Kings: Journey to Stormwind

((Click for part 1 - Revelations.))


“Sir Knight,

I must ask you to forgive me for this unsolicited communiqué. Having but recently arrived in Elwynn Forest from the provinces, and having learned all that my tutors could teach me, I now find myself in need of greater guidance. Quiet whispers had reached me even in my remote abbey of your Order, of its adherence to the precepts of the Light and the edification of those still marred by Shadow.

My skill with a mace is not trivial and I am well-versed in the use of those spells and judgements commonly used in combat. To this end, I would petition for entry into your Order in the hope that I might greater serve the Light. Your indulgence in this matter would be appreciated.

I remain, Sir, humbly yours,

Anselma Penhaligan”

Anselma’s brow furrowed in concentration as she signed her name with an elegant flourish. The racket from the Goldshire tavern’s downstairs common room was appalling, a din of hawkers and drunkards and, no doubt, women of questionable repute. A short letter which might have taken her no longer than an hour in the solitude of her abbey had taken twice that and to make matters worse, there was a nasty blot at the end of the first paragraph. Still, the innkeeper had gawked at her enough when she requested parchment, quill and ink that she did not dare go back downstairs to ask for a fresh sheet. It would have to do. Sprinkling sand over the page to dry the ink, she folded it neatly and sealed it with a signet ring engraved with a simple shield motif. A poor sigil, but if word were to reach her father that she was using Penhaligan’s Boar on her documents… no, better she adopt her own than risk his ire. After fanning the thick blue wax dry, she carefully wrote a name and address on the outside of the parchment – “Lord-Militant Macloren, Stormwind” – and set it to one side.

Ensuring that the door remained securely locked, she moved away from the comforting warmth of the fire and knelt upon the wooden floorboards. Father Anholt had drummed into her the value of quiet contemplation to the Light, and it was this soothing meditation which she began rather than a formulaic prayer. Doubts racked her: she needed to find peace before her journey to Stormwind. Assuredly she could learn no more from what had become her home on the eastern shore, an abbey so small it had no formal name, barely more than a church. It had shaped her; the theology books in the small library, the thrice-daily prayers and the gentle wisdom of venerable Anholt, a country pastor loved by his flock. Physically, too, she had changed greatly in her seven years of self-imposed exile. The labour in the gardens and kitchens had given her back and arms strength, and Perryn, the gnarled old warrior who provided the monks with a measure of security, had taken that raw strength and tutored her endlessly with every weapon he could wield with his one hand.

She had not wanted to leave. Akin to a grand-daughter to the elderly monks, her youthful strength had much enriched the gardens and crumbling chapel. Local farmers had entreated her help with petty thieves and encroaching murlocs; well-liked, she was “the lass from the abbey”, and truly felt herself to be atoning for her past sins. But when Anholt had called her into his study one day and handed her a thin envelope addressed to Stormwind, she had known that she was the only person who could make the long journey alone.

Anselma stood from the grimy tavern floor and stretched with a sigh. Unable to focus on her meditations to the Light, she pulled a rickety chair up to the fire and broodingly curled her feet up on the seat. Tomorrow she would deliver the letter personally, as Anholt had asked. It was a simple request; in his bluff country way, the pastor was petitioning a priest with whom he had trained for new initiates. Without young blood, the abbey’s inhabitants would pass away one by one, leaving a husk of a church and an empty dormitory wing surrounded by overgrown vegetable gardens. It was, he had written, only a humble place, but he hoped that the messenger would testify to the sincerity of their worship and encourage young priests to enrich their spiritual life under his care.

“I will be back by spring, Father,” Anselma had told the pastor.

“Child, you are to stay in Stormwind,” he had replied bluntly, and his young charge’s face had fallen.

“You’re sending me away?”

Anholt had wrapped his gnarled old hands around Anselma’s for a moment as she fought the tears which threatened to fall.

“You have far outgrown us, my dear. Perryn fears that one day you will end him with a well-timed sword blow and besides, you are quite wearing out my library with your endless re-reading.” He smiled at her. “Stormwind has many fine militant chapters, and you are a talented young woman. Make your way to the city and deliver my letter, then seek out the Lord-Militant of the Order of Illumination. I am confident that they will allow you to join their ranks.”

“I will deliver your letter, Father, but I will come back here straight away. The west dormitory wall needs repairing again soon, and brother Joshua could never manage the garden alone.”

Anholt’s face hardened for a moment and released her hand from his grasp.

“Anselma, as your confessor and pastor I am giving you an order. You will not live out your youth in the company of old men and bickering farmers. Retire, pack your bags and curry your horse. You must be fresh to leave tomorrow before the weather turns for the worst.”

