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| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | Dane Atley meets Siamus Fallon for a drink in Stormwind. He has some questions about Tol Barad and the Twilight's Hammer; Siamus has some uneasy answers about the state of things in Kalimdor. Then it gets a little sentimental. Wallet photos have not yet been invented. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
In early February the winter dark still closes in on Stormwind early; a little after five p.m., the streets of the Dwarven District are lit only by the lanterns swinging from the front of various storefronts and houses, the firelight spilling from windows, and the ruddy glow of the forge at the heart of the district.
South of the forge and the little plaza where blacksmiths still toil into the evening, along the road that leads through a district gate and up toward Stormwind Keep, is a tavern whose sign names it The Crowned Lion. Or is meant to name it that; the last round of graffiti having been scrubbed away, vandals wasted no time in re-dubbing it The Cowardly Lion.
Inside, the tavern crowd is a motley mix of the district's ordinary citizens, some prosperous-looking and prominent businessmen, and a number of members of the House of Nobles.
Toward the back of the tavern, at a small table tucked close to a corner, Admiral Siamus Fallon stands propped against the table's edge, arms folded across his chest, in conversation with a uniformed Stormwind Guard. His overcoat is draped over the back of a chair, his suit coat folded and draped atop it. A glass of whiskey and a tankard of Dwarven ale stand on the table, both untouched.
Sir Dane Atley takes a moment to peer at the sign before he steps inside and issues a long, quiet exhalation, looking over the tavern of well-to-do merchants and noblemen, seeing nothing much more than a pit of vipers.
He wears his fine clothing, which is to say clothing that is just simple enough for him to tolerate while also meeting the requirements of decency for his station, a small unspoken protest perhaps. Sturdy brown boots and pants, with a leather vest to match, all embroidered with golden fineries. Blue sleeves of a work shirt underneath accompanied by work gloves cleverly disguised as stylized travelling mitts, also russet with inlaid golden thread. Lastly, a brutalist vrykul dagger glows in a sheath on his hip, length bordering more on short sword than dirk.
He looks over the the serpentine nest for a moment before he makes note of the guard, and approaches the Admiral’s table, weaving broad shoulders through the crowd, grunting politely at a passing barmaid. He marches right up to the pair and inclines his head.
“Gentlemen.”
Siamus has straightened from the table's edge at Dane's approach, though he spares the other man's approach only a sidelong glance, still focused soberly on the Guard.
When Dane greets them, though, both men turn to him, and Siamus's expression changes in an instant to smiling warmth. "Atley. It's good to see ye, man." He offers a handshake.
He does not introduce the Guard, nor does the Guard introduce himself; he nods once, respectfully, to Dane, and then turns and melts away through the crowd.
"Sit," Siamus invites. "I took the liberty of ordering you a drink, but if ye don't want ale I'll happily get ye a different one."
Dane accepts the handshake, and meets it firmly, as always. Atley works his jaw and glances around, performing a habitual, cursory perimeter scan of their surroundings while doing his best to ignore the looks thrown his way. “Ale‘ll do just fine,” Atley says.
He cinches his thumbs in his belt and briefly turns his head to the side, vaguely in the direction the guard went, keen green eyes set on Siamus. “Mate of yours, then? Seems I’ve interrupted something,” Atley observes, voice kept to a calm, quiet growl before he lowers to take a seat at the table.
Siamus shrugs a dismissive shoulder. "Friend of a friend," he says. He thinks a moment and then amends, "Colleague of a friend. Just answering some curiosity of mine."
He turns to pull out the chair with his coats draped over it, and makes a gesture of invitation at the other chair. "And I'm sorry to delay a moment in whatever it is ye want to discuss, but how are Mrs. Atley and the newest Atley faring?"
Atley settles into his seat, the wood creaking slightly underneath him. He grabs it from below and shifts an inch or two forward to rest his wrists on the table. “She’s well,” he remarks fondly. “Recovers bloody fast. There’s not a lot that can keep that woman down when she’s got a mind to get up and out. I’m certain you know the type.”
