A note: The Echo is a gift, one that allows those with it to resonate with other people's souls - and see their past. Not all see it as a gift, though.
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He looked so...small.
It was an Echo, Bryn knew it was, because it came with that out of body feeling, the weird experience of feeling everything but not being there. He hated it, but the moment he and Kaleh'a had found her, all three of their eyes had grown wide as they were thrown headlong into experiences not their own.
This had to be Kaleh'a. Standing there, bow pulled back, staring down the charging boar like he wasn't fulms away from getting gutted. He didn't flinch, he didn't dodge, he didn't do a damn thing but release the arrow like he had a thousand times before.
And Bryn could feel it. The grim determination as the little Miqo'te became the target, rather than the slowly catching fire carriage and injured guard defending it.
The way the beast dropped, fell, arrow between its eyes, came with a flood of so much relief and pride, that Bryn felt the warmth in his own chest from it. It felt good, vindicating, like he had just achieved something that before was a struggle. And now, that barrier was gone.
Gone as quick as the vision disappeared from Bryn's mind, leaving him disjointed and feeling sick to his stomach.
He hunched over, gagging, falling to one knee as he took heavy, deep breaths, shuddering with each one as he re-oriented himself with his real surroundings, the sand between his fingers, the blazing sun on his back, and the sound of a stifled, muffled sob. And Kaleh'a, mumbling absently, "So that's why you chose my name."
Eyes lifting, slowly, up over a blonde tail, up over a lightly armored figure, across blue eyes swimming with tears, and finally catching a hint of a purple bow holding back her long, blonde hair. His gaze dropped back to her eyes, to the tears falling down her cheeks, and he knew, even before she said the words, what she had seen.
"How..." Silvia choked out, falling to her knees, a hand reaching out, and pulling back, second guessing herself as she whispered. "How did you survive that? How does it not...break you?"
Silver eyes slid closed, and his head dipped, hung, heavy on his shoulders, too much to lift until he slowly forced it back up, forced it up until he could look into her eyes, and whisper right back. "I don't know."
And Kaleh'a, staggering slightly, before giving the two an odd look and plopping into the sand beside them. "What the hell did you two even see?"
It was three in the morning and he couldn't remember her name. They'd met in the tavern and had gotten to talking when Illyrias was well into his drinks for the evening and she seemed to either not care or that was exactly what she was looking for. She complimented his stupid shirt and slid her hand across his stomach and asked him if he wanted to see hers. They drank more, shared some thistle and then some Dream Dust, which he'd never had before but it certainly held up to its name. The rest was mostly a haze of light and sound.
And it was three in the morning and all he could think was that he didn't know her name. Thandris? Illandra? Something. He was sure she had a name. But he had drowned his conscience in so much liquor and copious amounts of thistle that night that he didn't really care. It was a brief interlude to his misery, a moment of pretending in a different way. Like it could mean anything beyond the press of their bodies into the sheets. Like this poor recreation of something intimate was anything more than an echo of his past. One he was trying to silence even though it lingered in the back of his mind, haunted him through every kiss and whispered word.
It had interrupted his thoughts for long enough to forget the itch in the back of his throat where that laughter had tried to escape earlier. Real laughter, not the practiced fake sound he could produce at the drop of a hat. But something that threatened true warmth. It had taken him away from that irritating feeling in his chest that told him he cared about what happened to someone - that he cared about someone. And despite how much he drank, he couldn't numb it enough to forget it.
So he did what he knew would shut it off. Even for a little while.
He slid out of the stranger's bed and gathered his clothing from where it had been discarded onto the floor. He dressed silently and grabbed his sunglasses from the table before he made his way out of the home he'd never step foot in again. More than once and it became a thing and he didn't have time for things.
He didn't have time for this to be anything more than meaningless and empty. Because he didn't have anything left to give. To anyone. And this was the reminder that he needed.
She had always found more fondness in the languid river than she had the sea. It wasn't that she was thalassophobic; standing on the beach, facing out toward the vast expanse of blue that stretched to the horizon was awe inspiring. And overwhelming. The magnitude of it amplified everything sensory in a way the river didn't.
Fiorenze exhaled slowly and let it be overwhelming. Wind whipped the Stranglethorn sand against her calves and tore at the plumeria blooms twined into the tangled poof of starlight curls that had fluffed and frizzed inelegantly into a wild mane around her face in the tropical humidity. She reached up to touch one of the soft, five petaled flowers to make sure it stayed secure. They had been wilted when she plucked them from the branches she'd purchased at the greenhouse deeper in the vale. The fresh ones were sealed up in a time-locked box, already teleported back to her rented studio for processing when she made it back to Silvermoon City.
She'd held the fragile, bruised blooms gently in her hand and willed a little more life back into them. They wouldn't last as long as their fresher siblings, but it was thrilling to see them grow vibrant again.
Restlessness caught up to her again. One of her more constant companions. In her distraction to wear it out she had wandered far enough away from the more populated areas of the shore, and that was fine. The waves crashed and rolled up toward her, grabbing at her bare feet before aggressively retreating. There was a literal pull in that as she felt the fine grains of sand erode under her feet. Another one hooked her, too. A bit more figurative, lying firmly in impulse.
