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| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | After Blue Squad's work on Sunday is done, Atley meets with Siamus to discuss what should be done about Anduin. The two of them and Lena consider the various forces at play in Pandaria; Siamus is going to need his notebook and a better map. Everyone agrees it's time to call in the Spooky Specialists. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Thunder cracks above the jungles of Krasarang. Lightning rips across the sky in jagged, blinding strokes. What began as a persistent rain earlier in the day has swelled into a full onslaught, the sort of storm that seems to crawl out of the very sea itself.
The jungle shivers with noise and motion. Wind tears through the canopy. Sheets of rain hammer the region from the western coastline to Zhu Province, rolling in from the southwestern sea and sweeping unhindered towards the Jade Forest.
The locals take it in stride. Fishermen retreat into their stilted huts along the coast; the folk of Zhu’s Watch draw shut their shutters and gather around lanternlight, filling their taverns with warm murmur and clattering bowls. Storms like this are no strangers to them.
But Atley stands outside.
He waits on the back patio of the Wild’s Edge Inn, planted firmly beneath the jutting roof that keeps only the worst of the rain off. His blue-and-gold raiment is nearly swallowed by the thick, suffocating dark of the storm. His cloak and tabard snap violently in the wind, the golden raiment on his chest flashing each time lightning forks above — Thunderfury crackling on his back with aching empathy with the storm, flashing like a strobe at times.
Having sent word ahead to Admiral Fallon's fleet, he waits for a summons. Literally.
It isn't too terribly long before the literal summons arrives, a sense of a question deep inside his mind, a soul reaching out an open hand to another soul. It is there waiting, not insisting on itself, for Atley to accept or deny.
Atley closes his eyes, sets his jaw, furrows his brow, and accepts, gauntlets balling into steel fists.
He can tell he is aboard the ship when the ground he stands on begins heaving beneath him. When he opens his eyes, he is standing in the captain's cabin aboard the Lady Blanche.
It is generously-sized as ship's cabins go, but the ceiling is low enough to rest nearly atop Atley's head, and he will be obliged to duck beneath beams that support the deck above. The ship rolls with a queasy, irregular storm-rhythm, unpredictable underfoot, and the stern windows of the cabin are dark and obscured by running rain and sea spray. A pair of lanterns hung from hooks overhead fail to illuminate the room completely; they swing back and forth with the ship's movement, and shadows and light shift continually from one moment to the next. The noise of rain and sea on the deck and hull of the ship is a tremendous wash of sound.
Siamus waits by the portal. He has clearly just come below, and is still wearing an oilskin raincoat over his uniform. His hair, black with wet, has been raked carelessly back from his face. He stands braced, his feet planted at shoulder-width, and bears the ship's wild movement as easily as if it were still. Standing beside him in a soaked pea jacket is the wiry lieutenant Mac, squinting expectantly at the portal.
Lena, the source of the portal, steps back with a satisfied nod. "Sir Atley. Watch your footing."
Atley takes a firm step, steadying himself aboard the Lady Blanche as the last tremor of teleportation runs through him. He blinks once, adjusts to the dim cabin, and promptly catches the wing of his helmet on a ceiling beam. With a low grunt, he ducks, slides the helmet off, and tucks it beneath his arm before raking a gauntleted hand through his thick hair.
His jaw sets in familiar disdain — not at the cabin’s condition, but at the simple fact of being on a ship, and in the middle of a storm besides.
His green eyes flick to Lena, then shift to Siamus. He snaps a salute without thinking. “Admiral.” He notes the insignia beside him. “Lieutenant.” Finally, he inclines his head toward Lena. “Lena.”
Clearing his throat, he adds, “Grateful to be received.” He nods at Siamus, shadows dancing across his rugged features. "I trust you've a moment to talk?"
Siamus returns the salute with a smile. "Sir Atley. Always a pleasure. And I do, aye." He glances over at Lena and then back to Dane. "I presume Mrs. Shine can stay for whatever business ye have?"
Lena looks over towards Atley's decision with a mask of polite interest, though there's a hint of eager sharpness in her eyes at the prospect of news from Blue Squad.
Atley nods. “Aye,” he says. “Everyone’s alright and sorted on my end,” he adds customarily. “I understand you’ve dispatched some men to rescue and secure the Prince.”
