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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Devon and Siamus finally sit down to discuss the views they might hold in common. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Ringside Seats
It is a gusty, grey morning in Stormwind City, the sky heavy and the air close and overwarm in the way that portends a summer storm. The harbor is a rough white chop over swinging, slate-dark water, and restless gulls skim low above the shoreline streets, shrilling mournfully.
The blue and white windowbox flowers of the Fallon townhouse are disheveled and slightly flattened, tossed and petal-sheared by the wind, and the dark blue door seems darker than usual, recessed in shadow under the grim sky. The windows glow with golden lamplight — unusual for the daytime hour — to ward against the weather's gloom.
Devon Tennerow walks up to the townhouse in his usual dark-brown suit, a dark blue tie at his neck. He strides up to the door and uses the kraken knocker without hesitation - he knows that he's expected.
The door opens promptly — more promptly than usual, in fact, without the considerate pause for the visitor's composure — and Barbour immediately steps aside to admit the guest. "Lord Tennerow," he greets him with a bow, and then peers out at the sky. "She's going to raise a riot, milord," he observes. It is perhaps atypical for a butler to remark on the weather, but an old sailor's concerns die hard. He closes the door firmly against whatever nascent riot is in the offing. "The Commodore is in his study, if you will."
He ushers Devon down the hallway to the double doors on the right. Within, Siamus Fallon is seated at his desk, frowning over a pair of documents set side-by-side, both with blue-and-gold Alliance seals. He's in his typical work-from-home ensemble: the navy blue waistcoat and trousers, the sleeves of his shirt rolled, his collar unbuttoned. His hair has been swept neatly back, though at some point some of his curls regained their native tousle when he ran a hand through it absently.
A low fire is banked in the hearth beneath the mural map of Azeroth's seas, and there are lamps lit around the room; the window shows a darkening swathe of sky beyond the branches of the dogwood trees.
"Lord Tennerow, sir," Barbour says, and Siamus glances up.
"Commodore Fallon," Devon says, raising his left hand in greeting. "Thank you for agreeing to see me. I regret we found no chance to speak at the gala, though I understand our sisters are quite close these days. My congratulations, by the way, on your engagement."
Siamus rises to his feet and inclines his head, wearing that slight smile. "Thank ye kindly, Tennerow. Please, will ye come in, sit." He gestures to the two armchairs before the hearth. "I regret as well we've no' spoken since the Children's Fete. A pair of lovely ladies have suggested we ought to know each other better. Can I offer ye a drink? Early for it, ordinarily, but I find it bracing against the weather."
As if in response to this remark, the window rattles against its latch with a gust of wind, and then rattles again as the first drops of rain begin to spatter.
Devon glances at the window and smiles a touch ruefully. "I imagine it will soon be dark enough that we may believe we find ourselves in an evening. I would happily take you up on the offer, Commodore."
"It's just Fallon, please," says Siamus equably, and moves toward the rain-battered window; before it stands a sideboard arrayed with liquor bottles and a tray of cut-crystal glasses. "Will ye take whiskey or rum? It's a sailor's choice, I'm afraid, though if ye'd like wine I can have Barbour send a bottle."
"Perhaps whiskey… is yours with malted barley?" Devon asks, stepping further into the room. "Or do you prefer unmalted?"
"Ah," says Siamus, pleased. "Are ye a connoisseur, then? I prefer the malt, but I've a lovely light grain whiskey as well if that's your choice. Else it's a Dabyrie 18-year malt." He picks up a bottle of deep amber liquor to show Devon. "And will ye take it neat?"
"Yes, that sounds perfect," Devon says with a smile. "I don't know if I would claim to be a connoisseur, but I am at least well-acquainted."
Siamus pours two glasses, smiling to himself, and then brings them to where Devon still stands. He offers one glass out, and then tilts his head toward the armchairs. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you, Fallon," Devon says, taking the glass and settling into an armchair. He takes a sip and makes an appreciative noise. "Not to circle the gryphon master about it, I came to speak with you about our campaigns, and interests we might have in common."
Siamus settles into the other chair and lifts his glass toward Devon genially. "Cheers. And aye, so it's been suggested to me." He surveys Devon. "And so where would ye like to begin? Ta — that's Lady Sintha — tells me you're something of a 'moderate,' whate'er that means." He arches an eyebrow.
"There are a number of axes on which one might measure that," Devon says with a shrug, lifting his glass toward Siamus's. "My family's been military for generations, so there's that we have in common. Though I'm on land and you're at sea… I hear you've plans for a navy?"
