Wrathgate Wednesday: Northmen Edition

Striding up the hill, leading Soarer by the reigns, Jol Taborwynn made his way through the camp.

“Hey, look at this one Lem. Oy, old man, the pensioner’s quarters are in Stormwind, you daft old bat!”

Jol stopped in his tracks. The look on his face widened the circle around him by a fraction. With a slow, wolfish grin, Jol turned and regarded the pack of four that were heckling him with sneers and caterwauling. One was short and overtly fat, his armor greasy in spots and not doing a good job of covering him. Next to him was a lanky lad with too much nose and too little hair on his chin to be more than just a lad. The other two…well now, they were the real fun.

‘Lem’ had to be the one on the left, with the brutal glimmer in his eye and the look of someone used to a blade. Jol took note of him, but made as to dismiss him immediately. The old paladin was rewarded with a sneer he was hoping for.

“‘Scuse mah?” was all the Lordaeron-born said.

“See Roj? Old folks can’t hear so good,” Lem sneered, spitting at Jol’s feet. ‘Roj’ was exactly what Jol expected – the chiseled prettyboy with a Knight-Lieutenant’s sword emblazoned on his shoulder. Jol was going to enjoy this all too much.

“S’raight. Ol’ folks ten’ tae tune out arrogan’ pricks ‘et shouldnae be off’n ‘ere momma’s teats.”

The crowd went silent, and four hands went to swords. Jol just kept his grin, unlimbering his shield and driving its base into the snow, as to make it stand on its own. The crest of Lordaeron seemed to shimmer for a moment before his hand moved away from it, unbuckling his sword belt and tossing scabbarded sword into the snow.

The four looked between themselves in confusion as the old man tugged of his steel backed gloves. They didn’t say a word, but each of them begrudgingly let go of sword hilts and hastily unbuckled them. They were still working on getting off their gauntlets when Jol hit.

The fat one went down like a sack of potatoes from the full-on punch Jol threw; folks that watched had to have been amazed at the old man’s speed to cross the meager distance and deck him in a near blink of an eye. The lanky one’s knees buckled as Jol’s spinning backhand broke his nose, and he was out of it before Jol had moved onto the third.

Roj and Lem moved far more quickly than their hangers-on, diving apart to divide Jol’s attention, but not doing a very good job. Roj’s hair – shoulder length and flopped to one side like some noble poof – was caught in one big paw, and he yanked back hard to jerk the young man’s neck and stun him to a hat. Lem came in at Jo swinging, but Jol caught the blows with his arm and shoved his armored shoulder into the fighter’s gut. Turning his attention back to Roj, he yanked on the hair again and was rewarded with a girlish shriek, before slamming the man’s face into Jol’s upright shield. A thump and a crack was the reward, thanks to the shield’s refusal to budge. Letting go of Roj’s hair, Jol turned to Lem and regarded him coolly as the man was crouched low, considering his best chance of attack.

“Yeh ‘ave anah idear who’n tha feck ah am!?” Jol roared at the man, sending him back a step. Lem shook his head faintly, and seemed a little surprised at managing even that for an answer. Jol strode toward him purposefully, and the man hunkered down before lunging in a strike. Jol twisted, catching the man awkwardly before headbutting him square between the eyes. Lem’s eyes rolled up in his head as he crumpled to the snow.

Four arrogant Stormwind guards were sprawled out around him. Jol, turned and surveyed them with a grimace as more guards pushed through the watching throng and seized him by the arms.

“..the hell is going on here!?” Commander Galliwick demanded as he stormed up, red faced. “What in the hell happened?”

“Commander, this man here attacked these four without provocation–”

“Feck ‘at,” Jol grumbled. “Fecker d’served ‘et.”

Galliwick looked as if he were about to burst a blood vessel. “What in the hell is your problem!?” he all but railed at Jol. “Who in the hell do you think you are!?”

“Ah’m Jol feckin’–”

“To hell with it! I don’t care! Of all the damn days, I care less today! Clap him in irons and get him out of here!”

“HOLD!”

Galliwick visibly winced, squeezing his eyes shut. His face went through enough shades of red and purple to color a quilt. Why, Jol had no clue, but he knew the other voice as sure as he knew his own. It was then one of the few Southerners Jol had respect for moved through the widening throng.

“More trouble today, Commander?” Bolvar Fordragon asked in a calm and even tone.

“This man–this Rider,” Galliwick spat for emphasis, noting Jol’s tabard displayed proudly, “Attacked and harmed four soldiers without provocation. Sir, as if a mutinous ruckus weren’t enough, he attacked Knight-Lieutenant Roj Haermon–”

“Haermon usually finds trouble on his own, trouble does not find him,” Bolvar cut off, surveying Jol’s handiwork of the four with a faint glimmer of a smirk. “I don’t care who his father is, he wasn’t supposed to be this far up on the front in the first place.” Bolvar turned his piercing look back on the old paladin, taking him in from head to two. “Northman, by the look of that stubborn set to your jaw. What’s your name, man?”

Jol straightened a little taller, a defiant look on his craggy face. “Jol Taborwynn.”

Bolvar nodded briefly. “You’ve been in the wars, then,” he said, not asking.

“Fifth Lordaeron. Stag o’Stratholme.” A few murmurs passed through the crowd, and Bolvar’s brief glance shushed them.

“Those aren’t Lordaeron colors I see you wearing,” Bolvar said casually, though there was a weighing look about him.

“Me ‘ome’s tha Ridahs, Haighlohd. Ah’m heah tae beat sommat doen. If’n ‘et’s young fools in tha stocks ‘er ‘em Scourge monstrositahs, ‘et dunnae mattah tae mah. But ah aim tae carve me feckin’ name in some Scourge ches’ but good. Fer Lordaeron.”

“Light remember Lordaeron,” Bolvar murmured, and it breathed through the crowd at a whisper. “Your fellows are camped in the mountain passes, with a few other irregulars. Best see to getting yourself there.”

“My lord–!” Galliwick gasped.

“After, Commander. There will be plenty of time for settling debts after.”