The farmland outside Mason's home was cast in shadow, pelted and flattened by the downpour the late winter sea storm had brought to the island. A peal of thunder followed the blaze of lightning across the sky, rattling the windowpanes and even rippling in the tea steaming in the smith's cup.
The dark of night had come on earlier than usual from the storm, and not a soul stirred outside, but for Mason. Leaving behind his drink, and pulling the hood of his heavy, oiled cloak over his mane of hair, he trudged into the cold, driving onslaught and towards the lighthouse.
That last bolt of lightning seemed too direct, too unnatural, and the certainty of what—who—it was drove the man's feet onward.
At the top of the lighthouse, her radiance piercing the veil of wind-dashed rain, a second beacon in the night for all approaching by sea, clad in full golden raiment was precisely what Mason had expected.
"Sigfa," the smith said, voice booming to carry through the roar of the storm, both greeting and accusation.
"Mason Atlisson," the val'kyr responded, "You have hidden long enough!"
"Straight to business as usual, I see," he replied, moving under the eaves at the lighthouse's peak in a vain attempt to keep his already-sodden self drier.
"Surely you know now that darkness comes, child. The Valarjar—"
"Tend to Odyn's needs, yeah?" Mason interjected, "Especially after the dragons' insult."
Sigfa tensed, but nodded, "You speak truth, Atlisson."
"And you think I'm gonna drag myself out of the little life I managed to build for myself out here, away from the noise of battle, and the blood, and the horror?" Mason's volume rose as he spoke, a desperation creeping in, as if he were some skittering creature newly exposed to the sun, the safety of its rotting log torn away by a some bumbling woodsman. Shock, and fear, and indignation.
The smith motioned with a jab of his finger towards the growing village hidden in the rain, the dim glow of lamps from within window panes scarcely cutting through the blackness, "I'm not letting this one be taken! Not again!"
He'd run after Northrend, and no matter what solace he found, it always fell away, always left him with more scars on body and mind. Every step since the Broken Shore, a felguard's blade piercing the would-be hero's chest, lifeblood pooling on the fel-blasted sands, was the step of a ghost.
"I should've died, Sigfa!"
Thunder rumbled as if in response to Mason's growing rage. The val'kyr, though, remained unmoved.
"Everything I've built since then, every life I've tried to start, has gone nowhere. I—" His voice was drowned in another peal of thunder, yet he carried on, "Will not go! Not this time!"
The stones of the lighthouse shook with the next peal, the flashes of lightning seeming to grow closer and closer.
"I knew before I came what your choice would be. But at times, child, there can be no choice. And when that time comes, you will act, Valarjar. Return to your hearth, Atlisson, and know this: your strength is not the burden you believe. You need not be a weapon, but a shield."
With that, the val'kyr spread her wings, mist rising from them as the black torrent washed over her, and with a heavy beat, the golden figure rose into the air, leaving Mason alone at the lighthouse's peak, his drenched hair and beard illuminated by another bolt of lightning, his very bones shaken by the violence of the thunder.
Yserina hadn't been expecting her. Frankly, Fiorenze hadn't been expecting to enter the Dream on a nap either. The delighted, if somewhat scared, gasps of three young Kaldorei children heralded her entrance into the emerald grotto she had become familiar with over the years. This, however, was new.
Her teacher reached out both her old hands and patted the air down, the picture of unphased serenity that Fiorenze knew was an act by the twitch of her long eyebrow, and tried to quiet the sudden chaos, "Now, now, ducklings. She is here to learn too." She gestured for Fiorenze to have a seat next to the youths who suddenly all had new questions and comments.
"Why is she a Blood Elf?" "My mom said they can't come here!" "My name is Asora, what's yours?"
Fiorenze winked at the youngest girl who had introduced herself so bravely and had a seat next to her, "I'm Fiore."
Asora gasped, "Oh! I like flowers. She can't be bad if her name is flower."
The two boys, twins by the look of them, paused at that and looked at Yserina for confirmation of their companion's logic. The elder Kaldorei leveled her piercing gaze at the pair of them and nodded, "She is a Blood Elf because that is who her people are. Of course they can come here, they have forests to protect, too. We want them to learn the correct way, yes? You have never seen one because normally we are asleep when they are awake."
That seemed to placate them both, but her teacher's steely gaze had landed on her accusingly during that latter statement.
"Greatmother Moth was about to tell us the story of the Golden Stag," Asora smiled up at her and shoved her purple bangs out of her eyes with a small hand.
Fiorenze looked up at Yserina then, not bothering to hide her amusement, "Greatmother Moth! How fascinating. I haven't heard that story yet."
Yserina harrumphed quietly, settling into her ornate robes the way an irritated owl sometimes sank into their feathers, "And you won't if the chatter continues."
