i married in the sun against the stone of buildings built before.
crestfall, kul’tiras | casanova estate | mid morning
Tara Casanova paces her father’s office. The interior of the room is typical for a naval officer’s private quarters - it was large enough to hold company, important meetings between navymen and Alliance affiliates, with a seating area on one end and a heavy cypress desk stained a mahogany brown. Green and gold decorate chocolatey leathers and the warm brown hardwood floors in the form of rugs and blankets.
His desk is meticulously neat, arranged with precise order and definite reason. Behind it, deeply green curtains are pulled back from a large bay window overlooking Crestfall’s northern shore. Tara finds herself planted in front of it, staring out over the tall yellow grasses and orange-green trees. It is the beginning of fall.
Knox Casanova enters quietly. As the heavy wooden double doors pull open, the sounds of jovial celebration dance in from the homestead, the yard. They live in a home too large, too luxurious for the small corner plot at the top of a hill. Any time her father has company over, the occasion quickly spills from the modest coastal garden to the rest of the estate. The party threatens to breach the common area, Tara observes as her father begins to close the doors. Down the hallway, she can hear her cousins chattering outside of the room which she and Leah once shared. Blue eyes continue to scan the surf, snagging for fractions of moments across the plumes of sails in the distance. She does not turn around, at first. No, the blonde waits until he reaches his desk. Knox adjusts a pen to its rightful place.
Around her waist, Tara’s dress shifts as she turns to face him, the lace train catching on the edge of one of her emerald slippers. Before blue eyes lift to meet Knox’s, the blonde dips to adjust the garment, fanning the fabric across the floor with a sweep of her hand. As she straightens, her well-manicured hands clasp together at her front - formal, presentable. Tara observes the way her father’s mustache twists ever-so-slightly, disapproving. She had made some sort of mistake, that was clear, now.
“Your groom is looking for you,” he offers, instead. Her father is just like her - thin, blonde (though silver weaves through the sides of his well-kept head), blue-eyed, tall. Militant. Honest. Righteous. Breathing is difficult in the tight corset that binds Tara’s middle together, fits her dress neatly around her willowy figure. Outside, her cousins come nearer - giggling about the men they would marry. Tara can hear them through the door. “I assume you’ll both leave soon, yes?”
Is he kicking her out? Really? Now, manicured hands slowly slide across the lace bodice of her gown. Today is the day of her wedding. Most of her guests are her father’s associates - navymen and delegates, nobles and servants. Only her father’s side of the family had been permitted to attend.
“Yes, sir,” she responds, chin lifting a few degrees. “Did Leah ever arrive?”
A cannon goes off in her gut. Knox’s brows pull away from each other, rock up toward his even hairline, the edges of his thin lips pull up toward his eyebrows so fast it scares her. He entertains her question like a great joke, laughing heartily.
“No, Leah did not,” her father replies as he comes down from his laughter. “Seems a bit silly, a well-wanted pirate attending an event where many of her greatest enemies discuss the demise of her closest companions and friends. I do not know where you got that idea.”
The tension in her shoulders is broken as she shrugs them, dismissing her father as she turned to round his desk - making her way for the exit. Knox clears his throat. Outside, Tara can hear her cousins shushing each other. Someone is coming. Blonde hair pours over her left shoulder when Tara turns to face him.
“As a gift, I secured your new husband with an excellent position in the Alliance’s military - outside of Tirasian forces,” Knox offers, gesturing over his shoulder toward the window. “There are many conflicts that we face.”
“Where will he be going?” Her question is light, polite, in the event that someone were to enter. She can tell that’s why her father keeps shifting his eyes to the door. Tara’s brows pull inward gently. “Did you get me a similar job?”
She is twenty years old. Rumor has spread across Crestfall that Stormwind’s king, Varian Wrynn, has been kidnapped. Or he’s missing. This far north, the news is not clear. Years of experience in the Tirasian navy qualified her to assist the Alliance in some way, though she seems incapable of securing a promotion that would take her anywhere - no, instead, she defends Kul’Tiras vessels daily from pirates. Something Tara is happy to do, but not without her husband.
“An admiral out of Stormwind needs capable sailors,” Knox answers, smiling with pristine teeth. “Alcott will do just fine. Unfortunately, I could not find you a similar position, Miss Ludovic.”
The name was spit from his mouth as if it tasted badly.
Behind her, heavy wooden doors pull open. Bright-eyed, flushed, excited stands her husband. He is tall, lean, with messy black hair and round blue eyes. Alcott’s lips part wide in a smile when she turns to him.
“Come on, my little Sagefish,” he beckoned, offering her his hand. The ring on his left hand, gold and solid, matches Tara’s. “It’s time for cake!”
