It’s 11 PM On Any Night.
What are you characters up to? It doesn’t have to be anything dramatic. This is a ficlet project, a snapshot in time, nothing more.
*****
Yva Darrows is sitting behind a desk, a scroll of dark runes and sigils before her. The magic work is valiantly trying to capture her attention. Behind her chair is a snoring felhound, its feet occasionally twitching, almost like a real dog who’s running after something in dream. The bed in the other room is vacant as Jakob Balthasar has been gone for weeks on a journey. There’s been no contact, and she’s starting to worry, actually considering going to Archerus to demand news. Of course Jak did suggest it might be some time, to have patience, but Yva’s not good with patience. Her pen taps upon the desktop, and she starts to frown. The sound makes the real dog, the one made of flesh and bone and not nether ether, trot into the room with a cord of rope in his mouth, his tail swishing. She eyes him.
“You can’t honestly want to play NOW.”
Dog barks.
“Rot.”
*****
Indarra Leafwhisper is watching Ulthanon Kaidos sleep. The blankets are twisted around his waist, exposing the planes of his chest and – when he rolls over – his back. His breathing is slow and steady.
The priestess is in the corner of the room, in the rocking chair by the window, moonlight spilling over her face. She wasn’t tired when she went to bed, her mind was too busy racing, and it’s forced her up. She has an early morning tomorrow – she’s offered to assist the Dawn in Icecrown – so she knows she’ll suffer for lack of rest, but she can’t seem to help it, and so she sits and watches. Her hands flicker, rolling something over the fingers and under, over and under, as she ruminates on a long dead past wrought with ugliness and murder.
Indarra thinks on Grizelle, who she was, and she frowns.
It takes her more than an hour to realize that all this time, it’s a ball of coiling, oily shadows she’s been toying with like so much clay. She drops it like a viper and groans, closing her eyes.
*****
Seylon Jh’Talith is wrapped in a cloak, the chill of Borean Tundra’s night trying to tear past its protective cocoon. There’s a small fire but it doesn’t offer much warmth against the Northrend nights. Twelve bodies – more like lumps – are equidistantly positioned around her like the numbers on a clock face. Her eyes skim over them. They are her girls, the next generation of sentinels for Darnassus. She’s their last hope to service. They failed at something integral, something that would make them a hazard to themselves or others in a battle, and if she can’t get them past it, they will be turned away from their calling and sent to work as smiths, making armor instead of wearing it. None of them want that, and truly, neither does Sey. Her duty is to fix them, and she will.
Except for maybe Gemma, who’s fairly hopeless. She favors one leg and leaves her gut open to attack. Feliche had tried to work her past it it, but she’s already forgetting his lessons and the terribly bruised ribs he left her with.
Sey grunts and frowns and lights herself an herbal cigarette, a gift from Aleros. She thinks about him, about their son, both soundly asleep in their beds in the Grizzly Hills. For a moment, she wishes she was there, tucked in warm. One of the girls rolls over, though, and her gaze flickers to her. The youngling has her arms wrapped around a mace, is snuggling it like its her lover. The wistfulness for home goes away, and Seylon starts to cackle.
*****
Skyborne Jh’Talith is in shadows, stalking a young man in leather who’s just walked through the front door of their shared apartment. She’s purring and her tail is lashing. He closes the door and stops, spinning around to peer into the dark places of the room. There’s a momentary twitch of his lips and then . . . he’s gone too, hidden as well as she ever was. They’re playing a game now, “Catch me if you can.” Sky puts her nose to the air, counting on her feline senses to reveal his location. She slinks from dark place to dark place. Her nose tells her he’s near the kitchen, but there’s a sound from the right, something like a small pop. She swings her head to peer and . . .
Arms wrap around her, leather clad fingers digging into her scruff to scritch and scratch.
“Not fair, you distracted me!”
“Wait, there’s rules now?”
