Warmage Greyhart

## Summary

Quentin Lowe is a young human soldier fighting in the early stages of the campaign against the Scourge in Northrend. Things are inexorably changed by the presence of a newly-arrived Warmage, Yreine Greyhart.

## Characters

* Yreine Greyhart
* Quentin Lowe

## Warmage Greyhart

### Chapter One

Another day of harsh battle drew to a close as exhausted soldiers set up a temporary camp in the snowy mountains of Icecrown. The Scourge threat was omnipresent, and with the expedition into Outland nearing its conclusion eyes were beginning to turn back to the frozen wastes of Azeroth’s northernmost continent. The Lich King’s influence permeated the land and roused its dead in huge numbers. It would not be long before a full-scale invasion of heroes across the globe would be necessary to quell this rising threat. As it stood now, however, only a small force of Argent Crusaders stood their ground in Northrend, and fewer still reaching the frozen heart of Icecrown.

Among the Crusaders was Quentin Lowe, a young nobleman of Stratholme spurred into action after his home fell to ruin, his kin lost with it. He was the sole survivor of his house, having been fortunate enough to be travelling at the time of the city’s culling. He had not mustered the courage to return there yet, fearful of what he might find behind Stratholme’s charred and putrid walls. Besides, there were far greater problems to be dealt with here in Northrend– he would wait until things were calmer here before making the long trip back to the Eastern Kingdoms. Or at least that was what he would tell himself.

Quentin knelt over the campsite’s struggling fire, rubbing his hands in a desperate attempt to keep warm. The cold bit through his thick coat and all the clothes beneath, chilling him to the bone. A glance at his allies told him they were suffering the same fate– some blue-lipped and trembling uncontrollably. It was unreasonably cold tonight, and the howling wind brought great blasts of snow and hail hurtling into their meagre attempt at a shelter. A particularly fierce wind almost extinguished the fire altogether, and with it any and all relief from the weather. *One more gust like that, and we’re done for…*

There was a dull, morose chatter about the camp tonight as soldiers tried to assure themselves and others that the promised reinforcements were on the way. There would be priests, battlemages and warriors, and they would bring warm food, blankets, and fabric to patch up the damaged tents. That was what their commanding officer said. Capain Nella was a stern and severe woman, but a woman of her word to be sure. Quentin trusted her more than he liked her, and felt that was the case for most. If Nella said reinforcements would come, then they would come. Sooner rather than later preferably.

Quentin’s ears pricked when he heard the chatter turn into clamouring on the west side of the camp, with several soldiers rising to their feet to cheer and shout in desperate joy. He saw the bold pennants of the Argent Crusade fluttering in the breeze above their heads, accompanied by those of the Kirin Tor, the Cenarion Circle, and other smaller neutral factions Quentin did not recognise. He felt his heart miss a beat in his excitement– they were here!

He joined his allies as they rushed to greet the new additions to their forces, crowding around immaculately dressed combatants guiding generously-laden pack mules and mountain horses. Quentin found himself hungrily eyeing up an open-topped box of cured meats, the thought of warming one over a fire filling his mouth with water. He sorely hoped there would be enough for them all to share.

A sharp shove at his side signalled the arrival of Captain Nella, the dwarven warrior pushing her way through her taller colleagues to properly greet the new recruits. A similar movement occurred on their side too, with a tall, slim human woman with ash-blond hair and ice-blue eyes appearing to take position as their leader.

   “Warmage Greyhart, it’s a pleasure to see ye,” Nella said, half-shouting to be heard over the gale. “I trust ye made it here with minimal trouble?”

The warmage smiled, brushing snowflakes out of her hair. “No trouble at all, Nella,” she replied. Her voice was deeper than Quentin expected it to be, with a slight growl to it. It sent shivers he had trouble identifying up his spine when she spoke. “We’re all here in more or less one piece.”

Nella nodded, the slight smile on her lips betraying her obvious relief to see help arrive. She swiftly took charge from the warmage, who obliged graciously, and ordered the supplies to be unpacked and distributed evenly, with the vast majority being held back to ration until a more substantial supply drop could be organised. Quentin was eager to help, knowing that the sooner the job was done, the sooner he would eat. The thought of having a warm, full belly was almost the most attractive idea in the world to him at the moment.

Almost.

