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D101 Chapter 188
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 18:09:13 +0000 UTCSitting in a booth modeled after the area that Roman Emperors would sit, Varrus took in the atmosphere with the giddiness of a child.
The air was practically electric with the crowds filling up the stadium. Snacks, and drinks had been handed out, and the people were chatting excitedly to one another.
Rumors abuzzed, and Varrus overheard a few people passionately discussing who the two contestants were, and what the duel was about.
Varrus felt like a kid reenacting a scene from his favorite movie. As a modern man, he should look down on bloodsport, and acts of casual violence, but as a workaholic who was constantly preparing for the next world threatening catastrophe, Varrus was willing to put aside a few morals for the sake of entertainment.
With no TV or internet, all he had to amuse himself was, was the recreation of music via enchanted instruments.
A skill he could now put into practice on a grand stage.
Before, he had trolled the Bronze Dragonflight by playing Ride of the Valkyries, now, he had an enchanted set of drums releasing a constant, blood pumping bass in the background, drumming up the people's fervor.
There was, however, one thing that slightly disappointed him.
The members of the Covenant seemed to have deliberately segregated themselves based on race.
It was disheartening, but considering this was their first war between member states, Varrus didn't completely hold it against them.
Through victory, trust would build. Peace and brotherhood was inevitable.
Smiling to himself, Varrus cast aside such negative thoughts, and once again basked in the atmosphere.
Walking up to his box, Lor'Themar and Nightsong approached.
Conjuring a couple of cushioned chairs, Varrus gestured for them to take a seat. He then filled up a couple goblets of wine, and levitated them into their hands.
“Please.”
Lor'Themar reluctantly took his goblet, yet remained standing.
“The noise from the arena is rather distracting, and counterproductive to conducting our war effort. If you have the time and resources to construct such a large venue, perhaps it would be best to create several more Towers of Jenga instead.” Lor'Themar criticized, and looked at the noisy crowd with a look of disapproval.
“Morale is noticeably low. My son has done a remarkable job.” Nightsong gently elbowed Lor'Themar in the side, and winked at Varrus with a coy smile.
Taking a sip of her beverage, Nightsong took a seat to Varrus's right, and then popped a grape in her mouth.
Varrus frowned at Lor'Themar, not liking the exchange the older man had with his mother, but the Ranger General took it in stride, and silently replied with a cocky grin of his own.
“Well if the General insists. Our operations should remain stable for the next hour or so. However, the Saints have gained a foothold and may make the final push at any instant. I do not intend to remain here for long, as they may require my guidance.” Lor'Themar nodded demurely at Nightsong, and took a seat.
“Syra's Legion has almost achieved victory? What's holding her up?” Varrus questioned, temporarily placing the spectacle of the arena to the wayside, as his wife took precedence.
“Oh don't look so eager, Syra is doing fine. The enemy holding Crownguard and Darkshire has spread his forces thin, and cast illusion magicks upon them, clouding their auras from your enchanted necklaces. As such, cleaning them out has proven rather tedious. The Undead Commander is wise, and has hidden his forces underground too.” Lor'Themar replied, giving Varrus the TLDR.
“That is troublesome. It is not as if we could simply ignore them either, as that region is the choke point between the Eastwald, and the Westenland (Western Plaguelands). If we are to advance, this area must be cleared.” Varrus reasoned.
“Worry not, son, your wife is strong. She will handle it. Focus on your project, entertain the people. I for one, hope a duel is not the only event this evening, I had been looking forward to seeing one of the famed Varrus Vandercross plays.” Nightsong smiled graciously, and said in an encouraging tone.
“Thanks, mom, in fact, it sounds as if the crowd is getting a little feisty as we speak. I'll follow your advice. As for if there is any kind of performance? Well, you'll see.” Varrus chuckled at Nightsong, and took her hand lovingly, as a son might embrace his mother.
