Southern blue and gold streamed over most of the city. Stromgarde in name, but not sight and sound. Or spirit.
It looked nothing like what his father described, what faint memory painted for him. That hallowed ancient city of kings and emperors, this was too new and young to pass for it.
For stretches, it hardly felt like a city at all but a military camp, wide avenues with few dressed for commerce or leisure. It was still mostly soldiery from the nations that fought with the king yet crowned—the League’s men, Stormwinders, dwarves of the mountains three. Knights of the silver, knights of the kings west and south.
He could count on one hand those that wore the old red proudly.
He wondered if he belonged among their number.
-
His invitation this time took him not to the hall of magistrates, but to the oldest part of the city still standing.
Tower Square, and its namesake, that pillar rising over everything, even the king’s own keep. Old stone, white but browned by age, and by violence.
He was no magician, never would be, but he could feel the power in those stones, even from a distance. It reminded him of the tider’s shrine in the valley; power old and ancient, power unwise to disturb.
He was met at the foot by one of the king’s men, and an elf in what he understood to be the wear of a spell-breaker, warriors powerful and rarely seen, long shields and blades gleaming with an array of enchantments even the most noble of men could not afford in a lifetime.
Guess they were right to say Lord Maxwell was as close to crown as they come.
They took him up stairs wound tight, the pace of the elven woman ahead quick enough to keep him from getting a long enough look into any of the rooms they passed. The stench of magic lingered, clung to his cloak, to his face. He tried to look unbothered by it, and the spell-breaker continued to pay him no mind.
“Here,” she said, as they arrived at the height of the tower that the stair dared not climb.
“Be respectful,” she said.
The knight nodded, and crossed the threshold.
-
“Be welcome, Lord Greyhelm,” the gnome said, with the cheer that was customary of his people, though diminished, and with little joy. “You can call me Max, I am the king’s steward… a problem solver.”
Thommis nodded, noting to himself the omission made. Danath Trollbane had many problems and many to try and solve them, but only a handful that carried title with as much weight as the Lord High Steward of his realm.
The gnome gestured at an ornate chair, though the knight chose to stand, and wait. He watched as the gnome walked to the end of the room, and opened a small chest, pulling out a long narrow bottle.
“Would you care for drink?” the steward asked, returning to the table. “Please, sit, Lord Greyhelm.”
Thommis remained on his feet, observing with closer look that the simple coloring of the gnome’s doublet was not so simple after all, dark blue with immaculate golden stitching. It was stitchwork subdued enough to avoid notice from afar, but unmistakable in close conversation. A show of wealth and power, but only to those the wearer wished see.
He watched as the steward poured two glasses with precision, a soft rosy red filling the bottom half of each. He watched as the gnome brought him one, and watched as the steward returned to his seat, moving a footstool over with soft booted feet to make the climb up.
“Not sure I’ve met a gnome inclined to drink with daylight,” the knight said as he finally sat down in his chair, inching it forward to close the space between it and the table.
“Less a habit than a custom I thought you might appreciate,” the gnome said, traces of a diplomatic smile under his brown mustache, “but I’ve also found myself fonder now of the things we couldn’t have during the years in Outland.”
The knight noticed his glass held more, and the gnome's fingers had yet touched his. A taste would be polite, leaving it be would be the wiser.
Thom kept his hands at his side.
“I understand,” the gnome began, “ it was a difficult conversation you had yesterday.”
“Difficult’s coming home to find what’s yours has been given away,” Thom said. “That’s right.”
I assure you,” the minister said, the tone and pitch of his voice never straying. “Every effort was made to honor the king’s promise. We all regret that your ask cannot be granted in the exact form you made it.”
“Understand that the askin’ was a courtesy,” the knight said, discarding disguise for a contempt and rage made obvious. “I’ve a mind to see the King, to tell him you’ve made his words worth no more and maybe a little less than the orc ambassador’s.”
The knight leaned over the table, the plate of his breast leaving a scratch on the paneling, a heavy armored hand now in full view of his adversary.
“I bled for Stromgarde—”
“And then you stayed away,” the gnome said, interrupting with a sharpness that surprised. “I understand you served House Ashvane well?”
“Lord Ashvane,” the knight countered, steadying himself amidst uncertain winds. “That’s right. The Grand Admiral too.”
The gnome nodded in polite understanding.
“A great warrior. I hope to pay my respects in Boralus someday soon.”
“Last of the Proudmoores,” the knight replied warily. “Tide keep him.”
“Thom… may I call you Thom?”
The gnome did not leave him room to answer.
“I’m going to explain what my assistant was unable to,” the high steward said, taking off his spectacles and placing them on the table. “Lord Trollbane intends to name you Count of his realm, with all rights, honor, and privilege that comes with the title. A voting member of his Assembly, and reasonable sum for your continued attendance, of course. The rights to name and grant lesser offices in your remit, and so on.”
And this,” the gnome said, flattening out a detailed map. “Is County Karsbrad, if you’re not familiar.”
The knight did not appear to be.
