Silent Threat, The

The fire crackled and popped hungrily in the room as the man sat quietly in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting squarely on each of his knees. His dark, tanned skin proved an interesting canvas for the flickering lights, which in turn cast irregular shadows about the small room that he called his home.

He was clearly tall, even though he was sitting. Not tremendously tall like some other humans, but tall enough to look threatening. His shirtless body forwarded this assumption, as his lean yet muscular features gave credence to the belief that he had the ability to very quickly dispatch an enemy. However, he was not bulky or unwieldy like some other men, who clearly were larger and more powerful. He had certain elegance to his physique.

A silent threat.

Various slashes, scars, and holes marked his chest, clearly symbols of previous struggles, or worse. Yet, upon looking at his face, it was clear the man was not tremendously old. At the very least, he was in his early thirties, though a better assumption would place him before the age of thirty. Nevertheless, silver hair cascaded beyond his broad shoulders and dangled over the corners of his shoulders. This was a rare sight, indeed, as the man generally left his hair tied in a ponytail.

The fire flickered off of his eyes, perhaps his most powerful weapon. An all encompassing neutrality and overwhelming stoicism that served as his face. With his jaw set firmly in his face, his eyes forward, and his breathing regulated, the man simply stared into the fire. If inspected closely, his left eye twitched just barely.

Just barely.

The man’s name was Glendale Debonaire. His last name was an ironic juxtaposition to his true nature. This man was neither suave nor affable. He was not genteel or charming. Debonaire was something far different. Something far worse.

Debonaire lived in a world where everything, from the human on the street, Orc across the Maelstrom, to the rabbit peacefully hopping through Elwynn, served as a grave and dangerous threat to the very existence of life. These threats came, predominantly, unwittingly from these hosts, who had the potential to carry Debonaire’s greatest enemy and greatest fear.

Plague.

He lived by a very simple, if not somewhat barbaric, code of ethics. Kill it first, then figure out if it was truly the threat. This twisted and dangerous philosophy was bolstered and spurred forward by an even worse truism: if they believe in the Light, there would be intervention on their part before their death.

This created a horrid circle of violence, resulting in every death of every thing that Sir Debonaire encountered, and it simply served to fuel the fire that burned in his own heart. Because, essentially, everything that Glendale Debonaire has ever questioned has died, which means in his mind, he has never been wrong and has succeeded in destroying many nonbelievers.

Since clearly, the Light would have saved them and shown him otherwise.

Mothers, children, animals, and even plant matter all fell to Debonaire’s inquisitive mind. He’s done a tremendous service to them all. He released them from the plague and sent them on their way to the great beyond. Even amidst their screams of pity and attempts to stop him, he knew their souls were yearning for release.

The blind devotion to his cause and the certainty of his charge made his resulting line of work, nay, his entire life, clear. He was the perfect Scarlet Crusader.

At least, insofar as the Crusade required of a man when force prevailed over reason.

His life before the creation of the Crusade was little more than a distant memory, but he was there at its inception, young and not as well forged, but he was there. Through the power struggles and the solidification of doctrine, he was there.

He remained passive as he stared at the fire, but it was clear he was thinking. Upon closer inspection of the surroundings, a large shovel with a razor sharp spade and a bronze, custom made handle sat next to the fire, presumably a weapon. Behind him, there was a small bed, and there was movement, but in the murk of the surroundings one could only guess what was moving.

The man was not simply some heavy for the Crusade, however. His displaced emotion and burning hatred for plague proved to have great uses. Training diligently in the arts of “extraction,” as he called it, Debonaire was not simply at home on the battlefield, but in the closed arena with just himself and another, meticulously drawing out confessions, names, and especially pain.

The slight upward curve of the corner of his mouth, this would be the closest thing to a smile most would see. The fact was he enjoyed the pain he slowly and carefully inflicted upon his enemies. It was a spiritual epiphany for the man. Each and every time he did it.

Debonaire, however, found himself very far from his native Lordaeron. For a long time now, he had been ordered to travel abroad. To look for Scourge in the most unlikely places, and to eradicate plague wherever he deemed suitable. He had been given authority by his superiors to make these unilateral decisions. He had been given the right through his devotion to the Holy Light.

