Iron War Westfall Rebellion

The Iron War Westfall Rebellion was a civil war fought in Westfall and Elwynn Forest between loyalists to the Kingdom of Stormwind and rebels loyal to Harold Brook, the self-proclaimed King of Westfall. Due to the Stormwind Army's preoccupation in Draenor after the Iron Horde Invasion of Azeroth, the rebel forces were quickly able to conquer vast swathes of Westfall and Elwynn before being challenged by The First Regiment of the Elwynn Brigade.

=King of the West=

The following are excerpts of the story of Harold Brook's rebellion in Westfall and how it spilled into Elwynn Forest. All were written by Sir Thomas Kalron after gathered accounts were compiled by 7. ''(Plot written by Thomaas for The First Regiment's campaign.)

Harold Brook
''An account of Harold Brook's rise as a champion of the rebellion and his sacking of Sentinel Hill.

The midday sun scorched down upon the litter-strewn streets of Moonbrook. The empty shacks and tattered buildings stood idly by as various figures shuffled inside and out and through the streets. Dust was kicked up and choked the lungs of passerbys as a man stood outside a beaten tavern in need of many repairs.

But those repairs wouldn’t come, Harold thought, not in these times. Too costly and expensive. Most buildings in the almost-defunct town of Moonbrook were falling apart, but its citizens still dwelt within the city. Those who were not homeless were poor, and those who were not poor were down under their luck. Harold glanced across the street into an alley to see someone being robbed. Robbed of what, he thought. There’s nothing to steal. But it happened all the same, and no one did anything about it. No one ever did, of course, because then they’d in turn be robbed of what they didn’t have, and so the vicious cycle would begin over again.

Harold turned and entered the tavern, trodding in with heavy steps out of the sun and into the shade. He eyed the various patrons - some in rags or bags, and others in torn shirts and trousers. He stepped up to the bar in the corner and looked a bald, scarred man in the eye. The bartender spoke up, “Wot can I get ye’?” He spoke with a southern Westfallian accent - one that Harold did not have.

“I suppose… a flagon of mead?”

“We ‘ave water an’ rum - tha’s all.” The man spoke through half-rotted teeth, but that wasn’t too out of place. Harold placed a copper coin on the counter - worth more here than it actually was - and took his meager drink upstairs into a small room. He heard lewd noises to the room next to his, and opted to ignore them and gather his thoughts.

Frankly, he was tired of these hard times, as were most. He’d had enough of hunger and poverty these past few years. His wife and him had barely eked out an existence by repairing broken down wagons, barrels, and even buildings. Though they barely made enough to support their two children, they were alive, and that was what mattered. Rachelle was nearing thirteen years, and Landon ten. Both had been humbled by being poor, but they still had their own fiery personalities.

The noises in the next room grew louder and interrupted his train of thought. Harold pounded the wall separating them, hoping to silence them, but he received only a shout of contempt:

“Shut the fuck up!”

Harold wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he laid back on his beaten down bed, trying to focus again. In truth, he wasn’t sure who to blame for his countries’ current state. Most fingers pointed to Stormwind and its’ leaders, but the Defias, even though now defunct, could definitely bear some of the weight. Harold himself served during the war in Northrend. At the time, it was the perfect thing: free food and room, and pay could be sent back home. Many of the downtrodden had enlisted. Many had died. The horrors still haunted him occasionally, but at least he made it back. To what, though? Once the war was over, there grew a sudden lack of employment in anything. To make matters worse, the Defias returned and a massive crag ripped across the westlands. Both issues had settled, but the homelessness hadn’t.

The next day Harold walked through the streets once again, trying to find opportunity. It appears others had the same idea; many ambled aimlessly on, hoping to find some nonexistent saving grace. A man dressed in a dirty apron and trousers lay slumped against the tavern wall. He was either sleeping or dead, Harold didn’t know. What he did know was that the man across the street had a red bandana on. And he hated that. Anger began to rise up within Harold, but once he saw other red bandanas form from amongst the buildings he repressed it.

With the Deadmines being the Defias’ headquarters, it wasn’t uncommon to find remnant gang members skulking around. These four appeared to be harassing an old man and his cart, which was filled with mostly dirt and trash.

“Cough up wha’cha got, geezer.” One said. Another brandished a knife as a silent threat. The elderly man had no choice but to be complacent, offering them his cart to take from. Other eyes began spotted the robbery, but quickly looked away, not wanting to be the next victim. Harold couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sorry for the old man, though. After all, he should’ve known not to come to Moonbrook if he didn’t want to be robbed. Harold himself was actually robbed last week. Still, though he’d been hardened by battle against the scourge and trolls and iron dwarves, something about these assholes ticked him off.

Suddenly the tavern door flung open, kicking up dust everywhere. Harold coughed several times, blinking his eyes through the cloud.

“But I don’t wanna g-”

“Shut the fuck up.” The man, whose voice Harold recognized as his loud neighbor last night, was yanking his womanly companion by the arm. Not only that, but he was also sporting a loose red mask around his neck. Harold gave the man a stern look, not afraid to passive aggressively voice his opinion. The defias looked Harold in the eye, “The ‘ell you want?”

