had estabilshed himself to Southshore for some time and, being probably the first Virtil to have ever done so, he enjoyed, or rather lived, a good life from the wealth of his amassed wealth from his service to Lord Geronthil. Then, as there were no other respectable positions available, he had offered his services to the Knights of Lordaeron as a secretary. Granted, he had come to regret his decision now and then as, despite his hopes and expectations, the Order wasn't associated with Lordaeron's nobility but the position offered a certain satisfaction as it appealed to his patriotism, another aspect of the traditiinal Virtil view of life. And it was because of this aspect that he know found himself in need of his stoicism and detached calmness.

 

Hillsbrad was falling. This was obvious by the screams of agony, the quite loud expressions of panic, the distant sounds of battle nearing with every passing moment and the very disorganized running around from the villagers outside the window. Riat was inside, naturally, and concentrated on the task at hand. Presently, he was burning some documents that Commander Zeal deemed too dangerous to fall into enemy hands. While it was not his place to judge the decision, destroying them seemed a waste of time and effort. His time and effort. He obeyed blindly, however, despite his objections and, in a manner very unfitting to the chaos around him, proceeded with the burning in a calm and organized manner that ensured efficiency. When he was done, and under the pressing urge of the approaching Horde warcries and the Commander's orders, he went to his room, gathered the few belongings he regarded as essential, then left the building.

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"To the mountains!" someone was screaming. Both protests and hopeful agreements were heard as a reply, to which Riat only shaked his head. The Horde was coming from the east. The mountains lied to the East. The outcome of such an effort was predestined to result in death. So, instead, he followed the ones fleeing west, into the forest of Silverpine, regretting once more his decision to seek employment with the Knights.

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And then, despite the wildest fears his imagination could conjure, the trully inconvenient things started to happen.

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Chapter 1: Skills and Traits needed to Rule a Noble Household

"I think we're clear".

 

The way the man had spoken revealed the desperate hope that followed the realization, as well as his exhaustion. A night and day had passed since they had fled Hillsbrad, a night and day filled with nothing but running and desperate attempts to move in silence, while avoiding Horde scouts. Babies were kept on their mothers' bossoms to keep silent, mule and horse hooves were covered with cloth to muffle their sounds, orders were whispered with anguish over their necessity. It was tiring, it was nerve wracking and, above all, it was desperate. But now, it seemed, they were safe, if only for a little while, and sighs of relief along with uncertain voices could be heard from all over the caravan. A soft shuffle echoed gently in the dark forest of Silverpine, as the refugees slowly relieved their backs from their burden and set up camp.

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Riat looked around nervously. He wasn't a coward but he was a fanatic realist and, realisticly thinking, they were far from safe. Oh, they may had had escaped the Horde, for now, but he suspected he knew why that had happened in the first place. He generally disregarded rumours and folk-say about most things but he had seen the patrol reports and he had taken notes on Command's meetings. Deep in the shadows of Silverpine, horrors lied that even Horde scouts would think twice before braving.

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With a determined look he got up and walked decisively to Wilkens, a Captain of the Hillsbrad militia and, at this time, the highest in rank among the handful of armed guards and self-proclaimed leader of the refugees.

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"We can't stay here, mr. Wilkens" he said and went on, undaunted by the man's glare. "The Horde may be gone but..."

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"We need a rest, Riat. And if my boys say we're clear then I'll take that chance and let everyone take a breather". There was a tone in Wilkens' voice, a tone of subtle threat which promised that, if Riat kept talking, things would take a bad turn for him. Riat either chose to ignore it or simply missed it completely.

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"I've read reports about this place" he said. "It is not safe to rest. I strongly suggest that we move. I tried to tell you before, we must head for the ruins of Dalaran".

"I am not having this discussion with you again, Riat. Go rest".

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"If the Captain would listen, then..."

