THE BARON OF THE GREY CRAG
What follows is the account of the life on man, Darsolenew Du’Mánte, who remains an enigma of the shadows. It has been compiled from all available documentation and where sufficient evidence does not exist, assumptions have been made, necessarily, to ensure that the tale is as full and precise as allowed.
House of the Grey Crag, Du Mánte: Book III, Chapter II.
When Gilneas stood as a proud city of the Alliance a boy was born into a wealthy aristocratic family which held sway over the southern cliffs of the peninsula. Born Darsolenew Du’Mánte some three decades before the invasion of Azeroth by the Old Horde. The young noble grew up in a dream of unparalleled wealth and prosperity; the lavish gatherings of the great and the, occasionally, good instilled in the youth an unassailable faith in chivalrous values. It also lent to him a wealth of valuable contacts and as he grew in years and wisdom he gathered around him a devoted crowd of admirable spirits, those equal to him in innocence yet also in their arrogant ambitions and remote aspirations.
When he came of age, marked in Gilnean society on the 19th summer of the son, his father, Baron Theodite Du’Mánte, saw fit to dispatch him to receive an education, for it was customary for the Gilnean nobility to afford such sumptuous privileges to their offspring. By now imbued with an egotistical impulse suppressed only by his father’s frantic tutoring, the young man left swiftly for Dalaran, where the aristocracy of the northern lands had always traded the precious wares of knowledge and astuteness. It was in these antiquated chambers that the supercilious heir developed his formidable talents. In the manipulation of the arcane element of fire Darsolenew proved particularly skilful, and his hand twisted the dancing sparks and roaring flames to his will. With evident joy the Art of War was learnt and very quickly, it seemed to him, it was apparent that a military career was where destiny directed him. In advancing with such prowess Darsolenew proved admonishing of other arts, for the other elements he had no concern and his studies were erratic and whimsical in there diligence.
While a son leapt forward in countless graceful arts Theodite Du’Mánte had been dispatched to the Isle of Kul’Tiras as leader of the ambassadorial assembly stationed there. While deprived of his beloved homeland the ageing Baron ailed, longing for a sight of the grey crags of Gilneas, and each time his son allowed himself freedom from his studious work, he found his father sunk in trouble and woe.
The home of the Kirin Tor proved a toughened barrier to the toils of worldly matters. Seven sun-kissed summers were spent in studies. Many friends of Du’Mánte now also worked in the city and growing in age and power, as they prepared to grasp their entailed estates, the group of aspiring nobles soon became drawn closer in friendship and familiarity. At last Darsolenew was to return to his father in Kul’Tiras, the “bleak wild” as the Gilnean aristocracy scornfully termed it, it was in the first year of his staying on the island that the Lady Catherine Du’Mánte passed away. Theodite was struck with grief, overcome with bitter misery at the death of his adored companion he threw himself, some say that very eve, into the churning maw of the gaping ocean.
Now Darsolenew Du’Mánte had been robbed of all his treasured lovers in but a single breath. The darkness would yet worsen, as sickened by grief the conceited young man’s pride would suffer as well as his heart. For it did not seem difficult for the neighbouring Barony of Falkirk to elaborate upon the death of an ageing man, in circumstances made mysterious by their distance and the bias with which they were recounted. Soon it was widely held that Darsolenew Du’Mánte, known as haughty and scheming, had plotted the death of his own father. To those who would inherit his land, those friends of his fathers who lived west of his Barony, it seemed clear that he had no right to his father’s land and that the entailment had better be stolen from the hands of deceit and deception.
His friends, whom had but earlier fawned with pride at an association that could only elicit praise and wonder, abandoned him. Shunned by those upon whom his trust had rested, including his Machiavellian neighbours in the family of Fredrik Falkirk, Du’Mánte, now approaching the 30th summer of his life, fled south. Horrified at the reckless abandonment of all sincerity, of all gallantry (values which he held closest to his wounded heart), he endured the arduous journey to the southern kingdom of Stormwind, where none knew of him nor of what was said of him.