“Are you the man who wouldn’t be silent last night?” Harold asked. The woman complained, but Mr. Defias yanked her over:

“Shut up,” the Defias said to her, and then turned and leaned into Harold real close, “Yeh? What of it?” He had shaggy medium-length black hair, and a rough stubble, and his breath stank like some unworldly garbage.

“You’re not the most polite man.” Harold sarcastically spat. He could tell this thief was getting angered, and he loved it. Badbreath, as Harold mentally dubbed him, coughed up a laugh, turning to his companion to laugh with him, though she only slightly grimaced in his presence.

“Yeah? Ya’ insultin’ me?” He hacked up another chuckle and turned to the other four defias thieves across the street, “‘Ey, boys! Heh, this guy’s got a problem wit’ my manners.” The four ditched the old man and strode across the dirt road. The blood flushed from Harold’s face for a minute, but he tried to act smartly here. And, the smartest thing to do, he decided in three seconds, was to blindside Badbreath with a punch across the jaw.

The defias crumpled to the ground, unconscious. His woman friend shrieked and bolted back into the tavern, and the other four stood in shocked silence. Harold, now with building courage, stood and faced them. He doubted his chances against four men, but he was a soldier, though jobless, and they were four cowards masquerading as brutes.

The four instantly pounced on Harold, drawing knives and clubs from their bodies. The first one swung his club high, so Harold ducked as he lowered his shoulder to ram it into the man’s stomach. This knocked the wind out of him and sent him sprawling, but a stinging pain tore across Harold’s shoulder as a blade cut a gash in it, “Gaaah!” Taking a step back, Harold regained his composure. Two were on the ground, and three were facing him. Also facing him was a gathering crowd. And who could blame them? It wasn’t every day someone stood up to the Defias. The three advanced, but their coordination was lacking substantially. Harold threw up a hand to catch a crude club, which while painful, was better than taking it to the face. A swift punch to the face disarmed the defias, and Harold used his newly gained weapon to block another club to the head.

The anger and rage was back; soon Harold’s mind became a frenzy of thoughts. He channeled his anger at the defias, at Stormwind, at the Scourge, at Westfall, at everything in every blow. He struck left and right, up and down. The club cracked across a masked man’s head, shattering his skull. A kick landed against Harold’s knee, but his adrenaline was already flowing, and he returned the kick with his own, sending the attacker flying backwards. The knife-wielder found Harold’s side with his blade, but an elbow to the temple silenced the man forever. Two of the defias saw the losing battle and scrambled to escape. Harold would pursue them, but the crowd that had gathered began to gang up on the thieves, and they didn’t make it out.

The whole thing seemed to last five seconds, but Harold found himself bleeding over the corpses of two Defias with dozens of impoverished people looking at him blankly. One woman in a dirty dressed stepped up, “Who are ya’?” Harold took several more deep breaths.

“Harold,” breath, “Brook.” Silence greeted him for several moments until people in the crowd began to cry:

“Harold!”

“Yer a hero, Brook!”

“Harold Brook!”

Harold would’ve normally humbly declined their appraisal, but his anger and frustration remained. Pride swelled in his chest, and he called out:

“People of Moonbrook!” Silence returned. “Are you not tired of this dirt? Of this grime? Of this hunger? Are you not tired of the Defias? Are you not tired of Stormwind?!” Shouts of agreement met his words. A massive man stepped out of the crowd. Well over six feet tall, he towered over the heads of the commoners. He called out in a deep voice:

“We are tired, Harold Brook. But what can you do about any of this? What can we do? We are a beaten people.” Harold eyed the man up and down before asking his own question.

“What is your name, friend?”

“Marcus Wall.”

“What we can do, Marcus, is rise up.” Looks of confusion arose throughout the crowd, but Marcus listened intently, “Yes. Rise up! What is the cause of our plight? Who are the engineers of our travesty?”

“The Defias!”

“Stormwind!”

“The King!”

“Aye, Stormwind! It’s Stormwind!” Murmurs of agreement resounded in the area.

“And where are Stormwind’s armies?” Harold was still bleeding in two places, but he strode back and forth, ignoring the pain, “They are beyond the portal! On a different world! Who mans their forts? Who guards their borders?!” Harold was almost shouting at this point, “If we are to grow and prosper, we must act now! We cannot stay on this fallow land. It is our homeland, yes, but are your children not already starving? If we are to survive, we must seek out better pastures.”

“Where can we go, Harold?” Harold let the silence sit for a moment before replying.

“Elwynn forest.”

“That’s madness!”

“The king’s lands?!”

“Listen, friends!” Harold held up a hand, “His armies are gone, and we are many. Together, we are strong. Stormwind has fought a continuous war for many years. Its’ men are tired are weary; its’ people spent. Do you want a better future?!”

“Yes…”

“Yes, we do!”

“Aye!”

“That future will not be bought by complacency and lenience! We must fight for our future!”