Atley grunts. “Lila’s my flower. Makes Karson look like a great behemoth. Great set of pipes on her, like an organ, and she’s taken to being nocturnal, but she’s lovely and in good health.” Atley inclines his head. “And how fares your lady and your lads?”
Siamus lights up. If Azeroth were a place where people carried baby photos in their wallets, this is the moment he would absolutely whip them out. Instead he just says, "Ah, they're perfect, all three. Absolutely brilliant. Ye should see the boys. Their eyes don't match." He relates this baffling fact as proudly as if he'd arranged it on purpose. "And Her Grace is much like Mrs. Atley; she was doing business the morning of right up until, and then at it again only a couple of days later." He raises his glass in a silent salute to industrious wives.
Atley raises his ale in agreement and scoffs faintly in light hearted, confused amusement at the announcement of the twins’ unmatching eyes, before he takes a drink and settles back in his seat. “I hear you’ve made Admiral, Siamus,” Atley begins with a wry look on his ever-gruff features. “It seems you know a thing or two about boats after all.” Atley says, with a tone of military-style good natured ribbing.
Siamus laughs with genuine warmth. "A thing, maybe two, aye. I'm learning." His dark gaze gleams with amusement at Atley as he takes another sip of his drink. "How's Cobalt faring? We had Aspen–" Siamus hesitates and then says, almost as if it were a foreign word, "Colson to the house a couple've weeks back. He was telling us about Uldum. Not much call for ships, I understand."
Atley’s gaze flickers knowingly at the name hesitation, and he nods. “No. Not much call for ships,” Atley admits before he takes another sip. “At least not yet. They’ve a river system running through the heart of it that may be worth a look.” He takes another drink and looks back to Siamus. “Tol Barad, of course, is another situation.”
Any trace of humor is wiped instantly from Siamus' expression. It is as though a mask has dropped away to reveal a much wearier, grimmer man; he has aged half a dozen years in a heartbeat.
"Aye," he says. "Tol Barad is another situation. Tol Barad's quite a few situations."
Atley nods slowly as he examines Siamus. “I wanted to gather your shape of the situations,” he begins. “Directly from the Admiralty. I’ve answered the call to arms posted in our headquarters, and been fighting there, largely alongside Sir Kyris Lysander.”
He slowly shakes his head. “It’s a wretched place. Strategic value cannot be denied, but there’s something wrong with that place. Many somethings.“ He tongues the inside of his cheek. “Baradin’s Wardens are dead hard, hanging in as long as they’re able, Stromic and Tirasian, a potent mix, but they’re poorly supplied.”
Siamus grimaces and presses fingertips to his forehead as if he could smooth the lines there. "The isles were supplying them," he says. "Kul Tiras, that is. Even after Theramore. It's still Tirasian territory, nominally, so no one else has claimed the place. But it seems the Wardens have been left to their own devices for… tides know how long, and tides know when resupply from Kul Tiras stopped coming. Sometime after the Wrathgate, would be my most generous guess.
"And aye, the Wardens are… dead hard. But if there's a thing I won't forgive my homeland, it's abandoning them and that place. They know damned well how it matters for Alliance security — it was Proudmoore's Fleet that used it as a base! — and to pull back and leave it to fend for itself, without provision to pass it back to the Alliance, is a piece of outright malice."
He slumps back in his chair and folds his arms. "The place isn't right, I know. I wasn't aware how not right until we started getting these reports. But the whole isle was soaked with blood in the Second War, and there's… Baradin Hold, as well. I don't know whether the Kirin Tor abdicated their responsibility when Kul Tiras did, or when Archimonde crushed Dalaran and they closed ranks to rebuild themselves, or — what. There were wards on the Hold, arcane wards. I couldn't tell ye when they were last renewed or verified or… whatever the hell upkeep magic requires." He shrugs tiredly. "Maybe it doesn't. Maybe the wards in the outer walls have held. But I'd lay money that whatever darkness has infested the place, some part of it has roots in the Hold."
Atley listens intently, his own brow furrowed in thought. Bushy brows faintly knit and lift upon Siamus’ explanation. He takes another slow pull from his tankard but otherwise remains attentive.