No further records remain of Du’Mánte in the North, until a report was filed some two years later by Marshall Gerrik of Stormwind. Quite how the young aristocrat had fared in the city is unclear and his passage south is even more underdetermined. Yet, once established in the military it appears success was the fruit of his labour.
An operational report, written 3 years prior to the invasion of Azeroth,
by Marshall Gregor Gerrik of the Stormwind Expeditionary Force.
Highlord,
You understand that the campaigns of recent months have been all blood, sweat and toil. It does not seem clear to me how these Troll tribes can propagate when we hammer the might of our nation against their scattered remnants, and yet they remain. As always.
It is clear that any future threat should be countered in a direct assault, since skirmishes on the fringes of our glorious lands seem to do little to crush the filthy brutes with whom we contend. In the southern outpost, in particular, it would seem advisable to maintain a defensive stance – since our posts in the northern passage, leading to the Black Morass, remain undermanned and ill-equipped.
Beyond the recommended adjustments to the tactical advancement of this campaign there is little to report. You know, no doubt, of the success of a number of recruits in serving the Expeditionary force on the fringes of the Dark Vale. I must confess, Highlord, that terror held me in its icy claw when the roar of troll’s echoed from the shadows of shivering undergrowth. All around the creatures leapt out, and this is a demonstrable instance of how an adjustment in tactics is required, but the 3 score men who assisted me proved most efficient in the task.
Lieutenant Green once again displayed an admirable tenacity with which few can contend, I recommend the immediate renewal of service for this fine soldier. Scout Haggart also proved invaluable in espying us a route through which to leave, once the pressure of the onslaught had been relieved by a forward stroke.
Finally Corporal Darsolenew Du’Mánte, who I am to believe you interviewed yourself, has illustrated himself as abundantly adjusted to a life of warfare and vitriolic vice. While his particularly pugnacious approach can lead caution astray he proves himself courageous and magnificent in combat. You understand, as you have made me aware, that he is a most mysterious man. What little we know of his past reveals little of his character, and he is aged in comparison to other recruits, though this lends a rugged experience to his otherwise well spoken qualities. In short, I lend nothing but joyous recommendation for this Du’Mánte, proven a most capable defender of our nation.
I eagerly await a reply regarding a reformation of tactical approach, I trust you are well.
Regards,
Marshall Gerrik.
A letter written by Lady Alexia Gerrik to Amelia Strike, of Kul’Tiras.
Dearest Amelia,
Apologies for my not writing to you so often, but you understand the cause of it in entirety by now. War has reached us. You know this, I trust, and I shall not bore you with knowledge which must, I know, have been imparted to you a thousand times.
The savages or the “Horde” as we are entreated to call them, sweep our blessed lands with scorching screams. But I did not write to terrorize you with what I know shall be a passing quarry. I write to inform you of my arrival in Boralus but one moon from now.
Stormwind itself is soon to be besieged; the Eastern forests have fallen prey to the beasts which stalk the night. Rumours spread that Grand Hamlet has fallen and we receive the survivors of the disaster at Sunnyglade even now! These uncultured folk clutter the streets of Stormwind, and I must confess I cannot wait with much civility until they leave us in peace.
Gregor tells me it is most likely they shall reach the keep before this whole affair is over. The evacuation of us innocents has begun and I can say that the sweltering air of these southern lands does little to quell the mild nerves from which I now suffer.
I shall long for an easy holiday in the North lands, and understand that a visit to my relatives in Lordaeron, namely Brother Jason (whom you have met), is a necessity. I do not believe we shall meet any difficulty in reaching you on the isle. And I trust, in writing this that you are prepared to accommodate me for the brief time I shall reside with you.
I do not go alone. The ships dock from Lordaeron soon enough, even mercenary vessels are to be used to transport (though I refuse such a filthy passage!), and I am to be accompanied by a retinue of staff, whom I am sure you, Amelia, can also house, and a peculiar man who I am quite sure you shall have heard of.
Darsolenew Du’Mánte hails from Kul’Tiras itself! Or at least this is all he professes, for on countless engagement he reveals little else but a sincere desire for my safety (he is chivalrous to the last!) and happiness (such consideration Amelia!). It is implicit that he be offered your finest abode, although I must be provided with a finer still! We shall dock with you in one cycle, when I trust the season in the North has grown a great deal cooler, and I trust even the lapping ocean is more still than the cries of battle that ring from the forest! Do they not consider those who rest at dusk!