He sets his jaw and evenly meets Siamus’ gaze. “I’d like him stay in country, instead. Guarded by those same men, and I say that knowing we’ve not got many to spare.”
Siamus raises his eyebrows. After a moment, he glances at Mac and nods, and the man takes his leave silently. Siamus turns away and crosses the pitching floor to shrug out of his dripping coat and hang it from a hook on the wall.
"I did send men, aye. Shine told ye, I expect?" He turns back again. "I'd no intention of moving him from the continent, but ye've got Sunwalkers and now Hellscream's people all through that jungle, on top of sha and… those lizard-men and whatever other native threats. I'd be resting easier if His Highness were safe aboard here. And, I don't mind telling ye, I'd be hearing a deal less shit from Stormwind, if Mrs. Shine will pardon my Common." Siamus glances at Lena and then back to Dane.
"But the Prince was gone before mine ever reached the place. When they reported back as much, I set 'em on his trail with direction only to find him and stick with him if they can." Siamus shakes his head. "It's one of my lieutenants leading 'em, and I can't spare him long, but Tennerow's army lads are moving north of Krasarang, and I've sent word to him to intercept if they can. Once they're with His Highness, mine'll fall back. Tides willing."
Lena steps over to a chair, tidying her own discarded raincloth absently while all her attention is on Siamus and Atley's words. Mildly, she adds,"I'm a touch surprised His Majesty hasn't come to Pandaria himself, after all this, and diplomacy be damned."
Atley briefly looks at Mac and waits for his full departure before he looks at Lena. "I trust His Majesty would like nothing else than to personally come and claim his son, but he's kept to his duties as High King."
Looking back to Siamus, he works his jaw before continuing.
"I'd have Tennerow's men guard him, then. Or at least keep his trail," Atley says at last. "Your reasons are sound. Truth be told, every fiber of my being wants him whisked away from this place for those same reasons. The agitation only grows every time he sneaks off and away, but…"
He tongues the inside of his cheek. "In my gut, he belongs here. For how long, for wot' for, I cannot say, not yet. But I've seen him in action. His grasp of the Sha as an outlander, wot' they were, came about 'fore any of us. He was indispensable at the Temple of the Red Crane. I once thought this was the rebellious whims of a bloody teenager, but it's not. He's being pulled somewhere. Towards this … Vale. And I believe only he can reach it. Light knows I wish he were anyone but the bloody Prince of the bloody Alliance, but it's true.
"He's our connection to the Celestials. The land out there doesn't work like any other place we've known, and as of late it's been behaving strangely altogether. The Mists of Pandaria receding. These mogu uprisings, the Sha, and now mantids, encroaching from the west, centuries early."
"Mantids?" Lena echoes, watching Atley's expression.
Siamus opens a clinking cupboard and takes out a bottle of liquor by absentminded habit as he waits for Atley's reply.
"'Bug men.' Ancient Pandaren enemies. They invade from the west every thousand years, so it's said. They come from the other side of a great wall that spans nearly the entire bloody continent. Reportedly, it puts even the Greymane Wall to shame. They're hitting the Valley hard, and we've encountered raiding parties in the northwest of the Wilds," Atley says, slowly looking between them. "And they're ahead of schedule."
"So much for no war in these lands," Lena says, raising one eyebrow. "If it happens regularly, does that mean the pandaren in the west have a military tradition to defend their people?"
"If they do, we could stand to see a little more of their military tradition stepping up on our side," Siamus says dryly. "What are these bug men like? Serious threat? Drink?" The last question seems unrelated to the two prior, as he gestures with the bottle at Atley.
Atley grunts. "Aye."
He looks around. "Seeing as this is a Fallon vessel, I suspect there's a map about?"
"Tch. Aye." Siamus hands Atley the bottle. It's fifty/fifty whether that's Atley's drink now or Siamus has just been distracted.
He moves aft across the shifting floor to the desk beneath the row of windows and lifts the top of it; beneath is a flat compartment full of maps and charts. "Map of what, precisely? My Pandaria's limited as yet, ye understand."
Atley examines the bottle, the glass clinking against the palm of his gauntlet, before he looks to Siamus. "The most complete map of Pandaria'll do to understand the situation."
