Brian Wellson (WoW-RP)

death needn’t be the ending

[noahsresources]

details about ocs!

send an emoji/description of emoji to learn more about a writer's oc! many of these are taken from my munday asks meme, because i thought it would be fun to make a version for characters too! the prompts are categorized by emoji type and given descriptions in case anyone can't see the symbols. can be used for roleplayers and any general writers alike! for roleplayers, these can also be used for your interpretations of canon characters if you so desire as well!

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒. 💭 THOUGHT BALLOON — what is your oc's MBTI, enneagram, and/or other personality aspects (if known/interested in)? 🚗 CAR — does your oc have a driver's license? can they drive/operate any automobiles/machinery besides cars? ✈️ AIRPLANE — does your oc like traveling, or do they consider themselves a more homey person? 🎮 VIDEO GAME CONTROLLER — what are three of your oc's favorite hobbies? 💍 RING — does your oc have any piercings? do they want any (more) piercings? 🖊️ BALLPOINT PEN — does your oc have any tattoos? do they want any (more) tattoos? 📚 BOOKS — what level of education has your oc most recently completed/is currently in (GED, undergraduate, grad school, phd, etc)? 🎻 VIOLIN — does your oc play any instruments? what is their skill level (beginner/intermediate/advanced/virtuoso/etc)? 🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities? 🩸 DROP OF BLOOD — what is your oc's blood type?

𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐒. 🎶 MUSICAL NOTES — what type of music does your oc like? do they listen to music very often? 💯 HUNDRED POINTS SYMBOL — share three random facts about your oc that others may not know. 💤 SLEEPING SIGN — is your oc a light sleeper or a heavy sleeper? how are their sleeping habits? 🔱 TRIDENT EMBLEM — can your oc swim? do they enjoy swimming? 🔺 RED TRIANGLE POINTED UP — does your oc know how to use any weapons? 🔶 LARGE ORANGE DIAMOND — does your oc know cpr? do they have any other medical expertise? 🚫 PROHIBITED — does your oc drink/smoke? do they do it regularly, or is it more on occasion or for special events?

𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄. 🌈 RAINBOW — what is your oc's sexual orientation/gender identity? what pronouns do they use? 🎄 CHRISTMAS TREE — what is your oc's favorite holiday? 🐶 DOG FACE — does your oc have any pets? 🐈 CAT — does your oc prefer a wide circle of friends or a few close friends? 🐷 PIG FACE — what is your oc's favorite animal? 🐉 DRAGON — what is your oc's favorite mythical creature? 🍃 LEAVES FLUTTERING IN WIND — what is/was your oc's favorite subject in school? 🌴 PALM TREE — does your oc have a green thumb? do they enjoy gardening? 🍎 RED APPLE — where was your oc born? do they still live in/around their place of birth or do they live somewhere else? how do they feel about their birthplace?

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒. ❤️ RED HEART — what are three of your oc's positive traits? 🤍 WHITE HEART — what are three of your oc's neutral/questionable traits? 💔 BROKEN HEART — what are three of your oc's negative traits? 💘 HEART WITH ARROW — what and/or who do(es) your oc consider the most important to them? 🧡 ORANGE HEART — does your oc tend to prioritize family or friends? 💛 YELLOW HEART — how many languages does your oc speak? what language(s) are they learning, if any? 💚 GREEN HEART — does your oc prefer being inside or outside? 💙 BLUE HEART — does your oc have any cool/special powers and/or abilities? how are they with magic, if it exists in their world? 💜 PURPLE HEART — what is your oc's ancestry/genetic background? 🖤 BLACK HEART — has your oc killed or seriously wounded anyone before? have they broken someone's heart and/or broken someone's trust?

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒. 🎂 BIRTHDAY CAKE — when is your oc's birthday? how old are they? what are their sun, moon, & rising signs (if known)? what about their tarot card, ruling planet, & ruling number (if known)? do they fit the typical traits of these sun, moon, & rising signs? 🍝 SPAGHETTI — what is/are your oc's favorite food(s)? 🍰 SHORTCAKE — what is/are your oc's favorite sweet(s)/dessert(s)? 🍦 SOFT ICE CREAM — what is/are your oc's favorite ice cream flavor(s)? 🍔 HAMBURGER — is your oc good at cooking? are they good at baking? which one do they prefer? 🥯 BAGEL — what does your oc's typical breakfast look like? do they usually eat breakfast? 🥪 SANDWICH — what does your oc's typical lunch look like? do they usually eat lunch? 🍛 CURRY AND RICE — what does your oc's typical dinner look like? do they usually eat dinner? 🍸 COCKTAIL GLASS — what is your oc's favorite alcoholic drink, if they can drink? ☕️ HOT BEVERAGE — does your oc prefer coffee, tea, hot chocolate, milk, water, or some other drink? how do they like to take this drink (ex. coffee with milk, hot chocolate with whipped cream, a specific kind of tea, etc)?

𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄. 😊 SMILING FACE WITH SMILING EYES — what are your oc's career/general life desires? what do they want to get the most out of life? 😖 CONFOUNDED FACE — is your oc an introvert, an extrovert, or an ambivert? do they let people in easily, or are they more reserved? 🤔 THINKING FACE — what are some of your oc's quirks/mannerisms? 🧐 FACE WITH MONOCLE — is your oc more logical or emotional? 🤓 SMILING FACE WITH GLASSES — is your oc chatty or quiet? are they at ease in social situations, or are they more shy? 🤩 FACE WITH STARRY EYES — is your oc a planner, or are they more spontaneous in their actions? 😥 SAD BUT RELIEVED FACE — is your oc prone to getting stressed out, or is it easy for them to keep their cool? 😓 DOWNCAST FACE WITH SWEAT — is your oc open-minded or stubborn? are they inquisitive or do they prefer to keep to their bubble of knowledge? 😞 DISAPPOINTED FACE — does your oc attract others, or do they tend to be left alone? 🤒 FACE WITH THERMOMETER — does your oc get sick easily? 👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 FAMILY WITH MOTHER, FATHER, SON AND DAUGHTER — how many people are in your oc's immediate family? how many people are in your oc's extended family? do they have aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, etc? who in their family are they closest with? are they close with their birth family, or do they have a found family?

[brian-wellson]

“Considered yourself served,” said the agent of the Crown.

The courier dipped her head respectfully — a gesture Henry Rollins returned — before she turned on her heel, and walked out the door.

Henry handed the thick folded paper to Elunara. “They wanna dig ‘im up? Wot fer?” He set his jaw. “Imma figh’ et, I swear ta — ! Bring et up en ‘ouse o’ Lords tomorro’!”

Elunara shook her head. “Slow down … take a moment,” she said. She unfolded the paper and read the first page thoroughly. “Mmm…,” she mused. “An imposter, perhaps?” She reached the second page — and then the third, this one an enclosed letter scrawled on a thinner material and in extremely familiar hand.

“Oh…” she started. Her eyes went wide. She continued to read. The colour drained from her face. “Oh… oh no…”

“Elunara?” asked Henry. He took her arm, steadied her. He felt her sway a bit. He watched the papers drop to the floor.

Henry guided Elunara to the foyer’s writing desk toward which she had gestured. He set her in the chair and almost called for their valet before remembering it was after eight bells — and, as per their own reforms, valets had banned from working after eight bells except for State and otherwise noteworthy occasions. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

Elunara grabbed his arm.

“Don’t fight,” she said.

“Wot?”

“Promise me.”

“Et’s Doc Wells—”

“HENRY!” she snapped.

Henry Rollins stopped arguing.

“Promise me.”

“…aye,” he said through gritted teeth. “Ain’ gonna figh’ et…”

Elunara pointed toward the papers on the floor as so many venomous snakes. “Something bad is coming, love.”

“Wot…?”

“Arrange for Justine’s transport to Kul Tiras first thing.”

“She’s our daughtah! This is our ‘ome! Ye canno’ be scare’ o’ th’ Crown like thi’!”

Elunara shook her head. “You’ve known me eight years, Henry. You have given me child. Listen to me!”

Henry bit his lip.

“Arrange it.” She stood. She was shaking — and she knew Henry could see.

“An’ you?”

She started toward the tiny museum of Wellson’s artifacts and archæological writings. “Getting ready for work.”

“Pro forma session’s en … uh …”

“Not that … work,” she said.

He stooped down to pick up the papers. She neared the museum doors.

Death was coming.

[brian-wellson]

A small piece of vellum, folded twice over, was tucked into a brick behind the park bench where Brian and the Director first met. Almost invisible unless one knew where to look. Once unfolded it offered a code only those privy to the cipher could understand.

