Courier to Moorwhelp (RP)

Moon Guard
*Making their way through the city toward the cathedral, the human courier mulled over the lavish silver scroll case in his grasp and who it might be from, and what lie within. The silver surface was raised in places, forming writhing bodies in a chaotic scene that could be described as hell, or war: often one and of the same. No matter their curiosity, the job was simple: deliver the scroll case to the Cathedral and instruct those within that it is for a Dwarf who fashion himself an ArchBishop.*

Details: A package arrives in the early morning hours, when the sun had not yet fully crept above the horizon. The package bares no traps, poisons, curses, and poses no form of danger or spying. Within the silver scroll case is a rolled parchment, bound by a single scrap of aging scarlet cloth. The hand writing is fine, an on point script. The message is brief, though direct.

"What would you wager for a dead Bishop's soul?" The brief letter is unsigned.
To the vile banshee,
Murderer of Our Predecessor, Saint, Martyr, and Archbishop Columban V,
Wretched Hostess of the series of war crimes known as the Dance of the Dead,
And Co-conspirator to the death and mutilation of Bishop Edrane Riddle.

From the Most Eminent and Most Reverend Lord,
Archbishop of the Church of the Holy Light,
His Holiness Johannes Moorwhelp,
Having chosen for Our self the name Alonsus the Second.

May the Light sew eternal curses upon you and your house!

Our attention is, of late, directed towards the nefarious and unprovoked assaults on bishops, who are guardians of the faithful and overseers of the church, by the Forsaken threat. From Southshore's destruction, to the death of Archbishop Columban, to the latest abduction and terrorizing of the Church's faithful, too long have your aggressions against a peaceful church been unnoticed by the powers that be.

Never again.

Your cruel acts have, at long last, gained the attention of society, and for it, a crusade is announced and will be waged against you and all that you stand for in undeath.

Holy leagues and congregations of justice will converge on you.

Both the divine and your dumb luck will turn on you.

The Shadow you preach will skitter away, dispelled by true righteousness.

Your so-called allies will turn their backs on you, unflinching as your soul is liberated to be judged by the Light, for even the worst among the living now know of the acts that you have perpetrated in death.

In our overwhelmingly successful skirmishes against Forsaken infidels in Hillsbrad, we have obtained three of your most nefarious peers, all of which refuse to speak their names:

    A reanimated Stromic noble, dragged down from the Thoradine Wall,
    An exceptionally cowardly necromancer, pulled by his wiry hair from the bowels of Tarren Mill,
    A captain, spared from a company of crossbowmen that responded to our aggression.


In turn for these Forsaken militants, we will accept:
    The soul of Edrane Riddle,
    His sacred remains,
    The sacred remains of Archbishop Columban V.

Perhaps, if you obey these terms, your Dark Lady will reward you for your actions, and the armies of the Light can be stopped from sending you to reside in the same tearful abode to which they sent your progenitor, Arthas.

VENGEANCE IS MINE, SAYS THE LIGHT.
Adra would be one of the few standing in the cathedral at the early hours of the morning, for such is the curse of insomnia. His interest was peaked by a courier coming to the cathedral. He nodded to the man before taking the case and taking it to the Archbishop. He then stood around as the Archbishop would read what was within and write his own reply.

A cruel smirk would overtake the Paladin's features, if just for a moment. It would seem, that along with his own order's problems, destiny was moving swiftly to a conclusion. Well then, it was time to prepare and greet destiny.

He would nod to the Archbishop before sending out his own squires. They would reach the members of his order that were paramount. Highlord Talarman Songsteel, Curate of Souls, Qienna Songsteel. Military Liaison to Stormwind, Johnathan Beredric. The squires would repeat a single message. "The Forsaken have made contact, His Holiness has given his demands."

Once that was done he would turn his attention back to His Holiness. "Something that she has failed to realize is this. The deeper the darkness, the greater the Light will shine. Your flock stands with you, Your Holiness."
Qienna was in the nursery when the squire arrived. She sent him to the kitchen for a treat before reading the message. Once, twice, and then a third. With a smile she screws up the note in her hand, "Mmm, Grandma ought to find out about this." She then goes back to nursing her baby girls. She gazes down at them marvelling at their perfection, her desire to protect them...and those she couldn't protect who had fallen to the Forsaken.

"We'll find you, Mercilla."
Koah sat down comfortably on a rather dry patch of grass and leaned back against the outer walls of the Stromgarde city. With a heavy sigh, he reaches over and pets the oversized kitty that laid next to him. "You know ... " Koah starts as he stares into a bright blue sky. " ... as much as I look forward to serving in this world ... I'm also looking forward to my eternal rest." The cat responded with nothing more than a series of low purrs. "Who knows? Maybe we'll get to enjoy a greater purpose and do greater things while there."