Siamus leafs through parchments and draws two out, then moves to the table at the center of the room to spread the maps atop it. The swinging lanterns illuminate them unevenly.
The first map depicts the Jade Forest in minute, complete detail, covered with numbered elevations and handwritten notes, but the coastline in the north, to the west of the Forest, trails off vaguely. The southern coastline of the Forest and Krasarang are also meticulous, with depth soundings and notations about rocks and shoals offshore noted in addition to the jungle's inland terrain and the road from Zhu's Watch, but again to the west beyond Nayeli Lagoon, the map fades out in a few nebulous lines. The swathe of territory inland, above Krasarang and west of the Jade Forest, is blank.
The second map is of Pandaren make, and it appears to depict the whole of the continent, but in a colorful, stylized fashion rather than a detailed topography. Notes have been hand-written on it, in what is clearly — to judge from the first map — Siamus' own hand, but the basic quality of the map is more that of a classroom piece or a tourist's colorful guide rather than a meticulous navigational tool.
"These are the best I've got," Siamus says. He doesn't sound thrilled about it. "Peddler in Zhu's Watch promised to bring me better than this one, but for now if ye want the whole continent, this will have to do. Mine so far only cover the coasts and the territories Shine or the fleet have been."
Atley offers the bottle back, then unlatches his gauntlets and looks over the map with a wry scoff of amusement. "Aye, I can tell Shine's been here," he observes, hanging the gauntlets on his belt before drawing closer to the more stylized, local map.
He sets his index finger down on the most northwestern point of the Krasarang Wilds and slowly drags it straight north, until after crossing the Valley of the Four Winds, it takes a diagonal slant and continues northwest before it meets the ocean on the opposite coast.
"They call it the 'Serpent's Spine.' Bloody ancient, but maintained. Garrisoned by Shado-Pan," he looks up, glancing between Shine and Lena. "They're still not properly interested in sharing strategies or exact numbers with us, but they're a small, elite force. Capable fighters, but they may be anywhere between dozens, hundreds, to just under or over a thousand. The entire point of the Serpent's Spine is to counter the mantid. Slow them down, if not keep the greater score of them out. Wot' we've seen thus far seems to be a trickle before the flood."
Siamus takes the bottle back as absently as he'd given it away, and then just stands holding it as he considers Atley's explanation. He sort of seems to have forgotten it, or what he'd planned to do with it. "Shado-Pan — that was the one that met ye when ye landed, as well, aye? Told ye of the sha? And to fuck off? — Begging Mrs. Shine's pardon, again."
Mrs. Shine seems surprised by neither the cursing nor the begging pardon.
Atley scoffs with amusement and straightens up — promptly cracking his head on a beam. Thud.
His gaze snaps forward, a flicker of rage cutting across his rugged features before he clamps it down. He lifts a hand to roughly rub the back of his head, then nods. “Aye. In so many words. With the mantid returning early, it’s doubtful they’ll be able to hold it themselves — stretched thin as they are by us, and the Horde, and all else afoot.”
"Mind your head," Siamus says. "They wouldn't have to be stretched thin by us if they'd work with us. Tell me about the mantid. Pandaren have any thoughts on why they're… early?"
"Nothing substantial," Atley says, lowering his hand. "We initially came across a group of pilgrims who were en route to the Temple of the Red Crane when they were ambushed by mantid forces. But wot'ver it is that's driving all this — the mantid, the mogu, the Sha, the mists themselves — it's got to be linked, Siamus."
Siamus pats the bottle he's holding thoughtfully and nods, and then remembers he's holding a bottle. "Mrs. Shine, ye have a drink as well?"
"Certainly, if you like, Admiral," Lena says distractedly, looking at where Atley indicated on the map, the 'Serpent's Spine.' "If they need our help, maybe we can use that to get these Shado-Pan to work with us. But linked — how might such different things be linked? Is one causing the other three? I don't think I know half enough to even guess, if that's the case. Maybe all influenced by the Sha at the heart…"
"Something of the sort," Atley says, looking between them. "The Prince has a way of making friends here. Wot'ever's guiding him as legitimately aided us."