G1C2F3I2J5I5Q3G2J2D1 C2J5Q3C2 F1D5Q2C2Q5W2 B1Q2J3W2

“Wot the fookin’ blazes do we do wit’ et?” asked the senior Dark Iron. He pushed it across the table to Dusky.

The old coroner flipped his jeweller’s glasses down. He teased the note open, and weighted down each of the four corners with a cylindrical 1 gram weight. He leaned in close and studied intensely under the bright lights of his forensic station. “Nothing came back in terms of toxo… the vellum’s remarkably unremarkable… penmanship is largely…” he sighed. “Ink’s weathered, but not horribly so. Everything is so…”

“Plain.”

“Oh… oh, yes…”

“Wot di’ he say ‘bou’ et when he turned hisself in?” asked the senior Dark Iron.

Dusky set the glasses atop his head. He glanced back down at the small piece of vellum held down by the weights. He left the room.

“Boss?” asked the junior. He shrugged at his partner and followed the Director out the room.

(( @kat-hawke — I always reply. Sometimes it just takes longer than others. ))

[brian-wellson]

“Mister Wellson… your file says you’ve been dead nigh on four years, mate.” The little gnome pushed his half-moon reading glasses just above the bridge of his nose. He set his jaw. “Coroner says you were … are? … was? … were, I suppose? … dead hisself, and yet, ya don’t look like a death knight, so…”

Wellson rolled his eyes as the gnome prattled on. He’d heard the story thousands of times already, though this time was worse: it was a fucking gnome telling it. Of course it was a gnome, he thought.

Perhaps the sole decent thing about Hell had been the distinct lack of gnomes — too damned stupid for self-actualization, at least according to the demons. Not that anyone could trust what the demons had said, mind you, but the thought of gnomes being more stupid than housepets made Wellson smile. “Gnomes are always so brilliant,” was the common joke, “until you forgot to water them.” Plus it made a fuck of a lot more sense than the alternative: virginal gnome ‘heavens’ with an eternity spent talking about Gods knows what in those accursèd voices.

Wellson shuddered.

The gnome noticed and set down his legal pad.

“Cold?”

Wellson side-eyed the court-appointed defender. “No,” he said.

“You’re shivering.”

“Fine, thanks.”

“You sure? I can get you a blanket.”

“No!” Wellson shouted before tempering himself with a nervous chuckle. He scooped his water glass off the table. “…no… Not necessary. Thanks. I’m so sorry … You’re very kind, mister … um … ???” He took a sip.

“Umaldo. … so close!” Now it was the gnome’s turn to side-eye Wellson. “Magister Umaldo.”

Wellson spit his water, inadvertently showering his diminutive counsel. “I was … actually on the right track!?” He attempted to gesture wildly only to be halted by his restraints. “With your name, I mean!?”

“Would you like to toss me, too?” Umaldo massaged his temples. “I hate this job.”

“Can’t imagine why…” He shook his head. “Sorry about your face.” He cringed. “That came out wrong … And, no … thanks. I’m not really into gnome tossing anymore, not since that one battle.” If he could have planted his forehead into his palms, he would have.

Umaldo glared at Wellson. “I know.” He snatched a small, threadbare kerchief from his pocket. He swiped at his cheek. “Right, then. Anyway. You’re … not-dead.”

“Correct.”

“And you’re not undead.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And there is no magic holding your corporeal remains together, tethering them to this otherwise mortal coil?”

Wellson hesitated. Umaldo noticed. He looked up from the entrance interview form he had devised:

“Mister Wellson?” asked the gnome.

After another beat: “To the best of my knowledge, I swear on all that is Holy — and let me underscore that with a Capital H™ ‘Holy’,” he said, eyes heavy on the man’s face, “I ain’t some magical amalgamation.”

Umaldo sighed. “‘Magical amalgamation…’” he muttered, skimming through the checklist he’d been citing. He skipped a number of pages. A wicked smile spread across his lips: “Ok, mate. How about this — do you swear on all that is unholy or otherwise defiled? Do you swear you’re not being held together by some unknown magic?”

“‘Unknown magic’?” said Wellson. He allowed his thoughts to meander. “If anything is unknown, by definition, one can’t know…” he drummed his hands on the desk. “…therefore, you are using this as a question to betray my … hmmph. Clever,” he muttered. He cleared his throat. “Point stands.” He looked toward his counsel. “Yes … swearing on the unholy and defiled, as you ask … I ain’t some magical amalgamation of either known or unknown construction.”

Legalese is so exhausting.

Umaldo tapped his clipboard. He checked a few boxes, ripped three or four pages out from the questionnaire and lit them aflame, and proceeded to lean back in his chair:

“Fun fact — I don’t like you, Mister Wellson.”

“Not exactly a fan of you, either, Magister.”

Umaldo accepted acknowledgement of his title for as it had been intended: a tip of the hat toward the inherent power imbalance of their dynamic. He thought a moment before tossing the entire stack of paperwork aside. “Ya know this is all being recorded anyway, yes — for our use, only. Not the Crown.”

“Aye,” said Wellson.

“So we go off record now.” The gnome leaned in, lowered his voice. “Plainspeak, Mister Wellson. Why’d you turn yourself in. And why’d you ask for public counsel?”

Wellson snapped his fingers. “The real questions. Took you long enough,” he whispered.

Umaldo narrowed his eyes. “Why.”

“Can’t know your character otherwise.”

“My char—?”

“Aye,” he said. “Character. What you’re made of.”

“I may be only half-gnome, but I do remember to drink water,” said Umaldo. He considered what Wellson had said for a moment before leaning back: “On record.”

Wellson watched as the Magister opened his cheap mottled briefcase. Umaldo rifled through some papers, and — upon locating the correct one — began drafting a motion. The man’s immaculate letter-print was impressive.

“What’s that now?”

“Petitioning your former House for your … rather, for Brian Wellson’s … exhumation,” said the gnome. “Give me a moment and …” he said, grabbing for a second paper and an ink pad, “…your thumb.”

“And this?” said Wellson, nodding toward the second paper.

“You’re not dead.”

“Oh… I’m most certainly, actually dead.”

“You’re neither a death knight, nor are you Forsaken. So you’re either in the ground and I’m completely batshit…” said Umaldo, smashing Wellson’s thumb into the ink before mashing it against the second paper, “…or you’re an impostor. As your counsel, I’d like to know the kind of sick fuck whom I am forced to represent.”

Wellson shook his head: Can’t plan out dialogue like before, but it’s not entirely unstable, either. Overall paradigm stability more than 85%. Compliance advised.

“Would you like a hint?” he offered.

“You’ve nothing to offer.”

“I’ve a —”

“— sister,” said Umaldo, completing the sentence. He shook his head. “No longer fugitive. The Crown knows. Went straight right after you were interred, lost in an operation six months later.”

“Want to know where she is?”

Umaldo didn’t say anything at first. Instead he secured the draft motions, covered the thumbprint with a magical seal, and stuffed his papers back into his briefcase. Afterward: “I work for you. It’s not in your interest to give details until a deal is presented.”

“You don’t even believe I am who I say.”

“Told you I don’t like you, fucker,” seethed Umaldo. He leaned in close. “I’m here because I don’t have a choice. This is my job. Don’t you get it?”

Wellson studied the half-gnome’s features. Not yet. “…run my ID. And tell Lord Rollins to not fight exhumation. Do me a favour, yeah?”

Umaldo scoffed, taken aback: “You’ve got a pair, hm?”

“… just do it under darkness. Dig up my body then. New moon. Which should be …” — he counted on his fingers — “…not three days hence.”

“What are you? Waiting for a bomb to go off? Head of state to die? Covert exfiltration from a monastery?”

Wellson shook his head. “You’re as bad as the fucking cops,” he muttered. He paused, almost saying what he had to say before offering this instead: “The Au’llonians have kids. Those kids don’t need to see THIS.” He stared at his dirty fingernails. “Three days?”

Umaldo thought about it. He scribbled something quick on an edge of exposed paper. He tore it off. He got up and banged on the door. It opened. Johnson. Umaldo took Wellson’s hand. A wadded ball of paper passed from him to the shackled prisoner. “Enhanced protocol, through 80 hours from now. Understood?”

Johnson nodded. “Aye. This way to prisoner’s counsel recordin’.” The door shut.

Wellson started to count. Each time he had reached this point in the simulation was different — every time up until this moment was always the same: he had never waited long enough to read the note.

