He wasn't the bigger combat warforged that most people think of in that setting. He was more of a scout build who had artificer levels. And he rocked the artificer levels, let me tell you. Making your hand it's own deadly weapon is fabulous. As is rocking a bell that does 6d6 damage 3 times a day. He would've gotten to the point of duel wielding wands had the campaign gone that far. My friends I played with jokingly called him the "Martin Luther King" of warforged. He was all for union, since his fleshy friends had always helped him.
Simonstern didn't like entering the Mournland at all, not even the border. The death of flesh and construct was still thick in the air. However, he still needed to meet his adversary.
He cloaked himself as a person would. He had been injured previously in a small riot and didn't want to reveal what state he was in. Not everyone in Sharn had been ready for his ideas, and he was ready to suffer for it. His radical movement was still smaller than he wanted, but it was gaining momentum. Precisely the reason why the Lord of the Blades wanted to meet with him, or so he thought.
He could see his fellow warforged approach through the grey mist that covered the wasteland. Unlike Simonstern, the Lord came with guards behind him. Simonstern wasn't afraid.
The Lord was still covered in the adapted swords all over his body. Any fleshy race would be hurt to touch him. The point of his adornments, really, to be untouchable.
The guards stayed a couple yards behind while the Lord approached. His steel face would've grinned if capable. "Old friend, Simonstern, I hope time has treated you well."
"It has, Blade, it has." Simonstern knew he hated being called simply Blade. He intended to call him that as much as possible.
"Bitter still?" The Lord got within a foot of Simonstern, and broadened his stance. He was even bigger than the typical warforged, his fists the sized of Simonstern's head. "Your words mean nothing here."
"Of course a brute wouldn't care about words. That's why we've come here to talk, haven't we?"
The Lord slamed his fists together. "I told you I would be alone and you believed me, you fool. You know you need to help the resistence."
"I refuse to become a monster."
"Either you are the monster or you are his pet. I refuse to be anyone's pet. We can live forever and crush those flesh people into pulp. Why take heed of their orders?"
Simonstern shook his head. "I haven't heeded any orders in quite some time, Blade. Not even from other warforged that are power hungry. Not even from you." He wrapped his cloak tighter.
The Lord laughed up to the sky, "That's what they want you to think, whether you're adventuring with that hodge-podge of miscreants or giving speeches to rioters, out there to them you're under someone's command. We can change that together."
"What are you saying?"
"You're good at recruiting. Bring the warforged to the winning side, where they can be with their brethren in arms."
"And if I don't?"
The Lord took a step closer. "You know you have to."
Simonstern quickly took a step back. The Lord lunged for him, but Simonstern had gained a quickness in an instant. He uncloaked himself to reveal two wands. The one in his right hand sent a fireball to the Lord, pushing in on his back. The guards instantly ran over to defend their leader, only to see the second wand summon a dire bear right in front of them. By the time the Lord got up again, another fireball was sent to knock him down.
Simonstern ran across the boarder, where past the fog he saw his changeling ally casting teleport, next to their rogue compatriot with another wand in hand, yelling "Hurry it up!"
Within mere seconds, they were gone, leaving the Lord of the Blade wondering how to squash the ideological competition.