“It may be among the richest in our kingdom. Old surveys indicate large deposits of truesilver, here, here, and… here” he said, pointing at various potential mines yet dug. “Fishing, of course. Plenty of timber untouched by blight. Farmland, just lacking the farmers. Enough of most things to make most men very rich.”
The knight looked at the map carefully.
“Coast and farms,” he said. “Seen plenty like it.”
“Coast and farms and history, Thom. Unfortunately, its recent history has not been kind, and there is now a squatter there, claiming to be the Lightbringer reborn. Telgus Varn, Lordaeron-born, claimed their red and then supposedly gave it up. He’s attracted some followers from the Scarlet remnants, and deserters of all kinds.”
The knight’s curiosity kept him quiet, and listening.
“They’ve claimed the Repose, an old fortress and older monastery,” the gnome continued, his signet ringed finger pointing at another marking on the map. “I understand they have made significant trouble for some Kul Tiran settlers with blood claims to the land, which we only recently were informed.”
“The regency will grant you a purse,” said the high steward, his gaze moving from paper to the knight, “but the eviction we would entrust to you. Lord Trollbane has won the war; now it’s time for us to win the peace.”
Greed’s grasp held tight, but the wisdom of seasons passed had left him enough caution not to rush the yes. The knight studied the gnome in the doublet carefully, and wondered just how old that face really was.
“Suppose I’ll consider all you’ve said,” Thommis said. “Have to think on what’s right, have a duty to more people than myself.”
It was a correct answer, he thought, but it was not the right one.
For the first time, the knight could see irritation behind those eyes of blue.
“Understand, Thom,” the gnome said, his brisk politeness shifting to something more imperious. “This offer is a courtesy. And it is on offer because it was considered by his lordship to be the right thing to do, by you and your family.”
“But understand also that Stromgarde rose not with you, Thom, but without. And if you find yourself making more threats, to the kingdom’s closest friends and allies, your family’s name will be nowhere near enough to save you from his majesty.”
He was arrayed in armor and steel and a practiced arm to wield, yet could feel clearly now who was the weaker in the room.
“Sir Thommis,” the high steward said, putting his glasses back on. “You are dismissed.”
Sheoli looked up from her tea to him, allowing him this moment of vanity. The full length, up and down, then up again.
He was not a beautiful man, nor was he particularly handsome. Youth had left him faster than most, with a face creased and weathered, body scarred and palms well worn. He had blond hair so dirtied it was almost brown, tumbling down in waves towards his shoulders.
He was wearing the most ornate plate of any of the Ashvane knights, red and gold and storm silver, the white ruff of a collar barely visible under his chin. A sash of the deepest Stromic red ran from shoulder to hip, the likeness of a crestless helm carved into the rondel.
It was ostentation new and unexpected, and so she chose question first.
“How do you wish to be seen?”
The knight considered.
“A warrior of means,” he said with a slight smile, one that showed more clearly in his eyes than anywhere else.
He was not a beautiful man, but, to her, that look made him one.
“The armor won’t show that,” she said, taking his words more seriously than he spoke them. “Armor means you are afraid of something, rightly or wrongly.”
Thommis looked half convinced.
“And a warrior of means has other men to wear the armor.”
“Might be true,” Thommis conceded, adopting the same gravity as his partner. “But not here. This is what my father would have worn to court; Strom’s a land where the warrior is king, trader’s voice a mite softer than you’re accustomed.”
She looked at the knight, seeing more Tirasian in him than anything else. A rogue playing the honest swordsman.
“I don’t think it’s the same land you left, Thom.”
“Horse and mountain lord might all be dead,” the knight said, unbothered and even more certain than before. “But that’s the dream Trollbane has, and we’ll look our part.”
“She won’t be in the hold,” the knight said, sword drawn and arm readied. “But she’ll be close. In the bilge, or as close as it gets.”
The hedge wizard half listened as he walked apace with the knight, watching the people watching him, gaunt and shackled, sunken eyes staring from beyond the bars. He tried to ignore the feeble pleas, the hateful gazes, just as his knight-turned-tideguard ahead seemed to, but he couldn’t help but look back, however briefly.
He could feel the weight of his tider’s robes, that thick stitching, layers of woven cloth, blessed by ritual of innumerable age and considerable power. Could feel the weight of representing—however falsely—authority spiritual and temporal, an authority content to let those on board the Falconer remain there.
There must be hundreds, he thought. Hundreds condemned to live like this.
I’d rather die.
As he lost himself in thought, he lost the knight, and that sharp turn he made down sharper stairs. He felt panic first, then fear, turning and looking through door and room and corridor, each piece of blackness looking the same as the last.
Then he heard it.
The sound of shot, that familiar explosion of powder and flame.
March to the sound of the guns, that was the old marine saying. But the hedge wizard ran, drawing his shortsword, knowing well he hardly knew what to do with it. He followed the sounds of struggle, down creaking wooden stairs, until he could see two bodies under a lantern swinging wildly.
“You’ve earned this,” the knight said, breathing heavily. He let go of the other, another figure in an overcoat, pulling blade out as the body fell, slumping down against a wooden grate of a wall.
