D101 Chapter 196

After delivering an impromptu sermon, Varrus had returned to Quel'Vanar. 

Returning to the war room, with Rho'dan and Nightsong following in his wake, Varrus was in high spirits. Although they had lost a good amount of people, it wasn't catastrophic or anything. It was sad, but that was war. 

No, he was in high spirits because from what he had overheard from some passersby was that the road to the Western Plaguelands was now open. 

The war would finally move deeper into Lordaeron, and they could relieve the siege of Hearthglen. 

Helios must be barely hanging on by this point. It had been over two weeks since the restoration of the Sunwell, and the demise of the Lich King had come to pass. 

That was an uncomfortably long amount of time to hold out against a numerically superior foe. At the very least, the food and enchanted arms/armor supplied to Garithos's forces should be enough to hold out for a while. 

Besides, if Helios had fallen, the Ranger scouts would notify command, and Varrus would find out within minutes. 

Whistling a jaunty tune, Varrus saw Lor'Themar hunched over the map table repositioning units, and giving orders to officers in real time. 

Varrus was quite impressed with the sophistication of this magic. Tae'thelon really deserved some kind of award for all the crazy doo-dads he had invented. 

The Chief Engineer was a little intense, and maybe a little closed in on himself, but he did a lot of heavy lifting. That was one guy Varrus did not regret nominating for the Convocation. 

Varrus took an apple out of his inventory, and munched on it whilst he waited for Lor'Themar to finish up. 

Whilst he was having a conversation full of military jargon, the seasoned veteran briefly stiffened up for the smallest of seconds, and glanced at Varrus. 

Pausing mid munch, Varrus felt a chill on his shoulders. That did not look good. Not at all. 

“Is Syra okay?” Varrus was quick to ask. 

Lor'Themar wordlessly shook his head, and sent him footage from his scrying orb. 

“M-monster!” A beleaguered necromancer said as he was repeatedly tortured by Syra. 

The recording panned to a field of limbs. 

“Ah.” Varrus articulated. 

“Ah indeed, young Vandercross. It appears that taking Darrowshire was not without its costs.” The old man stroked his goatee, and held the barest hints of mockery in his voice. 

“Ugh, what did I do this time?” Varrus swiped a hand down his face and sighed. 

“I believe this says it all.” Rho'dan spoke with a neutral expression, and handed a flief over. 

“What the hell is this?!” Varrus exclaimed to himself as he got a good look at the paper. 

Big bold text on the top of the paper caught Varrus's eye. 

[Duelists Arena: Fighters Wanted] 

Below which, there was a remarkably well done painting of Varrus stabbing the Governor in the back, and the blood from the wound artistically merged with the background. 

“...this was like, 4 to 5 hours ago. How many of these are there?” 

“There are thousands of these posted all throughout Quel'Vanar.” Rho'dan quickly responded. 

“Ugh. So it was just a duel, no big deal.” Varrus tried to downplay it. 

“A recording of the day's events is playing on a loop at the entrance to the arena you constructed for promotional purposes. Likely, Lady Vandercross has seen it already. She is your number one fan, it is reasonable to assume-” 

“Alright, alright, enough lip outta you Rho'dan. Today was supposed to be a triumph, with how fast we are advancing, we should be going into the Westenlands tomorrow or the next day. I refuse to allow petty drama to slow us down.” Varrus sternly announced. 

“Haha, lad, no one is slowing down for this, you're the one being melodramatic about it. If you need me, I'll be enjoying the sunset on the balcony. Care to join me, General Nightsong?” Lor'Themar offered as he stepped away from the table. 

“Some peace would be nice. Oh, and Varrus today is a triumph.” Nightsong gave Varrus a side hug, then disappeared with Lor'Themar by her side. 

“...should I prepare another round of duelists for you to abuse for Lady Vandercross's viewing pleasure?” Rho'dan questioned with a raised eyebrow. 

“No, no, I have a better idea. Morale has been on a rocky wave this last week. It's been in a bit of a fugue ever since we took Stratholme. Now that the next stretch in our campaign is upon us, it's time I offered the people something more.” Varrus schemed aloud, and spread his arms over the table as he took in the various armies, units, and their positions. 

“You've appealed to their loyalty, greed,  fostered a sense of security through strength, and garnered a hint of unity through shared struggle, what more could you offer them?” Rho'dan said in a bored tone, clearly playing along with Varrus so he had someone to bounce his ideas off of. 

“Tch, does your delivery have to be so dry, Rho'dan?” Varrus scowled. 

“Would you like a vapid yes-man as your steward?” Rho'dan drily pressed back. 

“Ahem, as I was saying, all the pieces of the puzzle have been assembled. The troops are ready for the next big push, but they could use a little nudge, if you know what I'm saying.” 

“....” Rho'dan remained as silent and steadfast as a brick wall. 

“That's right, I have yet to appeal to their sense of spectacle, the feeling of innocent fun! Tonight, we shall hold a feast, no, a Triumph for the returning soldiers! Rho'dan, this is my proclamation, I want everyone to be drunk on the best spirits, and full to bursting with the finest culinary meals that Quel'Thalas can provide! We'll show these people the labors of success, a slice into the fruits of victory! That's right, I'll be appealing to their stomachs, and what everyday life in the Covenant could be like should we achieve victory!!!” Varrus turned to the stalwart guard, and spread his arms wide.