He issues a tonally neutral but forceful grunt as the abandonment is touched upon, and tongues the inside of his cheek as he squints in thought.
After Siamus finishes he looks over his shoulder for a time to let the information settle. “That’d be a safe bet, by my reckoning,” he says at last. “Some kind of evil has seeped into the land there, leaving aside how haunted ‘tis by the Second War. We spend most of our time breaking an unruly wilderness, driving off pirates, maddened deserters, escaped demons and undead than we do bringing the fight to the Horde.”
He raises his tankard. “Not to say they aren’t about, and we aren’t seeing to them. Hellscream’s Reach is a competent force. We’ve yet to assault their primary encampment but we’ve put down a number of their patrols. Their infantry continuously skulks into the land around the Hold, no matter how many we put down. I’ve no knowledge of their own supply lines, but if we’re hurting, they must be. Hellscream has his marauders spread thin ‘round the world, and they’re paying for every inch they claim on those isles with blood.”
"The pirates I knew of," Siamus says. "It was Proudmoore's Fleet from their base on Tol Barad that used to patrol the Baradin Bay and keep the place clean of pirates. As soon as the Fleet abandoned the place, I'm sure the pirates thought it the height of humor to take the place for themselves." Siamus does not sound like he finds it humorous. "The undead and demons, the madness in the deserters — " He shakes his head. "That was all news for me.
"I do believe Hellscream wasn't able to land as many on the island as he initially intended, because the orcs are no great sailors and their fleet wasn't ready for the conditions in the waters around the place." Siamus does look like he finds that humorous, in a bleak way. "I know they lost some number of ships on the rocks and reefs. And aye, I expect their supply lines are drying up. I've got two ships coming off other duties that I might turn loose in the waters west of the isle and see whether we can blockade them, make supplies even more a problem, at least by sea. They must have their own portal by now, though."
He's silent a moment. Then he sits forward again to put his elbows on the table, and lowers his voice.
"They may be having trouble with numbers and supplies by Hellscream's own orders, though, if whispers out of Kalimdor are true and the focus turns that way."
Atley frowns faintly to himself as he listens, and turns his head to the side. He leans in, too. “I know of their desperation to reduce Ashenvale to mulch to keep scratching a living out of their noble home in a barren canyon. Some of the flooding of their lands, also, that were by no means bountiful to begin with.” Atley says with a scoff of derision.
He takes a sip and shakes his head. “Wot’ve you heard?”
Siamus shakes his head. "It's all… rumors and caution, but. Ye heard about the business in the Barrens? Camp Taurajo?"
Atley nods pointedly and glances around again, toned throat rolling with a swallow. “I did,” he answers simply, without elaborating on specifics of his education on the topic. “Area Commander marched and put some Tauren encampment to the sword.”
Siamus nods back grimly. He looks down into his glass and speaks even more quietly, as though explaining the situation to the whiskey. "Bad intelligence. Army was told — by whom, I've no idea, no one seems to — that the place was a training camp, turning out Horde warriors. Wasn't the case. But ye might expect it would sit bitter wi'the tauren, who're historically the most peaceable of the lot. We’ve riled up some trouble we might not’ve had otherwise.
"Now our people in the Barrens are…." Siamus considers. "There's a bad feeling in the air. Nothing concrete. Intelligence on the ground suggests Hellscream's pulling his forces in, tapping his allies. Again, nothing concrete. But Kalimdor's been a powderkeg all this while, and there's a chance the hostilities are about to boil out of the elf-lands and toward our other outposts there. Navy's just sent a ship of mine — along wi'the Moody, by the by — off to reinforce Northwatch Hold on the coast wi' fresh troops and supply."
Atley strokes his beard in thought as he listens, and watches. "It may've been the Twilight's Hammer again, issuing the false intel, driving us against each other, that is unless you consider the General on site a glory hound, eager to have a bridge or somming' named after him," Atley says, or asks, dryly. "Still, though I greatly resent the Twilight's deciding our strategy for us, t'may prove favorable for us. Turn their heartlands into a battleground, keep the fight near them. See the Barrens ruined by war, its airspace compromised, its game run off."
