#rp reflections

[vaelanyswow]

A Clue

           He was the only one in the ward. It occurred to him that perhaps it was  a little sad that he often preferred it that way. But there was a peace in the dimly lit and empty building, one Vaelanys was not afraid to break with a soft humming as he carefully arranged boxes of medicinal teas on a shelf and set out a book to make doubly certain the information he'd written on the labels would not be misplaced.

           The task didn't take long and when he was satisfied with the organization of the teas he stepped back to look them over, one soft pleased sigh escaping him. Now, perhaps they would at least not need to wait for him to blend something in an emergency. Closing the door of the ward behind him he wandered down to the office.

           Piles of papers were strewn neatly over the surface and his fingertips drifted over the heap waiting to be filed, before he reminded himself that it was no longer his job. It was the small stack in front of the Commander's seat that caught his attention next, reports from missions he hadn't seen more than the aftermath of, lists and details of those to come.

           He paused, feeling almost guilty for looking through them before he reminded himself that he was Lieutenant Commander here, however little he might feel it at times, and however poorly he fit in with the rest of the Company. He flipped thoughtfully through the papers, one hand on the desk as he leaned rather awkwardly over the arm of a chair he could not bring himself to sit in.

           He paused on a list of commissioned items. Scanning over a list of things gathered and acquired. The dust of a holy man, crystals, ore, he had heard and read about each of those things and how it had been found but at the bottom of the list was a phrase that gave him pause. "The Blood of the Mother." He murmured, and found himself frowning.

           There was a familiarity to that phrase that disturbed him somehow and he picked up the paper it was written on, slowly sinking back into the chair as he stared at it. He hadn't heard it phrased exactly so, but he had heard Thorn speak of his mother and the ink at moments that still made him shiver to think of them. And the first thing those words made him think of was the darkness of the ink and the madness he had felt inside it, the darkness of Thorn's blood.

           Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this was some more innocuous reference to a plant, or the blood of some maternal animal, but Vaelanys could not make himself believe that. His teeth caught at his lower lip for a moment. Perhaps he should mention it to Thorn?

           Just as quickly he dismissed the idea. The Ink was the one point on which he was entirely certain he disagreed with the man he loved. He could ask Kieros what in the name of the Light this list was, and why the Ink was on it. But that thought he pushed aside even more quickly. His last attempt at conversation with the man he was supposed to share the burden of command with could only have been called disastrous.

           Thorn had been upset they even spoke, suspicious in a way Vaelanys couldn't even blame him for when he felt the same over anything that brought the warlock into contact with Kieros at all. He sighed. He liked the paladin, he respected him, but he felt he could no more speak to him than he might have spoken to the King of Stormwind. There were boundaries drawn and he didn't know how to cross them, or even if he should try.

           He could write a note. His fingers extended briefly toward a sheet of blank paper, but in the end he frowned. He didn't have the right words to fill a note, not without awkward formality that might obscure his meaning further behind the scripts he had been taught almost from birth. Perhaps it was best then just to leave it. He set the paper down, pushed himself to his feet, but it sat there at the top of that pile, the phrase taunting at him, reminding him of things attempted and failed and the cold darkness he felt grip Thorn every time he went to the Courts.

           He wanted the Ink gone. He wanted the man he loved free of its darkness. He wanted not to feel the way it tugged at Thorn until he was afraid it would take him away. Vaelanys swallowed. Slowly he reached for the quill that sat nearby. For a moment he only held it, poised above the margin of the paper, thoughts churning uncomfortably inside him. Then finally he lowered the tip to the paper, scribed out one word in his neat bold hand. "Ink?"

           He set the quill away almost hurriedly, chest tight with discomfort over what he had done, then turned and hurried out of the office before he could change his mind and blot it out. @midnight-ashes   @eternal-emerald    @lynxesguild    for mentions

[songofembers]

Mysteries

           It was strange things that troubled Song's sleep sometimes. He had woken with the dream memory of Tanorien's pleasant laughter still echoing in his ears and for some reason he could not doze off again. He lay there for a while in the darkness, staring up at the dim shapes of the silk drapes on the ceiling above the bed, and trying to think of a word for the feeling that kept him awake.