The hedge wizard could see that his gleaming tideguard plate was blackened and bent, and the knight let the now-darkened blade fall from his grasp, his hands pressed above his knees. For a moment the hedge wizard thought he looked like a drunk outside a tavern, ready to vomit up everything he had paid for.
He stared, mouth agape, thinking to speak, but not knowing what to say.
The knight spoke instead.
“Check the pockets, son. Pockets and the man. Keys, and whatever else.”
He did as commanded, trying not to look or smell or think about the blood seeping into the wool as he lifted the coat, touching and brushing and feeling for what they needed.
He felt sick.
“Never you mind that,” the knight said, pointing at a ring hanging above a narrow table. “Left ‘em right here for us. Tides bless.”
The knight didn’t move, so the hedge wizard did, taking the key ring and trying the first key, pressing it and shifting it slightly before adding more force with his frustration. He tried a second, and then a third, and then felt that gentle, smooth twist, and then that heavy door scraping across the wood floor as it swung open.
They were far below the deck, now, maybe three levels down, and he couldn’t feel the stares any longer.
This must be the hold.
“We’ll need some light, here,” the knight said, and he worked as quickly as he could, another scroll erupting into a flood of moonlight.
The knight shook his head, and he knew it was too much, too bright, but all he could do was shrug helplessly.
The vastness of the hold was only outdone by its emptiness; at war, she would have been laden with stores and shot, sometimes even horses. Now, there was little, enough preserved food to feed the watch for a week, but no longer.
They both knew what they were looking for, but not what it looked like. A door, or a hatch. Metal, of a kind. Metal binds with magic easier than wood, after all.
The two walked beneath the moonlight that was still bright but slowly darkening. They walked and looked and touched, touched crates and bulkheads, touched oars wrapped in canvas, tins full of fish. They walked the length of the hold, several minutes spent in silence.
Nothing.
As they walked back, the hedge wizard dragged his foot along the floor, listening and letting the knight do the watching. For a moment, he could hear and feel something different, and stopped.
“Boss,” he said, and the knight stopped, looking back at him, for only a moment betraying an anxiety he had never seen before.
“I think it’s here,” he continued, tapping his booted toes. “It sounds different, right boss?”
The knight nodded, slowly.
“I’ve heard of this,” the hedge wizard said, pulling up his canister of scrolls, delicate fingers reaching in for the one he needed. “Cheap wards of invisibility, won’t do you any good if someone knows what’s there, but keeps everyone else out.”
He could feel the warmth of the knight’s approval, his heart quickening as he moved the enchantment off of the paper and into the air with his hand, his own spell colliding with the one left behind. He covered his face with his hand and forearm but the explosion of arcane was over in a moment’s time, leaving behind only truth revealed.
A metal panel, gleaming faintly, runes immaculately etched in lines that framed it. The knight kneeled down, instinctively pulling and pushing at it, to no avail.
The hedge wizard knelt too, and ran his fingers across the metal, shaking his head as he did.
“No good, boss,” he said, quietly, knowing he would pay a price for saying so. “It’s no good. This isn’t contract, it’s Dalaranian work. Kirin Tor.”
“You’re not here to tell me the door’s magicked up,”the knight said, still looking down, and not at him. “You’re here to open it.”
The wizard clasped his hands together nervously, palm around fist.
“Boss man,” he paused, and restarted. “Sir, m’lordship… you mess with Kirin Tor spellwork, they will send someone to mess with you. Even if I can do something to it—damage it, break it—someone will know, someone will notice. And that someone will do whatever they want to us because they’re the Kirin Tor.”
The knight frowned. There was a paleness in his face, fatigue in his voice. But the determination, that was clearly still there.
“If it won’t be done, get topside. Get me Cin.”
The hedge wizard shook his head. “Too raw, too dangerous.”
The knight slowed his breathing, slowing the boil of his anger down to a simmer.
“You need everything she has left to draw the portal,” the wizard added, hastily.
“Scrolls, then. Give ‘em over, I’ll do the rest.”
The hedge wizard took a long look at the knight’s face, knowing the choice had been made and would not change. Knew the choice, and what his would have to be.
“... no, boss.”
“No, I’ll… I’ll do it, I know you need me to do it, it’s why I’m here. This is…” he drew out the last syllable. “This’ll mean making a new enemy, and I’m not sure you’re ready—we’re ready—for what’s to come.”
The knight shook his head again.
“Where we’re going, those tower wizards will have a long, hard time findin’ us. And finding won’t be to their liking, because they’ll pay a price for what they’ve done, at the rendezvous, when it comes ‘round.”
Certainty’s comfort was often enough but conflict still swirled in the wizard’s mind, doubt softened but not broken.
“Let fly,” the sorceress whispered as she sent the phoenix aloft, and then watched as it burned through the black sky, wings outstretched.
She watched, feet delicately placed on either side of the boat, a hand on her hip. It was a truly beautiful creature, worthy of royalty.