“Guess not.” She giggles as she flops onto her stomach, fur melting away to expose elven skin and a simple white nightgown. His scritches immediately stop, and he smooths fingers over her hair instead. She purrs again, but for a different reason, and rolls over to pull him into a toe curling kiss.
*****
Rosie Mathers is on the second floor of Lord Garreth Minxley’s house, hanging from his fucking ceiling like a spider. Shaw’s been giving her the shit jobs lately. She’s guessing he’s pissed at her – likely for hanging out at the Pig with the pretty blond boy he hates so much, but fuck it. He can’t get anyone as good as her for what she does. Shit jobs or no, he’ll never really let her out of his sight. He’d be losing the best pair of inking hands he’s got.
Her fingers are rifling through a filing cabinet, looking for a deed to a property Minxley’s accused of knocking a cousin off to procure. It’s wedged between a bunch of other documents – a wedding license, a tax record, a . . .
“Hello there, Sweetheart,” she whispers, pulling out a prenuptial agreement. It looks normal enough, legally binding and whatnot. The funny thing, though, is Minxley’s already married, but his name’s on it, and . . . who the fuck is Vincenza Whitten? And why is this dated three months ahead of time?
*****
Your turns!
Filed in Open Thread,RP 14 Comments so far
Jackie on 29 Oct 2009 at 1:05 pm #
Adel Ashawe is sitting up in bed, staring at the tiny apartment rented from a less than reputable morgue caretaker. Her legs and back hurt. The dull throbbing and aching coupled with the sounds of the morgue next door are robbing her of much-needed sleep. The longer she waits for a break in the shuffling on the other side of the wall the louder her own apartment seems to get. Each tick of a clock, the burbles and burps of the drains, the drip of the faucet in the other room all become a cacophony of sound.
Over it all, the dead whisper.
You’re becoming your mother.
You didn’t need them anyway.
Broken birds don’t fly.
She tilts her head back, barely lifting her gaze to one of the corners of the room. A few loose cigars roll out their box on the dresser.
It’s okay dear, you’re not addicted yet, right?
Adel rises to traverse the distance between her and the dresser, bare feet chilled on the metal floor. The room goes silent as she moves, as if all is waiting to see if she can still walk. She’s glad to find she can.
Adel picks up the cigar, then a box of matches. Soon she’s smoking, leaning heavily on one leg and sucking on the cigar.
“It’s not so bad.” She murmurs to the darkness. “Even broken birds can still crawl.”
“You were never content to crawl.” The darkness murmurs back.
“No.” Adel says, turning her head to look back at the mortuary table in the center of the room. “I never was.”
A blond haired woman sits on the table, cross legged, smiling back at her.
Destril on 29 Oct 2009 at 3:49 pm #
Dandill Boughstrider is sitting awake by the fire in his suite of rooms at the Filthy Animal. On one knee, he’s left his book propped open, momentarily forgotten. On the other knee is a small tabby kitten, marmalade-colored paws wrapped greedily around the bottom of a bottle.
He’s almost gotten used to the punishing schedule of every-four-hours kitten feedings, and so has Kashet, though she still complains drowsily when she feels him crawl from their shared bed to care for the little cat.
Not for the first time, the death knight wonders how exactly that little warlock was able to talk him into taking on not only this kitten, but also Xin, the temperamental Siamese tomcat she’d rescued from a crowd of Silvermoon hooligans.
“Because she’s good at ‘that look,’ and you and I both know it, yes, little one? That ‘but Dir will murder me’ look…and whatever it is, I’ve said yes to it before I’ve really even considered. Were she less an honest soul, Katanya would have a marvelous future in politics.”
It’s odd, he thinks…odd for him to have a friend that cares for him as a friend alone, and not some tangled mess of emotions that echo from his having been a teacher to them.
Odd…but by no means unpleasant.
With a contented burp, the kitten finishes the bottle and sprawls across Dandill’s knee, little green eyes already closing as it dozes off until the next feeding. The death knight’s blue eyes are closing as well, so he settles the kitten in its box and returns to the bedroom to try and catch four more hours of rest.
