Mr_Teatime
10-08-2006, 09:07 PM
Hello, all. Yes, yes, it's me again. Some of you may realize that I have a story in the works - "Average in Azeroth." This story was created on the fly, late at night, and I simply don't like how it's turning out or where it's going. I prefer to give a lot of thought to what I'm doing, which is why it took half a year for me to complete all of my first story, "A Little Too Close to Home."
This story started brewing in my brain almost a year ago. I went to a school musical with two WoW geek friends of mine. The musical took place in a western town, which looked exactly like Westfall and Moonbrook. One of my friends leaned over to me and whispered "looking for group VC." We all had a giggle over this, and I spent the rest of the musical (which can never hold my attention) pondering over "VanCleef: The Musical."
That idea was later dropped, as I can't write songs for the life of me. The idea morphed into "VanCleef: The Untold Story," a Behind the Music sort of deal chronicling the life and times of Edwin VanCleef. But I decided against that as well.
So instead I've done a lot of thinking, and the story shall simply be the tale of Gryan Stoutmantle, his duty of protecting Westfall, and the People's Militias fight against the Defias Brotherhood. Gryan and his men will put their jobs, their homes, and their lives at stake as they try to politically and violently do whatever it takes to tear down an organization bigger than they could possibly imagine.
Before I start on it, however, I just want to know if anyone is interested. So please, post here letting me know you'd read such a thing before I start it. Thanks!
Mr_Teatime
30-08-2006, 11:46 PM
Hehheh. If you can't tell by my name, I'm a huge fan of Terry Pratchett. And I can see the possibility of this having similairites to Sam Vimes and the Night Watch.
Gryan Stoutmantle stood on the highest point in Westfall. He looked out over his kingdom. The sight made him want to hurl himself from the point, land in a broken heap on the ground. Perhaps the nourishment from his decomposing corpse would help the land. It was more than he could ever do in life.
He did not jump. He took a few deep breaths, took one last glance at the province of Westfall – seeing all the abandoned farms, deserted towns, and dead orchards from the top of his tower in Sentinel Hill – and then he descended the spiral staircase down to his office.
He looked at the paperwork on his desk. There wasn’t much of it. He ran Sentinel Hill, not of his own decision but by the vote of the people.
Statistically, it was an easy job. The census ranked in at one dozen citizens, not including the two guardsman who helped him keep watch other the, for lack of a better word, town.
“Should’ve gone to Menethil…” he muttered to himself. “Mother always said there was promise up in Menethil…” he sat down, and began absentmindedly tapping a quill against a sheet of paper, splattering blotches of ink over it.
There was a knock at the door. Gryan realized he had just ruined a request from the local trades good merchant, so he quickly crumbled it up and shoved it in his pocket, prepared to debate that he had no idea what anyone was talking about.
“Come in,” he croaked, his voice cracking. He hated when he did that.
The man who entered was not any merchant. It was not a man. It was Scout Marissa, one of the two guards that worked for Gryan. She blushed upon entering, a shy girl by nature, always nervous of intruding on Grayn’s time.
“Excuse me, sir…” she muttered.
“Oh, Marissa,” he coughed, waving a welcome arm. “Please, sit down. What’s on your mind?”
“Sir, I…” she paused.
“What did I tell you to call me?” Gryan said sternly.
“Mr…Stoutmantle…”
“No. That’s not it either.”
“Gryan,” she finally sighed, and smiled slightly when she pronounced the name. Gryan smiled as well.
“Yes, Marissa, I’m listening,” he said kindly.
“I don’t – I mean, I – I just, I was talking to Riell,” referring to the third scout, “and…we don’t know how much longer we can hold out. The townsfolk are miserable and starving. There hasn’t been any rain in months and it doesn’t look likely to rain any time soon. Food isn’t growing and we’re cut off from supplies in from Stormwind.”
Gryan raised an eyebrow, his cheery aura fading quickly. “What are you getting to, Marissa?”
“The townsfolk…they want to leave. They won’t admit it, they’ll stick with you to the end, but they dream of leaving, letting Westfall wither and die without them. They need you to lead them out to salvation, Gryan.”
Gryan stood up quickly. Marissa cowered back in shock.
“Dismissed, scout,” he said.
“But…the townsfolks…”
“Salvation is here and only here.” He looked up, out of the top of the tower, into the blue sky above. And Marissa understood. Gryan spoke only of himself. He would hold no resentment over anyone if they left. Only he could never join them.
His power and his weakness, she thought. He loves Westfall, like a child. And no parent ever wants to out-live their child.
“I said dismissed,” he repeated sternly, fixing his cold gaze upon her. The gaze of Gryan Stoutmantle was feared and respected by those who lived in Westfall. It was said he could see through the confines of your skin, see what your soul truly desired with that stare.
Scout Marissa got up and left.
Westfall was widely considered one of the biggest accidents of the human race.