Maybe it would be better if he ignored it.

He stopped counting. He went about his day to day. Dinner was delivered: porridge cut with canned peaches, rosehips, fresh-ish crème, and sawdust. Mmm. Just like Mom… He ate without hesitation. Toward the end of his meal, he took a small, stale end piece of bread into his hand, broke it in half. He dropped the wadded paper into the bowl. He teased it apart with the crusty end pieces of bread. He memorized the note’s contents: four words. He scooped it up with the crusty bread heel and ate it. No affectation, no other indication he had done so. Soon, the bowl was clean. He pushed it away. He waited for Johnson to come back for the seemingly inevitable beheading.

Only this time, Johnson did not come through the door.

Moreover, Wellson’s beheading didn’t follow.

Throughout his dreams that night, the note Umaldo had penned wound its way:

“I WILL BURY YOU”

So much different.

[brian-wellson]

“This… this ain’t—” Wellson spat. “This ain’t it.”

This scenario continues to be different, he thought.

“‘Ain’t’ wot, Mister Wellson?” asked the younger Dark Iron, exchanging a long, pensive look with his partner.

“Donnae gots ta entertain this ‘un, do ya,” said the lead investigator. “He’s jus’ spenn’in’ woteva ‘is life is now in ‘is own version of th’ Netha.” He clicked his tongue. “Wot this loon ‘ain’t’ is worth our time, ‘specially durin’ pub time.”

Wellson grimaced. He always hated this part, the blood. He bit his inner cheek. Burnt pennies… huh… He flinched. Brilliant crimson speckles dropped to the table. Oh… that’s different…

The Dark Irons recoiled —according to the file, this fucker wasn’t actually supposed to actually bleed, let alone bleed red.

“Little help,” Wellson said, voice quiet.

The junior investigator glanced toward the senior. He didn’t know what to do: Lt was out of the office.

Good.

After a moment —

“Oi, ya fookin’ wanker,” shouted the senior, banging on the interrogation table. The door opened. The senior and junior pushed away to confer with the newly appeared human guard, eyeing the bloody droplets expanding across the tabletop.

Remarkably different than before…

Wellson watched the chaos around him as a ballet in slow motion. He’d seen it countless times before: two Dark Irons unable to communicate, the guard unwilling to touch the sullied table, and the immutable one-way mirror from behind which he could only assume one person could have been watching —

“Dusky,” called Wellson. He looked between the two Dark Irons and the human guard, the lattermost of which looked away. The senior Dark Iron walked over to the one-way mirror. Without a word or even moving his eyes off the man on custody, the dwarf knocked on it. Seconds passed. A minute. Two terse knocks on the interrogation room door. The human guard opened it:

The fifth player — a short, elderly Kul’Tiran man entered the room.

“Doctor Wellson,” said the coroner. “I conducted your autopsy.”

“Mister Wellson,” corrected the very confused, disturbingly nonplussed assassin. He went to unbutton his shirt, stopped by the Light-infused belly shackles binding him to the desk. “…nice job,” he said, just as he always had, gesturing toward the Y-incision.

“How to execute one who has died?” asked Dusky.

Wellson winced. Ugh: just like every other iteration. “You were the scholar of the team … I expected better than retribution.”

Dusky’s eyes blazed. “Shall I offer you a vengeance quote?”

“Is the writing that bad?”

The agèd coroner scoffed. “Interesting choice of words — ‘the writing’.”

A variation! Wellson seized on it: “You’ve Alanna’s instin—”

Dusky’s backhand’s sharp bite pierced the ambient silence.

“And you,” countered the 70+ year old man, “will never speak her name again.”

Wellson demurred, staring at the table. Quite different. The room fell silent. The Dark Irons said nothing … they had never seen the Director lose his shit before — but they’d heard about the Unit, the legends who had doggèdly searched for the arrogant motherfucker shackled before them for years.

“Yessir,” said Wellson.

Dusky smoothed his tweed vest. “Now, Doctor Wellson, you have interrupted my perfectly fine day. I’ve a pint waiting.” He turned away from Wellson and toward the human guard: “Johnson. Most secure cell. Protocol Echo-Zulu-”

“-Bravo-Charlie,” mouthed Wellson, locking eyes with the senior Dark Iron, continuing: “Triple shifts through Monday.”

“-Bravo-Roger,” said Dusky. “Triple shifts until Monday.”

The senior Dark Iron, who had been watching the entire exchange, made a note of Wellson’s verbal predictions — both accurate and errant.

Wellson, too, had made a mental note of the error:

…this has never yet happened. The aberration?

Dusky hesitated at the doorframe. “Why now?” he asked without turning.

“It’s the first time we got this right,” said Wellson.

Silence once again blanketed the interrogation room. Wellson slumped back in his chair. Johnson, the guard, left his hand on his side arm. Dusky snapped his fingers before leaving the room without turning around. The senior Dark Iron followed him out the door. Johnson closed it.

“Ya ruint me fookin’ weeken’ ya righ’ bastard!” growled the junior under his breath. “Had me a time booked wit’ these two bonnies I don met on OnlyElves, an’ I swear ta th’ Light if’fn I donnae get me gold back, it be commin’ from yer coffers, ya prig.”

Wellson chuckled. “This … this definitely … this ain’t it.”

— — • — —

((Obligatory OoC things:

(( Yes. Mister Brian Wellson has returned.

(( Covid did not kill the writer. Abuse did not kill the writer. Assault did not kill the writer. A loft block from 60 feet did not the writer. Poverty and homelessness has not yet killed the writer.

(( … and the writer will be damned if their character dies like a fucking dog. Deadass: Wellson always deserved better than some horrid Victorian ending.

(( Moreover, the people with whom the writer co-created this character and world deserved a better — and consensual — ending. For reasons the writer will disclose at a future date, apologies have always been due, but were unable to be extended. The writer understands a great deal of goodwill has been squandered over the past 3.5 years of dead time … and also states there is no presupposition toward collaboration of any kind.

(( AGAIN: no presupposition toward collaboration of any kind.

(( This is simply a project the writer needs to finish for the sake of finishing.

(( If, after all that … & 3.5 years of real-life hell, you’re still here‽ … welcome back. ))

[brian-wellson]

Will your muse be happy about were they end up in the Shadowlands or will it be unexpected?

Hey there! I never check this account anymore, so I apologize for the wait. To answer your question, I was thinking about this last night — where Wellson would end up. He had been instrumental in recovering Eluna en’Shard — the sheathe of what would become Duredrassil — as had everyone else on that mission. Every person at the final RP session for that short campaign was both whispered to — and branded in some fashion, i.e.: blessed — by Elune. This leads to an interesting RP question: what happen to those who decided in a group setting that they all experienced the same thing, and that same thing may influence their outcome in death.

I’ll repost this to my main blog, of course. It’s much more at home there!

Thanks, fam!

( @penvenomstarkstar )

[brian-wellson]

How did the Jaina obsession start? Do you have a shrine in your bedroom closet? How many Jaina centerfolds do you have?

I personally have no Jaina centrefolds. Wellson, when not-dead, had a large collection, bolstered mainly by Justine’s own enthusiastic embrace of their leader.

As a writer, I love Jaina’s character. Her’s is one of the most meaty of all: she’s strong, conflicted, and yet has to paint the façade — as I suspect many women do — of absolute certitude. Jaina has had one of the most dynamic arcs in the WoW universe — starting as the de facto leader of exiles who largely operated under her dead father’s shadow, and shifting roles to that of peace broker, deal maker, and ruthless military leader. The turmoil was very real to her, still is. Moreover, her ability to adapt to a rapidly disintegrating world without losing her shit or caving to megalomania is rare, especially in Azerothian lore. I respect that; I suspect that it is a respect Wellson would have shared.

Thanks!

( @quai-mason )

[quai-mason]

Quai slipped away from Zena’s estate in the wee hours of the morning and made her way back to the Breach by hearthstone, with her new daggers wrapped in a scrap of oilcloth. When she arrived, she went to the kitchens to grab a mug of coffee and a piece of rye toast, then went to the back stairs and down below to the basement storage area, the daggers tucked securely under an arm. 

Torches on the walls lit themselves as she made her way along the many rows of narrow hallways, alternating sips of coffee and bites of toast, until she reached row L. With only the slightest hesitation to her first step, Quai made her way down the row, counting off the doors until she reached the seventh one. Stopping in front of it, her breath caught in her throat for a moment. 