David on 29 Oct 2009 at 4:19 pm #
Duugvilder is lying on a bed, with his hands behind his head, in an inn located in a village whose name he’s forgotten. He’s staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, listening to the sounds of the pub below his room and reflecting on the women he has loved in the short time that he’s been away from home.
There was that farmer’s daughter, the one who needed rescuing from those slavering ghouls. A few bursts of flame, a little bit of the ol’ arcane, and the fair lady was safe. He left her, blushing, the taste and feel of her hand on his lips.
He remembers the vyrkul warrior woman. A giant goddess, made of flesh, leather, and steel. The passion in her eyes as she attempted to take his life like she’d momentarily taken his heart. Their dance was exhilarating, and that it was his life or hers doesn’t assuage the guilt he felt when she fell to his magics. As he remembers the look on her face as her eyes went soft and accepting of her death, he says a silent prayer for her spirit.
He thinks of the Berryfizz sisters, knowing that – in a different time, in different circumstances – he might be courting one of them and preparing to enter that family’s business. The idea is bittersweet to Duugvilder, and it makes him slightly homesick, so he tries to stop thinking about them. As his thoughts move of, he knows that this one lingers in the fringes of his mind.
He reflects on the women he’s fought alongside. Gnome and Elf and Human and Draenei. Druid and Warrior and Paladin and Huntress. He loves them all, respects their skills, and is grateful for their friendship. He closes his eyes and smiles as their faces move past his eyelids. He hears their voices and laughter.
None of this is helping. Duugvilder is wide awake. Duugvilder the Alert. Duugvilder the Conscious. Duugvilder the Insomniac.
He gets out of bed and makes his way in the dark to his gear. He finds the satchel he’s looking for and brings it to the small table in the room. He sits, opens the bag, and carefully – reverently – removes the souvenir of his True Love. He holds it in his hands, staring at it.
It’s a cobblestone from Stormwind City. He almost stumbled over it on his first visit.
His hands run over its hard but smooth surface. The stone is cool to the touch, and whispers of countless people who trod upon it. To Duugvilder (the Smitten?), this stone – and Stormwind City – represents everything that Duugvilder loves in the world. Stormwind City gave Duugvilder adventure and excitement and friends and tales to tell. Stormwind City is the exact opposite of how his life would’ve been had he stayed in the no-name village he called home. Through Stormwind City, all things have been and will be possible. And his True Love has only ever asked that he protect her and the people who visit or call her home. It’s the least he can do for his Love.
After a time, Duugvilders eyes grow heavy. Once again, his True Love has bestowed a gift upon him. He gently puts the cobblestone away and sets the satchel back with his belongings. He gets back to bed and, as he succumbs to the sweet rest that True Love has provided, he wonders for a moment what loves tomorrow will bring.
falconesse on 29 Oct 2009 at 5:03 pm #
Lyr Mathers is shoving the furniture to the edges of the room. She knows the proper place for experimentation is a classroom in Dalaran, or a borrowed training room in Stormwind University, but if a teacher were to run across her in Dalaran, he’d want to know what she was up to. And if she goes to the Mage Quarter, there’s a chance Caltrains will be there. He probably won’t question her about her runework, but that means he might ask after Rosie instead, and Lyr isn’t about to go into that right now.
She folds up the rug and takes out her chalks, copying the symbols carefully from the page. Yva has so many interesting books on the shelves. Lyr suspects that her mentor sometimes “deposits” certain tomes when she comes to check in, and this is one of them.
Her finger pauses on the page, leaving a smudge of bright blue chalk. That rune makes sense of course, but this one would be even better.
Or it could backfire horribly and cause an explosion. She really should wait until morning, and try it in a classroom that’s been properly warded against apprentices and their idiot mistakes.
Nah.
