37 Varian Wrynn_Blood of Our Fathers - E. Daniel Arey.pdf - Warcraft Lore - serek.serek

The Blood of Our Fathers – E. Daniel Arey

BLIZZARD ENTERTAINMENT

Varian Wrynn:

The Blood of Our Fathers

E. Daniel Arey

The Blood of Our Fathers – E. Daniel Arey

Something had awakened King Varian Wrynn from a deep sleep. As he stood motionless in

the gloom, the faint patter of a distant dripping sound echoed off the walls of Stormwind Keep. A

feeling of dread washed over him, for it was a sound he'd heard before.

Varian moved cautiously to the door and pressed his ear against the burnished oak.

Nothing. No movement. No footfalls. Then, as if from far away, the dull and muffled hum of a

crowd cheering from somewhere outside the castle. Did I oversleep today's ceremonies?

Again the strange dripping sound came, this time echoing off the icy floor, distinct and wet.

Varian slowly opened the door and peered out into the hall. The corridor beyond was dark and

quiet. Even the torches seemed to flicker with a cold light that died as quickly as it was born. For a

man who allowed himself few emotions, Varian felt something stir inside himself now—something

old, or young, or perhaps long forgotten. It was almost like a feeling of childlike… fear?

He shook off the notion immediately. He was Lo'Gosh, the Ghost Wolf. The gladiator

warrior who struck fear in the hearts of his enemies and friends alike. Still, he could not shake the

primal feeling of unease and danger that now pervaded his body.

Stepping out into the hall, Varian noticed his guards were not at their usual stations. Is

everyone preoccupied with Remembrance Day? Or is this something more sinister?

He crept carefully down the dim hall, entering the large and familiar throne room of

Stormwind Keep, but now its towering walls seemed different—larger, more shadowed, and

empty. From the distant stone ceiling, tarps hung like garish cobwebs, emblazoned with the

golden face of a lion—the emblem denoting the pride and strength of the great nation of

Stormwind.

In the gloom, Varian heard a muffled cry and then a sudden scuffle. His eyes darted to the

floor, where a trail of blood clearly led to the center of the room. There in the murk, he could

barely make out a frantic struggle between two figures. As his eyes adjusted, he could see one

man on his knees, bloody and wounded, and standing over him was a harsh female shape looming

in the blackness.

Varian knew that shape by heart, its distorted silhouette giving away the twisted nature of

her body and soul. She was Garona Halforcen, part draenei, part orc—the assassin bred by the

twisted mind of Gul'dan.

As Varian stood in stunned disbelief, fresh blood oozed along the edge of the half-orc's

blade, reaching the razor-sharp point, then dripping… falling… until it erupted in a rose petal of

crimson on the marble floor. Memory rushed over Varian in a flood of recognition. The armor. The

regal clothing. The man on the floor was his father, King Llane!

Garona looked at Varian with a hideous, tear-streaked smirk, then swiftly stabbed

downward with her blade, the flash of steel cutting through the dark and burying itself deep into

the kneeling king's chest.

"No!" Varian screamed, lurching forward, clawing across the blood-soaked floor to reach

his father. He grabbed the king's wilted body and held it close as the half-orc's face slowly faded

into the dark.

"Father," Varian pleaded, rocking him in his arms.

Llane's mouth twitched up at him in pain, then parted with a stream of fresh blood. With a

putrid hiss of air, the old king managed to form a few brittle words. "This is how it always ends…

with Wrynn kings."

With that, Llane's eyes rolled back and his jaws gaped open into a hideous expression.

The Blood of Our Fathers – E. Daniel Arey

From deep within his throat, a chitinous vibration arose. Varian wanted to tear his eyes away, but

found he could not. In the shadow of his father's yawning mouth, something moved, shimmering

and wiggling up into the fading twilight.

Suddenly, maggots erupted from the dead king's maw—thousands upon thousands of

writhing worms obliterated Llane's ashen face. Varian tried to pull away, but the maggots washed

over him as well, chittering and consuming his body as he let out one final scream of agony.