Siamus laughs; there is a slightly bitter edge on it. "Oh, aye, I've had plans for a navy for going on seven years now. It's been getting anyone in Starmwend to hear me on it, wi' one thing and another. But now between the war in Narthrend and the failures of Alliance command at sea, and Avrenne to lend her voice, I expect someone will listen at last. I updated my schema wi' current figures and blueprints, have been over it wi' her. She believes it may float this time. So to speak." He tips back another sip of whiskey, holds the glass up to consider the liquor in it. "And my family's been shipwrights and marines since… well, I expect ye can guess it. We're Kul Tirans."
"Well, I've put together a rather comprehensive plan for how to consolidate our ground forces, ensure adequate supplies and weaponry…." Devon pauses to take another sip of whiskey. "Perhaps a unified front might move both plans forward with more force?"
Siamus nods thoughtfully. His dark-eyed gaze is sharp and steady on Devon. "And d'ye no' think revamping the whole of the military — land and sea — will overtax the Kingdom at a delicate time?" It is a serious and probing question, not combative. He wants to see Devon's math. Siamus likes math.
"Yes, of course, if we had no other resources," Devon nods. "The war comes first, always, and I would not propose anything to jeopardize that. It's a matter of more efficiently using what we have - in terms of people, supplies and funds - and expanding our operations so the revamping doesn't rest on the backs of our people's finances. For instance, I have an eye on expanding the mining operations in Northrend."
Siamus raises his eyebrows and gestures with his glass. "Go on. You're in mining, aye? I've heard rumors there's dodgy business wi' some o' the mines up there. Ye think there's enough sound metal in the ground for finance? And how d'ye propose more efficiently using our people?"
"I've heard that, yes, in the Howling Fjord," Devon admits, frowning for the first time. "I've not heard what the cause was, but… there are other functional mines in the Tundra and the Grizzly Hills. Cobalt, mostly, and some titanium. There's a problem with Scourge in the area, naturally, but as long as we keep them clear I don't see why it wouldn't be a stable investment. Even Lord Ference profited from Cobalt mines, back in the day, it's said."
Devon takes a breath and continues. "As for people, I refer to the militias. We've always had a lack of manpower in the military, and that's why the regional militias exist. The Westfall Brigade has paved the way, working wth the Valiance Expedition, and I don't see why we couldn't continue the trend with Redridge militias, and those in Duskwood. Allow the men to keep their regional identities, but fold them into the larger military gradually. There may be dissent, but it is hard to argue with better weapons, better armor, clearer organization."
Siamus nods again, interested. "Aye, good. A question — The Westfall Brigade's done so well in no small part thanks to Stoutmantle. D'ye think the other regional commanders are up to his quality, to be given continued command over their men in the army proper? What d'ye know of the current quality of command in Narthrend?"
"That is a concern I've heard from my brother. The leadership on the Fjord side is far too willing to risk or outright abandon their own men in order to not delay their military objectives. Even aside from sentiment, we don't have the people to waste like that," Devon shakes his head. "In my view, though, it's a matter of better identifying potential for leadership, giving them the training they need earlier on. Sure, men of Stoutmantle's quality may be rare, but they are not nonexistent. And imagine how many potential leaders amongst the enlisted men we may lose by simply assigning them as footsoldiers with no evaluation."
"And ye'd propose — identifying them how? Some sort of test of the lot might be prohibitive and inaccurate, but if we're relying on current command to pick out favorites, well. Current command's judgment isn't all that sound, as we're seeing. I'm no' inclined to believe a man like Vice Admiral Keller is likely to choose new candidates for leadership any more wisely than he does anything else. D'ye survey the enlisted men themselves for recommendations? D'ye invite any candidate interested in an officership to step up for training?" Siamus has leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, focused on Devon. "I'm no' pressing you, mind, to pick holes — I'm pressing you because at least you've got the men to reallocate from the militias and so on. Finding and making marines will be more of a problem for the navy. Personnel's my biggest hurdle, and I'm interested in whether there's a sound or even consolidated approach to be taken. We've thrown so many soldiers away in the last seven years, from Lordaeron to Outland and now in Narthrend, it's no' as though we've our pick of men lined up still to enlist — and those that are enlisted already are poured into infantry as usual, and no' given consideration as marines yet. Because, well. No proper navy. Someone's under the impression ye can load merchant ships wi' guns and crew 'em wi' infantry and call it good."
"That is a difficult point, and one I'm still trying to solve to my satisfaction. I expect if we left it to all the current commanders, yes, they'd propose people in the same vein. That is not what we want. But then, if we task those who are excellent leaders with the same, it hobbles their ability to do their own job. Stoutmantle needs to handle the Grizzly Hills, not interview hundreds of enlisted men. My thought so far is this - offer it as a chance for advancement, and that's the first test. Do they have the initiative to put themselves forward for it." Devon takes a breath. "As for who evaluates those who step up, I'd recommend those who've served well and no longer can. They have experience, and this would not draw them away from the war themselves."
