Vanessa

Duke agreed. He had a mental rolodex of shadowy figures, and while VanCleef was a decent pickpocket, he wasn't exactly a master of espionage. Not yet, anyway. The upcoming construction projects, however, were decidedly not in VanCleef's wheelhouse. If Duke needed a master stonemason, he'd wait until Stormwind City was back on its feet, not send VanCleef to chip away at rocks. Talent, Duke firmly believed, was a terrible thing to waste.

Their eyes lit up like a Christmas tree in Winter Veil, practically vibrating with anticipation, wondering just how deep Duke's pockets went.

Duke cleared his throat, a theatrical gesture. "Look," he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I can't just thumb my nose at His Majesty's orders. So, Gryan, you'll have to hang up your sheriff's badge and become the head honcho of my personal fighting force."

"No sweat," Gryan declared, his loyalty to the Westfall folk as solid as a mountain. He'd walk through fire for them.

"Edwin, you're still cutting your teeth in this game, so you'll be Gryan's right-hand man, got it?"

"Got it, Master!" Edwin practically saluted, his head bobbing like a bobblehead.

Duke leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the polished table, his expression as serious as a heart attack. "For your little behind-the-lines operation, I'm authorizing you to recruit three thousand battle-hardened volunteers from Southshore Town, all under my banner. I'll even front you two gold pieces per head. But mark my words: no poaching from the Stormwind regular army. We're not stepping on any royal toes, understand?"

Before the Dark Portal fiasco, this would have been a pipe dream, a one-way ticket to the stockade. But now? It was a whole new ball game. Of the fifty thousand "elite" soldiers who'd bolted from Stormwind City, less than half were actual, honest-to-goodness active-duty troops. The rest were a motley crew: private muscle for various nobles, local militias, even just regular Joes who knew how to swing a sword. They'd faced Orcs head-on, seen the elephant, and lived to tell the tale. They were the real deal, no doubt about it.

Both men let out a collective sigh of relief, as if a mountain had been lifted from their shoulders. This wasn't just "support"; this was hitting the jackpot.

"And," Duke continued, a gleam in his eye, "I'll even pull some strings and get you three Bloodsail warships to serve as your personal supply line. But listen up, buttercups: for the first three months in the Westfall, I don't want you going full Leeroy Jenkins on the Orcs. You'll be painting a target on your backs if you do, especially before their main force hits the northern continent. Besides..."

Duke unrolled a meticulously detailed map, his finger tracing a path to Moonbrook Town in the Westfall. "I know about a certain Moonbrook Mine here," he began, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "And I happen to know that, deep within its bowels, there's a colossal cavern, a secret passage to the sea, perfect for a hidden dock. So, here's the kicker: I want you to make Moonbrook Town your base of operations, and turn that Moonbrook Mine into the Orcs' very own 'Deadmines' – a living nightmare they'll never forget!"

He'd said it! He'd actually said it! Duke nearly cackled out loud, a surge of pure, unadulterated glee washing over him as he basked in the wide-eyed admiration of VanCleef and Stoutmantle. This was pure gold! He'd just told the historical architect of the actual Deadmines to set up shop in the Deadmines and turn it into an Orcish meat grinder! He was a goddamn genius! A tactical titan! A master of irony! Duke's inner monologue was a symphony of triumphant cackles, a proud, unbridled roar of self-congratulation.

VanCleef, however, suddenly looked like he'd just been hit by a bolt of lightning. "So, Master," he stammered, "when we first brought up the Westfall, your reaction was... quite strong. Was it because you'd already cooked up this brilliant scheme, and we just happened to stumble onto the same wavelength?"

"Exactly!" Duke declared, not missing a beat, a perfect synchronicity between master and 'servant' that would have made a seasoned con artist proud. What else could Duke say in the face of VanCleef's uncanny, almost psychic, leap of logic? Of course, he could only nod vigorously and exclaim, "Yes! You've hit the nail on the head, Edwin!"

VanCleef practically glowed with pride.

No sooner had Duke dismissed them than VanCleef, like a bad penny, popped back into the room.