~

Harold knelt down in the tall grass on top of a rise overlooking Sentinel Hill. It was night time, almost pitch black out. He wore a crude breastplate and his usual tattered clothes. Beside him knelt Marcus Wall, who also was previously a soldier. Behind the two lie two hundred pissed off poor people armed with spears, pitchforks, and hatchets. Before him lie the stronghold of Sentinel Hill, manned by fifty men. Harold turned from the view to give the signal for attack, but a messenger approached, “Sir, you need to see this…”

Moments later, at the base of the rise, Harold looked up towards an armoured knight sitting atop a horse. Behind him stood a large mass of other armoured men bearing banners of crimson and gold.

“Harold Brook,” the rider spoke, “I am Sir Edand of the Westfold.” Harold blinked for a moment in the darkness.

“Pleasure to meet you, I suppose.”

“I’ve heard of your deeds in rallying the people of Westfall, Harold Brook. My lands and people have suffered along with the rest.” He took a moment, “I come to offer my aid - three hundred armed men, ready for war.” Harold almost choked at the thought.

“And what reason have you, Sir, for supporting me and my cause?”

“I am a loving patriot of my homeland, Mister Brook, just as you. I see those under my watch suffer and my lands broken. I’ve heard of your charisma and leadership. Though you may be common, I will place my faith in you. Perhaps soon enough others will as well.”

Within minutes the signal was given and the attack commenced: ropes were slung up the walls and patriots of Westfall began to ascend them. Arrows pelted the land, and soon the alarm was sounded. Guardsmen shambled out of their barracks half asleep, and many were cut down in the process. The gates were busted open and Sir Edand’s troops began to funnel in. The small village within the walls was looted, and its occupants scattered; the poor had no sympathy for those under Stormwind’s protection. The whole battle lasted minutes. Harold and a dismounted Sir Edand, followed by Marcus Wall strode up the ramp leading to the tower.

The commander in charge stepped out, “Rebel scum. You realize this endeavor is folly and your actions futile.”

“Where is Gryan Stoutmantle?” Edand spoke.

“In Stormwind on official business. You rats will not reach hi-” Marcus Wall silently stomped up the tower’s steps. He wrapped his arms around the man’s head and snapped his neck instantly. The body crumpled to the ground. The hundreds of westfallian soldiers began to gather at the base of the ramp, looking up at the tower. Harold stepped out in front of them, the many torches illuminating the area, “Friends, patriots of Westfall! We’ve taken the Hill!” Shouts of victory resounded in response, “This is just the first step on the path to brighter future! We must gather our strength, and soon… Stormwind will know our might!”

Down below, shouts of victory began to form into the words:

'''“Hail, Harold Brook, King of the West!”

Catherine Walker
''An account of King Harold's rallying of allies in Westfall.

The warm summer evening sun beamed down upon Catherine as she stood out on the stone balcony overlooking the sea. She leaned upon the railing which protected her from the hundred foot fall into the rocky depths below, peering out northwards into the distant ocean. A shame, she thought, that most wouldn’t see this phenomenon of nature. Its simple, splendid beauty shuttered by other facets of everyday life.

Her thoughts were interrupted by soft footsteps from behind her. She turned to see an elderly man dressed in fine clothes; Wilkes, her butler, “Madame, you have received a message regarding recent events in the heartland.” He was, of course, referring to the rumors speaking of the sacking of Sentinel Hill. A tragedy, really, that the king’s men would be slaughtered by mere rabble.

“Very well. I’ll see it at once.” He nodded, returning into the large balcony door that led into her cliffside manor on the northern cliffs of Westfall, only to come back moments later. He strode up to her and handed over a parchment with a seal she did not recognize. Catherine frowned, and delicately opened the note.


 * ''Addressed to Dame Catherine Walker,


 * ''Your influence in the northern country is not unknown, Dame Walker, and I’ve no doubt that you have heard of the recent happenings further south. I know not if you believe them, but know them to be true. Sentinel Hill has been taken by the people of Westfall under the King of the West, myself, Harold Brook. I write to you not as an enemy, but as a call for assistance. Yours is one of the few remaining holds left intact and functional in this battered country, and I implore you to join our cause to fight for our homeland, and not serve as subservients to lesser men. I merely beg for the reprieve for our people - they have suffered well enough in these times, and I seek not to further endanger the lives of our fellow countrymen.


 * ''I will put it simply - we need men and women able to contribute to the cause, and yours being the last of the northern holds would no doubt tip the scale greatly in our favour. Please write back as soon as you are able,


 * ''King Harold Brook

Catherine retained the frown on her face as she reread the letter twice again, making sure to absorb the contents. He can’t be serious - going to war against a kingdom, with only peasants and farmers? Why did the quality of life suddenly seem to plummet after her father’s death? Left to see to his lands and manor on her own, Catherine had struggled to maintain order in the area, though that wasn't necessarily an isolated issue.