Yours ever,
Alexia
An extract from the diary of Amelia Strike.
3rd Moon, 592.
I am troubled by the southern news, but I understand that there is little to be done but to reserve such troubles from the public arena. Alexia stays with us now, having arrived a full moon ago with a considerable entourage. She proves a most implacable guest and is unsatisfied with my every breath. If ever she should go south again, I do not think our correspondence shall continue! A pity that Gregor could not join her, for he is often the only one who exerted any such control over her whimsical fancies.
The whole entourage is a pleasant enough company, although one in particular catches my attention. Du’Mánte, a man who carries with him the haggard look of battle, strewn upon a gifted mind. From what little I can discover it appears he served as one of the Magi who accompanied Gregor’s patrol forces, and rose to become chief tactician of this squadron. But he remains a charming recluse: absorbed in thought for much time. He is a most intriguing of men and I wish to endeavour to learn all I can of him, for I feel disenchanted with all this grim world and so does he. And even when spirits are united in tiresome times, if we are proven similar enough, we may find peace or bliss together. I spend many nights talking to him of his exploits. He remains vague as the mist of the western shore, but something of this mystery invites further questioning. It is an inviting solitude, not a bitter one.
Despite Alexia’s insistences I have not had the grace of meeting this man before. Although Bran is adamant we have had the pleasure of acquaintance before now. The truth is left to be determined.
Chapter IX – Book VIII, 1:12-18, The History of Lordaeron
And now a great tremor swept from the south. For Stormwind had fallen to the dusk. Dust was left where towers had stood, and it was seen that the keep shuddered and shivered to the ground as bestial cries roared round the land. King Lane was slain in the final hours of the sinking sun.
But in the North, peace slumbered. The scattered traces of the Forces of Stormwind fled across the waves with Lord Lothar. Arriving on the shores of proud Lordaeron these fraught survivors were distributed amongst the houses of the Northern Kingdoms. Some to stay in Lordaeron City, others the proud halls of Stromgarde, or the chambers of Dalaran, or the towers of Gilneas, or the shining harbours of Kul’Tiras, or the bastions of Alterac.
But now a terrible fate rose up from the shadowed south. For though the assault on Stormwind had cost the Hordic races much, it had not proved their undoing. Some 6 years silence from the southern lands. And then, chaos.
A letter written by Lady Alexia Gerrik to Amelia Strike, of Kul’Tiras,
Written 1 week before the fall of Boralus.
Dearest Amelia,
I wish with all my pained heart that this missive reaches your blessed sight before the shadow reaches your lands. We hear words of massacre on the southern front, but remain as yet undetermined to your fate. I hope that you stay safe, for I understand that when left alone in a vast estate the world may seem a weary place (how inconsiderate is your dear Bran!). But the harbour of Boralus is the finest naval stronghold in the known world, thus I hold every faith that I shall hear from you shortly.
Our retreat to the north was a pleasantly uneventful journey. You understand, dearest Amelia, that Brother Jason was devastated that he could not find lodgings for you in the splendour of the Capital. But I have every faith that you shall last your days in the wondrous estate you hold on the green isle.
The majority of my entourage remains with me, but a single strange occurrence marked our passage. On arriving at the ports on the southern tip of the Gilneas, in preparation for passage through Greymane City, one among our party was overwhelmed with the most obscene display of sentiment. Crying aloud that the Grey Cliffs were his to cherish, Darsolenew Du’Mánte threw himself upon the shingle before we had but docked! Well, Amelia, you can imagine all our horror! He dirtied himself in the smutty soil of the ashen shores. Then, after we had endeavoured (to some success) to quell his nerves, he turned to me and was insistent that he be given leave to remain in Greymane once we had reached it.
Now, such predicament! You can imagine my displeasure, this man, now approaching 35 summers or so, had been dispatched with me by Gregor as his most skilled soldier and most trusted tactician. Now did he profess that he would rid himself of my company! Now did he see fit to abandon me on some foreign shore!