The twins immediately shushed her and Asora both, adamantly.
Content that her audience had listened, her ancient teacher launched into her tale, "Many ages ago, when the Wild Gods still walked the face of the world, a legend arose about a unique creature. Hunters would return to their villages with tales of a beautiful stag with antlers of crystal and a hide that shimmered the purest gold in the gloaming hours.
Those who had seen the stag were blessed with luck in the hours following the sighting. Every trap and net held a bounty that would feed their family for weeks. Rumors spread that the creature must have been the child of Father Sun and Aessina, the companion of many great magical beasts who are themselves a bridge between our world and the realm of spirits. "
Her gnarled fingers wove the magic of the Dream into a beautiful stag with curling antlers and gleaming fur to emphasize the uniqueness of the creature, to everyone's delight.
"For some who had never encountered him, his existence became a challenge — most especially in times of struggle. After many months of famine and loss in his village, great tracker named Hannelor Stormheart pleaded with his elders to be allowed to embark on a quest to find the Golden Stag. His request was denied! "No," they told him, "Your skills should be shared with others. Stay and pass on your gifts so that many may borrow from the wilds instead of a fair few." Do you think he listened?"
A small chorus of 'nooo's answered Yserina's question.
A sharp smile cracked across her face as she waved the illusory deer away, "He did not. When the sun was high and blinding, while all that remained of his friends and family lay asleep, he struck out into the forest. As the Mother Moon gazed down on him that night he promised her he would not return home until he had found the Golden Stag, binding him to his chase.
For ten years Hannelor stalked his prey. His quest took him to the great Mount Hyjal, then many leagues north to Shandoral and back west toward Eldre'thalas. Bardsong wove tales of sightings near Suramar and beyond, east — into the untamed wilds where the Amani stalked the borders of our empire. In his desperation he realized that it would not be enough to simply see the stag. He would have to kill it and bring it home to his village in order to reap the spoils and provide for his people."
The children, solemn faced, seemed to understand the necessity of this decision. Yserina conjured an image of an illusory hunter, dashing valiantly through a dense wood, "As he drew closer to the fabled forest where the last sighting had hailed, the stories all twisted into a single, arrow-like thread. The Golden Stag had become companion to a woman named Seriaren Silvercloud, an arcanist who so loved to wander the wide wildflower meadows that flourished and stretched between the rivers near her home.
Enraged that the fortune had been so selfishly kept, he found the small, wealthy village that Seriaren called home. He waited in the deep shadows of dusk for her to leave, her own steps light as air as she drifted to the edge of the forest to meet with the creature he had so long sought. It was more beautiful to behold than he could have imagined. In the pale twilight the hide seemed to glow and fireflies danced around the beast's curling antlers."
The illusion spun into the stag prancing around his elegant friend. Suddenly the ghostly hart reared up and dashed away from the scene. "Hannelor's arrows struck true as Seriaren's joyful laughter still echoed across the plain, though it quickly turned into a cry of shock that rang out like a peal of thunder as her wounded friend bound away from her. She gave chase far more swiftly than he could manage. Hours had past when he found the trail again, and at the end was a weeping Seriaren with a bloody knife in her hand, the body of the Golden Stag with arrows bearing his fletching standing proud and the Mother Wisp above."
The children gasped at the turn of events, though Fiorenze couldn't tell herself at what beat in particular. Yserina held both gnarled hands out to placate them again, "Hannelor knew in this moment he had done a cruel thing. Aessina's glow illuminated Seriaren as the spirit thanked her for the compassionate friendship — and end — she had given the Golden Stag. As a source of magic left the world, Hannelor was allowed to claim his prize.
He journeyed back to his home he preserved what he could and ate what he couldn't, as all good hunters do. The splendid hide turned dull and the antlers brittle. There was no one to greet him when he crested the hill that marked the boundary of his village. There was nothing left but empty homes and unsent letters that said the survivors had abandoned the village to try again elsewhere...
We do not know what became of him. Some say he sought a Shrine of Aessina and became a priest to seek atonement. Some say he was lost in his grief and that his spirit still wanders the deep woods. Of Seriaren we know less, though many think the Mother Wisp blessed her with the waning luck left in the clearing. What lessons has this story taught?"
The twins sniffled, the bolder one of the pair spoke up on their behalf, "Listen to your elders."
Asora frowned and glanced up at Fiorenze before looking toward her Greatmother Moth, "Leave magic you don't understand alone?"
Yserina clapped her hands together and laughed brightly at then unexpected, but pleasant answer, "Both can be true. Now, off with you. This is a marvelous day to discover something new in the Dream. Perhaps Aessina herself will smile upon you."