Siamus returns to the cupboard — he pauses on the way, a moment before the ship heaves violently underfoot, and then proceeds — and gets a glass out. He pours a small measure of liquor into the glass and brings it to Lena before going back for a second glass. "In order of our encountering the threats here — other than Horde — it's been sha, mogu, now mantid. Is that correct?" He tips a little whiskey into the second glass and brings it to Atley. "Or sha, hozen, mogu, saurok, mantid, if we want to be comprehensive.
"We could theorize the sha stirred first and set off the rest, but have ye seen evidence of sha among the mogu? I'm under the impression that no. We could theorize that the mogu are behind it, and whatever they're up to roused the sha, but how do the mantid and the rest come in? And why are the mogu doing whatever the hell they're doing now? Why did the mists lift now?" As he talks, he's collecting a third glass for himself.
He pauses while he pours and then says, "I'm inclined to start with the hypothesis that the sha came first. That's the one force we've seen can have a curious power over the actions of others. But if it's the unifying element, did the Sha lift the mist or did the mist lifting unleash the Sha? And what's it driving the mogu and others to? Is it… conscious? Capable of motive? I should be writing this down. D'ye think His Highness has some immunity, or particular understanding of the Sha?"
"If it's conscious, and it lifted the mists, that means it wants us here," Lena says, raising her gaze to stare at some distant point as she swirls the whiskey in the glass. "Not a comforting thought, but we might should keep it in mind. A lot of pieces to this puzzle with unclear shapes, though, so we'll need to slot things together as we go. Has the Prince shown any signs of sha infection?"
Atley raises a hand overhead to one of the beams as the ship heaves, briefly anchoring himself. Slowly looking between them, he shakes his head. “He’s shown no signs of Sha corruption, but I doubt he’s immune to it. I doubt anyone is. He’s a Wrynn, but he’s also gentle hearted and even keeled … ‘spite all the mischief and the buggering off. I can’t imagine Sha taking him so easily. He’s turned out to be an asset as equally as a liability. He resonates with this place in a way unlike any of the rest of us.”
He clenches and unclenches his jaw a few times. “The Prince has a sort of intuition that’s guided him well here, so far.” He tilts his head back and forth. “The Sha itself — themselves — they’re largely intuitive on their own, but I’d not be surprised if some intelligence or design governs them. Nor would I be surprised if they want us here. Either way, our arrival is to their detriment.”
"Aye, so it is." Siamus lifts his glass briefly in salute. "That being the case, do we suppose the Sha intelligence miscalculated, if it brought us here a'purpose? Or do we think it's weighed the risks to it here wi' the possible reward of spreading out of this place to infest the rest of the world, carried back with us like plague rats? Can it be carried out, if it's in the land here? And if we think the answer to that is aye, should we be more restrictive of portal use from this side, returning to Stormwind?"
"There's not been any news of it, or they'd have restricted the portal already," Lena points out, and takes a sip of her whiskey, considering her words. "It doesn't seem to infect people all that often, or to spread like a plague. If it were, surely the pandaren would know more about it by now."
"I know there's not news of it," Siamus says. "I'd've had it. But it seems to me the stuff — the Sha — can be… insidious, aye? Lie in wait? As it seems to have done here, to an extent. My concern would be whether we're planting seeds at home, as it were. But you lot also know most of the people using the portal at the moment, and if none of them's showing any sign then I don't suppose there's any way to know."
Atley returns the salute with his whiskey before downing all of it in a near instant. He elects to hold the empty glass instead of setting it down on the table as the ship continues to rock, though his gaze does lower to idly inspect the map as he listens, letting out a smooth exhale through lightly clenched teeth.
“There’s not,” he answers. “Not yet. We still know less than we need to. The Sha do show cunning, if not bloody welled times convinced. It’s possible that wot’ever dark force that minds them withdrew the mists to allow our passage, and would use us as carriers. Estel Herald has not unwisely compared wot’ we’re dealing with to the work of an Old God. She wonders if one’s under or in Pandaria,” he says, looking between them. “But we’ve no hard evidence of it. Not yet. It’s wise to keep a sterner gaze on the portal. P’raps a smaller Sha isn’t enough to infest the whole of the Kingdoms, or Kalimdor, but we know they come in all shapes and sizes…”
"If we think it might be using us, should we caution our people not to return home?" Lena asks, her gaze shifting from Atley to Siamus. "Stop trade? I don't expect but some will not be pleased to feel they've no way out, but if you think it's a serious concern…"
Atley tilts his head and left and right. “We’ve discovered some ways to nullify the Sha — traditional hozen made masks, for one —and detect its presence. There’s wisdom in restricting portal access, but the Horde’ll not be doing the same, and we can’t justly cripple ourselves outright.”
