The lawyer is a human with a thick Westfall accent. As he approached the stand, he places his reading glasses strategically as not to frighten the doe-eyed girl. The courtroom is abuzz-- it's hard to distinguish between thoughts and idle chatter from the pews. What follows are the stenographer’s notes, translated:
"Hello, Mrs. Mournvalor. Now, I promise, I won't take too much a' your time. Would you please tell us 'bout ch'your relationship to the de-ceased?"
“Yes, ah… We were work acquaintances–though our circles didn’t cross too often. He worked in investigations.”
"Are you currently em-ployed? What was your last place of employ-ment?"
“No, sir. Not since my wedding, sir… I worked for the city as a correctional counselor before that. Augur’s Row division.”
"Now, Mrs. Mournvalor, can you tell us about ch'your husband? What is he like?"
“Zelion? Oh, he’s… he’s a quiet man. Pensive, a little sad… but a man of clear values and a strong sense of justice.”
"Do you recall the de-ceased meetin' with ch'your husband?"
“Yes, he trained under Zelion’s father as a squire for years. As I understand it, their families were quite close.”
"What about the night of August 14th, Year 631-- that's year 38 for you elves-- do you recall the de-ceased comin' to make y'all a visit that night?"
“...Yes.”
"Could you tell me how you were dressed that evenin'? How 'bout ch'your husband and the de-ceased?"
“It was late… I was already in my bedclothes. Zelion had been up working–he was in his shirtsleeves and lab apron when Larin–the deceased–arrived in uniform. Well, partial uniform.”
"Do you recall either of them two men actin' strangely or errat'cly?"
“Larin, he… he was pounding on the door and shouting… He’d been drinking. I… I couldn’t understand a word he was screaming, his speech was so slurred–”
"They say that ch'you can hear the thoughts a' men. Can you tell me what was on the de-ceased's mind that night?"
“He… he was so intoxicated, it’s hard to say. He was angry. Something about interference in a case? His badge? I… I’m sorry, it was all a blur–”
"What 'bout ch'your husband's?"
“... to protect me. Protect our home. He hadn’t done anything wrong–”
"Mrs. Mournvalor, do you believe your husband is the type of man who could take a life?"
“...yes, but–!”
"I rest my case.”
---
@daily-writing-challenge
thank you @comorbid-insomnia for the "interview"!
A scene set prior to the fall of Dalaran (because I can't let go of "The Big Floater" yet) in which Thilonus Sunvale is surprised by an inheritence.
CW: Implied/suggested SA
“Dearly beloved–”
Life always had a funny way of surprising Thilonus.
“--we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Lanthos Goldream–”
Now death was too.
“--beloved artist, musician, and businessman–”
Prior to the missive arriving at the inn in Stormwind, Thil hadn’t given the bastard much thought in years; a fact that may have been a shade unfair. The old sod had taught Thil everything he knew about the harp and violin, having him run scales until his fingers bled and eventually hardened to calloused tips. More than just music, he tutored the young bard in how to read, write, dance, dress–everything he would need to know to please Lord Allistine Sunspear.
“--those closest to him assure he died as he lived–”
Lanthos had always been sparing with both praise and affection, but the day he left the estate for Dalaran still stung as a betrayal. Even now, standing in the small, somber collection of souls at the memorial, Thil’s stomach sank and soured.
“--Happy.”
Good riddance.
The ceremony itself was brief with none but the doddering pastor speaking before the scattering of ashes and the congregation of roughly a dozen vacated the floating ceremonial site for a somber but far from dry reception at the Ledgermaine.
“Mister Sunvale?”
“Thil–” the correction came naturally as he turned on his heel to meet the dour expression of an aged, human man in a bowler hat. He wore a well-tailored three piece suit, a far cry better than the bard’s jacket and slacks in mismatched shades of black and a pilfered linen napkin worn as a makeshift cravat.
“Mister Stoke,” the man didn’t miss a beat as he lifted the brim of his hat in greeting. “Sir Goldream’s lawyer.”
