"What I want to see happen to your muse." I want to see Vember find peace of mind.
She tried to cast a simple rejuvenation, but stopped at the wrongness of the spell. The usual refreshing burst--like a drop of mint, she’d always thought--was replaced by a hungry, oozing sickness seeking more of her, devouring rational thought in its cruel, incoherent whispers.
“This is quite troubling,” Keeper Remulos rumbled, his massive hands hovering inches from her skin as he monitored her casting and keeping that tiny speck of Nightmare at bay.
“Troubling to leave it in her, too,” Vember answered. “We’ll have to check in on her healing progress, though she’s in capable enough hands.”
“She should have been brought here, and we could have dealt with this together, safely,” Remulos said, not for the first time.
“My suggestion to do so fell flat. Her friend--one of her lovers, I believe--was agitated at the thought, which, in Brica’s current state of mind, was less than helpful. I didn’t push.”
“It is an opportunity,” he reluctantly said. “The physical manifestation is contained, and if we can keep this shadow from spreading or latching on too tightly, learn how to excise it completely...” He trailed off, looking toward the towering, twisted form of Shaladrassil ever-present over Val’sharah’s treeline.
“My thoughts exactly,” Vember said crisply. She swallowed. “Still a bit frightening.”
A large hand rested on her narrow shoulder and squeezed gently. “I know. We shall manage this.” He smiled wryly. “And Leon is with you, though this seems quite the stringent way to test his skill, shan’do,” the Keeper weakly teased.
“Hmph. Would that he could be allowed to be an excellent cook first, and a fair druid second,” she replied. “The current state of things doesn’t allow for it, sadly. He’s up to the task, even if he doesn’t realize it. When he stops overthinking, and just...does, he’s managed rather well.”
“Indeed.” Remulos’ hands dropped to his sides. “Naralex has some draughts to help you sleep, and perhaps even help hold this back, until we learn more. I must speak with Malfurion.”
She nodded, and they parted ways. Vember headed back to the barrow she and Leon had claimed for their own use, trying to soothe the knotting in her stomach the entire way.
Peace of mind had been difficult enough to find since the Legion’s arrival. This only compounded the issue.
(( @worgenspandasgnomesohmy @johndempsy @mremaknu for mentions))
The hippogryph landed on Lor’danel’s dock and shook itself; the flight from Moonglade had been a long one, fighting a headwind. Vember stretched and patted the ‘gryph in gratitude before the handlers took it away for well-deserved care.
Vember stepped off the flight deck and into the streets of the harbor town. She could never call a kaldorei settlement “bustling”; the languid-seeming nature of the layout and daily practices of the elves just did not suit the word.
It was still, however, quite busy as a new port city and mainland connection to Darnassus, built from the bones of Auberdine after the Cataclysm. Night elves, draenei, worgen, and humans were most common, with a smattering of dwarves and gnomes present—usually Explorers or merchants. The fledgling wharves and the flight roost were the busiest parts of town.
Vember checked the address in her notepad one more time. She had made discreet inquiries among her contacts in the Cenarion Circle and they had found information she refused to contact Dr. Hempstead for. She made her way to a Sentinel on a corner. “Excuse me; I’m not familiar with this location.” She showed the elf the notepad.
The Sentinel peered at the writing, and then nodded. “Ah, yes, it’s a newer section of town, built primarily by Gilneans,” she answered, pointing down another road. “Go down that avenue a quarter mile and you’ll see the cross-street mentioned. Turn left, and you’ll see the teacher’s house not too far from there. On a nice day like this, she’s probably with her charges in her yard.”
Vember nodded and thanked her, then continued down the path, the wind rustling the bushes and low grasses allowed to grow naturally alongside, making the road wind slightly instead of in the straight lines one often found in human towns. Vember took her time, enjoying the stroll—and putting off reaching her destination as long as possible.
