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 heâd 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 Westyâs skin and clothes, mingled with sweat and blood and soap that desperately tried to overpower them all. Heâd scrubbed until his skin was red and the water ran out, plagued by the desperate whines of Marcus Ironshieldâs 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 otherâs shoulder and left without a word; the half-hearted promise of a better day dead on Laneâs lips.
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.
The ship rocked as it cut through the swells, the salt air and sound of gulls brought back familiar memories, ones that would have made Blair smile in the past.
The sound of heavy boots stomped up behind him as a gruff voice croaked, âSuffer well, brother.â Blair glanced over his shoulder and grinned, a reflex from life that still persisted. âHello Jorg, I would be careful saying that to any other Ebon Blade, they would gut you where you stood, or tell you their story, whichever turns you pale faster.â The other Gilnean grinned, his teeth sharper than normal humans, âIâd like to see them try.â
Blair shook his head and turned back to the ocean, watching the familiar coastline sail past. Jorg joined him at the railing and spat over the edge. âI never thought we would come home.â Blair chewed on his thoughts before responding. âI never thought I would be welcome home,â his glowing ice blue eyes narrowed, âI shouldnât be welcome home.â The word turned to ash in his mouth. He shook his head and watched as they neared the harbor where he spent much of his youth.
Side by side, Rhiannon and her teacher sat at the base of an ever-autumnal tree with their backs pressed to the trunk. She was small then, maybe thirteen or fourteen. She was freckled and fawn, red at the cheeks from exertion and sunlight. A wild fluff of red hair all but swallowed the girl within it. Her teacher, Master Aspenbreeze, was more austere, with hawkish grey eyes and hair cropped perfectly at her chin. She buried her thumbs deep into the center of an orange, splitting it in twain down the middle.Â
The forest was quiet around them, the world falling into sacred silence save the soft song of breeze through the leaves. The forest floor shimmered, sunlight dappling through the canopy. It smelled like orange juice and leaf rot. It had been a fine- but arduous -morning time. The sort that draws the energy from your bones before noon even approaches.
"You're struggling with that," Aspenbreeze said. Orange juice dribbled down her russet palm until she wiped it onto her shirt, and she handed the messy half to Rhiannon to peel apart.Â
"I am," Rhiannon replied. She picked a seed from the flesh of her orange and peeled that slice from the rest to set on her tongue. A dull soreness in her shoulders demanded her attention, and the girl rolled them against the tree's bark with a muffled groan.
"Peregrine is helping, isn't she?" Aspenbreeze's ensuing smile was dry and knowing, barely concealed by a bite of her orange. Rhiannon balked, eyes wide and lips parted in scorn, umbrage, or perhaps the bastard of both. Peregrine was the oldest of the Thornspeaker children. She was seventeen, yet the gods had graced her with the knowledge of someone several thousand times that. Everyone remembered when she was named something different, but it didn't matter anymore, for Peregrine was as fitting for her as her own skin was.
"No! Why would she help? She's too busy telling me what I did wrong."
"Ah," Aspenbreeze answered. "So... What did she say?"
"That I jump like a lame goose and fly like I'm looking for a nice rock face to crash into."
Laughter. Immediate laughter broke free of Aspenbreeze despite how she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Her shoulders shook and her back hunched. All Rhiannon could do was watch. Heat spread across the girl's face to the very tips of her ears, and her shoulders slumped.
"It's not funny, it was mean!" Rhiannon protested. She sulked in her place, orange still nestled in her cupped hand. Aspenbreeze straightened, clearing her throat and doing her best to still the ripplings of laughter that stirred in her voice. She turned her gaze to her charge and pressed her head against the bark.
"Forgive me. Why do you think Peregrine would do that?"
The girl took a big breath. To buy herself time, to work up her courage. "She just!" she started. "She just thinks she's so much better and smarter just because she's older. But she's not. She's just mean!"
"Or," Aspenbreeze began. "Because she knows better than you."
That quieted Rhiannon quite thoroughly. The girl shoved another whole slice of her orange into her mouth and averted her eyes.
"Peregrine's words were harsh, of course. She's got a tongue made of points and edges. But she made time to help you, didn't she? And she brought you ice when you landed because your shoulders were sore from your form. She practiced with you all morning until you were doing it safely. And she did not have to. If she delighted in being mean, she would've watched you flounder. She would've done nothing." A beat passed. A breath. The trees had time to sway just once. "Her words are sharp, but if she hates you so much, why are her actions soft?"
"Some people are just mean, Mama."
"Some people are. But Peregrine isn't one of them."
The juice ran down Rhiannon's palm.
 Suddenly, she was twenty-six, and the world no longer smelled like leaf rot and oranges. It smelled of the crispness of the mountain air, copper, and brimstone. It was the middle of the night, with all the stars in the sky hiding behind the clouds above the craggy, unforgiving slope. Ezenagi's cave loomed, far to Rhiannon's right. Yawning and shadowy, like a gaping maw ready to devour trespassers between stalactite teeth.Â
He'd set her up a little white tent, bare of frills or comforts. A bedroll upon the stones was all he'd afforded her, though it was clearly out of ignorance rather than malice. For as bare as the tent was on the inside, his home had been barer still. Money, more than Rhiannon could imagine ever having or needing, piled up in the middle of the cave... And nothing more.Â
"I'm a good skinner," she'd told him. "I could get you something soft to sleep on."
He'd scoffed, as was his way. He was thirty years old yet blessed with the knowledge of thousands of years more. Dragons don't need beds, and the Blade's Edge was so much hotter anyway, and it was more comfortable than that. And, and, and.Â
And he didn't need her help.
And he wasn't her friend.
And he hovered at her side when they were in group company. It would've been quite offensive to point this out, of course.Â
And he'd set up the tent outside with hands too small for his preference, doing work that was frustrating at its most favorable, paces from where he slept.
And he demanded she aid him in finding somewhere new in Gilneas. It was a venture, he'd said- just business, after all. There'd be time to relax once the work was done, a foothold established, and allies made. He'd never ask, of course. It was a demand.
And there'd be sleep to be had when she was done filling the tent with things he'd forgotten. So Rhiannon brought water, warmth, and a book to read by spell light. She only needed enough for the night. It'd be rude not to stay in the accommodations offered, even if she only stayed for tonight. And then every now and again.
She'd brought her pelts, collected over the years. Bears, beavers, wolves. Warm creatures who had served her well. More than she needed, for a small tent like this... She looked from her work to the cave's mouth. Nothing had stirred. That was good.Â
Rhiannon bundled the skins up. Her hands sunk into the fur, hugging the soft pile close to her frame as she stood. The slope was steep, the ground was loose, and she skidded sideways every few steps she took. But she made it to the cave's edge.
There was no sound. For a moment, she thought differently about leaving the skins. He'd said he was fine, after all.
If he was upset by it, he'd just give them back. Surely. And they'd never mention it ever again. And she'd wear the pelts in the Gilnean winter and they'd keep her warm for years more. No harm, no foul.Â
Rhiannon dropped her burden upon the stone floor. The ensuing FWUMP echoed back at her, just quietly, and she froze. Her heart jumped in her chest as if she was sixteen and being caught in an act of petty rebellion. But there was naught but quiet, and the sound of her blood rushing in her ears.
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