"Men like Ference, who has a reputation for finding talent. And men like yourself, perhaps?" Siamus suggests a little dryly. He has another sip and then gestures with the glass. "Mind, I'm no' suggesting it's either a bad idea or untoward. We'd no' be putting ourselves forward like this if we weren't ambitious men wi' faith in our own ability to do a job. I'll admit freely that once a proper navy's built, I'll aim to be the admiral of it. And to see better men than Keller advanced."
"I should hope so, from what I've heard." Devon nods. "And I suppose, yes, men like myself. And Ference, though I imagine he is quite busy with his company. Perhaps the elder Lord Aspenwood. I expect there are many such, whose service has ended whether they should like it or not, and who would be happy to lend a hand toward the shaping of the future."
Siamus nods and sits back again comfortably. "It seems a sound plan to me. I've no' seen your numbers, of course, but nor have ye seen mine, and I'll trust Avrenne's eye on those for now. If we find ourselves both on the House and it comes to proposal, there will be time enough to discuss the math."
He surveys Devon. "And ye were at Hyjal, yourself," he says casually. "Terrible, bloody business. I didn't see it myself, being wi' the fleet as I was." He drops his gaze to his glass and swirls the liquor within contemplatively. "It was where the cease-fire wi' the orcs was made, o' course."
Devon's hand tightens slightly on the whiskey glass. "They are not so unintelligent as to act entirely without self-interest in the face of an overwhelming threat, despite their nature. But yes, there was a… temporary cease-fire. In the absence of a visible, immediate threat, this seems not to be the case. Despite that all living should be focusing on ending the Lich King, I hear the Horde persists in harrying our people in the Grizzly Hills and elsewhere."
"Aye. They do. Forsaken ships off the coast o' Howling Fjord, and now the orcs in Grizzly Hills." Siamus drinks again, watching Devon over the rim of his glass. When he lowers it, he says, "It was the cause of the trouble at Theramore, ye understand. Aye? The cease-fire. From Hyjal."
"The idea that conflict between us was over, not merely paused in order to preserve Azeroth itself?" Devon asks, taking another mouthful of whiskey. "A dangerous idea to allow to take root, with the orcs. Those of us who are old enough, we've seen what they choose to do without provocation. They don't even belong in this world."
Siamus's smile flickers faintly back to life, and he lifts his glass in another salute to Devon. "Well, then we're agreed on that as well."
Devon raises his own glass in response with a faint smile. "I would not support a repeat of that mistake. My brother could have easily paid the cost of it, though I was already back in the Eastern Kingdoms by then."
"My father did," says Siamus. "And the Lord Admiral. And I'll no' see any of our men pay in Narthrend when we ought to be aimed at the bloody Lich King."
"Well said," Devon nods. "My brother is still up there now, fighting on behalf of the Alliance. He was down here, briefly, for the gala. He might be a good candidate for advancement, but as I am clearly biased, I will leave that determination to others."
"Aye," says Siamus, "and I'm up there myself. When I've no' been dragged south by bloody politics. I'd no' be here if the navy wasn't so important a matter, especially in view of the ineptitude on display up there — a criminal disservice to our men and women — and I'll be back there as soon as politics allow. My fleet's still patrolling the coast, and I'll be bringing three or four more o' my lasses back wi' me to join them."
He glances over at Devon again. "I'm no expert wi' regard to the infantry, but I know Leric's a fine fellow. I don't doubt a fine soldier as well."
Devon nods his agreement, and then says, "How would you plan to balance the two, were you on the House of Nobles? The war in Northrend and the need to be here, in Stormwind, moving issues forward."
"I think it's important," says Siamus seriously, "that the House have on it a man wi' eyes on the situation, aye? No' just reports from the front, dry numbers and maps, but a man on the lines. Good for the Kingdom's morale as well, I expect. We had an absentee King for some time — no fault of Wrynn's, o' course, but it stirred resentment wi' the people. That the Kingdom's no' got their interests in hand. Is standing out o' their battles. That's where we get some o' these militias and so on from, aye? People saw the Kingdom abdicating responsibility — so they felt — wi' the King's absence and Prestor's machinations, and felt obliged to stand for themselves. I believe it would serve well to have at least one man on the House who's in the thick of it as well.