Taking in her beauty, grace and wisdom, Varrus was proud that this ancient General of legend was his mother. Warrior she may be, but to him, she would always be a protector, and an ear he could turn to if the going got rough.
Glancing at the smirking Ranger General, Varrus was reminded of all the owed ‘back pay’ for the old man's shenanigans. He really did need to find some time to make a fool of the Ranger General. He didn't hate that Lor'Themar was making moves on his mother…okay, maybe he hated it a little, but he especially hated being used as a prop so the old man could make advances!
Lor'Themar would have to experience something embarrassing, and soon, or Varrus wouldn't be satisfied.
Clucking his tongue, Varrus rose, and turned to the crowd.
Several mutterings of discontent began to come from the people as impatiens set in. Snacks and the promise of a good time were one thing, but sitting in the sun without delivery of entertainment was the bane of any arena.
As someone who had sat through countless hours of bullshit for no payoff/reward, Varrus commiserated with these people.
“Good people of the Quel'Vanar, it is I, Highlord Varrus Vandercross once again to speak to you on behalf of the Covenant!
Today, we have been gathered together to witness a duel!
A tale of two warriors who disagree with one another. Of an Elf who has been accused of cowardice, who claims his subordinate failed to follow commands! And of a Man who defied the odds, and slew a force 10 times his size!” Varrus shouted, and paused for dramatic flair, letting the crowd process his words.
Humans stomped their feet, and Elves were silent as the grave as the news hit.
After the Humans had finished making their ruckus, Varrus continued.
“The combatants have resolved themselves to this fight of honor and pride, to make right what was wrong!
Coming from the blue gate, I give you James!
From the yellow gate, Dalorn Theron!” Varrus introduced, and with a flick of his hands, telekinetically opened both gates.
Emerging from the depths of the arena, both warriors came out of their fighting pits.
Varrus paused, and eyed them critically. In many regards, they represented the disunity that could develop between differing cultures.
Perhaps there was some value in analyzing their actions, and to the truth of the matter, to see what he could learn, and improve group unity. However, he had already punished both of them privately, now what they were here for was to satisfy personal honor.
Gesturing grandly to the two of them, Varrus once more addressed the crowd.
“Dalorn, James! This is a fight to determine who is right! The victor shall claim the honor and pride that they had lost at one another's accusal. For this contest, you two shall be provided an enchanted amulet with a shield spell placed upon it, as well as an iron sword. Whoever draws first blood is the victor!” Varrus declared grandiosly, then floated down the items to the both of them.
The crowd now was going in a frenzy, and even a few Elves were beginning a hymn in sync with one another, one that reverberated across the arena.
“Fighters, when the drums stop, battle is to commence.”
Seeing Dalorn and James nod, Varrus smiled, then swiped his hand down, cutting off the enchanted instruments from playing.
“Begin!”
~~~~~~~~~
Walking out of his gate, Dalorn watched the youth loudly showboat, and preen like a self-praising peacock with slowly mounting frustration.
Vandercross had been a name entrenched within their society for millenia. It was a pervasive force that bound together Quel'Thalas with the not-so subtle threat of violence.
Tyrant in all but name, the former First Seat had strung together an intricate web of contacts, confidants, and spies to monitor, and control the people.
Dalorn had been one such confidant. A role player interested in dipping his toes within the seedy waters of power and politics, informing upon the other players had been a thrilling escapade over the dull doldrum of centuries of peace.
Flaunting status, building connections, accruing art pieces, and favors, Dalorn lived much like every Elf did.
Yet this tangled, complex, yet well defined web all came crashing down with the fall of the Sunwell.
Suddenly, hunger and fear dominated society.
Favors and fancy clothing were useless in the face of mana addiction. The fate of those Wretched, those gremlin grey skinned husks of Elves was an ever present terror gripping at their hearts.
Dalorn had fought off several of his peers for the scraps that the child Vandercross had handed out.
Gone were the days of smug superiority, in its place was darkness, and a bleak depression.