The children, not too impacted by the sad tale, scattered and laughed as they chased each other away from the grotto's fairy pools. Fiorenze's gentle smile slanted into a more inquisitive expression, "You know, it's funny... A young man working an event I'm helping with soon is named Serazhen Silvercloud. Surely that's a coincidence."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not, the world is still wild and strange," Yserina gathered up her elegantly embroidered robes and stepped across the flat stones in her pool to get to the bank where her audience had been, "Now tell me, my little flower, why the fuck are you here at this hour?"
Her own laugh echoed off the rocks then; it had been too long since they had caught up.
Szae hears a set of very important-sounding hoof-clacks and wriggles her body deeper into the tiny alcove she's taken as her hiding spot. It's a good bet that no one will find her here. She's not the smallest child on this very big ship; that honor goes to Fanara, so enviably petite and yet the sort who would not be caught dead skipping out on morning prayers. A tactical advantage granted to someone who would never in a million years use it for anything fun or interesting. Maybe she could see beneath the artificer's deck and rat Szae out to the High Priestess, but then she'd have to drag herself away from that awful smoky room and her muttering devotions first.
Szae has to make due with curling herself into the tiniest ball possible, her spine aching, her young knees yearning to stretch and run. It's hardly better than just doing what she's told and attending prayers, but even at this age, it's the principle of the thing for her. She doesn't like the High Priestess's sad, sometimes scary stories. She doesn't like the melancholy music. She doesn't want to think of the sacrifices her parents made without ever even asking her if she wanted to be sacrificed for.
If they had asked, she would have rather kept them. Shocker, she knows, that's not what a good girl should think. Even if it wasn't forever, she would rather have asked to learn the names of the stars from her mother, whose name is still on some of the star maps. She would have asked her father to teach her to hunt and prepare her kill and feed her community. Even if all of those weren't any option at all, she still would have preferred a second longer with them. Maybe then she'd still remember their faces, at least.
Like everyone else, they'd expected Szae to do what she is told. To live on. To carry their legacy through the stars for them without ever asking her if she was strong enough to carry it all by herself. If she even WANTED to.
The hoof-clacks stop. Szae holds her breath.
"I know you're under there, Szae."
It's not the High Priestess, thank the Light. (Oh, right, she shouldn't say that about any little thing.) This voice is kind and patient. Familiar.
Szae wonders how much deeper she can shove herself into this tiny crevice. She whimpers as a bolt scrapes her cheek. It begins to sting where it scored her skin.
"Okay." Priestess Alaena is very good indeed. She doesn't deserve to be on Chasing Szae duty, even Szae knows that. But she is the youngest of the priestesses, and therefore gets the lousiest jobs. Their world is designed to be as annoying as possible all the way up to the top, but unlike Szae, unlike most of their covenant, Priestess Alaena does not wear the weight of that on her pretty face. She feels freer than the rest of them, in a way that makes Szae terribly jealous. Alaena doesn't even take a look around before she draws up her skirts and takes a seat on the ground, just outside of Szae's hiding place. "We can hide together. Would that be okay?"
It is so shocking to be asked for permission. To be considered.
And Szae can't take it anymore. She whispers, "It hurts." Her bones bend. Her body tries to escape. She isn't sure why it's so afraid. Alaena is nice, she moves slowly, she isn't scary when she inches closer. Her hand on Szae's scratched-up cheek feels like something she's been missing all her life.
Maybe that is what is terrifying. She flinches away.
"High Priestess says that pain is a force."
"Was it a 'force,' or a 'forge?'" Alaena manages to say it like it's not a correction. It's a mystery they'll solve together. Szae, who loves a mystery, a word-puzzle, a problem that is solveable, begins to breathe easier. She doesn't struggle away so much. "Which means it's okay if I help you. A forge is for our strongest steel. You're just a little ore."
"I'm little," Szae echoes her. She can't even see over the environmental consoles in the refectory. She still uses a stepping stool to wash her hands before every meal. Even with all of her disadvantages, she'd take that any day over being a Lady, like the High Priestess is always telling her to be. She doesn't quite understand what she is saying when she desperately insists, "I'm really little."
There is sadness in Alaena's eyes, of course -- it's shared between them all. Every stop in the stars brings with it more loss. Szae is used to her classmates disappearing. She isn't the only one missing from morning mass. She tells herself she doesn't care, but she wears the loss all the same.
Alaena's hand lingers on her little cheek. As if she's measuring the breadth of her hand against it, the faded scars on her knuckles against skin that has only been broken for the first time. Szae's cheek will not scar; Alaena mends it with such care, too much. It is a gluttonous amount of Light that she spills into the hurt.