Nobody was watching. Even if they were, what did decorum and propriety matter anymore? Standing still felt worse, so she ran directly into the waves. Fighting through the push and letting the pull yank her further until she was up to her chest in a trough with the next crest inbound.
She dove forward into it and shifted into a gleaming white seal. That form was more at home in the roiling saltwater and gave her the ability shoot off into the depths with speed, surfacing only when she needed to for air. It helped, for a bit. Exploring was a fine distraction and kept her further from the many temptations Booty Bay was going to throw at her frazzled mood.
It had, perhaps, been unwise to smoke the entire pack of cigarettes she'd bought earlier in the week over the course of a couple of days before trying to quit again.
After what had probably been hours she turned back on an unguided whim and drifted along until she was close enough to swim parallel to the shore, searching for nothing. As much as the primal power of the ocean and the looming shadows of beasts great and small was unnerving, it soothed her unsettled atoms in a way that was oddly comforting.
When she finally set foot on the beach again, awkward and elven with sopping wet clothes and hair, the sun had pitched low enough to threaten mid-afternoon. By the time she reached the Red Rook she'd be mostly dry, and somewhat normal enough again to do business, with what frayed edges remained carefully smoothed and hidden from view even as the reminder of distant whale song echoed in her bones.
Taking Thursday off school after her mother’s escape had been a brilliant idea. It was the first day she’d ever missed, so no one questioned it. And there was no way she could stand in front of medical professionals in the condition she was in without drawing their kind but invasive concern.
So she stayed home, which meant she was thinking. Thinking was the last thing she wanted. The pain itself was almost bearable, if she didn’t move too much; the images in her mind were not. She couldn’t dance to clear her head, she couldn’t even twist her body without her back tightening. Studying was impossible. Every time she tried to focus on a sentence, memories of the day before intruded.
She thought about anyone she might be comfortable enough to turn to. Then imagined their faces if they saw her like this, the questions, the worry, the pity. The pity might be the worst of it.
The temptation to reach out to Xylaes flickered. She was sure he wouldn’t push. But this was her issue, her history bleeding into the present. Nahi didn’t want him to see the parts she kept sealed.
But she did have one person who had agreed to the one rule she needed now:
No questions.
She had once considered cutting him out entirely. Roland was too intense, too possessive, too convinced he could win her over by force of will. But when he’d told her the truth, that he found peace with her, that she was the first woman who hadn’t tried to trap him, tame him, or interrogate him, that somewhere in those first two days they were together he’d realized that this wasn’t something he felt in a long time.
Where else would a man with centuries of black-market dealings find refuge but with the one person who refused to question him?
Her hand shook when she picked up her comm unit.
~Roland, is your beach home still free for me to use?~
She knew her number was the only one in his device, because she’d put it there. He’d complained, of course. Military-grade, he’d said. “Spy shit.” But after he’d shown up at her door unannounced, she told him to never come by without asking first.
Nahi wasn’t sure he would reply. They hadn’t seen each other since August. Maybe he’d decided she was more trouble than she was worth, or he was waiting to see if she’d reach out first, but that wasn’t the type of game she cared to play.
His answer came fast.
~Hey darlin’, you can always use it, but you will have company.~
~Oh, that’s alright. I can find somewhere else. I wouldn’t want to impose on your company.~
~I meant me. Did you really think I could sleep here knowing you were in my bed there? Are you alright?~
~Bring dinner then. I will bring brownies.~
She ignored the question. He could pry answers out of people, it was part of his work, but he would see for himself when he got there.
Ingredients for espresso caramel brownies were on the counter of his huge kitchen, and was already mixing them when his arms wrapped around her from behind.
Leaning back into him like she had before was what she wanted to do, but the hold triggered the pain in her back. She stiffened and pulled away.
“What is going on?” Rollie’s voice dropped, low and with a hint of worry.
She smelled whiskey on his breath. “When was the last time you didn’t drink a meal?”
Roland lifted an eyebrow, thrown off balance. It wasn’t like her just to snap at him with no reason, she was a calm presence, it was part of what he liked about her. “A nurse in training told me to eat more than I drink.” Moving around the island so he could look in her eyes, “I was meeting with a client, had a drink with him.” He peeled off his long coat, rolled up the sleeves of his black silk shirt, while watching her with a narrowed gaze. “Now what is with the cold shoulder?”
Nahi sighed. It wasn’t fair to him to put this on him. “Got in a fight. I lost.”
“What the fuck? Who is he?” His back straightened and his voice took on a dangerous quality.
His reaction didn’t surprise her, but it pressed down on her, made her bones feel heavy. Her knees wobbled; she felt herself wilting like a flower without water. Moving to her in a couple steps, he caught her effortlessly, like her collapse was something he’d been anticipating.
“Easy,” he murmured into her hair. “I only want you fainting when I’m sweeping you off your feet.”
Nahi let him carry her to the couch, her arms wrapped around her neck. The sea spread wide outside the glass, but she didn’t want to look at anything that reminded her of finding her mother there.