Sir! Thil couldn’t stop the derisive snort from exiting his nose. How long did he have to suck Allistine’s dick for that…?
“Ahum,” Thil corrected as he noticed the man awaiting a handshake. The grip was firm, the motion practiced. “Pleasure–”
“You’ll be joining us for the reading of the will, correct?”
The ‘us’ appeared to be Mister Stoke and two others lingering behind him with wary eyes placed on Thil’s copper head. One, an older woman dressed too fashionably for the silver streaks in her blue dyed hair and the other a soft-cheeked half-elf fellow with chestnut curls and the unmistakable, deep-set eyes and aquiline nose of the deceased.
Thil’s stomach heaved.
“I–will?”
“Very good, if you’ll follow me.”
➽──────────────❥
Mister Stoke’s office spoke of an unimaginative man out of his depths in the floating city. The frames on the wood paneled walls only contained his credentials and every piece of furniture, no matter how fine, was a shade of brown. Two high back, leather chairs were set in front of his desk, with his own more modest and on a swivel. They were immediately occupied, leaving Thil to linger in the rear of the room near a chrome plated drinks cart.
“To my son, Keathen–”
Son, huh? Thil looked up from the whisky decanter he was turning about on the cart, half-listening as Mister Stoke read the will aloud. Not like Lanthos hadn’t enjoyed the company of women as well, but the implied accountability was a surprise!
“--who never learned to love the little things in life–”
Thil pursed his lips against a laugh as the fellow in the leftward chair clenched its arm until the leather squeaked.
“--I leave my curio cabinet of crystal miniatures, my silver piccolo, and my three volume set of rude limericks.”
The decanter top popping loose sounded like a gunshot in the resulting silence.
“To Madame Kit–”
“--hold on!” Keathen’s crest of curls rose above the back of the chair as he motioned to stand with shoulders taut and a finger raised and itching to point. “This can’t be–”
“Please, Mister Summerchild–”
Not son enough for the surname, eh? Thil mused as he helped himself to two fingers of the lawyer’s whisky.
“--I’m prepared to answer all questions after the reading,” Mister Stoke assured, notso much as to be soothing, but to attest that he knew there would be all manner of questions to come. It was enough to see Keathen easing uncertainly back into his chair.
“To Madame Kitty Vulture, the, ahem–” the lawyer adjusted his glasses, his lips forming an uncomfortable line beneath his spruce mustache. “--the sweetest, sultriest sow to step off the street corner–”
An amused chortle rasped from the other chair along with a plume of smoke off the cigarillo the lady had been nursing since they arrived.
“Ever the gentleman,” she said in a tone that walked the line between a snarl and a purr.
Thil wrinkled his nose.
“--I leave the continued care and management of all my business assets, liabilities and equities. Your usual stipend will continue to be paid, ad infinitum, until the day you perish or run away with the man of your dreams.”
A witchy cackle erupted from the chair.
“--and to my star pupil Thilonus–”
Mister Stoke looked up briefly from the written will, the two turning in their chairs to stare the bard down mid-sip.
“...presuming he could be bothered to come pay respects to the man who made him–”
Thil’s hand tightened on the glass.
Well, he had, hadn’t he? And now he was in this room with a lawyer and two well dressed strangers putting the affairs of the old bastard in order. The old bastard who left him behind. Was it pity or perfunctory to even include him in the will?
“--I leave proprietorship of my business in Dalaran, my home and holdings, my fortune and the harp you trained on. My one wish is that you will make the most of it.”
The whisky glass hit the carpet with an anticlimactic thud.
“The fuck--”
“Language, young man~”
“Don’t start with me, you old hag–!”
The mounting argument drifted miles and years away as Thil’s head swam with hair of the dog and blossoming memories long buried.
“...Mister Sunvale?”
He was uncertain if he remembered to excuse himself, but he stumbled from the cramped office to an even smaller water closet. He braced himself white knuckle against the sink as he heaved.
The man who made him!
The man who had stood with a sullen but severe expression as Thilonus, after scrubbing himself until the tub went cold, still felt unclean.