Eventually, following the Sentinel’s direction, she saw the familiar form of her Aunt Elisabeth, insistently straightening a young lady while balancing a book on the girl’s head.
“Poise, Miss Curtis, will get through as many situations as a quick tongue or your fists—though they can certainly help,” Elisabeth told her charge, pointing to a spot across the yard for the young woman to walk toward. “Shoulders back, tighten your core. There, now.”
“Ma’am, there’s a lady at the gate,” another girl said, staring at Vember as she continued to stand still and straight, her own book balanced on her head.
Elisabeth turned, her exasperation melting to quiet shock at the sight of Vember standing on the other side of the fence, arms loosely crossed in a manner she had picked up from Elisabeth herself. The two women stared at one another for a long moment, until Vember could not fight the urge to fidget any longer.
Elisabeth took a breath and turned back to her charges. “That’s enough for today, girls,” she said, taking the book from Miss Curtis’ head. “Go on and enjoy the extra free time.” The girls threw bemused glances between Vember and Elisabeth as they left. Elisabeth packed up, not looking at Vember again yet. Vember took the time to study her aunt, after more than sixteen years apart. The older woman was tall, but broad built and full-figured, compared to Vember’s narrowness. Elisabeth’s iron grey hair was in a short, neat style, with only the faintest dusting of white. Round, silver wire glasses framed her still-clear amber eyes. Her skin was much fairer than Vember’s, but covered in light spotting and fine wrinkles now. Elisabeth still stood straight and steady in her fashionable, if simple, dress with a pleasant, subdued floral pattern.
“Are you a ghost, come to judge me?” Elisabeth finally asked, back still to her niece.
“No,” Vember answered. “To either. I learned you’d survived and were living here, and—it just, seemed I should…” she trailed off, not sure how to keep going.
“We were told that you were dead. Your father was already ill, and he simply…gave up. He had so many regrets.”
“I heard. Hempstead found me.”
Elisabeth drew in a sharp breath and finally turned to look at Vember, concern in her gaze. “If he knows, then Dietrick will, and—“
“He did,” Vember interrupted; she would never have dreamed of doing that, before. “And it’s no longer an issue.”
Silence hung between them for a long moment. Vember finally fidgeted. Elisabeth sighed heavily and sat on the bench her students had vacated. “Good. I wish I’d realized much earlier what a poison that boy was.”
Vember blinked. Elisabeth patted the space on the bench next to her. Vember slowly stepped through the gate and sat next to the older woman.
“Dietrick was always ambitious,” Elisabeth said. “And greedy. It was odd enough what he said about your behavior, but—well, you were young, it was bad circumstances, and pregnancy can have terrible effects on some women, but I should have questioned more. It wasn’t like you, and then what happened with the baby—We should have known, but it wasn’t until Edward began having the same problems managing his memory and business, Dietrick saying all the stress had affected his health…I saw him gain everything, get Edward to sign off all he’d worked for his whole life.” She shook her head. “I knew Edward wasn’t so bad off as he claimed, not mentally anyway. He had the foresight to see that I was cared for, at least; Dietrick couldn’t touch that.”
“How…how did Father…?”
Elisabeth clamped her jaw. It took her a moment to answer. “They say he simply died in his sleep; heart failure, you know. But Edward wasn’t so ill, nor does our family have such a history, not for men his age. And Dietrick had visited the night before. The next week, he had everything in legal order and owned all but the house and my own stipend.” She sighed. “I can’t prove anything, of course, but…I suspect. After you and the baby, then your father…”
“It’s over now,” Vember said. “And here we are.” They were quiet again. A few school children, both human and elven, laughed their way down the street, their high young voices mixing with the birdsong in the trees.
“Indeed,” Elisabeth finally replied. “Were you bitten?”
“Yes,” Vember said. “I learned the Old Ways from Mother’s family, and the Cenarion Circle has expanded my education there; the Curse apparently makes that easier, for humans.” She chanced a glance at her aunt. “You?”