She wished, suddenly, that it would live, that it would be hers, perched on her shoulder like the elven queens of old, as she stared out at admiring courtiers and confidantes. She thought of a red robe embroidered with gold, elegantly tailored, the very unlikeness of her brown one. She thought, for a moment, of a different life, a life that could have been, but never would.
That wish ended the moment her creature violently collided with the stern of the Falconer, spraying wood and glass and man into the sea, and roaring flames throughout the lower decks with its last, dying breaths.
She smiled.
All around her, the ones clad in metal, in steel and storm silver, the ones with the grim faces—the ready faces—took aim at the Falconer and fired, their harpoons arcing in unison, soaring until they speared the sides of the dying ship. Twisted rope of mithril weave behind soon pulled them up, into the belly of the beast.
With a thought and a blink, the sorceress found herself among the ashes too.
-
“You made a fucking mess,” the sergeant spat, wiping her blade on one of her cuffs.
It was true.
Scorch marks lined the entirety of what had been the Falconer’s great cabin, its furnishings strewn across the floor. Those misfortunate few that had been sleeping or sitting inside were either dead, or bound and hooded, and the Ashvane marines had since moved on, leaving just the three behind to dig through the wreckage.
The three, and her.
“I opened the window for you, Cila,” the sorceress said, pleasantly. “A thank you would suffice.”
The Ashvane woman with the very same eyes as her own did not reply, and she tried again.
“Maybe a card or a letter, if you’ve practiced your words enough. Something that conveys affection, and gratitude.”
The cleaned blade went back into its sheath, and the sergeant opened a desk drawer, and then another. The sorceress watched in silence, displeased by the ending of their repartee.
“Where’s the boss man?”
This question, from a new questioner, drew the sergeant’s attention, and she looked at her pocket watch, that gleaming curiosity.
“Not time to worry about him yet,” she said, with just enough force to end the conversation. “I need names and keys, lads. Names and keys, we’ve people to get off this damned ship ‘fore the Usurper comes knocking.”
The knight stood on the Falconer’s deck, the dampness of the night clinging to his skin. A place and feeling dark, but not unfamiliar.
Even in death, with her sail stripped and masts shorn, he knew what she once was, and he felt a sense of sadness, and shame, for what she had become.
For a moment he remembered the sound—the smell—of cannonry, of death, of guns firing at orc, at demon.
At human.
The better days.
The knight lifted that heavy helm off his matted hair, giving himself a moment’s rest. A moment to breathe easier, to let the mind consider.
It would be only that moment, though, for he could now see a lantern swinging, dousing the deck with the faintest light. A lantern drawing closer, with boots he could hear and faces he could almost see.
Two men of the Admiralty’s Prison Service, in overcoats with too many buttons, one with a sidearm he could see belted, the other a saber with a guard too fanciful for his station, swinging loosely.
His eyes were caught by the blade and the metal, and moved too slowly to the details of the face, the one with reddish brown hair and familiarly haggard look.
The one who knew exactly who he was.
As the two locked eyes, the knight knew the play was over.
It was time to dance.
Ashvane.
That’s what Harken would have shouted, but the knight was too fast, a crossbow in hand, a bolt in flight before that thought became words.
The watch officer stumbled back, and the knight closed in, fist connecting with skull, knocking the man down.
He pivoted, aiming the weapon at the other, at a young face laden heavy with fear.
“Son,” the knight began, speaking now with the confident drawl of a backwood sheriff. “Promise you’ll see the sun rise one more time, at the least… just keep those hands empty, those feet quiet, and your words in your pocket.”
He took a slow, steady step forward, seeing if his warning would be heeded.
The guard ran.
The knight cursed as his finger pulled again, the bolt flying faster than the runner could run, and he fell, bones colliding, scraping against the Falconer’s skin.
Behind him, he could hear the pained groan of the watch officer, and he met the eyes of the wizard as he pulled himself onto the deck .
“Do something about him,” the knight roared, heavy hands struggling to load the crossbow again, and the wizard obeyed, desperate fingers clutching and ripping open a scroll from his belt, spell slowly forming as the letters tumbled off the page. Ice rose from the deck, a glacier that slowly covered, choked and silenced.
But only the one.
From the far end of the ship, they heard the sound of the ship’s bell, tolling once and again. And again.
And again.
“Well,” the knight said. “Guess we’re takin’ the fuckin’ ship.”
I know you. Teary-eyed and shudder-breathed, you grasp at the void and find only me. Your ritual components are laid out before you. You expected this to be harder. I can tell because your eyes widened as I clawed my way into your world. I can hear your breath catch. Perhaps you're afraid. Maybe the image of my exposed sinew, pulsing and grey, startled you. It might have frightened you when I smiled- wide and uncanny. I have so many of mankind's teeth. You do not call me beautiful when you compose yourself. Not like the flatterers who ask me for pacts to cure their puppy's plugged nostrils or bring back their lost child or whatever vain, flimsy things men lean on to pretend their ambitions are different than ours.
You ask me my name, and I give it. I am Marettia. You, I already know, are Mel. I have been watching since you breathed your resolve in the frigid Sharlayan air. You would kill Lakoth, you decided. Your cheeks were flush with the chill, lips pouting and quivering like a frightened child. You'd kill him for what he did to you, to your love. It's not fair that it's fallen to you.