I would have none of it. And declared at length that he should remain with the rest of the party at least until we were secure in the residence of Brother Jason, which, I am assured, holds all the amenities of the southern lands.
But shock would hold me once more! He has left us Amelia, only in the middle of the night sloped off into the abominable darkness while we were lodged but a mile south of Greymane! My fury shall see itself reckoned upon him, hear my words and mark them well, dear friend.
We saw nothing of the deserter for the rest of our journey, but amongst the nobility in Greymane, where we took residence for a few evenings, it was said that the Baron of the Grey Cliffs had returned. Quite whether some connection between the two curious instances can be forged I know not, but any encounter with that treacherous whelp shall prove his undoing.
After time we travelled north and the passage thence proved monotonous to the last! Now I am content with rest in the magnificent abode of Brother Jason, the sight of the Capital was warming to the core, yet it does not rival the might of Stormwinds towering spires.
I await a swift reply,
Yours ever,
Alexia
Excerpt: ‘On War’, Darsolenew Du’Mánte, spoken before the Assembly in Greymane City,
He had, by now; risen to become a member of the aristocratic ring which surrounded the King, unlike the others (blinded by parochial snobbery) he was adamant that Gilneas must support the Alliance.
You understand that I am honoured to have been placed within the 2nd Brigade sent out from our mighty nation! And you now know that I desire nothing more than to lead the defence of these sacred lands!
Since returning to these stunning shores I have desired nothing more or less than to lead us to victory! Victory for the people of Lordaeron! Victory for the Alliance! Victory for Gilneas! These are our aims and our means are these: the utter eradication of all who stand in our path.
I have risen through swiftly to take an honoured seat on the Council of War, and the great King Greymane is truly magnanimous in his welcome of me, broken though I was, this nation, this land, these proud cliffs have left me whole once more!
We know that the orcish Horde has brutishly destroyed the channel Isles. Drisburg has been sacked, its people slaughtered, Zul’Dare was wrestled from our grasp, the innocent people of Tol’Barad have been subjected to a bloody massacre and Crestfall has blazed beneath the shadow.
Now our southern coasts swarm with noble defenders, now the hour is at hand for our glory, now is the time for heroes.
I would say no more than this: as I bound forth into battle, with the steel of our men and the strength of their shields at my side, I shall feel no fear. For this is clear to me now: upon these treasured silver shores the tide of darkness shall break and shatter as the countless waves that perish on our triumphant cliffs. Chaos shall fall upon the shimmering blade of our peoples. Greymane shall stand as a bastion of Light against the terrible shadow.
Victory, that is our aim and that, is what we shall have.
Annals of Triumph: The Southern Defensive, Chapter II, Book II.
An account of the battles of the Second War.
And now within the town of Tarren Mill did the forces muster. For, on the coast, Southshore was held in the claw of the Horde forces. A counterattack was prepared and Lord Lothar himself prepared to give the commanding tacticians a rigorous briefing.
Reclaiming the town, it was asserted, seemed impossible. The well supplied enemy forces could rely on aid from the sea and over Baradin Bay flew reinforcements and endless weaponry. A strike, to cripple the forces, and thus leave the terrain of Alterac impenetrable for the winter months, was to be held.
Gathered for the assault were the following:
III Platoon of Kul’Tiras Marine’s, IV Legion of Lordaeron, II Elven Strike Force, II Gilneas Brigade, Forward Calvary of Stromgarde and some 20 Battle-Magi of Dalaran.
The attack proved successful in its opening, the brutes were driven back to cower along the harbour wall. But reinforcements from Crestfall were speedy and as dawn broke upon that crimson shore the waves lapped hungrily at the falling men of the Alliance.
It was seen that on the first day of the assault some 1320 Horde soldiers opposed the 1750 strong host of allies. By the second day reinforcements meant that all along the southern shores of Alterac’s foothills: war was waged between an estimated 3200 Horde soldiers and a mere 1940 Alliance troops, now including stout riflemen from Dun Morough.
