We Praise Sylvanas

Dear Mr Awesome
First off, thank you for your delightful application to join Dagger and Totem. Your rose-bordered letter was one of the most articulate and vivid pieces of correspondence I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. Your “five-star, boner-inducing arsenal of heirlooms” sound very promising, and I can only assume the “GREAT FRIENDS” you already have are part of a vast network of useful contacts, with you, you charismatic, charming thing, at the centre.
I have forwarded your letter to my Chieftain, and I will await his inevitable approval. I look forward to engaging our foes together on the frontlines, and seeing for myself your “MAGICAL BONE BOW” and its “SUPER-SPECIAL ARROWS”.
Yours, Sergeant Desmond Hodges
Dagger and Totem’s only undead officer dropped his quill with a flick of the wrist, and relaxed back in his chair. He carefully slotted his reply into its designated envelope. Then, with a vicious smile on his face, he looked over to the closest wall of his office, from which hung a green-felt board. Above it, upon a plaque, were the words “Comic Relief”.
There was a lot of material here, and the most recent addition was the original letter sent to him by the self-titled Johnny Awesome. It was his new favourite, eclipsing even the infamous “What this mean?” report that had become clan folklore. On stressful days, he’d spend some time taking in the sheer hilarity the board’s contents, which ranged from obituaries about particularly amusing deaths to political cartoons imagining Cairne Bloodhoof as a talking kodo.
In the scant light afforded by the room’s dull lamps, Hodges slunk further down in his seat, and lazily juggled an almost empty bottle of ink. Peace and quiet. He liked both, and he tried very hard not to squander either. This office was his refuge, and the place where he could get on with the thankless but addictive task of writing, reading, filing, and signing. There was always something to do here, especially since very few other clan-mates of his bothered with clerical work at all. Or if they did, they left papers lying around the place, as if they weren’t critically important.
Hodges closed his lantern-eyes, and pulled his feet up onto the table. His fleshless toes wiggled and curled around each other. Comfy. Satisfied. Except for one thing. He now reopened his eyes, and reached his long skeletal arm forward, and grabbed the jug of gin that had been sitting on the table, untouched all night. Hodges didn’t drink. He did, however, make a regular habit of sniffing alcohol. His still-working nose would take in huge wafts of strong smells, finding satisfaction enough in that. His half-a-tongue, defective as it was, wouldn’t allow him the sense of taste. This was just one of the ways he made up for it.
Blissful. His eyes shut again, and his mind set to work in providing his black vision with sights of countryside fields, the fair folk strolling through their ever-singing forests, and Lordaeron, the greatest city on Azeroth, going through yet another day as top-dog, the cream of the crop, the metropolis equivalent of a King’s Amber, or a Majestic Zircon.
Time up. Back to work. He opened his eyes, shook his head free of such romantic thoughts, and industrially got back to work again. He had to admit, he loved moments like that, when his mind, all of it, wound into place, and put him in a mood of nostalgic harmony. But something exciting and tantalising was appearing on the horizon, and right here, on his desk, were the early hints of it. Silverpine. He’d acquired a file from a Deathstalker on the place; an old friend of his who really shouldn’t have been supplying a former sergeant of the Undercity with such sensitive, confidential information. But foo-ey. It wasn’t as if Hodges was disloyal. He just served now under a different branch of the Horde, and besides, it had been a favour of his to the Undercity to join that different branch - Dagger and Totem - in the first place.
The file was full of tactics. Actual, honest-to-Light tactics. Field formations, plans for camps, outposts, temporary forts, siege equipment, scouting assignments and subsequent patrols once the land had been seized. He couldn’t believe it. The Forsaken were finally getting their act together. Droves of his ex-comrades were returning to the books and tomes of war that had been written, in a previous life, by the greatest military thinkers of Lordaeron. Cavalry charges were back on the cards! As were volleys of arrows and gunfire! Even, whisper it, war hounds. War hounds! Oh, the glee he’d feel, as a hundred or so dogs stormed into battle, barking and howling with fierce, wild hatred.