You breathe out a chuckle as you scramble to fetch your reagents. An athame wet with your own blood, a crystal that glints black in the purple candlelight. The candles smell like small, bunchy purple flowers whose name I've long forgotten. There are no pretty purple flowers that grow in home's enduring darkness. Your room is bright to me, even in its shadowiest parts, and warm like the sun. I barely remember the sun.
"I'm Mel," you tell me, and I can hear your inexperience. That's not how these conversations start, little one. It makes me think, for a moment, how lucky you are that I have use for you. You don't know I know.
"I know," I say. And now you do. Your grey eyes squint behind your spectacles. I had spectacles once. "I've been watching."
"Watching? Why?" Oh, you're so dull.
"Lakoth," I hiss. His name is odiously sour in my mouth. My tongue revolts at the prospect of speaking his name. But I must, I must. And I do. You wince when I lean forward. I'm looming over you. I'm as powerful as three of you.
"I'll kill him," you tell me. You're kneeling on the ground in your sleeping clothes. Pink little catlike creatures dot your white cotton shirt. Your bare knees are red on your wooden floor. You look so small, but your eyes are steely. Your face sets with anger, and you work your jaw. I could -feast- on the aether your hatred could pull out of you. I can see your rage. Your balled fists and stiff shoulders. To drink deep of your aetheric wellspring would be so sweet. So sweet. So sweet. But I cannot taste. If I taste, then the deal is done. There is nothing special about you. But I see the rage in your face, and I do not doubt
you when you say you will kill him.
"I will too," I tell you. And I will, I will. For all he has stripped from me. For all he has stripped from us. We will kill him. I can taste his flesh already. I ache to rip him apart. I yearn to feel his flesh split beneath my teeth like leather pulled taut beneath a blade's point. I will drip the aether from the marrow of his bones and let him watch me grow with his stolen power. I will devour him. He will fight me for control, and I will subjugate him. I will hear him beg. The thought waters my mouth.
"What do you want from me in return for your aid?" You ask. I frown.
"Rend and tear the bodies of him and his disciples. Let me taste the blood of the sycophant and the flesh of their master. Let me destroy him. And then we will be done."
And you understand that. You know me. And I know you. You look upon my face, and you smile. You see my suffering as I can see yours. Revenge-maddened, livid, and yearning for blood between our claws and teeth. We will find peace only in the aftermath of the slaughter.
They sat together at the break of dawn, when the world is fresh and blue and pale, and the first white rays of the sun cast its rippled light across the harbour. A rare break in the rain was a welcome sight for most, especially those unused to Gilneas and her silver shroud of mist and soggy weather. Birdsong and the swaying of boats, and the mastbells that chirped to one another above their flags of deep, old country blue and Alliance gold.
Western Air Marchesa, poorly named, twenty years-old and sporting deep bags beneath his eyes, cradled a mug of bitter coffee in his hand. Still hot. His father, who would have named him Nicholas if he’d been there and was happy to tell everyone that was the case, sat beside him.
They did not look overly similar, at first glance. Westy was tall and trim, with rust-coloured hair and pale blue eyes, and an easy smile that he liked to share. He wore his armour with the confidence befitting a man his age, and shared his sword and heart with the world like a poet. How rare it was for him to sit in silence with shaking hands, the ghosts of the day before lurking just behind his eyes.
His father was shorter, and broader about the shoulder. Dark hair had begun sporting grey about the temples just a few years ago, threatening to creep into the mustache kept tidy above his upper lip. He had blue eyes too, once, before the curse took hold of him. A common link between all the Karfrost children, bent and broken long ago. His son looked like his father, Lane noted, more than he looked like himself.
The smell of smoke still clung to Westy’s skin and clothes, mingled with sweat and blood and soap that desperately tried to overpower them all. He’d scrubbed until his skin was red and the water ran out, plagued by the desperate whines of Marcus Ironshield’s worgen in his head.
A mother watching her children. He could see the memories of them so clearly when he closed his eyes. He could see her grief when the youngest was lost in the Cataclysm. The funeral, the rain, the struggle to put things back together. He watched her, in a flash of all her moments jumbled into an instant, throw herself into caring for her oldest. He saw her pride, her tired smile. A modest home to grow up and grow old in. He saw the scrap metal grafted to her skin, infected, rusted, cruel. The cages and collars, and felt nothing but her hunger at beck and call.
And he heard, in the end, the sound of the bullet that laid her to rest.
Father and son sat silently together, tongues heavy in their mouths. They watched the soft glow of the sun creep up over the horizon, obscured by the grey veil of Gilnean weather. They watched the harbour begin to wake, and listened to the sounds of groggy chatter and the spark of a fire. Of a skillet. The whistle of a kettle. One put his hand on the other’s shoulder and left without a word; the half-hearted promise of a better day dead on Lane’s lips.