Elisabeth nodded. “It’s left me quite vigorous for my age, I must admit. I enjoy red meat more than I used to, perhaps, and I am quicker with my temper. I’m no adventurer, though; I remain a simple teacher of proper young ladies.”
“So I see. I’m sure they’re much better students than I was.”
Elisabeth snorted. “You were quite good, hun, besides letting that boy fool with you. But that’s not unusual, either. I was…remiss in certain instructions then. I’ve made certain to be more thorough since. If nothing else, to avoid similar tragedies.”
“It wasn’t you, really, it was Dietrick.”
“Perhaps, but I know I wasn’t as supportive as I could have been, and I am sorry.”
Vember took a moment, and then nodded. “Thank you. I am, too.”
Elisabeth let out a breath and nodded back. “Well then. We have plenty to catch up on, don’t we? Where do you live now, what do you do, and is there anyone new in your life?”
“Auntie—“
“I haven’t gotten to be a nosy aunt for quite some time, indulge me. Come inside; we’ll do this properly over tea.”
A Profile page for Vember Marlon of the Shrouded Dawn.
Like all of my alt blogs, Vember has a static profile page. Various tags are tracked on the Witch’s Writings page. I like being organized and giving people ways to find stuff about my characters for RP reasons!
Dr. Percival Hempstead was not having an easy time in this dreary little hamlet they called “Darkshire.” Few people would speak with him, and the ones who did were not reliable in their retellings of events or personalities. He couldn’t get close to the school, not with Braghaman keeping a close watch on the place—and the stories of the paladin’s temper must have been exaggerated, but still, best not take the risk.
Hempstead had been in the shire for a week, and had nothing to show for his efforts; he’d not caught so much as a glimpse of Mrs. Harnvall. Her classes were cancelled, and one farmer had been grumbling at the market that he’d like her help with the hens, but the “recent nonsense” had kept her from her work. Yet Hempstead couldn’t get more than that from the uneducated, superstitious locals.
He was eating his last supper in the Scarlet Raven; on the morrow, he would begin his journey back to Darnassus. He wished he had more time, and more to take back, but he had confirmation his former patient was alive, at least, and that was more than he’d had before.
A trio of worgen entered the tavern, two males and one female. A minor stir went through the assembled patrons in the common room; it wasn’t often one saw a group of worgen remain in their feral forms in the town itself, Hempstead had noted. He idly watched from the corner of his eye as the males took seats at a table near the door—the female, however, left her companions and walked his way in a halting gait.
He raised a brow and turned his attention fully on her as she stopped by his table. She was tall and wiry, her fur nearly black and her eyes brown. She wore a dress of soft, light leather in shades of dark green and indigo, intricately embroidered. “Might I sit?” She asked, voice gruff in this animalistic shape, but still with a recognizable Gilnean accent. He nodded, curious, and gestured to the other chair.
She took a moment, glancing back at her companions, who were trying quite hard to not look like they were watching closely. The white-furred male’s lips raised slightly in a suppressed snarl when the doctor glanced his way. The one-eyed fellow in gaudy purple attire flicked his gaze between his companion and Hempstead, and was much harder to read as he leaned back, arms crossed. Hempstead returned his attention to the female who sat, clawed hands clasped on the table, and studied him.
“I’m—“
“I know,” she interrupted. It was hard to read her tone through the wolfish features and gravelly vocals. “You’re looking for Vember Harnvall. But she isn’t here.”
Hempstead frowned. “Except I have it on good authority that she does live here now, is part of the school. It seems everyone wants to keep her hidden.” He peered at the worgen. “Unless you happen to know where to find her…?”
She shook her head. “She is not here, because she no longer exists. You’re asking the wrong questions, about the wrong person.”
He shook his head. “I know enough to know she’s alive after all, and here under an assumed name…”
“Her family’s name,” the worgen said quietly. “Taken on when she left your care.”