He lifted her chin gently. The scratches beneath the makeup were visible now. His eyes darkened. “I’m not above killing women,” he said carefully, “but I wouldn’t think you’d be fighting them either. What did you do? Seduce her husband?”
A hollow laugh escaped her as she laid a hand on his thigh, not flirtatious, just emphasizing her next statement. “No questions. That was the rule.”
His jaw clenched. “Nahi, you’re hurt. I can’t just let this one go.”
“You will,” she whispered. “Or I’ll go back home.”
That landed. Hard. Rollie ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration pouring off him. “Fine. This one time. But if you come to me hurt again, I will ask.”
Her violet eyes hardened. “Then I won’t reach out again.”
That set him back, she saw it in his eyes. The flicker of worry that she would follow through with it. “Fine,” he said, defeated but trying not to show it. “No questions. How bad is it?”
She sank against the leather couch. “It hurts almost everywhere.”
“Let me see.”
Slowly, he pulled off her oversized sweatshirt. She bit down on the discomfort. His eyes flashed with something raw, anger, worry, a protectiveness she didn’t want.
Irenthalas had healed what he could after he tended to her mother and used his gift to soothe her. It wasn’t enough to take care of all her injuries, so he told her to go to her friends at the Shielded Mind, but the thought of their questions, that niggling worry of them pitying her, made her walk the long way around so none of them would see her.
She wouldn’t lie to them. And she couldn’t tell them the truth.
The hospital was considered, but how do you tell them your mother beat you? If she said she fell, or she was mugged, she would have different questions, likely from the guard. These weren’t the kind of injuries she could pass off as an accident, and false accusations soured her stomach.
“I’ll call in my healer,” Rollie said. “She’s in Pandaria, it will take some time.”
“I have all weekend.”
He pushed her hair back. She flinched even at the softness of his touch. His thumb parted her hair, revealing the scab beneath.
“Fuck, woman,” he breathed. “Anyone would think I sent someone after you to collect a debt.”
Her laugh was thin and brittle. “Can you just… hold me?”
His entire expression softened, all the sharp edges melting.
“Of course, darlin’,” he murmured, gathering her into his arms with a carefulness that made her grateful for her choice to call him. “Anything you need.”
(Mentions of @xylaes and @theshieldedmind)
(Thank you @rolandnaerth for trusting me with Rollie)
Leonardo's fingertips caressed one of the blades in the Dracone armory with affection. Eerie sapphire light from arcane torches lit the circular room, hallways spiking out of the marbled stone in the center like spokes on a wheel. Each was filled with a floating assortment of enchanted weapons so ancient and powerful they sometimes destroyed each other. Elven races had a nasty habit of imprisoning spirits and demons to wield on a whim and the Dracones were no exception. Several weapons lay burned and exploded, molten metal over the shelves below.
Leonardo placed down the dagger and looked at the sword he picked out, raising it up from the table with velvet padding. He was a bit old-fashioned in this way, finding an aged blade of Sin'dorei justice, one that service members used. Killing nobles was not to be taken lightly. Children were rare and their kind lived long. Murder was extra horrific among elves, reserved for the worst traitors. Only those corrupted by the void or malice were acceptable deaths. He put this blade down. It was too clean, too good for Draeth Ven'renn. There would be no honor in his death. His final moments would be so wicked the gods should turn away from the deed. It would have to be so debased it wouldn't be believed at all.
TW: Violence
He sighed, undecided. The Old Ways. Heathcliff's instructions were not made in anger. This was strategy, one he understood. Cruelty would have to be the point. A noise distracted him, a buzzing hiss that moved with desperation and panic. His ears tilted to it, leading him to one of the arcane torches. An elaborate, decorative cage held a burning ball of light and below it, a boring beetle in helpless struggle. The bug was drawn to the light, reaching towards it only to be burned and blasted away. The iridescent jeweled coloring was special. This was a queen, lost and alone. They were a troublesome pest, always trying to gnaw away at the roots of their roses. Manus destroyed them when his attention was drawn but often their slow, sneaky colonies eroded branches over time. An infestation that would have to be maintained as extermination seemed impossible.
Leonardo found inspiration in this, face curling into a grin. He opened the top of the torch cage and reached his hand in but the beetle skittered farther away, making it impossible to grab. He sneered and thought back to his education about this particular beetle, how the queens were unusually territorial and equipped for attack. A consideration occurred to him. He walked to the table and picked up the shining dagger. Angling it in the cage, he watched the beetle see its own reflection and jump on the blade with fury. Yanking it back, he pulled both in front of him and looked down at the hissing creature. It was obsessed with the reflection, oblivious to mortal dangers. Consumed with fury and destroying others like itself while bashing pincers at the metal, its pointedly singular intent never noticed how Leonardo experimented on it. His shadow magic curled into the tiny brain and he made it walk off the blade, falling with a plop to the floor. Insect feet flailed wildly right before he smashed it with his boot, squeezing ooze from all sides.
