Glathor Buckholme; The Will and Legacy

by **Vaell** Tue Apr 24, 2012 12:19 am

[This is from the perspective of Glathor, the uncle of Jarric (Lex's Nobleman.) You'll find him not as pleasant as his nephew. This is a new character I've been working slowly on bringing in. This is an image of how I imagine him to look, as I don't describe his features in this story.
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Thought I'd do this before a council meeting so that I could get a familiar feel with him. Just going to improvise a piece of writing.]

Glathor's fingers trembled as they pried open the Buckholme sealed envelope. The parchment inside was cotton lined and of rich quality. He did not wish to read the letter just yet, so instead placed it to one side and called his cup bearer to his quarters.
"Wine, boy." Glathor demanded.
"Th-There is none in your own cellar, M'lord." Remarked the rather timid boy.
"Then find some elsewhere, boy." He did not move, unsure of where to search. "Well? Go!" barked Glathor. The boy hurried without a second thought from the dimly lit office, his feet picking up a faster pace every step further he took from the room that could be heard through the echoing of his footsteps.

Glathor stood and walked to his dresser. Opening the first drawer, he produced a small box of matches that he returned to his seat with. His hand shook as he struck a flame, his age creeping into even the minor tasks, taking their toll one by one. He lit a half melted candle and brought it closer to the parchment that lie untouched. As his fingers unravelled the document, he felt as if he were undressing a virgin for her deflowering, delicate with every touch and a slow pace out of both caution and nerves. Glathor peered to the entrance of his office before settling his eyes back down at the words scribbled down hastily along the parchment.
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My dearest Glathor Edmond Norton Buckholme,
The years have been hard to you. You have endured the hardships of the lowest of our keeps, though I write with good faith. If you are reading this, then I have finally met my grave - and at this given moment in time, we have not seen one another for many a year. I remember our times as children fondly. You were my teacher, brother. If I have one regret, it is that we could not spend more time alongside one another. With the passing of your wife, the years have grown heavy on you. You have felt many a burden, through which you have endured. It is with this then-"
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"M'lord!" the boy had come racing in without Glathor noticing.
"What? What is the meaning of this interruption?" Glathor responded with fustration at the boys delinquency.
"It is only that.. well, I had missed a bottle of Menethil Red in the cellar, m'lord."
Glathor clenched his jaw, a common sign of anger that the boy was all too familiar with. Instead of raising his voice, as he normally would, Glathor merely beckoned the boy to fill his cup. He was about to be given a large portion of his brothers land and finally get out of this fel infested swamp home. His eyes flickered back to the paper and he regained quickly where he left off...
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...It is with this then that I declare you ruler of the Lower Crest Mines and provide to you our age-old sigil banner, to hang with honour above your bedside as our father - and his father - did before I. I wish you the best, brother. Look after my son. Jarric is a smart boy and I shall give the main portion of land to him to live his life as he see fit. We are too old to meddle in the affairs of young ones, though I beg of you to guide him in his endeavours and watch over him in my permanent absence. With love-"
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Glathor crumbled the page between his fingers, the tips of them reddening at the ferocity behind his grip.

"Is there anything else you requi-" The boy began,
"That plump shit gets my lands? The spoilt little fuck takes 'MY' lineage? I was entitled to that land. It is mine. I have waited.. endured. My idiotic cunt of a brother gives that bastard MY FUCKING LANDS?!" Glathor stood to his feet and took the cup in his already claw-like grip. After a brief sip, he spat the wine at the boy, narrowly missing him.
"I asked for fucking wine and you bring me shit! Get out boy! GET OUT!"
"Y-Y-Yes s-sir." The boy turned and ran, full pelt, from the room. He had never witnessed Glathor with such anger.
Glathor sat back down and closed his eyes taking deep breaths and plotting his next move.

A year or so later

"Is my horse saddled and ready to depart?" Glathor asked as he strode towards the stables.
"It is, m'lord." His steward, Idron, strode with confidence next to him, a close friend over the years.
"And all is set for work to continue in my absence?"
"It is, m'lord."
"Without excuse nor incident?"
"It is, m'lord. May I ask a question, m'lord?"
"You may." Glathor replied without a hint of curiosity
"Why is it you choose to ride out to Stormwind now?"
Glathor took a moment, being supported as he clambered onto his horse and adjusted his saddle till he was comfortable.
"You have achieved much, have you not? When I found you, you were a lowly farmhand. Your family were murdered. I took you in. Sheltered you. You owe me your life and allegiance. You pay it well, Idron. You now hold a wife and a newborn son, with a second on the way. Is that correct?"
"It is, m'lord."
"I am proud of you. The same could not be said for my spoilt nephew. I am going to do exactly what my brother insisted. Guide my gluttonous nephew and make sure he does not bring ill fate and poor reputation to the Buckholme name."
Glathor attempted a crooked smile in the direction of Idron, but his cheekbones were so unfamiliar with the expression that it took him a moment to achieve.

Glathor ran his hand over the evergrowing bald patch on his head and nodded to the front guard. "Onward then. To Stormwind."