(2024-08-25) An Opening Door

Details

Author:	Athena
Summary:	Redridge has an orcs invasion problem. Roper and Syarra offer a potential solution to House of Noble's member and Count of Redridge, Devon Tennerow, with a few coffee related strings attached. 6k~ words.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Arc: Death Knight PR

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[in a formal, classical trained calligraphy]

Aug. 19, Year 24

Count Devon Tennerow,

[in spiky, aggressive looking handwriting]

This is a formal request to arrange a meeting with you on your land in Redridge. Word has made its way up here to the Plaguelands that there’s been a Dark Horde issue with orcs trying their luck striking at the Alliance’s side flank where the army isn’t dense, and defense is local. My wife and I are specialists of a sort for that kind of long term holding of a line from the inside of the border, and not giving an inch for as long as it takes to get to the rot underneath.

We spent time in Northrend defending a kalu’ak village for over a year and a half during the campaign against Arthas, and were part of the Icecrown initiative to end the war. We’re not made for idleness, and our intent is to find a purpose and usefulness to keeping Azeroth intact, and it so happened that we encountered your sister, Lady Dara, here and she mentioned Redridge as a possible place where we could exist and serve without risk of being chased out by fucking torches and pitchforks.

The reason it’s not a given is that we’re Ebon Blade.

You might have heard of us, specifically. We’ve made a name for ourselves working with the illustrious Cobalt Company, the united Argent Crusade, and with the honorable Vice Admiral Siamus Fallon and his Fleet. You can check our references with any of them.

If you’ll meet with us, name the day and time, and we’ll show up.

-Roper Sunstrike of the Ebon Blade

The day and time is set, a warm August afternoon on a walled manor set back in the orange-rock mountains of Redridge. The large main house is set back against the rock of the mountain, with walls of stone that might have been quarried in the region, as well as wide windows that must keep many rooms illuminated with natural light. Smaller buildings and gardens are on terraces in front, with a winding walkway leading from the front door down to the gate, at which two guardsmen stand at attention. It is likely here that any visitors would be expected to leave their carriages.

Today, a man with dusty blond hair, sweating in formal livery, stands with the guards, waiting for… someone. Maybe the count did not think these particular guests should meander up to the front door unescorted.

The rocky mountain dust of the roads is the first indication of the guests' arrival. It seems to be traveling at an alarming speed, and the reason why becomes obvious as two impossibly black shadowed death chargers approach the house, ridden by two saronite armored death knights at a reckless, impossibly punishing pace that no living horse should be put through unless it was life or death. In this case, however, the death part already happened.

They don't seem to be slowing down or stopping, until they get alarmingly close to where the guards stand waiting. In a smooth, eerie movement, shadows rise up from the ground, pulling one of the chargers into them, leaving the rider rolling down into a forward motion that he halts, both arms bent and hands raised up at his shoulders in a classic gesture of surrender. His helm obscures his face, and his runeblades are both sheathed behind his back, and yet there really isn't much ambiguity about who — or at least what — he must be.

"Hey," Roper says in a casual, unechoing voice to the guards, his natural lowborn Stormwind accent in place, but without the drawl.

The other horse sinks into unnatural shadows in a somewhat less dramatic fashion - if anything of that nature can be said to be undramatic - as the second figure dismounts. She is of a similar height, her face and form also obscured by dark saronite armor, and her two-handed runeblade is strapped across her back. For the moment, she doesn't speak. She'll let the human handle the humans for now.

The guards shift uncomfortably, but don't draw. They've likely been briefed on what to expect, in general terms, but briefing is one thing and seeing is another.

The dusty-haired man steps forward with a bow. His voice is carefully neutral and polite as he says, "Mr. and Mrs. Sunstrike, I presume?"

"Yeah," Roper answers, and he sounds amused. "Bowen, I presume." It sounds less like a question, like he's sure he has the right guy, like he knows who he's talking to, and he's also aware that there's no clear reason to the Tennerow household why he should. And yet, he does. "We've got our meeting with Count Tennerow."