Itching to have a cigarette, Leonardo waited in the Ven'renn gardens sitting on a mossy bench under the moonlight. There were no guards on nightwatch, there was no money for that. The overgrown vegetation wasn't in complete decay, but neglect whispered of dwindling wealth. The golden windows played a boring scene of dinner, cigars in the lounge, sitting at desks and retirement to read in their chambers. There appeared to be only two men with a handful of tired servants. He cracked his knuckles and adjusted his uncomfortable ass on the freezing stone, waiting. This part was the worst, almost depressing. Leonardo never got the heart-pounding adrenaline before an assassination. Lengthy waits only made him more heartless.
Two lights were left. He approached the parlor window like a banished wraith, peering in. An older man sat at a large oak desk, glasses slid to the end of his nose. He appeared to be writing a letter. Draeth Ven'renn looked almost grandfatherly in his comfortable sweater, the softness of a tiring evening settling into his relaxed face. The elf yawned and still covered his mouth in politeness while being the only one in the room.
Leonardo decided this would need a cigarette, he couldn't wait. Leaning back on the side of the chipping stucco to the side of the window, he lit his habit and exhaled at the moon. Then he started to compose a letter, one that found itself coiling into Draeth's mind, overtaking his thoughts. The mind control slipped in so easy, so clean. The old man was already tired and a few whiskeys deep. Vice made everything easier. He implanted emotions, conspiracy. Draeth startled like he was having heart failure, gripping the letter in front of him and chucking it into the fire. Feverishly he grabbed another sheet, teeth bared and tears trembling down his cheeks. Shaking violently, the man wrote a letter to a general he knew that ran the Silvermoon Command. An old friend. Leonardo danced through his memories, finding delicious crimes and sentiments. It exposed truths and paused with nuanced confession:
Dearest Friend,
I confess I cannot live another day with this hidden madness. I have no more strength to carry these secrets down through my son, to make him take this burden.
For years I have been running criminal operations which have betrayed our people, our purpose and the Horde of Azeroth. You'll find upon investigation of my house a variety of failed operations under the client code name Red Fox. Both my son and I participated in these crimes as the evidence will show, but he must not shoulder this blame.
I have crafted him for this, and he is a victim. My hardness was meant to hone him for survival. I was difficult only to build his resilience to difficult men. If I will be allowed to take the punishment for us myself, please allow him the second chance I never gave him.
Today I will tell him my plans. Despite everything I have done to him, he is still a good man. He will always lead our house to honor and justice given the chance.
If not, may our house become buried by shame, if that's what it takes.
I will be waiting for my arrest tomorrow evening. All property and rights will be transferred to my son.
May the Gods Have Mercy on my Soul.
-Draeth Ven'renn
The vampire yawned this time, despite his cigarette. He flung the nub into the dirt and lit another. He made Draeth seal the letter he wrote with wax and his ring. Leonardo's gloved hand wedged open the window gently to let Eve inside. She flew in and snatched the letter, flying back out the window with her treasure to Silvermoon Command headquarters. Leonardo smiled at the next part of his plan.
He made Draeth write the same letter, then misspelled a few words and smudged it with ink. Staring dead-eyed calm now like an undead zombie, Leonardo squeezed his eyes shut to mind control the man harder. It was horrible being inside this mind. It was dull and empty and nasty. Pure ego and delusion. Boring in the worst ways. Intense with fear and paranoia. He gritted his teeth in disgust. Then he moved the man outside the parlor, creaking slowly in the dark to his son's hanging armor. Draeth's hand caressed the sword and removed it from the sheath. His footsteps were small and soft as he headed back into the parlor.
Leonardo opened the window and grunted fitting through. He almost knocked over a lamp but caught it with a relieved smile. Draeth wasn't regarding him at all, just standing still with the weapon dragged on the ground in the middle of the room wearing his fur slippers. Leonardo reached into his pocket and deposited a button from Roval's cloak on the carpet. It was standard issue, with the Dawnfire house crest. All his servants and guards had such buttons. Then he held the cloak in front of him covering most of his body. He couldn't enjoy this with the man unaware but that pleasure would have to wait. First, the plan.
Taking Rhuen's sword from him, Leonardo lashed at him in several spots, causing lacerations and blood to spatter on the cloak. He was careful not to injury him harshly. His flesh would have to remain intact for the Old Ways. The man made no sound, no emotion. He didn't even flinch or seem to notice. This was blocked from him, as Leonardo's magic soaked with command. Then he controlled him to awkwardly leave through the window, to Eve's crows which waited like executioners on the black icon fence. Their magic easily carried him away like cargo in the night, to the beginning of his slow demise.
There would be no goodbyes, no voice to taunt or explain. No care from anger or spite. Only questions with horror for answers. When one was beyond a Dracone's mercy, there was no honor or grace given at all. You became an asset to be used or bartered with. Whether you lived or died was given to the Gods as offering. It was understood that the god of death was the only one that haunted their shores and Draeth shrieked as he watched himself get closer to the rocky blender underneath the Castle's seaside cliffs. Leonardo's mind control faded with distance but terror only replaced Draeth's mind.
