24. “Just like I always was.” - For Loti & Raal :P
Loti x Raal24. “Just like I always was.”
@nadiaofazeroth
It was just like the Hexlord, wasn’t it?
Always pretending he was the strong one; always pretending he was the one that everyone was afraid of, even though he was still young, still green. Too green, like fresh grass.
Loti raced through Dazar’alor, amidst the chaos. Civilians fled left and right; she had to help a women to her feet before continuing. Fire swept over one part of the palace.
It had been a while since the blood trolls had gathered the senseless courage to attack the city.
Raal had not been with his wounded Pakura’ai, and Loti - of course - was not going to admit that she was running back toward the fighting because she was worried about her new husband.
‘We couldn’t even have one week.’
The enforcers were doing an excellent job of fighting off the attackers, and Rastakhan, well. Of course the king was there, his magic taking care of the worst.
Loti had to stop in her search to help a small group of children; it set her back. She had to go with the flow of the crowds until she found a brute to take the kids to a safer place. It would take her ages to get to the docks at this rate!
‘… oh Loti, you’re so dumb,’ she chastised herself, finding the nearest bridge. She jumped off, skimming the surface of the water below as she shifted into her pterrodax form. One of the Pakura’ai mentioned they had seen Raal heading to the docks, hexing about twenty blood trolls on his way.
She’d seen the frog bodies. Raal did enjoy hexing anything he could.
As she soared up from the water, Loti grabbed a clawful of blood trolls unfortunate enough to be close to her feet. She flung them to the rocks below, but wasted no time basking in the satisfaction. The docks were mostly clear when she landed. Rastari were making quick work of any remaining blood trolls.
‘Best not to waste their time,’ Loti scoured the area for any sign of Raal, opting not to ask the enforcers if they had seen him. He wasn’t on the lower docks, by the boats, nor was he hiding on any of the vessels. His body wasn’t in the water, and Loti sputtered as she returned to the surface.
The wardruid would never admit that she felt sick with panic.
She was just about to go and check in with Rez’okun when a blast of wind shoved her toward the stairs. Loti bristled, prepared to fight tooth and claw with–
But there was nothing on the docks when she looked.
Blinking, she moved to go toward Rez’okun again, and was once more shoved by a blast of wind. This blow was strong enough to knock her off her feet, and Loti landed heavily on the stairs.
“Pa’ku…?” she muttered, staring at the rocks.
“Wardruid?”
Zolani’s voice pulled Loti from her musings. The wardruid scrambled to her feet, shook her head at Zolani, and took the stairs two at a time until she was on the next landing. There was still some fighting going on here, and Loti hesitated.
“Please,” she found herself whispering, and Zolani started barking orders. A brutish blood troll was giving the Rastari trouble, but a gentle breeze pushed Loti toward the orphanage. She went.
What she saw would haunt her for months to come.
Her voice came out in strangled gasps. She couldn’t speak, and she rushed forward, grasping Raal’s face in her hands. For a brief moment, he was lifeless, head heavy in her palms.
And then his eyes shot open.
Raal grabbed her wrist tightly in his hand - somehow - and gave her the fiercest glare he could manage.
“Raal– Raal, it’s me, it’s Loti,” she whispered hastily. Immediately, Raal gave her the stupidest smile he’d ever given her.
“‘Ello Loti.”
She made a sound of frustration, and quickly thrust her palm into one of the spears that pinned him to the makeshift door on on the orphanage. She did the same to the other, and then wrapped her arms around his chest as best she could.
“You idiot,” she hissed in his ear, and refused to admit that hearing his weak attempt at a laugh brought her comfort.
“Someone,” he coughed, fingers brushing against her back. She slumped to the blood covered stone beneath them. Raal leaned against her heavily.
“Someone had to come back. To make sure the little ones were okay.”
“You should have come to get me,” Loti chastised, hugging him close. She could hear hints to movement inside the building, and the makeshift wooden doors began to pull away.
Loti was beginning to think she should have tried to clean the place up a bit. Frog bodies were everywhere, and not only that, but some of the blood trolls were only half changed. As if they had died seconds before the spell had ended.
The sight only served to make Loti all the more frustrated, “you’re so–!! So–!!”
“Brave? Cool?” Raal offered as children began to pour out of the building. Some of them doubled back, hiding behind the brute who had no doubt been holding up the main door, while others rushed over despite the blood and guts to crowd around Loti and Raal.
“Popular with kids?”
Loti snarled, “no!! You’re stupid! An idiot!! A suicidal maniac!!”
Her accusations were met with a chorus of defences from the kids. Most of them did what they could to wrap their little arms around Raal, and Loti felt him shift against her.
“So… just like I always was?”
Good humor was on his voice. He was smiling against her neck, and Loti sighed, leaning her head over his.
42. “Get them/her out of here.” - For Nadia/Vol'jin
Vol’jin x Nadia42. “Get her out of here.”
@nadiaofazeroth
The Legion was relentless in their assault. It was all Vol’jin could do to keep the calm.
Turning Garrosh’s legacy of tyranny into a save haven had been no easy task, but Vol’jin had managed. The floors were lined with mats and bedrolls and anything that anyone had been able to donate to make the refugees from the Barrens, and from the Eastern Kingdoms.
Hell, Vol’jin had had half a mind to grant sanctuary to any Alliance refugees; thankfully, Varian had been able to scrounge up a safe haven of his own for his people.
Vol’jin paced the halls. There were so many people that had been displaced, and it was all the heroes could do to keep the Legion from progressing any further than they already had, ‘at least this is keeping all of us on our toes. We need to be prepared for anything.’
The warchief paid special attention to the darker nooks and crannies of the old stronghold, ‘we need to be prepared for the Legion to make their portals here.’
These people were the most vulnerable. Vol’jin knew he could never forgive himself if anything were to happen to these civilians.
One of his shadow hunters came to fetch him then, just as he was finishing his rounds. Vol’jin narrowed his eyes, unwilling to leave.
“Warchief, please, it’s an urgent matter.”
He relented, and after passing on the duties of patrolling the underhold to Thrall. Vol’jin’s old friend had impeccable timing, and Thrall took up the duty without complaint.
Upon reaching the hold, Vol’jin saw why he was urgently needed. Felbats swarmed the roof, and Vol’jin was gone from his shadow hunter’s side in less than a second. He raced up the stairs, sprinted down the hall, and drove his glaive into the back of a fel guard that never heard him coming.
Amidst the chaos, he couldn’t find his voice - at least, not to say words. He snarled at the next demon he took down, and given the cold that had seeped into the halls, he at least knew Nadia was safe.
For now.
He would never deny that she was more than capable of taking care of herself. He would never deny that she was a formidable mage, able to summon a powerful blizzard at the flick of her fingers.
But that would never stop Vol’jin from worrying for her wellbeing, especially not now, not when her belly was heavy with the weight of their child.
‘For all I am praised for my wisdom, I can be so Loa-damn foolish.’