He studied the worgen woman. “That family said she’d committed suicide, after leaving my care.”
She started a bit at that, and then laughed low, brushing one paw back over her face. “Explains a lot.” She looked at him.
“Vember…” he murmured.
The worgen shape melted away; in a blink, Vember sat across from him. Slim, dark eyed, tucking a sleek strand of black hair behind her ear. The short sleeves of her dress showed part of the bite mark on her right bicep. She smiled, though her expression remained guarded. “Hello, doctor.”
“I’m quite happy to see you looking so well, my dear.”
“I’m sure,” she answered dryly. “I don’t know who told you I was dead, but I’m not. I’m not delusional or deranged, either.”
“Now, my dear—“
“Stop,” she hissed. “You’re willing to believe what anyone else tells you, but not what’s right in front of you. I don’t know what stake you had in getting me to admit to something I know I did not do, could never do—though you had me convinced, for a while.”
“You seemed quite certain, after our breakthrough--”
“My breakdown, you mean. After two years in that place, told every day I was insane? Who wouldn’t say anything to try to make the hurting stop?” She didn’t quite suppress a shiver. “I still hear Maisy Ellis screaming, constantly, in my nightmares.”
“The poor woman never did stop,” He said, with genuine regret. Mrs. Ellis was one of his great failures. “And what did you do, upon leaving us?”
She was quiet for a long moment, a nail tapping the tabletop. “I lived. I breathed open air, ate good food, was encouraged and nursed by people who loved me, rather than those who had a difficult job. I learned the Old Ways, and they grounded me in a way I’d been missing.” Vember looked at him, tilting her head slightly, reminding him of a bird. “And what have you done, since leaving that place?”
He arched a brow. “Well, I retired, mainly; bit old to be rebuilding a practice, though I consult here and there. I have a nice little cottage grown from the Oak’s roots, there in Darnassus. Fascinating place, you know.”
“I’ve been there. It’s lovely.”
“But you don’t come to the Gilnean quarter,” he noted. “Only the Cenarion enclave, and that pandaren’s tea house.”
She frowned. “Since when is stalking an accepted psychological practice?”
Hempstead harrumphed and shifted in his chair. “I beg your pardon, I do not--”
“Someone did,” she interrupted him again, voice tight. “Bragh said there was a photo, and someone had to have told you those things, once you heard about me.”
He frowned and lifted his glass, recalling belatedly it was empty. This woman was not the frightened, easily confused girl that he remembered. “Only what was needed to find you here…” He shook his head. “I understand you teach now, at the Academy, as well as help tend to the farm animals. Rewarding work, I take it?”
Her dark eyes narrowed, but she nodded. “I put my druidic skills to use helping others here. And I’m finding teaching quite rewarding.”
“I imagine so; nothing quite like shaping young minds, showing them the backbone of your craft and how to further their knowledge,” he agreed. “What is it like, to be around those children? Some of the older students’ ages would be quite close now to--”
“Don’t,” she said, a slight snarl roughening her words. “That is entirely irrelevant.”
“Is it?” Hempstead asked. “You suffered a profound loss, at your own hands or not. It colors your life, overtly or subtly. Tell me, my dear,” he leaned forward, his own chubby hands clasped on the tabletop in mimicry of her pose. “Have you tried to bear other children?”
Vember drew in a harsh breath as she sat back, straight and stiff. She watched him sharply, and he had the sudden, uncomfortable realization she was holding back not grief as he’d expected, but a feral rage as she glared, until he was forced to look away. Then she answered, as he watched her companions across the room settle back into their own chairs. “No.”
“Why?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s exactly my business, my dear, and the central point to your troubles.”
She made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes, glancing back at the other worgen, before returning her uncomfortably steady gaze to Hempstead. “Scant opportunity, and the possible need for another healer’s intervention; it was not an easy birth.”