In the process of unpacking boxes of dried fruits and vegetables, Quentin took a rather clumsy step back and felt a person collide with him– a far lighter person, he assumed, because a half-second later he heard them hit the floor and grunt in surprise. He whirled around, face reddening with shame as he saw Warmage Greyhart kneeling there in the snow with a dazed look on her face. He knelt as well and put a hand on her shoulder, apologising profusely as he helped her to her feet.

   “I’m so sorry, Warmage Greyhart!” he cried, brushing snow from her silken robes. “I do that *all*the time, I’m such a clumsy oaf!”

The warmage came back to her senses, blinking and smiling up at Quentin. He could almost feel her taking note of his height, a trait nearly all members of the Lowe family possessed. Along with being well over six and a half feet tall, he was solidly built with hard muscle. Good for fighting the Scourge, and also good for accidentally knocking smaller people into the snow.

   “Don’t fret, I’ll live,” she replied. Again, the trace of a growl in her voice made Quentin shiver. She must have seen it, for her smile widened and a spark of interest flashed in her eyes. “You can call me Yreine. “Warmage Greyhart” is such a mouthful, isn’t it? And so *dreadfully*formal.”

Her response surprised Quentin, who had expected to be reprimanded for his clumsiness. He was stunned to silence for a moment, just looking down at the mage before him as his brain worked through the situation. Up close, Warmage Greyhart– no, no, *Yreine*— was quite beautiful. There was a unique elegance to her features that would turn noble families green with envy. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced and her eyes were perfectly almond-shaped. Her skin was pale, her cheeks and nose a little bit red from the cold air. And all so magnificently framed by a mane of wind-tousled hair that almost glowed white in the dying sun’s light. By the time Quentin had caught himself staring it was too late. Yreine had noticed, and had begun to giggle.

   “I-I, um… its a pleasure to meet you, Yreine, though had I the power to turn back time I’d like to improve the circumstances!” He chuckled nervously, hoping to salvage this and not look too much like the fool he knew he was. “My name is Quentin Lowe, but just Quentin is fine.”

   “Ah, of course!” said Yreine. “I thought I recognised you. The height, the eyebrows– of course you would be a Lowe. You must forgive me, I hadn’t expected to see any of your kin here after the tragedy that befell Stratholme.”

Quentin held back a heavy sigh, instead spreading his hands in a vague gesture. “There’s no harm done. It’s not as if my family were the only ones to suffer in this war.”

Yreine nodded at that, but her expression remained apologetic. “Yes, well, it still was not all that thoughtful of me to bring your family up like that. Perhaps I could make it up to you.”

Before Quentin could embarrass himself further with a startled reply, Yreine had looped an arm through his and pulled him back to his campsite. With a flick of her wrist, the campfire he had spent a good hour putting together roared to life in a gout of brilliant flame, eliciting murmurs of appreciation from the nearby soldiers. Quentin felt its warmth against his exposed face, and closed his eyes in the pleasant moment, just allowing himself to enjoy it.

An amused chuckle from Yreine caught his attention again. She removed her arm from his and admired her handiwork. “Fire magic was never my forte, to be honest. Arcane is more my area, but that doesn’t seem to matter here, does it?”

Quentin observed the fire and though his own knowledge of magic was limited at best he was not sure he would be able to distinguish this powerful flame from that of a mage specialised in fire magic. Either way he was thankful for it. Yreine was a godsend.

The two went their separate ways for now after that brief encounter, both returning to help unpack and distribute the new goods. As Quentin worked, he occasionally took a quick peek in Yreine’s direction, watching her talk with the other mages and toss handy little spells on the heavier crates to make them lighter to lift. There was something captivating about her that Quentin struggled to put into words. Watching her reminded him partially of that feeling of half-terror and half-exhilaration one would experience when looking down from a high place, or how the eye would inexorably be drawn to the centre when observing a spiral. Yreine was that centre, as well as the bottomless void that made his heart jump. The more he thought about it like that, the more it confused him. Quentin decided to focus on more menial things for now.

\*\*\*

Dinnertime at the camp tonight was the merriest it had been in months. There was warm food, fresh water, and most importantly plenty of hearty dwarven ale to put the fire back in their blood. Quentin wiped froth away from his top lip as he and his comrades drank and sang the evening away. They were at the end of their fourth lewd old sea shanty when Quentin’s sparring partner and best friend, a night elf by the name of Mildir Stagseeker, nudged him with a wide grin on his purple lips.