           Neither the word nor sleep came to him. Pushing back the blankets he paced naked into the outer room. It felt as though he should find trouble there, some danger, an intruder waiting. But there was nothing. He was alone with the darkness and the clutter of things he'd accumulated, cushions and trinkets and the bittersweet smell of burnt incense. There was nothing at all to explain the nervous thudding of his heart.

           It was light that caught his eye, a soft glow where there should have been nothing but shadow shapes in the dim light that filtered in through the heavy velvet curtains. His steps were cautious as he moved toward it, intensely aware as he usually only was in combat, feeling the play of air over his skin as he moved, the faint give of soft carpets under his bare feet.

           It was only a bead. But there was nothing at all simple about what he saw. He'd left the string softly glowing on the table beside the bed, and here in the bowl of discarded ones there should have been nothing but dead glass and dim memories.

           Song stared for several breaths before he reached in and cautiously plucked up that single mote of light between thumb and forefinger. It was warm, but there was something oddly chilled in the pit of his stomach as he looked at it. Slowly he turned it in his fingers until he could make out the small painted symbol silhouetted against the soft, steady glow. The spellbreaker.

           He had been dead. Song had seen the light flicker and go out, felt the warmth bleed from the bead until it was cold as ice. And now, days later, the light was back. He was alive. That was impossible. Or it seemed to him it should have been. It had certainly never happened before. He stared a moment more, closed his eyes and held them so until he had counted eight beats of his heart and opened them again, but the light remained.

           His jaw tightened and abruptly his hand fisted around the bead, stillness replaced with a flurry of movements. He lit candles and crystals until the room blazed again with light and color, tugged the map from its place on the wall to spread it over the table and only then did Song pause again for breath and to look down once more at that small impossible glow. He held it again between thumb and forefinger, feeling a warmth that shouldn't have been there, and then let it fall. It hit the map, bounced once and then rolled, wildly at first and then steadily, following an unnaturally straight path until it finally came to a stop.

           It lingered there as though stuck to the paper and Song frowned. "Pandaria." He said slowly. "But you were in Eversong when you died." One more puzzle to add to the rest. He was frowning as he knelt beside the map and reached out to gently retrieve the bead from its surface.

           He had not been so far from Silvermoon in years, but he was already listing to himself the things he would need for a journey. It wasn't just that the Spellbreaker had been so pleasantly useful and he wanted him back. It was the confusion he felt over it, the strange tingle of unease. If there was one thing Song hated it was a mystery that was not of his own making.

@keirik for vague mention.

[heryneth]

Truths

           It was cold atop the wall, and what illusory warmth the whiskey had given him had long since failed. Still, it was not the chill, high breeze that had Nightingale wrapping his arms around himself. Even that was nothing like the icy wind that blew through his heart. He wished that it and the breeze could pick up what was left of his feelings and blow them away as easily as they scattered the delicate petals of the blossoms far below.

           He had given up his secret. His one last hope. But then perhaps he had known for a while now that there wasn't any real hope in it. He could not win back feelings that had never existed no matter who he killed. And in the end the same emotions that had made him seek the hunter's death were those that had made him speak to spare his life.

           There was a kind of relief in it. The knowledge weighed on him no more and he had done all he could to spare him. But with that relief came a heavy sort of grief that made his eyes sting until tears threatened. Nightingale knew what the truth had cost him in the eyes of those he had spoken it to.

           Here atop the wall there was no one to see those few self indulgent tears and tomorrow he would smile as brilliantly and as falsely as he ever did. "You were wrong, Heryneth." He told the man who slept inside his skin. "You thought the right love would make you stronger, but the wrong love made you a fool." A small, bitter laugh escaped him. "But there is no ‘right love’, and we're all of us fools." @taighan-blackfeather   @midnight-ashes    @keirik   for veiled mentions

[vaelanyswow]

Love-lies-bleeding: Has your character ever done something even though they didn’t want to?