Inked-black protrusions from the roaring ocean froth were made sharp from erosion, the strange rocks becoming more dangerous with time. On a very large one a metal cage open from the top was still standing, rusted but sturdy. Eve dropped Draeth inside and with a flurry of wing and coordination, closed the lid to lock in place. Draeth wheezed with mania, speaking gibberish pleas as he realized what this was.
The view was beautiful. An elegant moon was high up and illuminating every soft cap of wave, every swaying pull of sea. Draeth crawled on the rock inside the cage, shaking, looking up at the shadow of the castle far above on the cliff. He had never seen anything so wicked and beautiful in all his existence. He wept loudly and begged. Promises were shouted to the Gods, curses and pleas. If he only knew how much he called to them, sang misery to their appetites he may have been quiet and lived longer. Perhaps this was the merciful death, than succumbing slowly to the elements. Sitting in the sun baking in salt water with no relief for days. Perhaps one Dracone was still merciful.
He didn't see them until there were twelve around him, beautiful heads bobbing in the water. Draeth gaped in wonder at the women glaring at him with bright, glowing blue eyes. He whimpered in confusion and exhaustion, fear edging into his heartbeat again.
They parted to let someone through. Larger than them all, a huge creature splashed out of the ocean and around the rock, shadowing the moon. The mermaid's tail was long like a dragon's, spiked and flourished with iridescence over ebony scale. From the top up, the soft body of an elegant maiden remained modest behind long, dark shimmering hair still moving like it was underwater, curling curiously, strands glowing with Elune's grace.
The tail was massive as it coiled around the rock and cage, fin slapping the metal lazily like a cat with prey. A beautiful creature accessed him with disappointment. He was far too old for redemption. Whatever wicked thing he had done against the Dracones would never be known to her, but this was the way.
"Gods help me, oh gods stay away from me!" Draeth shrieked, backing up to the other side of the cage.
"I cannot." a silken voice purred at him, a pitiless expression in her large eyes. "You called to us. You called to me. My name is Nesnora but you should think about things you love right now and not that name. You will not need to remember it."
It wasn't over as quickly as it should have been. When Nesnora's tail slid over the cage and opened the top hatch, the other eleven mermaids descended inside with a frenzy, yanking limbs apart and tearing him to pieces. The carnage was absolute and Nesnora did not move while her sisters fed. When only gore remained the untouched heart was picked up in her hands, blood running down pale wrist. It was full of blood and her magic forced it to keep beating, moving nothing but air in the muscle but trying anyway. She smiled. This was an introductory offering for the curious, beautiful red demon that haunted their shores, the one dying to become one of their legends. Her unspoken words would be known with the gift of a wicked man's heart.
Leonardo placed the bloody sword back in Rhuen's scabbard, making sure to flick droplets of blood in the hallway. He dimmed the lights and walked back into the parlor. A note was scribbled to Nubbins on a scrap of parchment:
Need anon report to S.G. of commotion at Ven'renn estate. Reports Rhuen is fighting with his father. Dawnfire men sighted. Emergency.
A knock on the door startled him. He rushed to the window and balled up the cloak, tossing it conspicuously in the bushes. He handed the note to the beak of another of Eve's crows. This was flown to their lawyer in Silvermoon. He hustled back out into the night, sneaking around the house.
Something made his spine freeze. The sound of Mira's voice and Rhuen shouting paralyzed him in shock until he realized he was running, leaping over fence and foliage to intervene. How was this possible? Questions spiraled to no where in his mind as he rounded the corner.
Seeing the woman that opened up so many layers of his heart struggling for her life at the mercy of Rhuen sent him into a fury. All his magic was forced to surface at once as he transformed an illusion of self. Just like Manus. This was the first time he had ever attempted this, and he made a strange noise as he roared behind Rhuen as the visage of Draeth Ven'renn. A boot barraged Rhuen's groin, stabbing pain making him howl with surprise, cry out with fury as he turned around to assault whoever was interrupting. Leonardo kicked him hard in the face, sending him sprawling on the courtyard stones. Leonardo sneered in the guise of Draeth. He looked exactly like him and Rhuen crawled back on his elbows, slipping in the pounding rain.
"You're a failure, a pathetic child." Draeth scolded with cold, fatherly disdain. He glanced at Mira, a deep compassion in his eyes.
"Run to the blue house south on this street. Go now." he commanded sharply. Mira's survival instincts looked intact as she stumbled away after wheezing, coughing for air. Holding her throat, she disappeared into the darkness.
Leonardo didn't want to leave her long. He shouted louder, to wake the few servants and rouse them to peer out their windows.
"This is all over, this wickedness. I will not tolerate such weakness. It is time I turn us in to save the honor of this house." he said with clarity to all that would listen. "You are unworthy, but you will learn what you should be." the voice of Draeth admonished.
"What?! Father?!" Rhuen cried out in shock, unable to understand. Mira long forgotten, his eyes roved wildly on the illusion of his father. "No! What?!" he couldn't manage a sensible rebuke. It was mad, illogical.
Draeth turned around and walked quickly back to the manor door. Rhuen was surprised at his agility, he looked frightfully determined. He ran after him, stumbling and shouting, demanding answers. Leonardo was quicker, and slipped into the parlor and back out the window. Rhuen would find an empty room, nothing but the parlor hearth still popping like someone just put a log on. His mouth was agape in confusion when he heard the Silvermoon Guard knocking on his front door.