Szae looks at her sad eyes. Even at her young age, she understands that this pretty face has witnessed untold horrors. She has never given a hug before, but the kindness awakens some dormant instinct in her limbs. She holds Alaena so tightly, her tiny fingers curling in the priestess's hair.
Her first embrace, and also her last. For a thousand years, it is the only sign of life she remembers in herself. She grows taller, holding on to hope that that part of her hasn't died with Priestess Alaena, silently, coldy, gone one day without explanation. Another name unceremoniously listed off during their morning observance of their peoples' sacrifices.
She gets the impression that is what sacrifice means. To take the best of something and toss it like garbage into the dark. To take it away from the people who need it. It's a perfect excuse to mute her goodness, to protect herself.
If nothing else, she will do anything to avoid taking part in morning prayers.
There was something delightful about anything golden. Coins, jewelry, the sun. Rimath could appreciate them all. Magpie that he was, he tended to always have something in the color on his person: a button, a coin that danced between his fingers, the hilt of a dagger, the wrapper of a candy.
You could hide a number of needs or lies or desires in that color.
Maths smiled that devastating smile of his and leaned on the bar. Booty Bay once again had sung her siren song and he’d be leaving soon, but there was a poker tournament he intended to join and a shipment of antiquities he’d agreed to appraise.
Passing time until the work started, Rimath felt his smile falter, just a moment, when he remembered that, once upon a time in a fairy tale of memory, his sister’s hair had been golden. Before the whispers, before the darkness and the touch of violet blushed her cheeks and dyed her hair. Estira had been a classic golden beauty, just like her mother, until the void had stolen the girl she had once been.
Maths let his gaze go out the open window and over the ocean, where the setting sun bathed everything in a few last moments of dazzling light, before slipping beneath the horizon and darkening everything. He missed it immediately.
As she admired herself in the tall mirror in her brother's bedroom, she smiled, pleased. Kalithorien's ring really had been everything he'd said it would be. She continued to marvel over it, though surely she'd become accustomed to looking and sounding like she had before she'd been so tainted with the Void.
It didn't solve everything. No amount of changing her appearance or her voice would combat the whispers in her head or the continued difficulty she had sleeping at night, but at least she didn't have to sequester herself in an estate and avoid regular patrols through the forest just because of what she was. Kalithorien had even stated he'd escort her wherever she wanted to go. Except Quel'Danas, of course. He couldn't take her there and it wasn't like she wanted to go.
But that was what he'd said. Honestly, after he'd crafted the ring and presented it to her, she'd never seen him again. He didn't even write. Just a generous benefactor, it seemed, or a disappointed one that she hadn't jumped at the chance to take him to her bed in exchange for such a gift, despite his too-forward intention for her to do just such a thing. So many men were awful at mental foreplay. Kalithorien had been no different.
Idly, she could remember over a year before, that a man south of Elwynn had carried the Light within him, in his very touch, and she had suspected it would do unto her only harm. She still couldn't be touched by it, she suspected. Didn't want to find out, truly. Fortunately for her, she'd kept to her regular haunts, annoyed merchants with her expensive tastes as she expelled her brother's coin and for a time, it certainly seemed as if things had never changed at all.
She was still taking in her appearance when she heard distant footsteps that she scarcely saw fit to pay proper mind to, every curl of yellow blonde hair that assaulted her shoulders and how wonderfully her skin was kissed by the light of the day. It wasn't until she heard his voice that she turned.
"How did y—" Valerron began, but in the fleeting moments passing that recognition set in, he leaned against the door frame. "Shit. Belidrae." Instantly he looked tired, befuddled, and unimpressed all at the same time, folding arms across his chest.
His younger sister put herself on display for him, all shining fabric that hugged her and showed... about as much as she'd often seemed comfortable wearing, never afraid to flaunt the features she thought were the most appealing to the sight. Or simply knowing how to draw the eye.
"Why, brother," she purred out her response, a smirk forming in her mouth as she opened her arms in an over-the-top and lavish welcome, like old habits died hard, though their family hadn't even been a thought in most minds of elven society. "How good to see you home at last. I trust your time on the front lines in K'aresh was successful?" Impish and coy, she slipped her hands behind her back.
"You would know if you—" If she'd actually shown up. Many, many months before he had convinced her to go with him, if only because he wanted to give her a better direction in life. Instead, it'd seemed she had simply chosen to stay in his estate, drinking his wine, spending his money. He couldn't even be surprised because that was how Belidrae had always been. He understood she'd been on the streets for no shortage of time once their parents had bid her away, and he had always held a soft spot for her. Maybe it was just nicer to have her somewhere that he knew she'd be safe.