”Chin up, my boy, lest you displease his Lordship the next time he calls upon you.”
And he would call. Again and again…
Thil rinsed his mouth with water from the tap before bracing his hands once more on the basin until the trembling stopped. His reflection stared back at him: hair mussed, cravat crooked and eyes rimmed in red. No performer’s poise, no courtly grace, just a man shaped for someone else’s comfort, never his own.
“Chin up,” he murmured.
All things considered, for a location in the Twisting Nether, the offices of Agatha, Virila & Gaff were appointed for mortal taste.
The waiting room consisted of four bland, ecru walls and no windows opening onto the violent, violet hellscape outside. Instead, the views were prints of the seaside, the mountains, and the rolling plains of somewhere entirely boring.
The secretary’s desk was a mess of cheery trinkets and baubles, as was the secretary: a rubinesque sayaad with glittery, catseye glasses on a pink beaded chain. She blew acidic green bubbles with her gum. The snap of it pierced the ear once every fifteen seconds exactly.
The coffee machine had an “Out of Order” sign taped to it and the water cooler only dispensed boiling brine.
The faux leather chairs grunted when you moved, and the only magazines on the coffee table detailed advances in dentistry.
Truly, this was hell.
“Miss Mourningvale?” a small, rasping voice greeted from the foot of the door marked Gaff. The imp adjusted his glasses, looking up from his clipboard to the lone mortal, a red-headed elf, perched on the edge of her seat, lest she make it squeak like a clown twisting balloon animals. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Kallarel Mourningvale rose abruptly and screwed a tight smile onto her ruby lips. An hour and forty-three minutes–!
“Right this way.”
Mister Gaff’s office was cluttered and claustrophobic. Towers of files threatened to avalanche down in a storm of paper and red tape. His desk fared no better; massive for the size of the room with every surface covered in parchment, log books and cigarette butts. It reeked of burnt tobacco and sulfur. He gestured to yet another squeaky leather chair before scrabbling up a stack of resumes that boosted his seat.
“Now then–” he cleared his throat with a phlegmy cough and wheezed for the climb before regaining enough composure to lace his gnarled digits and stare at her severely over his glasses. “--why couldn’t this have been a scrying message?”
Kallarel’s eyebrow twitched.
“I broke my scrying mirror.”
“Bad luck, that,” Gaff huffed, unconvinced. “Though, it is our most scenic season.”
Unlike the waiting room, Gaff’s office did contain a window overlooking a black rock chasm that dropped to an indigo abyss, roiling with demonic souls. Green flashes of furious eyes and screaming mouths winked in the darkness.
“Wouldn’t dare miss the leaves changing,” Kallarel replied flatly, crossing her legs with a sharp protest from her chair.
“Quite…” the imp snorted, seizing a pen and leafing through a pile on his desk. “Rotten bit of luck what happened in Silvermoon–”
Her chair squeaked in protest.
“--Nimxia gave a full report. Well, we extracted one, really–”
He found the form he had been searching for, airing it out with a flourish to smooth it atop the messy pile. “--doubtless, a hundred years from now, when she coalesces fully, she’ll wish to have words with you.”
“She knew the risks.”
“Yes, but apparently, she didn’t know about the explosives–”
Kallarel’s chair wheezed. “She logged the purchase herself and you are more than welcome to search the ashes for the receipt, if you like.”
Gaff pinched the bridge of his needle-like nose. “Miss Mourningvale, I understand my infernal kin are damned to forever return, but the process takes time and resources. Nim was the sixth to go this way under your employ–”
“None of which was my fault,” the elf insisted. “J’huun guarded me as instructed and Ignip… well, I can’t be held responsible for my neighbor’s cat–”
“What I’m saying, Miss Mourningvale, is that it’s a worrying trend,” Gaff frowned. “Peace time means we’re short fresh souls and taking another risk on staffing one of your… ‘incidents’ is economically unwise.”
“So then you have no intention of hiring out demons to me?”
