WTT: [RP]

The red-haired man sucked back a lungful of smoke, blinking at him. “Well, guess I’m an ignorant man then, Commander, cos’ I sure as hell can’t quite see why yeh’d not want thirty or forty hard bastards with yeh in this fight. Seems like a fairly good deal as it goes – we’re even workin’ fer free.” There was a smirk playing about the edges of his face, the kind that Fyodor gave the idea that this particular Northman had a hard time ever not smirking.

It was a bit angering, truth be told.

“Commander Galliwick,” said the woman at his side – the officer had to admit, she was as handsome as he’d heard, even with the telltale bulge at her stomach – “We’re not here to peddle influence, or stir up trouble, or seek some advantage. We’re here to fight a bloody war, same as you. Give us a post, give us a designate from the command tent, and wash your hands of us.” The woman, by comparison, gave every impression of being used to talking reasonably and forthrightly to very unreasonable people.

It was quite irritating being lumped in with the unreasonable.

When he stayed silent for a moment longer, the third one broke in – the least night elven night elf he’d ever seen, who’d not be out of place doing fittings and measurements in his mother’s drawing room. “Commander, we do understand your difficulty. We’ll make no apologies for our regiment’s history and…improprieties. And we don’t think to wash them away with a few days of service on the front. All we want is to do our part.”

It wasn’t so much what the Kaldorei said as how he said it that annoyed him.

Fyodor drew himself up and clasped his hands behind his back, the sort of posture he’d most often used as a lawyer before his military career. Armored as he was, with the snowy peaks of Dragonblight at his back, he no doubt presented an impressive picture. “Your part. Tailor, I am disappointed that your companions failed to explain to you certain aspects of military life – most particularly, the necessity for troops to obey their general, and a soldier to trust his comrades. Clearly, neither of these things are in evidence.”

He raised one finger. “You put your company forward to serve at the great battle of our time, expecting to waltz in, pull some great caper – fodder for the newspapers I don’t doubt – and cover yourselves in glory. Maybe even wash out some of that blood?” He spat, and was relieved that no strand of spittle dangled from his lip or something embarrassing like that. “This is war. We don’t need murderers.”

It hung in the air for a moment while the elf folded his arms and the couple looked at each other. Bricu Bittertongue’s voice, when he spoke, had the careful civility of a man to whom such policy did not come easily. “Seems ta me, Commander, that this’d be th’only place yeh do need ‘em.” He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and let twin jets of smoke trail from his nose. “An’ as far as war goes, mate, we’re old friends. Yeh need us. It’s a fuckin’ pisser, aright, but yeh need us.”

“No.” The words were beautiful to say – legal training or not, Fyodor was a soldier and being blunt was his calling. “We don’t. We’re better off without you, and I mean that in every way possible.” He turned his back. “Get out of here, and take the rest of your murderers’ circus with you.”

“This is fucking ridiculous.” That actually halted him. Those words, in the voice of Threnn Bittertongue, had more weight than a whole shipful of uncouth sailors. “Commander Galliwick, I’m from Stormwind. I know what the Seventh Legion’s honor is worth. I know what that banner means – victory, wherever it travels. And I know, as do you, that it’s your duty to Stormwind to fight this battle with every weapon at your command.” He turned to face the woman, who went on evenly despite the slight angry flush on her face. “Well, you’ll not find a better weapon than the Riders anywhere in reach, not for this fight. Ask anyone who was there on the Longest Night.”

“Anyone who was there.” Fyodor clenched his fist with a scraping of plate. There was reason in those words, somewhere, but it was a place he couldn’t see through the red haze. “Anyone but myself, hm, is that what you mean? Shall I ask the brothers I lost?”

Threnn looked at him strangely. “Commander, that’s not at all what I-”

“Anyone who was there?” Bile boiled at the back of his throat as he snarled at her. “Oh, certainly you did your part, while the Legion bled and died in the North! Doing your part for the years people like you missed in the Outlands, for the lives you stole! I’ll bloody well ask around, woman, but I’ll get no answers from corpses!” He pointed an accusing finger at the three of them, no stagecraft this but a fury he’d not let himself feel for months. “Get out! Go back to the monsters whose colors you wear and tell them the Seventh Legion will never sell our souls to gain the world!”

The words were pure in his throat, hard and bright as thorium with rage. He felt clean. He felt – he felt like a man who was not being listened to. Or even being watched; all three Riders were looking past him, at a point behind and above him, standing ramrod straight and in the woman’s case saluting…Fydor turned to look into the weary, almost amused gaze of his and damn near everyone’s commanding officer, standing not two paces away with four knights of his personal guard impassive at his flanks. He instantly saluted, instinct putting the iron on his spine. “My lord!” he barked out, really quite too loud.

“At ease.” Bolvar Fordragon’s voice was surprisingly soft in conversation, but then, he was just saving his volume for when he needed it. “What seems to be the problem here, Commander Galliwick?”

“Criminals, m’lord,” he replied, rallying himself to reason – however pure-forged the feeling, Highlord Fordragon had little patience for theatrics. “Attempting to wedge their way into the glory of-”

“Criminals?” Threnn had the sheer effrontery to interrupt him. “Excuse me, Commander – my Lord, none of us here have ever stood trial in Stormwind, let alone been convicted. And if any of my-”

“You’re the bloody Wildfire Riders!” he burst out. So much for dignity. “Woman, there’s more blood on Bittertongue’s hands alone-”

“Sergeant Bittertongue.” The Northman’s tone would brook no further interruption. “And she’s Missus Bittertongue ta yerself, mate.” Fyodor was calm enough now to wonder how he had missed the fury in the infamous Lordaeroner’s eyes.

The Highlord coughed gently. Just once. “That would be Commander Galliwick, Sergeant. Decorum. Even in hell.” He looked at Threnn. “Something I’m certain your mother would remind him as well, Missus Bittertongue.” A smile twitched in the depths of his field-shaggy beard as Threnn blinked at him and managed to drop a curtsy. “You’re here to fight, then.”

It was the elf, pale and patient, who answered with surprising equilibrium. “With the Scourge, preferably, your Lordship, but I suppose one takes what one can get.”

The Highlord made the snorting noise of a man with no more laughter left in him. “I’m surprised to see you in such good humor in this place, Master Oreweave. My daughters might be even moreso, but I believe they’re too jubilant over the dresses I ordered for them to notice. Certainly not anything as small as a northern war or a missing father.”

Delion lowered his head respectfully, not fast enough to cover the twitch of a smile. “You have excellent taste, your Lordship. I hope to send another pair back home with you when this is over.”

“Aye,” replied Lord Bolvar, “when it’s over.” He turned to the Bittertongues, who looked themselves about as flabbergasted as Fyodor felt; for himself, the commander had given up all hope of a sane universe. “Your people are all here?” Bricu simply nodded. “All here?”

“Close enough, m’lord,” said Bittertongue roughly. “Meanin’ aye, the ap Danwyriths too.” A smirk crossed his handsome, only slightly battered face. “But fear no’, m’lord, we brought Geny too. Kept things respectable.”