The door was too easy to break, and his glaive happily pierced the face of a fel bat that was trying to claw its way through her wall of ice.
Rokhan’s voice filtered through the noise,” Vol’jin!?”
The warchief grabbed Nadia; in turn, she latched onto him. He allowed her the brief moment to hold him - and allowed himself the comfort of her warmth, though brief - and then passed her right into Rokhan’s unsuspecting, but prepared arms.
“Get her out of here,” he ordered, though it came off more as a plea.
“Vol’jin–” she began to argue, and Vol’jin pushed his forehead against hers.
“Please. I’ll be there soon, I need to make sure everything here is good, and I need you to be safe.”
Nadia frowned at him. The battle raged outside. Vol’jin had no time to argue with her.
“Freeze a few on your way down?” he offered, hoping that it would be enough.
Her frown gave way to a small smile, “I can do that.”
Vol’jin’s mouth pulled up at one side, and he went to retrieve his glaive, “I know you can.”
Tereaiah had not intentionally made herself difficult to find, but, as it were, that happened to be the case. Shen’ahjen didn’t find her until the sun was half sunk below the horizon.
“Tera,” he said, breaths heavy, “dis is where ya been, dis whole time?”
She narrowed her eyes at the school grounds below, “yeah.”
Tereaiah sensed his frustration before she heard it on his voice, “I– de next time, could ya at least be tellin’ me?”
The half-elf turned around, letting one leg slide off the wall she sat on to touch the floor. She didn’t miss how Shen’ahjen tensed at her stoic expression. She didn’t miss how he glanced away from her either, and how when he looked back up at her again, he wasn’t looking at her.
No doubt because of the ferocity in her eyes.
“Wat’s dat look for?” he ventured, crossing his arms over his chest. She knew that she’d pull out the other one if she wasn’t careful, even though Shen’ahjen hadn’t told her anything about that yet. She had started to notice that sometimes, the man she was speaking to wasn’t Shen, but someone else.
“I thought we went through this,” she started, staying where she was even though she wanted to grab him by the collar, “I thought we were on the same page.”
His lips were tight over his teeth. Tereaiah took a breath, “you didn’t think I’d find out?”
“Yeah… well…” he still refused to look directly at her. Tereaiah maintained her posture, balling one of her hands into a fist. She didn’t want to scare him, and even though she was a pretty little blood elf with minimal combat experience the orc in her was as ferocious as they came. She had to let the blood elf be at the forefront here, not her primal orc.
“My friends have flappy lips. You can’t trust them to keep anything secret for very long. I don’t need to know how it slipped out, or why it did, because you’ve always been cautious, but mages are experts at reading between the lines,” Tereaiah got up, smoothing out the front of her robes. Shen’ahjen visibly curled in on himself.
The orc in her raised itself to her mouth, “I will always love you.”
Naturally, her declaration startled them both. Shen’ahjen stared at her wide-eyed, while a blush claimed her cheeks.
She proceeded. There was no way in hell she was going to make any half-hearted attempts to take that back, “and I’m not going to leave you just because things might get a little tough. I’ve noticed that sometimes I don’t seem to be talking to you, but I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready, because I trust you. Maybe I’m a little young to claim something so strong. Maybe it’s still too early in our relationship, but my gut agrees, and the gut instinct is never wrong.”
“Tereaiah, I–” she could see the smile pulling at his lips. She watched his posture relax, and she moved closer as the words Shen wanted to say eluded him.
“I didn’ know… you, uh,” he straightened when she grabbed him by the collar, “dat you, uh, felt dat way–”
“Well, I do. The orc in me is um, really frustrated,” her ears flicked, and she tried to pull him down to her, “and the elf in me, well, she’s very flustered.”
“I c’n see dat,” a smirk pulled at Shen’ahjen’s lips. She furrowed her brows at him.
“I can’t argue with my gut.”
“I nevah took ya fah one ta listen to ya gut, Tera.”
“Just because I look like I think with my heart, doesn’t mean I do. I got more than just these tusks from my mother; I got her judgement too,” she tapped her tusks, “and the one time I didn’t listen to my gut… that’s a story for another time.”
“So dat’s why you be… mad at me?”
“Mad is an overstatement,” she loosened her grip on him, her hands sliding to his shoulders, “but if you were worried about things getting tough, I’d have rathered you come to me but um… I also don’t blame you, considering my reaction the first time.”
Shen’ahjen chuckled, and the next thing Tereaiah knew she had her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs around his waist.
“Okay. I… be sorry. I’ll try ta remembah dat. Next time I tink dat way, I’ll tell ya, an’ den you c’n remind me.”
“That’s fair,” Tereaiah agreed, “I’m glad we’re on the same page now.”
Vol’jin had dragged himself through the years. He was as hollow as he felt. Relinquished his hold on the title of warchief because it was too much to bear. Stepped down from his position as chieftain and given the role to Rokhan, opting instead to disappear.
This must have been how Amita felt when she had received the news of his death in Pandaria, but unlike then, this was real. She was gone. No amount of praying or hoping or dreaming or begging was going to bring her back. There was no bargain Vol’jin could offer any of the Loa that would be enticing enough; no bargain that wouldn’t result in one of them being left behind.
Vol’jin wandered. He crossed paths with Jaina during the many Legion assaults, and for a time, they kept each other company. Found comfort in each other’s pain. Found solace in their shared suffering. Both had lost their midnight sky. Both were still alive because of her. The roots Amita had laid still stood strong on the Broken Shore, coiled around the portal spires, breaking them apart.
He was hard-pressed to leave her, but Jaina insisted that she needed more time alone, and Vol’jin only agreed when she whispered, “and you need more time to grieve. You loved her so much. You look– lost without her.”
To which he had replied, voice choked, “she was a lamp unto my feet.”
The two parted. Vol’jin wandered once again, taking the most comfort in Val’sharah. The winding trees, and druidic presence kept him from missing her so.
But the Nightmare clung to him like sweat. It feasted on his pain, revelled in his grief, and once Ysera was slain, Vol’jin had no choice but to leave, and he drifted once more. Illidan was restored. The heroes trekked to Argus itself. The Legion was defeated.
Not too soon after the return home, tensions between the Horde and the Alliance rose again. Vol’jin caught winds of the plans for Teldrassil, and was there evacuating civilians under the guise of a worgen not long after. As lost as he felt without the moon to guide him, he couldn’t give up on his life.
Amita would never forgive him for that if he did.
He had practiced his disguise voodoo until even Rommath could not tell that the new blood guard in their ranks was Vol’jin himself.
Teldrassil’s burning left him weeping.
‘This is my fault.’
He followed Rokhan, and Thalyssra to Stormwind to ensure they made it out safely.
‘This is my fault.’
He stowed himself away on the boat to Zandalar, always keeping himself just out of sight, refusing to reveal himself when Talanji’s Loa informed her that a powerful shadow hunter lurked in the darkness. She had called out to him. He merely shrunk back further.