           Vaelanys watched the steam slowly curl up from the delicate cup in front of him. The tea looked almost black in the dim light of the lantern, deep and unfathomable as ink, and he blew on it to scatter it into ripples. His hands were shaking now that all he could do had been done, and for a moment the tremors were so intense he did not actually trust himself to touch the cup. Spreading his palms flat on the table, he watched the ripples and the steam and breathed until it stopped feeling as though the wood was jumping under his trembling fingers.

Valstros was safe, as much of the harm healed as he could manage, and tucked safely into a bed elsewhere. He was only tired and shaken himself, no real harm done except to his heart. But the ache in his chest was one Vaelanys wasn’t sure how to bear. He thought they had almost died tonight, he and the priest. No, he knew it. He could still feel the edges of Thorn’s hunger, gaping and terrible inside him, a void he knew nothing he did would fill.

Even now it was almost as though he was hungry himself, and before he had felt the edges of that as if it were his own need. And it had frightened him how close he had felt for just a breath to being lost in it too. If he hadn’t recognized the priest would he have had the strength to hold onto himself as strongly as he did? But even that was oddly not as terrible as finding control of himself and calling out to Thorn and realizing that the warlock’s hunger was almost too great for him to hear. They had been a hair’s breadth from falling victim to it, he and Valstros. He had been so helpless.

Perhaps he had been a fool ever to pretend he was anything else. When it mattered most hadn’t he always failed? And he had failed here. Perhaps there was some selfish part of him that ached as much over that as any of the rest. He had really believed he could find a solution for Thorn. That he could find a way to give the warlock what he needed that wasn’t the Courts and the darkness they held. And after tonight he had to admit that he hadn’t. He couldn’t give Thorn what he needed.

He tugged the cup closer, the movement making fresh little waves rock within. His hands curled around the cup and he simply watched until the little movements faded away and left him staring into ink black liquid. He could see his own face reflected on the surface but in the darkness he could see nothing at all of what lurked in the depths of the cup. Even now he didn’t want to admit there was nothing he could do. Even now he wanted to grasp at straws and threads of ideas and insist there was something he could do.

There wasn’t. He had to admit he had failed. The Courts were the only solution and when Thorn got back he would tell him he should go. A shuddering breath left him and he closed his eyes, unable to face his own reflection and the dark liquid he could see no bottom to. It was like seeing himself drowning in darkness. He almost felt as though he was. His fingers left the cup, lifting to tangle in his hair as he lowered his head to rest between his hands. He didn’t want to face what the Courts would make him feel in Thorn, but the hunger was no better.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered and wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself or to Thorn who was out somewhere in the night sating himself in a way he didn’t want to think about. “I thought I could save you from this. I thought I could save us from this.” Slowly he lowered his hands from his hair, reached for the cup. He still did not want to think about sending Thorn back into the embrace of the Courts. But he knew all too well that sometimes there was no choice.

The tea had stilled to a silent pool of black in his cup. He lifted it slowly to his lips, drank a long swallow of the darkness. This time he was expecting the bitterness that followed the pleasant flavor of the strong blend, but knowing it would come still did not stop the aching tightness in his throat that followed. In the end he left the cup half finished on the table and went in search of sleep he didn’t expect to find.

@midnight-ashes   @veiled-shadows  for mentions

[vaelanyswow]

Gifts and Secrets

           He came in with an armful of parcels to his mother’s mildly disapproving look and a room rapidly filling with winter flowers. Heaping his packages carefully on a side table, Vaelanys paused a moment to watch the flood of servants pouring in and out the room and covering every available surface with delicate gilt and ceramic vases full of the pale blossoms.

           “Vaelanys.” His mother’s voice had that gently chiding tone that was so very familiar he knew what her next words would be before she even spoke them. “I should think you could have taken someone with you to carry the parcels.”

