Evening.
It was evening in Wintergarde. The light of day faded through the inn’s great second-story windowed doors, a pleasant orange and red rarely seen this far north. Sigmar studied the glass as it morphed and weakened with the slow passage of time, watched it go dim with each minute, each moment. He thought it a curious end to their expedition. Though he could not see the sunset, he imagined it was a sight to behold after such a breaking endeavor. Was this peaceful end to a bloody war a sign sent by the heavens, by the Light itself? Sigmar wasn’t convinced tales of divine intervention held any currency, but he liked to think it was their small reward for doing their part. At that moment it was a personal gift to him for the tiny role he played. He smiled to himself and leaned back in his chair, arms folded, to look down at his end desk and the contents upon it.
For once, Sigmar wasn’t wearing plate. Only his simple linen shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and brown snow boots. His feet were splayed wide around the desk’s legs in something approaching comfort. On the wooden surface rested an ink bottle, quill, doused candlestick, and a small, leather-bound book. After some time Sigmar yawned and stretched. He fumbled around in a pocket to find his pipe – a thing of dwarven make – and set it between his teeth before packing it with tobacco from a tiny pouch. He struck a match. The tiny flame jumped and writhed as Sigmar held it first to his pipe, then to the candle’s wick.
Firelight danced atop the desk and threw shadows across his tome. His journal. Sigmar puffed and exhaled a wisp of smoke. He opened the journal’s worn parchment and flicked through a number of passages, some only a few scant lines, some several pages. It was his personal account of the last two wars, broken up into simple day-by-day retellings of events. It wasn’t a narrative, and he hadn’t intended it to be when he’d bought the journal upon his arrival in Valgarde during the War against the Scourge. His browsing slowed and he fingered through each page individually, glancing at his written words. Many passages he didn’t remember writing, so mundane were the contents. Some remained vivid in his mind’s eye. When news came down from Icecrown Citadel, news that the traitor prince was dead – that would be forever locked in Sigmar’s memory.
He’d spent nearly another year in Northrend cleaning up after that war, and had only returned to Stormwind a few months ago to find a very different city. But he’d found allies again, people he could now call friends, and together they’d seen through the final days of the world’s latest conflict. The Templars of the Rose had been part of a united offensive that had broken the power of a mad Aspect.
Deathwing, the Destroyer, was dead.
Sigmar coughed around his pipe and thumped his chest. Age was catching up to him. He’d be deathly sore for at least a fortnight, even though he’d certainly not put in the strength that some of the expedition’s more robust members had. It was sheer luck he’d escaped with any lasting injuries. Or, at least, visible injury. Last night he’d developed a cough and chest pains that he couldn’t quite shake, and considered briefly that he smoked too much, but dismissed the thought just as quick. A wheeze or two wasn’t going to keep him from enjoying his tobacco.
He shook his head as he came to the journal’s final pages. They were filled with words of doubt, of fear and foreboding. No one had known what they would encounter when they finally faced the dragon. The day before he had written only a few short sentences, scrawled in thin ink across the top of an otherwise blank page. Sigmar peered at the tiny words.
The twenty-first day of the first month
Today we march. I fear for my safety, for our safety. These men and women with whom I have become fast allies – I do not wish to see them dead. But if we fail, we will be the least of those who perish. I feel this is the only reality that keeps us from faltering in our steps forward. Light be with us all.
Such dread, such terror, packed into so few lines. But now they stood, hardly a day later, victorious in the aftermath of the dragon’s madness. It was cause for celebration, and what a celebration they’d had!
But, Sigmar mused as bluish smoke curled to the rafters, it was also cause for reflection. And so, he picked up his quill between thumb and forefinger, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write.
It is the twenty-second day of the first month of what I believe to be Year 627, according to bygone Azeroth’s reckoning. These recent years have passed in such chaos that I fear I cannot reconcile the modern calendar with the old, and I pray that my father and his fathers before him will forgive me this oversight. I cannot even put my own age to paper, so muddled is my understanding of the calary numbers.
In the early hours of this past morning, let it be written and known that the Destroyer, Deathwing, was felled and cast into the Maelstrom by a coalition of heroes from all walks of life. I had the privilege and honor of fighting alongside these brave warriors, and their actions today should never be forgotten by those that come after. The world is saved from what the Aspects warned would be total destruction, and it is only through the combined efforts of a number of brave orders that our salvation came to pass.
Azeroth has faced such threats before. The Lich King, the Traitor Prince, loomed from his throne for so many long years, but the humanity of his betrayal imbued his executioners with a sense of righteousness, and compelled us all with feelings of vengeance, justice, and destiny. The hazard posed by Deathwing was a different matter entirely, as his madness left Azeroth’s defenders with no righteous motives. Our only drive was our desire to save our loved ones and our friends, to shield our brothers and sisters. Deathwing was much like a mad dog that required the knife, yet on a terrible, frightening scale that brooked no argument for lenience.
My order, the Templars of the Rose, loosed the rallying call and sent word to a dozen or more guilds with pleas of assistance, and our requests did not go unanswered. Without these allies, I hesitate to think on what our fates might have been. The Phantom Legion, the Zephyr Trading Company, the Conjurer’s Court, and numerous other names of both the Horde and the Alliance brought their strength to bear alongside ours, and together we overcame this monstrous hurdle. Though our petty squabbles may resurface tomorrow, we set aside our differences for one campaign and stood united under the banner of life, our very existence at stake.