   “So you and that warmage were getting pretty friendly earlier, huh?” he said, slurring his words slightly.

Quentin blushed. “What? Getting friendly? All I did was apologise for bumping into her. We had a little chat after but I guarantee it’s nothing like you’re thinking.”

   “Sure, sure,” the night elf giggled. “Quen, I’ve been alive for, like, fifty times longer than you have, or something. I *know*when there’s sparks. And let me tell you, Quen, my good friend, there was a *storm*brewing there!” He paused to take another gulp of ale, slapping a large hand on Quentin’s back in a friendly gesture. “You should go for it! What’s the worst that could happen? Besides, its been way too long since you last had any fun. Real shame that boyfriend of yours met the business end of Arthas’ sword back in Stratholme, but you can’t let that hold you back forever. He would’ve wanted you to move on, right?”

The conversation had reached uncomfortable territory and Quentin’s discomfort must have shown on his face, for Mildir put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, his voice lowering to a softer tone.

   “I’m just trying to look out for you, you know. I don’t always say the right thing, but you’ve been so down since Stratholme. A pick-me-up is just what you need. We’ll deal with the Lich King and you can get back to that serial killer investigation you used to be so interested in. The Bloody Star isn’t going to catch himself, you know!”

   “Or herself,” Quentin corrected, unable to resist. “We don’t know for sure that the killer is a man. But it probably is, in all likelihood.” He sighed, staring at the wonky, washed-out reflection of himself in his mug of ale. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe something like this would be good for me. Do you really think I’d have a chance with her? She’s… she’s this incredible mage, and I’m just some guy who swings a sword fairly well. Also we literally met a few hours ago at most.”

Mildir beamed. “Textbook romance, my friend! I swear, half of all storybooks have something like that going on in them.” He set his own mug down and pointed across the camp to where the mages had put their tents. Yreine sat by the fire with her colleagues, seeming to be in deep conversation with them. “Finish your ale and go work your charms. I believe in you, Quen!”

Quentin couldn’t help but smile at that. He took a deep breath, downed the rest of his ale in a single gulp and walked on over to the mages.

### Chapter Two

The alcohol had worked wonders, for within moments Quentin was pulled into conversation by the mages, each of which seemed perfectly happy to hear his tales. None more than Yreine, though. Quentin was not quite drunk enough to miss how she watched him and rose from her seat to move next to him. She had a wealth of questions to ask, and Quentin was more than happy to answer. He told her of his previous adventures in the Argent Crusade, of the japes he and Mildir pulled on the more humourless troops, and of course of his research and theories into the killing patterns of the serial killer at large known to most as “The Bloody Star”.

   “You see, they call him that because of how he kills his victims,” Quentin explained to a positively rapt Yreine. “Its quite gruesome-- he cuts them up into however many pieces he needs and lays them out to resemble specific constellations. So far he’s got through the entire autumn roster-- my guess is he’ll be starting his winter killings soon.”

   “My, how terrible,” Yreine murmured, eyes moving to observe the sky above. Some stars twinkled in the few spaces between the thick clouds that heaved with snow. “What do you suppose it all means?”

Quentin pondered the question. It was something he often asked himself whenever this topic came up. “Well, either our killer is just a big fan or stargazing, or there must be some kind of hidden message within the pattern itself. Personally, having mapped out the dates and locations of the murders along with the positions of the constellations in the sky, I think we’re looking at just that-- a map. As in, the star-map corresponds in some way to the map on Azeroth the killer is leaving. It seems random at first, but when you look closer you notice things start to repeat, if that makes sense.”

Yreine nodded. “Ah, a classic coding tactic, though a rather advanced one by the sounds of it. I’m sure you’ll work it out, Quentin, you seem like an intelligent young man.”

The way she smiled at him made his cheeks redden, and he shrugged and rubbed the back of his head a little sheepishly. “Thank you. If someone like you thinks I’ve half a brain, then I must do!”

Yreine grinned and glanced back at the other mages, most of which had moved on to new conversations and were paying no attention to them. She produced a flask from within her robes and took a long swig from it, capping it again and replacing it in its pocket. She gave a contented sigh, leaned back, and settled a hand firmly on Quentin’s thigh, making him squeak in surprise. Her grin widened as she looked up at him, something devious twinkling in her eyes.