The humans of Azeroth ruled from a massive city, one that had lasted for centuries. The city of Stormwind. From there, noble humans, representatives of other races, priests, adventurers, travelers, merchants of every kind gathered to barter, tell tales, or live the quiet life. Stormwind, located securely next to a mountain range in the heart of human lands suffered no threat from outside forces.
For every noble living in the safe haven of Stormwind, there were at least 10 heavily trained guardsmen protecting that noble and, more importantly, his money.
There were four provinces of Stormwind:
Elwynn Forest, a lush woodland area located right in front of and around Stormwind.
Redridge Mountains, the mountain range that surrounded Stormwind on the other side, making it nearly impregnable.
Duskwood, more forest lands farther south of Elwynn, where the sky was always dark and the trees seemed alive.
And Westfall. Pushed out there to secure Stormwind on all sides. Pushed out where no civilization was meant to be. Pushed out for the sake of having
more land under Stormwind’s name.
Gryan grew up in Westfall, on a small, unsuccessful farm, like most of them were. When he was 12 his father had died. Young Gryan did not remember the event too well, only that his father had not seemed ill or in bad spirits prior to his death. His mother had never opted to speak with him about it.
So Gryan took up doing what he could, which wasn’t much. The young lad pushed himself to the point of passing out more than once, determined to save the farm and move out with his mother.
When he was 18, his mother died, leaving him alone. He had never been good at making friends, and he had no known relatives left in the area. He closed up the farm and moved to the main settlement, Sentinel Hill, at the time having a population over 50. He had no idea what he was going to do there, but he went nonetheless.
He lived unnoticeably for two years, when one night the town was approached for the first time in generations by a large group of people accompanied by possessions, apparently looking for a home. They were mostly men, dressed in red and black uniforms. The elected mayor of Sentinel Hill at that time approached them, looking at them all with well-meaning curiosity.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked innocently, stopping before the man in the lead.
“We require homes,” the man said quietly and simply.
“Well…sirs, I hate to admit it, but there’s no future here in Westfall. Surely you could find another place to live, in a province closer to Stormwind-”
The movement was so fast it was hard to see. It looked as if one moment the man were sitting calmly on his horse, then next standing on the ground, a sword against the mayor’s throat.
“To hell with Stormwind,” he said, no hint of emotion in his voice.
The mayor gagged in shock and pain, trying to get away from the blade.
A horse galloped back over to them from the other direction. What appeared to be a scout for these men, wearing the same red and black colors, dismounted his steed and said to the leader, “there’s an old abandoned village farther east of here. We can settle there.”
The leader nodded. Slowly, he sheathed his sword, his eyes never leaving those of the mayor’s. He got back on his horse.
“Now…now wait just a goddamned minute!” the mayor screamed, his vigor coming back to him without a sword to his throat. “Who the hell do you think you are? What right do you have to come waltzing in here, and-”
The mayor did not see the slight shift in the man’s arm, a light throwing blade falling into his hand. Gryan did see it. He made no move to intervene.
“We have every right!” growled the man, for the first time showing anger, passion, vengeance.
His arm shot forwards, the blade whisking through the night, embedding itself in the mayor’s chest. He collapsed, his heart pierced. He was dead in seconds. The entire group left, in a calm, organized manner. No one stopped them.
Another man was elected mayor. He vowed to protect his friends, family, and brethren of Westfall from these people and whatever menaces strove to destroy them. In under a year he disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.
The population of Sentinel Hill quickly deflated from that point on. For three long, painful years no one man had the courage to take a firm grip as leader.
Councils met to discuss certain issues. No one bothered the new settlement of Moonbrook that had been constructed to the east by the strange men in red and black. They were not bothered in exchange.
Gryan began to become known. Partly because so few people continued to stay in Sentinel Hill. He was twenty-six when he realized he had a reputation.
No one knew anything about him, but he seemed to know everything about them. About Westfall.
At the age of twenty-seven he was unanimously voted to take charge of the now 14 man settlement of Sentinel Hill. He had no choice but to accept.
He was now twenty-eight. He had been in charge of Sentinel Hill for over a year. He was doing something for Westfall, a goal he had always hoped to reach. But it made no difference. Animals were hunted to near extinction by the Moonbrook settlement. No plants grew. Gryan once sent two men over to Moonbrook as diplomats, hoping to start up trade and relations with them.
That was what brought the population from 14 to 12.
Marissa and Riell – he did not refer to them by last names – had stepped up and offered to help him in any way they could. Both loved Westfall for what it was. Riell was an ambitious young man, younger than Gryan, who itched for action in any way he could find it. Marissa was a shy yet powerful woman. At first Gryan had wanted to force her away, fearing for her life. But she had proven she was not to be trifled with by anyone. Gryan had developed an admiration for her.
Gryan also captured the attention of Moonbrook.
Seemingly out of nowhere, machines began prowling the lands. They looked like scarecrows, large and heavy ones with sharp claws. They creaked when they walked and shot up smoke from where their limbs connected to their torsos. They moved without any apparently aim or purpose, occasionally crashing into things or each other.
Gryan was thinking about these mechanical monstrosities, when he nearly walked into another person.
