To His Grace Anduin Llane Wrynn, King of Stormwind and last of the Human Monarchs,

Delivering mail from Northrend is no small task, so I hope you will excuse that I have been unable to send my condolences for the loss of your Royal Father until now.

I will be forthright. Previously our humble settlement had sworn fealty to the King of Lordaeron. But now both the House of Menethil and the realm of Lordaeron, our original home, have perished. As Your Grace is the only remaining Sovereign of Humanity, as mayor of Farshire I pledge to you the fealty of Farshire and therefore dominion over the lands of Farshire and all the rents, incomes and taxes therein.

Yet we are but one of only two remaining holdfasts in Northrend, and the undead have reappeared after an absence of several years. They have yet to attempt a serious incursion but we have only one fighting man, a sheriff of decidedly dubious honour. Our nearest hope of aid, Valgarde, has declined to assist us, reserving men to launch sorties against the naga. As such as the last bastion of Humanity, Stormwind is our only hope for relief. The difficulty of farming in Northrend consumes all hands; we can spare none for a guard. I beseech you to send us a detachment of men for protection, or at the very least arms, our smith knows neither armor nor weapon smithing. If we are pressed in our current state we shall most surely perish.

The only thing you may not ask of us is evacuation- Farshire is our home now, we have lost Lordaeron but we shall not let our new home fall as well. I throw myself upon Your Royal Mercy. Please, you are our last hope. Please save us.

Your Loyal Servant,

Tobius Clerk, Mayor of Farshire

"It were the Cult of the Damned I tell ye!" Old man Jenkins gesticulated wildly as he said this, as if he were fending off a swarm of bees. The man he was raving to found this image decidedly satisfying and struggled to stifle a smile.

"I doubt the Cult has taken up cattle rustling, and furthermore I can't imagine who would want to steal your cattle, you've starved them down to skin and bones with your thriftiness," deadpanned the sheriff. He thoughtfully stroked his whiskers to hide his smirk.

"That's just what a Cultist would say! How do I know ye haven't gone over, seeing as your so fond of changing yer colours deserter!" Spittle burst from Jenkin's mouth has he hurled invectives.

Sheriff Desechain sighed and removed the hand from his face- a thin line had replaced his contemptuous grin. The newly liberated hand longingly stroked the hilt and guard of his saber, and resisted the urge to rend old man Jenkins from head to groin, and see if he could still run his mouth then. It was as much the repetition as the insult that bothered him- every month or so old man Jenkins would summon the Sheriff over some imagined slight, accuse the Cult of the Damned or some neighbor he disliked and then accuse the sheriff of being in on whatever scheme Jenkins thought he was the target of.

"Well Brynn what say y-" began Jenkins, but sheriff Desechain was having none of it.

"That is Sheriff Desechain to you," snapped Brynn Desechain, "and I say you're going senile and misplaced this heifer if she ever existed."

"Wha- How dare ye lookin' fer Betsy ain't no snipe hunt and you'll inves-ti-gate as ye're bound." He delivered this command in his best pontificating voice, which might have once been impressive before both his voice and person became withered and thin. That this one sentence also cost all his breath and triggered a series of hacking coughs robbed it of any remaining grandeur, and the sheriff broke in rather than let this become a sermon.

"It is a snipe hunt because I will find neither Betsy nor any evidence that she was stolen, eaten by ghouls, harried by harpies, desecrated by the Drakkai or, what was your theory about the hammer last month, taken by the "iron dwarves?" " The sheriff's voice began as an exasperated growl, becoming cold and mocking at the end. His patience with Jenkins had been exhausted before he became sheriff, and he had never found more.

"They're real I tell ye! I seen them myself! All iron and cold with great golumns and hatin all fle-" blustered Jenkins, but sheriff Desechain cut him off again.

"Uh-huh, I'll check the counts of the surrounding herds, see if there are any unexplained additions. Good day, Mr. Jenkins." Sheriff Desechain was sure the old man was wasting his time on purpose. Still, it was strange that a man as avaricious as Jenkins had not yet relented- he could not sell or lease any of the property he claimed was missing. Jenkins must truly hate him to forgo more gold than many in Farshire made in a year. Still, he would investigate- there wasn't much to do in Northrend.