“Yes, I remember. I merely wondered, given those...gentlemen, over there, seem quite invested in this conversation, and it seems one of them might--”
“Stop,” she interrupted. “That’s none of your concern. They’re my present and future. You’re the past. I didn’t know any better back then, but now, after years of study and the right kind of help, I’ve realized something rather important, doctor.”
He frowned back at her. “What?” he asked, troubled by the clear intensity in those brown eyes.
“You’re really bad at this job. You’re irrelevant, and inflexible. Maybe you were worn down by your patients and the asylum itself back then, but now, you’re just an old man who should have retired years ago.”
He gaped. She took a deep breath and pushed her chair back. “You’re going to leave. Go back to Darnassus, to whatever it is you’re doing, and enjoy the rest of your life—and leave me alone to mine. I don’t need you. I never did. You hurt me far more than you ever helped.” She stood.
“Wait, just one moment,” he finally said, reaching for her wrist. She pulled away, a low warning growl emanating from her throat. Across the room, the two worgen tensed again. “I stayed this long because of your aunt—to give her something. She also thinks you’re dead.”
Vember paused, frowning. “I haven’t spoken to her since…Not in sixteen years, at least. Perhaps better for her to keep thinking so.”
“I may be old and irrelevant,” Hempstead said dryly. “But you’re the only family she has left, you know.”
“No, I don’t,” Vember said. She closed her eyes, taking a few moments. “My father…?”
Hempstead suppressed his smirk, at getting her to ask. “He passed, not long after—well, after word of your supposed suicide was released.” He tried to sound mournful and sympathetic.
She gripped the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. “Then D—then he got everything.” She looked at Hempstead. “What happened to Dietrick?” She seemed to force the name out of her mouth, as if saying a vulgar word.
“I don’t know,” he answered, quickly.
“You’re lying,” she said, narrowing her eyes, nails sharpening and digging into the chair’s back.
“You said we were finished,” he replied, leaning back in his own chair, which creaked as his bulk shifted. “I shall be leaving in the morning, to grant you your wish. Shall I tell your aunt of your continued existence, or do I leave her believing you took your own life?”
“I’ll think on it. I’ll make my own decision about her, thank you.”
“Mrs. Harn—er, Ms. Marlon, I do think—“
“Good-bye, Doctor Hempstead,” Vember said, cold and decisive. She spun on her heel and stalked back across the room, claws springing from her furry fingers as she fought against her change. The two worgen males focused their attention on her, the white-furred one instantly getting to his feet, shifting into the form of a 40-something year old man. He put an arm around her slender frame as they left, one final warning glower thrown Hempstead’s way. The one in that horrid purple outfit lingered, deliberately counting out coin for the waitstaff, keeping his single eye on the doctor.
Hempstead frowned as he replayed the encounter in his mind. It had not gone at all as he’d expected; she was not at all what he’d expected. It was, perhaps, best to leave Miss Whitesteel out of this for now, after all.
Dietrick Harnvall, however, would have to be told. He owed his old friend’s son that much.
(( @justsimplyxonen @mremaknu for mentions, and assistance in editing!))
It had been two days since Erik had left word he was going to Westfall. Two days since any word had come back as to his findings there. The Commander had asked, and so Vember took wing and flew over the treetops toward the plains.
She couldn’t help but enjoy the rush of cool wind through her feathers, the world laid out beneath her gaze, from the ogre mound in the south to the riverbank in the north, the town and sun behind her in the east, while west was Raven Hill and the bridge that had been such a source of concern lately.
Vember swooped low as she approached the cemetery, landing as a human at the hamlet of Gilneans working to handle the shire’s feral worgen issues. None of them had seen Erik; he never stopped in on his way to Westfall, apparently, and certainly hadn’t come back that way. Vember accepted a cup of tea as they spoke, thanked them, and then shifted back to her stormcrow form and continued to the bridge.