“Correct.”
Kallarel inhaled sharply through her nose despite the odor and counted back from ten.
“...why the form then?”
“Oh, this?” Gaff turned the paperwork around for her inspection. The ink flared a volatile green, highlighting the keywords of infernal: a Patriar Contract.
Her chair hissed.
The bare ridges of Mister Gaff’s brow rose above his glasses and a vague smirk coiled the corner of his mouth, baring yellow teeth. “--seeing as you’ve found yourself so recently bereft.”
Word spreads fast through the hellfire.
“Not interested.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Mourningvale! Surely the conventional path to the Nether wasn’t your first choice? And besides–” Gaff laughed and adjusted his glasses. “How, exactly, do you intend to keep the respect of a demonic staff without even a flicker of power in you?”
How indeed?
When the malice of Narral’thix boiled in her chest, Mister Gaff had been much more punctual, for starters.
But now her heart was full and her life uninterrupted by the need to slake a mad satyr’s thirst for blood. The bad deal turned possessive stalemate ended in what they both wanted: freedom–
Her thumbs prickled.
–surely.
“Thank you for your time, Mister Gaff,” Kallarel rose from her chair with a huff, gathering her purse.
And then the world erupted in a stuttering cloud of charcoal.
The door flung wide, the view of the waiting room blotted out by the impossibly broad chest of a towering felguard, the jutting red knife cresting his head too tall to fit in the narrow view.
“Mistah Gaaaaaff!” the secretary bleated from behind the wall of a demon in a voice so nasal it was offensive. “He just chahged on in heyah! I tried ta stop ‘im–”
“S-s-sorry, Mister Gaff,” the felguard rumbled, ducking his head into view. As he crouched, it became apparent that he wore a ludicrous, tropical green shirt with the collar popped, but the buttons were no match for the breadth of his breast. A white streak of sunscreen painted his nose and smudged the lenses of the petite pair of readers sitting lopsided on his face. In his massive hands was a soggy take-out bag and a paper cup of what was, presumably, coffee. “The line was l-long and there was a… a fire! Yeah, a big one! And, uh--”
He adjusted his glasses, spilling from the cup down the front of his shirt in the process. The virulent green “coffee” burned an extra button hole. “--who’s the puny elf?”
A singular brow shot so high it hid beneath Kallarel’s bangs.
“--shit, did it need coffee too?!”
“The puny elf–Miss Mourningvale here is–” Mister Gaff paused his spluttering when he recognized the rosy opportunity. “--your new employer, effective immediately.”
“My what?” the felguard blinked.
“His what?” Kallarel balked, sweeping her gaze up and down the monstrously sized and dressed demon, her expression nothing short of withering. Oafish! Outlandish! Where would she even keep him?
“B-b-but, my vacation?!” the felguard huffed like a reactionary schoolgirl. “You promised once I got you coffee–!”
“Should have gotten it in writing…” Kallarel snorted.
Akra rumbled in demonic and stamped his heavy feet. Despite the fel iron plating fused to his skin, he had managed to find a pair of slides to match his shirt, the flip and flop of which was thunderous in their slaps on the floorboards. Each stomp jostled the copious piles of paperwork, threatening an avalanche.
The elf wrinkled her nose.
“Akraferil is… a little rough around the edges,” the imp explained. “But given your line of work, Miss Mourningvale, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by his skill sets.”
“Well, if I needed a petulant babysitter…”
“Beggar’s can’t be choosers, Miss Mourningvale. Bryola--?”
The secretary straightened in the doorway.
“--prepare Akra for departure.”
“Surah thing, Mistah Gaff. C’mon, sweetie--” she huffed and grunted as she dragged the fussing felguard out of the room, shutting the door with care. The light gust of wind was the final straw for the tower of files by the window. They fanned out in a landslide around Kallarel’s stiletto heels, upon which she remained remarkably balanced.
“Is this where I thank you or you thank me?” she tutted humorlessly.