The butler stiffens. He covers it quickly, but the reaction is definitely there. Yes, Roper, you've got the right guy. Still, he holds to manners like a lifeline, and simply says, "Yes, sir. Just this way, sir and madam."

He gestures to the winding path up to the door, and if he's sweating a little more now than he was before, well, it's a hot day. "Do you need to…" the briefest pause, "visit the armory before we continue to the house?"

What a polite way to say please do not insist I introduce you to my boss dressed for battle or then again, maybe it's please do not shred the furniture, we do not need another cat.

"You make it hard to say no to the offer of a tour, but we don't want to keep His Excellency waiting," Roper says, and the amusement is deeper, and darker, and he has no compassion whatsoever for the butler's preferences. "Won't say no to a feather duster though." Is…he serious? Hard to tell. "Been a while since we've had to ride on dirt and not frozen tundra. Kinda ruins the aesthetic when the saronite looks like we left our armor in the fucking attic for three months and then whoops, time to pay a call on one of the House of Noble lords. We're monsters, but we're not going to commit horrific crimes of improper uncleanly armor fashion."

Bowen stares at him blankly for a long moment. Is that a joke? He glances at the slighter saronite figure at his side - the wife, one assumes - but there are no clues there. Only dark, spiky armor. Well, then… "I shall see to it that you are brought a duster, sir. Right this way."

The man turns and leads the way back up the path, which takes them along fragrant flower beds that likely make no impact whatsoever on the guests. By the time they reach the front door, he's breathing a little harder. He turns to the two of them as he opens it, making the familiar, welcoming gesture to usher them inside, and he says, "May I take your…" hats and purses? "…helmets?"

Roper is breathing, but it's a deliberate choice, a mimicry of living behavior, and it's decisively relaxed, effortless, as he steps inside the house. At the offer, he relaxes back on his left foot, looking over at Syarra for a moment, that sense of amusement growing in his body language, but she might note the subtle differences of the movements of his head — his gaze on her from within the helm is sharp, and his pause isn't an affectation or to make the butler sweat; he's weighing it.

There's the sound of Roper clicking his tongue against his teeth before he reaches up with a razor tipped gauntlet, and removes his helm, flipping it up and around to catch it on a single forefinger, offering it out to Bowen with an ironic, and yet oddly well executed formal bow. The pageantry of the removal might obscure, for at least a second or two, the full impact of the reveal — an ordinary but undeniably dead man with bright blue flame eyes, his hair a blended gray of more white than black, and a crooked twist of a smile on his lips. "Fine," he says.

Bowen takes the offered helm, his eyes widening slightly at the dead man's appearance. He is well-trained to take in a wide variety of disastrous situations with poise, but this is pushing it.

And then Syarra follows suit, lifting off her own helmet and handing it wordlessly over to the butler. Underneath her helm, of course, is someone who isn't human at all. She is, like Roper, unmistakably dead, but well-preserved. Her fully dark hair is tightly braided back, and her eyes also glow with blue flame. She stares blankly at Bowen, maybe daring him to judge her, maybe feeling nothing at all.

The butler stares at her perhaps a beat longer than manners would dictate, and then he clears his throat. "Right this way, please."

He does not give them a tour of the house, but instead takes them on a very direct route to what appears to be some kind of a library/study. Count Devon Tennerow sits at a desk by the window, wearing a light-colored suit that matches his hair and complexion. His sister probably ordered that one. He rises when the death knights enter, stepping over towards them. It is likely that the death knights would not miss the twinge of pain in his shoulder with the movement, the faint, warm ache of an old wound. Devon himself doesn't seem to notice it at all, and perhaps it is nothing but background noise to his life at this point.

As they walk, Roper strips off his gauntlets, revealing soft black gloves underneath, and he places them into a dark frostweave bag. There's a quality to his observation of their surroundings that is less like a man walking through this place for the first time and more like someone comparing what he's seeing now against a memory he already possessed.

As soon as Devon rises, Roper takes a deeper breath, a slight shift of softening around his brows, barely visible before he dips into a correct bow, neatly executed, and then finished off with him straightening to say, "Hey." What. It's an all purpose greeting, works everywhere and everywhen.