Shaking his head, he gestured to her, from head to toe, with a gloved hand. "That's not important, but this is. Have the others seen you?" Because the last time they all had, it had been a complete palette shift. If he hadn't seen her with his own eyes, hadn't heard the bizarre way her voice had changed, he might not have believed it. "Am I coming back to a bunch of letters that I'm going to have to issue a bunch of apologies for on your behalf?"
Belidrae feigned shock, lifting a hand and splaying fingertips along her bottom lip, softly painted in a metallic shimmer. "Of course not! I've been on nothing but the best of behaviours." Which was true, shockingly.
Instead of immediately seeking out Kathis and trying to ruin his married life with a fun little ongoing affair, she'd resisted. Sure, she bought no shortage of gowns, hair pieces, assorted jewellery, and other absolutely unnecessary accessories, but that wasn't poor behaviour. It was economical benefit. She hadn't even put herself in the pathway of any galas and soirees, though she'd certainly heard of some that she ordinarily would have gone to and shamelessly drank nights away in favour of the next morning's hangover.
She didn't question why she didn't immediately jump back into that lifestyle. It wasn't that she hadn't liked that. It was very much because she still felt held back by everything that had occurred in the last year and then some. The ring her family had granted her to give to a man who had once claimed to want to marry her and managed to get her to fall in love with him, had made off with it. She was out a heart and a family heirloom. The latter, perhaps, was more easy to obtain.
Could have hired someone to do it for her. She certainly had no intentions to chase him down herself. He didn't want her. He made that clear when he left. She had, ultimately, meant nothing to him and she had been a very, very stupid escort, thinking she was even capable of love beyond the kind one bought temporarily and artificially when pressing coin into her hand. She knew better, of course, now. Too little, too late. Chasing that damn ring was going to be better left in someone else's hands.
Belidrae would have to pay handsomely for its retrieval and find someone who even did that kind of work.
Valerron pinched the bridge of his nose. "Given that I haven't received any letters from the family, I guess you're telling the truth." He certainly would have heard otherwise, even far into the uncomfortably cold reaches along with the rest of his unit of Farstriders. They weren't there on Farstrider business, but when he'd heard more hands were needed, he elected a few volunteers to go with him.
He had to admit, he was relieved to be home. Even if he was coming home to a sister who was nothing short of spoilt.
Some moments more of quiet, and when she began to slither past him, he found himself hesitating, as if he was afraid he'd touch her and the illusion of her appearance would simply break apart and shatter. But she passed with no incident and as he turned to watch the way she sauntered in that very deliberate way, that sway of her hips, he shook his head. She was going to get herself in trouble if she kept doing that. And he suspected she didn't care.
"You look like you're going somewhere," he continued.
Baring her teeth, sharp and even alike, Belidrae lifted a hand, flicked some curls of that bright blonde with nary a care. "Of course I am. I look this radiant and I should stay inside? No, no. Now that you're home, I think I'll be a little more irresponsible. But don't worry, I've kept your estate very tidy. I've earned a little down time, I think."
Laughing, the very sound, a little lyrical and even a little tight, echoed down the corridor as she moved, her skirts in the same shimmer sweeping about her long legs. "I'm sure there's a party going on somewhere and I intend to stay out late tonight. Brother dearest, don't come looking for me."
Left in the quiet of the hallway, Valerron shook his head. She was definitely going to get herself in trouble. She might have behaved whilst he was out, but he got the impression it wasn't going to stay that way for long. Maybe it was time to start writing some of the other families of Quel'Thalas. If she could keep up that appearance, they'd likely never need to know what she really was.
Maybe one of them would be foolish enough to consider courting her and keeping her out of harm's way.
(Playing catch-up! Expect a few posts over the next day or so while I get through the prompts. SO HELP I WILL FINISH THIS WEEK. The tome talked about in this post is The Doctor's Weeping Book by Greaves, a TRP3 Extended item!)
read more about the daily writing challenge for this week here @daily-writing-challenge
word count: 1145
content warning: none
summary: Cursed objects, future plans, and an inevitable meeting. Surely, nothing can go wrong.
mentions: @indy-et-al
The sunrise over Elwynn Forest was, truly, breathtaking.
Blix sat on a cliffside, waterskin in hand, as she watched it happen - with the sea air flowing freely above the canopy of the trees, she was left to bask in the late winter air as the first sunbeams thawed the frost that had settled over the grass and trees.
It was peaceful in a way that left her time to think - which, in most circumstances, could have been a very dangerous thing. Her thoughts had been a constant spiral since her return; the circumstances of it, of course, had been less than ideal… but, the ring she had purchased from Kyrathina had helped drastically for the calming enchantment woven into its blood-red stone.
She would be lying to herself, she knew, if she said the color wasn't as much of a soothing factor.