It was a mighty high drop from the cliffs into the churning waves. And it was a brutal storm blowing in from the south. Dark scud clouds hung low beneath the darkness that blanketed the coast. The winds were violent and bone-rattling, and every pelting raindrop on the skin felt like a whip's lash. Merlofyr's gore-red skirt clung, soaked, to her legs. Her hair stuck to her face and the nape of her neck. Her left arm ached in fingerprint pinpoints where her father's grip had bruised when he dragged her up here from the safety of the ship.
Hyllubd the Offal wasn't the world's most well-known pirate. But he was among the more ruthless. Blood seeped through the decks of his ship to the point that the red-stained boards oozed their rusty tinge back into stormwater that splashed onto them. His crew, the Whorling Poisoners, reveled in the sport of pillaging. It was all for Llymlaen, they said. For she fed on the fathoms of depravity with a gaping wave-toothed maw and tasted the blood that dripped into her waters with each life taken. She smiled, shark-like, with each. Hyllubd's Llymlaen was Merloefyr's Llymlaen, wrathful and cruel and bitter. It was her blessing the pirates sought.
It had been so easy for Merloefyr to swallow something kinder. When the Poisoners had taken the woman, Undgeim, in a raid, they'd stashed her below to starve. Her worth was as much as her ransom, and nothing more. Maybe if things got dicey, she could be a shield to protect Hyllubd or his wife from flying bullets. For months she'd been down there, taking the scraps Merloefyr brought. She'd taught the girl about a gentler Llymlaen. A goddess who loved the shore as she loved the depths; who embraced the coastal sun, salted winds, and the joy of life. Llymlaen chose no saints of butchery but of temperance, piety, and life's sanctity.
And the words had tasted so sweet, and that Llymlaen had settled in Merloefyr's heart. So she'd freed the woman in thanks. How simple it had been, then, to do the right thing. Naive girl, Merloefyr hadn't expected the Knights of the Barracuda to fall upon the ship. It was a bloodbath, half the crew dead and another third in shackles. Her betrayal laid bare, there was no one to defend her when Hyllubd seized her.
His form was but a shadow in the fog, a faceless behemoth. But the glimmer of his blades was unmistakable. A slow draw followed by a flash of movement and the sound of the swordpoint sinking into the ground saw the sword at Merloefyr's feet. Each blade bore half a quote by the pirate M'alesh, whose poetry was said to call the sirens in from the shoals.
'Sacrifice your heart to the sea...' this one read in whirling cursive. Merloefyr knew the other. '...And seize your fortune on the rising tides.'
"Pick it up," Hyllubd demanded. His voice was coarse and sharp. But Merloefyr followed his instruction, and her wet fingers curled around the cool metal hilt. She'd held these swords before. They were to be hers one day, he'd said. Probably not anymore.
As soon as it was in her hand, Hyllubd began to advance. Swinging his weapon, he forced his daughter back. Each meeting of the blades rattled up her arm. The sound of grating metal screeched and clattered over the pounding rain. Hyllubd's face was clear through the fog now. His yellowed teeth grit. His nostrils flared. Veins like worms bulged beneath his forehead. His black, bovine eyes were wide and bloodshot.
Merloefyr opened her mouth to plead, but her ascent had been full of screaming, howling like a desperate animal. Her fingernails were still bloody beneath from where she'd clawed her father's hand as he'd dragged her. When Merloefyr opened her mouth to plead now, only a broken crackle of breath arose.
Hyllubd reeled back, and the blow that came shook her teeth when Merloefyr caught it clumsily on the flat of her weapon. Bile rose in her throat and her stomach churned with terror now. Her heart thrummed faster, a pounding that deafened even the rain in her ears. Her heels just brushed the edge of the cliffs, and she couldn't lose any more ground without plunging into the blackened sea.
"I'm sorry!" Merloefyr choked. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please!" But Hyllubd did not hear, or he did not care.
The flash of metal signaled the raising of his sword. Too close to block, too quick to dodge. There was a feeling like ripping seams as it fell upon her, and warmth spread across her face. The rain in her eyes grew dark and opaque. The scent of iron filled the air.
Hyllubd reached forward then, almost gently, as Merloefyr blinked in shock. Her whole body shook and trembled, mouth agape as thick, dark, bloody rainwater trailed past her lips. It dripped onto her tongue. Hyllubd pried the sword out of her hand.
And then he pushed her. Pushed her so hard the wind left her chest and she found herself falling. One last, bloodied gasp, and Merloefyr plunged into the sea.
The forest groaned and creaked in the wind, foreshadowing the coming storm. The Gilnean, who was wrapped in bandages and dark leathers, sighed and glanced at the sky. He pulled up his hood and returned to his weary march through the Blackwald. Every step down the hill made him wince, the pain in his side threatening to bring forth his wolf. His foot slipped on a wet rock and he stepped down a little too hard causing him to grunt, his eyes flashed orange and teeth elongated. His form seemed to ripple; he took several deep breaths and leaned against a nearby tree. Opening a pouch on his hip he pulled out some Peacebloom, a simple herb to help with the pain, and chewed it slowly, he knew he needed to save his magic. His wounds could wait.