Once again, he wandered. He explored Vol’dun, helping wayward heroes where he could, regardless of their faction. He avoided Bwonsamdi like the plague in Nazmir, forfeiting sleep in favor of not having the angered Loa descend upon him in his dreams. Avoiding the Loa of Death in his waking hours was difficult enough.
Vol’jin was there when Rezan fell.
And he was there when the Zandalari discovered new worshippers in their midst. They had descended on Dazar’alor in a fervor. Two had morphed into dragons, fending off Mythrax tooth and claw alongside the Loa themselves, and their efforts were not in vain. Even if the huge being had managed to destroy the third seal, Mythrax fell.
Others still tended to the fallen, and when Talanji and Rastakhan attempted to have some questioned, they disappeared as silently as they had arrived.
“Please, Vol’jin, if there be anyone who can be finding a new Loa, it be you.”
“… what makes you be saying that, Rokhan?” Vol’jin inquired, running a whetstone along the length of his glaive.
“Because I know you. Don’t go thinking that ol’ Rokhan doesn’t know you’ve already been asking around,” Rokhan offered Vol’jin a lopsided smile when the red haired troll finally looked up at him.
For a while longer, Vol’jin was silent. He’d been asking around, yes. The best information he had gotten was from the trolls in Zeb’ahari. They’d come across the temple before, hidden away in the mountainside, beneath a massive waterfall - at least, part of it was. The water cascaded from the top of the mountain, to the roof of the temple, and over the sides - or so they claimed.
They had also claimed that there were already guards stationed there, dressed in luxurious silks, brandishing glaives and scythes with dragon motifs. Their armor included more dragon motifs, along with floral ones.
Particularly the peony.
It had taken every ounce of Vol’jin’s self control not to run blind into the mountains to try and find this hidden temple himself.
But, he had refrained.
“They say the Loa is called Mother of Triumph, or Bringer of Forgiveness,” Vol’jin found himself saying, and he tried to hide the shake in his hand by continuing to sharpen his blade, “or Loa of the Exploited and Overburdened, or Loa of the Purposeless…”
Rokhan scrutinized Vol’jin as he trailed off, and soon prompted, “or…?”
“Moon Dancer.”
It sounded so strange rolling of his tongue. Moon Dancer. Moon Dancer.
The shadow hunter would be a liar if he claimed that he had not made an attempt to try and contact this new Loa the very evening he returned to his quarters in Dazar’alor.
He had been terrified, and right as he had felt the familiar pricks of a more powerful being trying to make a connection, he panicked. Opened his eyes. Sat upright, and once again, refused to sleep.
“Vol’jin…” Rokhan’s voice was filled with trepidation. Vol’jin shook his head.
“Go find it.”
“I–”
“At my behest, as chieftain of the Darkspear,” Rokhan interrupted. Vol’jin knew that twinkle in the older man’s eyes. The hope. The eagerness;
“Go find the temple.”
The trek was arduous. One of the witch doctors in Zeb’ahari had told Vol’jin that she had anticipated his return, and gave him far too specific of directions for this new Loa to be some kind of hoax. Along the way, Vol’jin encountered Zul fanatics.
Apparently they too were looking for this new Loa. Vol’jin had barely managed to avoid detection by a patrol group, and he listened in on their conversation.
“Relatively new.”
“Should be weak, easy to corrupt.”
“Easy to break.”
“Has already amassed an impressive following; her worshippers should not be trifled with. We’ve already lost two scouting parties to the ones that call themselves Dreadnoughts. The dragons.”
“Did you hear? One of them is truly a dragon, from the blacks.”
“I heard there were others. One from the greens, and one from the blues.”
Vol’jin opted to sneak past the camp that evening. Engaging them, he felt, would be foolish. He was too exhausted by his self-induced insomnia, and they were all sleeping soundly.
Unfortunately for Vol’jin, just when he had found what looked to be a hidden path - as described by the witch doctor - the fanatics caught up with him.
For a moment, the lone shadow hunter and the group of trolls stared at each other. Vol’jin was too distracted by his discovery to be immediately aware of the danger he was in, and the group was too shocked at his presence to make any attack.
They recognized him.
Vol’jin, of course, was uninterested in combat. He bolted up the narrow pathway instead, holding onto his swift serpent form as long as he could.
Arrows pelted the ground around him, and one went through his arm when he was forced back into his troll form. The path went on. He dropped his serpent totem, and paused only long enough to send off a few arrows of his own. One Zandalari he felled with a powerful blast of lightning magic - and then he was on his way again, weaving left and right, ducking into the jungle, trying to lose them.
He found his way back to the path, sliding under a broadsword. Vol’jin glowered at the troll that had swung the weapon - but instead of doing anything, Vol’jin continued on his way along the path. It twisted and curved, and the further along he went, the darker it became.
And now, as Vol’jin continued to evade arrows and other attacks, he could hear the distinct roar of a waterfall.
He faltered.
Arrows pierced his flesh. Vol’jin stumbled forward, barely feeling the pain.
Wind and gravel kicked up around him, and the shouts of the trolls pursuing him turned to cries of fear.
Obvious dragon feet wrapped around Vol’jin’s torso, and whisked him away, while another released a ferocious battle cry that clung to the leaves. Vol’jin was deposited gently onto the ground right in front of what looked to be the temple entrance. He stared at it, noting all the flowering bushes - roses, and peonies, specifically.
Not plants that normally grew in the lush jungles of Zuldazar.
The sounds of a swift battle was lost in the deafening roar of the waterfall.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dragon-esque being that had been carved of stone, undulating atop the temple roof. Moss, and star flowers covered much of the rock that made up the entrance - both varieties of star flower, Vol’jin noted.
A Kul Tiran human and Zandalari stood guard at the entrance, their armor radiant golds and silvers and oranges and pinks. Further in, Vol’jin could make out a dark doorway, and such a variety of races that he wasn’t even sure he could name them all in his current state of mind.
One individual was approaching swiftly. Vol’jin stared at him blearily, then leaned forward, eyes narrowed as a dragon flew over his head. Naturally, the dragon shifted to their mortal form and–
Vol’jin had thought that the fanatics were rumor mongering when they had said one of the followers was a black.
This many had the tell tale signs. Bright red eyes. Black scales. His armor reminded Vol’jin of Pandaria. Mystical dragons coiled around his arms, fading in and out. The mortal form he chose was a dark skinned blood elf - or perhaps Vol’jin should say high elf.
“Vol’jin!”
The other man that had been approaching, the shadow hunter found he recognized, “Zelun’jin. Never though’ ya could be making all dem colahs work.”
The younger troll scowled at him, then proceeded to begin breaking the points off the arrows that had gone through Vol’jin.
“What brings you here?”
Vol’jin narrowed his eyes at the black dragon, choosing not to answer, if only because growls escaped him as Zelun’jin worked to remove all of the arrows.
“Odaniar,” the black dragon continued, unperturbed, “Dreadnought of the Moon Dancer. What do you seek - what sent you to us?”