“Lets just call it even, shall we?” Mister Gaff retorted as he hopped down to the trash bin beside his imperious desk. He rifled about before withdrawing a file folders, flecked with take out rice and brimstone ash, and offered it up to Kallarel. “Here’s his priors and particulars.”
Miss Mourningvale grimaced at the sogginess of some of the pages as she flipped through. “I’ll be off to draw the circle then. Before five o’clock if you please, I have an important dinner obligation.”
“We are nothing if not punctual.”
Kallarel snorted.
“Oh, and Miss Mourningvale?”
She turned from the door to find Mister Gaff beside her with a sly smile and the Patriar Contract in hand. “Take it. No obligation, of course, just in case you change your mind…”
Kallarel stared the contract down before pinching it between two fingers, as if it might bite. The fiery green writing winked fiendishly.
@daily-writing-challenge
DWC Day 3 gaze/linger (This Is Why We Don't Trust Taxidermy)
Gilneas - 17 years ago
The floorboards creaked in an otherwise silent house as Lizzie brought the final piece to the altar: a wooden deer head candlestick, with wax bleeding from a single eye.
She made the altar beautiful, just as her mother taught her. Poppy and corn cockle made for striking flowers, with their dressy, vibrant petals. Yellow rattle looked funny in comparison, with its many heads poking out from spiked leaves, like little baby bird beaks. Bluebells were her favorite-- it was said faeries rung then to summon their gatherings, and if a human could hear the chimes, they would be lost in the woods forever.
She placed the bouquet behind the candlestick and kneeled, hands folded in her lap and head bowed in prayer.
Every night, she lit the candle, just as her mother taught her. She didn't know what it did-- only that on nights when she forgot, something lingered outside until dawn.
She could feel its gaze through the glass, steady and unblinking.
On the outskirts of town, magic permeated the air. Rumors floated about; a shambling, fleshless undead was said to have been spotted two miles south of the Emberstone mine; a wolfman with a ravenous appetite in the Northgate Woods; and a swamp creature lurked Blackwald Bogs, waiting for their next catch.
Many dismissed the rumors as hearsay. The Gilneas wall was impenetrable, they said.
Lizzie was not among them. She'd seen the cracks in the wall and knew of the bodies buried underneath. She knew the pain the land felt when it was split, with parents and pups divided, and not enough harvest remaining for hungry mouths, human or otherwise. She knew of Crater, and the wayward students cast out from there, driven bitter and lonely with madness.
The matchstick seared in the dark. She held it to the candle. When she drew back, the wick was naked.
She held the match to the candle again, until the flames stung her fingertips. The light was snuffed on the fleece blanket below the altar.
The candle remained unlit.
Her breath caught in her lungs. Fear was a cold rock sinking in the pit of her stomach.
She struck another match.
Nothing happened. The wick remained pristine white.
This time when she struck the match, she saw it-- eyes in the darkness outside her window, locked on her.
She yelped, flames licking blisters on the tip of her fingers.
The deer head candlestick looked up at her mockingly.
Her heart raced.
Vines creeped in beneath the window, slithering like snakes. Slowly, the window cracked open, guided by grimy fingers.
The creature was big and shaggy, except for its man-like torso. Beady eyes peeked out from a boar’s head.
A trembling hand scooped the deer effigy off the altar.
“Fuck you!” she screamed, throwing it at the monster. “Don't come any closer! I won't let you hurt my family!”
The creature tilted its head, observing her curiously.
Dawn bled in through the curtains, but Lizzie hadn’t slept.
Her father had burst in, but the candlestick was gone, and so was the thing that had taken it. He found his daughter sobbing in the corner of the room, curled up in the fetal position.
He carried her back to his bed and brushed the hair out of her face, but she wouldn't say what had happened.
She didn't tell anyone-- fear sealed her lips, and deep inside a quiet promise formed: next time, she'd be ready.
And she’d never trust that fucking deer head again-- not after what it let in.
@daily-writing-challenge
Notes:
I was really excited to try this piece. I challenged myself to write a very emotional scene, something I don't feel I often set out to do. I hope the feelings are palpable.