The study was silent for a time, the young paladin understanding why she was to leave so soon but hating her pastor for forcing her hand. She stood helplessly with the letter clutched in her left hand, avoiding Anholt’s gaze as he stood with the weak autumn sunlight illuminating him from behind. She could not disobey, and his wording left no room for loopholes.

“I must follow your guidance, Father Anholt,” Anselma said quietly, but her wise old teacher felt the steel core of rebellion in her which training had never managed to entirely suppress.

“If I see that overgrown horse of yours near my abbey come the spring, Anselma, I shall have Perryn throw you out. After you deal with the vegetable garden.” The very idea of the crotchety old warrior escorting her off the abbey grounds made Anselma laugh despite herself.

“I will go, but I intend to return one way or another,” she declared with the spirit and rashness of the young. “If I come back wearing a militant’s tabard, so be it, but this is my home and you will see me again.”

That conversation had taken place over a month ago, and stubborn Anselma, who had not yet seen the imposing beauty of Stormwind, was still entirely convinced that nowhere could be as much home to her as Anholt’s abbey. She said a short prayer as she climbed into bed, saddle-sore and homesick. Putting her head under the scratchy woollen pillow to block out the sounds from downstairs, she fell into a restless sleep.

--

The next day dawned cold but clear. Paying the innkeeper what seemed like an exorbitant sum for her room and a little more to courier her carefully-composed letter to the Lord-Militant, Anselma breakfasted on stale bread and yesterday’s cold meat with little enthusiasm. In the stables, Brock was pleased to see her, whinnying and shying away from the gap-toothed stable hand that had inexpertly curried and saddled him. She winced as she pulled herself into the saddle; a month’s hard travel had still not accustomed her to riding every day.

“Which road to Stormwind?” Anselma asked a dwarf with bloodshot eyes and a wineskin clutched in one hand, leaning out of her saddle to be closer to his height. He laughed alcohol fumes in her face and pointed north-west.

“New to the area, are ye? Or just blind?”

Squinting through the trees in the direction the dwarf indicated, Anselma flushed as she realised that the city was visible in the middle distance, an indistinct grey smudge on the ice-blue morning sky. She spurred Brock gently along the wooded path for the better part of an hour, over-taking vendors, craftspeople and farm folk on foot who looked up at her second-hand armour and carthorse with impassive stares. A child’s excited exclamation made her turn her head back towards Goldshire. An imposingly-armoured man astride a warhorse was carefully making his way through the pedestrians and Anselma’s gaze was instantly drawn to the tabard across his plate-clad chest. A gold cross on azure; exactly what Anholt had described to her. Reining in Brock a little, she let the warhorse draw level before clearing her throat and saying as confidently as she could,

“Excuse me, Sir, whose is that sigil you wear?”

The paladin turned his greying head towards her, expression severe under heavy brows.

“This, girl, is the mark of the Order of Illumination, protectors of the Faith and guardians of the Light. And who, pray, are you?”

Oh, very nice. Your righting stile is very in synk with Vaknor and Cartheron's, I like it very much.

i don't think I used the word very enough, in my last post so... very very very very very very very very... ahem...

I'm not only very impressed, I'm also a wee bit jealous. And worried that me and Vak have a fresh contender for our throne of story-crafting.
I've got my eye on you Anslema.....

Macloren wrote:Oh, very nice. Your righting stile is very in synk with Vaknor and Cartheron's, I like it very much.

Cartheron wrote:I'm not only very impressed, I'm also a wee bit jealous. And worried that me and Vak have a fresh contender for our throne of story-crafting.
I've got my eye on you Anslema.....

Thanks guys, keep petting my giant writer's ego and I'm sure we'll be firm friends. Cartheron, you have nothing to worry about. I'll write feverishly for about a week then will have no inspiration for months on end

Thats not good I like your story's. There very good.

I like it a LOT. I just absolutely love your style! It's so much better then mine
Hope to read more soon. *thumbs up*

Really good i was very upset to see the end of the page.
i have a question was the Palidin you encountered Vaknor by any chance?
also are you planning on writing your story in small brackets as you level as it may be a good idea to book mark what sugnificant places you would like us to take you and may be tie us in to your development.

i Love to get screen shots.

Evangelist wrote:Really good i was very upset to see the end of the page.
i have a question was the Palidin you encountered Vaknor by any chance?
also are you planning on writing your story in small brackets as you level as it may be a good idea to book mark what sugnificant places you would like us to take you and may be tie us in to your development.

i Love to get screen shots.

Thanks

The paladin's not-so-secret identity is revealed in the third part of this. This three-part story was really an intro for her, plus incorporated a little RP I did. I haven't yet considered her character development much further but I'll definitely think about locations and events and how they tie into her growth as a character.