Vol’jin rose to his feet, shrugging off Zel. The other followers seemed content with letting Odaniar deal with this newcomer - either that, or they knew better than to come between a black and their prey.
‘Which I certainly consider myself to be. Can never trust a black,’ and Vol’jin shook his head, “I be here at de behest o’ de Darkspear chieftain.”
“Is that not you?”
Vol’jin flinched, “no.”
Another obvious dragonkin came up alongside Odaniar - but her scales were blue, and her horns were more prominent. She gazed at Vol’jin with worry in her eyes, “you are seeking. You would not have come here for any other reason.”
“I be directed.”
“Asking directions is a requirement when one seeks what would rather not be found,” Odaniar said. His bright eyes were pinched inward, “you are missing something.”
“You be seeming ta know a lot about me,” Vol’jin snarled, frustrated, “so I’d be appreciating it if you stopped beating around the damn bush, Odaniar.”
Odaniar exchanged looks with the blue next to him.
Finally, he spoke;
“You are the sun.”
Vol’jin felt his heart drop into his stomach. He was sure the shock was written all over his face.
“And the moon has been missing from your sky.”
Moss dressed the dark halls. Starlit roses decorated the path, offering guidance to those that walked. Odaniar had moved, and Vol’jin had followed.
Small lights hung, high and low, throughout the final chamber Vol’jin had been led to. Of course Odaniar had pointed out various other paths: “this hall leads to the followers chambers, above and below us”, “this one leads to the kitchens”, “this one leads to the herb gardens outside, and that one leads to the alchemy stations”, “the room we left was for worship and offerings, I should have informed you of that sooner”.
But this chamber. Vol’jin was afraid to look around. All the lights looked like stars suspended in a sky of moss. He recognized many of the species of trees as the ones from Suramar, and despite being so deep in the mountain side, the chamber was warm. Water trickled from somewhere, into a pool.
Vol’jin would have sought the pool, but the figure lying on a bed of flowers before him demanded all of his attention.
The Loa sat up.
She smiled lovingly at him.
“Hello, sunshine.”
Hot tears streamed down Vol’jin’s face. He sunk to his knees, heaving broken sobs into his hands. Her hands were soft when they came to cover his.
“Leave us,” Amita’s voice was gentle.
There was so much Vol’jin wanted to say, but he couldn’t find his voice. Footfalls went further and further away, and Amita pulled Vol’jin’s hands from his face.
“Ami–” he began, but she silenced him with her lips.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his mouth, “I wanted to tell you, I was so excited when you be tryin’ to reach me that one evenin’. What be scarin’ you?”
“That it might be true,” he admitted, “that it - this might actually be you.”
“It be me, sunshine,” Amita purred, nuzzling her nose against his. She pulled him to her bed of flowers, and Vol’jin couldn’t stop a short laugh from escaping him. As she had at her home in the Barrens - the place he now called home, refusing to let anything happen to what Amita had worked so hard on - Amita had pillows and cushions and blankets to lie on.
“I want you,” she groaned, tangling her legs with his. Vol’jin slid his hands under her sheer, iridescent top. He’d hardly given himself the time to admire what Amita was wearing, and though she giggled at him and his eager hands, she grasped his wrists and brought one hand to her face.
“Not here, bal’a; not in my temple. If I be requirin’ it of my followers, then I best be an example.”
Vol’jin had to chuckle.
“You be dedicated.”
“I be.”
“Have the… other Loa been giving you troubles?”
“Rezan be advisin’ that I be focusin’ on buildin’ my temple first. As I be mentionin’, I be wantin’ to see you. The moment I be findin’ out I be a Loa, I wanted to test how far I could be goin’, but after the events of the Broken Shore, I be too new to be leavin’ Zuldazar.”
“So you be here this whole time?”
“This whole time,” her eyes danced like the stars in the night sky, “make me your Loa, Vol’jin. Be mine; be my champion.”
Vol’jin’s mind swam, “you be asking much of me, Moon Dancer.”
Amita beamed, unrelenting, “be my night warrior.”
His eyes widened at this, “a night warrior? But that–”
She pressed a finger to his lips, eyes glimmering with mischief, mouth pulled up in a smirk.
“Who do you think made me a Loa? Or did you forget, Vol’jin of the Darkspear, that I be a druid, and that we all shared a goddess?”
Vol’jin inclined his head to Amita’s shoulder. She carded her fingers through his hair.
“Vol’jin.”
“Hm?”
“I am always yours,” she ran the back of her nails along his cheek, “and you are always mine.”
“Always,” Vol’jin agreed, wrapping his arms around her waist, “but when can I be having you?”
“Whenever you want,” she shifted against him, pressing her lips to his forehead, “I be needin’ to make my presence known in Dazar’alor. I be strong enough now.”
“I suppose being your champion also be meaning I’m your speaker?” he questioned, and Amita shook her head.
“No, that be for Landrida - she be a green. You be brought here by my black, and blue - Odaniar, and Ulriegosa. Landrida presents herself as a Zandalari. She be with new worshippers.”
“I have so much I be wanting to ask you.”
“I have all the time in the world to be givin’ you answers, heaven.”
Vol’jin pressed his face harder against Amita’s neck, “I believe you be heaven, moonlight.”
“Ahh, there it be,” she purred, running her fingers through Vol’jin’s hair once again, “and if I be heaven, you be earth - but, you will always be my heaven, Vol’jin.”
She pushed him onto his back, and laid on top of him, “tomorrow, we go to Dazar’alor. I be takin’ my place among the other Loa, and if Bwonsamdi wants you, he has to fight me.”
“Amita, I don’t be thinking that be wise.”
“It be okay. I’ll just be eatin’ him,” she grinned when Vol’jin laughed.
“Tomorrow.”
“I can–”
“Time for the sun to rest, Vol’jin. Sleep. I will be keepin’ you safe.”
(( I also borrowed @lolygagger ’s bby Zelun’jin for this to make a brief appearance. ))
Sylyn x Vando49. “It doesn’t matter to me though.”
@bluedoodles
“Don’t you care about what others will think of you?”
Sylyn narrowed her eyes, looking up at her large companion. Vando’s expression was stoic. Not unlike how it normally was, but… they were on a date. There was no reason for him to have such a cold expression.
“What do you mean?” she asked in response, hoping to understand more of where he was coming from. A smile pulled at his lips, but it was pained.
“Being seen with the likes of me,” Vando clarified, “don’t you care what they will think?”
Sylyn frowned, “why should I?”
“I’m a death knight. I leave nothing but suffering in my wake. People have lost countless loved ones to us, and were not eager nor pleased to know that we were walking in their ranks, or amongst their city. My presence alone can be a trigger enough.”
“It doesn’t matter to me, though,” Sylyn hissed, grabbing his hand in a fierce grip, “it never mattered to me. I don’t care if people don’t like it, because I like you.”
She reached up to grab his neck, and he gave no resistance when she jerked his head down to her level. He wouldn’t look at her, and Sylyn retaliated by pressing her lips to his, right there in the open.