The boat was long and narrow with a knife-like bow cutting the water. The sail bore his family crest: a red rose against a black banner. The deck was crowded with aristocrats and heads of state.
Someone pushed him.
The water welcomed him. The view of the boat receded quickly, its noise and ceremony fading. It felt good to be alone.
The image of his father looming at the rail-- arms crossed, expression like stone-- was the last thing to fade from view.
I should swim up, he thought, and out of obligation he moved his arms. The surface grew no closer.
A tendril coiled around his ankle. The water grew cold and inky black. Air bubbles fled his lungs.
I should panic, he thought, but mustered nothing but curiosity for the depths below.
It felt good to be alone.
When sunlight filtered through the skylight above his bed, he rose and poured himself a cup of bitter black coffee.
It had been a while since he had that dream. Years, in fact. He wasn't one for tea leaves or tarot cards, but there was no denying that things happened that he didn't understand. Waking anxiety could always bleed into the sleeping realm.
But he hadn’t felt fear in the dream.
He remembered the cold. And how good it felt to disappear.
@daily-writing-challenge
Inspired by the sentence "he was never the most graceful swimmer" but I really couldn't fit it in the end.
someone on twitter is trying to claim that use of an em-dash is an indication of AI-generated writing because it’s “relatively rare” for actual humans to use it. skill issue
It was a matter of time before Kallarel discovered Bruce's dark, dirty secret.
At first it was easy to hide. There was so much to do-- so much furniture to craft.
Arcane was like a frost in Dalaran. The Element of Order permeated organic material, making oak stiff and unworkable. Everything had to be imported to the floating City, and it was no small secret that one wood resisted Arcane better than all others: the driftwood-like gray slabs from the Felwood Forest.
But Felwood Forest was the territory of satyrs and demons. A portal master was easy enough to befriend and bribe, but a logger proved difficult to hire.
Until he mentioned it to Kallarel, who waved a hand dismissively. Her contacts proved more exorbitant than originally anticipated-- something about a broken contract-- but a few violet crystals from storage hired the services of a Felguard for a week.
He tried not to think about the sweat-soaked basement where trusting men spilled their blood upon a scarred stone altar.
The wood was soft, so he painted it with resin until it took on a warm, reddish hue and shined it with varnish. It was easy to preserve the contours of wood for their bedframe, which he decorated with intricate filigrees and a luxurious crimson canopy, but lockboxes for the jewelry store and cabinets for their kitchen required composite.
The work was often tedious and repetitive, but satisfying and creative to assemble.
After a few months, only one project remained: the one which would reveal his darkest secret when finished.
It was far from the first bookshelf he ever made. The longest felwood pieces would become the sides of the case. A composite was suitable for the rear. Three shelves became six, divided by a vertical panel down the center, under which he placed a filler piece to act as a support and prevent sagging when it was full. When the varnish dried, it was time.
He unpacked the books from her home first, stalling for time, but then--
He checked his Thalassian dictionary three times in disbelief.
Dalore Rio’more. Translated to common: Star Lovers. A story, he gleaned, about the forbidden romance between a night elf and a high elf.The spine was well-worn. His heart thrummed.
Baal Lodan’o. Translation: Pact of My Passion. She was a purveyor of the occult, the back of the book read; he, a dastardly rogue with a warrant for his arrest.
The third novel he went to place on the shelf: a simple Thalassian translation of the Steamy Romance Novel series. Of Elven Bondage.
His dark, dirty secret withered away.
Suddenly his favorite series of smutty pirate novels seemed not so out of place in their new home.
He shook the memory from his head and threw open wide the door.
He always hoped she would visit his workshop.
Mess that it was!
She arrived at his mansion in the remote mountains of the Plaguelands a month prior, moon-eyed and on stilt-like legs with a sungrass joint tucked behind her ear.
She was a bit stiff, at first, but he was accustomed to that; his family was, after all, enormously wealthy and powerful even among their fellow Sin’dorei.
Or at least Corwin Bloodrose Senior was.