   “As much as I respect my colleagues, their company can be a little lacking. So much so, in fact, that I think it would vastly improve both our evenings if we... removed ourselves from their presence,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Why don’t you come back to my tent? I guarantee its far nicer than whatever standard military-grade thing they have you sleeping in.”

   “I-I...” Quentin stammered, his fogged brain having a hard time keeping up. He only half understood Yreine’s words, as the majority of his focus was on the warm, gloved hand that rested still on his thigh. “That’s... uh... yes? Sorry, what did you say?”

Yreine chuckled at that and moved her hand to take Quentin’s own, pulling him to his feet. “Come now, before boredom kills us faster than the cold does.” She tugged on his hand and led him a little way into the circle of tents around the new addition to the modest campsite, drawing apart the flaps on the largest of them all and guiding him inside. It was warm and cosy in here, with nice blankets and pillows of a quality Quentin had not seen since he left home. There were spelltomes stacked in a corner along with neatly-folded robes, several spare wands, and decent collection of knives and daggers.

   “Wow, this is nice,” was Quentin’s eloquent assessment of the tent. There was more than enough space for two people-- unlike Quentin’s own tent, which he and Mildir could only just about fit in together. Whoever had the bright idea of pairing one of the largest humans with an equally-tall night elf, he did not know, but he did know they were responsible for the myriad of bruises on his torso and limbs from where Mildir would accidentally elbow him in his sleep.

   “I’m glad you think so,” Yreine said, settling down on the comfortable-looking pile of quilts and cushions that likely served as he bed. She patted the ample space next to her, beckoning Quentin over. He moved automatically, like a puppet on strings, but if Yreine was his puppeteer he was perfectly happy with that. She smiled as he sat beside her and sidled closer to him, fitting nicely against him. Quentin smiled too, though his heart was thudding away nervously in his chest. It had been a while since he’d done anything like this. Well, unless you counted the few times he and Mildir had drunkenly fooled around, which he didn’t.

With magic, Yreine levitated two sparkling wine glasses and a bottle of something probably quite expensive over to them, the bottle uncorking itself with a crisp pop and proceeding to pour two precisely equal amounts into the floating glasses. One settled into Yreine’s hand, and the other Quentin’s, with the bottle seeming to vanish altogether. Quentin lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed it, wondering if he could recognise the make. He couldn’t, but did the polite noble thing of nodding curtly in approval. Whatever it was, it smelled good.

Yreine set her glass down to remove her gloves, picking it up again to drink. There was a quiet clink as her left hand closed around the glass, and it was at that point that Quentin noticed the modest golden band on her ring finger. Well, she wore rings on every finger, he noticed, but this one made him panic.

   “Um, Yreine?” he said, tilting his head at the ring. “You, uh... I’m sorry for asking this, but... that ring there, that one. Um, you aren’t married, are you?”

Yreine almost choked on her wine, pulling away from Quentin to steady herself. She gave him a look he did not understand, but then shook her head with a familiar giggle again. “Oh, this? No no, Quentin, its nothing like that. Each of these rings is enchanted with a small heating spell-- they keep my hands warm in this awful cold, you see.”

Oh. That made sense. In fact, Quentin thought it was a brilliant idea. Where could he get little enchanted rings like this too? Perhaps if he didn’t feel as though his fingers were about to fall off from the cold each day he would be a more effective fighter.

He was relieved, to say the least. He laughed, embarrassed, and apologised again for the question. Yreine settled against him once more and assured him it was fine, stretching a bit to rest her head under his chin. Quentin wondered if she could feel his racing pulse like this. They chatted idly like this for a while, working through their wine until the buzz of the stuff warmed them from within. Chatting was soon forgotten as clothes were discarded and thrown carelessly about the tent. Not a word was exchanged between breathless kisses, both trying to keep as quiet as possible so as to not disturb the other mages sleeping nearby. No words, and nearly no thoughts. Quentin found it hard to think of anything but Yreine in this moment, and even then any sort of detail was curiously missing. No thoughts. Just her. And she was... what was she? It didn’t matter.