“...you want to…throw a party?” Rho'dan struggled with his words, and barely got out. 

“Just do as you're commanded, gods damn you.” Varrus slumped his shoulders, and pointed at the man. 

“As the Highlord commands.” Rho'dan bowed, and then began to issue several dozens of orders on his scrying orb. 

Varrus chuckled. Ahh, it was good to be the boss. Delegation truly was a super power. 

Whistling to himself, Varrus was going to join Lor'Themar and Nightsong on the balcony to see the sunset, when he saw them kiss! 

Clutching at his heart, Varrus had to remember his mom was an ancient woman, and could do what she wanted, but damn did it feel wrong to see her kissing another man that wasn't Old Man Vandercross. 

Swiftly about facing, Varrus did not stomp back to his room. Roughly shoving his hands into his robes pockets, Varrus was surprised to feel some sort of soft silken napkin that was of an even higher quality than his robe. 

‘I don't recall placing anything in here?’ Varrus questioned himself, and pulled the napkin out.

Unfolding the white cloth, Varrus saw a sentence shimmer into existence. He almost dropped the damned thing in surprise, and blasted it with fire, but what it said sent him on edge. 

[The Greymarch is coming to your world, young Dragonborn. Jyggalag's followers have set the wheels turning in the northern continent. Beware the Daedric Prince of Order.] The message psychically transmitted itself into Varrus's mind, and was said in Maphela's voice. 

“And why should I believe a word from you, the Prince of Lies?” Varrus shook his head, and questioned in a tone full of disbelief. 

[None of the other Princes would admit it aloud, but Jyggalag is a threat to us all. A being of Oblivion, of Chaos molded within the trappings of Order. This thing is no fun. It cannot be reasoned with, nor does it play the great game. Jyggalag wishes to impose a static halt on time and the universe. If this is not threatening enough, than perhaps I mistook you for a follower of Sheogorath.] 

“...do you have any proof?” Varrus said in a hesitative tone. 

[Proof? You would demand proof from a Goddess? I have an affinity for you Elves, but do not press your luck, mortal.] A heavy pressure began to come from the cloth, and Varrus felt woozy and lightheaded. As if he might pass out any second. 

“Goo fuck yourself.” Varrus slurred. 

[Good, perhaps one day such a meeting between our flesh can occur. This is the spirit necessary to combat a God.] Maphela responded, and cut off the awful magic that had caught Varrus off guard. 

“So is this threat imminent? You can't just leave a guy hanging and act all ominous. I'm not just any Dragonborn that will nod his head and heed your orders, you know. I am literally on dozens of quests at the moment. What makes you so sure I'll listen to you?” 

[Petulant for a Dragonborn, aren’t you? Time is not my forte, perhaps you should ask that old lizard? Hahahaha!] Maphela cackled, and then the cloth began to burn up. 

“Stuck up bitch.” Varrus muttered to himself. 

As the cloth was almost wholly consumed by the flames, one last message was transmitted via the psychic link. 

[Now we truIy must meet, face to face someday! I would love to see you squirm on my web~ Here is a gift, some words of wisdom, Dragonborn. Your life and death will be determined by this riddle: I'm known for my many layers, in-between me lies a leafy bed, and a sprayed between my nooks and crannies is a wholesome spread. Soft or crunchy, hot or cold, I always satisfy. What am I?] 

As soon as her parting words ended, the message disappeared, and Varrus could no longer communicate with the Daedric Prince.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Varrus was hunched over, and clasped his hands together in thought. 

“What the hell even was that? These Daedric Princes are meddling more and more. Ever since I learnt I was a Dragonborn, it's as if the laws of causality are spawning them in, left and right. Kind of like how in Skyrim, the player won't run into Dragons unless they start the Whiterun quest.” Varrus shook his head, and sighed at this ridiculous encounter. 

To his knowledge, this marked the third time he'd directly interacted with a Daedric Prince. Not to mention the temple dedicated to Hircine in Gilneas, and the amulets of Peryite found upon the traitor, Grand Magister Rommath. 

The added chaos of Daedric Princes wasn't something Varrus was exactly thrilled to be dealing with. 

And now he was supposed to believe that one of them intended to descend upon Azeroth? Upon Northrend no less. 

Honestly, Varrus was extremely skeptical considering the source. But Maphela did tell him to contact Akatosh. 

That could be kinda cool. 

In the mainline Elder Scrolls series, he couldn't remember a time whenever the player character spoke with any of the Divines. 

He'd have to ask Nightsong if she had a method. Afterall, his mom technically was a piece of the great Time Dragon in the sky. 

Besides that, he wondered what the heck that riddle was about. 

“Many layers, soft and crunchy, maybe it's something like an onion??? But then again, what about the leafy bed with the wholesome spread?” Varrus rubbed his chin, and recorded the riddle onto his scrying orb to peruse later. 

Whilst he was holding onto the magical device, it pinged with a message from Rho'dan. 

[The city is ready, Lady Vandercross and the Saints have arrived at Stratholme, and will be teleporting up to Quel'Vanar soon.] 

[Good job, Rho'dan.] Varrus sent back, then put away his scrying orb. 

Smoothing out his robes, and performing a few minor cleaning charms, Varrus prepared himself to raise morale one final time before the big fight tomorrow. 

After this event was through, the Dreadlords wouldn't know what hit them.