He cranes his head in a nod. "Doesn't bode well, the damage to the men's morale. The confusion. Ought to get someone in there that can clarify our mission, give the men direction. Our folk want to fight, and shall, if they've proper direction." He raises his tankard. "You're being worn thin. You must be. I know it, it's not easily seen, but I'm grateful we've hard chargers in the upper command."
A little of the tired tension in Siamus's expression eases, and he smiles briefly at Atley. "I'm only a patriot," he says, and shrugs. "There are days I do feel like it's only men like you and I who remember the orc wars before the Scourge. We'll be fighting the Second War all over again, and shaming the memory of men like Lothar and the late Lord Admiral who secured that victory decades ago." He shakes his head.
"I do suspect the Twilights behind the bad intelligence. There are more days in the week than not that I suspect them of half the delays and foul-ups and bureaucracy standing between us and the navy we should have by now, as well." He turns his glass idly on the table. "I may be starting at shadows at this point. Military bureaucracy's always been… what it is. But we do know they're among us."
Atley grunts and nods slowly, raising a tankard in support of fallen heroes. He takes a moment to digest Siamus’ words, raising his tankard to his lips again while he overlooks their fellow patrons, especially after ‘among us.’ He grunts again. “Dug themselves in deep, haven’t they. Prestor — Onyxia — only the tip of the iceberg.” He suddenly issues a silent snarl, features contorting in sharp anger. “That’s the problem with these skulkers. Cult of the Damned was the same way. By the time we realized they were our true enemy they’d already infested — ” He cuts himself off, takes a breath, and pauses. Maybe there are enough prematurely aged men sitting at one table. “I’ll never say I long for war, but I do miss the days of open field conflict with your enemy, instead of this endless secrecy.”
He looks back to Siamus and refocuses. “Wot’ news are you able to share of the assassination attempt on the king?”
Siamus slides his glass back and forth idly some more and watches it, contemplating. At last he says, "It's a bad business. Already been covered over — evidence interfered with and so on — enough that we know they're still with us. His Majesty's got Shaw and Major Samuelson — the former Guard commander? — working on it on the Throne's behalf. Myself, Ference, and Tennerow are looking into it for the House. I've been… I have friends among the Guard, and it's plain something went badly awry that day, but there’s so much… territorial horseshite between the districts and everyone already pointing at everyone else — " He shakes his head and has a sip of his drink. "Not even the lads I know inside have half an idea what went wrong or how."
He studies Atley. "Couple've your people lending a hand with it now."
Atley grunts and finishes off his tankard, hard features appeased by Siamus’ reveal. “I warrant I know better than to ask which in particular,” he growls with amusement before he shakes his head. “I’m proud, but I’m not surprised. The Company’s expanded a great deal since the early days. Four, separate, hard-charging squads ranging about out there. Not to say our individual members have a habit of sitting still.”
He tongues the inside of his cheek. “I want to be of use if there’s some use to be. I trust you’ll let me know if there’s something I can do.” He sets his jaw. “Ought to hang each and every last conspirator outside the gates, once they’re found out. Do it like the old ways.“ He raises that empty tankard. “I warrant they’ll be easier to flush out, the more of them we slay out in the world.”
Siamus nods at him. "And a fine contribution Cobalt's making in that endeavor. Ye know I don't admire a mercenary, as a rule, but ye know as well that I consider Cobalt the exception that shames the rest. If I could hire you lot wholesale to make a navy…." He shakes his head wearily. "But as it is, I appreciate your offer, and ye know I'll call on ye if there's aught I believe ye might help with."
Atley grunts. “Always hated mercenaries, myself, as you know. Whingers and moaners, the lot of them.” He shakes his head and settles into his seat. The chair squeaks underneath him. “Cobalt’s a different cut, altogether.”
He glances back at Siamus and studies him for a moment. “Let’s talk of something else while I’ve got you, then.” A beat. “Wot’ do you make of fatherhood, Siamus?” he inquires, upnodding.
Siamus breaks into a broad, involuntary smile. "Ah, it's brilliant. They're brilliant, aren't they? Such little… people already, full of… the future. Promise." His smile fades behind a sober shadow. "And purpose. It makes what we do about more than just honor, valor, patriotism. Ye can know the future ye safeguard. How precious it is. And fragile."