He paused, both in his speech and in his pets. The druid lifted his head to watch him, noting the sad disposition that slowly overtook the young bishop. "But to be denied your destination ... to be prevented your reward because someone else is grumpy ... well that's just not fair. ... Why, if we had not successfully rescued her grace ... she might have suffered the same fate!" He balled a fist and slammed it against the wall behind. "Why? Why do people do this?" He shook the fist in growing rage as he looked over at the druid.

Their eyes met, and at that moment, the bishops anger subsided. His frame softened and a warm smile slowly crept its way across his face. "Don't worry my friend." His hand reached over to scratch the beast behind the ears. "We'll get him back." He leaned back again and returned his gaze to the sky. "We'll definitely get him back."

Nuhwoti just laid his head down, enjoying the attention. His heart went out to the bishop and all that troubled his heart. He didn't respond verbally, but only pondered one thing. What would Ishbaneer have done?
Altrek sat on a bench by the Cathedral Square fountain, watching the hustle and bustle of citizens and recruiting orders. He sat there when he was between jobs mostly due to habit, but also to better find work from the more militaristic groups. He found that working as a bodyguard was less challenging the longer he did it...even for the nobles that claimed to be "important targets" of assassins. He needed to find his way onto a battlefield soon or else...

Opportunity seemed to be knocking, as he heard some whispers among the clergymen of the Cathedral. He would only hear snippets of information, but after some time he pieced it all together. It seems that the Forsaken have once again angered the Church and a crusade might be in the works, even if it is not tied to the couple of orders that have used Crusade in their name.

Altrek chuckled, knowing full well that the Argents will be following along with the Archbishop's orders. He scratched at his chin, wondering if they would desire the services of a former Scarlet....and also how much they were willing to pay for said services. He pulled one of his twin swords from his back and held it in his hands, letting the light reflect off of the surface of the red blade.
Sir Kavid Thorson wasn't one to abandon post; from his time in the Guard, his deployment in Draenor, to his newfound charge to protect and serve the men and women of the Light. The morning was early and usually boring at this hour; serious business and trouble usually rose once the sun had went down in the Cathedral; however the courier's message and its contents spread its grim tidings from the first faces who read it to the last who would learn of its contents.

By time the sun had rose and the first shafts of brilliant light broke over Elwynn and Redridge, Kavid was in full gallop towards Verdun Manor as if riding to beat an approaching storm overhead.

Before long, Sir Miles and Lord Alexander had been summoned and dragged away from prior business in the early morning; Alexander discussing changing trade and mercantile matters with a few tradesmen and merchants who worked closely with the Verdun family, and Sir Miles schooling one of the less honed swordsmen of the Order in proper ripostes to various maiming strikes and stabs, footwork, and how not to allow your body position to give away what you're about to do.

After some discussion, Kavid set back to a quiet area in the study and took out an inkwell, quill, and a long poster parchment and sat for a moment, looking out of the stained glass window in the empty room before seemingly coming back to this world and putting ink to paper. If anyone were around to watch, the careful strokes made evident the seriousness in what was about to be written.

By time he had finished, Kavid went through several fits of stoppage, segments of deep thought and thoughts of what could come sending bursts of writing fits down the quill onto paper. Finally, he strode into the foyer of Verdun Manor and posted the long Call to Arms for all to see. The most alarming thing about the piece if any was the sheer length of the page and the unusual 'neatness' of the swordsman's penmanship.

"Knights of Everstill,

For years our ancestors, brothers, and sisters have met many foes, earned success, and endured the residual pains and hardship of war. No more volatile, cunning, and ruthless foes have met steel with us than the Undead. The history of conflict between mortal men and the damned has been a constant battle for the Alliance, and we have lost much.

It is no secret the recent tragedies we have all suffered at the hand of the recent threat. Bishops have been kidnapped, tortured, and mutilated at the hands of the Undead, as well as other servants of the Light and the Alliance. These unholy beings and vile Forsaken extremists have acted without care, pity, fear, or remorse. I fear the time for peace is coming to a swift and abrupt end.

There was once a time when the Undead feared only one thing; their former masters in the Burning Legion. It was Highlord Alexandros Mograine who first donned a suit of Dark Iron armor made exclusively for him; and whilst donning the full suit, the Highlord looked himself to be a demon from the depths of the Nether. Mograine would wade into a hundred Scourge, Ashbringer held high, and come out on the other side in a cloud of dust and flames - enemies left in ashes beneath his feet; we've all heard the tales. The undead struck an unshakable fear into the hearts of mortal man; it was Mograine who had shown the Undead to fear the Light.