She'd been mulling over the tome she'd acquired from Niadra's library, as well - it sat by her side, now, even as she looked out past Elwynn to the golden fields of Westfall. The tome, itself, had been something definitely cursed: a physician's notes, with a rolling eye that always seemed to be searching in place of a portrait of the author on its front cover.
It didn't help that the book seemed to constantly weep, to the level of having been delivered to her in a bucket. She'd tested the tears (or so she'd thought they were) in her alchemy lab: it was the same composition as the seawater off the coast of Westfall, oddly enough.
The contents were grim, describing an unknown affliction that had swept through Moonbrook some time during the Legion's last invasion. Blix remembered those years, of course - that had been at the same time that she had been preparing to enlist in the Grand Alliance Army, and still working as a freelance monster hunter in Duskwood. As a result, she'd been largely sheltered from the actual events of that invasion - but she had heard small details of it, as well as the illness described.
The physician's notes had matched, largely, with the rumors she'd heard: a wasting illness of some sort, respiratory in nature, that took the lives of a few of Moonbrook's citizens. A local alchemist had attempted to cure it to no avail, and thus the doctor and his assistant were called to try and remedy the problem.
Both had disappeared, instead.
Blix hadn't followed up on it, on account of a report of a vampiric sighting in the north near the Hinterlands. Honestly, now? She wished she had. At the time, she'd attributed it to Westfall's state of affairs, and the tendency for disease to wipe out populations that lacked the ability to receive proper care. Somewhere, the small ghost of Indraste at the back of her mind hissed, ears pinning as she berated Blix for the oversight. For leaving those citizens to their fate.
She shook her head, looking back to the tome.
In her study of it, a note had been written in what appeared to be (oddly enough) very fresh blood: a plea to destroy the tome, entirely, before anything worse came to pass. She'd transcribed every word, every note, and every diagram out of an abundance of caution… but, she figured it was as good a time as any to make the attempt.
After all, cursed objects had a rather peculiar way of telling you exactly what to do with them… and she was already the subject of a generational curse, at any rate. What harm could it really do?
(Very much, the Indraste in her mind told her, but that was for a different feather-sprouting conversation.)
She opened the tome gingerly, mindful of its pages, and took a moment to bask in the irony of it. Blix was fully about to dismantle this book, and here she was - treating it as though it was a relic of some sort. She knew, very well, that if the comrades she'd found in her monster hunting career could see her? They would be falling over themselves to laugh. She took a deep breath, glancing up to the morning sky in faint prayer to whatever god would listen… and tore out the pages, two by two.
What came next surprised her. The book, itself, seemed to scab, that leaking seawater darkening to a familiar shade of crimson before solidifying; that scab crusted over each place that the book was mangled, and the cover snapped shut before it was swallowed whole by the affliction. Just as Blix took a good step back and away from it, the matter peeled away from the tome entirely, pieces falling to the ground and dissolving before the tome was left behind - precisely as it had been before.
Untouched. Unmarred. All pages in place.
Well.
That was odd.
She stepped forward, brow furrowed as she crouched to flick open the cover with the tip of her dagger, and blinked as a small, well-worn note fell from those pages. She picked it up, severing the twine holding it closed and unfolding it.
Blix knew the penmanship: it belonged to the doctor's assistant. She read it over once, twice - and recognized the significance immediately. This was a plea: a desperate request, to whomever found it, to go to the space where the assistant had seen a man he only referred to as "the Ferryman", and to put an end to the affliction that had settled over Moonbrook all those years ago.
A lead was a lead, Blix figured… and if she was going to make the most of it, then now would be the time.
She folded the note, standing fully after picking up the tome. The sun had risen enough, now, to bathe Elwynn in a warm, golden glow - and the distant landscape of Westfall seemed to burn with sunlight, itself, on the horizon.
There was more to this case, and to the curiously-weeping tome than she'd previously realized. Clearly, "just cursed" didn't manage to fully encapsulate its depth. Thankfully, she'd already asked Ranek for assistance - it just seemed she'd need to call in that ask a little bit sooner than expected.
Priorities, however. She had matters to deal with, first - seeing Indy, of course, was paramount. This? This could wait. It had waited years, already.
So, in the golden glow of the morning sun, Blix packed up the encampment she'd made and climbed down from the cliffside to confront another day. The only thing left behind were the ashes of a letter she'd begun to write, but decided - thoroughly - would never be sent.
Wildflower,
I'm sorry
I love you
Please don't punch me
I'm back on my bullshit
I'm alive. I know it's bound to hurt, but… I still have the ring. I'm coming to see you, soon.
