Falrevere

At Stormwind Harbor, the sight of the colossal Poseidon sailing ship, serenely docked and brazenly sporting a sign proclaiming it the exclusive property of the Stonemasons Guild, nearly made VanCleef's eyeballs pop out and roll onto the pier. To add insult to injury, Count Duke's personal guard, looking like they'd swallowed a warhammer and liked it, were standing watch. VanCleef's blood didn't just boil, it evaporated.

Edmund Duke's name wasn't just whispered in taverns; it was tattooed on the hearts of every living soul in the Stormwind Kingdom. His courage? Legendary. His wisdom? Sharper than a goblin razor. His fairness, kindness, and sheer, unadulterated greatness had practically elevated him to godhood. Folks were starting to carve his name right alongside King Llane and Anduin Lothar. Move over, legends, Duke's got his own damn parking spot in history.

Wherever they went, the private soldiers of Count Edmund, sporting the menacing emblem of the Hundred-Armed Death, were treated like royalty. Citizens dropped to one knee faster than a drunk dwarf hitting a bar stool, offering them the kind of reverence usually reserved for high-ranking knights. Chaos? What chaos? One glimpse of Duke's muscle, and any unruly scene snapped into formation like a perfectly drilled parade. This wasn't just reputation; it was a spontaneous outpouring of devotion, a full-blown Duke-a-palooza!

When VanCleef and the other stonemasons had been told to stay behind and work, many of them were ready to sell their grandmothers for spare parts if it meant their families got shipped out early. Who'd have thought Duke would swoop in and save their bacon too? It was a real "dog in the manger" situation, except Duke wasn't holding back; he was doling out favors like a king. There was no "kick 'em to the curb once their usefulness is over" with Duke. Before they even had time to scratch their heads, Makaro, Duke's head honcho of a butler, personally delivered the blueprints for the Southshore refugee camp! It was a crystal-clear message to VanCleef and his crew: "You're still needed, you magnificent bastards!"

"Here's the cash to get those houses up," Makaro announced, as his men hauled in fifty chests overflowing with gold coins. "If that's not enough to wet your whistle, you can sign your name on the dotted line at any 'Sea King Chamber of Commerce' branch in Kul Tiras or Menethil Port and pull out up to 300,000 more for construction."

VanCleef's jaw hit the floor. "The Master... he trusts me that much?"

Makaro grinned, a knowing glint in his eye. "Master Edmund said he looked into your eyes, VanCleef. And those eyes told him you're the kind of bloke who'd walk through hellfire and brimstone for your people and your brothers, even if it meant kicking the bucket yourself. He believes in your grit."

Before he could even process it, two rivers of snot and tears streamed down VanCleef's face. He started bawling like a baby dragon who'd lost its pacifier.

Makaro clapped VanCleef on the back, a comforting thud. "You just do a good job. The Master said, 'The future of New Stormwind City rests on your shoulders.'"

VanCleef looked up, his vision blurry through the tears. "We... we're taking back Stormwind?"

"You bet your last copper we are! Because the Master himself said, 'Stormwind City will fall, but the Stormwind Kingdom is destined to rise from the ashes like a phoenix!' Master Edmund Duke is synonymous with miracles. If he can't pull it off, who the hell can?"

Right!

If Duke can't do it, who can?

At the tender age of 14, he'd declared he'd make Medivh, the then-Guardian of the world, look like a penny-ante street magician.

Before he hit 15, he was richer than a dragon hoarding gold, one of the wealthiest merchants in all of Stormwind and even across the seven human kingdoms.

That same year, he stared death in the face, rode shotgun with Anduin Lothar on a suicide mission into Karazhan, and personally helped punt the Burning Legion big boss, Sargeras, straight into the Abyss. Talk about having a set of brass ones!

Not long ago, he even rode a griffin solo, conjured a skyfire so epic it made the heavens weep, and torched 100,000 orcs. (Alright, alright, for PR purposes, poor Daniel, his griffin, was conveniently forgotten, and the orc body count was inflated by a factor of ten. But hey, when the green-skinned goons beat a hasty retreat, Lothar had thousands of charred orc husks put on public display, and the people swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. You gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet, right?)

Who's the miracle? Duke is the miracle! He's the whole damn miracle package deal!