Leonardo rushed faster than he thought possible. Sprinting to his horse hidden in an alley, he then rode south and turned around up the street towards Mira. She saw her dark prince emerging from the darkness, bucking to a halt as he quickly dismounted and moved to her. Their embrace was immediate and he lifted her, grasping and kissing her rain-soaked head that sobbed into the crook of his neck.
"Shhh, I got you. I had a bad feeling something happened to you. I searched for your mind and only found anguish." he sobbed back. The feeling, the tears were genuine; the lie was not. "Oh Mira, fuck, what happened? I knew something was wrong. My butterfly. Come let's get out of the rain. The Dracone Silvermoon estate is all ours."
He didn't give her a chance to answer, lifting her on the saddle. There was no trace of them as the snake wrapped his arms around Mira and hid her in the shadows of buildings too tall for justice to reach.
Wiping away the rain from his sloping brow, the orc lets out a guttural noise. The goblin looked up to the grunt with concern. He was scared to ask. Not knowing bothered him more.
“Hey... what do you see?” His voice was just a whisper louder than the rain falling on their tree.
“...Alliance ships.”
Ships. Plural. It had been weeks since their attempt to end the war, and now the tides had turned in favor of their enemy. Alliance reinforcements had been seen down the coast of Stranglethorn. The other day the group nearly missed a patrol of Stormwind marines. Things were getting worse each day. Only two orcs remained from his crew. Booty Bay was a few days away. Even shorter if it wasn’t for the constant game of ‘hide-and-seek' they reluctantly played with passing soldiers. The trio stuck to the low brushes and ferns that choked the sides of the road.
“...We should get moving.”
The rain had begun to chill Treble down to his bones. It was unseasonably cold despite them being in a tropical jungle. Soggy boots and soaked coats wore down their morale. At least for the Captain. The grunts were far more resilient than he was. They did not care about the weather as it reminded them of the jungles of their home world.
Creeping along the muddy trench of the road, it opened to a wide valley with a rope bridge connecting the two ledges opposite one another. Shaking from the constant wind that blew from the sea, it was a shortcut to their path. Taking the long way down into the valley and back up would have been safer, but a much longer effort in the rain. The last patrol had not been seen for hours, and the torrential downpour provided enough cover for brief travel down the main road.
“Let’s take the bridge... Stay low and quiet.”
Treble would take point. He cautiously peaks out from the ferns looking around the dirt path and in all directions. Grey mist and dense jungle from all sides. With the cautious creeping of an alley cat, he climbs out of the flooded ditch and onto the main road, body low to the ground as he inches closer to the bridge. An orc followed, much larger than the goblin but kept low to avoid detection. The troop crawled up to the bridge. Waterlogged planks soaked to a deep umber. The Captain took a slow step onto the board, his weight lightly creaking the wood and tensing the ropes that kept it aloft. No snapping. That is the last thing he needed. Another footstep appraising the sturdiness of the bridge. Then another. Treble was a few feet down the bridge without any issues. The orc behind him now began to follow the same cautious steps. A much louder creak echoed in the jungle from his greater mass. The goblin shot his head back, wide eyed at how loud the creak was. All parties stopped and listened. More rain falls. Minutes went by before Treble continued to move along. The orc followed once more, the next few steps silent. Then another creaky board with another ringing out into the jungle. His breath hitched as his heart jumped in his throat. “It’s okay” he thought to himself. “Ain’t no one out here in this storm. We’re fine. Just gotta cross this bridge.”
A few more minutes of careful trekking and the goblin makes it to the other side of the valley. Immediately ducks down into the bushes once more and pokes his head out to look back at the orcs. The one behind him was halfway down the bridge; the second orc now steps onto that same troublesome plank. Creak. A snap nearby responded. The two orcs looked up expectantly. Nothing. Another long pause and they continued. The first grunt clears the bridge and joins the goblin down in the bushes. The second grunt makes it to the halfway point and steps on the other strained boards. Ignoring the creak it made, a rustle came from the bushes nearby. Not from his group ahead of him. The orc stops and turns his shoulder, looking behind at the palms and ferns behind him. Rain falls, drowning out his deep breathing. He stands perfectly still, eyes wide as if trying to detect something. Another long pause. Just as he turns away, a soft flitting sound shoots through the air. The orc’s eyes flutter in confusion as the arrow pierces one side of his skull and bursts out the other side. The beast slumps over the side of the bridge and down into the flooded valley below; the bridge swinging wildly as the heavy weight escapes. From out of the bushes stalks a shirtless human, rippling in muscles. Heavy bow drawn, a red bandana tied to his brow, and the company of several other humans painted in mud and armed with guns, knives, and crossbows of their own.
“Clean kill Keeshan!”
“Yeah, but there were two others. Bravo Company, cover my six. We’ll leapfrog the bridge. Shoot anything that moves.”
