Chapter 10

The First Leg

The next week would see Stefan and the others traveling up the Western coast of the Eastern Kingdoms. Their first stop would be Menethil Harbor, where they would re-stock in preparation for the journey to Winterspring. And from Winterspring, it was another week before they touched down on the the shores of Northrend.

Stefan leaned over the side of the ship, watching the shore of Stranglethorn float by. Soon the greenscape of jungle would be replaced by the golden plains of Westfall, and later the western edge of the Dun Morough mountains. He knew he should cherish what bit of land he could see now, because after they leave Menethil, there would be nothing but endless miles of ocean in every direction. Stefan often found himself retreating to a room below deck at those times, because he could amuse himself with cleaning his weapons or shining his boots. Anything but looking off into a blue, endless horizon. That was boredom at its finest.

"Mr. Dreis?"

He lazily swung his head about and was both startled and surprised to see Finny, the giant Gnome, joining Stefan at the boat's edge.

"Mr. Finshtrom," he started, smiling. "How are you fairing?"

The Gnome puckered his lower lip in quiet thought. "Alright, I guess. Kinda' ridin' the waves at this point, know what I mean?"

"I sure do. Doing the same, myself. I've made a few trips up this coast, they're all the same. What about you?"

"A few, and I've got to agree, they're all the same. Except this one time, a native Troll lobbed an axe at us, and it cut up the side of the ship. Captain wasn't the least bit happy," said Fineus, smiling as he recalled the time. "Took out his Thorium Bore, shot the bloody thing right between the eyes. Needless to say, the Trolls didn't bother us the rest of the way."

Stefan laughed. "That's quite a tale. I've had plenty of encounters with Trolls, myself. I've got a friend in the Darkspear, in fact. Noble people."

"That we are," spoke an unseen voice. Stefan and Fineus looked up to see Lyra'Vontay descending on a large, thick rope. "Always have been, since foreva'."

"Lyra'Vontay! I had no idea you were Darkspear," said Stefan.

"Call meh Lyra. Indeed me was, kind o' think me still am. But when I got meself involved with dem' Bloodsails, things go bad. I am disgrace to my people."

"Nay, don't talk like that Lyra! Trolls are too hard on themselves, I tell ya'," said Fineus.

"I have to agree. You come from a noble and stubborn people, Lyra. Don't let your past mistakes draw you away from your true purpose," started Stefan. "Don't forget who you really are."

Their conversation continued, but Stefan had stopped listening. His words had drawn him back to that solemn day in Booty Bay, when he had found Lorelein. He remembered how he had cursed his own name, hated himself for what he had done. But he also remembered that he had banished that self-hatred away and seen the wrong for what it truly was, the intention of a dark Eredar. And he knew that he was not the only one who could feel such a burden upon their shoulders. He was not unique. And in that way, he was not alone.

He watched as the jungles of Stranglethorn faded off in the distance, and the fields of Westfall crept into view. Three days in, and the first leg of the journey was nearly halfway complete.

---

"So you've never been to Menethil?"

"Can't say that I have."

Iyana admitted this with little embarassment. Why make excuses? She hadn't seen the world as she had set out to, and as a result two thirds of this trip would be a new experience for her; she hadn't seen Winterspring, either. So the Night Elf listened intently as Dresco told stories of the old port while they watched the shorelines float by.

"Well, you'll know you're at the harbor by the smell. It hits you like a cool ocean breeze, but the air's warm, and you can almost taste the rising bread and baking beans. The first time I let off in Menethil, I followed my nose to a little shop where an old man was frying a leg of crocolisk over a roaring fire. I watched him pour the sauce and seasoning over the sizzling meat, and after that, I was made."

Iyana laughed. "Sounds like a grand experience. So when did you get tangled in the Bloodsail affairs?"

The Human rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes darting about. "T'was the same night I ate that crocolisk. I headed to the tavern for a drink, and by the time I had come out, hammered beyond belief, I wasn't in my right mind. That's when I noticed some commotion going on at the old man's shop. A group, maybe four or five of 'em, were causing some trouble. I headed over, and found a pair of the pirates holding the old cook at sword-point. Being the drunken fool I am, I assisted him, taking out two ruffians with my bare hands. But I hadn't counted on the other three, and I sure as hell didn't know they were Bloodsails."

He turned to look at Iyana, a tired, reminiscient hole opening in his eyes. "That's when they presented the Bloodsman's Oath."

"What is the Bloodsman's Oath?"

"An ultimatum, really; one where they always win. Either I join the ranks of the Bloodsails, or they kill the old man," Dresco ran a hand along a faded, red line across his left cheek. "I think even if I were sobered up, I would have made the same choice."

Iyana patted him on the back. "That's because you aren't a pirate. You're a good man, Dresco."

"Thanks, lass," he said, smiling faintly. He returned his attention to the sea, remembering how the next day, his first duty as a newly-branded Bloodsail had been to murder that same old man and sack his shop. The corner of his mouth twitched uncontrollably.