Because she really didn’t care, and she would do whatever she needed to in order to prove that.
“I don’t care, Vando,” she squeezed his hand, and his eyes seemed to shift to her, “you’re not the death knight the lich king made you. You’ve become something else, for the better.”
Vando leaned his head against her shoulder, “I can’t say that I deserve you, Sylyn.”
“Whether or not you deserve me doesn’t matter either, because the only thing that matters, is that I want you,” she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding his head to her shoulder. She couldn’t stop the purrs as they started to rumble in the back of her throat, “do you want me?”
Vando’s chuckle reverberated through her chest as he finally wrapped one strong arm around her.
49. “It doesn’t matter to me, though.” - For Nadia/Trigon :D
Trigon x Nadia49. “It doesn’t matter to me, though.”
(( This one got long so I need to put it under a cut! ))
Trigon let his dagger dance between his fingers. It poured outside, heavy drops of rain tearing through the canopy of trees.
Then again, it always rained in the Crying Grove.
Maps were strewn about in front of Trigon. Chalk, charcoal, and pins were scattered around as well, and most of the maps were weighed down by books.
Or bodies, considering Trigon’s Azerothian companions had been up through the night with him trying to sort out the portal issue, even though that’s not what they did at all. The advisor despised the fact that they’d been forced to come to Ether. He despised that Khadgar had insisted, and despised further that Jaina had insisted, because of course that meant that Nadia had to insist.
He’d had enough trouble as it was keeping the dark haired woman out of his hair ever since she’d discovered just what Trigon, and Khadgar were trying to keep from her.
And so, here they were, hunting down one of the portals from Ether’s side.
‘At least, that had been the plan,’ Trigon rose to his feet, twirling his dagger some more, ‘somewhere down the line, they forgot why we even came here. There isn’t a portal in the Grove–’ he sighed, shaking his head, and stepped out into the rain.
There was a portal here - it simply wasn’t one of the ones that had been open. Beltanes had a strong presence in the Grove, and beneath the rocks, and trees, were lake-dwelling merfolk. In fact, a glance up into the trees informed Trigon that many of the kitsune that proweld the Grove were sitting amongst the branches, watching. One was clearly visible, bright flower pink fur against the lush green and blues of the grove, three tails flicking to and fro. Her companions were invisible to the naked eye. Trigon only knew of their presence by the slight rustle in the leaves every time they moved.
He only hoped their curiosity wouldn’t encourage them to get any closer, ‘the last thing I need is for these fucking mages to take them as another excuse to extend our stay. I know that my people are over on Azeroth now, helping with the remaining portals, but this was not the time for a fucking expedition to Ether!’
In his frustration, Trigon whipped the dagger in his hand at the nearest tree. The thunk it made was muffled under the rain.
Right next to his dagger, another kitsune appeared. Unlike the pink one, this one had all nine tails.
An older one, then; perhaps even one of the high guards. The Beltane would always ensure one of their high guards was present if anyone ever entered the Grove.
‘And while one high guard isn’t enough to deter the Bane, the Beltane won’t sit idly by - none of us would. That’s why none of the portals in any of the major cities or towns were opened, and that’s why they’re so difficult to find from our side,’ Trigon raked his hand through his hair. The rain impaired Trigon’s vision somewhat, but this kitsune was black, and brilliant teal. Their tails swayed from side to side.
They shifted to their humanoid form, eyes as black as their skin - or in this case, his. Trigon watched, ear flicking. No one inside the old house stirred, though the kitsune that surrounded the area shuffled around in the trees. Several dropped down, allowing Trigon the briefest moment to see them before they encased themselves in camouflage once more.
“It does not normally rain this hard in the Grove,” the kitsune mused, wrapping his long fingers around the hilt of Trigon’s dagger.
“I was wondering about that,” the troll replied, crossing his arms over his chest. The cold metal of his own weapon was soon pressed along the underside of his chin, forcing him to tilt his head back. The kitsune’s eyes were narrowed - and with a flick of his wrist, had the dagger down by his side. Trigon rolled his shoulders.
“Eldravo,” the man introduced, sheathing Trigon’s dagger where it belonged before raising the hand he’d held the weapon in to gesture to himself, “there is a storm above us.”
“Have you sought me out for a reason, Eldravo?”
“Yes. The Summer King received word that your presence is needed back on this place they call Azeroth. It took some time for the sprites to find you.”
If it weren’t raining so hard, Trigon was certain that a bead of sweat would have rolled down his forehead.
“I and my foxes were tasked with escorting you to Weave,” Eldravo looked around Trigon at the house, “you, and your…. companions.”
“How long?” Trigon found himself asking, voice barely audible over the rain. Eldravo shook his head,
“A week and a half.”
Trigon’s scars flickered: brilliant orange to black, and a furious snarl fought to escape the confines of his chest. He stormed back to the house, which was now covered with kitsunes, some in their humanoid forms. Trigon wasted no time in roughly shaking Khadgar awake.
“Wh– uh ah oh! Trigon–”
“Get up. We have ta go, now,” Trigon hissed, pointing at the doorway where Eldravo now stood, “the Summer King sent one o’ his own royal fuckin’ guards ta find us.”
“You,” Eldravo corrected, “specifically. Your companions were an afterthought.”
Khadgar stared at Eldravo, fascinated, but when Trigon cuffed the mage’s shoulder he snapped out of his stupor. Stooping, he hurriedly began to collect the maps and books and other articles off the floor. Eldravo observed for a moment, then strode in to assist.
Trigon grabbed Jaina, jerking her to her feet. She was barely awake, and Trigon spent only a second longer steadying her before jerking Nadia to her feet as well.
“I was having a–”
“I don’ have fuckin’ time fah ya sass right now, Nadia!” Trigon interrupted, dragging her toward the door, cursing repeatedly under his breath. He shoved her into the nearest kitsune, and turned to Eldravo, “you bring them, I’m going ahead.”
The high guard nodded, then released a series of yaps and hisses. Trigon turned; he knew where Weave was, getting there wouldn’t take him long.
‘A week and a fucking half.’
He didn’t take too kindly to it when someone grasped his cloak tightly.
Every scar lit up, as did the interior of his mouth, and the roar he released - right into Nadia’s face, no less - sent a shockwave through the rain. It was quiet around them for several seconds before the rain filled the space again.
“De kitsunes will bring you ta Weave. I’m going, ahead,” Trigon spoke through his teeth. Nadia stared at him with wide eyes - frightened, yes, but it was mostly shock. He wasted not another second, and raced off through the trees.
Not too far into his race did a pixie begin to dance ahead of him. He followed. The small fae led him right to Weave, and the guards at the gate pointed toward the spire. Trigon went.
The second his foot touched the tile of the spire, the portal ahead of him flickered to life. His mind pricked painfully, but he let the portal master in, for that brief second, to show her Dalaran.
It was all the woman needed. Her portal flickered to life, and Trigon was gone.