He became absorbed into the documents before him, swiftly devouring the facts, the figures, and the predictions. When a harsh bashing resounded upon his door, he was startled, both the silence and his concentration blown to smithereens. Sent frantic by the interruption, Hodges slammed his feet back down onto the floor, and covered the classified reports with far less incriminating ones. The door was shaking and rattling, and looked like it would fall through at any moment. He stood up, stick-straight. ‘Yes, I’m here!’ he shouted, with angered surprise.
‘It’s High Executor Saxon!’ declared the Stratholme-accented voice on the other side. ‘Open this door, by the Queen’s orders!’
Oh, good grief. They’d finally discovered his office had never been taken away from him. Suppressing the urge to backchat with something which wore venom and contempt upon its sleeve, Hodges sidled over to the door, and twisted the key in the lock. When he opened it, his eyes suffered the sight of two pale-yellow counterparts, part of the body of another Forsaken, his thin chest boasting medals from all different divisions of the Undercity army. His Undercity tabard was a host to brass, silver and gold, stuck so tightly beside each other that some of them overlapped, giving the impression of a man who just couldn’t let any of his achievements fall into obscurity.
‘Sergeant,’ he said sternly. ‘You’re needed in the Royal Chambers.’
Desmond blinked. ‘Eh?’ he said, shocked. ‘Says who?’
‘The Dark Lady herself!’ said Executor, his fist rising into the air. ‘All officers of the army are summoned to her sanctum! That means you. Bones!’
‘Oh yes, yes, very well, sir. I’ll get along there right away,’ said Hodges, hardly believing his luck. He could have squeaked with amusement. This Executor still believed him a Sergeant of the city; just another piece of evidence that suggested that, for all Silverpine sounded marvellous, the Forsaken were still largely incapable of giving administration a try. Still, he wasn’t going to argue.
The High Executor went to punch dents into the next few doors along too, leaving Hodges to lock up the office, and, smiling on behalf of mistaken entities everywhere, walk quickly along to the Apothecarium. His residence was located only opposite, which meant a short walk over a canal bridge, before progressing through the tunnel to the Royal Chambers at a fast gait, bursting with anticipation. Everything was happening, he realised. This was like signing up for Northrend, but hopefully without the crushing disappointment of sentry duty. In fact, definitely without that. He was in a clan now: a clan that would be called upon by the Undercity to assist in actual, front-line battle. Oh, happy, wondrous days.
When he arrived at the circular hall where the Dark Lady took her place governing the city, Hodges saw a sight that he had previously suspected he’d never see again: bustling activity of which the military was king. Oh sure, within the mass of sword-and-shield officers deep in conversation with each other there was the odd apothecary being as flamboyant as they could in describing their roles and responsibilities, but they were additions - side orders to the main meal. The red steaks of martial-minded thinking and proper tactical combat were back at the top of the menu.
Tables had been laid out, and upon them were maps with arrows pointed towards key locations, and notes thoroughly describing terrain - terrain! - and enemy numbers. Swords and other classic, reliable weaponry occupied other tables. Some looked to a shocked eyed Hodges brand new, forged just this eve, and ready, so ready, to be thrust into worgen flesh.
And up on the raised platform, observing it all with calm confidence, was the Dark Lady. She was flanked by her closest banshees, and... Val’kyr? Yes, Val’kyr. They were hovering above the ground, watching as well. Hodges looked for signs of subjugation upon their bodies, but saw nothing. He was just wondering why, when the Dark Lady began to speak, and he learnt the answer.
He listened to her with all his concentration and awareness; hanging on the every word of his saviour and Queen. She told him and the rest of the gathered Forsaken new truths, which would change everything. They could finally procreate. Watch, she said. And they did. They saw the white lights of rebirth, sent down into the corpses that Hodges hadn’t spotted by the Dark Lady’s feet. He saw them rise up, and he saw them stand at attention. He saw them offered the choice to flee or to stay. He saw them accept.
He joined in with the chant. ‘We praise Sylvanas!’
‘We praise Sylvanas!’
‘We praise Sylvanas!’
Category:Story