A little piece of paper had been slipped into a holder in the center of the door that read: 

B. Wellson - personal effects

She popped the last corner of toast into her mouth and chewed slowly as she stood there, staring at the door. Minutes passed, and eventually her coffee cup was empty. 

Come on, she said to herself. Just open the door and go in. You did this once before. 

Yes, before he was dead, another voice added. 

“Stop it,” Quai muttered aloud. She reached out and turned the knob, and a torch lit itself inside the room as the door swung open. 

The room was much how her and Mo had left it: scattered books and papers, open trunks, clothes and trinkets shoved in a pile in the corner. Quai set the empty mug down on a table and moved over to the corner to sift through the clothes, until she found it: the leather tunic he’d been wearing the first time they’d met. She lowered herself to the floor and placed the daggers carefully down beside her, then pulled the tunic onto her lap. 

It had seen better days; there were a few burn holes in one of the sleeves, and a rip near the hem. Quai ran a hand over the leather: it was worn and supple, and coloured deep blue that had faded in some spots to a more greyish-black in the intervening years. She laid it out on the floor and unwrapped the daggers, and set them down next to the tunic. 

Her gaze moved over the jumble of items until she saw it: his leatherworking kit, complete with needles, thick thread, letter stamps, punches, a mallet, and a heavy duty pair of scissors. Quai sifted through the kit until she found a nub of chalk, then marked off the spots on the tunic she wanted to cut and picked up the scissors. With only a slight pause, she cut into the tunic until she had four strips of leather, all of them roughly of equal size and length. 

When she was finished cutting the strips of leather, she picked up one of the daggers and laid it across her lap, then took up two of the strips of leather and started to carefully wrap the bare, metal grip in a simple criss-cross pattern. When she was finished with one, she moved onto the second dagger and wrapped the grip in the same fashion; as she finished, she set both daggers back down on top of the oilcloth and looked about the room at the mess. 

Slowly, Quai stood and started to gather up the rest of Brian’s things: papers were organized and slid back into folders, books were packed neatly into a trunk, the leatherworker’s kit was put away, and clothes were carefully folded and put into a traveling wardrobe. All that remained were the daggers from Zena, and her empty coffee cup. A clipboard hung by the door with a single piece of paper attached and the words ‘Deliver To’ written next to a blank spot. She reached into the small trunk filled with Brian’s research papers and withdrew a fountain pen, then leaned over the table to write out an address: 

Quai Mason c/o Miles Sidney Five Deadly Venoms  221a Barlow Ln. Stormwind, Elwynn Eastern Kingdoms 

The faint scratching of the pen nib on the paper stopped when a droplet of water splashed onto the end of the word ‘Kingdoms’. Quai capped the pen and slid it into a pocket, then stood up straight again and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. With one last look at the collection of trunks and storage bins, she picked up her new daggers and her coffee mug and left the room. 

((Mentioned/relevant: @brian-wellson​ @harvee-sarah-zena​ @monettemason​))

[killerkyara]

Respects

Brother and sister lingered together outside of Wellson’s grave. In the early morning, the cemetery was barren and quiet, save for a keeper who milled about the grounds. Kyara stood with her arm around Matin, bracing him against the cold breeze. She hoped that staring at the words written on the tombstone for long enough might finally make them feel real.

The boy himself regarded the stone with a solemn taciturnity. Despite his youth, the desert taught one the familiarity of death from the moment they could see and hear. Thus, she made no attempt to shield him from Brian’s fate; it was the manner of his death that needn’t be discussed.

Silence ran in their blood, and likewise, no words were shared for the better part of an hour. When the boy did speak, it was done with a calmness that did not result from a lack of feeling, but rather an understanding that children were sometimes better able to exercise than their adult counterparts.

“What happens when we die?” He did not look at her as he asked, merely putting the question out into the open. Kyara considered him for a moment, shifting her hand upon his shoulder to give it a squeeze.

“I like to think,” She began, quietly, “That death is not the end, but the beginning of a cycle. Our energy goes back into the earth to become something else.”

He ponders this. “An animal, or…?”

“Anything.” She affirms.

A nod was offered then, another short pause ensuing before he posed his next inquiry. “What do you think Brian will be?”

Brows furrow for a moment before she understands. A chuckle bubbles up from the rogue then, dry but rich, well-needed. She casts her gaze across the cemetery, and it’s tall, branching oaks. “Perhaps a tree. He deserves that much, the quiet, the calm. Always there, but hardly noticed.”

She tilts her head up towards the sky, eyes lidding, as she scented the air and inhaled a deep breath. She felt tremendously alive, relaxed all of a sudden.

“…Or perhaps a bird. Have you seen a kestrel before? They are quite small, but very fast, very intelligent…”

[ @brian-wellson​​, @quai-mason​​ ]

[brian-wellson]

Q.Q

[thesiteseer]

Busselton Pioneer Certainly, Western Australia

[brian-wellson]

Dusk was falling as the horse-drawn hearse entered Stormwind Cemetery. On the cart was a single coffin, draped in green and gold with a long white strip bearing the Alliance’s seal running diagonally across the length. Behind the hearse was a seven-member honour guard, a coach, and a small throng of black-clad mourners. The women wore full veils; the men, thick brimmed felt hats. Their breath fogged the chilly air. Many people stopped to watch the procession, while many others did not. Death was a common spectre here, a spectacle too normalized to fully comprehend in the moment.

Once they reached the open ground, the entourage stopped. A brass quintet began a dirge. The honour guard dismounted. The stage coach opened. Four more of the honour guard emerged, unarmed, chainmail glittering in the fading daylight. They were followed by Henry Rollins, Elunara, and their infant child, Justine. The assemblage took their places around the hole in the ground as the four mail-wearing guards removed the coffin from the hearse and placed it on the bier. No one moved as the body was transported. An icy gust skittered across the lake behind them, rustling skirts and veils and overcoats.

Elunara stepped toward the headstone; it was grey granite and topped by the crescent of Elune. She placed her hand upon it, pausing a moment to reflect. The inscription, rendered in a grand serif font, was simple and concise:

Brian Wellson

Lord of House Au’llon

1st Lieutenant of the Grand Alliance Navy.

20 Jan 00 - 25 Dec 33 ADP

The assembled crowd began to murmur as the coffin was set upon the bier. The music stopped. Two clergy people stepped forward: a priest of the Holy Light, and a priestess of Elune. Each took about five minutes a piece, leading the crowd in prayer. Together, they discussed the similarities between the two faiths — it is what Wellson had stipulated in his burial plan. After a time, the two dipped their heads and led the congregants in a moment of silence. The sun slipped behind the smokestacks of the Dwarven District; church bells rang the time — seven bells. The Captain of the Guard and Lord Rollins stepped forward. As the Lord of the Estate held the end of the white sash taut, the Captain snapped it into a tight triangle, passing it to Henry, who, in turn, presented the folded cloth to Elunara. She accepted it with a heavy heart, for even while she had understood one of her dearest friends had passed, she did not accept it until that moment.

A solo bugle played a solemn call as the draped coffin was lowered into the ground. Henry stooped down, as did his wife; each tossed a small handful of earth into the hole. The dirt sprayed across the colours. The Captain shouted an order to his seven riflemen:

“Attention!”

The riflemen snapped to, their backs straight and tall, and their guns pressed against their chests.

“Present … Arms!”

On a three count, the rifles moved from the chests of the men to their shoulders in synchrony.

“Present … face!”

Again, the unit responded with robotic precision, their firearms in line with their sternums.

“Ready.”

The volley squad operated over seven counts, an elaborate flourish accompanying the ceremonial gunshot. Justine Rollins began to cry. They fired a second, and a third time. The bugler reprised his tune, and the honour guard returned to port arms, until the Captain ordered them to fallout, and return to the sides of their horses. The child began to calm.

Jocelyn, who had been watching from a distance, swiped at her eyes, never diverting them. She looked on as Elunara spoke, and though she could not hear the words, Jocelyn could understand what she was attempting to convey. Her brother, as she had heard again and again in the days leading to his funeral, was someone special, someone who had made a difference. Someone who would be missed. She watched as each of the mourners who had desired to do so tossed a handful of frozen earth into the hole. A few of them said a word or two. Once everyone had a chance to speak, the honour guard returned to their horses, the Rollins family and four pall-bearers to the coach, and the brass quintet led them out of the cemetery, marching into the evening.

