Bonfire of the Vanities: A WoW Fanfic

[Thirdfain]

I have played STGODs, and MMORPGs, and even once spent a weekend LARPing (I was an NPC.) And yet, nothing I have done before has been as dorky as this- an origin story for my WoW main character, a Blood Elf paladin.

I hope you enjoy it, and judge neither it nor myself too harshly.

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Bonfire of the Vanities:
The Fall of the House of Wavesunder

Apology

Dear Reader- I met the Dame Wavesunder in the sort of trying circumstances which encourage excessive familiarity and encouraged all those afflicted to engage in discourse of the most personal nature. In fact, in the months we were besieged at the rude encampment so grandly described as the Argent Vanguard even the most taciturn of our ersatz brotherhood were moved to wax eloquent (some would say ad nauseum.) It has been my experience that of all the Muses which can move a man's quill or inspire his volubility, none is more potent than boredom. Those who have hied only to the official reports and propaganda dispatches might be forgiven for believing that the Siege was anything but tedious; those who have actually experienced warfare will no doubt comprehend the extent to which tedium ruled our lives for much of that Engagement.

So, gentle reader, understand that it was in such soil that the seed of this tree was planted, and under those circumstances that the history and fate of the House of Wavesunder was related to me. I pray only that the fruit borne are as sweet as the seed was bitter.

-Sir Kayth Bandorburn,
Order of the Argent Crusade

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The House of Wavesunder will be familiar to those unfortunate Gentlemen and Ladies who were involved to any great extent with the Sea-Commerce between Quel'Thalas, Stromgarde, and Lordaeron. As the majority of those who were involved in that vastly profitable trade are now either dead or in an unspeakable Condition, i.e, Undeath, I will take a moment to describe the Wealth involved- not as an exercise in boasting on behalf of the Dame Wavesunder (Who hardly requires any External Assistance in that field,) but rather in the hopes that by describing the Heights once attain'd by the Sin'dorei you may more fully appreciate the extent of their Ruination.

The Cities of Stromgarde and Lordaeron had, in the golden days following the Second War, gained a marvelous lust for the luxuries and wonders produced by the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas. No young Fop would dare be seen on the streets of Lordaeron without silks of Elven manufacture; nor would any Society dame throw a party without serving the best Elven vintages. It was in that environment that the House of Wavesunder made the last of many fortunes. Their lands were part of the greater domain of the now infamous house of Windrunner, flush with the sea and blessed with the finest vineyards in the East. The Duke Wavesunder commanded a both the fertile lands which produced the Vintage as well as the ships which ensured it's Distribution. His service with King Terenas in the Second War during the Grand Alliance had made him many martial contacts, which in times of peace became commercial, allowing the circumventing of many of the diverse Taxes and Tariffs felt by the competition. And so, the first Pillar of the House of Wavesunder was formed- it's vast wealth.

The Elven people are not known for their fecundity, a fact which has lead to much crude speculation around many a barracks-table. But the Duke Wavesunder was not only fruitful with regards to his investments, but also with his descendants- he had no less than eight children, a figure which lead to speculation of an altogether different nature. Such concerns aside, it was widely accepted that all eight- four boys and four girls- were legitimate. As they came of age, they represented a significant force in the Social and Political scene of Quel'thalas even by themselves, as all eight acquitted themselves marvelously in their studies and became Socialites, Enterpreneurs, and Thaumaturges of note. And thus was the second Pillar of the House of Wavesunder formed- it's strong blood-line.

And then there was the Position of the House. In the strict hierarchy of Quel'Thalas, which was structured through rules more byzantine even than one finds in the salons of Stormwind today, the House of Wavesunder was held in high regard. They were direct servants of the mighty House Windrunner; and as all the world now knows the Lady Windrunner was even in those days a figure of great fame and power within the halls of Silvermoon. Under the auspices of the House of Windrunner, the Duke Wavesunder and all his children enjoyed the treatment of honored friends, and through the Lady they had the ear of the Prince of Silvermoon himself. And thus stood the third Pillar of the House of Wavesunder- it's closeness with a mighty patron.