Despite her circumstances, she’d been a boisterous, happy child. She felt as though she’d been born in love with the world and everyone in it. She especially liked watching people, paying attention to what they said. And what they didn’t say. In doing so, she discovered her knack for knowing precisely what someone wanted, even if they never voiced their wish.
It was the way she added her color to the world. Some might believe it came from a deeply hurt place, that she needed the approval of others to make herself whole, but this was not so. When she gave someone something they needed or wanted, feeling the pleasure and joy from this seemed to ease older hurts. It was the medicine, not the affliction. Mira felt she shined brightest this way. It opened a world between her and the other, this vulnerable space of meeting a need, of granting a desire too tender to voice.
It began in Manus’s conjured space in subtle ways, Mira’s colors painting this magic, new dimension. Delicate, ivory roses that held the barest blush of pink in their centers climbed and curled and bloomed, perfuming the air with the heady fragrance of honey.
Neither of them noticed, finding themselves fully occupied. For a moment, heartbreak made her hungry and selfish. Manus was the closest to anything divine she had ever experienced. He felt and tasted like the Old Magic and she wanted to drink him down and let him soothe all her broken and frayed edges.
So, she kissed him wildly.
Mira never felt shame in intimacy, even when paying men insisted she should so they could get off faster. She embraced this beautiful, natural part of herself and Leo’s betrayal made her selfish so she took. Received. Mira wanted to use him for her pleasure until…she pulled back from a hungry kiss to look into eyes made weary and desperately sad from burdens she couldn’t fathom.
Looking into his half lidded eyes, the dark lacy fringe of his lashes eclipsing the universes she saw in his gaze, Mira felt it. She felt what he needed the moment more of her influence in this place created with just the breath of his ineffable thoughts. A nightingale trilled brightly in the branches of the tree above them. Unlike the shades of twilight colors Manus conjured, the little nightingale was plain and brown.
He pressed into the cradle of her hips, teasing, his rigid length slipping between the folds of her slick sex, making her whimper. And though she was seduced by the magic of him and his beauty…it was the deep, longing ache she felt when she looked into his eyes that ensnared her interest.
But people often sought to please others the way they wished to be pleased, and she suspected he was no different, god or not. Manus…gave. He took care of the elves in his castle. He sought only to pleasure her. The dinners, she thought, were elaborate ways for others to know him.
Mira wondered when was the last time any of those under his care asked him what he needed or wanted? Did anyone know him at all, because he seemed desperately lonely to her.
Mira reached between their bodies, fingers curling around his cock made slippery from her arousal. She stroked and teased and guided him inside. She sighed at the perfection of him. All of him was perfect, like some dark, fae prince. In the little stream that babbled and twinkled in the strange light, were pearls. More of Mirabella spilled into Manus’s creation.
Not because she was trying to wrest control of his domain as Lillandyr might. It wasn’t to stick it to him. She wasn't wholly aware she was doing it. When she opened her mind to him without agenda or pretense, without wanting anything other than to know him, it was the magic that made her bloom in his realm.
“I don’t just want this,” she murmured, voice briefly stolen by a pleasured groan as he pushed deeper, “I want to know you.”
She wound her legs around his waist, allowing him to go deeper still, filling her so completely the pleasure bordered in pain. But only a little. And only deliciously.
Her face glowed with the flush of ardor as her features softened into a place between empathy and heartache. “Won’t you let me?” She breathed, rolling her hips, canting them upwards to meet his thrust.
He wasn’t physical. Mira didn’t know or understand how he made himself feel physical. She wondered if he used his magic to meddle in the minds of those he served. He had told her to make it real. For him.
Because he couldn’t feel this. Not really. And it was such beautiful, sublime ecstasy. The tragedy of this made her cry as she came.
“Gods…you can’t feel this…not really, can you?”
Before he could confirm or deny she wrapped her arms around his neck and cried into the flesh of his throat. Not for herself. But for him. All these things he did to care for, please and pamper…yet none of it for himself. It must be torture.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice thick with tears. “Tell me…what can I do?”
Because to do nothing was unbearable.
For the first time in her life, Mira didn’t know how to give someone something needed.
“Towards the end of The Second War, the Steamwheedle Cartel realized its mistake in siding with the Horde. My husband and son failed their mission to bomb Ironforge. Your parents and I were arrested and shipped back to Undermine to face a war tribunal from the other Trade Princes. We were ruined.”
The Baroness clinked his teacup to its matching plate; the bitter memories flooding back to her as if she was in that courtroom presently. The sound of the crackling fire was interrupted by the uneasy scrunching of antique leather as Ruzzell shifted uneasily. He was ignorant of his family’s history for so many years. The fact that fate decided he would learn of it from the most unexpected source was not lost on him. He just had that sort of luck. Knowing it was better to listen then to ask, he sat there, letting her continue her tale.