Siamus's attention sharpens at the words Old God, and as Lena and Atley speak he stands motionless, gazing through rather than at Atley. Mention of the Horde, though, seems to break the spell, and he shakes his head. "No, aye, it's true enough. I suppose we can only… be watchful, be judicious, and make sure those at home know everything we do."
Atley grunts and studies Siamus’ expression. “It smacks of it,” he says, voice lowering. “Old God menace. The Sha … seem similar. Their behavior’s like wot’ we faced during the Cataclysm, but aye, separate by degree and method.”
"The Old Gods I've encountered, though," Lena says, and then pauses to gulp down the rest of her whiskey, "They speak directly in your mind, the whispers that drive folk mad. They make you see things that aren't there. Friends turning on you, such like. I've had blessedly little contact here, but the sha seem more… feelings-oriented. Have you heard whispers or seen things, D– Sir Atley, like we did in the Nerubian kingdom?"
“Dane’ll serve us just well here,” he says, before rolling his eyes upward, glaring in thought at the ceiling beam that had thunked him. “No. Dark dreams, p’raps, few and far between, but no detached voices, no whispers, nothing reported from the squads—“
He cuts off and tilts his head. “The Sha of Doubt. In the Temple of the Jade Serpent,” he says, nodding slowly as he looks back to Lena. “That one spoke. It felt the same,” he says. “It sounded the same. But it shut up after we killed it.”
Siamus digests this, his black gaze intent. "Does Cobalt intend to send Miss Fey out here? Has anyone asked for her? I'm minded — " He pauses, has a sip of his drink, and tilts his head as he weighs his thoughts further. "I'm minded to send to Jes-Tereth and ask for a unit of the 7th, if they can be gotten through. Tyrrell's seen Old Gods before, and the extra hands would be a fine thing."
Lena looks to Dane for the answer to that one, faint curiosity in her eyes.
Atley shakes his head. “She’s been contacted for consulting. Not officially. Estel wrote to her, or had a mind to and likely has, by now,” he says, tone indicating he’s warm to the idea of a spooky expert joining them. He scoffs with amusement, long, wide arms straightening as he leans forward against the table on his fist, glass still held in the other hand. “And I wouldn’t refuse a contingent of the 7th Legion, myself.”
"I'll ask for the 6th, then," Siamus decides, and tips back the last sip of liquor. "And ye might ask your Captain Sparkwire for Miss Fey."
"So long as we don't leave WEB understaffed," Lena says quietly. "But then, I bet Jotz can handle things in the office for a while."
"Oh, aye, the WEB." Siamus frowns. "Well, I'll write to Tyrrell direct as well as Jes-Tereth, and if he'd rather not, we'll take another unit. I'd settle for any unit."
Atley nods absently a few times before asking, "And as for the Prince?"
Lena looks over to Siamus.
Siamus puts a hand up to a beam himself; a moment later, the ship pitches. "I won't presume to command His Highness, nor would I take him from the work here ye say is valuable. I'm sure the Prince is a fine diplomat, if nothing else. But I won't have him haring off alone in these wilds. I expect Baird to find him, and once done to stay with him until Tennerow's people can step in. The army can handle him from there."
"They seem good folk," Lena offers. "The army team. No problems with them in the journey over, and I'd say they take the job seriously."
Atley cranes his head in a nod. "I'd want him protected. At the very least kept track off — easier said than done in his bloody case, I know. But he is needed here, and for how long, I can't say. I'll stake my name on it, and tell it to the King himself… and take full responsibility if he's harmed or killed."
He shakes his head. "Tennerow, then. I ought to make contact sooner than later. Speak to him of all this."
"He's been promoted. It's Lieutenant-Commander — " Siamus pauses, makes a rueful face and shakes his head. "Lieutenant-Commander Azuredown, now, in fact. Took his wife's name after the wedding. I keep forgetting." Because that is a comical thing to do, his tone suggests.