He landed in the meeting room, where he found Varian and Vol’jin. The human was pacing.
“We–”
“Been tryna’ find me, I know - tell me wat’s goin’ on.”
“Dere’s some Bane commandah here,” Vol’jin began, grabbing Varian by the shoulder to stop him from pacing, “he don’ be wit’ a battalion, he be traveling alone–…. Trigon, I don’ be tinking dat I like how pale ya be.”
The assassin had to sit down at the nearby mapping table, eyes wide. Blood had drained from his face. He stared at the map, stared at all the pieces, hardly heard Vol’jin and Varian as their concerned words became a drone in Trigon’s ear.
“Who do I be havin’ on de field, right now.”
“Shayon and his druids. Daydream at Night and the third company, that you put him in charge of, are out as well.”
Trigon spat a flurry of curses under his breath, gaze hyper focused on the table as the map came to life before him. He could see his people moving; they marched, and sprinted over Azeroth. Thirty portals had been opened, five were closed, and only five battalions had been forced back to Ether. There were still twenty-five battalions here, still twenty-five commanders, and - gods, Trigon didn’t even want to think about it - five hundred elites, accompanied by thousands of troops.
It didn’t sound like a lot, but when the elites were as powerful as - if not more powerful than - the heroes of Azeroth, and the commanders were people even ten heroes couldn’t hope to fight together, the small amount was enough to cause Trigon great distress.
“Who else?”
“Timbah’s military squad, as well as de high elven king, Ecodo of House Ensorcell. Ya also have de ninth, an’ twelfth companies here,” the warchief fell silent while Trigon’s mind raced.
“Cardinal is in Stormwind with his own contingent of druids, who are accompanied by several na– sea gypsies, and rub’ al khali.”
Trigon’s thoughts stopped.
Cardinal.
Stormwind.
Khadgar, Nadia, and Jaina stumbled through the portal as Trigon lurched to his feet, “where did ya last see dis lone commandah?”
“He was in the Eastern Kingdoms,” Varian replied, while Vol’jin held his hand up to the mages as various questions poured past their lips.
“Stormwind is in de Eastern Kingdoms…” Trigon muttered to himself. Jaina shoved past Vol’jin.
“Trig–!!”
She released a sharp gasp of pain when Trigon gripped her tightly by the shoulders, “send me to Stormwind, now!”
“Trigon, what–”
“DO IT!”
Perhaps it was the fear in his eyes that made Jaina act. She touched glowing hands to his chest, before Nadia could get so much as a word in, and Trigon was standing in Stormwind seconds later.
It was utter chaos.
He grabbed the nearest druid, barking orders, willing a memory of Stormwind’s map to come to mind. A rub’ al khali sprinted to him, announcing that the safest district was the Mage Quarter, where Trigon currently was. He instructed the woman to spread the word to her fellow Etherians, and then raced toward the keep.
Most of the Etherian nagas were in their snake forms, bearing as many people as they could. Two lay dead, surrounded by human corpses. Trigon assumed that the ones who were still alive from whatever they had suffered had already been born away by his troops.
There was only one commander who travelled alone.
He was aptly named God Killer.
Trigon knew he was after Cardinal - the Arachnaea druid was one of the biggest threats to the Bane army, and if he was in a city, he was less likely to fight to his full capacity. As a therian druid with the nature affinity, it would be too easy for him to mistakenly level Stormwind in his efforts to defend himself. It had happened before. Not many had survived. The incident haunted the Arachnaea for decades.
Stormwind keep was encased in vines. Trigon could hear Anduin screaming from inside, and caught the barest glimpse of the priest’s hands trying to reach through said vines.
Cardinal was bloodied and bruised, barely holding himself upright. He stayed just out of Anduin’s reach, and God Killer was slowly ascending the stairs. Based on the blood splattered across the grounds, and the still twitching spider legs that lay scattered in bits, Cardinal had retreated to the keep not too long before Trigon arrived.
He didn’t know if the lieutenant general would survive another blow. Blood poured from the lower part of his face, implying that his jaw had been cut in half.
Trigon wasn’t sure he’d survive one.
Regardless of the outcome, Trigon was between God Killer and Cardinal before either could blink.
The templar was startled, but already swinging his broadsword.
It was sharp. It cut into Trigon’s armor, biting into his skin and muscle and his body barely had time to respond - but it did. He was sent careening into the nearest building, breaking every inch of the front wall. His head raged, vision dark, ears ringing.
Cardinal’s howl of fury was piercing. Trigon gasped against the rocks, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t get a proper, full breath.
He could pick up on other sounds: Anduin’s yelling had joined the fray of noise, and Trigon shakily raised a hand to his side. By the Great one, his arm was like jello. It took him several tries before he was able to touch his wound.
Under his fingers, he could feel the parasites that made up his armor moving. The fibers had yet to come together fully; the trauma from the blow was greater than Trigon had anticipated. He walked his fingers along the cut. Around him, sounds of conflict continued. A familiar swell of magic sent his heart into a panicked rhythm, and he lurched off the broken bricks, only to collapse to the ground.
‘Get up, get up, get up,’ Trigon took in labored breath after labored breath. His gasps were wheezes at this point, and black splotches impaired most of his vision. His steps were uneven, and he staggered toward the broken portion of the wall that was still standing.
With the way his left leg was dragging, Trigon could deduce that his body had been partially severed. He prodded at his side again: the parasites were still frantically trying to fix themselves, and until they did, he knew his body wouldn’t regenerate correctly.
“TRIGON!”
He knew that voice. He knew he shouldn’t keep going; he should sit down, and rest, and let his armor fix itself so that his body could follow suit.
Trigon shoved away from the wall, shaking with the effort to keep himself upright. He clutched his side - as if that was going to do anything to keep him together.
Nadia’s hand connected solidly with his cheek. Trigon hardly acknowledged the blow.
“SIT DOWN!” she screamed at him, grabbing him by the arms as much as she could. Trigon’s words came out in a jumbled mess, and Nadia pulled at him, “Trigon please!”
“Where… God Killer…?”
Other people began to arrive, most of whom joined in with Nadia, trying to force the assassin to sit down. In defiance, he leaned heavily against the nearest wall, still struggling to breathe. Perhaps one of his lungs had been ruptured? He wouldn’t be surprised.
‘Hit that wall pretty hard.’
“Where?” he tried again, black splotches still invading his vision. A glance at Nadia quickly had him looking away, for any other face.
She was crying openly, pulling weakly at his arms, begging him to stop, begging him to sit down because he was in no condition to keep going.
“Where’s kuh-” he choked on the word, dry retching, before he raised his gaze to a mortified Khadgar and tried again, “where’s Cardinal?”
The archmage’s mouth flapped, so Trigon turned his gaze to Anduin, who was one of the others trying to force him to sit down, “where’s Cardinal?”
“Trigon that doesn’t matter right now!” Nadia wailed, “would you sit your stubborn ass down!? Your– you– your body is practically hanging open!!”