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"What the hell is wrong with you, man?" snapped Wilkens in an angry but low voice, making Riat be taken aback. "The people are exhausted and morale is lower than a demon's pit is deep. They need a rest. Nether, I need a rest! And you come and speak loud about more danger, more fear? You want a riot? Have you lost your fucking mind?"

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"There is no reason to speak in this manner" replied Riat in a cold voice. "I happen to be in good need of a rest myself yet I do not see a reason to cause a fuss about it. And I happen to see as an unhappy duty to ensure the safety of the people before their rest".

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"Yeah, well" said Wilkens, regaining his calm a bit "you're not in charge, I am. So, know your place and shut the fuck up".

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"My...place, mr. Wilkens?"

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"Aye, your place. Now shove off".

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Riat regarded the man motionless for a moment, studying his expression. You couldn't command a household, especially one such as Lord Geronthil's, Light knows, without being able to weigh your staff. Wilkens wasn't a bad man, that he knew. He wasn't even generally a rude man, which in Riat's book was even worse than a bad man. No. He was just given too much responsibility without being prepared or properly trained for it. He was out of his debth and, while it was not his business to judge a soldier's rank, it was clear that the man's inability to lead could cause problems. So Riat did what he knew best. These weren't soldiers, in their majority anyway. They were workers and farmers and servants and those types he could command. He was brought up to do it.

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He cleared his throat.

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"You are perfectly, right, mr. Wilkens. I should now my place. As I matter of fact, I do, very well so. And, awkward as it may seem, I am your superior".

"Eh? What are you talking about?"

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"Oh it's all very technical, mr. Wilkens. The gist of it is, that I am a member of the Order, whether you are not. According to the "Hillsbrad Contract" between Alliance Command and the Council of the Order of the Knights of Lordaeron, section one, paragraph six, and I quote, "Military Command of Hillsbrad Fields is given to the Order. The standing militia is under the Order's command and the military establishments of the Area are now considered property of the Order. The Alliance Command may reclaim their previous rights..." et cetera, et cetera. Seeing as I am the only present member of the Order, mr. Wilkens, it means I am your superior".

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"What? But you're a freaking secretary!"

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"Alas, my rank inside the Order is irrelevant. I am still your superior. Poor choice of words, that contract, if you ask me, but there you have it".

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"Bullshit! I..This changes nothing! I can't let a secretary be in charge, here!"

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"Mr. Wilkens, do I need to quote the Hillsbrad..."

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"There is no Hillsbrad, Riat. Wake up and smell the plague barrels".

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This caused Riat to pause for a moment. He then leaned near Wilkens, starred him down in the harshest way possible and whispered with the calmest and most punctual way he could master.

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"Wilkens, look around. Do you really want to be in charge of this? Do you really want that burden?"

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"I...I can't let you run this, Riat. It's madness. Why are you doing this, anyway? I only said we should rest for a while. Just a little while. After all, we're safe here, eh?"

Dramatics was something that Riat generally despised. Yet, somehow, he was very thankful for what followed. Before Wilkens had finished his sentence, a howl pierced the night like a dagger sharp enough to pierce even shadow. It was a wolf's howl, one could have thought, only if it were it must had been a very big wolf indeed.

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Riat threw a strict glance at Wilkens. The captain gulped.

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"Very well, sir" Wilkens said as he stood up and saluted hesitantly. "What do we do?"

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"I want us ready to move in less than two minutes. I want the unarmed in the center, moving closely and I want those armed to surround them at all times". Riat was talking while walking through the camp, scanning the people with a critical, almost judgemental eye. First, identify the issues to be adressed, he thought, and right now the issue is safety.

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"Riat, there are no armed ones but me and my boys!"

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"Incorrect, mr. Wilkens. Most of the villagers have brought their tools of trade with them. Pitchforks, blacksmithing hammers, scythes, lumberjack axes... They are our weapons now. I assure you they cut and pierce much like your pikes and swords, if, I admit, a little less accurately. At the moment, they will have to do".

"Alright... What about my men?"