—
Davien Stonemantle sits in her rocking chair, her needle and thread idle for the moment. Kyree has changed her mind six times in as many days about what she’d like to be for Hallow’s End. At least, Davien thinks, fairies an’ princesses an’ dew-drop queens can all wear the same color dress.
Thrall drowses by the fire, his paws twitching as he chases rabbits or cats or maybe Dark Iron dwarves in his sleep. He’s a good protector for the children, and Moonglade is safe for them, but she can’t help but wonder who would have protected them had she not come back from the battle at Angra’thar. Would their elven tutor in Nighthaven have sent them to Stormwind? Would the Eye have found them shelter? Or might someone have come to them from Undercity to get them and make an example of what happens to human children when their deader benefactress is dead?
It doesn’t matter. Y’survived. Y’re here, an’ they’re safe.
A sleepy Kyree shuffles out into the sitting room, rubbing at her eyes.
“Sweetling, y’ought t’be in bed.”
“But Auntie Davien, I had a new idea for my costume and didn’t want to forget it.”
“All right, then. Tell me, an’ I’ll remind ‘ee in the mornin’.”
The little girl pauses by the coatrack and peers up and up and up, to where Davien’s hat hangs. “Can I be you for Hallow’s End?”
Davien grins and sets her sewing aside. Of course, she’s never worn a dress like this, but perhaps it can be repurposed. She opens her arms and Kyree clambers into them. “Of course ‘ee can, love. We’ll even find ‘ee a hat o’ y’r own.”
—
Annalea al’Cair is setting a tray of cakes and coffee in front of her parents. It’s Bricu’s kitchen she’s taken over, but he can have it to himself in the morning. For now, though, he’s gone to bed and she can cook as she pleases. She helped stock the cabinets, after all.
“These came out lovely,” her mother says. Padraig doesn’t even bother talking around the mouthful of chocolate he’s already crammed into his mouth.
“Thank you, Mama.” They sit in awkward silence. The al’Cairs are here because their children wanted them out of Stormwind for a few days, but it’s a subject that puts everyone on edge. Anna can see her mother casting about for something pleasant to say.
“So, Anna, will Fingold be joining us for Winter Veil?”
Anna sucks in a breath. There’s still a ragged hole in her heart where Fin used to be, one she carved into herself with her own hands. She’s been putting off this last notification for nearly two months, now. Thenia was so fond of Fin. But the question’s out there now, and there’s no use lying about it. “There’s something I ought to tell you,” she says, and wishes her cup were filled with brandy instead of coffee.
—
Threnn is nestled against Bricu, listening to the noises that come with a new house. Naiara is fast asleep in her cradle at the foot of their bed. The low murmur of her parents and Annalea chatting in the sitting room reassures her. Her family, all around her, safe and sound.
She’s worried for the Riders still in Stormwind, worried for the Roses and the Boomsticks, too, but for now, she has to trust that their vigilance will carry them through until morning, until more answers can come.
Bricu plays with her hair, not speaking. She knows he’s scheming, trying to puzzle out who’s targetting their friends, trying to find new ways to get answers out of metal and gunpowder. When he’s ready, he’ll talk and she’ll help him hone his ideas. But until then, she’ll wait, comforted by his presence and the nearness of her family, and let the world outside these walls take care of itself.
Illi on 29 Oct 2009 at 8:33 pm #
Illithias snarls into the snow stinging her chin, frosting the toothed edges of her demon-faced helm. It’s deep night high up in the roof of the world, and the elf is perching on the ledge of a vrykul longhouse, a good thirty feet up in the air. The storm is a mild one by the glacier’s standards, but it’s cold and dark and the wind sounds like it’s screaming in her ear. Still, she squats on the edge and waits.
It’s not long when a figure comes into a view; a tall vrykul, wrapped tight against the ice. Tall, and alive; he’s not one of the ymirjar. He’s just a guard, a sentry, on partol – lantern held high above his head, it’s light struggling fitfully against the howling storm. Illithias tightened her grip on her axes.