Trigon stared blankly at her. This was not new information to him.
“Where’s God Killer?”
“Encased in ice,” Khadgar finally found his voice, “he’s a fair distance off the harbor now, uh, Vol’jin has shaman here doing everything they can to push him further out to sea. Nadia, Jaina, and I froze him - he… he seemed to accept it, he made no attempts to fight back, just let– just let us all freeze him. A-as I stated, we’re pushing him further out to sea as best we can, he uh, his plate armor should prove too big a weight for him to possibly survive sinking to the bottom of the ocean.”
“Where’s Cardinal?” Trigon asked yet again, and if he weren’t in such a delirious state he might have been frustrated enough to snarl it.
“Here.”
Trigon looked up, and up, and up, and up, until he could barely make out Cardinal’s face amidst the bark and leaves and branches that he was now made of. As Trigon had assumed, part of the ent’s lower jaw was missing.
“Oh. Good. That’s good,” he muttered, before finally collapsing to one knee. The people around him followed, and soon enough Nadia had his head cradled in her lap. If Cardinal was safe, and God Killer was dealt with - for now - then perhaps Trigon could let himself rest.
Cardinal shifted back to his troll form, and immediately vomited up blood. He waved someone away, and released an ear-splitting screech; his druids would come to him. Trigon swam in and out of consciousness, aware that Cardinal was giving orders. He nearly chuckled when he heard the druid request that someone please go find his missing jaw.
He could hear the argument about getting Trigon back to Dalaran. Jaina vehemently demanded that he stay in Stormwind until he was fully healed; teleporting him, or even going through a portal would merely make his injuries worse, if not cause him to be cut fully in half.
Cardinal appeared in his vision, readjusting his jaw. The large troll stooped, “I’ll carry him. You be telling me where to take him.”
“Alright, good, great, follow me,” this voice belonged to Varian. There was an angry lilt to his voice. Trigon allowed himself to be carried. He could still hear Nadia crying into her hands, while Jaina and Khadgar did what they could to comfort her.
Varian led Cardinal to the keep, and up the twisting stairs, straight to one of the various guest rooms. Excess blankets and pillows were shoved off the bed, and milliseconds after Trigon was set down, Anduin was there.
“Light – where - damn this– AH-HAH!!” he fumbled with the high collar of Trigon’s armor, finally getting his finger in just the right spot to cause it to collapse onto itself. Trigon closed his eyes. There was no point in trying to fight.
Hours later, when he awoke, it was dark outside. He could make out the sounds of hammers - of course his soldiers would have already begun repairs.
‘I should be out there with them.’
Trigon struggled to push himself up, only to find that there was a weight against his chest. His fingers twitched at the sight of long, dark raven hair draped over his bandaged torso.
“Get up,” he sighed, though instead of nudging Nadia with his hand, he ran his claws through her dark hair.
Nadia jolted upright, eyes frantic. Trigon’s brows pinched inward, and he pushed himself all the way up, “I be fine.”
“Fine enough to stay lying down,” Nadia snapped. She pressed one of her hands firmly to his shoulder. Trigon sighed heavily.
“I need ta go.”
“You need to rest.”
“My soldiers are out dere rebuilding, I need ta help dem.”
“Trigon, you need to fucking rest.”
He stared blankly at her. It wasn’t every day that her face was flushed with anger, but that was certainly the case right now. If Trigon weren’t feeling so empty headed he’d surely snark at her.
Instead, Trigon moved to get out of the bed on the side Nadia wasn’t blocking. She grabbed him tightly by the shoulders, and with all of her might, managed to force him back down against the mattress. He narrowed his eyes at her, but the usual growl wasn’t there. His usual bite wasn’t there either.
“Nadia–”
“You could have died!” she shrieked, “you could have lost your life, Trigon!”
Without thinking, Trigon snapped, “it doesn’t mattah to me, though.”
He realized it before Nadia’s expression even changed. His own eyes widened, and the snarl that had been on his lips flattened itself into a stunned line.
The anger drained from Nadia’s face, replaced by hurt.
‘That was definitely not the right thing to say,’ Trigon’s thoughts lay scattered as Nadia slowly drew away. He sat up again, making no effort to try and stop her from turning around and striding toward the door. Discomfort lodged itself in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping all of his usual pretense, “I shouldn’t’ve said that. Not ta you.”
“Then why did you?” she spat. Trigon had moved himself to the edge of the bed, his back to her.
“Dat’s wat happens when you trust someone too much,” he clenched his teeth together for a moment, “you let dem in.”
He chose not to dwell on it further - and it was ironic to say that Trigon had his inner demons.
“To be fair, I be lucky,” he muttered, filling the silence, “if my body hadn’t hardened itself, you fah sure woulda’ found me in two pieces.”
“Stop.”
“Nobody be likin’ ta hear de truth - don’ make me explain my scars ta you again,” he continued, hardly registering that Nadia had chosen to walk away from the door, and toward him, “though in dat case, it was de repetitive trauma dat made my skin harden like rock.”
Nadia grasped Trigon’s face in her hands, and he looked up at her in distress, “Nadia–”
She pressed her lips firmly to his.
“I said stop,” she muttered, “how about you listen to me for once?”
Once again, he stared at her blankly. Trigon would never admit that he was too tired to fight. It meant that he felt safe - and Nadia deserved to know that. She deserved to know that he felt safe enough with her to close his eyes, and rest.
“I-I know you care about your soldiers. That’s,” Nadia swallowed thickly before continuing, “that’s obvious. It’s not like you nearly got cut in half to save one of your officers.”
Trigon merely nodded his head. Nadia gave him a weak smile, before guilt overtook her expression, “and I know that this happening is… my fault. Not explicitly mine alone, but, I contributed… Jaina, Khadgar, and I all kept you from coming back to Azeroth, because we were so fascinated by Ether.”
Hope made her eyes sparkle like gemstones, and Trigon breathed deeply. He closed his eyes, and inclined his head forward, pressing both of his cheeks more firmly into Nadia’s hands. Her lips pressed against head, brushing over his dark hair.
“When all of this is over, I would like to go back.”
“When dis is over,” he repeated, lifting his head out of her hands - but he shook his head, refraining from saying anything more. Perhaps when all of this was over, proper portals could be opened. There would have to be rules, of course. The Hode and the Alliance would, under no circumstance, be permitted to bring their petty squabbles to Ether. Trigon’s home world had more than enough troubles of its own, with few of those being between the factions - especially considered Za’hal rallied nearly every royal faction under the United banner, including a few odd factions here and there.
But perhaps that could end up being the case. Azerothians could be required to go through Arielustria, and only “heroes”, emissaries, and important figures - political and not - would be permitted to stay for extended periods of time.
The troll scoffed, shaking his head again, ‘and why am I wasting my time thinking about this right now?’
Nadia pushed against his shoulders, “lie down, Trigon.”
He sighed, “alright.”
“I’ll let you get up to stretch your legs soon, I promise.”
