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Originally written June 3, 2013.

The sea still churned from the storms of the night before. With one hand braced against the wooden rail, Arialynn's gaze remained fixed on the center of the fleet: towering and immense, The Tyrant stared out at all directions. Even the vast distance between it and the decks of The Lockwood couldn't dwarf the juggernaut's size. Like the current matters at hand, it was a constant, unheeded by the waves beneath it or wind coursing around it.

 

The passing day's events left two lingering thoughts in the lady knight's mind: one was a fresh sense of humility toward the sea and all the endless power it contained, the second was a growing unease toward the growing tensions within the fleet, which were likewise barely contained. She stood with her gaze hardened on The Tyrant, its name growing more apt in her mind. Her eyes bore into it, as if the intensity of her gaze could somehow split the metal hull and spill its secrets.

 

With a ginger touch to the back of her head, Arialynn checked her healed wound. A healer in her own right, she knew the remaining danger a concussion could pose. She kept that thought close, but only close enough to dismiss it in favor of others. In her mind, the odd, apathetic bravado of The Tyrant in the face of the fleet's struggle meant two things: one, a deep-seeded foolishness, which bore ill for the fleet and its mission; or two, a concealed confidence beyond The Tyrant's sheer size, which bore deeper ill for the fleet and more.

 

Her hand withdrew from the bump that nearly marked her invalid the night before. A bump was all but part of what remained. Occasionally, her thoughts would wander, grow confused, but the sight of The Tyrant rekindled her focus once more. With its image burned to memory, she disappeared from the upper deck into the cabins below. On a clean piece of parchment, she wrote and sent the following to its recipient after the final word was penned:

 

To Captain Aelvaros Moratis of The Tyrant,

 

As the fleet makes landfall, The Tyrant will be escorted to the mouth of The Thousand Needles. There, its needs and supplies will be delivered by way of ferries from Alcaz and river boats from the Speedbarge. Any deviation from this prepared location will result in the immediate and permanent halt of support of the fleet.

 

I remind that we make port in dangerous waters, surrounded by enemies on all sides. Actions that are not thought through result in discovery and death. The only allies in the seas are those we bring with us, the only land we stand on its what sails beneath our feet. Both are easily lost.

 

The Tyrant's future missions will commence only after the waters around Orgrimmar are secured. Till then, she will lie in wait without question. Objections will be delivered to Stormwind by The Tyrant herself, which will sail and anchor as her own personal mail courier without escort to the awaiting inbox at my residence.

 

Lightbearer Arialynn Dawnfield
Justicar of Templars of the Rose, Commander-in-Chief of the Echoes Fleet

Author Ari
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