Complaint

Standing on a windswept bluff at the very edge of the Western Coast, gazing south, the colossal mass of what was once called Redemption Island—now, the grim, battle-scarred fortress of Tol Barad—loomed on the horizon. Its spiral contours ascended to a colossal, brooding keep at its zenith, a stark silhouette against the bruised sky. Below, hugging the jagged shores, the newly deployed Kul Tiras Fourth Fleet bobbed, a formidable if somewhat green-horned guardian.

"Duke, are you pulling my leg?" Alleria Windrunner, the very embodiment of elven grace and lethal precision, arched a golden eyebrow, her hands settling on her hips. Her gaze, sharp as a freshly honed arrow, followed the line of her arm, tracing the elegant, almost impossibly long curve of her own leg. "I hardly think even those thick-skulled greenskins are daft enough to try their luck here."

For reasons Duke couldn't quite fathom, looking Alleria directly in the eye had become an Olympic-level challenge lately. His gaze seemed to develop an inexplicable aversion, darting everywhere but her piercing blue stare.

Alleria shot him a look that could curdle milk, a silent reminder that this was wartime, not a tea party. Yet, even as she did, she found her own eyes doing a peculiar dance, refusing to meet his. She kept chanting to herself: He's just a fifteen-year-old half-grown pup, a mere whelp! But the reflection in his eyes, the sheer, unnerving gravitas, screamed anything but "kid."

Right. Back to the blood and guts.

This particular stretch of coastline was, to put it mildly, a geographical headache. To the west, the mountains clawed at the sky, sheer and unforgiving, their near-vertical faces a cruel joke on any would-be climber. Even an orc, with their penchant for brute force, would find scaling those cliffs a suicidal endeavor. It was a landing army's worst nightmare, etched in stone.

The very hill they stood upon sloped down at a treacherous forty-five degrees, a brutal incline that plunged straight to the beach. It was, for any large-scale invasion, the absolute razor's edge of possibility.

Alleria, ever the pragmatist, scoffed at the notion of the Horde attempting a breakthrough here. They were practically breathing down the necks of the Kul Tiras fleet. Even if the Fourth Fleet was the runt of the litter, half the strength of its elder, more seasoned siblings, it was still a leviathan compared to the Horde's rickety transport barges or flimsy scout ships.

"No, no, no! Alleria, you're missing the forest for the trees!" Duke practically bounced with an almost manic energy, his finger stabbing at the air. "Have you not noticed the delicate dance of geography here? The cannons on Tol Barad? They're utterly out of range!"

The female elf, a vision in gold and emerald, ran a hand through her magnificent mane of hair, a flicker of understanding crossing her features. The island was a fair distance. And if an enemy fleet hugged the western coast, using the jutting mountains as cover, they'd enter a colossal blind spot, a dead zone where the island's formidable artillery couldn't touch them. A perfect, albeit suicidal, breach point.

But here, Duke, bless his mad, brilliant mind, had erected a monstrosity. He'd used newly quarried volcanic limestone, mixed with enough cement to make a gnome weep, to pour a five-story bunker that looked like it had been birthed by a mountain. The ground floor bristled with eight heavy cannons, their muzzles gaping like hungry beasts. The second floor housed a dozen monstrous crossbows, each capable of skewering a gronn. And on either flank, catapult positions stood ready to hurl fiery death.

This was no mere outpost. This was a fortress, a bulwark that could go toe-to-toe with Southshore itself.

"I demand, Alleria, that you utterly annihilate any tribal reconnaissance team that dares to poke its nose where it doesn't belong! And I can only entrust this sacred, glorious, utterly vital task to you!" Duke declared, his eyes blazing with a theatrical intensity that bordered on unhinged.

The female elf preened, a visible glow radiating from her. Her hands returned to her hips, and if Duke hadn't known better, he'd swear an invisible, fluffy tail had just sprouted from her backside and was wagging furiously. "Heh! It seems you finally understand who truly wears the pants in the Windrunner family, don't you?"

Duke slapped a hand to his forehead, a bead of sweat, or perhaps a tear of exasperation, trickling down his temple. Oh, Light help me.

Earlier, Duke had strategically placed Sylvanas to guard a bunker halfway between Southshore and this very spot. In Alleria's fiercely competitive mind, that was the obvious target, the prime real estate for an orcish probe. Consequently, Alleria had been in a foul mood, simmering with barely contained resentment for hours.

But now? Now that the big cheese was happy, she was practically skipping.