           He sighed. “I could have. But as I’m perfectly capable of doing so myself, I saw no need.” Her silently lifting brows brought more words from him. “It seems to me rather a silly thing that I can come back from Draenor and still be expected to shy away from something as simple as carrying my own parcels upon returning. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           “I’m afraid I can hardly see how the two things are related, dear.”

           “I’ll try to remember to take someone along the next time if it matters so very much.” He sighed, eyes returning to the blooms. They were lovely. The slowly building effect was transforming the room into a sort of winter garden, and filling it with the faint scent of flowers and just the edge of snow. But it was also rather puzzling.

           There was never a shortage of Winter’s Veil cheer in the house, a lovely tree, wreaths, garlands on the banisters, mistletoe and packages, but this level of extravagance wasn’t at all the sort of thing he’d ever seen his mother indulge in. “What’s all this?” He asked after a moment.

           His mother glanced down at the small card she still held in her hand. “It’s… rather a mystery to me I’m afraid.” She said, and suddenly fixed her eyes on him in a way that made him feel oddly uneasy. “It seems that the Baron Ravendarke has gone to what was certainly a considerable expense to send me enough flowers to fill this entire room. But as I would have said we are no more than fleeting acquaintances at best I simply cannot understand his motivation. I rather think it’s been years since I’ve spoken to him even in passing.”

           Vaelanys' mouth went a little dry and he swallowed once, hard, before he felt confident that his face would be nearly impossible for his mother to read. "Was there anything in the card?" He asked, trying not to betray his sudden anxiety.

           "Nothing that would explain." She said. "The usual seasonal wishes." She lifted a hand as one of the servants started back out past them. The man stopped. “Fiyeras, take those parcels up to Lord Sunthorn’s chambers and have the tea sent into the library.”

           “Yes, my lady.”

           “You will have tea with me, won’t you, Vaelanys?”

           There really was no other answer. “Of course, mother.”

           “We can sit in the library and watch the flowers through the doorway.”

            She had already started that way and after another glance at the roomful of blossoms Vaelanys moved to follow. “They are rather pretty flowers.” Though he couldn't decide which of them was the more puzzled by the gift. There was a message in those blooms, he thought, but he was not sure who it was for or how to read it.

            “I thought perhaps you might know why the Baron sent them.” His mother said she settled herself into a comfortable chair and gestured him into the one closest to it. “I had heard that you have been spending a certain amount of time with him of late?”

              He spent a moment settling himself into the chair, careful not to avoid her eyes even if his immediate wish was to look away. “I have.” He conceded, and then because he knew saying too little could be as revealing as saying too much he continued. “He has been a very good friend to me during some very trying times.” It was true. Not a word of what he had said was a lie, he reminded himself, but the twisting guilt had started tightening in his chest regardless. The words might not be lies but they weren’t the truth. What Thorn was to him was something he wasn’t certain he could have explained to his mother even if she had known all the rest of his secrets already.

                “I was not aware you were even acquainted until I heard it mentioned elsewhere.” Little emotion clouded her face or altered her tone, but Vaelanys hardly needed it to be aware that she was hurt. “And I am still not certain that explains why he should send such an extravagant gift to me. It seems rather odd.”

             He wasn’t sure how to answer. There was a part of him that wondered what would happen if he simply told her the truth. That he was in love with Thorn, that he was beginning, mad as it was, to wonder if he could court the man. If he could have what he’d always told himself he could not. He wanted to tell her. He wanted for once in his life to stop lying about his feelings. The weight of the lie was a burden that grew heavier with every day, and he wanted so badly to put it down.

            His mother deserved better than his dishonesty. Perhaps even more than that, Thorn did. If he could tell Thorn he loved him as he knew he did, then didn't the warlock have every right to expect him to be willing to say so to others? Taking a deep breath he parted his lips to speak, only to pause as the maid entered the room. Straightening in his seat Vaelanys watched in silence as the woman settled the full tray of tea things onto the small table between them, and poured two delicate china cups full before slipping soundlessly away.

