Making of a Paladin, The

Sometime during the Second War...

The sun hung low in the sky as the wind’s caress wound its way though the trees’ many-fingered needles, whispering the promise of a hushed lullaby. As the late afternoon light began to fade, a grayish sheen settled over the forest, that which commonly gave it the name of Silverpine.

Four pairs of metal-plated booted feet broke into the small clearing, the vaguely pinkish skylight illuminating two scowling faces, one complacent, and one thoughtful. That thoughtful man, a human perhaps two score years past his prime, and obviously the leader of the party, held up a heavily gauntleted hand, and though the words he muttered gave the impression of doubt, the tone of his voice suggested mere observation. “Since we saw no sign of orcish destruction on the way, I suppose that our contact is late. We will simply wait here until he arrives.”

Growling under his breath, another turned his face to the trees. “Six years ago nobody ever heard of those greenskins, and now they are everywhere. If Lordaeron falls…”

“Let us concentrate on the task at hand, shall we, and leave Lordaeron and Quel’thalas to the rest of the Alliance to defend?” the leader replied. “Light willing, we will extract our brother from the orcs’ clutches and be safely back to Stormwind to regroup in no time.”

At this, one of the others grunted and proceeded to sit upon a nearby fallen log, where he produced a fine soft cloth from his pack and began to lovingly polish the huge ornate hammer that had hung across his back. He was met with three cautioning glares when he began to hum off-key, and then calmly smirked, cutting the tune off short and continuing his work.

Satisfied, the three turned back to speak with each other, and were met with an extraordinary sight where just moments before there had been nothing but dry pine needles on the hard ground.

A Quel’dorei warrior stood before them in full battle armor, a rather hefty polearm balanced easily between two hands, though in a defensive position.

The hammer-polisher regarded the elf intently, a rather loud appreciative whistle escaping from his lips.

“You must forgive Sir Nerolion,” greyhair said with a sigh, “none of us has seen an elf warrior before, and--"

“Yes, yes, you are quite magnificent!” gasped one who was undoubtedly the youngest member of the party. The youth then caught an admonishing glance from his betters, and his eyes went to his boots, his thick black hair falling forward to cover his rapidly reddening cheeks.

And magnificent she was. Coming head to head with the tallest knight present, her slim yet muscular form was encased from chin to toe in a gleaming golden plate armor so finely worked that the green vines enameled upon it seemed to grow and entwine as she moved. Upon her brow was a broad circlet that served as a magical helm, her strawberry blonde hair piled up neatly on top of her head. Grey-blue eyes peered cautiously from a tanned face that suggested much time out in the sun.

The rather cold, even voice of the last man broke in. “So, a female elf warrior,” he snorted. “Silvermoon sent the recently-formed Knights of the Silver Hand a… rather young, if I’m not mistaken… female warrior to help us gather one of our captured from the orcs. They obviously have a very high opinion of us,” he finished with a sneer.

Stepping forward to bow to the elf, the elder lifted one bushy grey eyebrow ever so slightly in warning at his sarcastic knight. “See..noo, ah… a’mannaray,” he haltingly uttered, completely destroying the Thalassian greeting. “Welcome. We are grateful for your assistance. I am Octanus the Wise; may I introduce the rest of the party?”

A rather diplomatic smile crossed the elf’s full lips. “I am Iastine Emberdawn. And though I am…young, for a Quel’dorei, know that I have served the Quel’thalas infantry for over a century. I come from a family of warriors and rangers.” At this she cast a glance at the offending man, who met her eyes unwaveringly.

Her gaze moving to meet each man’s in turn, she continued evenly. “I have spent much time in these forests and in the forests north and east of here. I know exactly where your man is being held, and I know exactly how to retrieve him. The Light shall guide us and keep him safe until our arrival.”

Octanus smiled and nodded. “Well said, my lady.” He gestured to the man to his right. “The one who doubts you is Gilomer the Taciturn. Obviously we are accustomed to his view on matters… when he does speak, of course.”

Gilomer smirked once again and executed a perfectly stiff bow. He was a young man, perhaps just past his thirtieth year, but the lines etched upon his brow and cheeks gave him the appearance of one much older. His longish auburn hair was scraped severely back into a tail at the nape of his neck, which did little to soften the sharpness of his high cheekbones. He was not thin by any means, but still, the angularity of his body and features gave him a rather gaunt expression.

“The one there admiring his weapon is Nerolion Duskhammer,” Octanus continued. “Most of us believe he is half dwarven, but he insists otherwise.”

“Bloody hell!” Nerolion looked up with a furrowed brow. “This again? Do I look stumpy to you? Bah.” Blond strawlike hair covered this man’s head, and was cropped close but unevenly, giving the appearance of a haystack. He was certainly not stumpy, but his profile was rough and craggy, and he did seem to have quite a fascination with the hammer. Said weapon was very large in comparison to its owner, and was made of a dark, almost black metal, decorated with bronze scrollwork. It appeared quite old, and Iastine guessed that it was one that had been handed down through his family line.

Turning to the young man who had wisely kept his silence since his breathless outburst towards the lady elf, Octanus bestowed a fatherly smile upon the youth. “My own squire until he was knighted very recently, this is Edres Beloron. We call him “the Young” for lack of anything else, though he isn’t quite as young as he appears.”

Edres nodded and bowed smoothly to Iastine, but with a small quirk at his lips that showed he was ill at ease. Of average height and built like a warrior, Edres had a shock of black hair that stayed out of his face seemingly only by magic. With a straight nose and full mouth, his eyes were a bit small, Iastine thought, but their bright blue somehow made up for it. She found him quite pleasant to look at for a human, though she hoped that her smile to him did not say so.

The elf cleared her throat. “There is a hidden cave about an hour’s march northwest of here, and I suggest that we go there and camp for the night. It is not the usual route and we will be overlooked if there are any orc scouts in the area.”

Nerolion spit on the ground in front of him. “March at night, lass? You think they won’t see us with torches?”

Iastine looked to Octanus, who nodded curtly. “There will be no torches. I can see perfectly well in the dark, so… I would say that you humans should practice your following skills, yes?” Her last words were little more than a groan. “And I understand that you are grown men covered in metal, but do try to be quiet, will you?”

“I hope your ideas get better as we get closer to the orcs, girl,” Gilomer retorted.

Glancing at Octanus, Iastine bowed her head and then apologetically looked to them all. “Listen, neither of us has any experience with the other’s way of doing things. I propose that we try to learn from each other as we go along as best we can. I chose to meet at this spot because I knew we needed time to acclimate to one another before setting foot in an orc camp. Is that acceptable?”

There were rumblings of grudging acceptance, and Octanus laid a hand gently upon Iastine’s shoulder as she turned to head out into the trees. His eyes were filled with support and trust, and beside him, Edres smiled at her a quiet curiosity.