With a sigh and furrowed brow, Catherine folded the note over to its previous state, and walked into the shade of her manor, stopping to hand the letter to Wilkes before striding upstairs into her apartments, where she gathered together parchment and quill, and proceeded to write:


 * ''Addressed to Harold Brook


 * ''I believe I undersand your concern for your people Harold Brook, and I sympathize with your goals and cause, though I cannot risk the welfare of my own family and citizens in yet another conflict. Many are still battered from the Northrend War years ago, and most are downtrodden and beaten in this age of poverty. I’m afraid I cannot contribute any soldiers or men to your war, for the majority of mine are concerned with maintaining order and peace in my lands, something your revolution has done nothing but conflict with.


 * ''Many a farmer and peasant have thoughts of rising up against not only the kingdom, but myself. It seems as though they seek to oppose any form of authority, even if it may not be their foe. You have my sympathy for your cause, but I can give no help.


 * ''Lady Catherine Walker

~

One Week Later…

A large knock on the massive front door of the manor caught Catherine’s attention. She stood up from her study and looked about, waiting for Wilkes to come announce the arrival of someone with grievances, but he did not come. She frowned and descended her large stone staircase, and walked to the door, where another knock followed.

Once she had opened the door, she was met with a man of average height with a calm, soft face tinged with unkempt facial hair. He was dressed in a dirty dark green tunic with brown trousers and boots, and had a fairly expensive looking sword strapped to his side. Catherine looked behind him to see an entourage of five other men clad in various armours and weapons, and a chill ran down her spine. I knew these revolutionaries were mere brutes. She closed her eyes for a split second, whispering a silent prayer to the Light before looking to their apparent leader,

“And who are you? The ‘King’s’ cutthroat sent to persuade me to his cause? Well, I’ve already written him my answer; and that is I cannot.” The man shined his blue eyes as he looked to Catherine, his face nearly transparent - she could not detect any emotion or hint of motive on it.

“You could say that. Or, you could say that I am the same man here to negotiate something of importance.” He flashed a friendly smile, and it seemed genuine enough.

“You’re the supposed King of the West I’ve heard stories about this past month?” She looked once again upon his clothes, taking in their apparent filth and lack of cleanliness, “That is something I do not care to believe.”

“Believe it or not, my Lady, it is true.” He dipped into a seemingly practiced bow, and Catherine, frown still in place, reluctantly curtsied, not so much out of etiquette as of fear of losing her head. Immediately following, the man tilted his head, “May I come in?”

Catherine had no reason to trust this man. After all, all he was known for was rallying a number of peasant folk and sacking an undermanned hold, but there was something about him that gave her slight ease, “You… may.”

“Have you experience with weaponry, my Lady?” What? Surely he can’t assume that I’ll be fighting alongside him with the rest of the men.

“I would certainly hope not. It is not a noblewoman’s place to do such things. Besides, I’ve been occupied with maintaining relative order in my lands, and have had no amount of spare time to devote to such things.” The man strode alongside her as she unknowingly led him to the balcony door.

“Well, you’ll have to learn if you’re to lead your men to victory.” Catherine would have guffawed if it wasn’t for years of practice maintaining a noble composure.

“Surely you can’t be serious, Harold Brook.” A large man following the two in the hallway, one of his lackeys who held a massive warhammer, grunted and said plainly,

“You will address him as King, for he is such.” Catherine looked back as Harold Brook replied to the man, “All is well, Marcus. We’ll have to be friendly to her if she’s to join us.” Marcus shrugged in obedience as the two continued their conversation out on the balcony.

~

Two weeks later…

Catherine Walker rested on the saddle of her white stallion, reins in one hand as she looked out upon the valley below her. A clattering of hooves sounded out as another rider took his place alongside her. King Harold Brook stretched his shoulders, causing the mail and plates that protected them to slide and clank. Catherine moved her free hand to her saddle, and withdrew a long sword from its sheath. It was her fathers - she had never touched it before that day one week before, and now she held it firmly in between her fingers.

More footsteps and shuffling was heard as scores of bannermen, nearly two hundred strong, marched down into the valley towards Sentinel Hill, bearing the maroon flags and sigils of House Walker. King Harold Brook looked to his side, and into her eyes, his own sparkling like they had before.

She met his gaze, her frown yet again still upon her face as she contemplated various things. Harold pulled on the straps he held in his hand, and his horse trotted forward alongside the rest of her men. Catherine watched him go, but then turned her attention to the setting sun - nearly the same one she had witnessed almost a month ago sitting on her balcony. With a flex of her wrist and clanking of plates, she jolted her horse into action, moving in step with her soldiers as Harold had, and she continued alongside them.

The sun finally fell below the hills of the western plains, and now darkness shrouded the yellow land, and yet the soldiers continued to march.

Adam Connery
''An account a foiled assassination attempt upon King Harold.

Adam Connery trudged along the dirt road as the setting sun lowered itself into the land behind him. He sighed as his boots kicked up dust in the air which only added to the dust already kicked up by those he travelled with. Around fifteen people, both men and women, followed him as they trod the beaten path. Fifteen people turned back at the border between Westfall and Elwynn - turned away to go back to their miserable lives in their homeland.