The facade was easy enough to crack. When he couldn't recall the honorific the Mournvalor family title demanded, he took to using several-- and the first of many inside jokes was born. After a few bowls of Horde-e-o’s supped in his Observatory together and a night in which he schooled her in the basics of Hearthstone, the awkwardness of their first meeting melted away.
And awkward it had been. For a fleeting moment, as they sat across from one another at the dinner table, he was convinced she was sent to surveil his research-- his real research, not the Mournstone drivel he did for his father nor the hogwash he used as a distraction for the masses.
And she--
“I think I was sent here to die.”
He could feel it, like a beast lurking in the dark outside a frosted window pane. It began meager, plaintive like a cat demanding entry from the cold; then, the further his fingers trailed down her split bodice, the more fervid it became-- like claws scoring the arcane defenses of his mind.
But proof lay beneath the high neck and ruffles of her stately blouse: a Mournstone, as promised by the letters of Zelion and Corwin Bloodrose Senior.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, but it wasn't her husband's handiwork to which he referred.
It was a golden curl, painted warm by the nearby candle light.
“You have beautiful hair.”
Then-- “Sorry,” he professed for the inappropriate nature of his remark.
And, “Sorry,” she echoed with a wild stare as she slipped the knife into his gut.
How awkward! Until they shared a laugh as she tidied his weak attempt to mend the wound with Holy magic.
“Lady Dame Admiral Hesterlynn Mournvalor! First you stab me, then you apologize and heal me!”
Because she was right!
She was right to act in self defense. She was sent to him to die!
And he was to be her executioner.
“I really don't know how you feel about me at this point. You'd better stab me one more time for good measure!”
“How strange that you should take your time.”
He shook the thought from his head and threw open wide the door.
"Lady Dame Admiral Hesterlynn Mournvalor!” He ushered her into his shop, where a jazzy, swingy mix crackled on the gramophone.
An ugly bruise painted the bridge of his nose shades of violet and red, like a galaxy born of brute and malice. A bandage obscured the worst of it, acting as a stint and padding to the scratched glasses resting gingerly atop.
"I wanna show you something!”
He took her by the wrist and lead her through a narrow path, between tables scattered with gears; between a cooled blacksmith's furnace with a glass-blowing port and an anvil, draped with hooded leather gloves; over the spilled bits and teeth and the toolchest that had fallen; between hanging lights and lamps, all of which could be drawn closer on a gliding rail; and finally, in the rear of the shop beneath the shadow of a mechanized colossus, to an unassuming, messy desk scattered with books, a tobacco pipe laced with mana thistle, a faded photograph of two dark haired boys and their prized Hearthstone cards, and a dozen half-finished, hand-sized projects with dead lights and exposed copper wires.
Cory pushed up the slipping glasses on the bridge of his broken nose and plucked a wrist plate from the center of it all.
It was well past noon when Hesterlynn finally stirred.
Her head throbbed with each sluggish beat of her heart. She clutched the icy weight in her chest.
Where am I?
A bed, but not her own. The room was spartan, almost clinical, devoid of any decoration save an ornate vanity by the window, with curtains drawn shut against the red dusted sunlight of the Eastern Plaguelands. A silver tray held a cold tea service and a vase bursting with colorful wildflowers: violet dreamfoil, white peacebloom, crimson roses–
Zelion’s instructions had been simple: “You are to offer your assistance to Lord Bloodrose in whatever manner he sees fit.”
Hester willed the Light to the awful ache in her skull, and caught sight of her chipped manicure. Beneath her nails was dirt and shredded skin.
She lifted the dull linen sheets. The fabric of her dress was rife with wood splintered runs and ruined by dirt. A gorey spill of dried blood ran the length of her ruched bodice.
It was not her own.
She should have never gone to that party.
Lord Bloodrose had dressed outlandishly in ruffles, cogwheels and his workshop goggles. He requested she wear “something poofy”. She obliged in the form of a tea-length, robin’s egg frock. The billowing skirt was made of layer upon layer of airy chiffon. A demure neckline shrouded her secrets but exposed her pronounced collar bones and milk white shoulders.