It all goes back to the fact that if it was a mistake; the Light would save whoever he was wronging.

After his long and perilous isolation from his brothers, however, Debonaire came upon a likely ally in the most unlikely of places. In the streets of Stormwind City, he came upon a fellow Crusader. Nay, not just a simply Crusader, but a Commander ordained by the High Inquisitor himself! The blasphemous words of outsiders had permeated into the hearts of common folk and weakened the popularity of his Order, and this force had been sent to clear the taint on their name unwittingly perpetrated by those very outsiders. With the authority of the Inquisitor, a Scarlet Battalion had been sent to the City, with the ability to enlist any Crusader into their midst.

Glendale Debonaire, the cold, cynical, and otherwise passive man in the public eye, was only too quick to join the cause.

The resulting day culminated in a battle with one of his own, a woman known as Bronzehawk. Impudent and idealistic, two traits rather unbecoming in this man’s eyes, she haughtily had proclaimed that she had more respect for a powerful warrior, as opposed to a man who had ironclad faith in his cause.

“Blasphemy… heresy…”

Unfortunately for the woman, Debonaire had both, and he was more than willing to teach her to respect him. The resulting scuffle culminated in bloodshed and roars of pain from both combatants, but they both got their point across. Bronzehawk was stubborn enough to keep up against the Extractor, and the Extractor was able to show her his mastery of his shovel… and his faith.

This event, however, had brought Debonaire to where we see him this evening, sitting in front of the fire, naked from the waist up, and reflecting on his eventful afternoon. He had been careless in his battle with the girl, and she had garnered some strikes where he should not have allowed. His leg, for one, had been slashed and his arm, from a freak fireball, had been burned. The Light had healed the physical wounds but not the emotional.

His carelessness could have cost him dearly. It could have been attributed to the one philosophical element in his psyche he had never counted on: If two Scarlet’s fight, and both are ordained by the Light… who would win? If the Light protects all who it blesses, what would happen? And if it was he who lost, that would mean the Light did not protect him. Which, naturally, meant he would have to die.

It was not death, which rattled Debonaire; it was lack of the Light’s blessing.

They were simple metal bands that were malleable enough to wrap around one’s arm, but strong enough not to break if put under pressure. Holes of various shapes and sizes lined the center area of the two bands that he held. Exposing each bicep in turn, Debonaire slowly wrapped the metal bands around his arms and clasped them so they dug into his skin.

“The Light eradicates my enemies…”

Reaching to his tiny toolbox, he produced two wicked looking screws; each threaded end was finished to a point. A tip. With slow precision, Debonaire pressed a tip through the opening in a band and turned, slowly, so that it dug into his bicep, into his very muscle, and sunk into his flesh.

Painfully slow he turned, each rotation with marked precision, as blood as crimson as his namesake rolled down his arm to his elbow. He twisted until the screw was firmly imbedded in his arm, and then turned to the other arm to repeat the disgusting ritual.

“The Light… shows me those who… are blind…”

This was a simple and effective way to remind the man of his weaknesses. To remind him of his shortcomings. Every movement would be painful, and his blood would flow for a long, painful time.

There was movement in the bed behind him once more. After twisting the screw securely into his other arm, he looked over his shoulder to simply see a torrent of forest green hair cascading out from beneath the covers. He stared, still impassive though there was a fire in his eyes, and then turned back to the flames. Blood dripped off his elbows to the floor, or it rolled down his knees as he relaxed again and stared at the fire.

The man of so few words would continue to sit and stare at the fire for a good hour longer, before finally retiring and going to bed. His dreams would be that of torture, of bodies, and of justice. Of the Light showing through its piercing elegance the justice of his Order.

Yes, the day had been interesting. He had been more social in one day than in the last few months. But he did learn one thing, being amongst the population and hearing the popular sentiment regarding his Order:

Many individuals could be members of the Scourge. Their blasphemous talk a clear affront to the Holy Light. This, in turn, only meant one thing:

He had a lot of work to do.

and