They had tried to cross the river two days before, but several kingsmen had intercepted them. Damn soldiers, he thought, you’d think they’d be able to sympathize with us. Most had fled at the first sight of the blue-coloured fighters, but Adam had stayed with his wife and the rest, fighting with what they could to try and perhaps, by the will of the Light, escape into the woods.

Sadly, he must have not prayed enough, for him and his compatriots were promptly subdued and captured. One of the soldiers, a gnome wizard, had been kind enough to conjure up a spot of food. Wizard food was terribly bitter and tasteless, but a starving stomach will consume about anything. Or, it would, if it had the chance. The rest of the soldiers did not take kindly to feeding lawbreakers, and soon enough Adam and the rest were shuttled off to the bridge, where they were handed over to a group of Westfall Militia, who in turn booted them away.

But that was in the past now. Currently, Adam was just trying to find somewhere to spend the night. Preferably somewhere soft and warm, with a nice little fire to cook whatever meager scraps they could find.

“Adam, we’ve been walking for hours.. can’t we rest?” His wife, Mary, was a kind woman of twenty eight years, two younger than him. Both were from Jangolode Town, and both families had been lowly miners, but they got on well enough before the whole Defias predicament, and now this.

“Uhm.. I suppose so, yeah.” Adam plopped down on a broken fence, and the rest of his party breathed a sigh of relief as they got the chance to rest. He dug around in his pocket and withdrew a small handful of nuts. He popped a few in his mouth and handed some to Mary, who sat next to him. She had pretty blue eyes, contrasting his own dull brown ones.

“What’re you thinking, Adam?” Mary looked at him, searching for an answer.

“Well, there’s not much to think about besides what to eat an’ where to sleep.” She frowned.

“Where are we, anyway?”

“Not a clue.” A man, whose name Adam remembered was something like Evan, approached them. He was older than them both, but had not yet gray hair.

“We’ve been travellin’ south fer’ about two days, so that puts us a couple days out from Sent’nel Hill. Still in the northfields, I think.” Adam nodded, thankful for this pointless knowledge. He continued to chew on a nut as a dust cloud caught his eye. That’s kinda’ odd. Peering at the cloud as it drew nearer, he realized how big it actually was, but his attention was now upon several mounted men in gleaming armour riding at its head.

They bore orange and white tunics and tabards, and their armour and weapons looked pristine. At least, the mounted men did. The host that followed them bore an assortment of arms of varying quality.

“By the Light…” Mary stood open mouthed, as did the majority of Adam’s rag tag band. Adam continued to sit down on the fence. He wasn’t entirely impressed by the sight, but it still nonetheless tickled his curiosity.

The head rider, a man with shaggy black hair and stubble on his chin, stopped his horse, and spoke down to Evan.

“You there, what is your name?”

“I-Ian Langen.” Oh, Evan, Ian, same thing. Ian stood in awe - he’d probably never seen a mounted knight on a horse in his life.

“Well met Ian Langen, and well met to the rest of you. Do tell, what brings you all to this dreary place?” The sun had nearly disappeared entirely by now, and Adam could not read the features on the knight’s face any longer, but the way he spoke evoked calmness and superiority.

“I-uh.. we.. we tried ta’ cross th’ border a couple days back. We was turned back at the bridge and we’ve been walkin’ ever since.”

“Turned back at the border. I see.” The rider looked to those on his left and right - another man clad in armour, and a woman also bearing similar protection, “Luckily for you folk, I may be able to help.” The man dismounted his horse with a thud, and extended a hand to Ian, “My name is Harold Brook.”

“P-pleasure, mista’ Brook.” Ian cautiously shook the man’s hand. One should always be cautious in these times. The other mounted man spoke out in a commanding voice.

“You speak to Harold Brook, King of the West and Liberator of his people.” A king? Well, this is new. Perhaps we might be able to live out the night.

“K-king?” Ian nearly trembled. The King’s companion spoke again:

“It would be wise to kneel,” but Harold spoke back:

“Such is not necessary, Sir Edand. After all, he likely hasn’t heard.” Adam’s curiosity was piqued again.

“Heard of what, exactly?” Harold Brook looked at Adam, and spoke matter of factly.

“Of the sacking of Sentinel Hill. Of the rallying of the West. Of the Rebellion, to put it short. Sentinel Hill has been sacked? Well… this is either good or bad. Adam knew what was to come next.

“And you want us to join you.”

“Though I have not requested it, your service would be valued, yes.”

“And why should we?” Adam knew why, of course. There’d likely be food and clothes available, not to mention getting out of this dust plain. He just needed to make it obvious to his companions, some of which were probably too dull to realize the necessity in this matter.

“For your service, I will offer food and drink, clothing, arms and armour, and a place to rest your head when night falls, which seems to be happening now.” The others glanced at Adam with looks of that sounds pretty nice, and he replied to the King.

“Sounds like a good deal, well enough. When do we start?”

“Now would be a perfect opportunity. Lady Catherine, do you find this plain a suitable place for a camping location?”