She maneuvered carefully under the structure, mindful of the river’s height and the various supports. She didn’t see any new items left in the drop spot. Vember stretched her wings as she rose from the shadowy underside and continued on to Sentinel Hill, the wind and sun taking away any dampness.
The fort was a mess; evidence of recent fire showed everywhere, weary guards and civilians cleaning up debris. A trio of officers conferencing looked up, startled, at the large bird landing on the low wall, only to become a woman clad in green leathers, her feet dangling just above the ground as she sat on the stone. “Good afternoon.”
“Something we can help with?” His rank indicated a captain. “Or maybe you can give us a hand…”
“I would love to, but I’m looking for someone. I’m Vember, of the Shrouded Dawn in Duskwood. One of our men was supposed to come out here recently, to discuss the drops we’ve noticed on the border of the shires. He’s young, bald, wears leather armor.”
The captain frowned. Another one of the men, a lieutenant, spoke up. “I think—yes, he showed up during the most recent attack.” He gestured over the aftermath. “Didn’t have the time to deal with it right then, and he was gone pretty quick. Didn’t even think about it again, ‘til now.”
The captain frowned; Vember was sure from his look there’d be some hell to pay later. “It must have been rather chaotic,” she said, sympathetically. “These attacks been coming often?”
“More than we’d like,” the captain said, turning back to her. “Defias remnants, riling the people and taking what they can. Minor bandits fancying themselves the next Van Cleef, though they do little but cause mischief. This was one of the worse ones, with the fires. We were to get help from Stormwind finally, but then the damned Portal spilled orcs out again, and now the army and any experienced adventurers are on a whole other world.” The man sighed, rubbing his eyes. From the way they all smelled, they hadn’t bathed, changed clothes, or slept much if at all in the last few days. “People are disappearing due to the violence now, though Light knows where they’ve gone. None of ‘em have the coin.” He frowned again, brows furrowed.
“I see. And no one’s seen Erik since the midst of all that?” Vember chewed on her lower lip. She met the officer’s eye as he looked up again, a realization gleaming there.
“Distractions,” he said. He looked at his subordinates. “It’s all distractions.”
“Sir?” The lieutenant asked.
The captain turned back to Vember. “The note from your CO said something about a drop at the bridge, right? Merchandise being moved, I think?” She nodded, seeing where he was going. “We haven’t had anything go missing; vandalized, sure, but they aren’t stealing supplies or money…”
“People,” Vember said quietly. “They’re taking people.”
“Displaced, homeless vagrants moving farm to farm or come to beg for work or coin in town, easy to not notice a few go off here and there, but lately…” he said. The other officers looked at each other, and then back to their papers. They began to speak quietly, urgently. “We’ve been kept busy to not notice, which means—“
“They’re stepping up their game,” Vember said. She pushed herself off the wall. “Thank you, Captain, I think I shall take a look around and return to Duskwood. I believe our man found what he was looking for, unfortunately.”
He nodded, visibly startled when she effortlessly turned back into a stormcrow and took off. Not too many druids in Westfall, though they could certainly use a platoon’s worth. She flew low, through the ravaged fort and outbuildings, but the recent activity and time involved made it impossible to pick up a trail, even if she had been familiar enough with Erik’s scent in her other forms.
Vember rose higher, flying east again, the sun just high enough now to not be too much in her eyes. She turned and flew along the river, north first, among quiet trees and empty fields, but nothing stood out. She winged over the water and proceeded downriver again, flying over the bridge this time as she continued south.
On the Westfall side of the river was an old tower that she understood had caused problems in the past, but out in the middle of the river the small island caught her eyes first. Boats, pulled out of sight of the shore, a small encampment, a couple rough-looking men keeping an eye on things. Neither of them looked up—people rarely did—as she flew by, careful not to let her shadow fall over them. They certainly didn’t look like fishermen to her.
Vember rounded the island and turned back toward the woods, flying as swiftly as she could to Darkshire.