Panic sets in. The orc and goblin begin to shuffle among the overgrown ferns and brush deeper into the jungle. Sharp thorns rake at their clothes and skin. Blood constantly washes away as mud and rain attacks the duo. Another bridge ahead. Damn being stealthy, they were being hunted. Treble darts out and onto the bridge skipping over several planks. The orc soon follows and then the voice of a man shouting out in the near distance.
“Got a bead on them!”
Then the crack of thunder, not from the sky, but from a gun. Miss. The orc was lucky. Clearing the distance, the two race down into the jungle once more. A small river has begun to flood. The two wade through the current, Treble shoulder deep, the grunt only waist deep in the water. Treble pulls himself onto the bank, exhausted and breathless. He falls into mud and sand, lungs desperately trying to reclaim vigor. Another gunshot and then the scream of an orc. A gaping wound marks the grunt’s left shoulder. The green giant’s eyes began to glow red once more, anger filling the meaty head of the savage warrior. He turns to roar out at the company of soldiers as they fan out to encircle the orc.
“Lok’tar Ogar!” belts out from the orc as he charges like a rhino up the bank and into the troop. Seeing a chance at escape, Treble crawls up the shore and down into the jungle, hoping the distraction would last long enough for the man to clear some distance from the Alliance.
Hours pass by. The monsoon that drenched every bit of Stranglethorn continued without mercy. A punishment for the sins of war. Night had come once more to the canopies of the jungle. A lone pillar of carved stone stood vigil across the road from Treble. The grim face of a stylized troll skull peered back at him. Taunting. The goblin half wondered if this was justice being dealt to him. He was a war criminal, not a hero. To drop a bomb like that on countless soldiers and civilians alike. Profiting off death. The goblin way. He nodded lightly in agreement.
“Maybe I was supposed to die... All of this feels so... wrong.”
Eyes burning from days without restful sleep turned to look down the road ahead. More troll ruins. Booty Bay had to be close. He’d labored through all of Stranglethorn for days. Surely his efforts had made progress towards safety. Sleep began to claim his mind once more. No Kaja’Cola to clear his thoughts or keep his wits up. The Captain slumps back against the small palm with broad leaves wilting down over him. A blanket in the hellish rain.
As the chill of unforgiving darkness and flooding begins to seep into his green overcoat once more, a dark figure begins to creep into view. On the side of the road, black combat boots step out onto the road. Crouching low is the same man he had seen earlier that day. Keeshan was the name he recalled. Long copper hair clinging to his drenched face. His longbow kept half drawn as the predator stalked along the road right in front of the goblin. The man turns to face Treble’s direction, the glint of the arrow tip barely visible. Defeated, the Captain reaches weakly into his inner coat to draw his derringer. Limply, he raises his arm, the hammer of the small firearm softly clicking back as it is primed to fire. The human stops abruptly, head turned down looking at Treble. His eyes narrow in, trying to peer into the darkness of the storm and rain.
Green. Palm fronds, overcoat, skin. All blending perfectly in the bleeding shades of green that surrounds Treble. By sheer luck, the soldier could not see what was right in front of him. The goblin's tired, hopeless eyes that stared back at the man, resigned to his fate. Then a voice called out from the distance.
“John! It’s been hours! He could be anywhere!”
The man let out a sigh.
“Copy that, Colonel! Let’s regroup! More Horde to track down in the area!”
The human looked around one last time; the blood red bandana tied to his head is the last thing Treble sees as he passes out.
Ema returned home after spending the weekend with her family. Her friend Rina tended to her chickens while she had been away. Tomorrow was another day, another path set in her life. One, not even she knew how things would go. She needed to check on the sproutlings before retiring for the evening.
A few had wilted while she had been gone, and it would take some work in hopes the tiny sproutlings would make it. Most of the design for her future greenhouse was in the final stages.
Despite the heaviness of this past weekend, her spirits were high. Even though fall was her favorite season, she loved the holidays.
With all of her chores finished for the evening, she spent the rest enjoying the warmth of the hearth, watching the flames dance as she sipped on a cup of hot cocoa. There was a lot on her mind, mostly about her father.
Other personal matters were of the wait-and-see variety. Right now, she was focused on spending time with her father and working until she was approved for time off.
Her thoughts drifted here and there, not really staying on one thing for too long. Despite how tired she had been, sleep seemed to elude her for the time being. She glances over at her com.
Temptation. Forcing herself not to reach for it and instead reach for the book she had been reading. She felt almost restless, with no idea why.
Hours later, she finally felt tired enough that she could get a few hours of sleep before getting ready for work. With the holidays coming up, everyone will be busy. Presents to buy, little gatherings here and there. Parties, and she was betting even more Galas.
Her father had all of his children promise they would spend this holiday season with joy, not sadness. He refused to see any hint of sadness in their eyes. Ema closes her book and places it on the table next to her chair.
After making sure the embers are out in the hearth, she heads up the stairs to her bedroom.
Despite the new start at the Dawnwing estate, there was much work to be done, from masonry repairs to the restoration of the entire interior, not to mention cleansing the place of lingering Death. While its embrace awaited all, it was, no doubt, inimical to the growth of new life.