“I believe it fit, my King.” Harold looked back to Adam and his wife, who gave Adam a this probably isn’t a good idea look. Adam shrugged and stood up, trodded over to the King and shook the man’s hand.

~

Three days later…

Adam stood, now clad with a leather tunic and proper trousers, outside of a small, beaten shack in the middle of a previous farmland. He held a poleaxe in his right hand loosely as he stood guard over the meeting presiding inside the small building. It was afternoon, not exactly supper time, but past lunch, and the Light had blessed the hot autumn day with clouds to block out the sun, and a light breeze to cool the skin.

His wife refused to don arms and fight, though since his joining Adam had experienced zero combat. She opted to cook for the army camp, which Adam overheard was nearing a thousand strong. Impressive, he thought, for a rag-tag group of poor. Adam could really care less about “Fighting for the Homeland” and “Saving the People”. The people had screwed him and his wife over a fair amount of times. He simply wanted to get back at the people who kicked him and his friends out of a possibly better life.

If we only made it across.

A man wearing a dark hooded cloak approached Adam, “I bear a message to the King of the West.” A chill ran down Adam’s spine as something seemed off about his man. It wasn’t his appearance, but rather his demeanor and the air he gave off. Nonetheless, a voice called from inside.

“Let him in, Connery.” Adam did just that, and returned to thinking about how much better life would be for him and Mary. He decided that shutting his eyes wouldn’t hurt for a few moments. After all, the King had at least three other armed people in the shack…

~

Adam awoke to the sounds of a skirmish happening behind him. Steel clashed, and shouting was heard.

“Get the king out!”

“Watch the blade!” Damnit, I knew he was shady. Adam whirled and entered the shack to see Sir Edand bleeding from the neck. He was alive and seemed well enough, but was out of the fight. The King and a large man with a warhammer were pressing towards the cloaked figure, whose back was facing Adam.

With a dash forward, and thrust of pole, the man was skewered by Adam’s weapon, and blood spilled onto the metal weapon and wooden floor as the man lurched backwards, completely dead from the blow. Adam felt his stomach heave, and fought the urge to vomit. He’d never killed a man, after all. After wrenching his poleaxe from the corpse, other men began to arrive, attending to anyone wounded in the shack.

“Well, Connery, it appears it was wise to have welcomed you into the fold. I’ll have to keep you close.” Harold Brook smiled kindly at Adam, who still fought to keep his lunch down.

“Uhm, thank you, sir.” The assassin was dragged out of the shack, and the King patted Adam on the shoulder before turning back to the meeting. An injured Sir Edand stayed as a woman attended to his wound.

“An assassin? Who would have gotten word of this? Surely not the commanders stationed in Elwynn.”

“I haven’t the faintest clue, but we’ll have to remain cautious about our advances from here on out. I should have had the foresight to see something like this.” A young man bearing an orange tabard entered the shack.

“My king, one of the men recognize the assassin.” Harold strode over to the man, looking him in the eye.

“And who is this would be killer?” Harold held both hands clasped behind his back calmly as he awaited an answer.

“The man said he recognized him as one of the bannermen of House Reynolds of Northmark, sire.” The King’s face could not be read as he stood expressionless, seemingly lost in thought. After several seconds, he spoke up.

“So, Lord Reynolds has reason to oppose our rebellion.” He strode back to the table where his other lieutenants stood, and leaned on the table.

“His lands do border the river, my lord, and are the closest to Elwynn. Perhaps he has brokered a deal with Westridge to maintain order in the region.” King Harold answered with stern voice and furrowed brow.

“That wouldn’t be unheard of.” Several empty seconds dwindled on, “It’s a shame that we must conflict with our own people, but a necessary shame, I suppose.” Adam stood in the corner, blood still dripping from his poleaxe. He had no experience in noble houses or fighting wars, but one thing was sure...

Mary would hear quite a story when he reached their tent tonight.

=Westridge Burning=

After ravaging and establishing their dominance over Westfall, King Harold's army advanced on Elwynn Forest and attacked the Duchy of Westridge on the Elwynn-Westfall border. The rebels were able to sack Westbrook Garrison with superior numbers, destroying the keep and making off with the contents of its armory - decimating the token forces left by The First Regiment. The rebels charged northward, seeking to conquer the mine-rich regions of Fairpeak and Wanduke. Lord Maxen Montclair rode for Stormwind City on a desperate mission to seek reinforcements from the king's guard. Lady Mairaed Montclair secured Westridge Keep and prepared the Duchy's defenders for war.

Led by Lieutenants Elevaan Greywald, Bhaldorn MacLaren and Thomas Kalron, the First Regiment regrouped in the forests of Mirwood to attempt to halt the rebel advance. The regiment were not prepared to face their own armaments turned against them. With arms, armor, supplies and artillery pieces stolen from Westbrook Garrison, the rebels overwhelmed the regiment and set fire to the forest. Several farming villages were sacked and lost to King Harold's control as the forces of Stormwind retreated north into the mountains of Fairpeak. Unable to secure immediate aid to combat the rebellion due to the pressing war in Draenor, Lord Maxen rejoined the regiment on the field.