After the group had departed, Jocelyn tentatively approached the graveside. She placed her hands on it. “I’m sorry I din’t know ya, bruv. But I’ll do betta. I’ll do mama proud, papa … you. I swear et.” She drew her small, broken glass bottle and drew it across her hand. She squeezed her hand into a fist. Blood dripped from her between her fingers, mixing with the cold soil. The wind stirred, ruffling her unkempt hair.

The birds were silent.

The cemetery was silent, too.

Perhaps Brian Wellson had finally found the peace he had always desired.

( Thus formally ends Brian Wellson’s corporeal story. I would invite ALL of you to start following my new main OC, @jocelyn-wellson … there is story to be told still, but it is time to try a different route.

( Thank you *ALL* for reading and writing and interacting and RPing with me over the past five years. Some of the best people I’ve ever met in WoW, I’ve met on WRA. So let’s keep telling the story. Let’s keep growing. Let’s keep writing. )

( @jocelyn-wellson / @kat-hawke @quai-mason @killerkyara @risrielthron … and anyone else who may have been there, or would show up to pay their respects on their own. He is buried next to Justine de Vitoria Grotius — @justinegrotius — and the Blackbay memorial. )

[brian-wellson]

The set-up was simple enough: Wellson’s body lie in repose amidst the archæological samples he had collected over the years. The perimeter was tight. The Au’llonian Guard had one member at each corner of the coffin, seven paces away. Each was armed with a ceremonial halberd, gleaming gold blades attached to wooden staves, each bearing a jade inscription of past leaders. In addition to the halberd, each member of the guard carried a polished, silver arquebus and poniard, and were clad in the finest polished armour at their avail. The Captain of the Guard even bore a leather shoulder strap crafted by Wellson himself. By Henry’s request, Venifica’s greatstaff had remained under lock and key in Boralus.

The Guard was on alert. Despite the fact there had been no threats of disruption, no murmurs of sedition, it was their duty. Indeed, ever since Elunara had implemented policies such as paid parental leave; clerical healthcare, the providers of which were housed and fed by the House; and finally realizing the free schooling in Northshire proposed by Wellson ages prior, and ever since Henry had instituted a criminal reform program, absorbing Elwynnian bandits and highwaymen into their fold — just as Wellson had done for him — the Estates of House Au’llon were thriving, both in Boralus, and in Elwynn. Trade between the pair only tied them tighter together. A mage had even conjured a stable, permanent portal. Things were going well.

In a dark corner, Jocelyn watched as the mourners passed. She picked at her nails; they had been picked raw in the days following her brother’s suicide. “The fuck is all this ... uh ... Lord Rollins?”

Lord Henry Rollins, the co-inheritor of Wellson’s estates, glanced toward her. He appraised the woman: fading bruises on the knuckles, throat, cheekbone; walk with the slightest of limps; grimy hair begging for a washing. He saw a great deal of the person he had once been in her.

“This place, these people — this is who your brother was,” he said, quietly. Lord Rollins adjusted his cuffs.

“A stiff?” teased Jocelyn, something she instantly regretted.

Henry appeared incensed, yet he said nothing — she was the former Lord’s blood, after all. Respect was deserved, as much as he might have hated it. Jocelyn scoffed. “Lord Well—”

“Lord Wellson,” snapped Henry; he looked down the hallway, where another twenty mourners had gathered; he lowered his voice, “Your brother was respected.”

Jocelyn snorted, ignoring Henry’s defiant tone. “Ain’ no one in our family respected. No’ like this,” she muttered.

Henry rocked back on his heels. He folded his hands behind his back. “He was,” he said, gaze settling over the room, filled with mourners and the Guard and artifacts and Wellson’s body. He shook his head. “These people, they looked up to him.” He looked Jocelyn over once again. Her leathers were threadbare, nearly falling apart. The soles of her boots were hardly attached. Her weapons left a great deal to be desired: a broken bottle and a rusty steak knife. “Plainspeak, ‘k?”

She nodded.

“Is there anythin’ we can do for ya? New clothes, visit the smithy ... a bath?”

“A bath’d be nice,” she admitted. She had not bathed in a week, outside of a couple of spotty scrubs in the lake. “Say... you wouldn’t have no courtesans here would ya?”

Henry Rollins leaned in. “This is your brother’s fun’ral,” he whispered sharply. “If ya wan’ that, go ta Goldshire. Plenty there.” He paused to greet one of the shipwrights. Once the woman had passed, he continued. “Look. Ya always welcome ‘ere. You, Quai, her brother, any o’ the Blackbay crew. Always welcome. Food, shelter, clothes. Even drink. I can ‘elp ya get a job or skills trainin’. As Lord Wellson’s sis; by blood, ya are entitled ta these things.” He shook his head. “Nothin’ illegal tho, yeah?”

Jocelyn frowned — an expression much like Quai’s. She looked around the museum. Glistening green and white and black marble columns braced the varnished chestnut ceiling. Paintings of birds and plants lined the walls. Her eyes hovered over the work depicting Nightshade. She clicked her tongue — a tic learned from her mother. After a moment, she turned to Henry:

“What’s Blackbay? Who was my brother?”

Henry chuckled. “Follow. We’ll get ya cleaned up, an’ ya can talk ta Elunara. She’ll tell ya what ya wanna know.”

Jocelyn followed him as he started toward the exit. She stared down at her decaying boots. When she neared the door, she looked over her shoulder at the body of her brother. He looked so at peace, so ... dead. It boggled her mind. To find her brother only to watch him die?! No fuckin’ way, she thought. She bit her lip and walked across the threshold.

(( @quai-mason @andrew-mason @jocelyn-Wellson || [ @blackbay-wra ]: @killerkyara @juniper-rose-blower || cc: @risrielthron ))

[killerkyara]

lamp-lit;

[THEME]

tw: mention of self-harm

Hesitation halted her hand mere inches before it touched the knob. Should she step inside? It would be just be old times, wouldn’t it — the dark, the quiet. Perhaps she’d even sit in the same chair and drink until the voices were unbearable: tangible, and yet indiscernible still. 

And what was the alternative? To go home with her brother? Guilt surely would keep her from the bottle, yet that outcome felt much worse somehow.

She decided to leave these questions unanswered, swinging open the door to her flat instead. Boots were left by the front door, and she remained there for a long moment, relishing in the silence. In this short amount of time before the whispers came, it was ecstasy, stealing away the tension from her face and shoulders. Moving forward, she grabs the half-empty bottle of rum off the kitchen counter, staring at the letter beside addressed to her old captain.

Quai, 

I am sorry to hear the news. Let me know if there is anything at all I can do for you. Matin and I can be there in a moment. 

It felt unfinished, but she suspected she would send it off in the morrow just as it was. What else was there to say? How did he do it? Why? She tried, but putting those words down on paper felt too wrong, too real. Here, she was perfectly distanced from the gravity of the situation.

She does, indeed, cross the space to settle down into her old reading chair. There is a lamp beside, one she reaches over to light, watching it scatter the shadows away from her feet. Dim, blank walls force her to recount the day, as there is nothing else to focus on.

Her heart ached. It was a deep, sorrowful pang, one she had not felt in months, perhaps longer. She was used to the sharp pains, the ones that could be fought off with drink and slept on. This…She knew this would linger. 

It was a saying, to fear the unknown. Not here. The unknown had given her comfort, an escape, but now that it had been spoken so directly — spoken with hands on her face, right in her eyes — there was no escaping it, the gaping wound that had been torn. She wished there was some injustice, some reason to give her anger, a reprieve from this ache; but there was nothing. Only sympathy, only love, damn it. 

Damn it.

Heaving a great sigh, she peers down at her splayed hand, prying back the bandage wrapped around it several times over. Small nicks cover her fingers and palm, from each shard of glass that had been painstakingly removed from flesh. She could not even recall the actual moment that her drink had shattered. Just the aftermath. 

No better than the others, am I. Thinking on this gave her some sense of dry amusement. Leaning her head back, she clung to the thought and closed her eyes, praying sleep would take her soon enough.

mentions: @quai-mason​, @brian-wellson​

[killerkyara]

In response to this post.

The holidays had promoted a rare occasion of bringing Matin with her into the city, who was itching to see the fireworks released from Stormwind up close. They sat together outside of the gates for the best view, where they chatted and enjoyed festive treats well into the night. By the time they were to head home, Kyara elected to carry the young boy over her shoulder as they made their way to her flat, for he had fallen fast asleep on her shoulder.