Devon moves closer, reaching out a bare hand to shake Roper's. His expression is hard and closed, but his voice is nothing but polite as he says, "Roper Sunstrike, I presume? Good afternoon, and welcome."

Syarra notes the movement, and begins to take off her own gauntlet. Just the one that she wears on her hand for shaking.

Bowen, in the meantime, bows, and backs out of the room with the two helmets. Maybe he is going to put them in the coat closet. He's probably also off to fetch a feather duster.

Roper takes Devon's hand in an oddly cool handshake that mimics the exact strength and firmness of Devon's own, to a possibly vaguely unsettling degree, and there's something sharp in Roper's eyes as he meets Devon's, a brief pause as if he's waiting for something. It must not come because Roper's lips twist up in that half-smile. "Good call. You had a 50/50 chance of getting it right, unless you did your research ahead of time. This is my wife, Syarra Sunstrike." There's the slightest emphasis on the words my wife, a possessive darkness, as if Devon might have even the barest, slightest possible interest in her.

Syarra reaches out peremptorily to shake Count Tennerow's hand, since that's what we're doing now. There's a brief hesitation before he turns and does take her hand, shaking it with the same polite resolve he did with Roper. "Mrs. Sunstrike. You're far from home."

"That depends," Syarra says, her voice low and echoing. "Thank you, Count Tennerow, for agreeing to meet with us."

Devon releases her hand and steps back, surveying both of them. "I am not certain if I should offer refreshment of some sort. Water?"

"We can eat or drink anything just like any of the living. I'm partial to coffee, myself," Roper says, standing with an ease in the room, the force of his personality tucked back behind a shadow, although without the helm its difficult to disguise the intensity of his unblinking gaze. "Cold brewed if you have it, but if you don't, iced to be cold will do." He spreads his hands out in front of him. "We're nothing if not committed to the aesthetic."

"Anything is fine," Syarra says, her gaze flickering over the bookcases.

Devon nods and steps back to the desk to ring a small bell. Then he gestures to a table with several chairs around it. Perhaps the count prefers a seating arrangement that keeps some kind of obstacle between himself and the armed creatures of nightmare. It's understandable. "Please, have a seat."

Roper steps around to the chairs with a supple agility only marred into imperfection by the saronite armor, as he sits, slouching down comfortably as if he's a frequent guest, tilting his head as he watches Devon. "So, I assume you have questions about the details, or you wouldn't have agreed to meet with us at all." He flips a hand up, showing an open palm. "You can ask us anything you fucking want, and we'll give you an answer."

Syarra gracefully takes a seat by Roper's side, and Devon sits across from them, resting his hands on the table.

"You said my little sister suggested the defense of Redridge as a potential occupation," Devon says, and there is a question in the words, maybe something along the lines of why the hell is my little sister hanging out with death knights, but he doesn't ask that one just yet. Instead he says, "It is true that the safety of the region is a continuing problem, and the military has little support for us. I want to discuss what manner of help you might provide. Would you be seeking… employment with the militia here?"

"Naw, nothing like that," Roper says, rolling his wrist, a silver coin held between his fingers for a beat before he starts walking it back and forth along his knuckles. "We don't need money, and we don't need to push ourselves into the living's ranks. What we're asking for a space, a physical place we can exist in. Housing," he specifies, flipping the coin to his left hand, and walking it over those knuckles, his eyes on Devon. "We'll coordinate with the militia or whoever, so we're all working as allies, but we're not here to compete or join up and cause a fuss. What we're offering is a fucking unbreakable, indefatigable line that doesn't need supplies, and doesn't need funding to keep going. All we need is a target."

"Housing," Devon repeats, and presses his lips together. "Let's focus first on your requests, and then on the situation on the ground. I have heard of your work with Lord Fallon, as well as his work on behalf of your kind. That is one reason why we are meeting today, but I want to make certain it is possible for us to come to a positive agreement. What kind of housing would you require?" His gaze flicks to Syarra. "A lodge?"