\*\*\*

When Quentin woke the next morning, he was alone in Yreine’s tent. His clothes had been folded neatly beside him, and it took him a moment to notice Yreine’s folded in a separate pile to her others. *She must be up already,* Quentin thought, stretching his arms as he yawned. He felt a great reluctance to leave the comfort of the blankets. It was warm and safe in here. Outside it would be freezing, the wind carrying with it the rotting stench of the Scourge that roamed the continent.

*Oh right, the Scourge*. Quentin sighed and got up, pulling on last night’s clothes and leaving the tent. He was greeted with a cold blast of wind and snow to the face, just as expected. Shivering, he pulled his sleeves over his hands and went to join him comrades. They were crowded at the far end of the camp, looking concerned. Quentin picked up the pace as he noticed this, jogging to meet them. He stood next to Mildir and peered over the soldiers in front of him.

   “What’s going on?” he asked.

The night elf took a while to reply. His eyes were distant, lips pressed into a thin, worried line. “...Its... C-Captain Nella. She’s... they found her like that, oh Elune, I was just talking to her last night!” He broke down into sobs, covering his face with his hands. Quentin anxiously moved through the crowd, knowing Mildir was in no state to give further detail.

And when he saw Nella, or what remained of her, he instantly wished he hadn’t.

The dwarf was in pieces, broken at her joints like a snapped doll. The breaks were not clean-- far from it. Jagged bone protruded from each stump, and the flesh around them was torn to shreds as though with animalistic savagery. But no animal could have done this. Quentin knew it instantly.

The pieces of Nella were arranged to resemble The Great Yeti, the second largest of the winter constellations visible from Azeroth. Each... chunk... represented one of the many stars, but the pieces were arranged randomly as they always were. Nella’s head, one hand and a large piece of her ribcage made up one of the Yeti’s outstretched arms. There was blood everywhere.

A hand pressing itself into his shoulder made him start, but he was relieved to find it was only Yreine. She looked distraught, as though she had only just finished crying. She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, I was going to wake you, but... I just... the shock of it all, I...”

Quentin hushed her and pulled her into a hug. He knew from their conversation last night that she and Nella had been close friends for a number of years. This sudden, violent death must be hurting her terribly.

Yreine sighed shakily and buried her face in Quentin’s chest, muffling her voice a little. “This was the Bloody Star, wasn’t it?”

   “Without a doubt,” Quentin replied. He felt numb, and couldn’t tear his eyes away from Nella’s, still open and frozen in terror. He couldn’t think. How could this happen? The Bloody Star was *here?* And more worryingly, this was the start of his winter constellations, just as Quentin had predicted. There would be more victims-- lots more. Unless they could stop the bastard before it was too late.

Quentin caught Mildir’s gaze, now steely with determination. Without speaking, they had come once again to the same conclusion. The usual partners in crime would now be partners *against*crime. Quentin sort of wished that sounded cooler.

### Chapter Three

A heartbreakingly short service was held for the murdered captain, and those closest to her retrieved her remains and took them away from the camp to be cremated, as per Nella’s wishes.

   “Dyin’ in Northrend is particularly bad,” Nella had said, never breaking her train of thought as she hacked her way through ghouls. “’Cause ye never know if ye’ll stay dead. When its my time, they’re gonna burn me. Right down to ash. The Lich King’ll have a fine time figurin’ out how to reanimate that!”

The captain had always been full of little nuggets of wisdom like that, and though she had been difficult to get along with, Quentin had been sure to listen to her words, advice and anecdotes. She had been about a hundred years his elder, and unlike Mildir she had put her experience to good use.

This morning they would be following Nella’s orders still, even with her gone. There was a daily ritual to be honoured-- to press the fight down the mountain and push the Scourge as far back to Icecrown Citadel as they possibly could. Quentin took up his blade and fell into line with his comrades as they marched down the icy slopes, the Scourge below like filthy stains upon a beautiful wintry land. That’s all they were-- filth. Stains. Things to be cleaned up. Several of the rotting creatures wore the tattered remains of the very same tabard Quentin wore now, but he had been doing this long enough to know how to ignore it. He made himself not recognise them as he plunged his sword into the thick sinew of their necks. Today he could only think of Nella, and wondered if her spirit watched them now, tutting and shaking her head at their loose formations and sloppy swordsmanship. She would jerk a thumb at the risen dead and scoff: “Glad that ain’t me!”.