The vrykul is immediately underneath her now. She jumps.
_
Location: Amberpine Lodge, western Grizzly Hills…
Naliendiel is engaged in an animated discussion with the swarthy human trader, standing beside the main lodge building in the clearing called Amberpine. The elven druid is trying to convince the trapper to pay more gold for the pile of cloth scraps and assorted furs she was selling to him; explaining to him that they’d soon prove to be invaluable for clothing repair and for emergency insulation, and that the troll stink would be gone after a half dozen washes or so. Her hesitant, stuttering speech isn’t helping matters any, and the trader still refuses to budge. Sighing very slightly, Nali resigns herself to the offered amount, and accepts the handful of coins with as much grace as she can muster. Nali’s ears perks as a voice carried itself across the camp.
“HEY. HEY. HEY YOU. CAN YOU HELP ME? I NEED SOME HELP. I NEED SOME HELP.”
Peering around the roughly hewn corner of the lodge, Nali’s head emerges to see what the cause of the commotion is. A human, tall and broad, has arrived to Amberpine, approaching everyone at the lodge, shouting his pleas. He is dressed in the livery of the warrior priests of the human Church of the Light – Naliendiel couldn’t quite remember the term for them in Common, but the imposing plate armour and large warhammer strapped to his back confirms this to her. With loud, coarse, and slightly slurred speech, he implorings everyone he sees for assistance, supposedly for an errand he had been tasked with deeper within the woods. The man turns from shouting at an arcanist who’d rode straight through the camp on horseback, to meet Nali’s gaze. His face lights up as he starts towards her. The elf gasps, and ducks back around the corner.
“HEY YOU. CAN YOU HELP ME? I NEED SOME HELP WITH THE FURBOLGS, CAN YOU HELP ME PLEASE?”
The human turns the corner where Nali had ducked, still shouting all the way. He takes a breath and… can’t see the druid. He looks back and forth. He sees the fight master tending to her gyphons, a merchant studiously avoiding his gaze, some crates set against the railing overlooking the river gorge. No elf. He takes another deep breath, held as he prepared to shout something else, before letting the breath whistle free again. Furrowing his brow, he stomps off back towards the centre of the camp, still looking from side to side.
Perched on top of the ledge railing, a rather large crow lets out a small avian sigh of relief.
_
Darkened alleyways are both ubiquitous and invaluable. Haunting one of the multitudes in the city of Stormwind, the Widow presses up against the crumbling brick wall. Old Town is a good locale; very dark, and winding. It’s easy for some
onething such as herself to get about in Old Town. She holds still and listens. It’s easy when you don’t have to breathe anymore.Sounds of revelry drift down from the windows across the street. Laughter, drinking. The Widow de Roux snarls beneath her mask. Yes, it looks like a good night for murder.
Sarai on 29 Oct 2009 at 8:56 pm #
Shaurria is sleeping in the Guilded Rose’s common room. Normally she would be in the Park, but Arvoss is here tonight and she won’t go to bed until he does. Her head is pillowed on his boots, and her paws are twitching as she dreams about chasing something, probably a squirrel.
Arvoss is sitting in a chair in said common room, pretending to read a book. The speeches he heard a few nights ago, during the celebration at the docks, are running through his head. He’s still not sure about what kind of place he has in the world, but he’s starting to think that, just maybe, being a death knight isn’t as bad as he thought it was. He reaches down to pet Shaur and grins as her sleepy purr starts up at his touch.
ZombiePirate on 30 Oct 2009 at 7:06 am #
Silense is sat over a wash tub trying to work the blood stains out of her woolen robes in nothing but a silk shift. The battle in Wintergrasp was particularly brutal last night and after taking a rather well deserved rest after expending her energies trying to keep other soldiers on their feet despite some horrific wounds, her clothing now needs to be washed throughly before she is presentable in society. For some reason it is always the robe itself that needs the most work, woven from heavy wool to protect against the cold of Northrend once it gets wet it’s a swine to try and wash due to its weight. Working in Northrend has been profitable and she could of course pay to have someone else do the work, but she was born with her own set of hands and palming it off to some other poor sap just wouldn’t be the same. She stokes the fire a little more, the only thing protecting her from the biting wind outside as the rest of her clothing is hung to dry.