It was not until after his demise that Knights; Paladins and Warriors of Lordaeron, would wear similarly fashioned suits in honor of their fallen hero. The resulting martyrdom is still felt to this very day. When the necropolis of Naxxramas hovered over the Plaguelands threatening doom and damnation to all who were close enough to see it, undeath threatened the tyranny of fear unto mortal men once again.

No doubt if the undead had emotions, the vile creatures inside were swelling with triumph and certainty now that the Fallen Highlord was within their ranks, wielding the blade they once feared. It mattered not, for the Knights and champions of the Light trod into the citadel of the damned and, like their fallen Hero in life, marched into the Undead hordes with the Light in their hearts and once again, taught the Undead to fear the Light.

"Where one did fall, many would rise"

(Continued)
(Cont.)
Once again, a vile spawn of the damned tests our faith and resolve. These conspirators in question are guilty of heinous crimes against humanity; abducting members of the Alliance and setting them to run for their lives in the woods once a year, to hunt, track, and mutilate like game for sport. They have kidnapped, killed, tortured Bishops, and struck down devoted followers of the Light without care of who and what they represent to us all. Southshore, Lordaeron, and Gilneas are all lost to our Alliance by the fetid hand of the Forsaken alone.

This "banshee" and her co-conspirators have shown no care or desire for peace. Their conquest is of mind, soul, and faith; and I fear the worst is yet to come if something is not done soon. No longer will we stand idle. The guilty will be given no quarter, no remorse…there is no pity for the damned of undeath who spit in the face of the Light.

Your orders are to go and prepare yourselves for war, for we will break the very Will of the Forsaken. Like the Dark Iron clad Mograine and his Knights, we will march like Dreadnaughts into their horrors and ranks, leaving dust, flame, and ash in our wake. The Undead will once again tremble at the cry of mortal men, for we in the Light cry Vengeance.


Posting the Call to Arms, Kavid read over it once as if taking it in for the first time; pieces of memory from fleeing his fallen kingdom of Gilneas, and his short refuge in Southshore twisting his face to a stern expression of rage fueled by painful memory. The rage would find use in the coming possibility of battle. He was a Warrior through and through, after all.
As the Squires rushed out the Cathedral doors, Fiona was just walking up the steps carrying documents and other necessities for her duties. One of the young Squires bumped into Fiona, causing her to drop the scrolls and small trinkets. Rushing to pick them up; Fiona and the Squire made their efforts to gather everything up, "why are you in such a rush, my child?" Fiona asked with a curious tone.

The Squire gave a worried and scared look, he knew the situation was going to cause havoc across the realm of the Church and the greater Alliance. Shaking his head and handing her the gathered items, "speak to his Holiness... I have to go!" He rushed off and out of sight before Fiona could say a word.

Fiona struggled to hold all the items as she walked inside and made her way into the transept. Rushing to one of the tables, dropping the items in a swift motion. She smiled and let out an exhausted sigh. "I wonder where his Holiness might be.." she uttered softly.

Wandering around the nave of the Cathedral until the sight of the two were talking, Moorwhelp and Adravessiel. The Knight spoke right as she walked up, "Something that she has failed to realize is this. The deeper the darkness, the greater the Light will shine. Your flock stands with you, Your Holiness." Fiona questioned the small moral speech until his Holiness spoke, "I thank thee, we will exact our righteous justice on that nefarious creature of a woman."

Walking up before Moorwhelp could speak again, Fiona looked at the two men with worried eyes. The poor old Archbishop looked back with just as worried eyes. Lowering her head and nodding, "I'll call the College and others. Sir, tell me the situation, walk with me." Beckoning for the the Knight to follow her.

The Knight and the Prioress spoke as they made haste to the transept of the Cathedral. Fiona stopped in her tracks and whispered, "That forsaken !@#$% of a woman..." She turned around and started the Knight, "I will exact righteous judgement on that nefarious wench myself if it comes to it! I will not let her defile us and our predecessors!" The man smirked but shook his head, "Mother.. please.." he walked up and patted her lightly; "we don't need to lose you as well."

Scoffing as she turned around, rushing to the one of the tables to grabbed runed parchment that would copy onto other pieces and a quill. Writing with haste, not caring if her penmanship was perfect in this situation. Signing her name quickly and then pressing the runed parchment against normal pieces of parchment by the multitude to copy the letter. Once she had the amount she needed, Fiona then began to roll and tie the letters up.

"I hope the Light grants the courier with speed..."

Waving a page over, she gave him the gathered scrolls and ordered him to deliver those items to those and Stormwind with haste. To those not in Stormwind, they would be delivered by a courier.