The Horde swung round the western flank at last, though the Alliance held them proudly in the centre at Southshore, forcing the remnants of the first assault to retreat to Tarren Mill. 650 of our men were butchered by the pitiless enemy, but some 1000 Horde troops had been crushed under the bulwark of Lordaeron. Lord Lothar’s tactic proved successful, as the proud land fell into wintry wilds, the Horde did not continue the northern offensive through the frozen highlands of Alterac.
The battle was the final victory of the Southern Offensive, testament to the triumph of the Light’s might in our lands; it was to be named the Battle of the Crimson Shore: since the sallow sands which led down to Baradin Bay ran with ruby streams of spilt blood.
Following the Battle of the Crimson Shore, it is unclear where Du’Mánte journeyed. Now ageing rapidly, and passing his 40th winter, there is no further record of his exploits. There is brief mentioning of him in Greymane’s published speeches, letters and journalistic accounts but it remains unclear whether Darsolenew was recalled to the citadel of Gilneas to serve in a strategic capacity or whether he continued to actively partake in the assiduous war which waged across Lordaeron. Regardless, it is clear from future writings that he contributed greatly to his countries cause and he is to be mentioned once more at the closing of the terrible Second War.
A letter written from the Capital City of Lordaeron to Greymane City by Darsolenew Du’Mánte.
Viceroy Falkirk,
Liege of the Barony of Falkirk and Du’Mánte,
High Custodian of the King’s Court.
I write with some anticipation of your inevitable response. It is understood that our families have not a happy history, and it still grants me pain to admit upon these pages the treachery with which you undid my fortunes. But I have not written to admit my disdain of your heritage nor to debate the ownership of what is rightfully mine.
What I write of are issues which surpass the needs of myself, what I write of lends nothing in defence of my pride – which you left to ruination. What I write of surpasses these petty quarrels of the past, transcending the arrogance with which you shall dismiss my demands.
Word has reached me of the Court’s grave intentions. You know of what I speak, the rejection of all that has held our lands firm in these past months. The destruction of our nation would have been inevitable had we not stood with the Alliance. The Orcish threat still looms in the scattered camps, they have not been defeated while their leaders still wallow in self-pity and plot in the darkness of jail. You know this also. And yet you are prepared, against all sensibility, to abandon those allies who held us close at the final hour.
Why, I ask. Why? Why must you insist, in your swollen pride, that we have no further need of our great friends? Why must you lead us into a dim age of isolation which can only lead to anarchy if any future threat arises? Why does the Court and the King himself propose that which can only bring harm and suffering upon our peoples?
I ask no more than this, Falkirk. You know the folly of your actions, as do all, but to save your precious coppers and the, supposedly threatened, autonomy of our state you are blind to these very folly’s which overrun you all.
I demand a response before this outrage is imposed upon the proud people of Gilneas,
Regards,
Darsolenew Du’Mánte
A direct reply was received but a few weeks following the dispatching of the missive by the proud Du’Mánte.
Du’Mánte,
I am afraid that the sundrenched parks of Dalaran, where your pitiful idealism was allowed to flourish, have no place in the politics of war, of survival. Your past actions prove you to be deceptive and scheming in every way, and these dreadful deeds have not been forgotten.
In abandoning your nation to fly south in shame of your crimes you abandoned your right to pass judgement on the supreme will of the Court, composed of those of us who remain loyal to the values which bind our nation as one.
I expect to hear no more from you, and you are officially expulsed from the jurisdiction of this nation, attached is a declaration of exile. You are never to return to your fathers treasured Grey Cliffs. Your interference ends now.
Viceroy Falkirk,
Liege of the Barony of Falkirk and Du’Mánte,
High Custodian of the King’s Court.
It is known only that Du’Mánte never received further response, since any form of correspondence is wholly absent, and that it seems definite that his own opinions, shared by few others he wrote too, were ignored by the King and his Court: since the annals of history make it clear, Gilneas was to abandon the Alliance.
