Rogue Firefury

EPILOGUE

Lor'themar Theron sat in his office, signing more official documents. He had been doing this since early in the morning. It was a never-ending stream of laws, bills, affidavits, procurements for supplies and arms, requests for audiences with him. Tedious did not even come close to describing the task.

Then he came upon it; another demand for forces from the Warchief, Sylvanas. He picked it up, speed read it then let it fall from his hand. It sashayed its way through the air, just like its author. It floated out over the edge of the desk and drifted to a halt on the floor. He looked at it, anger brimming at the unrealistic expectations of the woman.

He had never forgiven her for her part in the fall of Quel'thalas. Although it was widely speculated that she had been under the influence of Arthas, as Banshee Queen, her more recent behaviours caused the seed of suspicion and doubt to multiply tenfold in Lor'themar's mind.

She had shown utter disregard for the Sind'orei's depleted numbers when the land was still bleeding from the scourge attacks after the Third War. The soldiers had been truly battle-wearied and exhausted, trying to maintain some order from the chaos. But, still, she demanded they were sent to Northrend, reminding Lor'themar they were, after all, part of the Horde and Arthas' attack was aimed directly at their people.

There was no love lost between them, never had been, even as far back as his Farstrider days. Yes, she had him promoted, twice, but still, she enjoyed the fact she was General, and he was only Ranger Lord.

He had shown her the respect her position warranted, but as an individual, he loathed her and her arrogant approach. Politics was a dirty business anyway, but she had a knack of making it as foul as the plague itself.

He flopped back in his chair and dropped his quill on the desk, a small spattering of ink forming across the desktop where it landed. He leaned on the chair arm, toying with his goatee, lost in thoughts which he could not even collate in any particular format.

The door opened, and Grand Magister Rommath strode into the room, followed by a maid who carried a tea tray. He motioned for the maid to place the tray on the side table next to the window as there was no room on Lor'themar's desk with the seemingly self-multiplying stacks of documents covering the surface. He nodded thanks and waited for her to leave. The door closed quietly behind her.

Rommath looked at his friend. "You look tired," he said, pouring tea for them both.

Lor'themar sighed heavily, rubbing his eye. "I am." He gestured to the piles of paper on his desk. "This is a thankless task."

Rommath chuckled a little. "But one which needs doing I'm afraid."

"Hmm," Lor'themar mumbled as he pushed himself up out of the chair and crossed to the Grand Magister. He thanked him for his cup of tea but refused a slice of the lovingly crafted carrot cake.