Quentin hoped she would, at least. He couldn’t get her face out of his mind, all stiff and frozen in an expression of abject terror. He couldn’t begin to imagine how that must have felt. If her death was preferable to falling to the Scourge, then it was by a very tiny margin indeed.

Lost in thought like this, he almost missed the hulking abomination that had made its way through the battlefield towards him. He felt the ground shudder at its footsteps, but did not register them, and the gurgles and squelches of the thing were lost to the din of the fight. The creature raised its rusted hook high and swung it in a wide arc, looking to shear Quentin’s head clean from his shoulders. But it froze in place a hair’s breadth from its target, and the abomination staggered back, grunting. Quentin noticed it now and was confused-- he saw no obvious wound on it. Seconds later, though, arcane sigils appeared on its flesh and burned brightly, spreading like roots across its misshapen body. The abomination howled in agony and exploded-- little sparks of magic and gore raining down like the residue from a firework. Quentin looked over his shoulder to see Yreine standing near, her hands outstretched with the fading wisps of her spell curling around her fingers. She caught his eye and forced a smile, whirling around to blast more dead. Watching her fight was incredible-- her magic penetrated everything and destroyed from within. A row of ghouls exploded into dust, one by one, earning a cheer from the Argent ranks. She twirled and a shimmering missile arced from her wand to meet a silently-moving gargoyle overhead that no one had seen yet, vaporising it in a rainbow of colour.

Her mages followed suit, but with noticeably less flair. Creatures they killed exploded only partially, and usually only into ordinary flame. Yreine clearly was a cut above the rest, and watching her now explained to Quentin how she appeared to be the leader of their band. She wielded arcane, fire and frost with great skill, often combining all three schools to shoot down particularly demanding threats. Quentin, and most who watched her, was entranced. He was quite sure she warped time as she fought, for the world itself seemed to move with her, rather than her with it. He remembered reading of Guardians as a child-- great mages who wielded the power of hundreds to defeat Azeroth’s foes-- and though Yreine’s power was not nearly enough to hold a title like that, he couldn’t help but wonder how it would be to witness her wielding a Guardian’s share of magic.

An arrow whizzed past his face, burying itself into the eye of a reanimated soldier that had staggered close. The dead thing squealed in pain and fell back, and Quentin finished it off with a swing of his sword. That save had been from Mildir this time-- he would recognise his blue-plumed arrows anywhere.

   “Thank you!” Quentin called, having to shout to be heard.

The night elf moved to his side and nodded, nocking another arrow as he spoke. “Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t, I nearly didn’t see it coming. I was just as distracted by that pretty mage as you were.” He grinned toothily at Quentin, and though it was a little half-hearted, Quentin rolled his eyes anyway at his friend’s attempt at mirth.

   “I’m more interested in her magic right now-- I’ve never seen a mage fight like that. Are warmages just different? What of battlemages?” Quentin replied, stealing another glance over his shoulder at Yreine. A shimmering barrier of arcane and fire protected her now, and her attacks were a little less spectacular. She was probably trying to conserve her magic for the moment.

Mildir shrugged, firing his second arrow into the buttock of an abomination, making it roar and look around in confusion. “I’ve met warmages before, and they were nothing like Greyhart. Nice to see the Kirin Tor are sending their best this time, though. Maybe Rhonin will turn up next. That guy could probably melt Icecrown entirely and just drown the Lich King.”

   “I don’t think you can drown the undead,” said Quentin. “As funny as that would be. But I agree-- this is good news if the Kirin Tor are taking this seriously.”

Mildir nodded, and his long ears twitched as he heard one of their comrades crying out in distress. “I think my suppressing fire is needed elsewhere. Stay stafe, Quent.” He smacked him gently on the shoulder and jogged off into the fray towards a rank of priests that were struggling to hold back several aggressive skeletal sorcerers.

\*\*

The battle raged on for hours, but perhaps due to their collective desire to avenge Captain Nella it was one of the most successful skirmishes they’d had for quite some time. They had retaken a lot of ground between the mountains and the Citadel, and took great pride in marking their won territory with pennants and banners. They took a bit less pride in burning the corpses of the slain Scourge and soldiers alike, but it had to be done.