King Harold's troops were soon were on the heels and exacting brutal casualties from the forces of Stormwind. Taking the eastern mountain paths, the rebels were able to beat the regiment to the mining towns of Wanduke and immediately plumbed them for their wealth. When the regiment marched to retake these holdings, they were ambushed by the full strength of Harold's army. All seemed lost until the Stoneframe Clan of dwarves heeded the call to battle, charging upon the rebel forces with a full contingent of bear riding dragoons. The the rebel army scattered, granting the regiment opportunity to regroup and retake Wanduke and its surrounding settlements despite being grossly outnumbered.

The losses sustained by the rebel army did little to quench its thirst for Westridge's riches. In a bold maneuver, King Harold led an attack on Westridge Keep itself with what remained of his army. Ahead of the First Regiment by a day's march, the rebel army laid siege to the castle and its surrounding fiefs. The Duchess evacuated the keep with her son Robert Montclair by boat while the Westridge Ducal Guard battled the rebels at the castle walls. Before the defenders fell to the rebel forces, the First Regiment arrived and drove King Harold's army from the keep.

Battered and low on supplies, King Harold led his men once more to attack the port city of Bridgeport south of Westridge Keep. The Bridgeport Blackpowders proved to be more than the rebels could oust from the city, and with the regiment pursuing them, what remained of Harold's army fled across the border and back into Westfall.

=Rebel Consolidation=

Just as the forces of Stormwind were to prepare for a counterattack into Westfall, King Varian Wrynn ordered that The First Regiment investigate an urgent call for meeting on the great sea with representatives of the Grand Alliance of Lordaeron. When the Westridge Fleet arrived at the specified location south of Hillsbrad, their ships erupted and were destroyed by explosions set off by a rogue band of Forsaken. Lord Maxen pledged the surviving forces of the regiment to aid the League of Lordaeron in bringing the Forsaken terrorists to justice.

This month-long break in conflict allowed King Harold to regroup his forces in Westfall and prepare for another war. Assuming that Stormwind's wrath would be unleashed once the royal army was freed from its pressing distractions, he built up the borders of Westfall with dozens of outposts and fortified what castles were under his control. If Stormwind was to launch an attack on Westfall to assert its domain, the rebel army would be prepared to defend.

Harold Brook
''The following is an account of King Harold in the weeks after the siege of Bridgeport. ''(Plot written by Thomaas for The First Regiment's campaign.)

Several weeks had passed since the patriots of Westfall had been defeated at the siege of Bridgeport in the Duchy of Westridge. It was midday, and though it was still winter, the sun shined brightly in the sky. The air was crisp and cold as Harold trundled along the weary streets of New Borough, a town in northeastern Westfall, and he could see his breath whisp and dissipate as he walked towards the town hall - a recently renovated building that bore banners of crimson, orange, and red. He was followed by his bodyguard and friend, Adam Connery.

Adam was a curious fellow. At first, Harold almost doubted the man having found him as another vagrant on the road, but soon came to trust him after several certain close calls. Though he would deny it crassly, Adam did care about this land and the cause, and so did every man and woman in Harold army. Or, at least, he hoped.

A shivering couple both sheltered under a blanket walked his way, and he offered a kind smile as they passed. Poor folk, even this far north. It seemed the only way to live a good life was to be on the other side of the river. Stomping up on the icy wooden boards, Harold pressed the doors open into the hall. Two mail clad guardsman stood at attention upon his entering, but he calmly continued passed them, meandering down various hallways before trodding into the main room. Voices could be heard as he stepped into view.

“More raids pressing into the northern lands this last week. Mostly militias from Westridge, but a few organized attacks. One of the prison encampments was heavily bombarded.”

“Then strengthen the border guards - do we not have enough men to spare?”

“Afraid not, and Stormwind holds the bridge crossing.” Harold ran a hand through

his hair before pressing on into the room. It was guarded on all sides by various crimson guards, and in the center was a round table upon which laid a map.

Sir Edand stood across, flanked by Dame Catherine Walker and another nobleman. Harold did not recognize him, but Catherine did send a letter mentioning a southern lord lending what help he could. Sir Marcus Wall stepped in from a side room, speaking half in a grunt:

“His Majesty, King Harold Brook.” Marcus, however unbecoming his demeanor, was a true friend. First to lead the fight, and last to leave it. It applied to his relationship with Harold as well. He was a bit of a hard ass, and even frightened some of the men, but that was good, Harold figured. Good, at least, to have a staunch enforcer to keep any outbreaks in line.

Ironic, that. A rebel leader paranoid of outbreaks.

The several people gathered at the table all faced the King, though before they could kneel, he waved them off, “Not now, friends. Do tell me, though, what our current situation is.” Smiling, he stepped up to the table, looking over the map. He felt a twitch from his left eye, caused by the scar that streaked across his temple to his nose from a previous battle, but he ignored it.

