Wren was part of a small dungeon questing group made up of some of my closest friends from World of Warcraft. This group gave me the ability to both learn the art of tanking as well as hone my writing skills. The Silver Cord serves as the lead-up to the group's exploits in the Plaguelands.
“It is simply out of the question, Miss, uh….” The clerk pushed his wireframe glasses further up his pointed nose and held the crumpled and folded parchment at arm’s length. “Miss Montrose. The army of His Majesty and the Royal Guard of Stormwind is populated only by graduates of the Lion’s Head Military Academy. Only the finest warriors will do.”
“The Academy won’t take me!” Lauren protested. “They say I’m too old. I’m nineteen! How is that too old?”
“Well, as I said, only the finest soldiers will do.” The clerk slid the application back across the counter. “Perhaps you should ask the marshals in Goldshire or Lakeshire, someplace more appropriate for a… warrior… of your caliber. Next.” The man looked to the recruit standing behind Wren, a hulking mass of a boy with just the right kind of blank look in his eyes.
Lauren slammed her fist on the wooden desk. “Do I look like—“
“Next!” The clerk yelled loudly enough to be heard on the street and nudged the parchment again toward the girl with a limp and dismissive backhand gesture.
Wren snatched the form, crumpled it into a wad and threw it in the man’s face before storming back out onto the street. Grinding her teeth, she put on her bracers and gauntlets, intent on heading back into the Stockade for the first time in months. It was a gesture partly to prove her worth to the prison warden, but mostly to vent her aggression on whatever unfortunate soul happened to step out of line near her.
“Never swung a sword in his life.”
The blonde girl’s ponytail whipped around like a flail as she faced the unseen voice. “What did you just say?”
“Crabapple.” The stranger gestured back toward the recruiting office with his thumb. He was not an old man, but neither was he young. He spoke in measured tones as he took a few steady and precise steps toward Lauren. “Never swung a sword in his life. Quite the disappointment to his mother, really. She expected so much more.” He shrugged and paused. “Now you, on the other hand. You are very different.”
Wren laid the palm of her right hand on the pommel of her sword. “Who are you?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“We need gifted warriors like you, Miss Montrose.” Reverentially the stranger laid two fingers on the insignia pinned to the lapel of his cloak, a silver emblem with an icon of the rising sun inlaid in mithril. “We bring the Light to the darkest corners of the world.”
The young girl could not take her eyes off the insignia pinned to the man’s chest. It was hypnotically beautiful, and not just from the point of view of a skilled jeweler. When she looked at it her heart fluttered. She had to blink her eyes several times to keep them focused.
“Fly to Southshore,” the man commanded, jarring Lauren back into consciousness. “Ride north into the mountains of Alterac, through fallen Strahnbrad and beyond. When a chill settles into your bones, you have found my family. Augusta Pureheart is expecting you.” Without another word the man crisply turned his back and walked toward the heart of the city.
“Who are you?!” Wren insisted.
“We are the Light that rises in the east,” he called back without turning. “We are the Dawn.”
writing/the silver cord.txt · Last modified: September 3, 2011 by Dave Leach