It was in these circumstances that Ekatrine of Wavesunder came of age- the pampered youngest daughter of a wealthy and powerful family, flush with it's success in the Second War and prepared for a long and beautiful life at the endless Carousel of Vanity which was the Court of Silvermoon in those halcyon days. Enjoy, dear Reader, what cherished memories you might have of those times, and hold them close- for the story of the House of Wavesunder will bring to your mind how Confident we felt in those last days before the Scourge, and the extent to which those Confidences were torn Asunder.

-End of part 1-

[Thirdfain]

Better pens than mine have described the Regicide and the ignoble rise of Arthas Menethil to the throne of Lordaeron. Indeed, it seems that more ink has been shed in the retelling that blood was in the actual Event. Suffice to say that these concerns, so momentous to those who experienced them first-hand, were hardly of account to the Elves of Silvermoon. Consequently, when the Hosts of Lordaeron and her doughty Allies marched against the traitor-king and his Necromantic Legions, Quel'thalas remained Aloof. A question must then be raised in the minds of any reader who has heeded Wisdom, and approaches this Account as high education rather than base entertainment. Would not the Duke of Wavesunder, so engaged in a social and pecuniary sense with the Quality of Lordaeron, take note of the unsettling events and take action to protect his Investments; viz, by using his close friendship with the Lady Windrunner to manipulate the Foreign Policy of all Quel'thalas and bring the armies of the Ranger-General in to quash Arthas' base Treachery when it was still young and vulnerable. And it would have been no difficult task for the Duke to take such actions- while Nobles of all races prate about respectability, the true measure of power is ever currency which the Duke had in spades.

You see, Dear Reader, the years of Affluence had brought the Duke an Abundance not only of Gold, Silver, Goods, etc. but also of Pride. Earlier that year, the Duke had traded control of some profitable trade-lanes he owned for controlling shares in a number of large but unprofitable iron mines in the Arathi Highlands. One may wonder why the canny Duke would make such an imprudent Investment. In fact, he had been bamboozled by the very Gentleman from whom he purchased the iron mines- one Lord Genber Falconcrest, a canny manipulator of both men and markets, who has since fallen in with the worst sorts and is now known to be a close compatriot of the disgraced Lord Perenolde. The Lord Falconcrest had spread rumors of a Trollish revolt in the South, thus giving the Duke Wavesunder the impression that the prices of weaponry, and thus iron, would soon skyrocket, turning his mines into veritable Bonanazas. Of course no such Troll rebellion ever surfaced, there was no surge in demand for iron weapons, and Wavesunder's new mines lost him a small fortune in gold and a large one in pride. Meanwhile, Falconcrest grew wealthy on the trade lines he had just purchased from Wavesunder with such acumen.

It was under those circumstances that the news of Arthas' rebellion arrived at Duke Wavesunder's manse near Tranquillien. Wiser heads, Elvish and Human, have been befuddled by the vices of Vengeance and Avarice. Perhaps with that in mind, dear reader, you will not judge the Duke too harshly- knowing that we all err when our passions are roused by insults to our means and honor. Perhaps you may find it in your heart to forgive the Duke's reaction that day- but I hold only a faint hope for your Magnanimity on that matter. For the Duke Wavesunder responded to the news of Civil War in Lordaeron not with despondency or fear, but with Joy. For in a single stroke, the value of the trade routes he had so rashly sold was obliviated, and the useless mines he had acquired would become Profitable, producing the iron the Royalist and Arthan factions would need for what the ignorant Duke imagined was simply another squabble between factions of crude and uncivilized Humans.

And so, Wavesunder kept his peace and ignored the warnings of the connections between the dire Plague and the rise of Arthas Menethil to the throne by patricide. And the Armies of Quel'Thalas remained at peace, and the people complacent, and all cries for help were met with disdain. And while the House of Wavesunder rang with merriment and prosperity, Lordaeron burned.
-end of part 2-

[Thirdfain]

I pray, dear Reader, that you never have the displeasure of facing a host of the Dead on the march. It is well known by those who bear arms that the most shocking thing about a battle-field is not the cries of the wounded and dying, nor the sight of bloodied arms. Rather, it is the stench of death. Imagine if you will the worst scents of the Canals of Stormwind, effluence and excrement, con-fused with the metal tang of an Orcish slaughterhouse, and you will know one tenth of what assails the nose in the course of a contest of arms. On a warm fall day (and such a day it was, when the Doom of Lordaeron marched on Silvermoon,) that terrible Scent is made even stronger. Know, dear Reader, that the scent of a normal battle-field is as a candle to the burning sun that is the Host of Death's in-credible redolence.

