Bloodsword: 4 - Unthinkable News

In the end, Purah took the job with the Farstriders. How could he not, once he had heard the news out of Lordaeron, the disturbing rumors of plague and strange sightings of the walking dead. His days at the Arcanum ended, much to the sorrow of his friends and especially Silea, though they never found out exactly what he was doing for them. Some no doubt thought that they were taking him to turn him into a soldier, after the incident outside the tavern, and he said nothing to the contrary. Let them think such things. The only one he felt truly terrible lying to was Silea.

He was working diligently, making copies of a report, when a runner came in with an urgent message. His skills far surpassed most of the other scribes in speed, so he passed his current work to another and gestured to the messenger.

She was breathing hard as she walked over and handed him the sealed scroll, telling him how many copies were needed and for whom. Inside the scroll were accounts from several mages and priests that had been sent to Lordaeron to aid their old Human allies, and none of them were pleasing to read. They spoke of rampant plague, most likely magical in nature, and dead that refused to rest in the ground. Doing his best not to show any emotion, he got to work penning shortened versions of the reports for those that needed just the basics, and other copies for the commanders and generals who needed details. It was strangely gruesome work, taking these stories from the front lines and turning them into cold lists of numbers and raw information.

He was done quickly, and the runner was off again, the new copies in her pack. He had a moment's respite now, but didn't leave his desk. These last few weeks had been grueling, as he learned the military shorthand and methods. Still, this work was even more satisfying than what he had done in the Arcanum, as this work potentially saved lives. He stretched his arms back, and yawned.

"Tired, Greenie?" His neighbor, Mer'dith, a veteran, as it were, had been a great deal of help in the beginning, showing him the ropes and explaining military procedure. He called him "Greenie" or "Greenhorn" at first snidely, but now just as a friendly jest, seeing as Purah had caught on fast and even surpassed Mer'dith's own skills within just a few weeks. He wasn't surprised, as he had also learned under the Lady Oalina and knew the students she produced were of the highest caliber.

"Just stretching a bit, 'Dith. While this work is infinitely more interesting than at the Arcanum, I get far fewer chances to stretch my legs here."

The older scribe just chuckled, nodding.

They were interrupted fairly quickly, however, as a runner burst through the door, panting heavily and wearing a red sash. For a split second, the two scribes were surprised into silence. The red sash denoted extremely urgent news of high importance. Mer'dith waved the runner over and Purah jumped up to get him some water. All the scribes in the room were silent and staring. Even Runner-Commander Bur'ir, who had come out of his office the moment the runner moved out of the doorway, remained quiet.

Mer'dith opened the red-sealed scroll and skimmed it, preparing to copy... and his face turned white in shock. The runner walked around, loosening his legs, and downed the water Purah had given him. Bur'ir started over to see what was going on, but Mer'dith was already frantically copying the letter, word for word. Purah was able to steal a glance himself before the Commander got there, and nearly choked.

It was short and to the point, no doubt from some outpost in Lordaeron, the penmanship coarse, probably human... but the words were like a bucket of ice-cold water:

King Terenas is dead. Prince Arthas Menethil, finally returned from Northrend, has slain him. Lordaeron is fallen and the army of dead spread North. Prepare.

Purah, wide-eyed, stood a bit slack-jawed at the news. KingTerenas... dead? By his son's own hand? By the Sunwell, what was going on in the South? he thought, his mind racing. He had known Arthas had gone to the northern continent, had remained there even when his father had demanded he return. What had occurred to the boy while he had stayed in that frozen wasteland?

There were no answers from the short letter, or from any gathered there. Purah returned to his desk, pushing paper aside. Commander Bur'ir rolled up the original and took it back to his office. The other scribes sat in silence, still. When the copies were finished, the runner left to hand off the finished reports to others. The news would spread. This was not something that could be kept from the populace of Silvermoon, Purah knew.

In fact, the commander returned as soon as the thought crossed his mind, to address all the scribes. Some of them sat stoically, while others exclaimed in shock and outrage. "Arthas is a paladin, there is no way he'd do such a thing!"

The commander just shook his head. "As always, I expect complete silence regarding this until the general populace has been informed." He turned then to Mer'dith and Purah. Leaning in, quietly, he said "The two of you are excused for the remainder of the day. Go eat something, or drink. Relax. As always, though, say nothing. While disturbing, this isn't all that alarming... yet."

Purah and the older scribe left quietly. The warm sun beat down on Purah's face and, for a moment, lifted the weight the grim news had brought. When a cloud passed overhead, though, it came rushing back. "Can you imagine..?"

Mer'dith just shook his head, slowly and sadly. "No. And I don't want to imagine what that last bit means for us down the road." He sighed. "I'm going for a drink. You want to come along?"

Purah shook his head and waved goodbye to his co-worker. He stood a little longer in the Farstrider's Square, waiting and wishing that it had all been a dream, like the terrible memories of the sword accident that still haunted him. But, just like those memories, this, too, was real and no amount of wishing or standing in the sun would take away the terrible truth that Arthas, Prince of Lordaeron, had just done the unthinkable.

Lordaeron is fallen and the army of dead spread North. Prepare.