There's a flicker of surprise before Syarra recovers her usual blank expression, and something in Devon seems to ease to see it. She says, "We have no intention of bringing a larger force. It is only myself and Roper who are looking for a place here. Nor do I have any plans to train any others in my tactics."

"And we're not getting in the family way," Roper drawls, the Polite Society description of being pregnant rolling off him with amusement, like he's using a foreign language he knows for effect. "Enough space that's fucking reasonable for two people. Doesn't matter to us if it's on the border, frequently raided or in unstable territory. That'd be a bonus, like finding out the place does delivery take out."

"Then something like a military camp," Devon says, steepling his fingers in thought. At the slight movement in his arms, Syarra shifts her gaze to his injured shoulder. Don't worry, she's just looking, not touching. "There's one to the north, west of the path into the Steppes, that's changed hands several times over the years. I can't promise it would be comfortable accommodations, but…" maybe that doesn't matter to you hangs in the air unsaid.

Roper runs his tongue along his teeth, flipping the coin up and over to his right hand again. "I grew up starving and homeless on the streets of Stormwind until I was old enough to serve the Kingdom to live and die for it, and now my 'accommodations' are a fucking torture cage in a necropolis of death," he says with a dark amusement, looking lazily around Devon's library study, before he pins the Count with that sharp gaze. "I'm gonna bet our scales of what's fucking 'comfortable' accommodations are a bit different."

"Anything that is a step up from a necropolis," Syarra says mildly, still staring at his shoulder. "I'm not fond of the decor."

Devon shifts uncomfortably, maybe considering the combination of 'torture cage' and 'decor', but he manages to keep his expression almost entirely free of revulsion as he says, "Then I expect you might find it comfortable enough. If you're to be an independent force, though, I have to clarify that I would still expect you to adhere to certain standards. I would not want a… torture display by the roadside."

Roper shrugs — it might strike Devon, if not consciously, that it resembles Dara's shrug. "We're fastidious monsters, and polite neighbors. You can ask the Argents. We have no problem following rules set out by our allies, as long as it's also clear that we do have to fucking eat. Just don't need you providing the rations. The orcs'll be as dead at the end of the days." Does he mean the days multiple for the time they'll be working, or that eventually the orcs will die after multiple days of torture? Unclear. Maybe don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, though.

"What kind of rules did you have in place when you worked with Lord Fallon?" Devon asks Roper, taking no note of Syarra's staring.

Roper continues to draw attention to his hands as he fidgets with the coin, tossing it, catching it, and moving it around. "With Fallon it was less rules and more…guidelines. We've been working with the living for years now. We don't need hand holding to know what's acceptable in war and what's fucking horrific. When we were training with the Argent Crusade to prepare for Icecrown, there were more rules about engagement, by necessity of practice. Syarra's worked within stricter rules of no disease, no ghouls, nothing that a death knight can do that an ordinary warrior couldn't," he says it dismissively, bordering on scornfully. "Fallon wasn't interested in hobbling us, and we aren't interested in shocking our allies."

At the sound of her name, Syarra manages to drag her gaze back to Devon's face. His expression is serious, but considering, as he watches the coin moving around and around.

"I've no interest in hobbling you, as that would rather be beside the point," Devon says, "But at the same time this is not Northrend. There are civilians here, people who have never seen the undead before. I can give you a place here, officially, but if I do… how would you handle it, if you accidentally shocked an ally? Or if someone saw… details that you would ordinarily keep out of sight?"

Roper makes a ha sound, not quite a laugh. "First off? I'd be impressed. We're not exactly easy to sneak up on. Any civilian who manages it either has untapped skills, or is having a really unlucky sort of day." He shrugs, a quick rise and fall of his right shoulder. "Among my skill sets when I was alive was talking my way out of a problem, and avoiding force. I've got more in my arsenal of force than I used to, but I haven't lost those skills. We're not fucking amateurs at this. We'll do what we can to keep something from escalating, and if it does, we walk away. We've got more ways than one to ride out and away." He spreads his hands out again, an open gesture.