Once inside, she crossed the space into her own quarters, laying him down upon the bed. Blinds were drawn, her gaze flickering over to settle upon her work desk in the corner of the room. Upon its surface sat neatly ordered stacks of documents, notes, and reminders, the more important of which finding themselves tucked into locked drawers. Eyes settled upon a small pile of unaddressed mail. After a moment, she elected to lean in and flip through the envelopes, unphased until she came across one penned from Andrew.

Her thumb swiftly spliced it open, nimble fingers producing the note within. Eyes devoured it’s contents once, twice…On the third go around, she reached backward to grab at the bedpost, lowering herself down to sit upon the edge of the mattress. Scarred features laxed in a look of shock, lips parted slightly as she digested the news. Wellson was dead.

Rubbing at his eyes, Matin propped himself up on his elbows, peering at his sister with a concerned frown. “What’s wrong, Adinah?” He crawled over in an attempt to get a look, but Kyara had already folded up the note.

“Nothing, akhi.” She assured him, gently guiding the boy back to bed. “I need to speak with someone, then I will let you know. Do you understand?”

Matin was typically too curious of a boy to accept such an answer, but the seriousness of her tone sunk into him. He nodded, relaxing back into the pillows, hushed as she leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead. 

She watched him carefully until deep breaths signaled that he slept. Pushing up from the bed, silent footsteps brought her into the living room, where she could ponder the situation over a drink.

relevant: @quai-mason​, @brian-wellson​, @juniper-rose-blower​

[enigmatic-elegance]

The clock marched onward, ticking each passing second in this restricted reality confined to its beat. Masnira maintained her eyes ever upon the fireplace before her, crackling flames wishing away to the chimney above. Her hand twisted at the wrist, facing a small compass to the air above. It still appeared new, the untarnished silver catching the shimmer of the flames.

The one whom placed the item to her palm now stood at her right hand, eyes lifting toward that same fireplace. So did they share a silent moment, fleeting in the greater scheme yet savored in the present.

“I received word.” Masnira illustrated to usher the silence out. “Ms. Mason did not effect the kill. Poison, it would seem. His own hands.”

“A coward’s way out.” The female at her side hissed, her lower jaw catching the illumination to reveal a subtle sneer. “He should have been ushered by a blade.”

“Does the suffering truly matter?” Masnira retorted in flat tone. “What pain might come at the tip of a blade was little when compared to the pain he had inflicted upon himself. His soul has been.. tarnished. And as he passed from this world, so he was scattered. Pitched to the Void.”

“And the Void will take him.” The slender female affirmed, setting a hand over her chest as if in some form of reverence for the words.

Masnira slid her thumb over the compass in her hand, her attentions now full upon its face.

“You must know..” She began. “Why it is he had to perish?”

“He betrayed the Collective. He betrayed the Lieutenant. He betrayed you.”

“He betrayed self.” Masnira turned her eyes up to the hooded figure who was now meeting her gaze attentive. “A man is only the product of his choices, and with his own he sold himself. He traded pittance for prize, and all in the justification of selfish design, no matter his hollow words. He was lost. And you can not kill what is lost.”

The hooded figure was silent, and so that silence again embraced them. Only a single dip of her head occurred, a nod, to signify her grasp of Masnira’s words. And together they regarded the flames once again.

“I thank you for returning the compass to me, Serata.” Masnira once more issued to waylay the silence. “The flesh perishes, but the symbol remains. So does our purpose march onward.”

“Lieutenant Quai?” Serata inquired.

“Is of no consequence. She is stronger than you predict.”

Serata dipped her head once more. Her hands set to fold behind her back, fingers twisting together as the leather gloves tightened their grip.

“May Shadow keep what remains of him. May the Void silence his pain, and may he find peace at last.” Serata muttered, once more setting hand reverently to her chest.

Masnira lofted the compass to the air by several inches, allowing the tarnished silver to fall into the fire and coil with a brazen blue flames. With an otherworldly simmer, the compass flowed from this reality, following its former owner into the Void.

((Mentioned: @brian-wellson​​ @quai-mason​ ))

[quai-mason]

Quai and Andrew sat opposite each other in a room at the Goldshire inn— he on the couch, she on a wing-back chair next to the fireplace. Neither had spoken since Andrew had arrived at the Elwynn cottage the night before; Quai barely remembered arriving at the nearby inn. Heavy curtains were drawn against the crisp, clear morning outside; inside, a fire crackled and popped in the fireplace, casting long shadows into the far corners of the room. It was Andrew who broke the silence first. 

“How did he do it?” he asked. There was none of the usual playful tone to his voice: for once, he sounded somber. 

“Poisoned his own food and drink— hemlock, nightshade, oleander,” Quai replied, head in her hands. 

“But…why?” 

Quai looked over at Andrew. Her eyes were ringed in red, and her skin had the sallow, sunken look of someone who had been deep into the drink. 

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly; tiredly. She rubbed her face vigorously with both hands. “He was talking to himself, hallucinating…I don’t think he really knew what he was doing. He mentioned Justine, and Nihil.” Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Like that night,” he said quietly. Quai picked up a book from beside her chair and threw it at him: he ducked aside easily and the book smacked into the wall and landed behind the couch, along with a handful of others she’d thrown at him during their conversation. 

“State the obvious again,” Quai replied sarcastically. She let out a frustrated sort of shout at nothing in particular. “Every time I close my eyes, I just keep seeing it,” she twirled a finger around her head, then fell back into the chair, slouched low on the seat. She snaked out a pale hand and grabbed the half-empty bottle on the tea table next to her. “I knew we were too late before we even set foot inside the house,” she mumbled miserably. Andrew didn’t react to being called names, or having books thrown at him— a true measure of his ability to set aside his generally asinine nature in the face of real trouble. 

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’ve contacted Henry and Elunara. Everything is going to be taken care of— they’ll get word to us when arrangements are final. He’s being moved,” he added, “to a facility in Stormwind as we speak, so that bit’s taken care of. You…might need to make some decisions, however.” He ducked preemptively, but no other books flew his way. 

“What decisions?” she asked between swigs from the bottle. 

“Well, uh—” Andrew pulled some crumpled paper from his pocket and smoothed it out on his lap. “There’s a will, which is going to be read at…some point. If the last one is anything to go off of, you might be getting some property…and you’ll likely have to attend something with a solicitor for that and, um, have a bath, maybe…” 

“Fine,” Quai mumbled, waving a hand dismissively. “What else?” 

“Er, well… I’m guessing there won’t be an investigation, and the scene’s still…there— but I’ll take care of that,” he added hastily as Quai’s free hand moved towards another book. 

“Good.” She took another drink instead. 

“I’ll also send word to Ephie, to Kyara and June, to Vincent, to whomever else you want. Oh,” he added, “just wondering, but what did you want done with the cottage? I’m guessing you won’t want to hold onto it…?” 

“Masnira should know…and the Navy, his house guards, whatever else. Do whatever you want to the cottage— I don’t fucking care.” Quai had kicked off her boots and curled up into the armchair while he’d been talking. Andrew ran a hand through his hair, then set the paper aside. 

“Listen, Quai,” he said as he leaned forward, “I know this is hard. But you can’t lose yourself here, alright? Not this time.” He paused. “Please.” 

She finished that bottle and chucked it over her head and into the fireplace, where the bottle smashed against the stone and logs. The fire flared up for a moment from the traces of alcohol, and Quai reached down to the tea table and grabbed another bottle. Andrew looked away. 

“I’m not lost, I’m right here,” she mumbled as she used a knife to wrest the cork from the neck of the bottle. Andrew sighed. 

“No, you aren’t,” he muttered under his breath as he leaned back on the couch. He dipped a hand into his vest to pull out a pocket watch, which he checked and snapped shut again. By the time he looked back over at Quai, she’d taken a few gulps from the bottle and was passed out with her face pressed against the side of the chair. He watched her sadly for a few moments, until a light knock sounded at the door. With a last glance at Quai, he got up and went to answer it. 

Monette stood on the other side, a small bag tucked under one arm. He raised a brow. 

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” he said quietly. Behind him, Quai whimpered in her sleep. 

“It is tomorrow. How much has she had to drink?” Monette asked as she brushed past him into the room. 

“Enough to put her out— it won’t last, though, she wakes up yelling after a few minutes. I don’t think she’s slept since she was on the boat here from Boralus.” 

Right on cue, Quai let out a strangled shout and her eyelids snapped open. The bottle tumbled to the ground and liquid dribbled out onto the worn planks; a sheen of sweat clung to her skin. Monette closed the space between them in a few quick strides and dropped to eye level with Quai, pulling her into a hug. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she cooed softly. She lifted one hand and signed a few instructions to Andrew: Clean booze. Heat bath. Make bed.