For a glorious moment, VanCleef felt a surge of passion so intense, he thought his chest might explode.

"If you want to play it cool in front of Anduin Lothar, you'd better become a professional first, wouldn't you?" Duke's words, still ringing in VanCleef's ears, were the ultimate kick in the pants.

VanCleef clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. He made a vow then and there:

He would become a professional!

He wouldn't just be a stonemason; he'd be a brick house, a titan, a fortress of a man, and he'd guard his Master until the last star fell from the sky!

Suddenly, a ruckus erupted outside the cabin, jarring them back to reality.

These were extraordinary times, so Makaro and VanCleef immediately snapped their heads in the direction of the commotion.

It was coming from the Stormwind Naval Port.

Due to the relentless demands of the war, the dock had been expanded like a fat man's belt after a holiday feast. The northernmost berth of the civilian dock practically rubbed shoulders with the military port, so what was happening a few dozen yards away in the naval port was playing out right before their eyes.

"Get off the boat! There's no extra space on this ship for you dirty guys!"

When Makaro, VanCleef, and the others saw the "dirty guys" the noble was spewing venom at, their eyes bugged out like a goblin's after a bad potion. These weren't just any guys; these were Stormwind Naval officers and soldiers!

Why were the very guardians of the realm being kicked off their own damn ship?

"This is a ship of the Royal Navy!" The first mate on the ship roared, shaking his fist in a fury that could curdle milk.

"Not anymore, pal!" The nobleman, sporting an earl's medal on his chest, haughtily waved a dismissive hand. Immediately, a man who looked like he'd swallowed a stick, probably a butler, stepped forward.

Makaro recognized him. It was Count Crispin Falrevere, the very same pompous ass that Windsor had pulled out of Karazhan a while back.

Holy Murloc turds! Makaro cursed Windsor silently. I saved a damned snake in the grass, and now they're treating these bottom-feeders like kings! At that moment, Makaro was mentally kicking Windsor for his "good Samaritan" act.

"King Llane Wrynn has issued a decree ordering the Jacob to transport the Duke of Falrevere, his whole darn family, and their mountain of belongings to Southshore starting the 8th of this month…"

There wasn't anything inherently wrong with the order. In fact, it was a huge favor for Llane to free up naval vessels to transport the nobility. But this royal decree was clearly being stretched thinner than a starving goblin's last meal.

To cram more of their own cronies, along with family heirlooms and enough valuables to sink a small fleet, these nobles had literally kicked every naval officer and soldier off the ship, packing the cabins meant for the crew with treasures, guards, servants, and more maids than a brothel on payday.

A naval officer, his face a mask of barely suppressed rage, managed to choke out, "Then your safety won't be guaranteed!"

"My men can handle this ship just fine without you crappy makeshift sailors. They're all seasoned sea dogs with more mileage than a caravan of kodo!" At this moment, the pure, unadulterated arrogance of the nobility was on full, obnoxious display in Count Crispin Falrevere.

What a load of boar pucky!

Do these nincompoops think a naval warship is the same as some glorified fishing boat?!

The sailors were spitting mad, but their anger was a caged beast. They dared not strike, because the one doing the talking was Count Crispin Falrevere. And this Count's father? The infamous Duke Falrevere. At the peak of their power, the Falrevere family owned a fifth of Elwynn Forest, making them one of Stormwind's oldest and most deeply rooted noble houses. You didn't mess with that kind of old money and power.

"How will the ship get back then?" another officer demanded, his voice strained. "The Jacob has another mission to evacuate people from Stormwind City in five days!"

Earl Crispin held his chin so high you could practically see up his nose, not even bothering to lift an eyelid. "When we get to Southshore, I'll order the soldiers there to bring the ship back." With that, he strutted off, dismissing the naval officers and soldiers like they were dog droppings on his pristine boots. Only eight snarling guards remained, lined up like a wall of muscle, blocking the cabin entrance.

Arrogant, disrespectful, and so full of himself he probably cast a shadow on the moon.

How could there be heroes like Anduin Lothar and Edmund Duke among the nobles, paragons of virtue and strength?

And yet, how could the same ranks be absolutely crawling with utter scum like Crispin Falrevere?!