               "You were saying?" His mother prompted, as she added sugar and milk to her cup. He studied her for a moment, so calm and composed, a lovely woman still, when he tried to look at her as others might. But he could not look at her without remembering how she had looked to a small child being lifted into her arms to be cuddled. Nor without remembering how very fragile she had been after his father and Mandralor had been lost. He never wanted to lose that love or to see her look as broken as she had that day again.

              He added a touch of milk to his tea. “Perhaps he knows how important you are to me?” He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind and then wondered how to make that sound less strange than it had. "And... ahh... wishes to renew the acquaintance so that it might be less awkward if I were to invite him to join us at dinner some evening?" What was he saying? He couldn't do that. Not unless he was ready to tell her the truth he had just shied away from.

              His mother's brows lifted and the teacup paused halfway to her lips. "Of course you should invite him if you like, Vaelanys. I hardly think such a gift is necessary for you to host a friend in your own home." The cup lowered, untouched to the saucer, and she turned a little in her chair to face the open doorway and the forest of flowers that now filled the drawing room. "They are rather lovely, aren't they?"

                He took a sip of his own tea, hardly noticing the heat on his tongue or the familiar taste of the blend. "They are beautiful." He agreed.

             "You have always been so fond of flowers..."

             He turned, a bit startled to find her looking at him with the smallest of creases between her brows. "I am." He agreed, far more calmly and easily than he felt. "But they weren't for me." He reminded her, even if part of him wasn't so certain that was entirely true. Perhaps the flowers hadn't been, but he couldn't help wondering if they had been meant to tell him something even so.

             She looked at him long enough that he took a second sip of tea in an attempt to cover his own awkwardness. "Will you be seeing him again soon? If so please be certain to thank him for me. Though, of course I will also send a note."

             "I will thank him the next time I see him." Vaelanys took another sip of the tea, decided that he had emptied it enough he could reasonably seek an escape. "I think I'll want a bath before dinner." He said, pushing himself to his feet, and leaning in to offer a brief kiss against her cheek.

             "Very well, Vaelanys."

             He could feel her eyes on him as he slipped back out through the flower-filled drawing room toward the stairs, so it was not until he'd reached the top of the of the flight, out of her sight that he dared to stop and look back, one hand slowly lifting to cover his mouth as he finally gave into the nerves he'd been trying to hold in. How much longer would he even be able to keep hiding this? Especially now that he had stopped being sure he wanted to.

@midnight-ashes  for mention (and inspiration)

[vaelanyswow]

“Upsy Daisy”

           The Ghostlands weren’t really thebest place for a rose garden, but Vaelanys wasn’t sure he had ever seen theblooms look more beautiful. In the perpetual evening light the reds, oranges,and yellows stood out, brilliantly vibrant against their dark leaves, and thewhite roses fairly glowed, like a scattering of stars. “Do you likeit?” He asked the man who stood just behind him, shining white as theroses in the dusk.

           "It is beautiful.“ Hecould hear genuine pleasure in the purr of Thorn’s voice and he basked inthe  sound of it as much as in the sightof the roses. He was proud of this. He had not been sure the roses would everbloom. He wasn’t sure it would last. The ground here was tainted with darknessand death and this single brave show of blossom and beauty might be all theroses could muster before they too decayed.

           But for this moment they wereachingly lovely, and the garden seemed to him a small pocket of color and life.Hope. He wished it could last, that he could hold onto this garden and this oneperfect moment forever. Thorn’s hand closed gently on his shoulder and he liftedhis own to cover it, drinking in one more deep breath of air that smelled likeroses and a dusting of snow.

           "Don’t you want to see therest?” The warlock asked, gesturing to the house rising beyond the gardenwall. Almost reluctantly Vaelanys nodded, giving the roses one last sweepingglance. A single red petal fell as he looked, and then another of goldenyellow, and then slowly, silently the petals were raining down, red and orange,pink, and gold, and white. But where they fell all of them were red. Hismovements stopped after those few steps, the hand that had caught his left totug fruitlessly as he watched the petals fall until they had blanketed theground in unbroken crimson.