***

Varian bolted upright in his chair, a terrible scream still fading in his ears. He found himself

sitting at his map table in the private upper chambers of Stormwind Keep. Warm sunlight

streamed into the room along with the roar of a cheering crowd from high windows. The

Remembrance Day celebrations are under way.

In his hands, he held a tarnished silver locket, its keyed hinge securely fastened. Varian

instinctively tried to open the trinket, as he had a thousand times before, but found it locked as

always.

The door burst open, and the high commander of Stormwind Defense rushed in. General

Marcus Jonathan's face was a mask of alarm. "Is something wrong, Your Highness? We heard a

scream."

Varian quickly put the locket away and stood up. "Everything is fine, Marcus." The king

tried to straighten his armor and brush a clump of dark hair away from weary eyes. His fingers felt

the deep lines of worry and lack of sleep over the last few months—a blur of weeks spent

responding to the many emergencies in the aftermath of the dragon Deathwing's sudden attack

on the city and the world.

Both he and the general were in full dress splendor for the holiday, and General Jonathan,

with his tall frame and sharp features, looked the part better than most.

"The Honor Ceremony will be in three hours, Your Highness," Jonathan offered. "Is your

speech ready?"

Varian looked to the blank parchment on the map table. "I am still working on it,

Jonathan." And I can't seem to find the right words.

The high commander studied him, and Varian sought to quickly change the subject. "Has

my son arrived yet?"

General Jonathan shook his head. "No one has seen Prince Anduin, Your Highness."

Varian tried to hide his disappointment by looking out the keep's windows to the courtyard

below. It was a sea of people, with flags and streamers waving in the air, children dressed as their

favorite heroes of old, and food and mead flowing with laughter. Remembrance Day was part

memorial, part celebration, yet Varian himself could never find mirth in this event.

As he watched, the throng slowly moved toward the Valley of Heroes, heading for the

statues of the great champions of humanity that lined the entrance to Stormwind City. The stage

for the Honor Ceremony had been set up in the shadow of these impressive leaders, and today

they would be acknowledged with respect and thanks for their great deeds.

Jonathan continued. "When you are ready, sire, the archbishop is waiting outside to brief

The Blood of Our Fathers – E. Daniel Arey

you on the city's repairs and our care for the wounded."

"Yes. Yes, in a moment." Varian waved him off. Jonathan bowed his head and quietly

backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Varian shook the cobwebs from his mind and pulled out the delicate locket again, staring at

the rumpled reflection of himself on its mirrored surface. The world has changed, but I must hold

steady.

Varian glanced up at the portrait of King Llane over the fireplace. Today of all days, the

leader of humanity, the king of Stormwind, the rock of the Alliance, must be at his very best. His

father would expect nothing less.

***

Archbishop Benedictus stood adorned in his finest robes and trinkets, representing the

pride of Stormwind's culture for the great day at hand. Next to him stood a small and grimy man

carrying a large bundle of wrinkled scrolls.

Benedictus looked up eagerly as Varian emerged from his private quarters. "Light bless

you, King Varian." He smiled as Varian descended the stairs.

"And you, Father," Varian said. "You look dressed to meet your maker."

Benedictus waved his staff in a well-rehearsed and solemn gesture. "In such times as these,

we must all stand ready to join the Light at any moment."

At the archbishop's side, the rumpled and nervous-looking fellow fidgeted with his

overloaded bundle of papers and city diagrams. Varian suddenly realized it was Baros Alexston,

the city architect. He was barely recognizable with all the mud covering his face and clothes.

Varian motioned for them to continue following him down the stairs. "How go the city

repairs, Baros?"

"As well as can be expected, Highness." Baros nodded, trying to keep from dropping his

scrolls. Benedictus reached over and patted the architect on the back. "He is being entirely too

modest, Your Majesty. Baros here has pulled off miracles getting much of Stormwind back in

order, even making some notable improvements to the city."

Varian felt a sense of relief. It was good to see some optimism returning to his advisors. "So

what is most pressing?"