"As for what they might do next, that's why we're here talking with you. Someone's gonna have to be who the living feel they can complain to if something happens, and it's not like sending Mograine a fucking memo will do fuck all. A fair arbitration with the living is the only real way to resolve this shit, and we'll own our mistakes if we make them, but we also want to know that there will be some protection from an overreaction or bias against the undead. The Alliance has had some issues with leaving death knights out to dry and setting them up for failure, and we're not interested in repeating them. It's just so passé," he drawls.

"Process might be tied up in that bill of Fallon's," Devon says with caution. "But I would hope that my house could assist to resolve disputes as they arise. I think recent events have at least tipped away from unfair treatment. The result of that trial, and Thassarian's command in the Western Plaguelands. It did not go well exactly, but he was free to succeed or fail on his own merit. I think that's our goal here."

"In my case, there is the potential for additional overreaction or bias," Syarra says in a low, even voice. "Though one could assume that death severs political ties." It feels like a question, even though she hasn't asked anything.

Devon looks at Syarra then. "I know Fallon well enough that he'd not have worked with you if either of you had … those kinds of ties."

Roper moves his hands in a there you go gesture. "That's the goal here," he agrees. "Not looking for a hand out, or asking you to stick your neck out for us. Just want some insurance to not be at the wrong end of a mob unless we really deserve it. We'll prove our fucking worth, same as we have been doing."

"That's the same I would ask of any soldier," Devon says seriously. "Regardless of how or where they're… made." That was probably meant to be some kind of sentiment about nobility and commoners, awkwardly twisted to a new purpose. However, the death knights are saved deciding how to respond to that one by an opening door. A maid steps in nervously, coming to a petrified stop when she sees the two undead at the table. She's clutching a feather duster in her hand.

Marin's voice is a little high as she hurriedly says, "Excuse me, sir, I was asked to bring… though I'm not sure why… has someone broken?" She pales further and hastily corrects to, "Something. Has something broken?"

Devon gives the maid a very particular look. "Thank you, Marin, you heard the bell? Coffee service, preferably cold."

Something in his tone is apparently a warning, because she straightens and holds out the feather duster for… whoever wanted that.

Roper makes an amused sound, and while there's a rolling laziness to his body language, it has the sense of someone knowingly moving slowly, as if he's aware of where the line between nervous and fear lives and he's deliberately not tipping it over, but perhaps enjoying the game of it. "That would be me," he says, in answer to maybe both of her questions, his hand stretched out, fingers making a gimme gesture. He tilts his head, and waves his other hand in an encompassing movement over himself. "Our armor got dusty on the way up here. Meant to clean up before sitting on the furniture, but didn't want to keep the Count waiting."

Marin takes a few shaky steps toward the death knight, and then inverts the duster to offer him the grip, almost like it's a sword or something. Syarra watches the whole procedure with an air like she's observing some kind of mildly entertaining display of the local fauna.

Roper plucks it from Marin's grip, spinning it lightly around his fingers like a baton, and then does literally as he said he would — he dusts at his armor, sweeping the feathers over the saronite like a man who knows how to clean and do it well; he's containing the dust more to the duster than pushing it off onto the furniture. It takes him a beat before he says, "Thanks." His brows flick up and down. "Dusters are better for getting dust off the spikes and the metal. They're just murder on most cloth. They'll shred mageweave like it and saronite are opposite forces locked in an eternal, unsung struggle."

Marin backs away, keeping a wary eye on the fastidious death knight. She doesn't answer directly, but only says, "Coffee, sir. I'll bring it right away."

She does not flee. Not because she's aware that would be a bad idea, most likely, but just because maids do not flee guests. She just backs away until she bumps into the door, and then lets herself out.

Syarra reaches out a hand for the duster when Roper is finished.

"I shall keep that in mind," Devon says. "In case you will need dusters in your supply. Out of curiosity, may I ask in what context you met Dara?"