           The red stained ground heaved,roiling as though something writhed beneath it and all of his momentary joybecame grief and something icy inside like horror as he watched the blackthorny roots of the roses begin to rise like serpents from the blood red sea ofruined blossoms.  The roots lashed,reaching out for him like grasping hands, thorns coming to tear at the leatherof his boots as they tried to encircle his ankles.

           He leapt backward, colliding withThorn’s chest, and gasped in surprise as the warlock simply scooped him up intohis arms. The twisted vines of black thorns followed, but stopped just short ofthe pale elf’s feet, seething angrily, small thorny tendrils questing upwardbut not quite high enough to reach him. Vaelanys stared at them in growinghorror, something tight and miserable and cold squeezing in his chest, thateven the warm strength of Thorn’s arms could not quite dispel.

           He grieved for the blossoms, even ashe tugged a hand up to set it against Thorn’s shoulder as a particularly boldtendril grabbed for his wrist. “I don’t…” his voice was husky andalmost unrecognizable. “I don’t understand what happened.”

           "Never mind, Vaelanys.“The warlock said, turning to walk toward the far side of the garden. Beneaththem the vines roiled and crept and as something crunched under Thorn’s bootVaelanys realized it was not merely seething roots and crimson petals thatcoated the ground but bleached bones as well. The warlock walked over it all,unconcerned, but over his shoulder Vaelanys watched the roots reach for himagain and again, every movement a bit higher, a bit bolder.

           The gate seemed further away withevery step Thorn took, but in the warlock’s arms he felt safe, until the firstpinprick pain started and he looked down to find the thorny vines from beneathThorn’s skin reaching up to twine and prick into his own. They were cold as iceand he pulled back, trying to draw his wrist free. and watching in horror asthe vines only tightened until rivulets of his own blood ran over his fingers,and began their inexorable climb up his arm. "Isolvar!”

           Vaelanysjerked awake with his own cry, sitting bolt upright in the dim light, eyes wideand wild. He was drenched with sweat and moments later he realized it was awonder he hadn’t fallen from the bench he was still seated on. He was shakingand he propped his elbows against the tabletop that had pillowed his head,cradling his own face in his hands.

           He startledall over again at the gentle brush of Thorn’s fingers against his shoulder,looking up at the warlock with shaken eyes. Thorn looked half asleep himself,robe draped loosely around him, dark vines dancing over the pale skin thatshone in the flickers of the lantern light. Vaelanys swallowed.

           "Cometo bed.“ Thorn whispered, bending over as though he would try to lift himinto his arms.

           Vaelanysswallowed again, shaking his head. "Don’t try to carry me, I’m tooheavy.” If he had helped the night before, he knew it was still far fromenough. He pushed himself wearily to his feet, startled by how much he wasstill trembling, and turned into Thorn’s embrace, hiding his face for a momentagainst a sleep tousled fall of snowy hair.

           Thorn’sarms closed tight around him and his own hands shook as they wrapped around thewarlock. For a moment he just stood so, until his lungs had remembered how totake steady breaths once more. His voice was still a bit rough when he spoke,muffled against hair that smelled of snow. “Do you think ruined ground canever heal?”

[vaelanyswow]

Sleepless

           He had been holding himself together so hard that Vaelanys was no longer sure he remembered how to stop.  He felt stiff somehow, hard, as though he'd half become the statue he had told himself he needed to be. His face was numb, his shoulders tight enough to ache dully. And now that there was no one left to see he should have been able to let go, to drop the tension from them, but he wasn't sure he knew how any more.

           He eased the magic he had been working into Thorn to a stop, staring down at the warlock's still, pale face. He still couldn't quite understand what was wrong even if he had found a familiar tang in it. He had almost nothing left to give and he wasn't sure he had really done anything.