As his breath steadied, the fur receded and his eyes returned to their normal hue. He glared up toward the sky as the first drop of rain hit him square in the eye. He growled and pulled his cloak tight then resumed his slow march into the forest. The ground finally leveled out and patches of red started to appear on the forest floor. He was getting close. The next bend brought him to a glade where a gigantic tree crowned the forest. "Almost there," he grunted, "Tal'doren looks well enough after all this time." As he neared the tree, he could feel his emotions calm and some of his weariness melt away. The tree seemed to still have a soothing effect on his wolf.
His stride quickened as the tree eased his pain, he walked around the base of the tree towards the back and swiftly hobbled up a small hill. At the top he stopped and knelt down at a mound of earth, a marker stood at one end. He took a deep breath, the rain almost sensing what was to come started to fall harder, a soft chorus, a background to words of grief.
"Hello Lys," he choked, "We finally did it. We cleared the city, Gilneas is ours, we have a home again." He paused and took a shuddering breath, tears streaming down his face into his beard. "I don't know what happened to the others. Many fell, lost to battles, both physical and mental. I almost lost myself after you..." he paused to wipe the tears away. "After you fell I was lost, I missed my friend...I miss my friend." He continued on, pain in his voice, "I never thought we would be home, I never thought I'd be able to visit you again." He paused for a long time, the sky weeping as he was. “I hoped I would be able to choke up chunks of my own sins, tell you of all that transpired since that day. Now that I’m here I don’t know what to say except I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes and wept silently.
After some time he softly spoke again "I brought you a gift." He reached into his pack and pulled out a folded tabard with a rose on top. "The Hounds have all but disbanded, this is the last piece I could find of them and I felt it was right to bring it here to rest with you. It’s the only place I could think of that would be peaceful enough to ease the pain." He laid the tabard down and stuck the rose into the ground to the side of the grave. Whispering softly, he reached out and touched the rose, using what druidic magic he had left he asked it to grow. Moments later there was a large rose bush next to the grave, flowers of all colors blooming in the rain. "I haven't used the Gift in years, this is all I have left after the battle." Clutching his side the pain spiked, he couldn't hold the wolf back anymore. The change was swift, and with a growling voice he spoke, "I know I should take better care, I needed to save what magic I had left for your gift. Don't worry, I'll recover and return soon to tend the roses. I'm glad to be home." He paused as he struggled to choke out the words, "I wish you were here."
With a final deep breath he let out a howl, full of all the pain and rage and grief. As his voice gave out, he could hear throughout the forest, wolves were responding. Wide eyes looked around and his hands came to his face as he wept.
The greasiest bar this side of the Greymane Wall opens its doors in a new location: Gilneas itself! Come down to Stormglen and head inside the inn for questionable drinks and fatty food, or head down to the docks for a refereed round of hitting friends and strangers in the face with your bare hands.
What's better than a night of being drunk and disorderly in Gilneas? Lots of things! Lots of very normal, quiet things. But if you're feeling restless and looking for something to make you worse as a person, the doors will be open on the last Wednesday of every month!
Date: Wednesday, Jan 31st
Time: 8pm server to 11pm
Location: Stormglen, Gilneas
Who's Welcome: Anyone! Gilneas is lowbie friendly.
They met in a dream, the first time. A real dream, with his eyes closed and his hands beneath his head and one scarred ankle over one weak knee, and not the Dream itself. Two pairs of golden eyes watched each other from a distance of less than a foot; his opponent’s toothy jaws pointed downward. There was little need to speak but he did anyway, his own voice hoarse and foreign to him after minutes or hours or days of silence. However long Amelia said he’d been there.
“What do I do?”
The wolf said nothing.
“I can’t keep doing this.”
A breeze picked up between them, sweet and green and ripe with bursting orange dream fruit that hung fat and low from fleshy sprouts that shot up out of the ground and curled under the weight of their own propagation. The wolf’s nose flared at the scent.
He felt the urge to lunge at it with teeth of his own, and bite down into its neck and shake it, and taste its blood on his tongue and wear it like a red badge across his chin. He thought of his last fight, ended with a shot to his good leg, and felt the bile and rage boil inside him so hot it roused him from the dream entirely, and he was left with nothing but a bleary, unfocused look and the questioning eyes of the mage nearby.
The second time they met was in the waking Dream, that big green wide whorl of vast verdance, now singed and brown and orange at the edges, like a fraying autumn. It was beneath an arch of waxy vines, twisted together at their crown and sprouting flat, broad leaves, dark and veiny and turned toward the sun. Lane could count their pale undersides from beneath, and see the shadows of nosy beetles, like spectators, crawling along the tops.
The wolf spoke to him this time, and his voice was deep and resonant and indifferent. “You are not of my pack.”
“I am.” He heard himself protest, so meek compared to how he dreamed this would go. “I am, I am! I was bitten! I turned just like the rest of them!”
The wolf regarded him with unfamiliarity, worse than disdain, as if his struggles were not worth remembering. The clawing fear he had whenever he turned, and the deep, stomach-turning hunger that burned hot inside of him. The need to rip and tear and run and bite and gnaw like an animal. Worse than an animal, that existed to survive. He felt in him the need to kill, and had buried it so deep within him it only clawed its way out when there was no other choice.
