The arcanic tug hadn’t bothered her most of the day - she largely attributed this to her morning release of mana. As soon as Aderith rose, she was cold. The silky smooth blankets of the kaldorei failed to warm her thick Stromic form. Green eyes turned around the interior of the small hollow tree as her teeth touched repeatedly from the shivering. Beside her, on the floor, Alasdair snoozed. Near him, various members of the Brigade, unwilling to fork over the gold for a room and willing to take advantage of Darnassus’s hospitality, peacefully slept. Half-asleep, the warrior gave in to the easiest method: her eyes closed, and she felt eagerly for the nearest leyline. Within moments, a comforting warmth spread across her body, from her fingertips to her toes. The whispers from the Twisting Nether, the hunger for arcana, faded with the cold. She drifted to sleep easily, after that.
Later in the day, after she was through with the errands necessary to insure the Brigade’s full preparedness, the trollslayer found Arias Emberhearth, her favorite, meditating in the further reaches of the kaldorei city. Several minutes passed once her green eyes locked onto him - he was peaceful, covered in arcane. His eyes glowed. Tendrils, strands, danced off of his lithe shape. Initially, her lips curled up into a sweet smile. Aderith liked to watch him like this - see him at his basic level.
Soon, however, the hunger gripped her insides. It made her feel hollow, a pulsing reminder of her connection to the Nether. Unbroken, but untied - loose and uncontrollable. Addy could feel the nearest leyline - the way it twisted and beckoned her made the Stromic woman take in a breath through her teeth. The closer she came to Arias, the more a dual thirst clawed at her throat - made her hands tremble to the point that she squeezed his digits.
On one hand, there was a strange relief that always came when she was near others that actively practiced their magical affinity. She could smell it on them. When she rested her cheek against Arias’s chest, or he kissed her, always gently, on her mouth, she could taste the power on the roof of her mouth.
From the time she returned to the provisions onward, after spending several hours curled in Arias’s arms enjoying the lush scenery, Aderith refrained from using her abilities. Additionally, apart from holding his hand, she refrained from taking in Arias’s arcanic aura. This left the hollow feeling to claw the inside of her skull, the edges of her ribcage, building exponentially over the course of the following Brigade-heavy hours.
Aderith was excellent at controlling her anger. Her father labeled her a berserker, just like he had once been, when her older brother died.
“It’s in your genes,” he explained carefully. Her mother hovered behind him, worrying. “Thomadas never exhibited any kind of temper. He always lost his composure when he’d become angry. You’ve never been like that, Addy - you’re my little fire, always roaring and tearing the moor down with her.”
He didn’t say this with a stern tone. No, her father slipped his arm over her shoulders, pulling Aderith to him.
“My little roaring flame,” he whispered. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
The repeated words carried on as she cried. Thomadas had died due to his own failure, but she mopped up his mess. Aderith plowed through twenty, thirty trolls for him, rage coursing through her veins, propelling her through her injuries and giving her renewed strength every moment she pictured his face.
Now, the pulsating thirst - this hollow drawing from her soul to the Nether - made her feel sick. It made her angry. A constant throbbing annoyance, an unscratchable irritant. The only way to satisfy it was to call to it.
Any time anger bubbled up into her throat, made her choke on her words - which was more frequently than she would ever admit - fire would spring to her soul, travel up through her right hand and out through her sword. Every time she was struck down, every time a Brigade member made the wrong choice, the searing satisfaction of arcane through her bloodstream coursed through her system.
It was one event after another. First, coming up with few clues about the homonculi. Then, Max was attacked. Then, everyone bickered over the body. Then, the elf. Then, Arias and Fauins. Arias and Fauins and the Staff.
She could feel it in her fucking eyeballs. Everything was searingly sweet, so satisfying. The only things that escaped her were growing shouts, erratic motions, until Arias and the Staff.
Her entire hand was on fire, crawling up her wrist, when she pointed. Aderith screamed.
“... QUIT WALLOWING IN YOUR OWN SELF-PITY, ARIAS! JUST GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!”
The feeling was unlike any other. A hot, cozy blanket slid across her form, soothed the itching in her brain and heart. When Arias’s cool fingers slid into hers, after the anger subsided by the arcana lingered, there was a cooling hiss past her skin, through her veins.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” she murmured against his ear, holding him tightly against her. The warrior rolled to the balls of her feet, pressing her hot face against his cool, wet cheek. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s all okay, Arias.”
Later, when she tugged her breastplate off, revealing a thin white shirt, the feeling began to wear thin. It had been less than an hour. The cloth drifted down her back, her hair pulled over one shoulder. Arcanic runes, tattooed into her dark Stromic skin, stretched from shoulder to shoulder. Fully healed. Tingling longingly.
Arias approached her with soft eyes.