Kelesaria on 30 Oct 2009 at 8:36 am #
Tadrith is outside, somewhere, sitting next to a campfire, with Treyvan being a furry backrest. Keenath is sprawled next to him, getting scratched, and Skan is out prowling, making sure his master and the other animals are safe. Aubri is curled in a nook in a nearby tree, sound asleep.
Windstar is in the Pig, either getting pets and ear-scratches while mingling, or sitting near one of her friends, chin resting on the tabletop, keeping an eye on Shaurria, more or less content.
Arrens on 30 Oct 2009 at 9:49 am #
Arrens Caltrains is in the University library, several dozen books opened to various pages, each of them containing pictuers of any of a dozen different demons. He is writing notes furiously onto a pad trying to figure something out. As soon as a student or faculty member approaches, he is quick to close the books and shuffle his notes to something more benign.
Something has happened to him, something that has caused a change. He feels stronger because of the change, but it also frightens him. He can’t control it and he’s not completely sure what the cause is. The marks on his body, new marks that seem to be appearing daily, concern him. He needs to find a healer, someone to mend his body before somebody takes notice. He needs to talk to someone he can trust, someone who can watch over him when this change takes place. Someone who is strong enough to defend himself from being damned to the same fate as those demons and murlocs that surrounded him when he awoke from his blackouts.
And it can’t be Rosie, as much as he’d like it to be.
Mommacow on 30 Oct 2009 at 10:30 am #
Rashona hung high in the night sky above the Storm Peaks, poised for a moment of balance between sky and stone. Her feathers barely ruffled in the updraft that held her aloft, and in her mind she crooned a chant to the Earthmother that she’d learned in childhood, lost in a moment of communion.
-or-
She crouched in the shadow of tumbled Icecrown stone, the bitter tang of lichbloom stinging her nose as her muscles tensed to spring on the shambling [i]thing[/i] below her.
-or-
Rashona skimmed just above the tangled undergrowth, listening with half an ear to the familiar voices on the buzzbox but mostly taking a perverse delight in the crocolisks’ futile snaps at her feathered body.
(In which we learn that Rashona is neither introspective nor very good at that circadian rhythm thing.)
_____
(orc hunter)
Khallan slept with one hand curled around the haft of her axe, a great white cat drowsing back-to-back with her and shedding a faint blue glow over her skin. She’d be riding out well before sunrise, and even in sleep a part of her looked forward to the icy air and the clear stars.
_____
(elf warlock)
She sat on the roof of the apothecaries’ study in Venomspite, idly embroidering while she watched demons and the dead pass below her. Nymerra liked it up here, hidden in the spines and twisting gables and all but invisible from the ground. Here in Venomspite, most of the people seemed to know they were already dead. Most places she went, they didn’t know; one or two had even tried to hit her when she explained the situation to them. Every now and then, she was almost sure she saw a demon, but most of them kept themselves disguised. The weak ones she could bend to her will, and the strong ones…best not to think about that.
She was good at not thinking; why [i]should[/i] she think, when she’d been dead for three years?
Instead, she sat and sewed.
Kat on 30 Oct 2009 at 11:37 am #
11pm was early for them. Well, normally it was. But tonight found them already in bed. Dinner had already been seen to; Dir’d ordered finger foods tonight after seeing Kat’s embarrassment over not being able to hold a fork the night before. Her left hand may not have dropped it like her right did, but she was clumsy and uncomfortable and she was barely able to keep the tears from flowing. Now, the incident was temporarily forgotten, the goblin stone kept off, and the two enjoyed a moment of peace.