“I… had anticipated… that things would not go in our favor. Trade Prince Steamwheedle wouldn’t take all the blame for failed business ventures. We were a prestigious family in the cartel and had taken the initiative for the bomb after all, so we were the perfect scapegoat for the lost investment. They bled us dry, emptied our coffers, ripped the jewelry right off of my neck and ears. I still bear those scars. Even after the seizing of our properties, bank accounts, and anything that remotely held value to us, I was still prepared. They forgot I came from slums too. Clawed my way up in society. You think a bitch like me gets there without playing the long con?”
A flash of violet crept at the corner of her deep lashes. Eyes unapologetic and piercing. She lingered her gaze on her grandson for a moment, taking in the pallid green that flushed away like an overwatered orchid.
“My marriage to Mekkston was partially out of love and admiration. Largely of financial security. I knew him well. Hot headed. Proud. Excessive and wanton spending. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the life he afforded us but knew better than to put all my trust into him. I knew he was planning something reckless when we entered the war. I had put aside little deposits here and there. Exchanged some funds and investments in other cartels. Hide away a nice little insurance, just in case. A smart woman diversifies her portfolio. When the goons came to ruin me and what family I had left, I was prepared. I told Treble and Mixxie that we could start over again. Invested in this newer cartel called The Venture Company. There were plans to head out to a land called Kalimdor. Set up new towns along the coasts and into the mountains up north.”
She looks away from him and goes back to her tea. Dunking in a creme biscuit, she took a polite bite and mulled over the falling snow outside.
“They refused my offer. Told me they wanted to try making amends in Undermine. Told me of their dreams to scratch out a living as entertainers and save up enough to get away from the Cartels, Steamwheedle and Venture Company alike. I told them they were fools not to come with me. They could have had their own vacation home on the Echo Isles. Just a few years working with us. That little tart Mixxie told me that what we would do was on the wrong path. Desecration of nature and the spirits. Silly little girl with her naive view of the world. So… I left. I left my only son and his fiancé to their fates in Undermine. I wouldn’t… couldn’t let their fates be mine. I had to carry on. Claw my way back to where I was before. Rebuild my station. Clearly, I made the better choice here.”
She waved her velvet-clad hand about the empty manor, gesturing to the aged opulence of the grand furnishings and tarnished golden affects that was her isolation in this frozen part of the world. Perfectly preserved in time. Just like her and her views. She puts down her plate with a forceful clang, shattering the porcelain and spilling the contents of tea and soggy biscuits onto the table. Her painted lips quivered, and those piercing eyes began to burn with forgotten tears.
“I was going to come back for them, Ruzzell! I just… needed to save up enough to come get them! Those… Those…”
Mascara began to run and sting at her eyes. Reddened veins encircled around her jeweled violets in bittered hues of resentment and regret. She promptly stood up and overturned her table in a fit of rage. She then took a flower vase and smashed it against the wall. A bronze statue of a goblin dressed in military decor was picked up and pummeled into the wooden floor of the living room as his grandmother broke down into a fit of tears and rage. The fury she had pent up bled out into the room for minutes before she strewn about the fireplace in a sobbing mess. Roofus came to his master to lick at her face as she cuddled her faithful hound.
Ruzzell was frozen for the longest time, watching her fall apart before him. He then dared to touch her bare shoulder. She winced and shrugged away. His touch was undeserved. Unwanted. She was a monster that could not be forgiven for her treachery. That was how she viewed herself now. After what she had done to her family. She couldn’t accept his kindness or pity, whichever he came to her with in an attempt to soothe her. From her disheveled mop of silken gray lavender hair, she glared at him with hatred.
“You don’t get to feel sorry for me. You don’t know me, Ruzzell. You don’t know what I have done. What I WILL do. I can’t be trusted with your life too. I won’t bring you into ruin like I did for your parents.”
He reels back. He wished he could say something to the contrary, but perhaps she was right. He didn’t know his grandmother or what she was capable of. Who this Baroness was before him.
“I’ll help clean this mess, Baroness.”
Getting up, he begins to pick up the pieces of broken porcelain and soggy tea biscuits. Putting aside the splintered furniture. Neatening up what was salvageable. She sat there on the floor, mess that she was, and watched him mend her destruction. Watched him care for a total stranger with the care one would give to a loved one.
She hated his kindness.
“Well, I cleaned up as much as I could. I’ll stop by in a week again with some more supplies. Some new plates and confections?”
“…y-yes. And some of those chocolate bon bons you kept mentioning.”
He nods deeply at her, his hat obscuring his eyes. He dared not look at her directly out of respect, and off he went into the perpetual cold and isolation she lived in. When he left, so did a part of her pain go with him too.