“I c’n do a few stretches on de bed, don’ worry ‘bout dat.”
“Hah! You really do have an answer for everything.”
A smirk pulled at Trigon’s lips, “funny, I thought you’d be used ta it by now– see? Dere I go again.”
Nadia attempted a pout, but as he settled himself back onto the bed, and laid down, he could see the stress visibly leave her. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then rolled onto his side. Nadia stayed with him for another hour, running her fingers through his hair, humming some soft tune he’d not yet heard under her breath. Dreamless sleep came to him soon enough.
But for Hravart, it was just a reminder that a new day had come, and that new day meant he had to go.
With a sigh the troll priest sat up. A light headache throbbed between his eyes, and he rid himself of it with a light pulse of magic - and then, he looked down at his right side.
Ammon lay curled up in the blankets. The top of his flaming head, and his closed eyes were visible past the light fabric. Hravart reached over to comb his fingers through Ammon’s hair, and frustration brought a deep frown to Hravart’s face.
‘I’m sorry.’
With another sigh, Hravart got up from the bed. Light infused fingers lingered on Ammon’s forehead, because he had no doubt that the rogue would wake up with a headache as well, if the empty bottles on the bedside table, and the floor, were anything to go by.
‘I wish I were braver.’
Hravart swept his long hair up into a hightail; a braid would take too long, and he shouldn’t keep Hydrangea waiting. He washed the sleep from his eyes, staring at his reflection. His tusks had dropped barely two weeks ago, and already they were beginning to poke past his lips; small, sharp points that left small slivers in peach skin.
The priest leaned against the counter, blinking rapidly.
‘I wish I could say yes.’
He shook his head, pressing his palm to his forehead. It hurt for different reasons than when he woke up.
It didn’t take him long to don his robes. Hravart stood in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at the wall. The sunlight continued to creep; long fingers of light crawled along the floor. His vision, for a moment, distorted; tendrils lashed in the shadows, before they were burned away by the light.
Hravart closed his eyes tightly. A yawn reached his ears, and he stepped out of the bathroom, watching Ammon for a moment. The human rubbed at his eyes, then set his hand down on the bed where Hravart had been.
Ammon was immediately awake, green eyes staring at the empty spot next to him.
“Don’ panic, freckles,” Hravart said softly, walking back into the main room, “I still be here.”
“Still?” Ammon repeated, narrowing his eyes. Hravart’s laugh was short lived.
“I wish I could be staying,” Hravart muttered, sitting down on the bed, next to Ammon, “bu’ I be having promises ta keep.”
Ammon frowned, looking away. Hravart’s lips pulled tight over his teeth in a pained smile. He moved to heal the few marks he’d left on Ammon’s neck, only to have Ammon grap his hand in a tight grip.
“No. I want ta keep ‘em.”
Hravart’s ears flicked up, “why?”
“A reminder.”
The priest couldn’t stop a string of chuckles, letting his free hand drop to the mattress. His gaze followed, “oh.”
Ammon maintained his vice grip on Hravart’s left hand, “why?”
“A reminder tha’ I must be doin’ something right.”
“Pff,” Hravart shook his head, refusing to raise his eyes, “I guess you be having a point.”
“Do you have ta go?”
“I’m not de only one who has to, Ammon,” Hravart replied. He could feel the sun’s fingers creeping along his back, “we both be having promises ta keep. Mebbe we’ll stumble across each othah again, hm?”
Ammon gripped Hravart’s hand more tightly, “can you… call me…”
The rest of his words were mumbled. Hravart tilted his head, then smiled fondly, and leaned his forehead against Ammon’s.
“Wassa.”
Ammon wrapped his arm tightly around Hravart’s neck, squeezing the priest’s hand with the other. Hravart sighed - and he humored Ammon for a few more minutes. He let his face nestle between Ammon’s neck and shoulder, a little miffed the rogue wouldn’t let him heal the love bites.
‘… love bites, huh?’ hravart pulled away. Ammon’s fingers trailed through his long black hair, but he let Hravart go.
Hunters had this habit of playing tracking games with each other, whether by conscious decision or a subconscious desire not to be found. Sometimes, the game was started because one hunter knew the other was seeking them out, and so deliberately set about making that hunter’s task more difficult. Sometimes, it was started because two hunters decided they wanted to make a game out of tracking each other through a bustling city.
In Alba’vida’s case, she simply did not want to be found.
The wind over Orgrimmar was brisk, and she stared out over Azshara. Red colors made the sky look like wine, and Alba’vida fiddled with the hem of her leather vest.
Behind her, a hydra chuffed. She spared a glance over her shoulder, then hummed.
Mal’ghan, and his ever faithful Vinlaji.
“What you be doin’ over here all by yourself?” the man asked gruffly, breaking the silence. Alba’vida sighed, shaking her head. Mal’ghan’s feet shuffled closer, “you, perhaps, be one of the more difficult tracks I be makin’.”
A soft laugh left her, “that be so?”
He hummed. She sighed again.
“What be troublin’ you, Alba?” Mal’ghan asked, his voice closer now. Alba’vida’s shoulders rose and fell, and she stubbornly kept her gaze focused on the red sky ahead.
‘I suppose it wouldn’t… hurt to let him in, would?’ she ventured a glance over her shoulder. Age had treated him well - and it had treated her well. The two had their banter over mugs of beer, or the occasional pretty drink. Alba’vida would be lying if she claimed she had not caught herself letting her eyes wander over him, nor could she deny catching him letting his eyes rove over her.
“… I be discovering today, that my child be thinking I abandoned her.”
Mal’ghan sat down next to her, “and what be leadin’ her to this conclusion?”
“When we be on First Home, I be taken by naga. It was a good thing they be ignoring my raptor, but… I could never be returning to her, and I think, when I be rescued from the naga by Sen’jin, I be too late to be meeting my daughter on the boats that be bringing us to Durotar.”
“And you never be comin’ across her once you get here?” Mal’ghan inquired, and Alba’vida nodded her head.
“No… though I… I didn’t be looking very hard either.”
Mal’ghan’s extended silence fell heavy on her ears;
“I’m not a monster, am I?” she asked softly - and she was not the sort to despise showing weakness. Not to Mal’ghan. It may have been something she refused to show Deonte, but she would admit that Mal’ghan’s presence was more comforting than the witch doctor’s had been.
‘Because we are the same.’
“No,” Mal’ghan replied firmly, his hand hovering over hers before he ultimately decided to set it against the small space of earth between them, “I am.”
Alba’vida laughed, shaking her head, “we all make mistakes.”
“Some worse than others,” she could hear the strain in his voice, as though it were not something he wanted to admit to.
“A mistake be a mistake,” Alba said, turning her gaze to him, “the severity of it lies in whether or not we choose to be making an attempt to fix it.”
Mal’ghan stared at her, eyes wide for a fleeting moment - and though he ultimately chose not to comment on her words, Alba’vida believed the hopeful smile that pulled relentlessly at his lips was comment enough.