And here, this monster of a dog, this great white beast with golden eyes that matched his, looked at him with the same disappointment mirrored in so many others. Abby for never marrying her. Kaerlic for not being Evain. Charlie for not being interested. Ellie for being happy she didn’t need him. Donna for being his father’s son.
“Then use it.” The wolf climbed to its feet, paws the size of Lane’s head, and turned to go. “Run with my children. Feel their joy and their fear and their hunger, and sing with them when the moons are in the sky. Feel the earth beneath my paws and smell it with my nose, and hear it with my ears and love it with my heart. Use my gift, or bother me not.”
“Wait.” His voice cracked. His gut turned. His feet felt as lead in the soft dark earth, unwilling to follow as the answer to his prayers padded away from him. “Please wait.”
And suddenly the leaves turned, their pale bellies folded to a rising wind and pushed a wave through Lane’s greying hair. The same colour as the sky with its fat clouds and rumble of distant thunder, and fat drops of rain that shattered like glass against his leathers.
“Please.” He begged, the wolf well out of sight. “I don’t know what to do.”
He never was afraid of bugs. They crawled over his boots, all powder brown and copper green, reflecting the warm glow of sun filtered through the thick canopy overhead. A pair of pearlescent wings unfurled and flicked faster than his eye could follow, testing their strength before their owner, a beetle nearly the size of his hand, took to the air.
The bugs weren’t afraid of him either. Sets of legs and probing antennae tested the integrity of his armor, looking for cracks and folds and places where he may have hidden a good cool place, or food, or rot. Golden eyes watched them with mild interest, flicking ones away that got too close to getting under his clothes or into his boots, and the rest were allowed to march and poke and prod in relative, simple-minded peace. They wouldn’t find what they were looking for, not on Lane. That rot was buried too far within.
–
A wolf’s canines can grow to nearly three inches. A warg can easily double that. Their lips curled back, pink tongues licking at snow white. Frosted peaks on dark mountains. Snarls and howls from the back of their throats, heads down, eyes shining like the moon in that deep forest blackness.
All Lane had was a knife.
It was older and decently well kept, though the little ruby that once sat on the hilt was long gone, and its original leather grip wrapped and re-wrapped several times over. A sentimental thing, still sharp, and sat in his hand with the ease of a painter and a brush. Red was its only colour, and skin and muscle its canvas.
The druid beneath him, their skin charred and cracked with flame, scrapped and pulled at his armor in fervent desperation, leaving black marks behind on the leather. A wide mouth opened to protest; a garbled sigh escaping them. The release of suffering and the surprise of loss, soft despite the violence that preceded it. A hot hand trailed along his cheek; one final, whimpering strike. Lane tilted his head away and twisted the knife, letting the body jerk beneath him until that hand fell limp into the grass.
Where were those teeth, flashed like a warning before a strike? He pulled the blade from his quarry and painted their robe with red, pausing before sliding it back into its sheath. The light caught it there, silver and gleaming; a sliver of moonlight in the darkness, like a fang.
The Emerald Dream was the bottom of a well. He could have been ten and staring into it, grubby hands flat against grey stone, willing his then-blue eyes to adjust to a deep darkness he was sure held some sort of mystery in its depths. Water echoing like blood through veins. A pebble thrown in to hear the splash at the bottom, and to guess how deep it really was. The itching urge to jump, to climb, to simply lower oneself down in a bucket and touch what could not be seen.
Lane didn’t have the magic in him to be druid, no matter how much he wished it were so. His father didn’t either, but that didn’t stop Lord Karfrost from looking to his two eldest sons with some disappointment. Lady Karfrost was a Harvest Witch, a real one, brought into the family to upkeep a dying tradition. Her husband couldn’t will a plant to grow any more than he could force the sky to rain. Neither could his brothers, who all died off before he succeeded his father anyway.
He remembered the stinging of his palms as they were slapped with every correct incantation, every flower that failed to bloom, every warmth they failed to feel radiating from within him. Leave them alone, Nicholas. His mother would plead, quiet, tired. You can’t see what isn’t there.
A sea of green spread out before him in whorls of darker shades; two sides of each blade of grass. The tops and bottoms of leaves turning of their own accord to seem pleasant and charming, tickling the bowls of little flower blooms that hung distended in the air, as if frozen, breathing, laughing, drawing in honey bees and birds with their yellow pollen and spring-summer scents. Thick tree trunks breathed beside their spindly counterparts, gnarled branches hanging low with fat fruit and adorned with nests and birds the way one might clasp a fine chain around a slender neck.
And the air was so clear. It was entirely new; untouched by those except its caretakers, many of them green themselves. The smell of streams and rocks and good earth curled up around his dew-covered boots. Stay, stay, stay.
Lane brought a hand to his eyes, golden now and weary, and gave himself a moment just to breathe.
gummygunk
pixelskylines
dededos
izzy806
jacobvanloon
ellievsbear
jbbartram-illu