"Master."

Duke, buried under a landslide of paperwork, grunted, "What now?"

VanCleef, a man who could stare down a Gryphon, suddenly looked like a nervous schoolboy. "Well, Master," he began, shuffling his feet, "I couldn't help but notice you're a little... light on the domestic staff. It's hardly fitting for a man of your stature, if you catch my drift..."

Duke, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "If you're so concerned about 'stature,' Edwin, perhaps you should first take a gander at the Queen's palace, or His Royal Highness Varian's humble abode."

Duke's subtle jab hit home like a well-aimed hammer. VanCleef's face went from sheepish to a shade of crimson. "Uh, Master," he blurted out, "it's actually about my daughter, Vanessa. I'm heading to the Westfall, and it's hardly a safe place for a young lass. So, I was wondering if... she could perhaps serve as a maid here?"

The mention of "Vanessa" hit Duke like a cold bucket of water. His mind immediately conjured images of the Vanessa VanCleef from the dark annals of "history." A young girl, forced to watch her father meet a gruesome end, then somehow escaping the clutches of fate, surviving against all odds, and rising from the ashes to rebuild everything her father had fought for. Sounds like the stuff of legends, right? A heroic saga of growth and resilience. Most folks would nod along. Except, in this particular tragedy, the villains weren't some shadowy cult or rampaging beasts. No, the bad guys were the very nobles of Stormwind, including the "wise and great" King Varian himself.

The whole sordid affair was a masterclass in manipulation, orchestrated by none other than the black dragon princess Onyxia. She played VanCleef like a fiddle, then turned around and played Stormwind for fools. She'd allowed VanCleef's Stonemason Guild to rebuild the capital, then whispered sweet nothings into the ears of Stormwind's nobles, convincing them to stiff the Stonemason Brotherhood out of every single copper. This, naturally, sparked a full-blown riot, a furious demonstration that spiraled out of control. And in the chaos, a rogue stone, flung by an enraged stonemason, struck and killed Queen Tiffin, Varian's beloved wife. This was a tragedy of officials forcing the people to rebel, and it was also a tragedy created by evil forces.

Vanessa VanCleef's most famous quote is: "Hope? Is that what I should have felt as I watched you noble dogs chop off my father's head? Hope is to me a cruel joke played by the world. There is no hope. There is only Vanessa."

The thought of the ill-fated father and daughter, the tragic heroes of a future that would now never be, sent a curious warmth through Duke's chest.

"Send her over," Duke said, his voice firm. "As long as I draw breath, no harm will come to her."

A few days later, Edwin returned, Vanessa in tow.

"Little one..." Duke's brain immediately supplied the adjective, then promptly short-circuited. "Little one" was clearly not going to cut it. Edwin claimed Vanessa was only thirteen, but good heavens, why was she built like a brick outhouse? Duke felt like he needed new glasses, or perhaps a cold shower.

Vanessa stood a good 1.7 meters tall, with a no-nonsense crop of black hair. She wasn't an ethereal beauty like Alleria, but she was certainly no slouch – a solid eight out of ten on the eye-candy scale. Her figure was... robust, to say the least, boasting at least a C-cup. And beneath those practical linen shorts, a pair of long, pale legs stretched out, seemingly for miles. And to think, she was only thirteen! Still had plenty of growing to do. If history was any indication, she wouldn't be hitting the ugly stick anytime soon.

Duke cleared his throat, a nervous little cough. "I'll be your master from this day forward," he managed, feeling utterly ridiculous.

"Yes, Master Edmund," the girl mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes suspiciously red, as if Duke had just strong-armed her father into selling her into servitude.

Duke felt his face flush. "Just... help keep the place tidy," he stammered, "and then spend your time learning combat skills. I'm not looking for a purely domestic servant. Alright, you're dismissed for now."

"Understood."

The girl shuffled out, but not before shooting her father a look that could curdle milk – a look that promised a lifetime of passive-aggressive revenge.

"Alright, Edwin," Duke said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "you'll report back every three months. And remember, your 'master' here is a man of many layers, so don't get too chummy with him."