That's a whole lot of sentimentality, whew, and he fiddles with his glass again and looks away over his shoulder a moment before turning back. "Ery's something of a terror. She'll rule the nursery with an iron fist. How are your two? How d'you find it all?"
Atley inclines his head, eyes growing soft in what may, or may not, be an uncharacteristic expression. "I find it… well." he hedges with a growl. "Quite well. They've got great spirits packaged into tiny bodies." He lifts his gaze from his tankard and shoots Siamus a wry look. "Karson's a sturdy lad. Like a sack of bricks, him. Great big head and belly." He shakes his head and tongues the inside of his cheek. "That one's got a big heart. Bit of his mother's cheekiness, too, I warrant. I've introduced him to Lyra, as well. He enjoys petting her, and I enjoy seeing her grow familiar with him on our small walks."
He tries his tankard before realizing it’s empty, and politely but wordlessly raises it towards a nearby barmaid. "Lila's good-sized. Not particularly heavy, but she was a long baby. She's healthy, but properly dwarfed by him. She's got a way of looking about the room, even now at just a few weeks, like she's trying to figger' something out. Figger' you out." He idly works his jaw. "I'd never expected to have any of my own. Was fatherhood always your charted course?"
Siamus considers the question. "I suppose — aye. Though the reasons have changed over time. When I was young, it was a man's duty, like joining the service; ye passed on the family line, ye had your own sons to offer into the nation's service after you. So it was in the plan, but… I was in no hurry. The plan was always that the naval career came first and above all.
"After Theramore and the split from Kul Tiras, House Fallon was only Sintha and myself, and so then it was still a duty but a little more urgent. I'd have to not just continue but establish the House in Starmwend, ensure Fallon's name and service to the Crown didn't end wi' me. Back home, I hadn’t had a House riding on me. My father was a fifth son, I'd never have been lord in my own right." He picks up his glass absently and sets it down again.
"But ever since Ery… well. It's something different, isn't it? When ye realize."
Atley quietly has his tankard taken from him and replaced with a refill, courtesy of a barmaid. He grunts his thanks to her without losing his concentration on Siamus, listening with a set jaw.
He grunts and takes a moment. "'Tis," he begins. "Quite a bloody realization. Makes me feel old, f'course, I've already felt older than I am, and have for some time." He works his jaw, idly gnashing his teeth, before he shakes his head. "I was orphaned, in the First War. Like many natives of Stormwind," he explains briefly, with a brisk tone and concice enunciation. "I thought I'd be the last of my line, until them."
After a small drink from his tankard he shakes his head. "I have Ivri. Her and I together alone was family enough. Always shall be, but — ” He shakes his head. "I look at them, and I see my features, and I know that my bloodline is living on. Suppose we've that in common, Siamus, in a way." He cranes his head with a grunt. "I warrant the little ones will never truly realize our sentiment towards them."
"Aye, well, it's for the best," Siamus says dryly. "The way Ery would rule the roost if she knew her advantage…." (As if she doesn't already.) "I imagine it can't be the same way for all fathers. The Admiral — the late Admiral, my father — he was a man without an ounce of sentiment in him. But I expect that just makes us the luckier ones." He smiles crookedly at Atley.
Atley scoffs with amusement, and nods in agreement. "Suppose so," he concedes, raising his tankard, before he takes a swig and finishes the whole thing off in a few quiet gulps. He sets it down on the table with a contented grunt. "Cheers, for the drink, and the talk. We ought to keep it up," Atley says. "I'll leave you to this lot, Siamus, and be on my way." Atley says, pushing himself up.
Siamus rises to his feet as well to see the other man off, offering his hand again. "Always a pleasure, no matter the subject. Ye must come by the house some time as well, yourself and Mrs. Atley and the children."
Atley grunts and meets the handshake, firmly. "We'd enjoy it, I'm certain. Give my regards to your kin," he growls. He turns to march out, shoulders swinging through the crowd, at a pace that may be just a bit too fast for any lobbyists or nobleman to catch him without being especially assertive.