The round table was covered in notes and open journals, lists of names. A single potted ivy with a stick of incense stuck in the soil, smoke spiraling above it. Gene was bent over a small leather book, curving elegant script spread across the pages in even blue ink line. His notes were scattered on a second journal, far less neat and elegant. A mug with a goblin riding a rocket was sitting a safe distance away from the notes and journals. The window was open, crisp fall air and the sharp tang of the sea filling the room.
“She had to write in words from three different dialects and as many eras,” he mumbled, tapping the quill’s feather tip against his lip as he tried to figure what word she was going for - the characters were similar to several different words from several different dialects. “She couldn’t just pick one and stick with it...ugh, she’s going to kill me for reading these…”
She hadn’t returned. There was no message or note at the house. No clue as to where she could be. He’d contacted the druids of the Moonglade to contact him should she appear there but he didn’t know how well that would go over - he was unknown to them and just saying he knew someone was no promise they’d follow up. Being a mage with something ‘off’ about him wouldn’t help his case either.
He’d debated going through her journal, her thoughts, but he had to see what people she may still know that were alive and accessible - most were likely on a far flung shore. The names from the Courier articles of the dead were crossed out, along with Wellson’s. Other names were listed - Vo’ortis, Ediell - as unknowns and missing. The number of people he’d figured to go looking for was… small.
“Keeps it all close to the chest, hrm Green?” he mumbled to the ivy, scrubbing the back of his neck. “Raises the question… how do we approach these people? If they’re even still on this shore. ‘Hi, I’m looking for a woman, yay tall, moody, turns into a bear - you seen her?’ ..yeah, that’ll work.” The plant, thankfully, didn’t respond. He scrubbed his eyes, setting the quill down and lidding the ink. Start looking, he told himself, and see if the people he talked to knew anything about her to give him a better direction. Judging by the short list, this was going to be quick conversations.
A small list, but he’d start there. Grabbing a jacket, securing his shirt buttons and applying gloves again, he walked towards the door with a whistle and a list of names tucked in his pocket.
((mentioned @brian-wellson @quai-mason @andissial If anyone would like to be bugged by the brat, drop me a line.))
--the rattle of iron...the sound of metal against rock, hammer against stone. The cries and screams of men barely asleep...the gasping sobs of men dying…
A figure stood in the end of the tunnel, surrounded by brilliance purer than the Light, purer than Elune. The light made the figure into nothing more than a featureless silhouette from this distance, throwing the edges into sharp contrast, no real shape or gender. Just a form with a massive two handed mace in their hands.
The figure approached the first slave quietly, slowly. He was chained seven notches down himself. The figure knelt, quietly resting a palm on the slave’s face before rising again. With what looked like no effort, the mace was swung back and square on the man’s skull without the sickening crunch that should have followed but killing him instantly. The only sound was the rattling of the chains as the man slumped over. The light cast the blood on the mace not red, but black as the figure itself.
It stepped closer, repeating the motions with the other slave. Sometimes leaning forward and pressing a kiss against their foreheads. But they all died the same way, dropping over, chains singing out their death song. As the figure approached, he saw more details - it was hooded, long elegant ears sweeping back from the hood. The cloak around it wasn’t black, but white as the light that shone behind it, though now spattered with the blood of the dead.
Three more died and the figure stood before him. He looked up into the hood and saw her - white hair, silver eyes, a tattoo faded to nothing more than a blackberry stain across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes.
Andi.
Her mouth was set in a thin line, her eyebrows drawn up as if this wasn’t what she wanted to do. As if she had no choice in the matter.
“Andi,” he whispered, licking dry, crackled lips.. “Bear.”
She knelt, kissing his forehead softly in apology before she rose, briefly resting the tip of the mace on his head before swinging it back and down on his head an--
The sound of chains rattling followed Gene as he woke with a gasp, shooting up before he realized where he was. He’d fallen asleep in a small tub, the water now room temperature at best. His prosthetic was off, resting against the bed. He stumbled, grabbing at the wall to keep himself righted as he tried to catch his breath and thoughts. Slowly, he took stock of himself and the surroundings. Cursing, he wiped tears from his face, hobbling from the tub and wrapping a towel around himself as he sat on the edge of the bed. Dreaming, he’d been dreaming again. Of that place in the desert. He closed his eyes, the raised welts of the brand on his chest aching for no good reason other than acute memory of the time he got them and the time spent afterwards. Metal fingers tapped against his skin without any thought. He wasn’t there anymore. He’d got out. He was out. They couldn’t take him back. He’d destroyed it all. He’d destroyed them all. Magic flared on the edge of his fingers and the little black voice in the back of his mind cackled, low and distant as a storm.
He needed to move on. In many ways. It had been three days since Andi had disappeared into the forest and not returned. Her travel pack was on the opposite bed with her mace, unmoved since he’d brought them up here (he was sure of that, he’d placed a minor spell on them to let him know if they were disturbed). She could be anywhere by now. He knew that from experience. But the one place she wasn’t was here.
Sighing, he dried off what remained of his leg, fingers dutifully ignoring the feel of the scarring that traced up his leg and over his hip. A sleeve slipped around it, soft lining barely felt. With a little heft, the prosthetic followed. Resting the residual limb into a socket on the top, he stood and set his weight onto it. A flip of a one way valve on the side and he felt the familiar suction and vacuum that would keep the connection secure. He set about the rest of dressing easily, covering the scars and tattoos that trailed from his knees up to across his chest and spilled down his back and arms. Gloves finished the outfit as he grabbed his cane and walked downstairs with a careful and deliberate gait.
The woman at the bar looked up, giving him a smile, which he returned easily. His public face was back up. “I’m going to be heading out today - I need to settle my account.” She just nodded, grabbing up a small ledger and going over it before handing it to him. He nodded, pulling out a few more coins than page suggested before holding up a small folded slip of hide.
“If my elf friend comes back here, could you see that she gets this?” he asked, handing it over to her. The paper was folded in on itself in the shape of a octagon, black wax set in the center of it to hold the paper together with a single starburst on it.
“No problem,” the woman replied with an easy smile, setting to note in a wooden box before closing and locking the lid on it. “Do you need any help with your things?”
Gene smiled, shaking his head. “No, I do believe I have them. I should be cleared from the room within the hour.” He gave a nod of respect before returning up the stairs and gathering all the belongings - his own and Andi’s - into a small circle. Hooking the cane on his elbow and steadying himself, he pulled a small stone from his pockets, activating the spell that would take him back to their apartment in Stormwind. He would start looking from there, starting with seeing if he could find anyone she knew.
(( @andissial mentioned))