She smoothed a shaking hand over his bare chest. She’d always enjoyed seeing him like this, but suddenly she was more appreciative of it all. His eyes ran over her; she likely wasn’t much of a sight with the bandages still around her chest and arm, but gods he certainly made her feel like she was. Their hands twined together and he wrapped an arm around her. Careful not to hurt still-healing bones and tissue, he pulled her closer to him.
Katanya began to giggle as he kissed her ears, her forehead, her eyes and nose. Dir silenced her giggles by pressing his lips to her own, starting first slowly and gently before building to passionate. She brought a hand up to caress his cheek and they pulled away to simply gaze at each other for a few moments. And then she stifled a yawn, and the moment was broken. He settled back into the pillows, still holding her close. She curled into him; it was strange how his warmth had never felt as good as it had the last few days. She’d been so cold since she woke up, but she assumed her body just didn’t have the spare energy for heat while it was healing.
He kissed the top of her head as she rested it on his chest. She draped an arm across his torso and he ran his fingers down it. She cuddled even closer as he wrapped the blankets around them. “I love you, Dir.” She giggled as his reply rumbled in her ear. It was so nice, to have peace and quiet, to have real sleep unmarred by nightmares and strange voices. His breathing grew slower and she began to doze to the soothing sound of his steady heartbeat. She vaguely registered the bells marking the midnight hour just before she fell completely asleep.
Ezma on 30 Oct 2009 at 1:47 pm #
Ezma flew into Dalaran on the back of Kronk, her protodrake. She dropped lightly from his back before shooing him off for the night. She was bone tired, an exhaustion she knew would be allowed little relief as she had not slept since her transformation a year past. Kronk was not so cursed and she was quick to send him away to rest.
Her armor had grown heavy as the day had worn on and Ezma was looking forward to shedding it in favor of something a bit softer so she headed towards the bank. Her mind idly flipped through her inscription to-do list but none of it appealed to her. As she passed the inn, she heard familiar voices laughing and ribbing each other. A mug of burnwine wouldn’t go amiss. Perhaps Dalomire was there.
A rare smile crossed her face as she turned and headed towards the brightly lit doorway.
Bricu on 31 Oct 2009 at 8:52 pm #
Bricu has his arms wrapped around Threnn. One hand holds her close, while the other idly twirls her hair. His mind races between Boomsticks, Roses and Riders: Friend, colleagues and family. Something or somone had all of them in their sights. Their motives were unfathomable. Their methods are beyond him. The effect was real. He ran. He took his family–in laws as well–and fled North.
Threnn and Naiara came first. That was not a problem. Bringing Annie, Padraig and Thenia wasn’t an issue either. Leaving the Riders without a schemer, no one to pool their talents… No one to help Mugrir. No one to trick the Rose into doing the necessary thing.
Sleep won’t come easy tonight.
Fellsabucket on 02 Nov 2009 at 4:04 am #
Candlelight flickers faintly beneath the door. Inside, a boy huddles over his desk. It’s far past his bedtime, but he’s Onto Something, and sleep can wait.
The sentry seated in the hallway pretends not to notice. They all do, always. Magisters’ orders. Her shift will be up soon, and perhaps she can sneak him in an apple and a cup of warm milk. Someday his enthusiasm and his energy will run out. Until then they can keep watch, and they can help the family renting a small set of rooms in Dalaran’s great sprawl.
He will fall asleep trying again to write his closest friend. He’ll try tomorrow, again. He is nothing if not consistent, this small scholar.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
There’s a husband in bed beside her, sleeping fitfully. His breathing falls even and regular against her shoulder. The arm draped half-around her is limp and relaxed in deep, soothing rest.
Somewhere in the small cabin’s space, too, sleeps her druid, no doubt curled into a neat ball of silver fur on the floor. The night is cold outside, but no drafts reach the bed. He may be sleeping at the foot of the door, insulating them all against the hints of winter.
She should be asleep too, and would be, were she not being pummeled from inside. Three more weeks. Three more weeks. Three more weeks.