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"Two in the front with me, you and the other two in the back. You are to remain close to the caravan at all times. Do not venture beyond sight of the main mob". He stopped walking and looked around for a moment. "The animals" he added after a moment "are to walk on the outer circle. Form a perimeter, I think is the correct terminology. They aren't much but they could provide some cover".

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"If something happens and they get scared" noted the captain, "they will flee and we will lose what they carry".

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"I'd rather suffer such loses than see them run over people if they are panicked".

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"Err...Right. That's good thinking, I guess, Riat". Riat carefully avoided to smile as he felt he had a right to do. "Where are we going though? I still don't think the Crater is a good idea. We saw scouts between us and there and for all we know, the ruins of Dalaran are under Horde hands, like Hillsbrad".

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Riat considered this for some time. In the meantime, Wilkens' men urged the villagers to get ready to move and tried to put them in the decided formation under the captain's command. It wasn't easy and it certainly took more than two minutes but it was to be expected and, in any case, it gave the secretary more time to think about their destination.

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Dalaran did sound problematic, if the Captain's information proved to be accurate. Sooner or later they would have to take risks but for now he would prefer to avoid it. Realistic goals offer less chance of disappointment and morale was necessary for a group of people to succeed in a task. The people needed to see a goal accomplished, even more than they needed said goal to be actually effective. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to bring to his memory the maps and notes he had seen more than once in the Order's Headquarters. He considered Gilneas but quickly rejected the thought. If they hadn't opened their gates for the refugees of Lordaeron when the Scourge attacked, they wouldn't do so now. Besides, Captain Calahan's latest reports suggested Forsaken movement near the Graymane Wall, more so than usual. There was also a small village, the name eluded him, of Dalaran mages somewhere around, but he wasn't sure where they were exactly and what direction the village lied to. To roam the woods while the howls were getting closer didn't sound like a good idea. Other than that, nothing friendly, as far as he could remember. Alright then, he thought, something neutral, a landmark, a finishing line for the sake of finishing.

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"Mr. Wilkens" he called when the caravan seemed more or less ready. "We travel north. We will make for Lordamere Lake. There, at least, we should have one side covered".

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"Very well" the captain replied.

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Chapter 2: Crisis Management

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The light of the moon slid through the dead-looking leaves of Silverpine, like silver cords of a lyre in a sorrowful bard¢s hands. Every time someone stepped through one, a sigh was heard, or a moan, or a whispered wish about a good night¢s rest in a warm bed, back in Hillsbrad. But there were no complaints. Something was out there, in the shadows of the forest and everyone felt the hungered presence, crawling around them, lurking where the eye could not see, stirring a primordial fear inside the hearts of the caravan. The animals stepped around nervously and the soothing voices of their handlers trying to calm them brought some comfort to the people as well. ”There, hush now” they whispered, “hush and soon we¢ll be at the lake”.

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Riat had been right about giving the people a goal to aim at but now he was ready to regret his decision. The lake had become salvation, the end of all their troubles, as if, when they would reach it, safety was certain and a good rest beside a warm-lit fire was waiting for them. He feared how they would react when they would find out that that wasn¢t the case. Leaving a soft sigh, he kept leading them according to the landmarks he could see and conjure from memory of the maps and he hoped that, deep down, the people knew the truth: the lake was but a stop. Nothing else.

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“Riat. Riat!”. The urgent whisper brought him out of his thinking forcefully. He blinked with uncertainty, then turned and squinted, trying to see in the twilight and the weak dancing light of the caravan¢s few torches, who was talking to him. Coming from the back, and avoiding staying on the outside of the animals, Riat noted, Wylkens was gently pushing his way through the refugees.

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“There is someone…something, following us” the Captain said on the clerk¢s ear, once close. “At first Jenmon said he saw it but then I saw it too. Riat…Whatever it is, it¢s big”. Riat didn¢t need to notice the fear in the man¢s voice to see he was telling the truth. He didn¢t even need to ask for a description. And he didn¢t need to correct the captain¢s mistake: there wasn¢t one, there were many. And they weren¢t following them. They were already surrounding them. The feral shadow he had seen only a few minutes before at their right side and then the other on their left was evidence enough for that.