Luminash signed another work order, rolling the scroll and pressing the daub of crimson wax to seal it, the imprint of his signet–a winged sun, Thalassian phoenix superimposed–upon it. Though guided by new purpose, an emptiness remained after K’aresh; he felt only an echo of himself here, where the walls of reality were so unyieldingly firm. He could not open himself to the infinite cosmos here; he was painfully aware of the body trapping the arcane soul within.
The estate’s study was situated precisely in the center of the second floor, its window opening onto the courtyard below, and through it streamed the morning sun. Although its light offered admittedly pleasant warmth to the magister, he felt like a Thalassian flower wilting in the desert sun over Kalimdor, as if he ought to be elsewhere.
Sliding into the desk chair, one of the few pieces he had managed to salvage from the ruins, he permitted himself a moment to center himself and to breathe. In the back of his mind was Jaskian’s steadfast presence, and around him was the work to be done. He repeated the tasks ahead as a litany against the disconnection he felt.
The sound of a cleared throat from the doorway broke him from his reverie.
“Morning, magister,” Telivathus offered in greeting, “It’s already looking up around here, I say.”
“Ah, Tel. Good of you to come; it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Luminash replied, pushing himself up from the chair. It was not such a struggle, but all the same felt as if his body was dragging him down.
Telivathus eyed the magister as he entered the room fully, taking in the details: a gaping hole in the roof above, a floor ravaged by the elements, the shelves built into the walls broken, and what contents remained resting on the floor. At least the dust had been cleared and the codices and scrolls stacked along the walls again.
“You seem troubled, Dawnwing,” the older man observed, “Care to share?”
Luminash shook his head in response, “No need, Tel. There is simply a great deal of work to be done, and I fear little time in which to conduct my other responsibilities.”
“Such as? You’re a magister, my friend. I am sure no one will mind if you take some time for yourself. You would have the power to simply silence their dissent, no?” Typical Farstrider cheek at the Magistry’s expense.
Permitting himself a slight laugh, Luminash shrugged, “No need for that. It is not about time for myself, but about time for my work. I have a meeting this afternoon at the Spire concerning my report on K’aresh, another with the Reliquary tomorrow morning concerning a manuscript for publication, and–”
“Walk and talk, Dawnwing,” Telivathus cut in, turning on his heel and striding out of the room. In fact, he was continuing down the main stairs towards the estate’s entry hall before Luminash caught up.
“Where are we going, precisely?”
“You’ll find out,” Telivathus said, a mirthful gleam in his eyes, “Walk and talk. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
With a sigh, Luminash continued, even as the two left the house and grounds behind, “I know what your game is, Tel. You think I’m too deep in my own thoughts and need to clear my head.”
A noncommittal grunt and a shrug of the shoulders was Telivathus’ only answer.
“It’s not that, but precisely the opposite, you ought to know.”
A brow raised, but no response. A light breeze ruffled the leaves above as the ground began to slope towards the Eldrendar in the north.
“It’s somewhat how you said you felt after Outland. That your mind was elsewhere, and the body is left behind going through the motions.”
That, at last, elicited a response as the pair began to weave down a sharper slope, “I’ve heard what you faced out there. I surveyed the manaforges in Netherstorm for the Scryers, and the damage even a fragment of Dimensius did to reality itself there was palpable.” After pausing while stepping over a particularly hazardous exposed root, he continued, “And I can’t say I’m sensitive to that sort of thing at all. You, though?” He sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head.
“It’s not only that. Imagine, Tel, that there is a…piece of you, something in your soul itself, that does not belong here, but does belong there.” He shook his head, “No, that is not quite right. That belongs outside, that longs to pass through the rift in reality, to exist beyond it. Now imagine it here. It is like being caged.”
“And yet you’re the one who caged it, aren’t you?” Telivathus’ reply made Luminash stop in his tracks, so fully did it cut to the core of the problem, “Do you truly understand why you did it?”
Luminash remained silent, stunned, but continued following his friend as the sound of the Elrendar met their ears.
“You let yourself be part of this world before K’aresh, and you will again, but you need to remember why. It’s what I had to do after everything I was made to do with the Sunfury, and it takes time.”
As the pair approached the riverbank, Telivathus placed his hand on Luminash’s shoulder. In that moment, a flash of memory: the assault on Tempest Keep, the defense of Quel’Danas, and later, Luminash’s hand in that same position, pulling Telivathus up from the abyss of his own despair.
“It’s going to take time, Dawnwing, but you know where to find me. And your lovely wife is but a thought away, isn’t she?” The older man nudged his companion with his elbow, “Take the time, and it’ll all fall into place.” Luminash scarcely noticed the receding of Telivathus’ footsteps, leaving him alone on the gently sloping south bank of the Elrendar.
For a man who contained memories of seeing the cosmos from the outside, it was such a tiny place, even as the trees, at last healing from the blight at their roots, towered over him, and the river rushed onward to the near-boundless sea. It was so small, but, as the magister settled onto the grass, so was he; and in that moment, the ache of disconnection faded.
This was why.
@daily-writing-challenge
@kharrisdawndancer for Jaskian reference (again!)