           He didn't like what had happened. He thought none of them had. Even Oriole had not seemed quite his usual cocky self. But none of them had felt what he had felt he thought. Except Thorn, because what he felt had come through him. He wasn't certain what the warlock felt hadn't been worse. It was hardly a comforting thought.  Vaelanys swallowed, hands lifting to his face, rubbing hard over the skin as though he could somehow remind himself how to frown.

           Even breathing felt difficult, constrained somehow and he was not certain if it was something he felt from Thorn or if even the muscles around his ribs were too tense to allow him proper breath. Neither would have surprised him. A small sound escaped against his pressing hands followed by a quivering intake of breath. His hands were shaking, he realized as though they belonged to someone else.

           He slowly lowered them to his lap, clasped them together as though it would stop the trembling, but it had only spread. He was shaking now, all over, sudden racking tremors that made him wonder if he could even stand. It wasn't just the odd chill that lingered in him again. It was fear.

           Things Thorn did and said had made him nervous before. Oriole made him deeply uneasy, and he had come once, years ago, very close to death. But he wasn't certain anything had ever frightened him as much as what he'd felt through Thorn. That endless, frigid night, that pushed in on him, black and worse than empty, in which he and the warlock alike were only small frail sparks.          

           He had thought that now it was only he and Thorn that perhaps his control would break and he would cry. Not even for that darkness and the fear that came with it, things too vast to even properly comprehend. But for what he had felt from Thorn within it. He moved finally, slow and stiff, to curl himself on the bed beside the warlock, draping one shaking arm over him to feel the slow breaths that moved his chest. But Vaelanys didn't close his eyes. Perhaps the thing that coiled the fear and hurt the most tightly in his chest was the realization that Thorn had seemed almost frightened too. He wondered if he would ever sleep again.

@keirik     @midnight-ashes   for mention

[vaelanyswow]

Small Emergencies

   Under a cut for length (and Kierylaen’s language).

         What in the fucking nether is going on? It was not hard to guess that Kierylaen had been the one to write the report when that was how it started, the words scrawled quickly but legibly across the top of the sheet. That there was a report at all had bothered Vaelanys even before he opened it. He'd told them to forward them to Thorn's inn rather than home, but the Lynxes never sent them unless something urgent was happening.

           And Kierylaen almost never wrote them himself. Vaelanys slid from the bed with the paper, wincing a little with the movement but his eyes never sliding from the sheet. No one's hurt. He was glad that line had come next. But I want to know what is going on. You're back in Silvermoon instead of here. And this morning something left three dead clefthooves at the front gate. Whatever it was didn't walk up and neither did the clefthooves. Not to tell you how to run your damn command, He could almost hear the sarcasm in the way those words had been scribbled onto the paper. but I think you should be here in case whatever it is comes back. Unless you got more pressing business at a party or something.

-Kierylaen Starblood

           The note was dated the day before.

                                                               ***

           The outpost was never exactly quiet, but Vaelanys hadn't quite expected the bustle he returned to. None of the Lynxes seemed to be idle this morning, all of them moved around the Outpost, busy at one thing or another. They never looked exactly glad to see him, but there was something that might have been relief mingled with the very real anger in his Second's face. There was none of that relief in his voice or words however when the man met him almost at the gate. "Explain what's going on to me!" Kierylaen demanded.

           "First clarify what you meant about the Clefthooves. What do you mean something left them?"

           "I meant what I damn well said, Vaelanys!" Kierylaen seemed as though he'd be content to stand and yell at him in the middle of the gate. "There were three left dead in front of the gates yesterday morning and no tracks where they walked up."

           "What did you do with them?" He asked, starting past the smaller man.

           "Butchered them." Kierylaen jogged a few steps to move abreast of him. "No use wasting the meat."

           "And you don't know what killed them?" Vaelanys couldn't help frowning. The last thing he needed right now was another mystery to puzzle over.

           "No, but I'm sure it was probably whatever it was that carried them up. And that means something damn big. Faelirras had a look at the tooth marks but he wasn't sure what made them."