"Wha about Cult-tists or ravening beasts? My Betsy must have justice-" began old man Jenkins, until Brynn cut him off for a third time. He took his enjoyment where he could in these exchanges.

"There are no cultists and I am not going to raise a posse to bring wolves to justice."

"Ba tha Light tha Mayor shall he-ya of yer impudence!" So saying, old man Jenkins slammed a fist into the wall of his cottage. It was a throwback to Lordaeron, one of those eerie wood-and-thatch one-room cottages that all seemed identical. Only a man rich as Jenkins could afford the fuel to heat such a house, uninsulated by sod, in this forsaken place.

"I expect everyone with the misfortune to meet you before you die will hear your grievances with me." And with that Sheriff Desechain galloped off, Jenkin's squawks about threats and abuse of power dogging him down the dirt track. Jenkin's cottage shrank behind him but remained in view; very little grew in the tundra which combined with the constant elevation gave a line of sight for miles almost anywhere in Farshire. The lack of cover also allowed a cold wind to scythe across the whole Borean Tundra. Even in summer the wind bit and nagged, imperceptibly sapping one's strength until naught was left but a lethargic husk. In winter, as the land rose up against everything warm, the scything of the wind ceased to be metaphorical- any man cut by it would bleed out all of his warmth within an hour.

Brynn Desechain slowed his horse, a repurposed plow-puller, so that he could wrap himself better in his cloak- he was glad the wind was still in the nagging stage. The plate mixed into his gear did little to warm him. In fact the left gauntlet, greaves and boots- scuffed from use, the armor of a footman of Lordaeron, its seal upon his spurs and belt buckle- held in cold rather than repelling it, but he dared not remove them in exchange for the same type of thick mismatched furs which comprised the rest of his raiment. His need was as much psychological as practical, armor was rare here but more importantly this set had been through hell with him. Three overlapping arcs of gouges marked the top and bottom of the gauntlet- teethmarks. Long scratches, five each and parallel on each greave, did not match any bladed weapon. The sheriff himself displayed damage. His faded blue cloak had no hood to accommodate a helmet now long gone, revealing a gaunt face covered in short whiskers, as if their owner could not decide between being clean shaven or bearded. His hair might have been blonde once but now it was faded and brittle. The sheriff ran a hand through it slowly, his eyes, either blue or grey and far too close to call, unfocused and lost in thought.

A shimmer in his peripheral vision snapped Brynn Desechain out of the beginnings of his brooding. A man who did not live in Northrend would have called it heat haze. One who had been through less than Brynn would have dismissed it as nothing. But Brynn was far too paranoid for that- by reflex his gauntlet seized the sword hilt on his right hip and his gloved right hand thrust into the pouch upon his left hip a moment after, filling his fist with powder. Deftly uncrossing his arms Brynn brought his saber to the en garde position and hurled the dust of appearance with his off hand.

Both his aim and suspicions were true as the dust revealed the shade ahead and on his left, floating between the height of a man on foot and a man ahorse. The shade was a twisted parody of the man who had been sacrificed to create it, a floating, smoky ink torso- except for the eyes. The eyes smoldered purple. Brynn had fought other undead, and he had learned to see the shadow of the human in their eyes- the pain, horror and regret, the wish for it to end. In these were only surprise at its discovery- this one had given himself up willingly.

That more than anything stoked Brynn's fury. He kicked with his spurs, burying the spidery L and banner of Lordaeron in his horse's flanks. It feared the unliving thing before it but it feared the fury of its rider even more and surged forward, wide eyes rolling and teeth bared.

The shade tried to run but it had positioned itself badly, too far from the fence on either side of the road to take cover and square in the path of Brynn's sword arm.

"LORDAERON!" Brynn's warcry cracked and became a war-shriek halfway through as he rode down the shade, leaning low and left out of the saddle and striking up and right, his full weight behind the reckless strike of the saber as he wrenched himself back into his saddle. He wheeled his screaming mount around for another pass. He needn't have bothered.

The shade's neck boiled where the sword struck, exploding into smoke and quickly followed by the rest of the shade as it gurgled the last breath of its second life. Brynn gagged as the corpse fumes washed over him, filling his nostrils with the musty scent of dried blood and rot. And beef.