So it was not the blaring of trumpets or the report of drums which warned of the approach of Arthas and his terrible Force, but rather a smell, foul and completely alien to the perfume'd vales of Quel'thalas. And thus, the armies of the King of Elvenkind were forewarned and prepared, drawn up before the Elf-gate. The Quality of all Silvermoon were there in their radiance and splendour, mounted on chargers the likes of which are rarely seen today, armored in Mithril and wreathed in powerful enchantments of abjuration and ruin. The yeomen and smallfolk of the House of Wavesunder were called to arms, and formed in disciplined ranks on the left of Sylvanas Windrunner's mighty host. Their trust in their Lord and their faith in victory was absolute. And why not? For though the hideous mass of Arthas' army was vast, it seem'd from a distance to be weak- a gaggle of unarmed wretches, rotting peasant-corpses. There was none of the ferocity exhibited by the orcs, or the refined discipline of the hosts of Man. And so the Knights of Summer laughed and joked, mocking the stench and disorder of the enemy, and the yeoman leveled their spears confident that no force so ragged could break their lines.

And when the Walking Dead crossed the Elrendar river and struck their first blow, all was as it should be. The horde broke upon the serried ranks f Elfkind, bodies piled up and impaled on a wall of pikes. Enchantments of blasting threw the re-animated corpses back again and again, tearing great holes in the sea of flesh. And as the lines held, the Duke of Wavesunder gave a great cry, and the silver horns of his men sang, and the Cavalry of Silvermoon charged, banners flying and steeds crying, and songs of victory and glory rising from every perfect Elven throat. For a second, all was as it should be- their charge struck the flanks of Arthas' terrible host like a thunder-bolt, presaged by mighty spells, bolts of fire and torrents of shredding ice, and the long lances of three generations of the greatest warriors in the history of Elf-kind pierced diseased flesh without effort. Deep into the mass of the Enemy rode the flower of Silvermoon, and the Duke of Wavesunder, and three of his sons and two of his daughters were in the very midst.

As all the world knows, a Cavalry-Charge is intended to break not just the flesh of the enemy, but also it's Will. Even fierce Orcs have turned and fled, becoming helpless as the Panic takes them, so that they may be run down by fierce Nobles, their necks hewn by glinting Sabers. And seeing the poorly-organized State of their enemy, the great heroes of Silvermoon expected just such a reaction from their rotting Foes.

But the Dead fear not for their own lives, having already lost them. And they did not turn and flee, to be hunted like Foxes by laughing Cavaliers. They closed around the Banners of Silvermoon, and then the dying began in Earnest. For a lance buried in a rotting carcass is a hindrance and a Steed surrounded by a heaving Mobb is trapped. And it was only a matter of moments before the horses fell, dragged under by a myriad of grasping dead hands. No-one knows how precisely the Duke of Wavesunder died, but it was not a swift death, or a chivalrous one. The best and brightest, the leaders of the Southern and Western Marches of Quel'Thalas, were butchered to a man as their subjects on the hill-top watched in horror.

At Elrendar the best and brightest of Silvermoon died, and the way was laid bare to the City itself. And the Hosts of Death flooded over the ancestral lands of the House of Wavesunder. The vinyards became charnel-houses, the port a cesspit of blood and rot. A great Scar was rent in the very land itself, and Nature herself seemed to bleed from that grave Wound carved across her Visage.

It was but a day before word reached Silvermoon as to what had transpired. And no longer did bells ring in celebration, and the louche parties and balls ended. It is said that Elves feel grief more strongly than Men; and tho' I credit such statements as the high-browed Bigotry of a decadent people, I can not help but feel for the Lady Wavesunder, who in that day lost her Beloved, and more Children than most of her kind ever gain.

-end of part 3-