“Mo,” Quai groaned. 

“Shh-hhh, it’s me. You’re okay, just breathe,” Monette whispered to her. Andrew watched the pair for a moment, then got to work cleaning up the spilled alcohol, fixing up the bed, and drawing a bath. Quai hiccoughed into Monette’s hair. 

“I’m tired, Mo,” she said miserably. 

“I know you are, and I’ve just the thing,” Monette said softly. “As soon as we get you all cleaned up, I’ve got a major dreamless sleep potion from Mister Sidney’s private stores. You can sleep for as long as you like. How does that sound?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Quai mumbled. A few minutes later, Andrew returned and cleared his throat softly. Monette glanced over at him and he gave her a thumbs up— the sound of running water came from the private bathroom. 

“I’ll be back in a couple of days,” he said to Monette. “I’m going to get word to the others, contact Henry again, take care of the scene— you’ve got her comm,” he said, nodding to Quai, “just use it if you think of anything else that needs to be done.” Monette gave a silent nod, then looked back at Quai, who was staring unseeing at a spot on the floor. 

“We’ll be alright here,” she replied as she tucked a bit of Quai’s hair behind an ear. “I’ll let you know when she’s asleep, and when she’s up again. You mentioned over the comm that she was with his sister…?” she asked curiously. Andrew ran a hand through his hair again. 

“Yeah, I got there just before she left. She took off after I used his comm to contact Henry. Should I have a look…?” he ventured. Monette shook her head. 

“If you see her, try to bring her in— but if her record is anything to go off of, she’s good at not being found.” Andrew nodded and left the room without another word. Monette turned back to Quai, who was still staring at a random spot on the floor. 

“How about a bath?” she asked softly. Quai nodded and Monette helped her to her feet: she swayed and leaned against her sister. 

“It’s my fault he’s dead, Mo,” Quai mumbled as they stepped into the private bathroom. Monette’s look darkened, but she helped Quai out of her leathers and underclothes, and lifted her easily into the hot bath: Quai let out a long sigh and leaned her head back against the curved edge of the deep tub. 

“It’s not your fault,” Monette replied as she leaned on the edge of the tub. The water was almost at Quai’s chin, and the eucalyptus-scented bubbles had once again covered the surface of the water. She reached out and gently stroked Quai’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “You’ll get through this.” 

((Mentioned: @brian-wellson​ @enigmatic-elegance​ @killerkyara​ @the-rose-in-the-desert​ @monettemason​ @andrew-mason​ @ephriza-dawnblade​ @mycoronervinny​ @jocelyn-wellson ))

[quai-mason]

(A continuation from here)

“Y-you…Andrew… to live…” Brian tipped sideways, and the empty port glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the dusty floor. The breath caught in Quai’s throat as he fell. 

“Quai?” Jocelyn asked, her eyes widening. She abandoned the kitchen doorway and her quest for pie to run to them. 

“Get the black bag from my horse!” Quai ordered as she dropped the ring and sprang towards Brian. Without a word, Jocelyn ran to the door and made for the horses at the end of the path while Quai rolled Brian onto his side and forced his mouth open. She shoved her gloved fingers down his throat— chunks of food and bile sprayed onto the floor, onto the ring Quai had dropped and the broken shards of the port glass. 

“Q-Quai…” he whispered. “Elune help…” Flecks of spittle bubbled and popped at the corners of his mouth. 

“JOCELYN!” Quai bellowed over her shoulder. Brian reached an arm upward and Quai grabbed his hand. She leaned in and kissed the side of his head. 

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered to him, her tone soft but firm. He squeezed her hand. She could hear Jocelyn’s footsteps pounding back up the gravel path. “You’ll get through this.”

As she said her last words, his grip slackened in her hand and his body relaxed. Quai shut her eyes, her face buried in his hair as Jocelyn burst back into the room: 

“I’ve got it!” she yelled, holding the black bag aloft. There was a loud thunk! as the bag dropped from her hands and her mouth fell open. “Is he—?” Quai turned her head towards Jocelyn and gave a silent nod. 

“NO!” Jocelyn yelled. She kicked at a dusty chair and sent it skidding across the floor. Quai closed her eyes again, her hand still gripping Brian’s.

“Jocelyn,” she said quietly. The blonde woman was pacing around, shoving furniture out of the way. She stopped and rounded on Quai when she spoke. 

“This was your fault!” she shouted at Quai, who opened her eyes again. 

“I know,” was all she said in response. Jocelyn stared at her, her shoulders heaving as her breaths grew ragged. Quai leaned over again and pressed her face into the side of Brian’s hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She kissed his cheek. 

“There has to be something—” Jocelyn started. She gestured vaguely. “Come on, isn’t there something we can do? You can do?” she asked, a note of panic in her voice. Quai shook her head: she didn’t trust herself to speak, and it felt like her chest was about to split open. A moment later she lifted her head again and set Brian’s hand carefully down, then looked over. 

“He’s gone,” she said. She peeled her gloves off and tossed them aside. A primal, guttural sound came out of Jocelyn’s throat— she kicked at a red velveteen ottoman into the cold fireplace. “Jocelyn—” Quai rose to her feet and crossed the room to her. Jocelyn shook her head. 

“I didn’t even get to talk to him,” she said hoarsely. She took a few gulping breaths of air. “Please, there has to be something—” her voice hitched in her throat as Quai gathered her in a tight hug. She collapsed against Quai’s chest, sobbing as Quai held her close. 

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered to Jocelyn, who nodded against her shoulder. Tears started to stream down Quai’s cheeks as she stared out the open door, into the blackness of the forest. “You’ll get through this.” 

((Mentioned/relevant: @brian-wellson @jocelyn-wellson @enigmatic-elegance​ |  @risrielthron​))

[brian-wellson]

Read THIS first.

[brian-wellson]

(( CW — this one is disturbing, possibly triggering. ))

I.

“More wine?” asked Jennifer. The sommelier moved effortlessly across the room toward the assemblage of bottles she had brought from her own collection. Her long, white dress barely brushed the gleaming, varnished floor, a stark contrast to the black gemstones of her necklace and bracelet set.

“Mmhmm,” replied Cliara. “Something from the northlands.” The ren’dorei’s ears twitched in anticipation. Wellson had never seen her dressed up before. True, while not a traditional outfit, her ugly Winter Veil sweater was festive enough. Plus, it reminded him of Trin, and the night she —

“Let’s see... I have a 30 year Alterac Pinot Noir, and ... hm,” muttered Jennifer as she searched through the bottles. “A few different Gilnean brandies of various ages and vineyards.”

“Brandy,” said Cliara. Jennifer did not move. Cliara rolled her eyes. “Please.”

Jennifer smiled and poured out a rather generous amount of brandy. “VSOP, from a old vineyard in the Highlands,” she said, placing the snifter in front of the ren’dorei. After watching her try the brandy, Jennifer turned to Glenice — a woman who had, not unexpectedly, attempted to look anything but the naval investigator she was.

“Three fingers, scotch, thanks,” Glenice said, never taking her eyes off of Wellson.

He was sitting at the right side of the still-empty head of the table. Across from him, Cliara; next to her, Jennifer; across from Jennifer, Justine; at the opposite head of the table, Glenice. Others had joined and come and left, too. Henry and Elunara. Birdhat. Gwen. They had come by to say hello and have a bit of eggnog; well, all except for Gwen, who picked something from her hair and had hesitantly given it to him as a present. All the while, Wellson and Justine and Nihil had been cooking, together, just as they had in years prior. Their dinner was largely over. The cottage was filled with the scents of roasted fowl, braised boar shank, maple glazed parsnips. And, of course, the stone-fruit pies baking in the background.

Everyone who had attended that evening was rather tipsy at this point. Wellson glanced out toward the dining room. The fireplace crackled, like a good dwarven hearth fire. The guests were laughing, talking; he wondered why these particular people had even shown up in the first place when his true friends, they had not. To be sure, Wellson had to admit that he was confused. With the exception of Jennifer and Cliara, none of the other attendees had been invited. Indeed, the others believed to have invited — Kyara and Juniper, Dr Thalsian, and Quai (and her horrible brother) — had not shown up at all. He had not expected them all to attend, though a raven message or two would have been nice. He grimaced to himself.

“You good, boss?” asked Justine as she dusted the pies with confectionary sugar. In the background, Nihil, her half-elf lover, was filling the port glasses.

He looked over toward Justine. “Fine,” he replied with a chuckle. “Though I am starting to tire.”

