A Bittersweet Toast

A Bittersweet Toast is an account of the aftermath of the First Regiment's departure from Kalimdor in June of 31 L.C., written by Maxen Montclair.

An Alliance fleet made its way through the calm waters of the Great Sea. The smell of saltwater pervaded over the scents of Kalimdor cuisine, wine, and spirits as the soldiers and sailors manning the ships celebrated a great victory. One of the destroyers can be recognized by an ornate wooden carving on the bow of a fair maiden. "H.M.S. COUNTESS" is painted on the side in a dull gray.

In the Marshal's quarters, sheets of parchment were strewn about the small desk. The cabin was musty. Marshal Montclair, garbed in his officer's dress uniform, sat lazily in a rocking chair, looking about his surroundings in apparent daydreaming relaxation.

It had been a long campaign on the men and women under his command. Piecing together every single memory of the several months that they had been a hemisphere from home was a trying task.

Thunks of iron on wood broke his state, and the commander looked up to see a dark-skinned man approach. He tips his hat.

"Sir Ismond. Come in."

The knight was dressed down to his slacks, his colors hanging over his chest. After snapping a quick salute, he strode into the cabin. Ismond broke the silence with a deep, raspy voice.

"How've you been feeling, m'lord?"

Maxen paused for a moment, in thought.

"Well enough. I believe that I left a part of myself in Kalimdor."

Ismond furled a bushy brow, then strode across the room to take a seat on the side of a cot.

"Talk to me, m'ord."

Maxen sighed, breaking Ismond's gaze as he was in thought once more. Soon, his thoughts started pouring out as words.

"When I was taken by the Tauren, they never put a hand on me...  Passive intimidation. They knew that I knew that I couldn't escape."

Maxen paused, closing his eyes. His voice became softer.

"They showed me their homeland. Their children - who offered me toys and blankets. They showed me what they were fighting for. These aren't the bloody orcish wars.

The Horde is not the evil it once was. Parts of the whole are honorable, and must be put down simply because they choose to fight alongside the orcs. We have our orders, and our service to the crown.

If Stormwind is safer by our actions, no matter what they be.."

He trails off, unable to finish his own sentence. He looks defeated - his view trained to the ground, deep in contemplation. For a few moments, Ismond remains silent before speaking once more.

"Remember, m'ord. It is our duty to suffer for those back in Stormwind and her territories. Our job to be hurt, maimed, or killed.. or to kill, torture, or slaughter. We both know that war isn't the contest of honor and dignity that it is made out to be back home. It's dirty and the most evil thing to touch Azeroth, but it is our sworn duty to face the evils for our people."

Maxen nods with a sigh.

"That I know, and understand. Though it does not make for a sound conscience."

Ismond thinks for a moment, before looking his commander in the eye and speaking clearly.

"That's because you are a good man. A good man couldn't do our works with a clear and eased conscience. That's also what makes you an effective - and beloved - commander."

A deep sigh escapes through Maxen's nose as his eyebrow quirks up. He looks at Ismond for a few moments before a slight smirk can be seen tugging at his lips. Ismond watched him curiously as he reached over to the table beside him, where he took up a dusty brown flask that bore the Montclair coat of arms on its parchment label.

As he uncorked the bottle, the warming scent of aged whiskey folded through the musty air of the room. Maxen casually poured two crystal glasses half-full with the burgundy liquid. The commander offered the knight an honest and understanding smile with his drink.

"For the Alliance."

Ismond took the glass, eyeing it strangely for a moment before letting it clink against Maxen's glass.

"For the Alliance."