The letter entailed:
"There is trouble in the Church of the Holy Light. Please return to Stormwind, dire issues with a Bishop and their.. well being of their spirit.. Make haste children of the Light!
- Mother Fiona Vynam"

Those who would be receiving the letters would be
Mother Kateryn Stromheart
Sir Calharon Morgan
Jenieve Garin
Tyragonfal
(insert the rest of the Clergy)
Dame Devilina Pureheart
Bishop Adamant
Bishop Ahensa
Bishop Maeriann
Bishop Melchiz
Bishop Allrick
Bishop Koah
etc.
Karanar Ironblood, Thane of the Ironblood Clan, sat in the heavy midday of the Wetlands, the sounds of construction and the rising of smoke behind her small oaken table as she contemplated, her hands clasped together and folded to rest her chin upon. News traveled fast to her via Hulfrim, her devoted bastard-blooded brother, who was seen the rest of the day praying fervently for the Bishop's soul. "This is not something new," she muttered to herself, "Tis only the ringing of a bell that we have not heard in a long time." Her head turned to the side slowly, looking over the small scores of dwarven kinsmen, male and female alike, attempting to remove fel-tainted layers of soil, rebuild charcoaled corpses of houses, and keep the young ones away from their construction work, and quickly yelled in dwarven for one of them to get her the good parchment.

She paused for a moment, thinking hard with a furrowed brow on the right words to use, the ones that came to mind were the words of a warrior and warmaiden, not a Thane's. She paused for a moment, creating two lines, one in Dwarven, and another in Common, each holding a different message

"To the Clergy of the Holy Light and those who would take up arms against this enemy of life, I offer what condolence I can give for the supposed death of your Bishop, and offer the most bitter of curses to his murderers. There are no words that I can offer that will rectify this situation, but I hope with fervent anticipation that the news of her death will reach the Senate's Hall soon."

The woman put down her quill for a moment, letting out a breath as she finished the Common scrip, -now- she could speak her mind, preparing a letter to be delivered first to the Council of Bishops, then to the Banshee.

"To the coward and crawling pieces of rotten flesh who would attack a man of cloth, and keep his soul like some toy to be placed upon a shelf: there is no protection, no sanctimonious guardian, no all-encompassing treaty, that will save you from the hell you have brought upon yourself. You have acted with dishonor, and have crawled like a snake through the grass, Loken taking your vessel and speaking with his tongue, such sweet words that make me envious of the man who severs your soul from your mortal coil. I do not follow the Light, so I take a great amount of comfort in knowing that you will burn for every action you take against the Titan's intended course, in your rotting prison where you wait for the soldiers of the Alliance to escort you to your eternal execution.

Thane Karanar Ironblood."
The Cathedral grounds were unbearably humid with summer heat, the grass and flowers still damp with a hot flash of rain that had struck the day before and left nothing but haze and boiling sun to paint the area around them. The bishop sat leaned back on a bench, her head rocked back and her arms thrown back over a banister in the heat. She wore neither her typical bishop's white or her darker fighting colors, but instead a black vest, shirt, and pants for the sake of mourning one of her fallen brothers- Bishop Edrane Riddle, taken, decapitated, and defiled by the Forsaken. Even with the anger of that boiling just beneath her skin, the jet color did much to affect her mood. It was SEARING, and the heat only irritated her and inflamed her impatience further. Two weeks was too long. Two years had already been too long to sit and wait, hoping that one day the people of Stormwind would see that the atrocities committed northward were more then just frightening rumors spread by warmongers. Just two more weeks now, she thought, sneering up at the brilliant sun as her foot tapped incessantly, just two more weeks.

The courier arrived to her out of breath and she dropped her head to stare at him with an enraged eye, eventually leaning forward and taking the letters from his hands as he knelt over with his hands on his knees. She read the first with no small amount of satisfaction crossing her lips, grin stretching from ear to ear as she set it aside. She wiped her brow with the back of a long sleeve, shaking her head to dispel at least a bit of the heat as she read the second, her grin turning to a disbelieving smirk.

“And these are related?”

“Pah, ha, ha, likely, ma'am...”

Ahensa nodded, folding them both together and pushing them into a pocket as she stood up and brushed off her clothes, black already speckled with bits of dirt, hair, and crumb.

“Sit down, catch your breath. No need to pass out on my behalf.”

The courier nodded in rapid thanks and collapsed into the bench, his breath slowing as the bishop took her leave, folding over and rolling up her sleeves to the wrist as she tugged her gloves away. I suppose two weeks IS a bit too much time... The smile she wore was wide, flashing teeth as she stomped her way for the cathedral. New sermons to write, new weapons to sharpen, new prayers to give, all crossed through her mind as she crossed the threshold into the massive church, rolling her shoulder.

It had been a long time coming, after all.

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