The confessor stumbled from the bed, tripping over her ivory shoes. The right one was missing its low heel; the left had a rusty smudge over the toes.
She lurched to the vanity, gripping the edge of the woodwork as the world swam.
Her reflection was haggard but whole. Bruises circled both biceps and wrists like bracelets. Impossibly long blonde hair, free from its styled ties, fell in haggish curls peppered with wilted white flowers and matted with blood. Dark circles framed the candlelight glow of her eyes, dimmed and glassy.
She looked monstrous.
The cleric swallowed hard and tore off the damaged dress.
The diamond cut crystal embedded in her chest still slept in its nest of black veins.
Hester was quick to shroud the Mournstone in a cozy sweater; one long and shapeless on her willowy body that fell just above the knees. As she slid into a borrowed pair of house slippers, she inspected the punctures and tears in her ill-fated dress until her hand fell on a disc of cool metal.
"... As a bit of a thank-you for attending this lousy party with me."
A brooch forged in bronze and plated by gold. The detailed cast depicted a bouquet of flowers, unpainted, but remarkably detailed-- Plaguebloom, Arthas' Tears and dreamfoil, all with a backdrop of Sungrass stalks. On close inspection, each squared blossom spun as a cogwheel, parting the bouquet like a curtain to reveal a greater detail beneath.
"It's just what I thought of when I thought of you… I hope you like it."
To think that Hesterlynn Mournvalor was naught but a bouquet of pretty flowers was sure to be a mistake, or so Lord Bloodrose must have thought, for behind the bouquet was an intricate knife with a pearl handle and a blade of sharpened steel.
She pinned it to her sweater before bustling out of the bedroom and down the hall on legs still wobbly as a newborn fawn’s.
A saw hummed behind the double doors of his workshop. Hester sucked a sharp and desperate breath before wrapping her scraped knuckles on the woodwork.
Crash! Metal rang in the air. Lord Bloodrose swore loudly, then swung wide the door.
What a mess! Him, and the workshop too!
Tool chests lay opened, gaping like baby birds. Wires hung from the ceiling, thick black and coiled like snakes hanging from a tree. A mechanosuit stood vigil in the rear, headless and tethered like an ancient effigy reclaimed by vines.
And then Lord Corwin Bloodrose--no, Cory. An ugly bruise painted the bridge of his nose shades of red and violet. A bandage bound the worst of it, acting as a stint and giving padding to the scratched glasses resting gingerly atop.
"Hester!" he greeted, boyishly bright. "Come see this!"
When she woke up to the sound of his heartbeat that was all that mattered.
He hadn’t asked after the mysterious appearance of the molten gold mark on his chest, which was good: She had no desire to discuss what she had done.
I can make this end differently for you.
Narral’thix had been deathly patient. What is another year or two of imprisonment to a mortal’s will? Kallarel may have been clever, but it was only a matter of time before her bleeding heart got the better of her.
For both of you.
He hadn’t made it easy.
Humility did not become the witch and the death march with her would-be lover’s corpse on her back had been a fine start. Then, of course, there was the boatman’s tithe; not just any gold would do. A little more salt for her wounds and a further insult to fuel Zelion’s hunt.
Dig.
With a golden circlet absconded from the skull of Pereon Mournvalor’s corpse, they hewed a path in flame to Her roots and the altar they shrouded. The agony was inexplicable as the tether between heir and Mother was severed; the grove she had regrown, a sylvan kingdom she might have mastered she instead condemned to burn.
She had given Narral’thix so much more than his freedom in exchange.
But it didn’t matter.
Not after a week spent steaming in the tiny cabin in Gilneas Bruce had built as a lad. Not after the bevvy of kisses that followed to rival the beautifully tragic first. Not after the precious fool whispered those three little words that knotted on her own tongue.
That was enough.
So she reasoned as a few stray sparks fizzled between her fingers and left her cigarette unlit.