“Oh, sorry, Gryan,” the man said, looking at the ground. There were a bunch of scribbles and numbers written in the dusty gravel, the man peering intently over them. He stood up, dusting himself off.
“What’ve you got there, Sheldonore?” Gryan asked, genuinely curious.
“I’ve been thinking about those harvest reapers,” he said, referring to the mechanical scarecrows. “Every machine has a weakness, a built-in flaw…if only we could get our hands on one, I could study it…”
Sheldonore Bialon had been a mechanical engineer, his family having done most of the design work for the buildings of Sentinel Hill. Had been is the key phrase there. With so few people left, there was no real need for jobs or titles. Everyone shared what little they had to those who needed it most.
Sheldonore was a brittle man, a bit older than Gryan, whose mind more than made up for his strength. He was constantly thinking and helping to analyze any situation. Gryan was glad to have a loyal man like him backing him up.
He looked at the other people around him. There was Kearnan Danuvin and Lympkin Dutfield, young lovers who spent every moment together. He saw Farthing Gariel, the local healer, who made sure all illnesses and wounds were helped as early as possible. Furlbrow and Alexandra Lewis, an old couple who had retired with no other choice when their farm was destroyed, walked around town holding hands.
The other townsfolk were either in their homes, or on the outskirts of town.
Wait…
Another figure caught his eye.
Dobbins. No one spoke to him or of him. He lived in Sentinel Hill, causing no harm, providing no benefit. He stood leaning against the shadowy cover of a building, watching Gryan. When their eyes met, the strange man quickly backed off, out of sight.
Gryan did not trust Dobbins, not for a minute. But he had no cause to interrogate him about possible connections to the people at Moonbrook. So he let him be, telling his scouts to keep an eye on him, just waiting for him to make a move.
“Gryan?” Sheldonore said suddenly, snapping Gryan’s attention back to him. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Gryan replies. “You say that one sample machine will help you figure out a common weakness?”
“Hopefully,” Sheldonore said, scratching his chin. “But how do we…Gryan?”
He watched Gryan’s retreating back as he went into his tower. Sheldonore shrugged and bent back over his drawings.
The Armor of the Westfall Guard-Captain was meant to be largely ceremonial.
Gryan always kept it in good condition, however, polishing it weekly and keeping it dent-free. He strapped the full set on now, over his regular clothes.
He stretched, getting a feel for it. He had never yet worn any of it.
He then took a key out of a bowl on his desk. He opened a locked drawer, and pulled out a long, two-handed mace. This he had used before. He hefted it now, and headed out.
Riell saw him, and his jaw dropped. “What the hell are you doing?” he intoned, following Gryan’s long, quick footsteps.
“I’m gunna get one of those machines, and bring it back here,” Gryan answered, no fear or excitement in his voice.
“You want my help?” Riell asked.
“I think I’ve got this. But thanks.”
Riell nodded. He knew not to push a point on Gryan – it would be no use.
Besides, the boss was capable of anything. Riell looked up to him like a boy to a superhero.
Gryan was aware of this, and really wished it weren’t the case.
There was hardly anything in Westfall to obstruct view, so he could clearly see one of the machines wandering around in circles off in the distance. He headed towards it, his pace quick considering the heavy armor and weapon he carried.
He could still see Sentinel Hill behind him when he approached within twenty feet of the harvest reaper, and suddenly it stopped wandering aimlessly. It turned directly at him, and began charging, quickly beating out the distance under it’s heavy mechanical feet. Gryan gasped. These things were programmed to detect and attack life!
“Stop!” he shouted, and realized this was an incredibly silly thing to do. He readied his weapon, and charged in as well.
He had to get this thing back to Sheldonore in one piece. Or so. As close as possible.
He hoped his armor would protect him from the sharp metal claws of this machine. He attempted feinting to the right at the last moment, but the machine immediately turned and continued straight at him. Of course, he thought, this is not an opponent I can confuse or trick. It has no mind to fool.
A perfectly efficient soldier?
A creaking arm came swooshing at his face. He brought up his hammer, smashed it into the arm, knocking it clean off. It showered down around him in bolts and gears. A piece of shrapnel grazed his face, leaving a light cut on his cheek.
He prepared to take out the other arm when he heard more loud, thumping footsteps behind him. Another machine! The first one was emitting a red glow from his chest…that definitely hadn’t been there before. A distress signal?
He realized that there was an army of these out there. How far did the signal reach?
He ducked and dove out from between them. There clawed arms clashed together, interlocking. He brought his mace back up, smashing into the central back of the second machine. It exploded in a blast of metal and gadgets, collapsing forwards.
The first machine was not deterred, possessing no ability to fear anything. Gryan swept his mace down below, taking out one of its legs. It tumbled over, crashing onto the ground.
The red blinking light on it’s chest kept going. He dared not smash it again, or else this would be pointless and Sheldonore would not be able to study the machine.
“We’re in trouble,” Gryan said to himself. “I hope Sheldonore works fast under pressure.”
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