Justine set down the confectionary sugar. “Go sit down. Wait. She will show up,” she said.

Wellson nodded. She will. She always does.

II.

He took his seat next to the empty head of the table. Soon, pie and port were delivered to each guest. The dark berries of the pie reminded him of Gooseberries or of cherries. They smelled heavenly, a rich bouquet of dark jam; he had been insistent that they boil the berries down as much as possible. The black juices ran out of the pie, and — when set against the white porcelain of the dishes — looked like small pools of blood.

“Now, I know it’s customary to have a glass of port prior to the pie, to raise a glass to those we love,” he said, nodding toward Quai’s empty chair, “and to those whom we may even begrudgingly respect...”

Glenice looked up toward him. She massaged her scarred throat, took a stiff shot of scotch, and nodded.

“However, Quai would kill me if I drank this without her here, so I think that is something we shall avoid,” he said, adding, “Besides, there is some in the pie already.”

“At least you know something about your partner,” quipped Glenice. She took another hit from the scotch.

“That’s not really fair, Major,” said Justine, raising her voice. “He knows far more about you than he’d ever say.”

Glenice shrugged, remaining silent.

“Besides,” said Nihil, “it wasn’t you who found the person who hurt me.”

Wellson looked over toward her. Her delicate elven features flashed into a bruised and disfigured mess for an instant. An image of bloodied brass knuckles flashed through his mind. He blinked. Everything was normal. What was that?

“Yeah, yeah,” said Glenice.

Wellson cleared his throat. It was getting a bit stuffy in the room. He took up one of the garnishes he had used for the boar shank. Like an orchid, it was pink and white, though with voluminous (half-eaten) petals. He turned it over in his hands. He had missed beauty such as this — this simple flower, these respected peers, a room which, even while stuffy, still smelled delightful. The fire continued to crackle on as the group enjoyed their pie. Cliara and Justine, they actually managed to get along quite well, despite the latter’s well known dislike of anything sin’dorei related.

“How is the monster hunting business,” asked Wellson.

Cliara looked slightly embarrassed. “Fine,” she mumbled. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I’m trained well, out in the field. Seen some crazy things. You know,” she said.

“Make it up to Northrend yet?”

“No, don’t think so.”

“Avoid Grizzly Hills.”

“Why?”

“Just... please do,” he said.

“I go where the business takes me, Brian,” she said.

“Fair,” he conceded.

As the pies were eaten, a growing feeling of malaise began to sink in. Was she coming? he wondered, flipping the velvet box in his pocket.

“She’ll be here, boss,” said Justine. She knew.

“And I,” said Glenice, way more than half-in-the-bag, “need a gryphon ride home. What do you think, Commissary Hotchner?”

“Indeed.” Jennifer nodded. “As much as I would love to stay for a toast, I do have my own life to which I must attend.” She shook her head. “No one likes executing a funeral in the cold,” she said. Jennifer crossed her lips with her fingers, a black ‘x’ it had left behind faded to nothing. Wellson could feel himself doing the same, though not remembering why. “And I do not wish to keep the Vicar waiting. You know how impatient she can be,” she said.

The group bid the two good evening. Justine and Nihil, neither of whom were drinkers, left for the back bedroom, and, soon enough, Cliara was called away via her commstone; apparently, there was a ship heading north, toward the dwindling war, and she was needed. A gust of wind blew the door open, and she excused herself before vanishing into the dark. She did not close the door. Grumping to himself, Wellson stood. He wiped his brow. Certainly the fire was not this hot, he thought. And, just as he was about to shut it, Quai was there, standing before him. With a woman.

III.

“You came...” he gasped.

“Oi, ya, so did I, bruv,” said the other woman.

“J-Jocelyn...?”

The two long-departed siblings stared at each other for a moment. Wellson saw the glint of his mother’s charm bracelet on Jocelyn’s wrist. A lump formed in his throat; he could swear that, off in the distance, he could hear her being hacked to pieces...

“You gonna let us in or make us freeze?”she asked.

Wellson gestured. “C-come in, please,” he said, hurriedly.

He watched as the two entered the room. They moved timidly. Maybe they were just cold still, he thought. “Please, please come in. Let me take your overcoats. We can dry them by the fire,” he said.

The two women exchanged a confused glance. They took off their overcoats as suggested. He hung them on a black, cast iron coatrack near the hearth. It no longer felt as hot as it had. He massaged his chest; his heart, it was skipping beats. Seeing Quai made him nervous, apparently.

“I ... am so glad y-you made it,” he iterated, taking his seat. He gestured for Quai to sit at the head of the table. She did so reluctantly. Jocelyn wandered into the kitchen. “Justine is going to be thrilled to see you,” he said.

Quai raised an eyebrow. “Justine?”

“Mm... I had the Major and the Commissary here, too, but they’ve ugh —” he said, gripping his stomach. Quai began to look about the table, eyes locking onto the half-eaten flower. In addition, there were glasses of all kinds, wine and liquor bottles of rare vintage, and not a single crumb on the table at any other place-setting than his. Perhaps more alarmingly, while every seat had an unconsumed glass of port, her’s did not. And the boot flask she had given him was the table’s centrepiece, where a candelabra should have been.

“What did you have?” she asked. She took his hand. It was clammy. “For dinner, I mean.”

Wellson undid his collar. “Roasted boar-shank, garnished with an orchid; local duck, stuffed and baked; maple-glazed parsnips; and an amazing stone-fruit pie. Nihil did an outstanding job.” He offered her the best smile he could.

“N-Nihil,” stammered Quai. Not good. “Where are they now, Justine and Nihil?”

Wellson’s face flushed. “The back bedroom,” he said.

“Jocelyn!” Quai called.

“Wot ya want now? I was just gonna have some of this fuckin’ pie. Smells fuckin’ great, lady.”

“Before you do,” said Quai, her voice singsong-like, “Check the back bedroom.”

“But... but pie!” whined Jocelyn.

Quai frowned™. “Do it now.”

Rather alarmed by Quai’s tone, Jocelyn stomped through the cottage. “Some fuckin’ reunion...” she mumbled.

After she had left the room, Wellson removed the small velvet box from his pocket. He opened it. The ring inside, it shined — sparkling as so many nights under the stars.

“My grandmother’s ring,” whispered Quai. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“Will you...?”

“Brian...”

Quai took the ring, turning it over in her hand.

“Your g-grandfather s-said...”

“I know,” she said, softly. She placed the ring back in the box. “I will take this, ok? Keep it safe until...” She shifted uneasily.

Jocelyn stumbled back into the room. “Ain’ no one back there,” she said. “Pie. Now.”

Quai snapped her fingers. Wellson did not hear it; Jocelyn did, though, and she stared. “No pie for you,” Quai spat. “Nor for anyone else.”

Wellson was confused. No pie? For his own sister? He blinked his eyes. The elaborate, warm decor he had envisioned began to dissolve. Chestnut turned to decrepit, grey wood; an overchair into a stool. His once white-clothed table, barren except for his own paltry meal, and glasses here and there. No fire in the hearth. His cheek twitched. “Quai, I don’t feel...” he managed. His mind began to ring:

...we have a pact...

“Stay here with me?” he sputtered.

She replied. He could not understand her. She swiped at the glass of port in his hand, but missed. She watched as he drained the glass. The port would end it — she knew.

“T-this was all f-for you...” he said, eyes locked onto the ring in the box. “Y-you... Andrew... to live...”

Quai said something once again. Her voice was louder, yet he still could not understand her; her words, they made no sense.

As the room grew dimmer and dimmer, Wellson felt his sister come back into the room. He could feel himself being laid on his side. He could feel his body go rigid, back-breakingly so. He could no longer see. His heart was skipping beats, slowing over time. Someone forced something into his mouth. He could feel himself vomit. The whispers in his mind finally died away. For the first time since Darkshore, he felt peaceful.

“Q-Quai...” he whispered. “Elune help...”

He reached an unsteady arm upward. Someone took it. Someone told him he was going to be ok, that they would see him recover. His body felt like it was being squeezed, like before he had left the Manor. And then, then he could hear screaming. He could hear crying. And then everything simply faded — until nothing remained.

Nothing.

— — • — —

( @quai-mason @jocelyn-wellson / @glenicemorcant @mastersommelierjennifer @justinegrotius @seattlebourne / @killerkyara @juniper-rose-blower @thalsianiii // cc: @risrielthron )

(( Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is in crisis, please call your doctor, call 911, or go directly to the Emergency Trauma Centre. ))