The future was grim, no matter how many impassioned speeches, or mana stones the youth had made.
Their immortality was gone, and the ailments of the mortal realm had visited their people.
It was much to his surprise, and the shock of many, when the Convocation was reimagined under the son of Vandercross.
Many of his contemporaries had quietly voiced rebellion, yet the resounding victory over the Amani had quelled their murmurs. For a time.
Dalorn, however, saw opportunity, where others saw the follies of youthful arrogance.
As the nephew to the current Ranger General, Dalorn knew that if he played his cards right, he could rise through the ranks, and achieve the status he had always dreamed of.
By leveraging his name, future favors and what contacts he had left, he had set out on an officer's commission, and fought throughout the Ghostlands campaign.
Emerging bloodied, but unbroken, he had proven himself, and later participated in the battle for Stratholme.
The event leading up to this duel was a sore spot to him in his otherwise spotless career.
Bequeathed with the rank of battalion commander, Dalorn was in charge of a mixed unit tasked with scouting villages.
The Kobolds spoke in broken Common, and the Humans struggled to follow commands.
Frustrating him to no end, the Human, James had become something of a revered figure in the unit, and had begun to gather accolades in the first few hamlets they had cleared.
James’ suggestions were followed over his orders!
In his heart of hearts, Dalorn recognized that the white haired boy was more than often correct in his assertions, but if he had only spoken to him in private, then they could have worked something out!
This accumulated frustration boiled over when they came to their last village.
Dalorn had ordered the scouts forward, yet James had suggested they move as one big unit suspecting the enemy was ahead, that diluting the army would necessarily weaken it.
The soldiers, caught up in the Humans charisma, had ignored Dalorn and walked into the ambush.
Knowing the cause was helpless, Dalorn had looked for a way out, and eventually caught sight of the necromancer controlling the Undead host.
Knowing only he could bypass the necromancer's guards, and decapitate him, Dalron had rushed away without sparing any words to the disobedient troop.
When he returned, it was to a mountain of corpses.
The crippled boy was spitting curses at him, but Dalorn needed a corroborating witness, elsewise, he feared losing his commission over such a terrible loss.
That boy now stood before him.
Dalorn's own prophecy had come true, and all the sacrifice he had put into getting here had washed away, meaningless.
The battles against the Trolls, the Darkfallen, and the Scourge of Stratholme, all of it to advance his career, washed away in an instant.
All because he had insulted the Human for his inferiority.
Varrus Vandercross was not his father. Oh, he was a tyrant all the same, but he was one much less subtle.
Dalorn had no intentions of rebelling, as long as Lor'Themar remained Ranger General, he had the opportunity for a comeback, but he knew such a sentiment was brewing underneath the surface.
One did not run roughshod over 8,000 years of customs and norms, and emerge free of discontent.
The return of the Sunwell, and victory against the Undead had bought young Vandercross time, but if he continued on this path, Dalorn knew it would only be a matter of time until the Council of the Wise held secret meetings.
Lips pressed into a firm line, Dalorn internally couldn't wait for the game to begin once again, to leverage secrets and hidden agendas. Vandercross may dislike him now, but when Dalorn proved himself a capable asset, the young tyrant would be sure to shower him in gifts.
Slowly smiling to himself, Dalorn turned to the cold Human, and brandished his sword.
“Rebellious. Rude. Ill mannered. Ungrateful. I still have yet to receive your thanks for pulling you out of that pile of corpses. Is this the vaunted characteristic of humanity I hear so much about from your Human scholars?” Dalorn insulted in a curt manner.
James flourished his own sword, and remained silent, waiting for the drums to stop.
When they did, the pair lunged at one another.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
AN: I don’t intend to do Dalorn’s POV again, but just wanted to add a little slice of how the generic Elven POV may be feeling about Varrus.
Comments
TheFoud3er12
If this weren't a fanfic about varrus. He would would fall in the next major arc