Sir Edand cleared his throat, gesturing to the unknown man, “This is Sir Walter Paverly, from the Dust Plains. He’s brought with him two hundred bannermen to serve the rebellion.” Harold didn’t like the word ‘rebellion’, for it almost invoked a negative connotation, but he looked past it.

Sir Paverly performed a practiced bow, “I apologize for my lateness in arriving to these affairs. My lands have been under constant duress from the gnoll tribes that inhabit them.”

“All is well, Sir Paverly. Your timing is impeccable, actually, as we happen to be in need of men and women to fight.” The man nodded.

“They’re camped in the hills overlooking New Borough, ready to be sent to wherever they’re needed.”

Sir Edand cut in, pointing to a part of the map with a two-fingered hand, “And this is where we need them, my king. North of Jangolode and south of New Haven,” he said, speaking of a small port town on the northern coast, “Raids have become more frequent and we’re running thin.”

Harold nodded, “A fair enough explanation. Any information on Stormwind’s armies’ whereabouts?”

Dame Catherine cleared her throat, “It actually seems their First Regiment has been sent to the northern lands. For what reason, we don’t know. In their stead, the Second has been safeguarding the border.”

“Any confirmation on when they’ll return?”

“We haven’t the faintest notion.”

Harold frowned. This doesn’t make the best situation when it comes to planning, but he was an optimist, and as such, would make due with whatever came his way. Behind him, Adam Connery stood in a silent vigil, and next to him Marcus Wall kept a stern brow.

“Very well. Have we any reply from Dame Claurice of the Free Lands?” Harold asked. The Free Lands were the southernmost provinces of Westfall, safeguarding the coast. Dame Claurice had ever been a staunch supporter of action against Stormwind’s oppression, and when the time came for action, Harold expected her to be on the forefront of the rebellion.

“We’ve sent many letters, but none have returned,” Catherine explained, slightly frowning.

“A shame, then. I had hoped she would show her face in this time of need.”

“The Dame should not have run her mouth over things she wasn’t ready to own up to, then,” Sir Edand said dryly.

“Before we judge someone’s character, we ought to understand their situation, yes?” Catherine offered.

“A fair idea,” Harold settled, “Send another letter, this time time requesting an understanding of her status.” Running another hand through his hair, he continued to mill over the map with his officers for several more hours.

~

Night was falling as Harold perched himself on a hill overlooking New Borough, ever accompanied by Adam Connery. Squatting down, he picked a dead blade of grass and gazed into its darkening texture. A slight breeze wilted in the air, wafting towards the river, “Imagine, Adam, what this land could be if we succeed.”

“We will succeed, My King. It is assured in the Light,” Adam spoke bluntly.

“And do you actually believe that?” Harold stood, looking into his friend’s brown eyes, “Be honest with me. Tell me as a friend, not as a king. Are we doing the Light’s work here?”

Adam shifted a little bit, tightening his grip on his poleaxe, “I… do, yes.” He paused, the sun easing slowly into the horizon in the distance, “Before I met you I was wandering the dirt with my wife and a few others. Now, we have a home, and they have a home. Many have homes and fireplaces and food because of you, my k- Harold.” A pang of guilt tore across Harold’s heart, and he knew exactly where it came from.

“But what of the lives I’ve ruined, Adam? Do not think me blind that I didn’t see the burning of those towns in Westridge. I was there. You were there. Many innocents died.” Adam remained quiet for another moment before speaking.

“Innocents die in every conflict. What matters is what you do for your people. These people.” He looked out into the small town of New Borough, its’ roofs beginning to blacken, “Do you think the Light cannot see into your heart? It can see your love for your country, and your drive to better the lives of the downtrodden. That is why the Light is with us,” He paused again before starting up, “Think of how much we’ve accomplished already. Never has Stormwind faced such a foe on their own ground since the First War, and from who? Mere farmers from a backwater,” he chuckled at his own self-awareness, “That is not the doing of just men, Harold. There is something divine in that.” The words comforted Harold, surely, but there was still something he couldn’t remove from his mind, “You are right, Adam. Forgive me for doubting… this,” he spread his arms wide towards the horizon, where the sun was finally setting, “And if the Light should decide that I am a villain, and all this is for naught, then who am I to stand in its way?”

=Invasion of Westfall=

Returned from their battles in the north, The First Regiment prepared to deliver the long overdue counterattack. After two weeks of preparation and recruitment to bolster their numbers, the regiment at the helm of the Elwynn Brigade linked up with the Stormwind Navy to launch an invasion of Westfall via the beaches of the Gold Coast. On March 7th, 35 L.C., the forces of Stormwind departed from Stormind Harbor.

As the sun set behind them, the Stormwind Navy approached the coast of Westfall and unleashed a barrage of artillery fire upon the rebel positions on the hilly cliffs. The Elwynn Brigade made their landing on the beaches through arrow and cannon fire and suffered heavy casualties against King Harold's archers. Sir Elevaan Greywald led the Elwynn Brigade to take a beachhead and establish a forward base for the Stormwind Army to utilize in the war against the rebel army.