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Chapter 183
🕑 Added 2025-03-04 19:31:20 +0000 UTCWhilst Varrus was off on a search and rescue mission, the rest of the Covenant leadership were handling important tasks in preparation for the advance westward.
Within the war room aboard Quel'Vanar, Lor'Themar and Nightsong were stooped over a map.
The map was magical in nature, and was synced to the scrying orbs of various units/squadrons.
Due to this feature, the unit leaders could send messages back to the super carrier, updating their progress.
Of course, the range of a scrying orb wasn't unlimited, and oftentimes, only simple text limited to a few characters could transmit through large distances.
Much like how a radio could only travel so far due to the curvature of the earth, scrying orbs followed a similar concept, as they sent and received messages via an invisible mana pulse frequency.
Part of the Elven mission of expansion included constructing Arcane Towers. This was both to act as a fall back point, set up a defensive position, and to act as relays for the scrying orbs.
Most information transmitted by these orbs regarded any odd encounters, enemy sightings, etc.
Once this information was provided, it would update automatically on the map.
Various squares, chevrons, circles, and other symbols depicted landmarks, bridges, buildings, and more.
Individual units bore a symbol of a battle standard along with a color and number.
For example, a banner colored black with gold highlights signified that it was a unit comprised mostly of Gilneans. Then, an animal such as a pig, horse or unicorn acted as the legion identifier, and finally, the number acted as the regiment identifier.
By tapping on this symbol, Lor'Themar or Nightsong could discover the total number of the unit, the unit's current orders (patrolling, scouting, attacking, etc), the name & picture of the leader, and the group composition (priests, warriors, rogues, etc.)
On the map, thousands of such icons were actively on the move, and as the acting Generals of this offensive, it was Lor'Themar and Nightsong's responsibility to direct them.
“This is nostalgic.” Nightsong mused as she issued a set of orders.
“Hmm, a display like this certainly makes issuing orders easier. I don't envy those field commanders in the central-east sector. The reports of heavy rain, and soggy diseased soil make one shudder.” Lor'Themar nodded along.
“They'll need socks then, and plenty of them. The rains will be picking up soon as winter begins to set in.” Nightsong stroked her chin.
“I once marched through a swamp evading Orcs and Trolls. I bring this up, because my unit had their socks soaked in water. We were on a strict no fire policy, so as to evade the enemy.”
“I can see where this is going.” Nightsong said in pity.
“Yes, of course my soldiers worried more about their feet than their safety. Warming their socks over some fire, their actions led to our ambush.” Lor'Themar shook his head in disappointment as he recalled the encounter.
“A person would kill for a good pair of socks. Do you have any idea where to source them in large enough number for our campaign?” Nightsong asked.
Looking up to the ceiling, Lor'Themar squinted his eyes as he searched the recesses of his mind.
“I seem to recall a large abundance of silk entering the market as of late. From our Kobold friends. Something about domesticated giant spiders?” Lor'Themar frowned as he considered such a reality to be rather ridiculous.
“I’ll make a memo commissioning…” Nightsong paused in her speech to reference the total number of active combatants.
“About 400,000 pairs should do.” Lor'Themar suggested.
“That goes well above the margin, and is a gross misuse of resources.” Nightsong-who was writing down her thoughts with a quill-said, and set her instrument down to give Lor'Themar a disapproving look.
“You haven't fought alongside Humans much, have you?” Lor'Themar chuckled good naturedly instead of responding defensively or antagonistically to Nightsong's minor condemnation.
“Your point?”
“Humans lose things. Often.” Lor'Themar said, staring off into the distance as he recalled an old memory.
“I'll have to observe them sometime.” Nightsong said to herself. Her sketchbook was quick to enter her hand, and she almost seemed to leave her position over the map for a second, then set it down with a sigh.
“So the socks are Varrus's problem now, but after the rain comes the snow.” Lor'Themar stroked his goatee, and looked to Nightsong meaningfully.
“I believe in Varrus. This campaign will end in Autumn.” Nightsong said in conviction.
“Varrus is exceptional, but he is one man. Once we destroy the Scourges leadership, hundreds of thousands, millions of Undead will be scattered to the four corners of the Eastern Kingdoms. Clearing them out could take years. Besides, who is to say that the leadership will stand still and let us kill them?” Lor'Themar drummed his fingers on the edge of the table as he provided counterpoint after counterpoint.
“I think you enjoy vexing me, Ranger General.” Nightsong looked up from the map in a partial state of womanly anger and bemusement.
“Why, my Lady, I am but a humble wood worker. There is no need to become irate, because when the dust settles, I shall be there to provide my expert advice.” Lor'Themar didn't smile, but his voice was chalk full of amusement.
Ignoring Lor'Themar's attempt at comedy, Nightsong brought the topic back to the matter at hand.
“So let us suppose the Scourge leadership grow afraid of my little Var Var, and flee before they face destruction. How would you prevent such an occurrence?” Nightsong said, resting her fist on her chin, and gave Lor'Themar her full attention.
“Well from the information Varrus provided, there are three remaining leaders. Servants of the Legion, they are Dreadlords. Varrus suspects that they are each at the strength of a Legendary Hero, with one of them perhaps at the threshold of a Demigod.” Lor'Themar began his presentation by outlining what they were facing.
“Yes, I observed their dealings from within Queen Lana'thel’s court in Deatholme. From my study, I determined that they are skilled saboteurs, and cunning manipulators.” Nightsong provided.