From these few letters it is clear that Du’Mánte did not travel south to join the assault on Blackrock Spire, perhaps because Gilnean support for the Alliance was already waning or simply because he himself was withering in old age. Regardless, Darsolenew found himself at last in the Capital and remained there for some time. By now an aged almost 60 years Du’Mánte found himself an exile from his homeland, estranged in a foreign kingdom. After several years spent in the Capital, no doubt wallowing in self pity, Du’Mánte was contacted from an aspiring Gilneas commander with an offer that would change his life forever.
Darsolenew Du’Mánte,
At length I have searched for those who share my views, there are few among our people still strong enough to stand beside the might of the Alliance against all those who would oppose us. I have a proposal, which I shall only outline in brief here, with the intention of discussing the matter further with you in person.
The Gilneas Brigade has now been formed and we intend to dissent from the cowardice that has corrupted the courts. We shall remain with the standing Army of Lordaeron and take up arms against the enemy of the Alliance. I would consider it an honour if you would serve among us as Chief Tactician of this unique force, founded on hope and honour. Your experience would be invaluable to our success.
Yours,
Anthrel Balam
Now, hope and honour were two values which the ageing Du’Mánte held very close to his weakened heart. And throughout his life, it seems likely; a sense of adventure had been instilled in him which could not be undone by the lessons of age. His caprice was coupled with a fierce confidence and here he saw the chance for such skills to flourish a final time. No more is known of Du’Mánte in person, no record remains of the individual whose remarkable life could have shaped the world: had men of chivalrous intent but heard his pleas. What follows is the final mentioning of the Gilneas Brigade, before their dismissal to Kalimdor under the command of an anonymous Mountain King by Jaina Proudmoore.
An account recorded by the Chaplain of the Gilnean Brigade, Stanley Else, following the death of Baron Darsolenew Du’Mánte at the opening of the Battle of Hearthglen. Long may he rest in Light.
Lady Jaina Proudmoore and Prince Arthas Menethil had led the expedition to this valley of loss. Hearthglen lay ahead but as the valley’s end was reached the valley’s mouth by death was breached. Screams, screams of curdled rage and mangled hate, roared up the hillside, the land shivered. We turned, all turned, and Proudmoore cursed aloud for all to hear.
“Forward!” cried she. “Onward!” cried he. “For Glory!” cried we.
And did the tide of death rise up in cries of vitriolic spite.
And did those men pour down the valley to dash into their final fight.
And did those men fall down to deaths embrace: abandoned by the Light.
The Gilneas Brigade was turned to face the tide and down the valley echoed screams of tortured souls. We stood and faced the growling wave of gnashing jaws and flashing claws. And then the baleful wave broke upon the silver shore of men.
The frontline was crushed beneath the impact; men were thrown to the ground, killed not by any grievous wounds: instead they drowned in the thick mud stirred by clashing steel. We trampled on our comrades as we pushed forward, there was no time to truly strike with heroic sweeps of blades, only time to lean against the swarm and thrust blindly through the midst of mangled men. One ghoul would break through the line and screech in triumph as it wrenched crimson streams from broken pale flesh. Our own men would occasionally clatter through the enemy line, to be met only by a charge of further horrors.
And as they fell, a peace at last was etched upon each face. The sigh of ending love’s labour’s in deeds of valour, least valorous intent. Do not forget those who fell upon the broken field of death. They crumbled soon but held the menace of death at bay.
Following the first assault at the Battle of Hearthglen, the Alliance regained ground and proved victorious by the end. Long may those who gave their lives rest in peace.
The final evidence which I shall recount is only valuable to those who have wondered the lands of Lordaeron in recent times. I, Amelia Strike, have done all that I can do to fuse the fragments of a fractured past. Perhaps in some desire to find Du’Mánte, for it was after he had left that I realised my true attachment to him. But his fate remains as vague as the man himself. I only hope, one day, to find confirmation of fears that arise from the final strand of this mystery, which I shall offer now.
Recorded is the inscription on an empty grave, to be found at the gate of Hearthglen.
Baron Darsolenew Du’Mánte
Chief Tactician of the Gilneas Brigade
Loyal to the last, may he rest in peace
Subject: The Baron of the Grey Crag 
Sun Nov 01, 2009 8:29 pm
I must say it is alot, alot of text, and good text i might add! 