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“Have the people to light more torches and pass them to the perimeter” he said as calmly as his own fear would allow him to. “And tell them to stay as silent as they can and to pick up the pace. We need to move faster”.

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“Riat, we¢re all exhausted” Wylkens said with desperation.

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“Somehow, I don¢t believe that whatever is out there is going to see that as a reason for leniency, mr. Wylkens. Do as I said”.

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The orders were passed on, half whispered, half shouted, and the darkness that surrounded them gave way to the fickle flames of torches. In a way, this made things worse. Shadows danced around them now, giving life to the darkness beyond the torchlight. The company walked in total silence, holding their breath at every play of shadow or whisper of the wind. The animals¢ nervousness seemed now louder and every fallen leaf or piece of wood stepped on, was a cause for alarm. Soon, fear had its claws shred deep in the refugees¢ hearts and their agitated and tired minds saw shapes of monsters and enemies were none existed…and missed the ones that were there. Then, some shadows did take life.

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The first that dropped was a mule that didn¢t even had a chance to realize what had happened. The people near it screamed in its stead, as warm blood suddenly covered them and in the place of the mule was now a feral beast, its huge jaws closing hard on the mule¢s neck, while clawed hands grabbed at it with greed. It rose its head and two red eyes flashing with bloodlust looked at the people, growling.

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“WORGEN!” screamed someone and what little defense their formation offered had soon crumbled. Riat, hearing the screams, turned. He saw the people pushing away from the beast like a wave. He saw another one, leaping over a packed horse like it was nothing and landing on were the crowd was thickest, crushing two refugees by the mere force of its weight. In the back, two more jumped from the shadows on Wylkens and his men. He imagined the sound of the crossbow as it fired and missed but he heard the scream of the man that had fired it as the worgen¢s jaw closed around his arm. He saw Wylkens jumping to the side, avoiding a claw that aimed at his torso by inches. Then, in an effort to gain an advantage, the Captain swung with his sword and caused the worgen to snarl as blood dripped from its arm. For all the Captain¢s inspiring bravery, however, only one thought screamed for attention in Riat¢s mind.

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“I have no weapon” he thought. “I have no weapon and…”. His mind went blank as a deep growl came from behind him. The “twang” of a crossbow was heard and the growling stopped but only for a moment. As Riat turned, he saw a huge, black-mane worgen looking at an arrow which extended from its shoulder like it was nothing more than an annoying inconvenience. Then, slowly, it turned its head and looked straight at the guard who had fired it. The only thing the man managed to do before the beast¢s claws sliced through chainmail and flesh alike, was scream.

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Riat was never and never had been a brave man. He was, however, a very responsible man and in his mind, the safety of the people was his responsibility. Gulping, he hardened his grab on his torch and balanced it for a moment. Then, with a scream and eyes half-shut, he took a step forward and swung, aiming for the worgen¢s head. In the clerk¢s mind, the swing moved slowly, in an arch that seemed like forever to complete its course. It missed. Growling softly, the beast turned its attention to Riat, its eyes radiating surprising intelligence.

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Responsibility can only take you so far. With a scream, the clerk stepped backwards, holding the torch in front of him like its flame would be enough to keep the beast at bay. It wasn¢t. With a swing of its claws, the torch flew away from Riat¢s hand and a mocking bark taunted the clerk to do his next move. Still stepping backwards, the clerk ducked to avoid another swing, this time aiming at his throat, with success but he wasn¢t fast enough to escape the beast¢s bite. Fangs found their way into his shoulder¢s muscles and the pain of the tearing flesh made him scream until he had no breath left. And then, just as he was passing out, he saw another large figure, clad in a savage plate mail, ramming his attacker with his spiked shoulders.

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And the world as he knew it ended for Riat.