“I have slain one during the Horde invasion over a decade ago. The Demon was as overconfident to me as a smug Elf is to the average Human peasant.” Lor'Themar nodded along.
“Smug Elf, hm, it is a term that oft fits our people well.” Nightsong beautifully smiled.
“Yes, Varrus's coining of the phrase has seemed to stick with me. Only a smug Elf would do something as stupid as put their socks over a campfire deep within enemy territory.” Lor'Themar shook his head, and said in admonishment.
“Oh, I am well aware of Varrus's invention. It truly makes me smile to see him so expressive.” Nightsong reminisced, and flipped through her sketchbook, glancing at several drawings of him she had created.
“Indeed. So with this understanding, it would come as no surprise that they would be aware of our presence in the Eastwald, but do not deem it worth their time to interfere.”
“Curious. Arrogant and intelligent, one can only conclude that they have planted spies amongst us, and found us not worth their time. That or they are conducting some ploy of their own.” Nightsong stopped her perusal, and tapped her quill on a blank page in thought.
“Unfortunately, our information regarding this matter is woefully inaccurate. Varrus is my primary source of information regarding the culture and norms of the Dreadlords. Meanwhile, I have scouts in the Western Plaguelands, but traversing through the disease ridden, Undead infested lands undetected is easier said than done.” Lor'Themar sighed in frustration.
“Perhaps we should pay Faedra a visit, doubtless she has the knowledge we seek.” Nightsong said.
Lor'Themar grimaced, and held out a hand.
“I do not know what you knew of her in your time, but confronting Faedra directly tends to lead one to finding themselves in an unfortunate accident. I understand you are strong, but even you, with all due respect, are not infallible.” Lor'Themar said in a cautious tone.
“That girl was a slip of a thing chasing after Vandercross and Sunstrider's coattails. She's nothing more than an opportunistic vagabond with an overinflated ego of herself. The audacity in creating an arranged marriage with my Var Var, and her flippant introduction at the war council. She's a renegade, but one who can be reigned in with proper persuasion. We share a history, Faedra will answer our questions.” Nightsong replied with a steely resolve, and rose to leave the room and find Faedra.
“So this is the famed General. I bow to your decisiveness.” Lor'Themar flattered.
“The sentiment behind your compliments is appreciated, but save the congratulatory mood for later. All my life, I have received praise. Coming from a peer, I take such things to heart, but please, save such things for victory.” Nightsong paused in her step, and informed Lor'Themar in a serious tone.
“A woman with principles and conviction, now that's something I like.” Lor'Themar politely applauded.
Nightsong raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘need I repeat myself?’
Lor'Themar gently smiled in response.
“That wasn't praise, simply a statement of fact.”
“Are all Ranger Generals so slick these days?” Nightsong asked.
“Only the devilishly handsome ones, I'm afraid.” Lor'Themar quickly bit back.
“I can't tell if Varrus has infected you, or if you're the reason for his…melodramatic side.” Nightsong tilted her head to the side, and looked at Lor'Themar quizzically. As if the Ranger General were some puzzle to be solved.
“The boy has brought some youthful enthusiasm to these old bones.” Lor'Themar said, and inclined his head meaningfully towards Nightsong.
“Now what did I say about flattery?” Nightsong replied in a dry tone, and turned to leave.
As she exited the hall, Lor'Themar felt his shoulders slump.
He had thought he was being excessively clever in his approach to woo the scary ancient war hero that had caught his eye. But she had rejected his advances at every turn.
Truly, she was a tactical mind.
Lor'Themar had decided he would let Nightsong go deal with Faedra herself.
Whilst he wasn't afraid of disappearing, that didn't mean Faedra wasn't in possession of incriminating evidence.
Not that Lor'Themar had broken the law necessarily, but as he had confessed to Varrus, his failures were many.
Rumor and half truths could sink an Elves career.
Although he felt secure in himself, and wasn't worried that he would lose his position as Ranger General, or councilor of the Convocation-two jobs he never wanted in the first place-he was worried that his subordinates might find ways to disobey, or creatively interpret his orders.
As someone who had witnessed the politics of the Rangers for most of his adult life, Lor'Themar was well aware of just how petty his subordinates could be.
It was well within their capacity to act out. Even during something as unprecedented as a war against a hated foe, it was not unheard of.
Although Varrus had helped set a tonal shift in their culture, and the decimation of their species had punctured a hole straight through their chests fostering a sense of unity, the Rangers, at the end of the day, were still Elves.
Politicking, trying to one up one up another, and jockeying for favors was in their nature.
Just as Nightsong was about to take her leave, one of the symbols on the map flashed a bright red, signifying that they were in trouble and requesting orders.
And so, it was with a heavy heart that he decided to separate from Nightsong during this coveted alone time.
“Good luck in plying Faedra for information, Nightsong. I shall remain here, in the event that a unit comes across an unsolvable problem, or requests reinforcements.” Lor'Themar nodded his head, and maintained a genial smile.
“How reliable of you. Perhaps we can discuss my findings over dinner. Fare thee well, Ranger General.” Nightsong replied, a ghost of a smile traced the edge of her lips, and she was gone.
As soon as the beautiful woman was gone, Lor'Themar caught himself staring at the empty doorway.
Stroking his goatee, Lor'Themar couldn't help but softly chuckle at himself.
He couldn't believe it.
He was acting like a young buck again after the failed disaster of his first relationship.
He was beginning to fall for that taciturn woman.