Roper swipes the duster over Syarra's still gauntleted hand, somewhere between playful and possessive, before he flips it into the air and hands it over as he answers Devon, with a version of the truth, "The usual one of a mutual acquaintance in an idle moment." The smile he gives Syarra is crooked, like a shared joke, as he continues on, looking over to Devon to address him, "Like I said, we've been working with the Argents for a long time now, and we've been back in the Plaguelands where they've been active holding the region against the Cult of the Damned. Your sister is just one of those in the ranks of the Argent Crusade we've had reason to talk with more, especially now that she's working with one of us alongside that paladin of hers." Roper's eyes are sharp on Devon, even if his tone sounds casual, like of course Devon knows this, too. Does he though?

No, he does not. His careful poker face doesn't extend quite that far for surprise distressing information. It isn't hard to notice the tightening of his jaw, the flash of fear in his eyes, the slight uptick of pain as his shoulders tense. Syarra starts to lift her free hand toward Count Tennerow, to… comfort him? Let's go with that. But then she takes a deliberate breath and returns to dusting her armor.

"It does seem logical that the Ebon Blade and the Argent Crusade are so closely aligned," Devon says after a few moments, when he is calm enough to answer in a similar casual tone. "I myself have not been up to the Plaguelands since they were Eastweald. I shall have to ask Dara to make a thorough report of her work there."

"You need not worry," Syarra says, carefully curling the duster to remove dirt from her pauldron. "She and her paladin - Valonforth - seemed quite well when last we met."

"Shame about her hair though. But," Roper says, spreading his hands out in a magnanimous gesture. His smile has a dark edge to it, but his voice remains casual, no rasp and the drawl light. "The Light can't heal hair back after it's been burned off, and encountering Deathwing out on his rampage will do that."

Devon's hands tense, and there's an involuntary flick of his eyes to a portrait on the wall, one of a young man and woman who have the same dark hair and features, likely relatives of his. "Is Deathwing settled up in the Plaguelands now?"

"Not settled," Syarra answers, watching Devon closely. "As far as I'm aware, he is still roaming Azeroth, causing pain and death where he will."

Roper flicks a coin back into his palm, spins it up into the air, and catches it between his forefinger and middle finger; it's a gold coin with a hole in the center that looks like someone burned it into the metal. "You know, if you did want a thorough report sooner about what's going on in the Plaguelands right now, I'd be happy to provide one, especially to a member of the House of Nobles. Information is one of those skills that I didn't fucking lose. I'm sure Fallon would tell you that I may be a monster, but I'm a reliable source."

Devon furrows his brow slightly, considering Roper. "I anticipate Dara will… eventually… send some kind of report, but you know how young women are. If you are willing to provide your perspective on the situation, I would be happy to hear it."

Roper's smile pulls up higher, and the colder edge is replaced by satisfaction. "I'll have it to you end of day tomorrow," he says, a streak of professionalism showing, as his left hand taps out a slow beat on the arm of the chair. "Now it just depends on where I'm sending it from."

Devon frowns in thought, and just when it looks like he might be about to answer, the door creaks open again. Marin enters, pushing a rolling cart with a coffee pot, the condensation on the outside attesting to its coldness, and porcelain cups. There are also small pastries. The kitchen may not have been clear on what to send for undead.

"Coffee, if you please?" Marin says with a tremulous smile, wheeling it over to the side of the table. She might not have trusted herself with carrying a tray.

Roper takes a deep inhale as Marin gets closer. Maybe he's appreciating the aroma of the fresh coffee. It could certainly be interpreted that way, as he reaches out as the tray comes into his reach, snatching up a cup, twirling it around his finger by the handle in a possibly mildly alarming way, before he catches it in his palm. "I do please," he says in a drawl.

Marin very carefully lifts the coffeepot, leaning over towards the death knight in an offer to pour. Her hands only shake a little.

Roper watches as the coffee is poured into the cup, watching Marin more than the liquid itself, a sense that he's looking right through her skin and into her mind directly. As soon as his cup is full, he says, "Cheers. Little known fact that coffee brewed black and bitter as our souls and a feather duster for the armor keeps a death knight bright eyed and bushy tailed."

Marin flinches, and then gives a startled laugh as she processes the words. Then she looks nervously to Lord Tennerow, and carefully pours a second cup, offering it to Syarra.