In these past months, I have met many I know will be my good friends until the end of our days. My fellow Templars, who welcomed an older veteran into their fold, exhibited such unity and steadfastness in the face of annihilation that I cannot but wonder and be infused with that same commitment, no matter if the thoughts within my head are those of terror or elation. Here, I will write of those brave souls I have come to know in recent days, so that future generations will remember them for all the ages yet to come.
Let it be written. Let it be known.
Arialynn Maewood. Our justicar and rock. Gilnean by birth, she defies all stereotypes I came to associate with Gilneans during my experiences in the Second War. Underneath the cloak of her relatively young age rests the heart of a leader, and the wisdom of someone many years older than she. A truly remarkable woman, capable of making the right decision no matter the circumstances. I cannot say I have known her likes in all my years.
Kanta Wildsabre. Our Sentinel and battle-commander. Kal’dorei, a crusader – not of the Light, but of all things good – and zealous in his pursuit of what he feels is just. His quick decisions and peerless skills have saved his fellows on more than one occasion. Resolute and stubborn, I have seen him shrug off wounds that would have kept a lesser man bedded and broken. Had he lived in a different time and place, his abilities would have ended the Second War with an arrow through Doomhammer’s skull.
Nyres Treestalker. Our bastion and shield. Though I did not show it, her presence unnerved me when I first pledged my oath to the Templars. A Death Knight, she seemed anathema to everything I stood for, but a few short weeks washed away such misgivings. She possesses more dedication than many officers I have known, and a kind heart as well. Whatever rituals her station requires, I would not question her motives, and would confidently fight any battle with her at my back.
Halonan Orebender. Our blacksmith and healer. A Paladin of the Holy Light, Halonan is ready with a laugh or grin for whoever shares his company. But behind his oft-lovestruck demeanor there is a wise man, one who delves deep into the very nature of what we do, and why we do it. The very day I met him, I knew he was forever a servant of the Light and of the Templars’ ideals. When we shared pain in Benedictus’ betrayal, it was he who saw the righteous path when I could only see vengeance.
Ethruul Ze’len. Our conjurer and pledge. Though a new member to our order, I sense the weight of untold millennia on his shoulders. I do not know his true age, but he immediately dedicated his efforts to our war, and his actions reveal a deep understanding of the monumental pot at stake. We have become fast friends, he and I, and I feel we will know one another for a long time to come.
Jarrick Mason. Our swordmaster and soldier. I have known Jarrick for many years, long before either of our entries into the Templars, and though he held witness to a horrific past, he continues to forge ahead, seemingly renewed in the face of each setback. Loyal, proud, and a peerless fighter, he laughs in the face of danger and commits to everything he knows must be done with every ounce of strength he possesses. There is no truer man or braver warrior I would have fighting by my side.
There are so many others, within the Templars and without, that I wish I had such words to describe. Jamus, Mosur, Sielic, Morgan, Alekxander, Merlynne, and a dozen others. All people I know to be able and devoted, whose company I wish to share in the coming months and years. To know them better, and to have those that will come after we are dead and buried remember us: these are the greatest gifts the Light could bestow upon me. Remember these names, for they did their part, like so many others, to safeguard our world.
Let it be written. Let it be known.
Sigmar Vaughan, Paladin of the Holy Light, Templar of the Rose, former Knight-Captain.
When he was done the windows were black, and the candle had spent half its wax. There was movement downstairs, a group of people, but Sigmar remained in his seat, staring at his signature. This was how far he had come, after his fifty-odd years of life: in a Northrend inn, writing words for the descendents of the modern day. In truth, there was nowhere he’d rather be. These people were something different, something special, and he felt a grin slide across his face as he reread the passage. No words had ever been more factual, he decided. This was truly the battle of their time, a battle they had seen through from one end to the other and – together – had emerged victorious, comrades-in-arms. Though Sigmar knew the old hatreds could spark again tomorrow, it was enough that they had acted this once. For the fate of everything.
After some time he scooted his chair back and stood stretching, feeling his sore muscles groan in protest and cry for sleep. But he ignored them. He closed his journal, bound it, and blew out the candle. In the dim he wandered to the inn’s bookshelf and squeezed the journal in the back. It was important that someone else read and know what had occurred here, and who was responsible for Deathwing’s fall. It didn't matter who found it. He could find another book to continue his writings later.
“Sigmar!”
The voice came from downstairs. Sigmar made his way to the railing and peered down, to see Jarrick peering back from the floor below, dressed casually. His armor had been ruined in the fight. There were other voices as well, and the sound of crates being moved and goods being shuffled.
Sigmar removed his pipe from his mouth. “Aye, I’m here.”
Jarrick jabbed a thumb over one shoulder and grinned. “You comin’? We’re heading for the keep. Got a few mages to take us home.”
Home. The word was a joy, a light at the end of the tunnel, it seemed. Stormwind. Yes, that was where they should be. The 7th Legion could clean up here. Their presence was no longer required, and they had done enough. Sigmar nodded slowly, though to Jarrick or himself, he wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t really matter, anyway.
They were going home.