Alleria, having snapped into full combat readiness, suddenly found Duke to be a rather inconvenient lump of flesh. The specific arrangements of the battle zone, she imperiously declared, required absolutely no input from a mere "Deputy Commander-in-Chief." And with a dismissive wave, she sent Duke packing.

Duke, thinking his ordeal was over, sighed with relief. But on his weary ride back to Southshore, he spotted them: two impossibly long legs, dangling casually in the air, right in the middle of the road.

The emerald green boots, suspended in mid-air, were impossible to miss, especially when attached to legs that seemed to stretch for days. Elves were known for their lithe forms, but Sylvanas's legs were a work of art, a perfect balance that defied gravity and reason. Not an ounce of fat, not a hint of skinniness—just pure, unadulterated perfection.

Duke, Gavinrad, Windsor, and their accompanying guards reined in their horses, a collective groan echoing through the small party.

"Well, Sylvanas... Sylvanas, what in the blazes do you want now?"

Sylvanas's legs swung with a languid grace, as if she were idly kicking water in a sun-drenched pond. Her expression was one of intoxicating, almost feline laziness. "Oh, nothing much. Just this nagging feeling... are you perhaps underestimating me? It seems you gave me the spot most likely to be scouted by those orcish ships, but deep down, you think my dear sister's position is the real hot zone, don't you?"

Blast it all! Duke's jaw dropped. This intuition... the Windrunner sisters are absolute mind-readers! They're like a pack of psychic wolverines!

Duke sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. "Yes, I'll admit it. In my humble estimation, the chances over there are at least five times higher than here."

"So, why the arrangement?" Sylvanas asked, her tone deceptively casual.

"Because you looked like you were just phoning it in?" Duke decided to play dumb, a strategy that usually worked about as well as a screen door on a submarine.

Everyone in Quel'Thalas knew Sylvanas was a notorious goldbricker, a professional loafer who somehow managed to collect the Ranger-General's benefits while seemingly doing absolutely nothing all day.

Of course, that was just the public facade.

The bitter truth was the incessant meddling of the Silvermoon Council, or more accurately, the relentless suppression of the entire Ranger faction by the High Elves' Mage Faction. The mages, with their arcane might, were the undisputed rulers, but even rulers needed a healthy supply of cannon fodder to maintain their gilded pyramid scheme. Thus, the Ranger faction, being the more martial and less magically inclined, was perpetually kept under the thumb.

It didn't help that the High Elves themselves were exiles, cast out by the Druid-dominated Night Elves for their stubborn refusal to abandon magic. So, for thousands of years, the Mage Faction had been systematically stifling the Ranger Faction, which, ironically, was far more attuned to the natural world.

The Council, unable to ignore the sheer, undeniable excellence of the three Windrunner sisters, and particularly Sylvanas's impressive military record, had begrudgingly promoted her to Ranger-General.

But that was the absolute ceiling. The Silvermoon Council made it their life's mission to make Sylvanas's existence a living hell. If a cat went missing in the alley, she was tasked with finding it. If an arcane golem went berserk and threatened to level the city, she was conveniently "not needed."

It was all a cynical dance of political balance, a grudging compromise. Sylvanas held the grand title of "City Manager of Quel'Thalas"—oh, pardon me, "General of the City Guard"—and was effectively paid to do absolutely nothing.

"Oh, don't you dare sell the Windrunner women short," Sylvanas purred, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Any one of us four sisters has bagged more trolls than you've had hot meals."

Inexplicably, Duke felt a chill run down his spine. Sylvanas had just flipped the switch, entering full "serious mode."

It was a well-known fact that most of the Windrunner women possessed a lively, almost mischievous curiosity. But to mistake that for a lack of their inherent warlike ferocity was to invite a world of pain. Someone, somewhere, would pay a terrible price for such an oversight.

Duke quickly made the sign of the Holy Light across his chest with an invisible, frantic hand, muttering, "By the Light, save my soul!" under his breath. Then, he plastered on a face that screamed, Sylvanas, you are the most valued, most brilliant, most terrifyingly competent ranger I have ever known!

"Oh, I believe it, truly! Since you've put it so... eloquently, consider it done. Within three days, I shall prepare a special hunting ground for you in Southshore. There will be prey there, Sylvanas, that will make your blood sing and your quiver empty!" Duke promised, his voice dripping with feigned enthusiasm.

"Heh, that's more like it." Sylvanas's lithe form vanished from the tree trunk with a whisper of displaced air, leaving only the faint scent of pine and impending doom.