"The people of Westfall take pride — rightfully — in Stoutmantle, in what he's doing up there. Let's give them more of that, aye? I'll serve the House faithfully and wi' discipline, but I believe that my other service at the front will be no less important." He spreads his free hand. "Meanwhile, the portals are working again. It's an easy enough matter to keep me apprised o' matters down here — Avrenne, naturally, can see to some of that — and for me to return by portal or stone as needs be, as often as needs be. I'm looking to hire a warlock for my crew, to move me back fast, as well."
"A warlock," Devon raises one eyebrow, but doesn't seem deeply alarmed. "Yes, I can see where that would be useful. Though if the blue dragons begin acting up again, it may be we lose access to mail, portals and summonings for a time. It's a thing to plan for, but I suppose there's no reason to borrow tomorrow's trouble today. I've heard your ships move faster than the standard icebreaker as well, so that may help in the event of arcane troubles."
Siamus nods. "I grant it's a concern, but if the portals were to go dodgy, I could be back in Starmwend in, say — six days, rather than the standard nine. Still an advantage o' speed, even without the arcane travel."
He drinks and eyes Devon. "And what's your view of warlocks, then? Generally?"
"I've fought my share of demons, but…" he drinks a bit more whiskey and continues, "I've had no cause for doubting Captain Tyrrell, though I admit I don't know the man as well as I should like. The rumors I've heard of his recent efforts are positive. The practice seems terribly dangerous, doubly so if unregulated."
"I know Tyrrell well," says Siamus. "He's a good man, and a canny one. Disciplined, dedicated to the Alliance. I believe in his vision of warlocks and what they could be for us. It is a dangerous practice, and he has the right of it both in that it should be managed carefully and in that we've done a criminal wrong in managing it so far. The men and women who chose to become warlocks for the Alliance —" Siamus drinks again and then is silent, reflecting for a moment.
"It's as though we asked them to sweep an enemy minefield for us, but wi' no clear device or direction, and they're making their own way across knowing they're certainly doomed but that they may manage to get others across safely wi' their sacrifice. And meanwhile you've got this lot like under the Lamb who've taken it in their heads there's treasure across the field, and will go running out willy-nilly, blowing themselves and anyone nearby up in the process.
"It doesn't mean we don't need sweepers. We can't leave the enemy mines lie. But we do need to be sure it's trained and disciplined men and women out there, and that we respect the sacrifice they're making and give them the resources in support. Aye?" He arches a brow and tilts his head at Devon.
Devon frowns as he follows the metaphor. "I suppose that makes sense. Though it's important we distinguish between those willing to walk the minefield and those seeking treasure. The latter I'm afraid there's far too many of at the Slaughtered Lamb, so I do hope Tyrrell's plans bear out. Public opinion will be another thing, but with time, trust can be built."
"Oh, aye, there's far too many of the latter sort. In part, though, that falls on our lack of oversight from the first, aye? The practice shouldn't have been allowed to spread wildly. Management, proper training wi' review, so on. The sorts of things Tyrrell's proposing now. The lot under the Lamb? Burn 'em out. Tyrrell's plan, though — and his ilk, the ones he's trained and so forth, the ones willing to join wi' him? I'm all in favor."
"Then it seems this is another area in which we are in agreement," Devon says. "Though I admit it would have been a difficult thing to wrap my mind around, without the example of the right sort of warlock. It's a difficult line Tyrrell walks, but one I hope he never stumbles on." He takes another drink, rather emptying the glass at this point, and adds, "I did speak with your lady fiancee about the possibility of… popularizing the army via theater. Nothing untrue, of course, just the right kinds of stories to help people see the good our forces are doing. Maybe the warlock issue could handle something similar. Help show people what a reliable warlock might look like, so they can better distinguish between the two sorts."
Siamus arches a brow and nods. "Aye. No' a bad idea." He smiles faintly and tips back the last of his own drink. "Avrenne mentioned the same to me — popularizing the navy, trying to boost recruitment, wi' the arts. It's a fine idea but one I'll leave to the artists, as I'm no' much of one myself."
The window rattles hard again, the glass outside now a sheet of running rainwater and the sky beyond dark as slate. A brilliant blue flash of lightning for a moment illuminates the branches, but they vanish into inchoate smears again as soon as the light flickers out. I tell you this because I totally forgot there is weather happening but anyway yeah weather.
Siamus rises to his feet and offers a hand for Devon's glass. "Can I interest ye in another, Tennerow?"
Devon glances at the storm in the window and gives a chuckle of amusement. "Perhaps one more, since nature seems to have decided to make an evening of the entire day."
"One more," Siamus agrees, taking the two glasses. "And we'll see who outlasts: us or the storm."