The architect nodded and went to nervously unroll one of his many scrolls as he walked,

causing at least three others to slip from his grasp and tumble to the ground.

"My apologies, sire… yes, here it is." Baros pointed to a place on the map, his dirty fingers

leaving earthy smudge marks behind. "We've investigated the damage to the two main towers at

the entrance to the city." He shook his head and blew out with a whistle. "That black dragon must

be even heavier than his massive size would suggest—likely the beast's dark elementium armor.

We've tunneled down, and the damage to the tower foundations is quite severe."

Baros thumbed through more diagrams as he spoke. "The same is true for the east wing of

the keep here… and here, and a few of the larger buildings above the harbor, including what's left

of…" The architect paused, seeming too pained to complete the list.

The Blood of Our Fathers – E. Daniel Arey

Benedictus stepped in. "And of course, what's left of the Old Barracks, and the terrible

crater where the Park once stood. Light bless their souls."

Baros's face saddened behind the smear of mud. "I'm afraid extensive repairs will be

required, and it will not be cheap."

Varian's eyes flashed to the architect, long-buried pains leaping to the surface. He talks of

money? At a time like this? Neither Benedictus nor Baros seemed aware of his reaction, and Varian

hastened his steps down the stairs to quell the knot of anger building in his stomach.

At the next landing, the king stopped to take in some of the damage to his castle. Debris

covered the stairway where a gaping hole in the wall opened up to the sky and city below. As

Varian examined the wreckage, Baros quickly checked his papers.

"We have already requisitioned replacement stones from the quarry for this, Highness."

The architect looked up and recognized his king's growing irritation. He tried to lighten the

moment. "We will have it repaired in no time. Castles are drafty enough without them missing

entire walls, yes?"

Varian ignored him, lost in thought, as he ran his gloved hand along the ragged stones, torn

from the tower as if a huge bite had been taken out of it, which wasn't far from the truth.

Something sharp caught the king's glove. He reached up and pulled on a dagger-shaped

obsidian splinter protruding from the damaged wall. It was a piece of the dragon's elementium

armor—a sliver black as night, almost two hands long, and razor sharp. The shard of armor was

buried deep inside the stone, but with some effort, Varian managed to pry it loose.

He held it out for the men to see. "This vile creature, this… Deathwing… is certainly not the

first menace to threaten Stormwind's walls." His stare burrowed right through the architect's skull.

"We will rebuild and stand firm, as we always have. Whatever the cost. And we will make that

black beast pay the price tenfold!!"

The king gazed through the jagged hole at his damaged city; his plate glove creaked as he

squeezed the dragon's armor in silent rage. Below him, Stormwind's great harbor was a vast forest

of ship masts. The port was full of hulls in every color, shape, and size. Remembrance Day always

brought a host of pilgrims to honor and celebrate humanity's heroes, but this was like nothing

even he had seen before.

As he watched, another ship sailed slowly into the harbor and dropped anchor. It was a

grand kaldorei ship, gleaming with silver filigree and purple, perfumed sails. Varian tucked

Deathwing's armor shard into his belt, then turned to his advisors. "Have they come this year out

of honor for the past, or in fear of the future?"

Benedictus looked past his king to the mass of ships below. "To be sure, many seek shelter

from the dark wyrm's menace, Your Majesty. Some even proclaim this to be a portent of the end

of times."

Varian scoffed. "I would waste little breath, Father, and even less sleep over the insane

musings of a few Twilight's Hammer cultists. Unless you find their blather useful for your fiery

cathedral sermons?" Varian gave the archbishop a wry smile.

"Whatever it takes to get people believing… and doing." Benedictus smiled back. "No

doubt, the people of Stormwind need hope, but they need a plan even more. I trust our king will

give us all something to believe in when you speak at the Honor Ceremony later today."

Varian thought about his Remembrance Day speech: what could he possibly say to salve

the deep wounds this world had suffered?

37 Varian Wrynn_Blood of Our Fathers - E. Daniel Arey.pdf

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