           Vaelanys stopped briefly in his tracks. "Tooth marks?"

           "It's what I said isn't it?" Kierylaen turned to look at him. "They got the hides pegged out to see what they can salvage if you want to look yourself. But it's just big damn tooth marks."

           He couldn't help that those words set him uneasily frowning. "Show me."

           Kierylaen turned their steps, guiding him through between a few of the tents toward the outer wall. For a moment the small paladin surprised him by falling into silence, but one look at his face told Vaelanys it was unlikely to last. He enjoyed it while it while it did, though his own thoughts were racing.

           What he saw when Kierylaen brought them both to a stop did nothing at all to slow them. He had not realized just how big the holes in the beast's hide would be. "Light..." He stretched out a hand, not quite touching the fur, but close enough to see how his fingers compared to the breadth of the gaps left in the hide.

           "I doubt the Light had anything to do with this." Kierylaen growled, and Vaelanys was unsurprised when moments later the paladin rounded on him again. "Who the hell was that damn noble that came looking for you last time?"

           Vaelanys stared down at him and it surprised him that behind the anger that contorted the Kierylaen's features he thought he saw something like fear. "He is... a friend. But I don't see what that has to do with this." He gestured at the hide and the numerous large holes that marred it, trying to distract both of them from the all too familiar lie he had just told.

           "Nothing." Kierylaen snarled. "But I just thought it'd be nice if I knew somethin' about at least one of the predators stalking around this place."

           "He's not a predator." He snapped and as soon as the words had left his lips Vaelanys was angry with himself for the tone. For letting the paladin's anger goad him into losing even that small amount of his own control. It was worse perhaps that there was a part of him, tight and uneasy in his chest, that wondered if those words were really even entirely true. "He is a friend." He didn't hesitate over the lie this time. "Who came a very long way to make certain that I was alright and who wants to offer some work for the Lynxes. Paid work."

           Kierylaen stared at him. Silent and perfectly still for moments that stretched so long he began to grow uneasy. "How..." the paladin's voice was careful and quiet when he finally spoke. Far calmer than Vaelanys usually heard it. "did he know you were hurt that time? That's what I want to know. We hadn't even had time to send word to anybody."

           That question was far too complicated to answer, and Vaelanys felt that he should have anticipated it so that it could not leave him frozen as it did. He knew it was just a bit too long before he drew in a breath to speak. "Did he say he had known something was wrong?"

           "He knew." Kierylaen's arms folded across his chest and he seemed to draw himself up to the full of his height. "Just how much do you know about your friend? You said he wanted to hire us? What the hell does he want from us?"

           The response hadn't been another question and so Vaelanys let it slide unanswered. "I know him...pretty well, I think." He thought he did. He must by now, now that secrets had been spoken between them he could never have guessed at. And yet he could no longer say it with the certainty the words might have held before. There were too many questions left. It seemed every one he was given answer to only left two in its wake. "He finances some digs out here, I believe, among the Arakkoa. He spoke of help for them, scouting and guards."

           "Do you trust him?" Kierylaen's arms folded all the tighter, fingers clenching on his own limbs and it struck him again that the paladin seemed almost frightened. Uneasy certainly.

           "Yes." The word had fallen from his lips with very little hesitation, though somehow his chest tightened as he spoke it.

           "Well, you're a fucking idiot over a lot of stuff." Kierylaen said. "Should we trust him? And if you tell me yes, you better damn well be able to tell me why." His hand lifted before Vaelanys could even fail to find an answer. "Not right now. Take some time to really think about it. I've got stuff to do and so do you." He turned and stamped off without another word.

           Vaelanys turned one last long look at the clefthoof's hide, the great holes of teeth left in it, and he wondered why there was a part of him that felt he should know the answer to that too. It was a familiar and uncomfortable thought that lurked just at the edge of his mind, not quite coming into the light enough for him to see it. Sighing he turned toward the tent, one hand lifting to his right shoulder as he walked, fingers kneading at the leather over the dragon etched into his skin.

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