They feasted sensibly after the battle, enjoying a measured amount of the luxuries sent in the supply crates. The priests healed the wounded and then tended to themselves, while the mages drank special potions to replenish their magic. At the centre of the camp, Captain Nella’s lieutenants were talking, and everyone knew what it would be about: Nella’s replacement. They needed a captain as soon as possible. Today’s victory was one of but a few, and it would be one of fewer still without a leader.

   “Who d’you think it’ll be, Quent?” asked Mildir, tipping his head towards the lieutenants. “I’ve put ten silver on Moka Darkjaw.”

Quentin looked over, picking out Moka’s huge form easily. She was an orc, and a big one at that. She was a battle-hardened warrior with more scars than remaining teeth and fingers. She’d earned her name from the nasty burn she sported on the bottom half of her face, turning the skin there gnarled and black. Not a bad guess, in Quentin’s opinion.

   “Hm, maybe,” he replied, surveying the other lieutenants. “I’d go with Ala’thul Starbane, personally. Nella liked him a lot more than the others.”

And by that, Quentin mostly meant he’d heard her complain about the high elf much less than her other lieutenants. Ala’thul was quiet, but had a quick mind and an even quicker knife. Nella had trusted him, more or less.

Mildir wrinkled his nose at that suggestion. “Ugh, Starbane? Really? I don’t think anyone would listen to him-- look at him, he’s so small! I think a warrior like Moka would be a much better leader than a pipsqueak rogue like him.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “You just don’t like him because you can’t beat him at hearthstone.”

   “He cheats!” Mildir protested. “I’m pretty sure he saw my hand, that’s how he knew I had mind control so he could put counterspell on the board before my turn!”

Quentin chuckled. “Alright, sure. Whatever you say, Mildir.”

They observed the lieutenants for a while longer, stirring when the group stood and approached the rest of the camp. Moka’s face was impassive as always, and Ala’thul wore a similar expression of resignation to his colleagues. That was not a good sign.

   “Attention, all of you,” Moka growled, slamming the butt of her spear into the ground. Silence fell over the camp near instantly. “We’ve come to a decision as to who should take over from Captain Nella. Or, rather, *they*have. Let it be known I do not like or agree with this decision. Take it up with the other lieutenants.”

There was an annoyed sigh from the most universally-disliked lieutenant, an overzealous human paladin by the name of Martus. “That’s enough, Lieutenant Darkjaw. Anyway, after careful consideration we have decided that none of us will be succeeding the captain. Instead, we will be passing the mantle on to our most skilled fighter, who also happened to be a trusted friend of Nella’s. From hereon out, you will be taking your orders from Captain Greyhart.”

Predictably, there was a small commotion that followed the announcement. A stunned Yreine got to her feet, blinking in surprise. “What? Do I not have any choice in this matter?”

Lieutenant Martus shook his head. “No, my lady. We need a leader. What you lack in experience is more than made up for in power. We feel the troops would listen to you over us.”

Yreine was still unhappy. “I am not with the Argent Crusade-- I am a mage of the Kirin Tor! If you believe my allegiances will change because we share a common enemy, you are a fool.”

Moka barked a humourless laugh at that, and she nodded to Yreine. “See? What did I tell you? Nella would have known she wouldn’t do it. You’re all idiots.”

Martus ignored her, and glared at Yreine. “Its simple, mage. Either you take this responsibility, or you will be remembered forever as the deserter who put her interests over that of the world itself. What is your choice?”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Yreine thought this over. Quentin felt terribly sorry for her-- what an awful thing for the lieutenants to spring on her! He never liked Martus, and now had even more reason to dislike the man. He wanted to comfort Yreine, but with every eye in the camp firmly on her, he felt it might not be appreciated.

So he stayed quiet with the rest while Yreine frowned in thought. After what seemed like an eternity, she sighed, squared her shoulders, and fixed Martus with the iciest stare Quentin had ever seen. “Fine. I’ll do it. And my first action as Captain will be to relieve you of your duties. New trenches need to be dug for the soldiers’ waste, and I think you’ll be *perfect*for the job.”

Martus purpled, and Moka laughed again. She gave him a hard shove in the back. “Go on, then! Do as *Captain Greyhart* says!”

Laughter and cheers erupted from the camp as Martus was escorted to his new duties, with many soldiers rising to their feet to clap Yreine on the shoulder and congratulate her for her decision. She was smiling now, and humbly accepting the kind words from her new subordinates. Quentin found himself smiling too-- perhaps she would be good at this after all.