Atley lifts his head and retracts it a touch, squinting at Siamus. His brow furrows and he doesn't care to conceal it. "… Indeed?" he remarks. "I'll find the Lieutenant-Commander Azuredown, then."
"Some people do that," Mrs. Shine says mildly.
Siamus raises his eyebrows at Lena. "I assumed it might be an elf custom. Is it mainland?" He looks from Lena to Dane and then shakes his head in a wonders never cease fashion. "Each to his own, aye?"
Atley shoots Siamus a look, turning his head to the side, and pointedly, but briefly, shakes his head.
Lena shrugs. "I think not unheard of, depending on the families involved? Or if it's to save a name in a family with only daughters. Even a farming house might do that, if they end up with no sons. As for elves, I couldn't really say, 'less I summoned you Miss Sunstrike to ask."
Siamus lights up briefly at the prospect of summoning Miss Sunstrike, and then it fades regretfully. "I suspect the question's not sufficient motive to summon the lady out here without recourse to permissions and the portal." Just in case Lena was serious. (She wasn't, Siamus.) "Any rate, I do take your point, aye."
"Seems all settled, then," Atley says briefly, before he nods to one of the dark and ocean-sprayed windows, leaning his head in over the table. "How fares the Horde, then?" he asks with a contemplative squint. "Still much of a claim to that beach?"
"They weren't reckoning on our having cannon in place already," Siamus says. "That is, when they turned up, I had only the Swift offshore here and she's a brigantine — mostly carronades, a handful of long guns. Wi'the Blanche lying in now, we can sweep them back at range, and we've been covering the headland there while my people get a battery established on it. The guns from that ship ye found. I'm talking wi' pandaren smiths back in Paw'don about ghost iron shot, because that's going to be our problem eventually. Powder I can get from them already and in plenty; the pandaren know their gunpowder. They don't use cannons, though."
He rakes a hand through his wet hair and flashes a smile at Atley. "I'm obliged to your lot for discouraging the Horde while I made arrangements to address the problem."
Atley inclines his head. "We did our part to pay them back tenfold for every marine lost," he says with a grim sincerity, before he pushes off of the table, very narrowly bonking his head on the beam again. "'Sides. You know I like to keep you happy, Siamus. You're much more handsome that way."
"I'm always handsome," Siamus tells Dane. "But I do like to be happy. And I appreciate a bit of flattery."
Lena raises a eyebrow slightly at Atley, and adds, "I hope we've proved it too costly for the Horde to make further effort, at least for the here and now."
Siamus gestures with his glass at Lena in wordless agreement.
Atley grunts. "I suspect we have," he says, cinching his thumbs in his belt. "They've been reminded that anything they'd like to lay claim to will be paid for in their own blood."
"And their blood's cheap stuff," Siamus says. "I appreciate having the ability to call on Cobalt out here, Atley, and ye know I won't abuse the privilege."
Lena nods in agreement, twisting the glass between her fingers.
Atley inclines his head again and finally sets the glass down. "Never hesitate. We're here to do wot' needs doing."
He starts putting his gauntlets back on before he glances around, reaching for his helmet. "Now. Wot's the best way off this?"
"Sadly, I can't send you back," Lena says with a touch of a smile. "That'd be a useful trick, if I could figure it out."
"And I don't recommend the swim," says Siamus. He looks back at the stern windows. "Not much joy in rowing at the moment, either, but I can settle things if ye need to be back in haste."
Atley follows Siamus' gaze with a mirthless expression. "Suppose I'll make myself comfortable until the storm settles. I trust you can spare some food below decks?"
"Aye, I'll send Towson in wi' some supper. And I'll see about the storm." Siamus takes his raincoat from its hook and pulls it back on. "It'll be a little bit; ye can't unwind a thing like this with a word. Mrs. Shine, you're welcome to take supper in here as well, if ye like."
"I wouldn't mind staying out of the storm, while things…" Lena glances over toward Siamus with a twitch at the edge of her lips, "…settle. I'd also like the chance to hear more about what your team's been up to?"
Atley nods. "I can provide that."
Siamus nods a farewell to them both and lets himself out of the cabin.