"Thank you," Syarra says with a faint smile, watching the maid as she takes the porcelain cup in her un-gauntleted hand. The smile fades quickly, and Syarra says to her, not unkindly, "You need not stay and wait on us. I am not accustomed to such hospitality."

Devon clears his throat, and says, "Marin, you are dismissed."

The maid bobs a quick curtsey and hastily backs out of the room.

For one dangerous second, Roper watches her movement, a little too quick, a little too close to running away, but he focuses on his coffee, taking an actual drink of it, and turns the focus back on Devon, the impulse to give chase forced to the side. He flicks his brows up and down at Devon.

Syarra rests her hands around her coffee cup without taking a sip, and raises her own gaze to Devon as well. She says in an even and polite, if echoing, voice, "Did you have any further questions, sir?"

"I am curious if you've had any connection with the Azuredown house," Devon says, finally focusing on the elvish death knight. "If that might have influenced your decision to seek a place here."

"Not directly, no," Syarra says, in that same, calm tone. "It's a quel'dorei house, so no longer recognized in Silvermoon, as I understand. I have not met your prospective sister-in-law. But… in some part, yes, I had considered the likeliness of a welcome here."

Roper drinks his coffee impatiently, like a man either accustomed to doing shots of caffeine, or someone who isn't trying to use hospitality as a means to linger. "And teaming up with local quel'dorei to kill a bunch orcs fucking up the land they've invaded is the kind of neighborly bonding activities we can get on board with. Syarra has more experience with it than me, but I'm a fast learner," Roper drawls.

Devon shows no surprise at the comment on the status of the Azuredown house, at least that much he has likely discussed with Lady Kalindra. He shows slightly more surprise at the way Roper downs iced coffee. Syarra still simply holds her cup, like an accessory.

"Then, I think we can have an arrangement," Devon says carefully. "Though perhaps we can revisit in a few months time, to ensure all is going well. I can assign a guard to show you to the ruined camp up north, and you can determine if it is satisfactory to your needs? And I will agree to have someone of my House mediate disputes, if there are any, to avoid any escalation to legal action." Or pitchfork mobs.

"On our end, you can be sure we won't just up and go if things change. We'll make sure you have advance notice if we're leaving, and we'll work with a replacement or a plan. What you'll get with us out there is an unbreakable line. We don't have to rest or sleep, we don't need supplies, and we don't ever have to fucking stop as long as they keep coming. That's what makes us different from a standard soldier." Roper raises his empty cup. "Not that we'll say no to coffee though. We're undying indefatigable monsters, but no one said we can't appreciate the beverage of choice for workaholics everywhere."

"That is an easy concession to make, for an unbreakable line," Devon nods. "We can send a ration of coffee to you regularly. And I think I have seen that you can comport yourself in a manner to alleviate distress, rather than cause it. I apologize, my staff is ordinarily more professional."

"They are living," Syarra offers, in a tone that seems to accept his apology. "There is usually some varying degree of alarm, at first - it's a natural instinct and one not unmerited."

"They're new at it. We aren't," Roper says, flipping his coin. "And I do mean, Syarra and me specifically. Not every death knight has those skills. Some focused in so hard on the fight against Arthas that they got in too deep into the undead mentality. You should know, you find you run into that type, we'll handle it before it gets worse. The Ebon Blade is an ally against our common enemies. Individuals who fucking forget that get a reminder." There's a faint echo in his voice, the first sign of it, dark and cold.

"I shall keep that in mind, should I encounter others of your order," Devon says, staring at them. "Which I expect is only going to become more likely, the way things are going in the House. So, I believe we have a deal?"

Roper rolls up into a stand, the saronite armor only a small snag against the cultivated agility, as he sets the coffee cup to the side, the coin vanished somewhere. This time, he crosses to Devon fully, not bowing, as he extends his hand out for a handshake, his unblinking eyes focused on Devon's. "We have a deal."

Syarra rises silently, but makes no move towards Devon herself, her face carefully neutral as she watches for his reaction.

Devon tenses as Roper approaches, and that faint dull ache in his shoulder rising again briefly as he reaches to take Roper's hand. "I expect we will work well together."